Pete was stunned. “Who would rob Miss Ruby’s place? Nobody from here would do that to her.”
“We got a lot of outsiders coming in for today, Pete. They wouldn’t know she takes the money home. Could be somebody outside,” Junie said. “We’ll get ‘em. Ain’t getting’ away with it. No way.”
Nelle said, disbelief in her voice, “First the church. Then the vessel. Now this? What’s going on?”
West River was gaining attention of the wrong kind.
By late afternoon, patches of high cottony puff clouds rolled in against the brilliant blue sky lessening the searing heat of the blazing sun delivering much needed relief before the start of the big race. The humidity had sapped the energy of the very young and very old, many people now claiming shady spaces under the grand oaks, with bellies full, thirst quenched, waiting eagerly for the race to start. A slight breeze quieted cranky children and calmed irritated mothers. The neighing of excited horses sparked conversations and good-natured disagreements about possible winners and losers, with Midnight, Lizzie, and Mingo dominating talk of the local contenders.
Old timers still huddled intensely inside the tent set up for the duration of the Masters’ Dominoes Tournament, which had continued mostly in concentrated silence with an occasional grunt or deriding laugh; the men seemingly oblivious to all the noise and activity surrounding them. This event was serious business, unlike what they regarded as the frivolity of fruits, flowers, jellies, and jams. The passing of renowned masters Elmer and Ralph, Papaw and Granddad to Pete and Nelle, added a layer of solemnity to the competition. They had been champion players and were the captains of their respective teams known as the Chiefs and the Pilots. The team names stuck. New leaders had big shoes to fill. Nelle’s sister Christine kept score and kept the men supplied with sweet tea and lemonade.
Reverend Dunn had delivered his obligatory sermon, mercifully cut short by the heat, sweating profusely from his pulpit, and had presented the blue ribbon awards with equal fervor, shouting into his bullhorn the names of anticipated and surprise winners. Mr. Parker’s secretary Mercel took her fourth blue ribbon for her delectable black raspberry jam. Biology teacher Mr. Woodcock’s Cajun Tiger orchid lost to a young newcomer’s stunning pearly white glistening gardenia. Miss Ruby’s grandson Junie obligingly took a big bite out of her winning entry and groaned in satisfaction as the juice ran down his chin and arm as he accepted Miss Ruby’s blue ribbon for her fat, malformed heirloom tomatoes. Junie was not one for speeches. The onlookers loved it.
The infectious beat of a Cajun accordion and foot stomping fiddle wafted in the background, far enough away from the main stage so as not to mortify the reverend and his conservative following, but near enough to the grove of shady trees that gave flirty teenagers some privacy and a place to unleash the gyrating passions of youth. The pulsating rhythms gave them permission to touch and steal kisses. Heat didn’t affect them at all. The outside temperatures couldn’t begin to match what they generated inside their postpubescent bodies.
Pete and Nelle managed to slip away from their busy assignments long enough to sway hypnotically in a close embrace to a slow Cajun love song, which finally freed Nelle from her jealousy at the sight of her old nemesis Tammy lingering around Pete.
“Gonna still love me if I don’t win?” Pete whispered in her ear.
“I’ll love you even if you come in last,” Nelle responded sweetly.
“Never,” he teased.
“I’ll be at the finish line,” she said. “I wish Hot Shot could run it again. It was magic that first time,” Nelle recalled wistfully. “He flew. That pony just took off and flew.”
“That’s because you were riding him. Bareback no less,” Pete said, sharing the fond memory with her. “I would have put a saddle on him. Good thing I was sick that day. We wouldn’t have made it. Hot Shot was all yours since the day you first laid eyes on him.”
Nelle tipped-towed slightly and pressed her body closer to him. She raised her chin and kissed him deeply. Pete responded eagerly and didn’t want to stop.
She felt his chest rising against hers and reluctantly pushed back. “Not here,” she uttered breathlessly.
“Sorry,” he responded, letting her slide from his arms. “We’d better go now anyway. It’s not long before the race.”
