The Glory Game

by Janet Dailey

  “Here he comes.” Diana Chandler laid a hand on Luz’s forearm to claim her attention.

  Luz glanced down the line of horses being led into the saddling area. The only chestnut-colored horse she could see was a tall animal with a bright golden coat and a white streak running down the center of its delicately shaped face. She remembered that “the dud” had a white facial marking, but the three-year-old bore no other resemblance to the gangling colt she remembered.

  “See him?” Diana said excitedly. “That’s Vagabond Song.”

  All doubt vanished when Luz saw the Chandlers’ trainer, an Englishman renowned on the European racing circuit, walk forward to meet the groom leading the chestnut stallion. “He’s magnificent,” she exclaimed.

  “Isn’t he?” Her friend beamed with pride.

  As the groom and trainer brought the horse to its assigned saddling spot, where Luz waited with Trisha and Diana while Vic Chandler stood to one side with the French jockey, she had a chance to observe the horse more closely. The young stallion exhibited none of the agitation shown by other prancing, sidestepping horses. Its ears were pricked forward, interested in the commotion of the crowd, and its large, wide-spaced eyes looked calmly about the paddock.

  “Look at the chest and shoulders,” she said to Trisha as the groom walked him up to them. “He’s built like a Greyhound. Bred for speed and long distance.”

  The chestnut horse curiously pushed its nose toward Trisha. “He’s spectacular,” she murmured, smiling as she rubbed the velvety muzzle.

  “Bloody fine horse he is, mum,” the grizzled groom asserted. “Tractable, too.”

  “He gets that from his dam.” Luz stroked the sleek neck. “She has a wonderful disposition and the heart of a lion.” Scratching the horse’s poll, she murmured, “I wish Jake could see you now. Wouldn’t he be surprised at the way you turned out? Some dud you are.”

  Conscious of the trainer hovering anxiously by his charge, Luz stepped back to let them get on with their preparations. The call to saddle up would soon be made. Trisha moved back with her.

  “I think we should place a bet on him for good luck,” Trisha announced and hooked an arm over Luz’s. “Come on.”

  “How do you know it won’t be bad luck?” Luz countered, but she let herself be guided out of the paddock. “You aren’t supposed to bet on your own horse.”

  “But he isn’t our horse,” her daughter reasoned.

  “But we bred him.” Theoretically, she had been involved in the decision only to a very minor degree, but a Kincaid had bred him and she was a Kincaid, so it amounted to the same thing. “Smart horsebreeders know better than to bet on the horses they raise. It’s enough of a gamble bringing them into the racing world.”

  “I’m going to put some money on him even if you don’t.” Trisha directed her through the milling crowd of onlookers outside the paddock, propelling her in the direction of the betting booths.

  “Go ahead. I’ll wait here for you.”

  It was well in advance of post time, and the line of bettors was short. Trisha rejoined her within minutes, wagging the win tickets she’d purchased. “All or nothing,” she said, laughing.

  “I hope it’s all,” Luz replied, then noticed a bright green hat in the crowd. A minute later, Diana Chandler saw them and came over.

  “Ewan is superstitious about owners being in the paddock when the horses are saddled,” she explained.

  “Where’s Vic?” She glanced behind Diana to see if he was coming.

  “He went to the bar. I told him I’d find you and we’d meet there.” As they started in the direction of the champagne bar nestled under the trees, Vic approached, awkwardly juggling four glasses of champagne. Trisha hurried forward to rescue two of them before he spilled all four. She gave one to Luz.

  “I thought we should drink a toast to the winner.” Vic lifted his glass.

  “Aren’t you being premature?” Luz chided, carefully holding the glass away from her to keep the wine that had spilled over the rim from dripping onto her dress.

  “To Vagabond Song, then.”

  “To Vagabond Song.” She raised her glass in an agreeing salute, then carried it to her mouth, cupping a hand underneath it to catch any of the drips.

  Trisha never got hers drunk. “Luz, look. Isn’t that Raul?”

