Cassie shrugged, smiling. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”
“Well, I don’t. And I can’t imagine you dumping Dirk Johnson. Have you totally lost your mind? He would’ve been such a catch.”
“You can have him if you want,” Cassie said cheerfully. Susan’s reaction had not surprised her at all. Now that she thought about it, Susan and Dirk would make a fine match. Traci’s more tempered response had also been expected. She knew she could count on Traci no matter what. But there was one more friend to hear from. “And what about you, Ashton? Do you think I’ve lost all my marbles?”
The attractive black thirty-something woman, Ashton Drake, beamed. “Well, you’re not likely to find me nuzzling up against a horse, but I admire your guts and your loyalty. I’ll come watch your horse. As far as Dirk goes, I think you should’ve dumped him months ago.”
“Well,” huffed Susan. “I guess I don’t belong here anymore.”
“Nonsense,” interjected Traci, standing to fill their tea cups. Her ebony hair swung about her chin, punctuating her words. “Just get off your judgmental pedestal. You know we love you. God, we’ve been together since grad school days. Cassie’s decision to make time to help her dad shouldn’t break us up. We can still get together once a month, either in the city or somewhere out in the burbs. And how many guys have you gone through in the last year?”
“Yeah,” Susan replied, haltingly, reaching for the sugar cubes. “I’m sorry, Cass. My strict parents saw horse racing and gambling as works of the Devil. Sorry I shot from the hip.”
“No harm, no foul. We all react too quickly at times. I do want to thank you all for your support. It means a lot to me. This is a temporary thing, but it’s still scary.” She hugged herself briefly wondering what she was getting herself into.
Six weeks later a cacophony of April sounds greeted the first rays of dawn on the O’Hanlon farm. Cardinals, robins and mourning doves sang to each other. Young foals whinnied, seeking attention from their mothers. A light, bright mood greeted the rising sun, except for the storm brewing on the front porch.
“I can’t do it. I proved that already.” Cassie kicked at a corner porch post.
She’d been so hopeful. She’d allowed herself to be bitten by that same damnable bug that had infested her father for years. That bug carrying the dream of the big horse disease.
Hope had responded well to the training regimen. She’d worked hard. Nothing seemed to bother her until the day of the race. Then things just fell apart. One race might’ve been excused, but two races back-to-back?
And Cassie had no answer—not true. The answer was to fess up to being a social worker, not some damn magician with horses.
She stopped her pacing and stood before her father. Quietly, with hands clenched tightly behind her back she announced, “I quit. I’m sorry, Dad. But I’m not good enough.”
“Sorry?” her dad spat out. “Not good enough? Quit? Hah, I never thought I’d see the day when the daughter of Tug O’Hanlon quit anything…just rolled over and played dead.”
Cassie recoiled. Tears filled her eyes. She knelt and rested her head on his knees. He held her. She sobbed.
Her mind whirled. She never cried, especially in front of her dad. Why couldn’t she stop crying?
Damn, Cass, put on your social work hat. Was it just because she couldn’t rescue her dad’s dream? Or did it reach farther back—losing her mother, who they’d never talked about, not wanting to get hurt again? Was she just afraid of the lure of adventure horses had always held for her? His fingers continued massaging her shoulder muscles like he used to do when she was a child.
At last, cried out, Cassie rocked back on her heels and accepted the blue bandanna her father proffered. She laughed weakly and blew her nose loudly. “Sorry about that unexpected display. All of this is getting to me.”
Tug managed a smile. “You know running horses has more downs than ups.”
Cassie nodded. She couldn’t take any more downs.
“You haven’t given the horse a chance yet. Cassie’s Hope deserves more than bein’ dumped after two poor races.” Cassie cleared her throat to speak. Her father raised his hand to quiet her. “I know you think somebody else, maybe someone like Ed Harrington, coulda done better with her.”
“I didn’t say,” she blurted out, “that Harrington would do better.”
“Anyway, I don’t want you to give up on the filly or yourself so quickly. Remember, you signed on for six months. There’s still over four months left.”
