It was a nine horse field.
The bugle sounded!
“Ladies and gentlemen, the horses for the first race here at Nottingham Downs are on the racetrack.” He announced the name of each horse, each jockey, each trainer.
Wendy and Spears watched from their glass-front office. “What do you think’s going to happen?” Wendy asked.
Spears shook his head and pointed to Ben, Tom, Dawn, Dusty, and Randy, all walking toward the Ginny stand. The bugler played “When the Saints go Marching in.” Several people in the crowd started dancing.
“I think we’ll all be happy when this day is over,” Spears said.
Wendy had hoped to have the new program cover for today’s racing, but when she made a last-minute change in the design it pushed the pilot time back until tomorrow. Ben said that was probably a good thing, commemorating a new day, a new week, a new beginning. She looked at the Forget Me Nots, thought of Renegade Man, thought of Karen and Veronica and Shifting Gears Thoroughbred Rescue Farm, the horses there, the Thoroughbreds at Ben’s farm….
“I think tomorrow would be a good day to announce the free admission – free parking vouchers. Are they ready?” Spears asked.
Wendy nodded. “That was a brilliant idea, by the way, absolutely brilliant.”
He laughed. “I think it was a stroke of genius, if I must say so myself.” Fans leaving after the ninth race will receive a voucher for free admission and free parking any day of the racing season. And there was no limit. A fan staying until after the ninth race could essentially have free admission and parking each and every time they came, so long as they stayed until after the completion of the ninth race to get their voucher.
“How will they get them?” Ben asked, when Spears phoned him earlier.
“Easy,” Spears said. “They’ll get them from the pari-mutual tickets sellers, along with a ‘Hope to see you again soon,’ friendly greeting. It’s a win-win! Even if we never see that fan again, at least they’ll know we appreciate their business.”
The horses were being loaded in the gate. Wendy glanced at the Ginny stand again, where for all practical purposes the powers-that-be sat amongst the other owners, trainers, and grooms, right where they wanted to be.
“And they’re off!”
Wendy and Spears watched with trepidation. Wendy at one point actually feared a horse or two just might stop running, if not all of them. But that didn’t happen.
Tom glanced up at the monitor in the Ginny stand. They’d run the half in 45.4, good fractions. The race for home had horses five wide down the stretch. They could hear the crowd. They could hear Bud calling the finish.
“And it is Tick Tack by a neck!”
Tom stepped down out of the Ginny stand to watch the horses pull up and turn around back toward the grandstand. The race was run in 111.4, a decent time. “Well?” Tom said, to Miguel, rider of the winner.
The jockey cocked his whip. He was looking forward to seeing the expression on Jeremy Blane’s face. “No problem,” he said. “Everything’s good.”
As Jeremy Blane led his horse into the Winner’s Circle, Miguel saluted the Stewards with the new and improved whip. “Great ride,” the trainer said. “I apologize.”
The jockeys’ room was abuzz after the race, the general consensus being “It didn’t seem to make too much of a difference when considering the time of the race.” One said his horse didn’t flinch like always and actually ran better. “She no squirrely like usual.”
Second race, same thing. The race was run in good time. There was no surprise horse behavior, no upset. By the time Tom, Red, and Dawn led Whinny over for the third race, the whip seemed already to be a non-issue. Juan came out of the jockeys’ room all smiles.
“Only complaints, some jocks don’t like the grip.” He shrugged. “They’ll fix them.” When the call sounded, Dawn gave him a leg up and led Whinny out onto the racetrack and handed her over to Tom. Her race was 6 furlongs and she was coming off a win. This was her first wide-open race since winning all three of her lifetime conditions.
Ben and Dawn walked to the fence in front of the grandstand, their usual place to view a race and watched Whinny warm up. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I’d like to bring attention to the owner of Nottingham Downs. Ben Miller.”
Ben stared at Dawn. “Are they playing a video?”
“No, I think this is live. I think you should turn around and wave,” she said.
Ben turned and waved. The crowd cheered.
Dawn looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “Smile.”
He smiled.
“Thank you, Ben Miller,” Bud Gipson said. “Thank you.”
Ben smiled again, nodded, and turned back around. “Can we fire him?”
“What?” Dawn asked. “For doing his job? You told him to talk more.”
Ben laughed.
“One minute to post,” Bud said. “Do not get shut out.”
Wendy stood at the window, debated going down to join them, and decided she’d better not. There were still those who might think having an owner of the racetrack allowed to race his or her own horses at that racetrack could be a conflict of interest, let alone the Assistant General Manager down there on the rail rooting along with them. “They’re loading in the gate,” she said.
Spears got up from his desk and stood at her side. Whinny’s odds were 3-1.
When his cell phone rang, he glanced at the number and took the call. He could hear the track announcer - he could hear the crowd - he could hear Wendy.
“Come on, Whinny. Come on. I can’t believe I haven’t gotten binoculars yet. Come on, Whinny.”
