Jockeys and Jewels

by Bev Pettersen

  “Oh, right. Ace’s first lifetime start,” Sandra said. “That could be exciting.”

  “Could be,” Kurt said.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Horse looks sharp, Martin.” Kurt patted Ace’s neck, admiring how the light reflected off the gelding's washed and polished coat. Martin’s mouth inched upward in a wan smile. “You sure you want to be here?” Kurt asked gently. “You might want to take some time off. I gave your mom some numbers for people you can talk to about Nick’s accident.”

  Martin looked down, scuffing the toe of his worn boot in the straw. “Psychiatrists.” He snorted. “No way. I’m not emo.”

  “Actually they’re psychologists,” Kurt said, “and they can help. They’ve helped me.”

  “You?” Martin’s eyes widened.

  Kurt examined Lazer’s feet, feeling Martin’s avid eyes. “Everyone has stuff happen in their life. It doesn’t help to bottle things up. Doesn’t mean you’re not tough.” He ran his fingers over the shoes, checking their tightness, surprised he was even talking about this with a kid.

  Martin stopped scuffing the floor. “I never thought someone like you would need help. Not like me, you know…” Martin’s voice trailed off. “Maybe I’ll get Mom to call.” His voice strengthened. “But not tonight. Tonight is Ace's first race. And I’m definitely going to be there.”

  “You sure have Ace looking like he can run,” Kurt said, relieved by Martin’s show of excitement. “Pass me the syringe, and I’ll wash his mouth.”

  Kurt squirted water into the horse’s mouth, standing back so the green hay slime didn’t splatter on his boots. “Now the Vicks.”

  “I didn’t see any snot.” Martin’s eyes darkened with concern as he opened the blue jar and pressed it in Kurt’s hand.

  “This stuff clears breathing passages, blocks distracting smells. And washing his mouth gets rid of food particles. Everyone has a pre-race ritual. This is mine. I’ve done it this way since I was your age, helping my dad. Until it stops working, I’m afraid to change.”

  “You? Afraid? You’re not superstitious, are you?”

  Kurt just smiled as he flipped through his assortment of bandages. He didn’t consider himself superstitious. Not really. But much of racing depended on luck, and there was no way he’d risk incurring bad karma, not if it could be avoided. “The track is a bit cuppy,” he said, “so I’ll wrap his front legs for support. This red looks good on a dark horse, don’t you think?”

  “I’m not that good with colors.” Martin shoved his hands in his pockets and stepped back, clearly uncomfortable with anything resembling fashion. “Sandra always uses purple,” he added helpfully.

  “We’ll go with red to match my silks,” Kurt said. He wrapped Ace’s front legs and unbuckled the halter. “Pass me the bridle you cleaned.”

  Kurt slipped the snaffle into Ace’s mouth. “I’m going to put his tongue tie on here so we won’t have to do it in the paddock. So many young horses, it might get hairy over there.”

  He wet the thin cloth that would keep Ace’s tongue in place and looped it around the horse's lower jaw. “Let’s go,” he said, looking at Martin. “But stay close. I’ll need your help saddling.”

  “You want me in the paddock? Cool! I’ve never done that before.” Martin’s exuberant air punch startled Ace, who jumped sideways. “Sorry,” he mumbled sheepishly.

  Kurt just yanked the brim of Martin’s ball cap. At least the kid’s haunted look had disappeared, pushed aside by excitement and inevitable race jitters. And some races definitely caused more jitters than others.

  His hands had felt awkward when he bandaged, but he didn’t want to acknowledge his own fear. Didn’t want to worry about Julie. Wouldn’t let himself. This was just another race, one of hundreds. He turned to Martin and forced a careless nod. “Let’s go find out how fast our horse can run.”

  Spectators were sparse when Kurt led a wide-eyed Ace into the walking ring. The gelding shied at a curly-haired boy who’d climbed onto the rail, making rumbling noises as he pushed a toy tractor. An apologetic mother rushed over and plunked the youngster back in his stroller.

  A man in a spotless white cowboy hat passed Martin the bridle number, and Kurt guided Ace into the number eight stall of the saddling enclosure. The official pulled up the gelding's lip to check his tattoo; Ace resented the familiarity and wrenched his head away. A steel gray colt jigged past, diverting Ace’s attention, and the official quickly made the check and moved on.