A chill raked Cassie’s body. Surely, he wouldn’t try to hold her to the agreement. He wouldn’t expect her to endure the pain of losing that long, but why not? He’d endured a lifetime of losing. Unfair!
“It often happens in young horses, after a bad start or two, they just lose confidence in themselves. They train well till the day of the race. Then they remember bein’ bumped around or whatever and really want no part of racin’. Honey, what we gotta do is help Hope get her confidence back.”
Cassie’s heart lurched and her mind scrambled to keep up with her father. She felt like a kitten being lured by a string dragging across a floor.
“Sometimes horses need to get away from the track where things went wrong. They need a change of environment. In the old days, we’d take such a horse to a track where we could run against a poorer class of horse, increasing the odds for a win.”
Cassie listened intently. So far everything he was saying made sense. After all, he had years of experience.
She watched him admire the yearlings running their own impromptu races in the nearby pasture. He sighed, turning his attention back to her. “I wish I could do this, but I can’t. Only you can do it. I want you to take Cassie’s Hope to Wyoming Downs. They have a stakes race comin’ up May seventeenth—that’s saying a lot more than it is—but it’s a decent race.”
“Wyoming Downs!” Cassie squealed, her eyes rounding. “Where the hell is that?”
Tug cackled. “It happens to be in Wyoming.”
“The state?”
“The state.”
“You want me to haul a horse half way across the country to find her confidence? Why not Prairie Meadows or Canterbury?”
Cassie saw the cagey glint dancing in her father’s eyes. Every horse trainer, every horse player had to have an angle. She was about to hear one more.
“Altitude. If we train the filly in the mountains, she’ll have a tremendous edge when we run her back here.”
Before she could voice her skepticism, he hurried on. “Olympic athletes do it all the time. Horse trainers do, too. If this don’t work, Cass, if the filly is simply a dud, so be it. We tried. We can feel good about that. You can go back to your old job. I won’t even try holdin’ you to your commitment.”
“How long would I have to be gone?”
“Probably two weeks. It’ll take at least a couple days to haul each way. You’ll want to be out there a week so the filly can train and get used to the altitude. When you get her back, I’ll have her entered in a cheap allowance race. Then we’ll really see what we’ve got.”
This was too much! Wyoming? Hauling horses alone?
She searched for words to tell him he’d gone too far and discovered she couldn’t find them. Her excitement mounted. New scenery, adventure, a chance to make it up to Hope. “I wonder what Cheyenne has to offer. Bet it’s real cowboy.”
“Not Cheyenne.” The corner of Tug’s mouth turned up. “Wyoming Downs is in Evanston. That’s in southwest Wyoming. You’ll be a lot closer to Salt Lake City than to Cheyenne.”
“Oh my god, are there people where you’re sending me?”
“I’d be surprised if you don’t meet at least one or two along the way,” Tug cracked. “Thanks.” His eyes shone with mist, his hands trembled. “Thanks. Cassie’s Hope and I both owe you.”
“You better believe that. Guess I ought to start packing my bags.”
Looking around her new surroundings, Cassie de
cided she liked the duck pond in the infield of the Wyoming Downs seven-eighths-mile track. Otherwise, she couldn’t tell if the place was sterile, or subtly exquisitely beautiful. Dust swirled in the dry wind. Grasses were already turning brown. Mountains crowded the distant southwestern horizon like so many sentries.
Shaking her head, she grabbed a hoof pick from her back pocket, lifted one of Hope’s front hooves, and began extracting dirt and pebbles.
“Nice lookin’ filly.”
Cassie groaned at the strange deep voice and the too-familiar line. Couldn’t men anywhere be a little more original?
Dropping the hoof, Cassie glanced across Hope’s back and gasped. The deeply tanned hunk behind the voice had shoulders that stretched taut a pale yellow polo shirt covered, in part, with a thin buckskin vest. The wide cowboy buckle appeared unnecessary to hold up well contoured Levi’s. A sweat-stained brown Stetson, tipped low, cast a light shadow across his facial features. His worn boots were those of a working man. This was no drugstore cowboy.
