Ambition: (The Eventing Series Book 1)

by Natalie Keller Reinert

  I really liked Lacey, which was why I taught her at all.

  Finally, I landed on an argument that stuck. My crazy lady, Eileen, was starting to feel concerned that it was going to be too hot to start training her little pasture puff. Maybe, she suggested, in a long and rambling email that touched upon hurricane season, midwestern blizzards, and the sugar content of corn, it would be better to leave off and start talking again in September.

  I’d sat back in my broken office chair and stared at the computer screen for a long time. Marcus came in and asked me to rub his ears. “Marcus,” I sighed, running my fingers over his floppy ears, “I’m going to have to kill this woman, seriously. I have invested way too much time in this to have her back out now.”

  Marcus licked his nose, the way he did when he was excessively happy.

  And he didn’t stop until I decided on the correct wording for my email, and took my hand from his head to get back to typing.

  So now we were at the critical day, when the gray horse from Michigan was coming to Florida to acclimate before he began his eventing career. Lay-up in my barn was better than nothing, wasn’t possession nine-tenths of ownership? Or in this case, trainer-ship. Once I had the horse in my barn, I could really ramp up the case to leave him with me, despite my lack of Olympic medals (and shit-eating grin).

  And while my mental state would not be improved by having a crazy person for a client, I had made certain promises to myself, and I was planning on keeping them. One week ago I had gotten up from a fairly despondent place, sitting there on that railroad tie looking at my empty parking lot, a dirty barn and twelve dirty horses behind me. I had announced to the universe that I was going to ride horses, show horses, and get clients. I was keeping that promise to myself, and I wasn’t turning away this gray Thoroughbred currently en route just because his owner was emotionally needy and wishy-washy.

  Not to mention that in my current impoverished state, and with the likelihood of scoring the ACE grant less than zero, I couldn’t really turn down any business. Even deeply discounted business from a lunatic.

  At this point tonight, though, I was so exhausted that even the prospect of a new client paying some of my bills didn’t make the sitting up all night waiting any sweeter. I wanted to go to sleep, dammit.

  I tended to lose all rationality when I was sleepy. I really should have looked into a nice nine-to-five job with climate control and no living beings to depend on me for their survival.

  A sleepy beagle came out of the bedroom, feet dragging, and looked at me hopefully. He wagged his tail weakly.

  “Peter Morrison probably gets to go to bed on time,” I told Marcus. “My mother gets to go to bed on time. Becky always goes to bed on time. Even Laurie can. But we sit up waiting for the horses of crazy people, so that we can pay the feed bill next week.”

  Marcus sighed and clambered up onto the couch next to me. He was a very loyal beagle, but sleeping on the couch must have seemed ridiculous to him when there was a perfectly good queen-size bed just sitting empty in the next room. He curled up next to me and put his warm head on my thigh.

  “If I get into that bed, I’ll never get up,” I said apologetically, rubbing at his silky ears.

  Marcus closed his eyes, done with me and my inexplicable behavior. He smelled vaguely of manure. That was fine, I probably did too.

  My phone buzzed. Marcus opened his eyes again, aggrieved. It wasn’t easy being my beagle sometimes.

  “Finally,” I muttered, and picked the phone up. There was a hissing of static and some mumbled sounds that sounded as if they might be English language, from which I deduced that the van was at the front gate. I pressed the nine button, to open the automated gate, and pushed myself off the couch with both fists. Marcus slithered down, hoping that we were headed for bed at last. Well, he was about to be disappointed again, poor little guy.

  I was forever disappointing my dog. It was worse than disappointing my mother. Marcus, at least, always seemed to hold out hope that I’d surprise him and do something right.

  I poked my feet into the pair of blue flip-flops by the front door, then considered that I didn’t know anything about this horse and kicked them off, opting for the neighboring pair of Wellingtons instead. Closed-toes were always safer. Wellington boots and denim cut-offs, Florida horse farm chic. I was sure the van driver had seen much worse. I went banging out the front door, leaving Marcus behind so he didn’t end up under the truck tires, just as the tractor trailer appeared in the driveway, headlights illuminating the steaming rocks of the parking lot.

