Winning Odds Trilogy

by MaryAnn Myers

  Luckily all had settled down by the time Dawn got Beau back to the barn after his bath, or he’d have just made things worse. He had one of those whinnies that carried for miles, like the call of the wild, over and over, and answers would’ve come from everywhere.

  The new horse was named Gibyag, and had shipped in from Sportsman’s Park, where he’d run a route eleven times in less than three months, and finished all eleven times in the money. He was an eight-year-old gelding, standing a little over seventeen hands, and without a doubt was Dawn’s favorite color, gray.

  She and Tom gave him a bath, then scraped him off, hung him on the walking machine, and stood back to take a good look at him. Ben was still in a bad mood, but eventually came grumbling out of the tack room to join them, and was pleasantly surprised.

  This was the first of Dave Bacardi’s horses that had come to him not looking like it needed a long rest. He’d been training the man’s horses for years, and liked him well enough, but always dreaded the ship-ins from his Chicago trainer. Not that Ben faulted the man on the amount of run he got out of a horse; he just didn’t leave much for the next trainer to work with. More times than not, Ben served merely as a layover, before advising Dave to turn the horse out for a while. But not Gibyag.

  Ben told Dawn to do him up with alcohol, only as a precaution after shipping. His legs looked and felt as good as a two-year-old’s.

  The first time Dawn tried to “do a horse up,” the term used for bandaging its legs, she thought she’d never get it right and had been more nervous than usual that day. Watching Tom, it had looked so easy. It wasn’t.

  “Rub briskly,” Tom told her. “No, more’n that.” He showed her how. “Now here...” He told her to always wrap from front to back. “Why?”

  “Because,” he said, and smiled. “That’s how it’s done.”

  “Okay.” Dawn started out all wrong. So concerned with holding the quilt wrap in place, she wound the bandage too thick at the bottom and ran out before she got to the top. Her second attempt was a little better, but Tom said it wasn’t tight enough.

  “It’ll slip in a minute.”

  The third try looked good, but he made her do it again, pointing out how the tension had to be consistent, so it wouldn’t put excessive pressure on the tendon. Pins always go on the outside, he told her, demonstrating how to fold the bandage back if it ended up otherwise. With Velcro, he said, it didn’t matter.

  “That’s it?” Dawn admired her accomplishment.

  “Yep, that’s it,” Tom said. “But remember the rubbing is just as important as the liniment. Rub it in till it’s almost dry. It helps the circulation.”

  Dawn looked up at Gibyag as she finished pinning the bandage. She always used two pins on each leg. Tom said only one was necessary, but she liked how two looked lined up.

  “There now,” she said, talking softly to the horse. “All set.” As she reached for the brush just outside the stall, she could hear Tom and Ben in the tack room discussing Gibyag’s past performances. In his seventy-three lifetime starts, he’d finished one-two-three in sixty-two of them. He’d been claimed nine times, and was currently running for thirty-five-hundred dollars.

  “Well, well,” she said. “Aren’t we the hard knocker.”

  The horse apparently liked the sound of her voice, because he stopped munching his hay to gently nuzzle the side of her face, then her hair, and with that, raised his head and sneezed all over her.

  “Yuk!” There were slobbery green hay globs deposited everywhere. She batted here and there, leaning over and whisking them from the top of her head, and in this position, didn’t notice someone had approached and stopped in front of the stall.

  “Here,” a man’s voice said. “You missed some.” A precise swipe or two, and he was gone.

  Dawn started to stand, not recognizing the voice, or the legs, which were all she got a good look at, and caught her shoulder on the webbing. The man was two or three stalls down by the time she stood up and leaned out. She stared. He was obviously looking for someone or something. “Excuse me...” she said. Ben didn’t like strangers in the shedrow.

  He turned.

  Muscular and tall from behind, now face to face, she found herself staring again.

  “Is Ben Miller here?”

  The man had piercing, deep blue eyes. “Yeah, uh...” She pointed to the feed room, then realizing her mistake, blushed and motioned in the opposite direction. “He’s in the tack room.”

  When he passed by her, she turned and mumbled to herself as she buried her face in Gibyag’s neck. “Oh my God.”