  Julie's valet appeared. Kurt placed the pad on Ace’s back, layering it with the numbered saddlecloth and her tiny race saddle. The valet stood on the opposite side as they buckled the two girths. Ace’s muscles bunched, but the gelding was mesmerized by the nervous gray being saddled on the move, and his wide eyes tracked the horse until the gray colt vanished in the slot beside them.

  “Hold him tight, Martin, while I stretch his front legs,” Kurt said.

  Crack! Noise boomed, and the thick planks beside them quivered as the protesting gray smashed the wall. Ace flattened his ears and lunged forward, knocking Martin to one knee and dragging him alongside.

  “Hang on!” Kurt yelled.

  Martin’s heels trenched the dirt, but he didn't release the panicked horse. By the time Kurt reached them, Martin had regained his feet, his jaw set with determination.

  “Good job hanging on,” Kurt said, reaching for Ace’s reins. “It would have been a pain in the ass chasing him back to the barn. I’ll lead him for a bit. Get Ace away from his noisy neighbor.”

  Martin nodded, glancing over his shoulder at the seven horse who still pounded the walls, objecting vigorously to every step of the pre-race procedure.

  Kurt scanned the rest of the competition as he led Ace around the walking ring. The compact bay in front of them had nice hindquarters and would probably love the short distance. The blinkered colt ahead of the bay was not as well-muscled but had a nice hip and a businesslike attitude.

  Of course in a race full of first-time starters anything could happen. His throat was dry, and he squeezed Ace’s reins. Please, keep your rider safe, he thought, just as the spastic gray charged out of the enclosure and reared straight up.

  The gray wavered on his hind feet with the handler trying to maneuver him back down, but the colt lost his balance and flipped. His legs waved in the air like a stuck turtle.

  Everyone hushed. Seconds later someone shouted and the horse scrambled up, still bouncing. The crowd breathed again.

  Ace had watched the commotion too and started to shiver. It began with his shoulder but soon his entire body trembled, burning precious energy. Kurt guided him behind the blinkered horse, hoping the bay's quiet confidence would reassure Ace.

  Martin also needed to lighten up. He still looked pale after Ace’s bolt and studied the quirky gray with obvious apprehension.

  “There’s a cute little redhead standing over there.” Kurt stopped Ace in front of Martin. “And I don’t think she’s waving at me.”

  Martin flushed but glanced over. He gave the girl a jerky nod then studiously averted his head.

  Kurt’s attention was caught by the parade of color filing from the jockeys’ room. “I need to talk to Julie,” he said. “Take Ace. Keep him moving, but don’t let him drag you around. He’ll feel better if you‘re confident.”

  Martin sucked in a breath but squared his shoulders and gamely took the horse.

  “I’ll be close by,” Kurt said, stepping onto the grass to await Julie. He sucked in a regretful breath when he saw her stiff walk, the way her right shoulder tilted. Goddammit, she was obviously sore, obviously shouldn’t be riding. But her face glowed with such anticipation, his regret slid away. There was no way he could deny her this race.

  “Good evening, sir,” she said.

  “Ms. West. How are you?” He probed her face, but she shrugged off his concern with an eager smile. She wore his racing silks—MacKinnon stable colors—and his sense of possession sharpened.


  “Your horse looks good,” she said, her attention on Ace.

  “Martin has him polished. He’s on the muscle. You’re last to load, so he won’t have long in the gate. The seven horse has been acting up. If there’s a rodeo in there, jump off and get the hell out.”

  “Sure.” She crossed her arms and grinned.

  “I mean it, Julie.” His fear crystallized at her blasé attitude. “And don’t hurry him out of the gate. A couple of these horses might blow the turn. Don’t let them push you wide. Just relax, let him find his stride. Try to avoid traffic trouble and make it fun for him.”

  She nodded. Uncrossed her arms and flicked her whip against her boot. Clearly eager to get going. Kurt said nothing else, waited beside her as Ace towed Martin around the ring. The horse’s head was bent to his chest, ears pinned, and he looked as eager as Julie.