The racing field was ready. Reverend Dunn had it mowed twice before the weekend and used volunteers to gather rocks and debris that could cause potential harm to the horses or riders. The starting line poles were roped off with bright yellow ribbon. Red flags attached to high wooden stakes ran along the length of the track. At the finish, a quarter mile down the flat field, red, white, and blue streamers fluttered on tall poles positioned on either side. A large stars and stripes American flag and azure blue Louisiana state flag marked the ending point of the finish line. With each year, the pomp grew more festive and beautiful and Reverend Dunn took full credit for it.
Pete greeted neighbors and newcomers who lined the short racecourse as he took his final walk from the start to the finish, making one last check on the readiness of the field. Folks sat in lawn chairs or rested on picnic blankets, looking forward to the grand finale of a festive and entertaining day. Words of encouragement rang out from a few as he walked briskly down the field. Good luck Pete! My money’s on you! That Mingo is a sure champion! He waved and smiled back and already felt like a winner.
As he returned to the starting area, satisfied with the preparation and readiness of the field, he saw a man, dressed smartly in a white shirt with silver snaps, turquoise bolo tie and black Stetson hat, rapidly approaching him, frowning. He recognized him as Buck Riley, the bowlegged cowboy who had come in from Bastrop with his two young sons. Pete had registered his mare Nutmeg for the race earlier in the morning.
“What gives?” Buck said rudely, clearly agitated.
“What are you talking about?” Pete asked. “What’s wrong?”
“My mare’s down,” he said accusingly, pointing in the direction of the trees. “Over there.”
Pete spotted the chestnut mare, lying on her side, and could see the heavy rising and falling of her body. She was in obvious distress. He hurried over.
Buck followed closely behind, cursing under his breath. “Damn rednecks.” He raised his voice higher, accusingly, “Cain’t trust nobody out here. She was fine this morning. Fine up until a couple of hours ago. Started stompin’ her feet, snortin’ and rollin’ like her stomach hurt.”
Pete kneeled beside her and rubbed her jaw. Her flared nostrils, heavy breathing, and wild-eyed expression showed her distress. “There girl,” Pete said gently as he stroked her neck, trying to comfort her.
“Another one’s sick, too. What are ya’ll up to here? This ain’t right,” Buck said, motioning toward the open field. “Look.”
Pete stood up and faced the field. He saw Nelle stroking Lizzie, Miss Ruby’s Appaloosa, who was stomping the ground and heaving. Junie stood next to her, looking upset and helpless. Several others stood by, shaking their heads, bewildered. Word had spread quickly. Two horses down less than an hour before the race. Miss Ruby was hurrying toward Buck and Pete.
Miss Ruby came huffing up to Pete, red faced and sweating. “Let’s get her up and walking,” she ordered, tugging on her reins.
Pete was surprised but happy to see her. “The break in, I didn’t think you’d be here,” he said, stepping aside.
“Me neither. Junie called me about Lizzie, crazy with worry he done something wrong. He gave her an apple this morning. She eats them all the time. Not that,” she said, gently bowing down to Nutmeg encouraging the mare to lift her head and rise. “And it ain’t the grass out here. I checked. All the other horses are just fine. Somebody did this. Induced colic is what it is.”
Buck, agitated and angry, shouted, “I KNEW it! I TOLD you!”
Suddenly, with a rush of energy at the sound of Buck’s loud voice, Nutmeg rose up on her two front legs and then slowly hoisted herself up on all fours to
a wobbly stand.
“That’s a girl,” Buck cooed, “that’s my girl now. Take it slow now,” he said, rubbing her forehead.
“She’ll be okay,” Miss Ruby told him. “Get her walking, and don’t feed her nothing. She ain’t runnin’ no race today.”
Buck shot Pete a mean glance and shook his head in disgust as he slowly led his mare away. “I came all the way out here to give my boys a good time. What am I supposed to tell them? Ask your be-Jesus God-fearing reverend that. Who done this?”
Pete was mortified and felt responsible. Care for the horses on the day of the race was in his hands. At a loss to answer or explain, he hung his head remorsefully, thoughts racing. No one from here. No one from here would do this. Sicken animals? No. Not us.