He stepped closer. She could make out a scowl. Dark eyes snapped a foreboding anger. Raven black hair framed chiseled features, searing them into Cassie’s brain. Her toes curled involuntarily. She rubbed Hope’s coat vigorously. Who the hell was he? And to top it off, he didn’t even seem to notice her. His eyes appraised only the horse.
“Thanks,” she mumbled, ducking down by Hope’s flank.
The handsome stranger walked around the horse. “Very nice,” he drawled at last.
Cassie continued grooming, doing her best to ignore the man.
“You’re gonna wear a hole in that horse with all that hand rubbing,” he commented dryly.
Cassie straightened. Her lips flared. Her cheeks burned as if on fire. Her eyes bore into the man. “And just who the hell are you? And what gives you the right to criticize how I groom my horse? I’ve been tending horses since I was big enough to walk.”
“Whoa there, don’t get all bent out of shape. I’m Clint Travers.” The stranger rested a hand on Hope’s withers. “I run some horses here from time to time. Didn’t mean to impugn your horsemanship, ma’am.”
“Well, fine.” Cassie pushed stray hair from her eyes. “Maybe I overreacted some.”
He ignored her attempt at apology. “So, this is the filly that’s created such a fuss around shedrow.”
“What do you mean? I didn’t know anyone noticed.”
“Not notice! You got to be kidding—or incredibly naive.”
Cassie clenched her teeth and glared at the stranger.
“Strike that last comment,” he said quickly. “I seem to be putting my foot in my mouth.”
“Apparently you’ve a large enough mouth for it to fit, with plenty of room to spare.”
“Okay. Guess I deserved that. The fuss is simple. Most people who race here at the Downs are working stiffs who run horses because they love them. Very few of these folks win enough to keep their horses in oats.”
“So.” Cassie dragged the toe of her boot through the dirt. “I love my horses too. And there’s nothing wrong with expecting they might earn enough to pay their own way and then some.”
“Be that as it may, your bringing a well-bred horse in here from Chicago doesn’t go down well. If you win, which is highly likely on class alone, you’ll have denied someone here the kind of check that can make a real difference in maintaining a string of decent horses. Yet it’s unlikely the purse will even cover your expenses of traveling and staying here.” He glared and anger crept into his voice. “You’re just trying to get a cheap win for your horse.”
“That’s horse racing, isn’t it?” Cassie’s voice rose. She boldly returned his hard stare. “And the favorites win only a third of the time. So?”
“Uh, huh. Unless someone ships in a ringer. This filly will go off three to five. The bettors aren’t gonna be very happy with you, either.”
“Well, hot damn. I didn’t come here to win a popularity contest. I came here to win a horse race. And that’s what we’re going to try to do.” Cassie abruptly turned her back on him.
“Okay, but don’t expect everybody to roll out a red carpet,” Clint barked at her back.
Cassie’s ponytail did a hundred and eighty degree turnabout as she declared shrilly, “I don’t expect any western hospitality from the likes of you. Who the hell started this conversation anyway? Not me! And if you don’t mind too much, I have other things to do.”
- o -
Clint Travers turned away, hiding a grin. He heard the sputtering fireball whisper soothing sounds to her horse. Stuffing his hands in his back pockets, he strolled back down shedrow toward his own horses.
Later he saw the woman ride the filly out on to the track for a mid-morning gallop. His experienced eye followed filly and rider. Damn, he’d thought poetry in motion was a cliché until now. “She’s as good as she looks,” he grumbled, grading the horse. Could the same be said for the rider?
Reluctantly, he had to admit he liked what he saw. Damn it. He’d been prepared to boot the invader back to Chicago where she belonged, but he hadn’t counted on her coming in such a nice package.
Now, she might as well stay at least until he had a chance to see that long fire-burnt hair hanging loose. The ponytail stuffed through a Cubs hat had cast a sexy and sensual spell bobbing with her hand movements, but he’d rather see that gleaming hair unencumbered, blowing in the Wyoming wind.
