Henri's eyes scanning the track, he said, "The weather's clearin' so that'll dry things up some by afternoon. Just stay away from the rail and go wide and I'm bettin' she'll start pickin' off the contenders."
Piper noted a man standing at the railing not more than twenty feet away. "That guy with the stop watch, I'm thinking he works for the Daily Racing Form."
Henri eyed the man. "Could be hired by someone to clock workouts and report back, and after her last win, Rags could be on their radar."
Someone like her father, Piper speculated. "Then let's throw him a curve. We'll talk about riding Rags hard to see what she can do in mud, loud enough for the guy to hear, then I'll hold her back and he'll think winning that last race was a fluke so her odds will be high."
"I'm not worried about odds," Henri said. "I don't want word gettin' back to the track secretaries who assign imposts or they'll start weightin' her down at this early stage, and she needs some solid wins first. Just take her out there and walk her around to get her used to the muddy track, then do some easy joggin', not more than a couple of furlongs, then take her to her stall. And I want someone there at all times. I don't want no one messin' with her."
Piper knew Henri was referring to her father. He might be a lot of things she wasn't proud of, but drugging horses wasn't one of them, though she couldn't say the same for Mick, and there was no question both he and her father wanted Rags scratched from the race because of Rags' half-sister, Ramblin's Rose, who'd also be running. Rose was no match for Rags, but without Rags in the race, Rose would be a force for the others to reckon with. A filly of near-perfect confirmation and beauty, she was Harrison Stable's current two-year-old hopeful.
Shoving those disturbing thoughts aside, she walked over to where Gator stood holding Rags, and after getting a leg up, turned Rags in the direction of the track.
Fifteen minutes later, in spite of the mucky track, there was no question Rags wanted to run, but racing in a pack with mud being hurled at her from all directions could be an entirely different story, especially if Rags went back to her old habit of hugging the rail.
Piper let out a little ironic chuckle. Maybe God had acted on her behalf to take Rags out of the equation with a little miracle called rain. In about four hours she'd know. Meanwhile, if Rags was destined to suffer defeat and come out looking like a mudpuppy after being bombarded by fourteen rivals, she'd at least go into the race looking her best. "Okay, baby girl, you and I are gonna transform Ramblin' Man's ugly duckling into a magnificent swan."
The transformation turned out to be a team effort. With the help of Gator, Ace, Shuggy, the rubber chicken and peppermints, they started in by hosing Rags down, then they began working with brushes and towels dipped in hot water with show-shine to make her coat glossy. A week earlier Piper began the tedious process of hand-picking knots, debris, and unruly hairs out of Rags' tail, and the day before, Ace's cousin, a hair dresser, trimmed and feathered her tail to racehorse length. The pièce de résistance was the meticulous braiding of Rags' mane, each tiny plait held in place with a slender yellow ribbon tied in a small bow, a task taken on by Piper alone. One final touch, rubbing a little baby oil on Rags' face and muzzle, and Rags looked like a homely teenager who'd just had an extreme makeover.
As it turned out, Rags was the only filly in the race with a braided mane, but that was okay. "Let the others eat their hearts out," Piper said to Rags while walking alongside, as Gator lead her out to the saddling paddock with the other grooms, horses and their jockeys, where the identifier would check the tattoos inside each horse's upper lip to confirm its identity.
As expected, Rags stepped into the paddock with the air of confidence she got when sizing up a rival during workouts. Her coat gleaming like ancient burnished brass in the afternoon sun, she stood with her head high as she surveyed the activity around her, like she was sovereign over the others. She was ready, her competitive spirit on full alert. The look of eagles, the pros called it when referring to class thoroughbreds. Rags was a class act and she knew it.
While Henri saddled Rags, Piper glanced at the tote board in the infield, noting the odds changing as bets were being placed. The lower the odds, the more money was being bet on that horse and the lower the payoff. At 32-1, Rags odds were still high, but not as high as her last race, and the odds were narrowing, so it appeared some in the crowd were taking note and were willing to bet against those odds.