  She turned to look in the direction Trisha was staring, certain she was mistaken until she saw him walking under the trees. There was no mistaking the figure in the light gray blazer, his shirt opened at the throat. Trisha hurried forward to intercept him, the sudden action breaking the invisible grip that had held Luz motionless.

  “Who is he?” Diana murmured, tilting her head toward Luz in a secretive fashion.

  “Raul Buchanan, a professional polo player from Argentina,” she managed to reply evenly.

  “Is he a boyfriend?”

  The question startled Luz; the first thought in her mind was that Diana meant hers. “Pardon?”

  “Has Trisha been seeing him?” Diana patiently repeated her question.

  “No.” Her answer was quick. The minute she said it, Luz was not altogether certain of her facts. “At least, not to my knowledge. We met him in England.”

  CHAPTER XIV

  “Raul, what are you doing here?” Trisha’s voice carried clearly across the intervening space to Luz. He showed no surprise at meeting Trisha. “You weren’t supposed to be in Paris until Tuesday.”

  “My plans changed,” he replied, and Luz noticed his glance travel past Trisha to make an apparently idle sweep of the crowd, but it stopped when it located her. Briefly unsettled, she wished she didn’t have the damned champagne glass in her hand.

  Trisha followed the shift of his attention, then asked, “Are you here alone?” to reclaim it for herself.

  “I am.”

  “Then you must join us.” She possessively linked an arm with his and led him across the grassy lawn. The familiarity of the action seemed to confirm Luz’s earlier suspicion that there was more to her daughter’s relationship with this man than she knew. She didn’t like it.

  “This is a surprise, Mr. Buchanan,” she greeted him coolly when he reached them. Trisha continued to hold his arm and stand close to him, further enforcing her claim, with no objection from him. “Vic and Diana, I’d like you to meet Raul Buchanan from Argentina, a polo player extraordinaire. Victor Chandler and his wife, Diana, friends of ours from the States. They have a three-year-old running in the next race.”

  After Raul and the Chandlers had exchanged pleasantries, Luz said, “It’s somewhat unexpected seeing you here at Longchamp, Mr. Buchanan. I wouldn’t have been surprised if we were at the polo fields near Bagatelle. Weren’t you supposed to be playing somewhere this weekend?”

  “I was,” he admitted. “But a sprained wrist prevented me from taking part.” The slight movement of his right hand drew her glance to the bandage visible below his jacket sleeve.

  “Is it serious?” Trisha’s concern was instant as she shifted her hand to support his lower forearm and inspect the injured area.

  “No, but it will keep me out of active play for a while, so the team found someone else to take my place.” His glance shifted to Luz. “The injury does mean that I will be returning to Buenos Aires sooner than I had planned. I hope we can reschedule our meeting so we can conclude our business before I leave.”

  She sensed Diana’s curious glance. “Mr. Buchanan gives advanced training courses to polo players. Rob is interested in attending his school,” she explained.

  “How wonderful!” Diana exclaimed.

  “Rob is flying in tomorrow morning. I know he wants to be present when we talk. Perhaps we could meet tomorrow afternoon at the hotel.”

  “That will be fine,” he assured her.

  “It’s such a coincidence running into you here,” Trisha declared, then shrewdly guessed, “Have you been by the Crillon? Did they tell you we were here?”

  “Yes,” he confirmed. “I left a messa
ge for you at the desk.”

  The riders-up call sounded in the paddock, creating a stir of activity and heightened tension. “They’ll be making the parade to the post soon. We’d better be going to our box,” Vic Chandler said and raised his champagne glass in a final toast. “To the race.”

  “To the race,” Luz echoed faintly and self-consciously lifted her glass. A second later, she reminded herself that it didn’t matter what Raul thought of her behavior. In a gesture of defiance, she downed all of the champagne in her glass, aware of his steady regard.

  “Please join us, Mr. Buchanan,” Diana invited.

  He hesitated as if waiting for Luz to second the invitation, but it was Trisha who spoke up. “Yes, why don’t you, Raul?” she urged.

