“Nealy, I want you to know . . . I mean, I think you should know . . .” He threw up his hands in exasperation. “I’m making a real mess of this,” he said, standing up.
Nealy reached for Hunt’s hand and let him help pull her up. When he took her into his arms, she didn’t resist. Instead, she gave herself up to the moment. She felt his hands in her hair as he pulled her to him, felt his lips against hers. Sweet and gentle, hot and demanding. A kiss that demanded other things.
“Oh, Nealy. There’s so much I want to say to you. So much I want to do . . .”
“Then say it and do it,” she whispered against his lips.
He pulled back from her to look into her eyes. “Are you sure?”
“I’m absolutely positive.”
“Where?” he whispered huskily. “The barn?”
“No. No,” she said, aching for his touch. “The manager’s house, your house.”
A long time later, with the fire reduced to smoldering embers, Hunt groaned as he nestled Nealy more comfortably in his arms. In the whole of his life he had never felt what he was feeling now. He forgot she was his boss, forgot everything but the woman in his arms. He wanted to say something to her, something to let her know what he was feeling, but the words wouldn’t come. He sighed when Nealy burrowed deeper into the nest of his arms. “Is it all right not to talk, just to feel?” he whispered into her sweet-smelling hair.
Nealy sighed. “Ummmm.”
“Are you cold? The fire is dying down.” He shifted his weight until she was stretched out alongside him. He loved the feel of her naked body against his, loved the feel of her warm skin against his hands. He wanted her. Again.
His mouth was gentle, his touch delicate, as he explored and caressed. He could feel her passion quicken, and he calmed her with his touch and soothed her with words known only to lovers.
He was gentle, so very gentle, evoking in her a golden warmth that spread through her loins and tingled her toes. His movements were familiar, reassuring, his touch on her naked breasts light and lingering.
He gentled her with a sure touch and a soft voice, quieting her whimper with his mouth and yet evoking moans of passion with his caress. When passion flamed again, it burned as pure as the fire that had warmed them earlier.
Hunt cradled Nealy in his arms, his expression full of awe. Nealy had matched his ardor, and without reservation given herself totally to him. How beautiful she was in the dim glow of the room, how gentle she could be, and then she could become a raging riptide, swirling and crushing his volcanic outpourings until the molten lava and thundering waters were a marriage of one.
Nealy’s last conscious thought before closing her eyes was to wonder if she was falling in love with Hunter Clay.
And then they slept, entwined in each other’s arms.
14
Nealy looked across the front pasture, shielding her eyes from the early-morning sun. How many times had she stood here like this savoring the sounds emanating from the barns, smelling the clover, staring at the diamondlike droplets of early-morning dew on the velvety bluegrass Kentucky was known for? Hundreds? Thousands?
She jammed her hands into her pockets to stop them from trembling. Tomorrow, the first Saturday in May, was the day she’d knocked herself out for these last two years. Kentucky Derby Day at Churchill Downs. Tomorrow she would fulfill her promise to Maud and make her Derby-winning dream come true. And tomorrow Nealy herself would go down in history as the first female trainer to ride a Kentucky Derby winner.
She refused even to consider the possibility that she might not win because she knew she would. Flyby was ready. She was ready.
Nealy reached into her shirt pocket for her cigarettes and had to laugh at herself when she found it empty. Of course it was empty. She’d given up smoking over two years ago when she’d started her fitness program. Clasping her hands in front of her, she fought back the urge to go running down to the barns to ask one of the grooms for a cigarette. Smoking was forbidden anywhere near the barns, but there was a small area close to the largest where smoking was permitted.
At the sight of a television van parking along the fence outside the gate, Nealy forgot about her desire for a cigarette. Months ago Smitty had warned her that the closer it got to Derby Day, the more pressure the media would put on her to do interviews. “Get used to it,” she said, “you’re unique because you’re the owner, trainer, and the rider of a Derby entrant, and you’re also a female. That makes you big news, honey.”