About ten minutes before post time, the paddock judge called out, "Riders up!"
Henri gave Piper a leg up into the saddle, and said, "The track's dried out some but it's still a slow track so there won't be no records made, but it'll separate the runners with heart from the rest. See ya in the winner's circle," were his last words to her.
Before Ace walked off, he slipped a ticket into her boot and said, "$200 to win, darlin'. You and Beauty have a safe ride."
"Thanks, we will, and you'd better take a good look now because when we show up in the winner's circle you'll be seeing a couple of mudlarks."
Ace laughed, gave her leg a little squeeze, and caught up with the others.
Before leaving the paddock, Piper glanced toward the grandstand and saw her father, Mick, her mother, and grandmother, all peering through binoculars, presumably at her, although they could be looking at Ramblin's Rose, who was also in the paddock, coat glistening like copper, her sleek, trim body the epitome of the classic thoroughbred. What Rose didn't have though was Rags' unwavering confidence.
After a couple of circuits around the walking ring, the horses headed to the track. Through the post parade Rags surveyed the crowd, head high, ears alert, nostrils taking it all in, but on catching sight of the starting gate she ignored the crowd and started sidestepping, and Piper could feel her excitement building. "Easy girl," she said. "No point running the race before it starts." Rags settled down, and once at the gate, loaded without a fuss, but another filly started acting up. Because of the commotion caused by the distressed filly, the horses already loaded were brought out and, after the troubling filly was scratched for bad behavior, the horses were reloaded, Rags in Gate 9, which Henri felt was a good position because it got her far away from the rail.
Moments later, the gates clanged open and thirteen two-year-old fillies burst out. Rags broke slowly, dropping back, and halfway to the first turn was eight lengths behind the pack, and Piper knew it was because she was getting mud splattered in her face. Still, Piper let Rags set her own pace. Moving into the first turn Piper pulled down another pair of goggles, hoping she wouldn't run out before the finish and end up racing blind with mud-covered lenses. She could. Already she was on her third pair and they had twelve horses to pass.
Heading into the backstretch, with the nearest horse at least eleven lengths ahead, Rags started to rally. Laboring through the muck she began closing the gap. When Piper tried to slow her to conserve speed for the homestretch, Rags yanked on the reins, letting her know she'd have no part of that, and she began pummeling down the track, gaining ground with each extended stride. This was her game and she'd play it her way, and Piper didn't intend to tell her otherwise.
As they moved into the final turn, while the other horses decelerated, Rags picked up speed, her supple body able to negotiate the turn while accelerating dramatically. Through the turn she went flying, and swinging wide, started picking off the leaders.
Until now Piper had only been vaguely aware of the announcer's voice, mostly catching the words, "Ragamuffin is still dead last," but with Rags closing the gap the announcer began to take note. "They're turning into the homestretch and it seems Ragamuffin's making her move."
Coming out of the final turn the horses torqued their speed and the cavalry charge began with the back runners making their dashes for home. With her ears flattened and her belly low, Rags gained ground. No one saw them coming as they began picking off horses, one at a time, and from the energetic way Rags ran, Piper knew she still had a ton of horse left.
Ahead of them,
some of the leaders were tiring, except Ramblin's Rose, who'd jetted to the front of the pack at the top of the stretch, and when the rest of the field began falling back, Rose refused to give way. But Rags was right on her tail, ears flattened in determination, and soon she was going head-to-head with Rose, seeming to surprise her. Rose caught Rags' eye then charged forward, only to find Rags seeming to go into high gear.
"Atta girl, Rags. Go get her," Piper said in an enthusiastic voice.
Once in the lead, Rags ears went up, but soon Rose was on her flank, then her shoulder, then she was racing alongside, to which Rags responded by pinning her ears flat and eyeing her challenger as if to say, "C'mon try me," before bolting forward.