  She listened then. “So you’re Doc Iredell,” she heard Ben say. She leaned back and peeked out. He and Ben were shaking hands. Tom was chewing on a toothpick.

  “Jake tells me you have two to worm and one to scope.”

  “That’s right,” Ben said. “But I don’t believe he told me you were this young.”

  Dawn smiled. Doc Iredell, as Ben called him, said something then about going to get his equipment and coming right back. And she started brushing Gibyag. “Did you see him?” she whispered, mimicking an awestruck teenager. “The man could be a movie star. Or a lifeguard even.”

  She laughed to herself. Then there he was again.

  “You talking to me?”

  “No, I was...” She motioned to Gibyag and shrugged. Ben appeared then, and introduced them.

  “Dawn, this is Jake’s new assistant.” He said the word “new” the way he’d said the word young. “Doc Iredell.”

  “Randy,” he said, smiling. “Just Randy is fine.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Dawn said.

  His smile widened, and as he and Ben started down the shedrow, he glanced back at her over his shoulder.

  By the time they were done treating the horses, Dawn had worked her way up to Beau, her favorite. She always saved him for last. From her kneeling position as she did up one of his hind legs, she watched Randy walk to his truck, then over to the barn across from theirs. He followed Bob Graptor’s daughter into one of the tack rooms. When he came out a few minutes later, still talking and glancing at his watch as if making a date and deciding what time, Dawn stood up slowly, reached for a comb, and started doing Beau’s mane.

  Chapter Three

  With the flip of a coin, Dawn won the task of cleaning Red’s stall for another week, the third in a row. She examined the coin carefully, thinking Tom had somehow rigged the toss, and just to be safe, she threw it as far as she could so he couldn’t use it again. “There!” She grabbed he muck basket, walked down to Red’s stall, and hesitated before she ducked under the webbing. How one horse could shit this much, absolutely amazed her.

  Red was Tom and Ben’s pony, and probably the ugliest horse in the world. He had large appalling eyes, a hammerhead with blazed face and a roman nose, a sagging lower lip, and nothing but a cowlick where his forelock was supposed to be. He had legs like stove pipes, adorned with scars, wind-puffs, protruding monster-like ergots, and walked like he was straddling a bridge. His largest and most memorable scar, one of his many battle wounds from his years as a racetrack pony, was a good eleven inches long and at least half an inch wide, starting high up on his shoulder. When Dawn asked Tom how he got it, he began the story with a shudder.

  “I thought it was fucking curtains for him that day. I’m not kidding. It scared the hell out of me. I was ponying this silly filly and we were just getting started. We were stabled on the other side that year, so ya had to enter up by the quarter pole.” He took a breath; he loved a captive audience. “I’d just backed her up when they sprung the latch on some horses being schooled out of the gate, and right off one of ‘em dumped its jock. A big colt, and as soon as it hit the main track, it turned the other way.” He laughed. “Coming right at us. And let me tell you, this filly went bonkers! Honest to God. She was all over Red like a whore on Saturday night. Practically in my lap. Legs flying...”

  Dawn made hurry-up get-to-the-point gestures when he stoppe
d to relive it in his mind.

  “Well, to make a long story short, the loose horse was coming right at us. I managed to get the filly out the gap. Ben was there; he took her. And me and Red took off after the loose horse. Goddamn, it was fun!”

  Dawn sighed, rolling her eyes impatiently.

  “Okay...” Tom raised his hat to smooth his hair, then tipped it forward, letting the brim rest low and cocky on his forehead. “Red spotted him coming around the turn, I mean bookin’ it, and now this is where the story gets short.”

  Dawn nodded her approval.

  “We got a jump on him and laid right on his shoulder. I leaned over as far as I could to try and grab the rein, but first time I missed it. Then the damned thing stopped dead right in its tracks. I mean on a dime. But so did Red. He was digging this. I remember thinking, this is about as good as it gets for a gelding I guess. He read that horse like a cowpony. I reached out, leaning way far over. This time I got the rein. And that was that.”

  Dawn stared at him. “What about the scar?”

  “What about it?”

  Dawn sighed. “You were supposed to be telling me about what caused it.”