Nealy had done her history homework and knew the names of the three women who had trained Derby horses. In 1937 Mary Hirsch’s horse, No Sir, finished thirteenth. Mrs. Albert Roth’s 1949 entry, Seneca Coin, hadn’t finished at all. The Derby of 1965 recorded Mary Keim as the trainer of the sixth-place horse, Mr. Pak.
So far, not a single Derby winner among them. Not even one in the money. But after tomorrow . . .
When a second TV van parked along the fence, Nealy went back inside the house. Thank God she’d had the foresight to hire a twenty-four-hour security service to make sure no one except the employees got past the front gates. Reporters were obnoxious people who popped off questions they had no business asking. Smitty had told her that eventually she would have to talk to them, and Nealy had said she would . . . after she won the Derby.
In spite of her silence and reclusiveness, the newspapers had run numerous articles about her. It was no surprise that Jack and Wiley Carney were the two men the reporters quoted most. Jack accused her of breaking every unwritten rule that applied to the Derby. “She thumbs her nose at the establishment,” he told one of the papers. “She hasn’t done one single thing according to the book, and she’s getting away with it because she’s a woman!”
Nealy had figured that Jack would eventually find a way to get even with her for firing him and his son, but she’d thought he would do something more sneaky and underhanded than just bad-mouthing her to the media.
She’d been lucky, too, that so far Smitty’s dire predictions of digging up her past had not come true. But tomorrow was another day.
Hunt came into the kitchen just as Nealy sat down to drink her second cup of coffee. Not a day went by that she didn’t congratulate herself on hiring Hunt. He was a stickler about legalities. There was no doubt in her mind that he could recite every rule and requirement listed in the Jockey Club’s American Stud Book.
“I saw the TV vans out in front,” he said.
“That’s why I came back in the house, so they wouldn’t see me.”
“You won’t be able to get away from them after the race, you know.”
“I won’t want to then.”
Hunt finished pouring himself a cup of coffee and sat down across from her. “Any doubts about tomorrow?”
“Not a one,” she said without hesitation.
He smiled at her and winked. “You should be proud of yourself, Nealy. You’re paving the way for other women who want to be in the Thoroughbred horse business.”
Nealy wrapped her hands around her coffee cup, the weight of responsibility heavy on her small shoulders. “I’m getting really jittery, Hunt.”
“You!” His voice rose in feigned surprise. “I don’t believe it.” He gave her a sideways look. “I heard on the early news that Knight Wing was scratched. Sid Calloway, his owner, didn’t say what the problem was.”
Nealy frowned. “That’s too bad,” she said with all sincerity. “From what I’ve seen Knight Wing is a good horse. And thanks for changing the subject, but it won’t do any good. These are serious jitters. You’d be jittery, too. Most of it is because of those . . . people,” she mumbled. His look of question prompted her to explain. “You know, Jack, Wiley, people like them. Why do they want to see me fail, Hunt? Because I didn’t follow their methods? Because I disregarded a few silly rules? Or because I’m a woman, and I’m upsetting the status quo?”
“Probably a little of all three,” he answered, setting down his coffee cup. “But you have to rise abo
ve it, Nealy. You have to stop thinking about all that garbage. You have a single purpose here. Don’t deviate by word or deed. You’re in the clear. I checked on Flyby during the night. Stardancer, too. They’re picking up on your anxiety. Knock it off, or you’re going to be in big trouble tomorrow. Maybe you need a couple of laps around the track with Charlie. He’s as hyper as you are.”
“I know,” she said, sighing. “Give me a couple of hours, and I’ll get a handle on it. I thought I would go over to the cemetery and . . .”
“Talk to Maud and Jess?” He stood up and put his hand on the back of her chair. “Go.”
Nealy put her hands on the table and pushed herself to her feet. “Make sure nobody disturbs me, okay? I’ve got a lot of talking to do.”
“Not a problem. Talk all you want but keep track of the time. We’ve got a lot to do today.”
Hunt walked Nealy outside and watched her walk across the acreage. God, she was just a tiny little thing, a little over a hundred pounds soaking wet. And yet she had magic running through that small body. Magic only animals understood. Why was she the one? What made her different? Even his father knew and understood Nealy’s magic.
In that one split second he realized just how deep his love for Nealy went.