Through a haze of mud-speckled goggles, Piper heard the announcer call out in an excited voice, "Ragamuffin and her half-sister Ramblin's Rose are running neck and neck for the finish."
About the time Piper thought their lead was solid, Rose kept coming, cutting Rags' lead, until they were again running neck in neck.
"One furlong to go and neither horse is quitting," the announcer's voice blared over the PA.
The fillies ran side by side for several strides, but when Rags flattened her ears, glared at her opponent and gave a snort of warning, Piper knew Rags wasn't running for fun anymore. She was running to win. Immediately she pulled ahead then dropped back to let Rose catch up, only to pull ahead again, while playing her intimidation game of catch me if you can.
Rose struggled to pass, but getting the message, began falling back with the rest of the pack while Rags took the lead, hooves pounding the track hard, hurling mud into her opponents' faces while drawing away from the pack. Once in the lead, Rags kicked in with electrifying force.
And the announcer cried out, "Ragamuffin is pulling ahead with an ever expanding lead as they race for the finish."
Extending her strides and digging in her hooves, Rags rocketed down the stretch, continually gaining ground while the announcer's voice raised in volume and intensity, crying, "Ragamuffin continues to show the way, now leading by six lengths… seven lengths. Now she's eight lengths and moving faster. It's Ragamuffin by double digits, and she's all by herself as she strolls home, the easiest of winners."
Rags shot across the finish line to the announcer's amazed voice, "A spectacular, spectacular upset! Ragamuffin has won the Princess Stakes… an impossible twelve lengths… and let's see… it looks like a new track record and she did it on a slow track. Folks, we could be seeing history in the making. This is a filly to watch."
CHAPTER 19
While waiting with his grandfather in the winner's circle for Piper and Rags to join them, Ace came to several conclusions. Rags possessed everything Pépère ascribed importance to in a racehorse. She was blessed with an unconquerable will to win, she was a powerhouse of stamina, and the longer the race the more confident she grew, and she had a love for running hard and fast because nature intended her to. But mostly, she ran her heart out because of Piper.
All around, horses were winded from the race, yet Rags was barely breathing hard as she strutted toward them. And just as Piper said it would be, they were splattered in mud, though Rags acted like a beauty queen. On the way to the winner's circle when someone stepped onto the track to take a photo, Rags stopped, eyed the man with the camera, raised her head, ears straight up and waited for the flash. Then someone yelled, "Squeaker," and Rags, spotting Ace, walked directly to him and nudged the bag on his shoulder.
"Okay, muffinhead, here you go." He pulled the rubber chicken from the bag and held it out and Rags grabbed it and began her squeaky-toy antics, which had the crowd gathered around laughing and raising cell phones and recording the performance, after which the mud-splattered filly was draped with a blanket of flowers.
Piper dismounted, and making no move to rush at him with arms spread, no doubt because her father and the rest of her family were standing on the perimeter of the winners circle, she ambled toward him, eyes bright with excitement, and said, "I know Rags didn't run her fastest. I'm sure she had another gear if I'd asked her for it."
"She's a mudrunner alright," Ace said. "She also broke another track record."
"I know. The reporters are already talking to your grandfather. You gonna stick around?"
"No, I'll leave it to him since he's the one they're after, and you'll both be tied up with the track vet for a while so I'll get somethin' to eat and meet you at the stable in a couple of hours to load up and head home."
Ace turned and started toward the hotel and casino connected with the track, where he planned to get a hamburger and beer, and was startled when Charles Harrison intercepted him. He stopped and waited to see what Harrison wanted.
"I guess congratulations are in order," Harrison said. "Can we talk? I have a suite at the Cypress Hotel."
Ace eyed the man with suspicion. "Talk about what?"
"I'd rather not get into it here. If we could meet in my suite in an hour I'll go over it then."
Ace figured Harrison wanted to buy back the filly and make an offer before word got out that the coonass in the cowboy gear was owner of the filly who'd just broken a track record, and offer considerably more than what Harrison intended, all of which he'd turn down, but he did like the idea of watching Charles Harrison grovel. "Okay, what's the number?"