Miss Ruby saw his fallen face and sagging shoulders. “C’mon now. It’s not your fault, Pete. We got work to do. Lizzie can’t run now either,” Miss Ruby said. “Get moving and go tell Junie to get her walking, too. She’s not as bad as this poor girl was. She’ll be okay by tomorrow.”
“Mingo?” Pete asked, worried about his horse now. “What about Mingo?”
Miss Ruby answered, “Only these two. Mingo’s fine. Doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me though. Lizzie was the favorite but that man’s mare wasn’t nothing special. Good horse that’s all. Nobody thought she had a chance to win except for that cowboy and his kids,” she said, puzzled. “Knocking out the competition? Doesn’t look like it to me. West River ain’t exactly the Kentucky Derby.”
And it wasn’t of course. But West River had a reputation to guard and the annual jubilee had become a huge community success and source of great pride. It wouldn’t take much to undermine the attraction that the horse race had garnered in its few short years. The whole of the festival would suffer. It was a stain the community could not afford.
However, figuring out the mystery was for later. The race had to go on. Right away.
Everyone knew by starting time. The field of twelve horses and riders had been reduced to a field of ten, and Lizzie, the local favorite, was out. Tension replaced cheeriness. The crowd murmured and frowned. The former festive mood had changed to astonished incredulity as locals and strangers exchanged suspicious glares. West River had its problems, but a scandal like this was unknown and shocked the festival revelers. It made no sense. While Lizzie was the endearing favored win, the cowboy Buck Riley had entered his mare for the fun of it. Nutmeg posed no threat to the swift Appaloosa filly.
Why take down both of them? Pete couldn’t shake the question from his head. He tried to shift his concentration back to Mingo, who nuzzled his neck and curled her lips, sensing his distraction. He put his forehead against hers as reassurance that he was there, and stroked behind her ears. “Okay. Okay. I’m with you,” he whispered, “I’m here.”
Pete led her to the starting line, joining eight other horses that snorted loudly, nodded vigorously, and pawed the ground in their excitement. He grabbed the horn of his wide western saddle, put his boot in the stirrup and hoisted himself up to position. They were the ninth entry to take their place at the line.
The arrival of one more horse delayed the beginning before Reverend Dunn could fire the shot from his blank starting pistol to signal the race’s beginning. Riders were as fired up as the horses, itching to go, trying to conserve energy and control their mounts until the gun shot let the pandemonium loose. Reverend Dunn was growing impatient and scanned the field for the last entry.
She appeared out of nowhere from behind the other riders, sitting atop a prancing Midnight like the glamorous homecoming queen she had once been, years ago. Her long yellow hair hung down her back in a single braid threaded with gold ribbon that sparkled in the late afternoon sun. Midnight’s jet-black mane woven tightly with the same golden ribbon shot out rays of sunshine. The same gold strands wrapped around his long coarse tail.
The crowd went silent. The horses went still.
Tammy raised her hand in a regal wave, flicking her wrist slightly in a royal greeting to the crowd. Her black polished boots glistened against Midnight’s side. The fine English saddle appeared tiny on the colt’s massive back. Tammy’s royal blue sateen shirt shimmered in the light.
Her intended effect successful, Tammy raised her chin in an elite gesture and took her place next to Pete and Mingo. “Hey, Pete. Good luck to both of us,” she said coyly, sitting erect as a statue.
Pete nodded acknowledgement, dumbfounded at the sight of her.
Nelle burned with resentment and felt her face flush as Tammy cast a haughty glance toward her. I hope you fall off. Or even better -- come in last. Her thoughts of cheering Pete disintegrated completely into cursing Tammy’s chances to win.
The sudden earsplitting shot of the starting pistol startled the crowd. Nelle stepped back as the blur of thundering horses galloped by, streaks of black, brown, grey, and white mingling into one motion of power and energy.
Pete’s head jerked backward as Mingo bolted out in a forceful start. He leaned forward and pressed his legs close to her body to keep his balance, the surge of energy taking him by surprise. Tammy had distracted him.