The filly laid third down the backside, took over second at the head of the stretch, and came up a nose short for the win at the wire. “She run big!” Ben said. Good fractions, a strong finish. The photo sign flashed, giving some bettors hope, but Ben could clearly see Whinny finished second. A horrible thought ran through is his mind, “What if they put her on top because of me?”
Dawn and he walked out onto the racetrack, waiting for Whinny’s return. Tom and Red led her and Juan back. Juan dismounted. “Almost,” he said. “She sure is game.”
Ben heaved a huge sigh of relief when the winner’s number was posted. “I’ll see you back at the barn,” he told Dawn and Tom, and walked along with Juan. “How was the soft whip?”
Juan twirled the whip and smiled. “It made no difference. She ran her race.”
Ben nodded, agreeing, thanked him and walked back to the barn. It dawned on him that he could have gone up to his office and watched the next couple of races there. But old habits die hard. He laughed at himself and decided Meg would have laughed at him too.
“Ah, Mr. Miller,” she’d say.
When he heard the crowd roar, he was still close enough to see the tote board and smiled. The trifecta paid $1225, the highest paying trifecta in months. He stopped by the spit barn, stood talking to Dawn and Tom for a moment while he looked Whinny over. Then he took Red to the barn, put him in his stall, slipped off his bridle and loosened the girth.
“You’re a good boy,” he said, patting him on the neck.
Spears hung up the phone and looked at Wendy. “We made the national news.”
“You mean about the whips?”
He nodded. “And not just national sports news, the national news - news.”
Wendy smiled. “Will it be positive?”
“Very.”
Tom bed Whinny’s stall when he returned to the barn and filled her water bucket and hay net. By the time Dawn returned, they were calling for horses for the fifth race. Race days, she wrote once, was like playing connect the dots. Go here, go there, do this, do that, come back over here again, go back over there. While she did up all four of Whinny’s legs, Tom ran stalls, topped off water buckets, and quietly, very, very quietly, mixed the horses’ dinner feed.
Done, he put running bandages on B-Bo and brushed him off. Dawn put Red’s bridle on, tightened his girth, and led him
down the shedrow and outside the barn, ground tied him, and walked back to get B-Bo. Tom had him all ready and bridled. He put on his helmet and mounted Red: Dawn met him at the end of the shedrow.
“Good luck,” she said. “Bring him back safe.”
Tom patted the colt on the neck and nodded. “There’s three mares in the race. This should be exciting.”
Dusty was set to meet them in the paddock. Ben could still saddle a horse, even with his weak arm from the stroke. But at times, he had trouble giving the jock a leg up. Tom dismounted Red outside the paddock, led B-Bo in, and gave wide berth to the stalls that held the mares. B-Bo kicked the wall. When the colt was saddled, Tom walked back out to the track and mounted Red. As Dawn would say, back and forth, back and forth, over here, over there….
“Riders up!”
“Good luck,” Ben said to Juan.
“Thank you.” He glanced back at Ben and smiled. He liked riding B-Bo. He was a big strong colt, took some handling, but always ran his heart out. He appreciated the mount.
The bugle sounded.
The crowd cheered as the horses walked onto the racetrack.
Dusty and Ben made their way down to the fence in front of the grandstand. Ben had forgotten about being announced from this vantage point, but fortunately Bud didn’t announce him again. The race was a flat mile. “He looks like a million bucks,” Mim said, walking up next to them with her cane. “I see you’re starting Beau All Together tomorrow.”
“I’m going to run him a couple of times and send him home. He’s such a big colt.”
“He’s impressive.”
Ben smiled. “He’s headstrong.”
“The good ones always are,” Mim said.
The horses were loaded in the gate. The one horse started acting up.
“No, Boss! No, Boss!” the gate crew handler said. “No, Boss!”
Then silence.
“And they’re off!”
B-Bo broke with the pack, laid fourth through the turn and down the backside. At the head of the stretch Juan clicked to him, asking for more run, and he dug in. When he passed the quarter pole, he was second. An eighth of a mile left to go he took the lead and win drawing away.
Tom helped pull him up and led him and Juan back to the Winner’s Circle, dismounted, and they all got their picture taken. Dusty followed them to the gap and took B-Bo for a moment while Dawn handed “Batgirl” to Tom.
“Bring her back safe,” Dawn said. She always said that for luck.
Tom nodded and winked, always - for luck. Connect the dots; connect the dots, superstitions run deep. Dusty handed B-Bo to Dawn. “You got him?”
She nodded. He was all pumped up, dancing and prancing. She finessed him to the spit barn by letting him dance and prance. There, he was more interested in having a drink of water than having his tattoo checked. He nipped at the attendant.
“Be careful,” Dawn warned.
The man grabbed hold of B-Bo’s lip again, confirmed the tattoo, and Dawn led him into the stall. His halter and shank were tied to her belt loop. It would have been bad luck to bring them down before the race, even if the odds were that he was going to win.