  “It’s only four furlongs,” Kurt added, unable to remain silent. “Ace isn’t bred for early speed. It’s the experience that’s important, not where he finishes. You’ll probably be running at the back most of the way. Just give him a good run down the lane. I want him passing a horse or two there.”

  She nodded, looking so tiny that dread shivered through him. God, he hoped Ace didn’t have a claustrophobic fit in the gate, or blow the turn or stumble or veer in front of another horse.

  He squelched his fears and forced a smile. Nodded at someone he didn’t know. “Riders up!” the paddock judge bellowed.

  Martin guided Ace over, and Kurt legged Julie into the saddle. She slipped her toes in the irons and knotted the reins while he led the gelding to the group of waiting escort riders. It was a routine he’d followed hundreds of times before with countless horses and riders. But as he handed the pair off to Sandra, he was hit with the weird compulsion to grab Ace and turn him around. Forget the damn race.

  Ace needed more training. He wasn’t really ready. Too many new things could scare him: the crowd, the announcer, the other horses. In a second, he would freak.

  Ace walked calmly onto the track.

  A trumpet salute sounded as the procession of two-year-olds paraded in front of the grandstand. Kurt tore his gaze from the tiny rider perched on Ace’s back. Looked at Martin. The boy’s face was bright with nervous anticipation—the feelings Kurt usually had before a race. But not today. Today his gut corkscrewed with fear.

  He gestured at the middle of the grandstand. “Let’s watch from up there.” He scaled the steps two at a time, Martin scampering beside him, and only stopped climbing when he could see across the infield.

  There’d be a straight run from the chute before the horses entered the turn and fired for home. Ace looked like a veteran, warming up calmly beside Sandra’s horse. But there was a lot of pressure, and that goofy gray was breaking from Ace’s inside.

  “Ace is probably happy to be with Sandra’s horse,” Martin said. “He and Okie are good buddies now that their stalls are close.”

  Kurt swiped his clammy forehead and nodded. Ace would be fine. Julie would be fine. But maybe he should have walked over to the starting gate so he could watch them load. So he’d be close by if anything happened.

  “Ace looks great,” Martin said.

  Kurt nodded again but shifted sideways, wishing Martin would shut up. He stuffed his program in his hip pocket, surprised to see it tightly rolled, like a kid’s telescope. He didn't usually mutilate his programs. Couldn’t remember ever doing that.

  The starter called the horses. Kurt’s fists balled as the group turned for the chute, and Julie’s red helmet approached the gate.

  One by one, the horses disappeared. He kept his gaze fixed on the splash of red as Julie circled Ace, waiting their turn to load. There were only two back now, the seven horse and Ace.

  The seven horse balked.

  Blue silks flickered from within the gate as a horse reared, protesting the delay. Julie had better be ready. The starter wouldn’t make this young bunch stand around long. The doors would open as soon as Ace walked in.

  The seven horse was kicking up a commotion, and his panic was spreading. Horses’ heads jostled; colors moved behind the bars.

  “Good thing Ace isn’t loaded yet. Some of the horses are really freaking out.” Martin's sharp eyes were glued to the gate. “Man, did you see that horse go up in the air! Looks like the rider’s off.”

  Kurt groped in his back pocket. Dammit, he’d forgotten his binoculars.

  “The seven horse is scratched,” the announcer said, his voice cutting through the crowd’s grumble.

  Good. Kurt felt too tense to be charitable. Now Julie wouldn’t have that bronco on her inside. The seven horse was led to the far end of the chute, and Julie’s helmet disappeared in the gate.

  The last horse was in. Oh, Christ. He stopped breathing.

  “They’re off!” the announcer said.

  A horse bobbled, one of the runners close to the rail. The horse stayed on his feet, but the jockey was down. There was a collective sigh of relief when the rider picked himself out of the dirt. Kurt started breathing again. The riderless horse galloped after the pack, running in the middle of the track, with flapping reins and a carefree attitude.

  Kurt’s attention swung to the horses galloping down the backstretch. Ace ran five wide. Julie’s helmet bobbed along in a maze of churning bodies. Bobbing way too much. Ace was running ragged. He’ll blow the turn if he goes in like that. Steady him, Kurt willed.

  By the three eighth pole, the horses had strung out. Ace was fifth, four lengths behind the leader, but running awkwardly.