  “Oh...well, it’s the same story. Only I didn’t notice it until I handed the colt over to its trainer, that Red had been cut. And I mean bad. Blood everywhere.”

  Dawn made a face.

  “The stirrup must’ve got hung up in the gate when the horse broke out. It had a big jagged edge and Red’s hide was stuck to it. That’s what cut him.” He tipped his hat back. “Took Doc Jake an hour to stitch it up. After that, he got a month off. He hated it though. He got downright mean. And he gained so much weight, he looked like he was gonna foal. Honest to God. Third week we had to cut his grain entirely, just give him hay.” He paused, chewing on a toothpick. “Did I tell you how mean he got?”

  Dawn nodded.

  “First day back at the track, you ready for this, he bucked me off. Me! I kid you not! I was so sore I couldn’t screw for a week. And let me tell you, if you want to talk about mean...”

  Dawn laughed then, and thinking about it, laughed now. Somehow remembering that story made cleaning Red’s stall a little easier. Ugly as he was, abundant shit and all, when it came to ponying, he knew his job, and did it with style.

  Dave Bacardi, one of Ben’s owners and frequent visitor to the barn, arrived carting a dozen of his bakery’s freshest donuts. Dawn could smell them ten stalls away. She hurried and bed Red’s stall down, raked the shedrow in her favorite crisscross pattern to the tack room, and reached for the box with sweet anticipation.

  Too late. Tom had gotten to them already and was licking his fingers. “Three of them,” he said. “And so creamy it made me horny.”

  Dawn could’ve thrown the box at him, and probably would have if Dave hadn’t still been there. Custard was both their favorite, thus this ongoing competition with getting to them first. Tom was supposed to have been up at the track kitchen.

  “You creep! You said...”

  Tom grinned innocently.

  Ben once asked Dave to bring the whole dozen in custard to avoid this, but Dave pretended to take offense. All his donuts were delicious, he said, not just one variety. Actually, he enjoyed these little games Dawn and Tom played, and looked forward to them.

  Ben propped his elbow on his desk and gazed down at the condition book, affectionately known to some trainers as “the bible.” The book, Ben told Dawn, on day one, that can make or break you. “Having the fittest and the best don’t mean a thing if you don’t enter ‘em right.”

  Dawn thought it all seemed simple enough, glancing at the book he’d handed her. Find the condition that fit and enter. How hard can it be?

  Ben peered over his bifocals at her. “It doesn’t work that way. Here...” He pointed to the ideal condition for Son of Royalty. “It’s perfect for him, but he can’t win it. Wilson’ll enter that horse of his, what’s his name?” He looked at Tom, and when Tom rattled off a name, nodded. “Yeah, he’ll win it, and Son’ll run second. Next time out, he’ll be a sure winner, even on the raise depending on the bunch, only he’ll probably have been haltered in this race, so it’ll be for somebody else, and...”

  All right, so it’s not that easy, Dawn thought. You always had to consider the possibility of having the horse claimed. Particularly, Ben said, this time of year. He said he’d rather take a third for five hundred more and not lose him, and run him back low and take the chance along with the win.

  Dawn settled for a jelly-filled donut and sat down next to Tom, purposely stepping on his foot and dramatizing an ever-so-polite apology. Tom hated his boots scuffed. She reveled.

  “Custard breath.”

  “Bitch.”

  Ben rolled his eyes, enough was enough. “What about this race?” He handed the book to Tom. Tom took a look and handed it back. Son of Royalty was due to be shod, and this race was four days away.

  “If we wait, you chance his cutting himself all to hell.” Tom spit on his boot and rubbed the toe with his fingers, then spit and spit and rubbed some more, toothpick still between his teeth. “You go and have him done now, he won’t be able to walk.” Son of Royalty had the worst feet they’d ever seen on a horse.

  Ben hesitated. “We’ll lose him. I can feel it in my bones.”

  “Nah! It’s probably just your arthritis, old man. Don’t worry about it.”

  Ben shook his head. What he’d also told Dawn early on, was sometimes you can get away with running a horse in someone’s face, because it just may be that you want him taken. The gamble again.

  “Run him,” Tom said.