The snug indigo blouse she wore obviously had all it could do to contain shapely breasts; palm sized, no doubt. Not too small and not too big. And, the young woman was graced with an extraordinarily tempting rear end.
Clint shook his head. The horse was trouble enough. The woman would no doubt be a disaster. It wasn’t exactly like they’d started off on the best of terms.
- o -
At 5:30 the next morning, Cassie swore she was soaring on the wings of Pegasus. While her body complained loudly about a 4:30 a.m. wake up call and some of her muscles had not recovered from the long road trip from Chicago, nothing—absolutely nothing—could compete with dawn at a track. And Wyoming Downs was no exception.
The thermos of very hot coffee might have been her physical lifeline at a time of day when only a few months ago she had been accustomed to sound sleeping; the sun poking up over the dusty foothills proved to be her spiritual lifeline. Cassie sighed deeply, taking in the familiar scents of horses, liniments and hot mash.
She welcomed the sounds of creaking leather and neighing horses. Here and there were human sounds: trainers giving quiet instruction to exercise lads, riders clucking to their mounts, and cuss words spoken in frustration at a balking horse or human.
Cutting the strings on a bale of hay, she glanced over to check out Hope, exercising on a hotwalker. Hope appeared to have no trouble adjusting to her new surroundings.
Cassie had to be careful not to be taken in by the charm and subtle allure of the track. Making the racetrack a way of life was kind of like joining the circus or the carnival. And she wasn’t about to do either. She’d experienced more than enough of that growing up.
Horse people worked hard putting in long hours and crazy schedules. And horse people stuck together. They competed with each other, they fought each other, they played together and they stood by one another in their isolated world.
Cassie mucked out Hope’s stall. Her gear was stored along with feed in an adjacent stall. She’d arrived so late in the night on Sunday she’d simply made a bed of straw in that stall and slept until dawn. It turned out her motel room wasn’t much larger.
She guided a wheelbarrow loaded with straw and manure toward the dump pile. What would her Chicago friends say if they could see her now? She laughed out loud.
“Must’ve found your sense of humor.”
“That damn voice,” Cassie muttered, taking her time to empty the wheelbarrow before turning to face the man.
“Thought you might like to hear the latest scuttlebutt.”
“I doubt that very much.”
Cassie folded her arms and awaited whatever news the stable crier had to offer. Too bad he didn’t look ugly to match his disposition.
“Sounds like one of the other barns based here is shipping in a California horse for your race. The horse ran fairly well at Golden Gate—we may yet see a horse race come Sunday.”
That news certainly popped her reverie, but she wasn’t going to let Mr. Travers know. Her lips thinned and then she brightened. “Good. I’m not the only one shipping in from out of state. And it will make Hope’s victory more meaningful.”
“You might not be so cocky after the race. The horse they’re shipping in has won three out of four lifetime races. Granted, they were cheap races, but at least the horse has won.” Clint removed his Stetson long enough to run his fingers through thick jet-black hair. “Pulled up your horse on the Internet last night. She’s bred a hell of a lot better and looks a lot better than she’s performed. Guess I know why you’re here.”
“Why I’m here is none of your business.”
Clint breathed deeply. “Look it,” he said, more slowly, “I’m not saying you don’t have a right to be here. It looks like you’ve got a troubled filly. If she wins, it may prove worth the effort. I admit I don’t like people shipping in classy horses from around the country to compete with the locals. But now that the California horse is coming, the fact that you’re here doesn’t make much difference. One of those two horses is bound to win.
“That filly of yours walking on the hotwalker,” he gestured toward the chestnut, “is the best bred horse we’ve seen here in several seasons. She looks the part. Even on the hotwalker she’s up on her toes prancing. Anybody here would love to have her in their barn.” He smiled at the quizzical look on Cassie’s face. “Yes, including me.”
“Well, thank you,” Cassie sputtered. “I just hope she’s up on her toes come Sunday.”
“So what do you do when you’re not at the track?”
Cassie swallowed. Did he know she wasn’t really a horse trainer? She wasn’t about to tell him she was a social worker.
Cassie's Hope (Riders Up) Page 2