“You’re up early, Smitty,” Hunt said as he accepted the cup of coffee she held out. His third of the morning.
“I couldn’t sleep. The whole media fiasco,” she said, pointing toward the front of the property, where a dozen or more vans and cars were now parked alongside the fence. “This whole thing has knocked the stuffing out of me. Not to mention pissed me off. Why can’t they leave her alone? Why do they have to hunt and peck and dig and poke? Do you know who I saw at the store in Frankfort yesterday? Sylvia Goldstein, that’s who. She stopped me in the parking lot and asked me if Nealy was serious about riding Flyby herself. I told her Nealy was very serious and that she and her husband might as well scratch their entry because he didn’t have a chance. She tried to look offended in her designer duds, but I wasn’t buying it. Nothing offends that woman. When are we heading out for Louisville?”
“Around midnight. Even if we drive slowly, we’ll be there by one o’clock. We don’t want to get there any earlier. Nealy doesn’t want to give anything away.”
“Funny,” Smitty said. “Before we made the announcement that Nealy was going to ride Flyby in the Derby, the media didn’t pay any attention to them. Not even at Santa Anita. I imagine they’re kicking themselves sideways for scratching them as a flash in the pan.” Smitty clasped her hands in front of her. “They are going to win, aren’t they, Hunt? Have you heard the morning line yet?”
“To answer your first question, yes, they’re going to win. To answer the second, Flyby is a long shot at eighteen to one. No reason to think that will change.”
Smitty started to cough and sputter as she gasped, “Eighteen to one!” Hunt thumped her on the back until she could pull herself together. “If we play our cards right and they don’t decrease the odds, we could become overnight millionaires. I’m laying down a bundle, and so is Carmela. How about you?”
“Only every cent I’ve got to my name. What do you think of the nineteen-horse field? I heard Sid scratched his horse. Is there even one colt that can give Flyby some serious competition?”
Smitty tossed the rest of her coffee onto the ground. “Maybe one or two. My feeling is they aren’t as good as the hype I’ve been hearing.”
“One of them being Nightstar, the Coleman horse from SunStar Farms?” At Smitty’s nod, Hunt said, “He’s a fireball at the gate, but I don’t think he’ll be able to maintain his speed in the stretch. Ricky Vee is on him, but a jockey is only as good as the horse he’s riding. Leisure Boy, the Dillon Roland horse, is on a par with Nightstar. His trainer is okay but no great shakes. I don’t much care for his jockey either.” The honking of a horn interrupted him. He turned around. “You going out there to talk to that pack of ghouls?”
Smitty gritted her teeth. “I suppose. Otherwise, they might get unruly and storm the gates. But I think I’ll make them wait a little while, until it warms up some more, to about ninety. I want to see them all wilted and snarly.”
“Well, be careful, and don’t let them get to you,” he cautioned.
“Trust me, they won’t get within three yards of me. I’m taking my cattle prod, and if they get too close, I’ll hold it up and threaten them.” To demonstrate, she raised her arms and shook it threateningly.
Hunt pretended to look frightened. “You’ve got me scared.”
“Nothing like a cattle prod to give a woman a sense of power. Now, Carmela, she doesn’t need a prod. That lady has a mouth on her that would burn rubber, and she uses it, but only to protect Nealy. Speaking of Nealy,” she said, “is she as nervous this morning as she was last night?”
“Uh-huh, but she’ll be fine. She went over to the cemetery to have a nice long talk with Maud and Jess.”
Smitty gave Hunt a thumbs-up and walked back to the office. She knew he was in love with Nealy. Everybody who worked on the farm knew it. Hunt wasn’t very good at keeping his feelings off his face. Nealy, however, had a poker face. You almost never knew what she was thinking until she told you . . . if she told you.
Reflecting on her conversation with Hunt, she wondered if Nealy had told him anything about her past . . . that tomorrow she would be running for the roses not only against her own father but against Emmie’s father. If that wasn’t enough to make a body nervous, she didn’t know what was. Smitty sighed. Sometimes she wished she didn’t know as many secrets as she did.