  “Boy, that chestnut is really smoking,” said a white-haired man in front of them. “He’ll go gate to wire. Look how easy he's moving.”

  Kurt blocked the comments, his breathing lightening when Ace finally settled into his smooth ground-eating gallop. “Good girl!” he yelled with such intensity the white-haired man turned and raised an eyebrow. Ace’ll run the hook okay now, Kurt thought, as the gelding entered the turn on his left lead.

  The crowd moaned as the betting favorite, a blinkered bay running second, drifted across the track and bumped the horse on his outside.

  “Did you see that hit?” Martin shouted gleefully. “This is better than a hockey game!”

  Kurt couldn’t watch anyone but Julie. His heart pounded with every beat of Ace’s hooves. By elimination, there were only two horses in front of her, and Ace was running the turn beautifully. As the horses straightened down the stretch, the chestnut was still four lengths in front, a white-faced bay was second and Ace strained to catch them both.

  The crowd roared, anticipating a big payoff. The chestnut flicked his ears in front of the grandstand, faltering at the unfamiliar wall of noise. Bixton waved his whip, reminding him it was a race. The chestnut dug back in.

  But Ace blitzed down the lane, his stride long and effortless. He charged past the bay and swept across the finish line in second place, confident and full of run.

  Kurt sagged with relief. Martin cheered and jabbed a jubilant elbow in Kurt’s ribs. Kurt barely felt it; he was too drained. Julie's riding was aging him faster than any police work.

  “Thank God that’s over,” he muttered as the last runner straggled across the finish line, and an outrider nabbed the loose horse. “I’ll go pick him up.” He wiped his brow, trudged down the stairs and stepped over the rail.

  Julie looked ecstatic as she trotted Ace back. Fine for her, Kurt thought sourly. He felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach.

  “Beautiful ride,” he heard himself say. “Just what I wanted.” He groped for something else, but his mind was numb. “How did he feel?” he asked lamely.

  “Super!” Her teeth gleamed against her dirty face, her silks were filthy and three sets of muddy goggles draped her neck. She’d never looked more beautiful. “He was wonderful once he settled,” she added. “Ran the turn like a train.”

  Kurt just stared, his relief so sharp it was bewildering. He fumbled to unbuckle the girth but his gaze drifted back to h
er fragile chest, watching as it rose and fell beneath his silks. He’d have to check on the type of protective vest she wore. Some weren’t as good as others. And her saddle looked so worn. One equipment failure, one stumble, and she'd be crushed.

  He felt cold. She still jabbered on about Ace and he forced another nod, another inane comment. “You rode him perfectly,” he mumbled.

  Ace held his head high, staring imperiously over the crowd as she whipped off her saddle. “He thinks he’s a big racehorse now.” She laughed and gave Ace a grateful pat before turning back to Kurt. “Thanks for giving me the ride, in spite of everything. I really appreciate it.” She clutched the saddle in front of her, her face so earnest. So precious.

  “No problem. You two clicked.” I’m the one with a problem here, he realized. His legs felt heavy, and he was reluctant to lead Ace back to the barn, reluctant to let her go. He took a hard swallow. “Are you going to the pub tonight?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Maybe I’ll see you there?”

  “Ah…Cody’s coming too. We’re sort of going there together.”

  “Sort of?” He thought regret flickered over her face but wasn't sure. She was finally learning to hide her feelings, and a poignant sadness swept him.

  She squared her shoulders, staring at him through the barrier of swirling, suffocating dust, but her enunciation was very clear. “Cody and I are going out tonight.”

  “Okay.” He swallowed convulsively—the dust made it impossible to breathe, but he seemed to be the only trainer with a problem. “Some other time then,” he managed.

  He turned Ace on his haunches, passing Martin, who was high-fiving a group of raucous teenagers. The red-haired girl stretched so far over the rail it seemed she would topple into Martin’s arms. At least the kid was having some luck.

  Kurt led a strutting Ace back to the barn, wishing he could share the horse’s exuberance, wishing he didn't feel quite so empty.

  By the time Martin appeared, he was hosing Ace and weighing alternate plans for the evening. He gave Martin an absent nod as he considered calling Tiffany. They could pick up right where they’d left off. No reason not to call her—except that the idea had zero appeal.