  To the symphony of Marcus’s forlorn baying, I waved my hands and nodded and held up my fingers in 3-2-1 increments, a complex sign-language monologue conducted in order to direct the van driver to the correct angle he’d need in order to get his semi-trailer in a loop around the parking lot. The first time I’d had a big horse van come back here, I hadn’t realized that a very precise route was necessary, and that unlucky van driver had finally had to back up the whole quarter-mile and onto the narrow rural highway in order to leave. I had it all figured out now, though, and I hadn’t gotten cursed out by a van driver for getting his truck into an impossible angle in at least six months.

  The driver hopped out of the cab, pulled down a ramp, and unloaded the horse in front of the barn. He handed me the lead shank without ceremony, the horse’s head swinging from side to side as he tried to figure out where he had landed after the long ride.

  I handed the lead right back. “I need to check him over first.”

  The driver scowled and shrugged, simultaneously.

  Protocol’s a bitch, I thought without sympathy, and stepped back to look over the new guy. Only an idiot would accept a horse without making sure he hadn’t been damaged in transit.

  What I saw was enough to wake me up thoroughly, and forgive the van driver the late delivery. This was a good horse.

  A very good horse.

  A show-stopper.

  Tall and dark, with dapples spread like snowflakes across his body, the Thoroughbred was the image of the classic sport horse. He had a short back, a gorgeous sloping shoulder, and straight legs with plenty of bone. A gracefully arching neck. An elegant head, lightening to white, with a ramrod-straight profile and intelligent, bold eyes. Even in the dim light from the streetlight over the parking lot, his quality and athleticism were completely in evidence. I had known from pictures and videos that I’d be getting a good-looking horse. But he was one thousand times more impressive in the flesh.

  He’s worth the trouble.

  The words flashed through my brain, followed by the ambitious dreams that carried me through my days. If I could get this horse going, if his brain was as good as his body, I’d have something really quality to compete. I could quit lamenting the loss of the ACE horse. Give it to Peter, fine. Just give me this horse.

  And then I could beat Peter, and everyone else, in a few years.

  Two problems, of course, which came crowding into my brain fast on the heels of my hopes and dreams — he wasn’t definitely mine to train, and I hadn’t yet seen what was under the shipping wraps. I had to be certain that he was in perfect health after such a long journey. My eyes wandered down his legs as I walked in a slow circle around the horse, studying his every angle. “The bandages have to come off,” I finally announced. “Hang on.”

  The driver sighed, as if this was completely unusual. I wondered if he was new to equine transportation. Maybe he used to deliver inanimate things that came sealed in crates, or cardboard boxes.

  The horse’s fat shipping bandages were sagging in tired loops below his knees, which meant that no one had bothered to reset them during the journey. I bit my lip and kneeled down, hoping no damage had been done by the oversight, picked the shavings from the velcro tab, and set to work unwrapping. Even the pillow bandages beneath the standing wraps were disgusting, stained through with manure and urine, but a horse-person gets used to these things. I was more concerned with what was underneath. Sa
gging bandages, pulling unevenly at delicate tendons and ligaments, can be disastrous for any horse. The lacy structure of the lower leg is as perfect and fragile as a snowflake.

  But running my hands down his warm, sweaty lower legs, steaming from the heavy wraps and the Florida night and the heat of the road, I felt only hard tendons and joints beneath tightly stretched skin. No puffiness, no swelling, no bumps or lumps. He was fine. I sighed with relief as I slowly straightened up. That was one hurdle cleared.

  I took one more look over the rest of the horse, checking for damage, as I would have done for a rental car or a new living room set, and then signed the bill of lading that the long-suffering driver silently held out on a clipboard. The horse ducked his head and pawed at the gravel driveway. In the barn, Passion whinnied, a high-pitched shriek, and the new horse turned to gaze up at the barn with wide eyes, as if he hadn’t realized there were other horses nearby. He neighed in return, setting off the rest of the crew. A choir of whinnies that could have woken the dead echoed through the night, and I was grateful that I didn’t have any nearby neighbors. From inside the van, there was a thumping of hooves and a few answering neighs to join the chorus.