  “Gracias,” he accepted with a polite tip of his head.

  They joined the throng strolling from the paddock area toward the viewing stands. As they made their way to the owner’s box, Trisha trailed behind to walk with Raul. Luz couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she recognized that intimate tone in her daughter’s voice, the one used by a woman trying to attract a man’s interest. When they reached the private box and settled into their seats, Luz found herself sitting next to Raul with Trisha on his other side.

  Luz focused her attention on the racehorses prancing onto the famed oval track. The colorful silks of the jockeys perched in the high-stirruped saddles were bright splashes against the emerald-green turf and the sleek, shining mounts parading past the noisy crowd.

  “Did you receive the pamphlets I left at the hotel for you?”

  Abruptly, Luz turned her head to look at him and found herself staring into his face, remembering every detail from the angled jawline to the straight-bridged nose—and the sensation of touching him. She wondered if he looked at her and recalled those moments on the dance floor. She glanced away before her expression gave away her thoughts.

  “Yes, I did. They were most helpful.” As she determinedly directed her attention to the field of horses, she spied the golden chestnut pacing calmly alongside its lead pony. “There’s Vagabond Song, the Number Seven horse.”

  “He’s a handsome animal,” Raul remarked.

  From her seat behind them, Diana Chandler leaned forward to insert, “If he does well in this race, we’re considering entering him in the Arc this October.”

  The Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe, commonly known as the Arc in the international racing circle, was the most important and prestigious Thoroughbred racing event in France. The mile-and-a-half contest, open to three-year-olds and older, frequently decided the year’s international champion. It was also an international event of the breeding world and haut monde, rivaled only by the Prix Diane at Chantilly and the Royal Ascot.

  “My interest in today’s race is more than just cheering on a friend’s horse,” she said to Raul. “Vagabond Song was foaled at my father’s Thoroughbred farm in Virginia. As a matter of fact, I was there when Jake booked the mare to the Minstrel, his sire. Jake never thought much of the colt, but I always liked him. So my interest is of a very personal nature.”

  As he listened to her explanation, his gaze made a more thorough study of her as if he was seeking something that he sensed was behind the sophisticated facade. “You seem to have an eye for horseflesh, Mrs. Thomas.”

  “Hopeworth Farm was my home when I was growing up, so I’ve always been interested in horses.” While she deftly handled his compliment, she felt she gained a degree of respect from him, and that pleased her.

  The horses were being led into the starting gate. The mile-and-an-eighth race was only minutes from beginning. The crowd sensed it, and the steady din abated as the voices became subdued by the air of expectancy. Seconds after the last horse was locked in, the bell clanged and the gates sprang open. A roar went up from the crowd as the racers leaped out.

  For the first several yards, the field of ten horses appeared to run abreast, a confusing blend of jockeys’ bright silk colors and the horses’ myriad browns. By the first furlong, the leaders emerged from the close-running pack bunched along the rail. Luz strained for a glimpse of the distinctive blue-and-green silks of the Chandler Stables as the horses began to string out along the oval’s backstretch.

  “I see him.” Vic Chandler had his binoculars trained on the racers. “He’s running fifth and in the clear.”

  Glancing at the middle of the pack, Luz located the chestnut horse running easily and close to the leaders. She lost sight of him when the horses made the turn into the final stretch. Then she saw him passing the fourth-place horse. The jockey was making his move, his hands pumping with the stride of the horse, urging it to greater speed. There was no perceptible increase, yet the stallion was effortlessly overtaking horses one by one.

  Coming down the final stretch to the finish line, only the race favorite remained ahead of Vagabond Song, and the distance between them closed with each running stride. The crowd was on its feet, cheering the stretch duel. But Luz held her breath, straining with the chestnut the last few yards. Two lengths from the finish line, he caught the favorite, ran neck and neck for a stride, then pulled in front, crossing the line in first place.