Two horses charged ahead of Mingo, their hooves chewing up the soft green field with blinding speed, tossing up tufts of grass and dirt that flew behind their powerful legs. In a mad frenzy, children jumped up and down, shouting and screaming as the horses flew by in a hammering rush. All along the sides of the field, old timers and newcomers were rooting wildly for their favorites, waving handkerchiefs and small flags at the blur of horseflesh dashing by.
Ten horses, running at breakneck speed, legs pounding and churning the ground, riders hunched and bouncing with their mounts, elbows pumping the air urging their charges forward, nostrils flaring, horse and rider giving their all in the massive collective urgency to win galloped in a blur toward the finish line.
Pete needed to win for Nelle, for his aging pony Hot Shot, for departed Papaw and Granddad, to retake the pride and integrity of the race, to regain control. His heart pounded as he overtook the first of the two horses in front of him. Mingo was flying, her feet hardly touching the ground. Pete crouched over her neck, whispering his prayer.
Midnight’s golden tail ribbon bounced in rhythm with Tammy’s golden braid. Her black boots and blue satin shirt glistened in the late afternoon sun. She sat slightly over her saddle, knees tucked in, moving effortlessly with her colt’s dazzling gait.
The quarter mile sprint race was the longest 1,320 feet in West River. Lasting a few short minutes, allowing no time for mistake or hesitance, horses running for the joy, riders riding for the glory, hearts beating as one as the finish line loomed large and final.
The race official flung the checkered flag hard to the ground, which stopped the riders but not their steeds.
And then it was over, as quickly as it had begun.
“WELL LOOK WHO’S BACK!” Reverend Dunn bellowed into his bullhorn, trying to be heard over the noise of the astonished crowd. No one seemed too happy at the unexpected ending of the race judging by the shaking heads, disgusted gestures, long moans, and great wave of disappointment that swept through the crowd gathered at the finish line. But it was his job to appear impartial and muster enthusiasm for the winner, whoever that might be.
“Our very own Tammy Boone riding her impressive mount Midnight,” he said less loudly, trying to infuse his words with some honest, but spare commentary, as he tried to remain upbeat. The crowd’s reaction was contagious. His voice was uncharacteristically flat.
Tammy sat tall and smug in her saddle, parading Midnight past the competitors with a prancing step that made their ordinary horses appear fully outclassed. She rubbed every second of the short victory walk into the wounds of the losers with icy snobbery as she sashayed up to Reverend Dunn.
Pete stared in disbelief as she tossed him a vain smile, barring her too perfectly shaped white teeth. He lost by half a length. His shoulders slumped as her arrogant grin pierced him.
Reverend
Dunn blushed as she stepped up too close to him, expanding her chest and titling her head. She held her hands behind her back and looked up fluttering her eyes in affected shyness.
He stepped back instinctively, unaccustomed to such brazen displays, embarrassed by her show of immodest dress and conduct. “There we are. Look how you have grown,” he said nervously. “Tammy has returned to us a winner! Congratulations Tammy,” he stammered as he approached her and put the wide blue ribbon necklace over her head. He noticed the large gold medallion landed squarely on top of her high plump breasts. “Ah hem,” he choked, clearing his throat. “Well. Okay now. I hope to see you again in church with the rest of the congregation. We’ve missed you all these years,” he concluded awkwardly. “And may you put the winning purse to good use with God’s grace. Amen.” He stepped back from her again, irritated and uncomfortable at the audible snickering impossible for him to ignore.
Tammy gave him a cursory nod, weak smile, and turned full front to the crowd to show off her blue ribbon prize.
Scant applause came mainly from the men. Long cat whistles rang out from teenage boys.
“No hard feelings, Pete,” she said, as she passed by him through the throng of people milling around the spent horses and exhausted riders. She looked fresh and triumphant, seemingly immune to the unenthusiastic reaction of the onlookers who were quickly dispersing and heading for home. “Thought you had me there for a minute,” she quipped in her shot of insincere flattery.
“Midnight won it,” Pete responded, not giving her a glimpse of his disappointment. “He’s fast,” he said, showing no emotion.
“Hmmm,” she purred, “I thought you were, too.” She locked her eyes on his and then sauntered away, leading Midnight by the reins.
The Road to Home Page 6