  “How many more do you have to deliver?” I asked through the cacophony, as the driver rubbed a big hand across his bleary eyes.

  “Three more. To three different farms.” He gave me a sideways grin, as if forgiving me for being a crazy horse-lady after all, and then stuffed the lead shank back into my hand. I watched as he stomped off, slammed the trailer doors shut, clambered into his truck, and pulled out. Then I turned to the horse, giving him a gentle clap on the neck. His name, I remembered, was Mickey. Well, I thought, looking again at his magnificent build. He was no mouse, that was for sure.

  “Mickey,” I said experimentally, and then sang out “Mickeeeeeey,” but the big gray horse just stared at the barn, more interested in the prospect of meeting new horses than new people.

  “Mickey Mickey Mickey!” I tried one more time, but he wasn’t paying me any mind. I gave up and led him into the barn, pausing in the doorway to flip on the lights. Twelve heads looked over their stall doors in astonishment, twelve pairs of eyes blinking in the sudden brightness.

  “Here he is,” I told them. “Lucky number thirteen.”

  Mickey stared at the other horses for a long moment, looking to his right and left to take it all in. I saw his sides tremble a little, and took a small step away from him in case things got physical, but he seemed to internalize his stress. No spooks, no bolts, no bad reactions at all. Interesting, I thought, watching his nostrils flutter. Brave.

  Passion, horrible pony that he was, shrieked his earsplitting neigh again, and then kicked his stall door for emphasis. Mickey watched him impassively for a moment, and then shook his head, snorted, and put out a foreleg to paw the aisle.

  “That’s a nasty habit,” I chided, and gave him a little smack on the muscle of his forearm. Mickey swiveled his left ear to watch me, but stopped pawing and stood still. I waited, and the horses in the barn waited, and Mickey waited, until I realized that all of us were waiting for someone else to do something, so I just walked Mickey into his stall, took off the lead shank, and came out again, shutting the old-fashioned Dutch door behind me.

  I had plenty of empty stalls, but the one I had prepared for Mickey was right between Passion and Monty. Passion might have been a little demon, but he wasn’t tall enough to bother Mickey over the stall wall, while Monty was just a nice young man in every respect. I thought he’d be a good baby-sitter for a nervous ex-racehorse.

  But even the quelling influence of a friendly companion seemed unnecessary now. Mickey was entirely unmoved by his new surroundings. The big gray horse did a tour of his stall, rolled in the fresh shavings until he was covered from ear to tail in golden curls, and then set to work demolishing the pile of hay I’d left in the back corner.

  I watched him for a moment with satisfaction, leaning over the stall door. A horse this level-headed could be a real pleasure to train. If he could move well, and if he could jump well, I might be sitting on a really top-notch prospect. “And that’s why you never turn down a client, no matter how insane they seem,” I told myself, and nodded my head for emphasis. The horse flicked an ear in my direction and went on eating his hay. He was probably used to crazy people who talked to themselves.

  Which reminded me, I still had to call his owner. I rolled my neck around in a circle and loosened my shoulders. Talking to crazy people on the phone was never my favorite part of being in this business. Unfortunately, it was a big part of the job.

  CHAPTER SIX

  But I didn’t have time to call Mickey’s owner. My phone rang as I walking back to the house. I looked at the screen: “Eileen - Mickey’s Mom.” Of course. I put the phone to my ear.

  “This is Jules,” I announced, as if I didn’t know who was calling.

  “Jules,” Eileen breathed into her phone, her voice squeaking with anxiety. “Has Mickey arrived? I couldn’t wait any longer to call!”

  I was already on my front porch, slipping off my muddy boots. A tree frog jumped from the gutter to the porch, nearly scaring the life out of me, but I managed to keep my voice nonchalant. Frogs were a fact of life. “Just got in. I’m watching him in his stall,” I lied.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Eating hay.” I quietly swung the storm door open and slipped into the house. It was marvelously cold inside. I probably would not be in the terrible financial shape I was if I would just turn down my air conditioning a notch, but that wasn’t happening. Marcus gave me a rapturous greeting, scrabbling up my legs, and I pushed him down again. “Down!” I whispered, hand over the speaker. He slunk back into the bedroom, fed up.