"Suite 332."
An hour later, Ace made his way to the top floor of the hotel and found Harrison standing in the doorway to his suite while handing a tip to an attendant who'd rolled in what appeared to be a cart with canapes. "Come on in," Harrison said.
Ace entered a suite that probably cost more to furnish than his house cost to build, and lowered himself into a leather recliner. After Harrison sat in a recliner adjacent to him, he pushed the cart with the canapes toward him, and said, "Help yourself. Can I offer you a drink?"
Ace shook his head. "I didn't come to socialize. I came to see what you want from me, assumin' it isn't to buy the filly because she's not for sale."
"Not even for $300,000?"
Ace let out an ironic snort. "Includin' today's win, she's already brought in $104,000 since I claimed her and she's just gettin' started."
"Actually, I didn't expect you to sell. What I propose is a partnership."
Ace couldn't hold back the derisive grunt. "What's in it for me?" He stopped short of saying, 'other than being tied to a partner who considers me little more than pond scum.'
"A well-maintained, evenly-groomed track for workouts, a top of the line starting gate, complete care that includes dietary management with products designed to provide support to horses in training. Our horses are given supplements after workouts to help muscles recover, and digestive health is supported by trickle feeding to those normally associated with grazing by giving them a block of high quality premium timothy hay. And after sweating they're given electrolytes, which help maintain hydration. I'd guarantee the filly gets all the necessary nutrition and exercise needed to maintain her."
"Right, like stickin' her in a stall twenty-three hours a day. As for your so-called trickle feeding, the filly spends her days grazing the natural way, not pullin' dry hay out of a hay block. She was losin' races under your care and she's winnin' big under my grandfather, so this is the way we do it. She needs to be stress free at all times. Everything's a game with her until she's racin' then the game's off by her choice. And she has two stable companions, a horse and a goat."
"I don't have a problem continuing whatever your grandfather has laid out because we'd be entering into this partnership with a goal to win the high caliber races, and I have the wherewithal to make it happen. We'd sign a written partnership agreement. I'd pay for having my attorney draw it up."
"If we enter a partnership, and that's a big if, I'd insist my uncle draw up the agreement."
"Fine. We'd assume an initial term of two years, which can be reduced or extended by mutual agreement."
"What if I want out before the end of two years and we don't agree?"
"That would be laid out in the agreement. Possibly the money I put up to buy into the partnership would be held in trust for the two years and prorated if the partnership broke up before that time."
"Are we talkin' splittin' ownership, because if that's what you have in mind, it's a flat no."
"You'd retain ownership. We'd be financial partners. You have the horse with the potential, and I have the wherewithal to see her reach that potential."
Ace eyed the man with skepticism. "How much are you figurin' on puttin' up to buy into this venture?"
"$200,000 and a percentage of the winning purse, which would be based on industry standards."
Ace eyed Harrison with misgiving. He was being far too accommodating. Rags ran a good race, but the level of competition was still far below horses in big-time stakes races like the Belmont, Kentucky Derby or the Preakness. "Who'd be responsible for makin' decisions regardin' the filly?"
Harrison held his gaze, a man with confidence who was in this deal to win. "Her trainer."
Ace decided to stay in the game a little longer, string the man along some. "Which would be my grandfather since the key to winnin' is a sixth sense only a man with the insight my grandfather has can bring to horse trainin'."
"I agree, but horseracing's more than just training. It's a complex industry requiring strategic thinking, management skills and financial savvy. Ultimately, success would depend on your satisfaction with my management. I'd bring to the partnership my knowledge of thoroughbred ownership, and you and your grandfather would bring your knowledge of horses from a different perspective. You'd also have access to morning workouts and the stable area, so you could see firsthand how the filly's progressing."
"And the filly's jockey?"
The Final Turn (Cajun Cowboys Book 2) Page 21