  When Ben shrugged, which meant it was as good as settled, Tom reached behind Dawn to where he’d hidden a custard donut wrapped in tissue.

  “Give it to me!” she said, seeing what he had and grabbing for it.

  “No way!” Tom dashed out of the tack room. “I need the carbo’s. I got a date with Sue Grape the Ape later.”

  Dawn could tell a song was coming on.

  “I gotta do her right...do her no wrong.” He was in rare form too, almost in tune. “Do her good, she knows that I could, yes, could, could, Susie would, would. And tonight, tonight, with a little bit of luck, I’m gonna be in for one hell of a...” His voice trailed off as he rounded the corner, almost sparing them the inevitable ending.

  Dawn shook her head. Hopeless, she was used to him now, but could remember all too well her apprehensions when they first met. Right after his initial horses’ asses comment and thus being introduced, he started. “Goddamn, old man, did you get her for me?”

  Ben assured her there was no need for concern, that inside Tom there was a gentleman at heart. This he said as he smacked Tom hard on the arm. Tom scowled at him and then nodded, smiling. Still, for the next few days Dawn watched him, and day three, she did have some concerns.

  “I’m sorry, Ben, his language is so offensive. And his songs.”

  Ben nodded. “I know.”

  “They’re so, so...vulgar. I’ve never heard such lyrics.”

  “Of course not.” Ben nodded again, trying not to laugh. “He makes them up.”

  “And the way he talks about women! Is that all true?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Dawn shook her head. This wasn’t going to work out. In addition, her Uncle Matt was pressuring her to quit. “I’m sorry, I just...”

  “Listen,” Ben said. “Come on, sit down.”

  Dawn obliged with a sigh.

  “You’re not the only one.”

  Dawn looked at him.

  “When I told Meg I wanted to make him my assistant trainer, she all but had a conniption. She knew about his mouth, his womanizing, and his drinking.”

  Dawn’s eyes widened. Drinking?

  “Now mind you, Meg was with me a lot of years on the track, and she’d heard it all. But she drew a line with the four-letter words.” He raised an eyebrow. “God forbid, whenever I let one slip.”

  Dawn smiled.

 
“Anyway.” Ben took off his hat and scratched his head. “She told me if I could get him to clean up his mouth, stay sober, and keep his women out of the shedrow, it would be okay. But you know...” He chuckled as he put his hat back on. “I think she knew he’d never be able to do it. Not that she didn’t like him, mind you. She did. But he was Tom. You know what I mean?”

  Dawn nodded, and he paused, staring off for a moment. She hadn’t known him long enough at this point to tell, but he was thinking about Meg now, the woman he’d loved, still loved, and who’d died painfully in his arms. “She’d had this cold for months, and couldn’t shake it. And she was getting tired all the time.” He wiped at his eyes, and picked up the condition book. “So anyway...” He cleared his throat and looked at her. “Tom agreed to it. No booze. No women in the shedrow. And no four-letter words.”

  When Dawn started to say something, Ben laughed. “No, it didn’t last long. Not even half a day in fact. She got so tired of him swearing and then apologizing, saying it’ll never happen again, over and over, she gave in. But I’ll tell you what, he never showed up drunk, and he never brought a woman in the shedrow. Never. Not to this day.”

  Dawn hesitated. “Does he still drink?”

  “No, not anymore.” Ben’s expression suggested his mind was wandering again. “I’ll tell you, Dawn. Underneath all that bragging and swearing, is a good man. I don’t think I could’ve gotten through Meg’s death without him.”

  Barn Kitty meandered into the tack room, meowing, and Dawn picked him up and put him on her lap.

  “She would’ve liked you, you know,” Ben said, smiling sadly. “You’d have liked her too.”

  Dawn lowered her eyes to the cat and thought about Meg, a woman she’d never met, but whom she cared for. A woman whose constant presence in lingering memories, that reminded her of her mother. Her mother’s wishes. And with the decision Dawn was facing, it was now or never, her father’s.

  Ben stared off and sighed. “No, Tom doesn’t drink anymore. Used to be he was drunk every day by noon. But then he caused this pile-up on the freeway. Six people got hurt. One was just a kid.” He looked at her. “The kid was hurt the worst and almost died.”