  “Really? Really? He’s not upset or anything?”

  “Not at all. Such a good traveler. You have done a really good job with him, Eileen. He’s in beautiful condition and seems absolutely bombproof. He should be really easy to get started when he goes into work.”

  I’d barely handled the horse. But a little flattery wouldn’t hurt. And he did seem bombproof. He’d walked off that van and into his stall with scarcely more than a quickening of pulse.

  “Oh Jules, I’m so relieved!”

  The drama was real with this woman. Anyone who worked with her would need either the patience of a saint or the desperation of an approaching bankruptcy. I happened to fall into the latter camp, which meant I had to fake the first one.

  “I’m sure. Shipping a horse is scary. But no worries.” I threw myself down on the couch. “So I’m going to head to bed, but I’ll be getting up to check on him periodically. Make sure he’s drinking water and his manure is normal and everything.”

  This, at least, was the truth. It wasn’t too far-fetched to imagine that if I ignored him all night, he could be dead by morning. Colic after a long trip was common enough, and accidentally killing horses really wasn’t part of my long-term client-relationship plan. I’d have to go and check on him, despite the fact that it would further shatter my sleep schedule tonight. I added closed-circuit TV to my long mental wish list of future farm items. Imagine if I could just roll over in bed and squint at a monitor to make sure everyone was okay, instead of trudging out to the barn once an hour. Oh! The sleeps I would sleep!

  I managed to get her off the line with that promise, and a second promise to call her in the morning with a wellness update, and finally, well past midnight, I crept into bed for a little while.

  And I did get up every hour — almost. I forced myself to set my alarm. I was up at 1:30, and again at 2:30, disappointing poor sleepy Marcus, who trailed dutifully behind me with a martyred look in his half-closed eyes. Every time I would flip on the overhead lights, just to see the same, slightly confused horses in various states of nighttime horse-activity: nosing through their shavings for the last wisps of their night hay, passed out snoring in the center of their stall, snoozing upright with their ears at half-mast, heads hung over the stall d
oors. Everyone perked up at my appearance — “Early breakfast? Extra hay?” — and grumbled and kicked their doors when I left. Their body language was pretty easy to interpret. “Bitch.”

  The stalls would be extra-messy in the morning, I knew it. Payback, equine-style.

  Mickey seemed interested in me every time, though. He came over to say hello, nuzzled my open hands, blew his nostrils at Marcus, and generally impressed me with his good nature. And admiring his gorgeous build did plenty for my dreams. Every time I climbed back into bed, I closed my eyes and saw him there. Mickey trotting, Mickey jumping fences, Mickey at the Head of the Lake, leaping down into the water as I let the reins slip through my sympathetic fingers, our eyes already locked on the next fence. He was a dream, that horse: every girl dreams of the perfect dapple-gray steed. I fell asleep with my head full of him.

  Even so, when the alarm rang at three-thirty, I wasn’t exactly leaping out of bed to go walking through the humid, sticky night to look at a barnful of perplexed horses yet again. An hour ago, Mickey had eaten his hay, drank a bucket of water, and dropped a few piles of manure. There was even a wet spot in his stall, which meant he’d just had a nice pee. His system was working perfectly.

  I looked at the red numbers on the clock with chagrin. I was so goddamn tired. The horse was fine. He wasn’t going to colic, or he’d have done so by now. He was a good boy, a model citizen, an excellent traveler who was not at all fazed by his new surroundings.

  Ah, screw it. I slapped off the alarm, reset it for a slightly cheating six-fifteen, and sank back into my pillow, a relieved little beagle curled up against my back.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I woke up less-than-fresh after the last three hours of sleep. But almost immediately, I was hopping out of bed, excited to get out and see the new face in the barn in the light of day. “My big horse, my big horse,” I sang, pulling on a pair of old barn shorts, stained with hoof oil and molasses and heaven only knew what else. The horses heard my footsteps on the hollow floors of the double-wide and started shouting for their breakfasts. Marcus came padding into the bedroom, wagging his tail, ready to go out and get busy doing beagle things. It was a grand perfect wonderful morning. A new day, a new horse, a new chance to win this game on my own terms.