  “We won! We won!” Diana clasped her husband’s arm in excitement while the jockey stood up in the stirrups and raised the whip he’d never had to use, in a gesture of victory to the crowd.

  “Congratulations.” Luz turned to hug Diana, sharing the ebullience of victory and pride of ownership she saw in their faces.

  “I knew he would win.” Trisha joined the glad-handing celebration going on in the owner’s box.

  The race board flashed the official results, confirming the order of finish. “Come on, Diana.” A buoyant Vic Chandler put an arm around his wife to guide her out of the box. “They’ll be wanting us down in the enclosure for the presentation.”

  “And I’ve got winning tickets to cash in!” Trisha laughingly produced them with a flourish. “I told you to bet on him, Luz. Kincaids always win, and Vagabond Song is a Kincaid horse.” As the Chandlers made their way out of the private box, Trisha turned to leave, then paused and touched Raul’s arm. “I’ll be right back.”

  Luz stiffened at the intimacy implied in such an assurance. Her glance flashed to Raul, seeking any indication that he responded in kind, but he merely nodded a brief acknowledgment. After Trisha left them, Luz let the postrace noise and confusion fill the silence in the owner’s box and watched the presentation of the winner’s purse to the Chandlers in the enclosure below. The chestnut’s sweat-slick coat glistened in the sunlight, its neck proudly arched in triumph, and its trainer by its side.

  “I wish Jake could have seen this,” she murmured absently, recalling the sense of personal accomplishment he had always felt when one of the horses he’d bred did well in a race.

  “I’m certain he would be proud.” His response startled her into recalling she had voiced the thought.

  “Yes, he would.” Her glance slid away from his. “After the action of the polo field, horseracing must seem like a tame sport to you. A bunch of horses running around an oval track.”

  “Perhaps a little, but I enjoy the noise and excitement of the track.” A faint smile edged his mouth as he looked over the crowd.

  It was a mixture of disgruntled bettors with torn losing tickets, winners shoving their way to the pay windows, and optimists picking out the winner of the next race. Those on the field, the horses and the jockeys, the almost-made-its and the also-rans, were heading back to the stables, the jockeys hoping for a better horse in the next race and the horses wanting the kind hands of a groom and a portion of grain.

  “The atmosphere arouses a bit of nostalgia for me.” His attention came idly back to her. “When I was growing up, I worked as a stableboy at the tracks in Buenos Aires, so it is all familiar to me—the anticipation, the letdown, and the rare jubilation.”

  His response piqued her curiosity. “Where did you learn polo, then?”

  “An owner hired me to work at
his stables. He also played polo. I learned the game the long, slow way—and often the wrong way.”

  “But you made it to the top.”

  “Not to the top,” he corrected her. “I have yet to earn the ten rating.”

  “And you aren’t willing to settle for less,” she realized intuitively.

  “Given a choice, Mrs. Thomas, would you settle for less than the best? I think not.” There was a knowing quality to his lazy smile, but no unkindness. It was almost a sharing of ideals, and it moved her in a strange way.

  “You’re probably right,” she admitted, responding to that smile.

  “I did not expect you ever to admit openly that I might be right about anything.” His smile turned gently mocking, to hint at her previous mistrust.

  “I sometimes speak rashly,” Luz admitted, stimulated by this subtle wordplay that had sprung between them. It was an almost forgotten sensation that reminded her of high school and college days. She thought she had forgotten how to play the game, but flirting was obviously like riding a horse—no one ever completely lost the knack.

  “Which is not always wisely,” Raul suggested dryly.

  “Not always,” she agreed.

  Trisha breezed back into the owner’s box, her return scattering the faint undercurrents Luz had sensed. She grasped the clutch purse with her winnings tightly in her hand. “It won’t buy a Dior original, but it will finance another trip to that divine shop on the Rue du Faubourg St. Honoré with all the leather and suede,” she declared, then laughed. “Remind me to send a basket of apples to Vagabond Song when we get back to the hotel. And I’ll have them throw in a bunch of carrots, too. It’s only fair, since he did all the work.”