She looked at her watch. She’d wait until around noon to go out to beard the hordes of tabloid reporters and legitimate journalists. She checked her outfit in the mirror behind the door and gave herself a nod of approval. She’d taken extra pains today with her grooming and dress, knowing she would have the media to contend with. The scarlet-leather skirt Nealy referred to as rubber clung to her ample curves. The matching silk blouse showed more curves and a deep cleavage. The short flight jacket trimmed in gold was eye-boggling, as were the dangling earrings that tinkled when she walked. She lowered her head and shook her hair before she pawed through it with her fingers. It stood out from her head like a bush.
Charlie in her arms, Nealy walked to the barn. Just one more day. She shrugged. “We’re okay, Charlie,” she said, cuddling the little dog. “That talk with Maud and Jess helped a lot. I’m centered now and ready to take on the world. Even my father. Today will be the first time I’ve seen him in years. But thanks to Maud and Jess, he can’t hurt me anymore. I wonder if Pyne and Rhy will be there. Of course, they will. As for the esteemed Mr. Dillon Roland, aka Mr. Son-of-a-bitch, I doubt he’ll even recognize me. And if he does, so what? I’m beyond his threats.” Charlie licked her face. “That’s right, Charlie, and what I need to do is concentrate on one thing and one thing only: Flyby. Now scamper over there and let Flyby know things are okay. I want to spend a few minutes with Stardancer.” She moved out of the sunlight into the shade of the breezeway and heard Stardancer whicker to Little Lady through the wrought-iron bars on her stall. “Stardancer, dammit, you promised to stay in your stall until I could come and get you. You have to stop doing stuff like this. You make me nuts sometimes.” Hands on hips, Nealy walked toward the stallion. “What do you think you’re doing, big guy? C’mere,” she said, coaxing him toward her with a mint.
Nealy leaned against the stall door, watching the stallion as he chewed the mint, then rolled back his lips in ecstasy. She giggled, her voice low and calm, then handed him over to Danny to take out to the paddock.
As soon as he was out of sight, Nealy opened Little Lady’s stall. “Come on, Mama, let’s hit it,” she said, unlatching the door. The mare stood still while Nealy haltered her. Then the two of them left the stall and walked side by side through the breezeway. Nealy grinned from ear to ear as she watched Charlie scampering ahead. He yipped and yapped and almost turned himself inside out in
his excitement.
Just yesterday Smitty had told her Nightstar’s barn buddy was a chicken named Rosalie and that Leisure Boy had bonded with a pygmy goat named Lucille. She snorted. A dog, at least, was respectable. Charlie helped to make things work.
Nealy took a deep breath and realized she was calm. She held out her hands to see if they trembled. Not a tremor. “Yesssss.”
Flyby whinnied as Nealy and Little Lady passed his paddock. Because she couldn’t risk any chances of injury, she had Danny put him in a paddock by himself today. As always, the sight of him made her heart skip a beat. God, how she loved him. She knew in her gut he would run until he dropped if that was what she wanted. He could do the mile and a quarter and barely break a sweat. Aside from the word beautiful, the only word to describe him that came to mind was magnificent.
Like his sire, he had developed into an impressive-looking horse that stood at 16.3 hands, slightly taller than Stardancer. Even standing still he gave off an aura of power and speed. His bright chestnut coat gleamed in the sun, reminding Nealy of Emmie’s penny.
She could tell by looking at him that he knew something was different today. The routine he’d lived by for the past two years was suddenly over. Day in and day out, from the moment his training began, without missing a day, Nealy had talked to him as she would to a human being—told him what she was doing, what she expected from him—and he seemed to understand. And always, at the end of the day, there were rewards, the apple, the mint, Charlie barking his approval, and then what she called her cuddle time . . . time she spent in his stall sitting in the corner and talking, sometimes laughing, sometimes crying as she shared her joys and miseries.
After tomorrow it would all be over, all the hard work, the sleepless nights, the worry and fretting.
“Nealy, I brought you another cup of coffee,” Hunt said, coming up behind her. “The crowd out by the road is growing. It might not be a bad idea for you to go out there and give an interview or say a few words.”
Kentucky Rich Page 17