She allowed him a good long drink of water and took him outside for hosing off and a bath. By the time she got him back inside the spit barn, his breathing was practically normal. When he fast approached the filly that ran second, who was slowly walking around the shedrow in front of him, Dawn led him into the stall to give the filly time to get on the other side, and then brought him back out.
She couldn’t hear the call of the race from inside the spit barn with everyone talking, but at every turn she thought she could make out the announcer calling Beau All Together’s name. “You know, a monitor in your office would be nice,” she told the state veterinarian.
“Ask the boss,” he said, smiling.
Dawn led B-Bo into the stall to have his urine sample taken. When he “obliged” she put his lead shank back on him, led him outside, and here came Tom and Batgirl, all proud of herself and pushing against Red. “Did she win?” Dawn asked.
“Second,” Tom said, doing that dismount of his, with Batgirl’s reins over Red’s head and leading her into the spit barn all in one fell swoop. Dusty walked Red down to the barn alongside Dawn and B-Bo.
“She run good.”
“Did she have the lead?”
He nodded. “The horse just got to her. It was a photo.”
Dawn smiled. It was a good day for the Miller barn. Randy stopped by a few minutes later. Yes, plans were to all go to the Rib for dinner to celebrate.
“I’ll see you all there.”
Spears was the last to arrive at the restaurant. He’d gone home to change clothes and was quite surprised when his wife said she’d like to join them. They sat by Ben at the end of the table across from Wendy and Tom. Dusty sat at the other end, Dawn on one side, Randy the other.
Horsemen passing the table, sitting nearby or way across the room, the waitresses and cooks, all congratulated Ben. He waved, thanking them, and then they all got down to the business of ordering. Spears’ wife Heather studied Wendy and Tom while appearing to be looking at her menu. Finally, she had to ask. “Are you two a couple?”
“Yes,” Tom said, winking at Wendy. “We’re going to be married soon, someday, someway, somewhere….”
They all laughed. He’d sung that last part.
“Oh,” Heather said. “That’s so nice to hear. I used to worry all the time with Richard working so late and his saying how pretty you are, and you are.”
Wendy blushed. “Me and Richard? I’m old enough to be his uh…older sister.”
Everyone laughed again. Then here came the waitresses.
Heather looked at her husband when he ordered a tall glass of water. They were both heavy drinkers. “I’ll have water too,” she said. When it came time to make a toast, Ben stood and they all raised their glasses. “To the new Nottingham Downs!”
“Hear! Hear!”
Chapter Forty-Four
Sunday morning at the Miller barn was a breeze. With three horses running yesterday and Bo-T in the sixth race today, that left only Wee Born to go to the racetrack. By ten-thirty, all five horses were back in their stalls, done up, and the shedrow raked.
“I’ll see you around two,” Dawn said, as she left.
Ben sat down to read the racing form while Tom went up to Sunday Service at the racetrack chapel. The sermons were always short, in keeping with the horsemen’s busy schedules. There were about twenty-two in attendance, a good turnout. Tom bowed his head and prayed. He had a lot to be thankful for. He took in every word. “Amen.”
Pastor Mitchell shook everyone’s hands as they filed out past him. “Next week we should be in our new chapel. Tell your friends.”
Tom was last to go through the line. “It’ll be nice. We’ll try and get it all moved over by Tuesday.”
“Thank you.” Pastor Mitchell said. “Do you think we can use some of the Billy Martin Fund to purchase a real altar?”
Tom smiled. “I’m sure we can work something out.”
Pastor Mitchell shook his hand. “You’re a good man, Tom.”
“Thank you. Funny thing is I don’t talk about the Lord so much anymore.”
“That’s because your actions speak louder than words.”
Tom just looked at him and then nodded. “Thank you.”
Randy pulled up next to him as he walked back to the barn. “How is he?”
The he, he was referring to went without saying. Bo-T was the man of the hour, man of the day. “He’s not happy with not having any hay, but aside from that he’s as ready as he’s ever going to be.”
“How’s Ben?”
Tom chuckled, chewing on a toothpick. “He says this is just another race, but we all know better. This is Bo-T were talking about.”
“Yep,” Randy said. “I’ll see you later.”
Wendy walked down to the receiving dock, had the shipping clerk open a box, and
took out one of the programs. “Oh my!” She reached in for three more. “Thank you,” she said, and headed for the Miller barn. She stopped mid-way in the parking lot, took a photo of the cover, front and back, and texted it to Dawn and Glenda. “What do you think?” she asked.
She phoned Dusty next. “Can you meet me at the Miller barn?”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He arrived leading Renegade Man, the retired horse in his care. He liked grazing him and just walking him around every day. Renegade Man liked it too.
Wendy drew a breath, holding the programs next to her heart. “Okay, here it is,” she said, passing them out.
“Nottingham Downs” it read across the top. “Where no Thoroughbred will ever be Forgotten.” Below that statement, that creed - was a photo of a racehorse in the Winner’s Circle with a blanket of Forget Me Nots draped over his neck.
Her phone rang. It was Dawn. “I love it!”
“Thank you!”
When she hung up, it rang again. It was Glenda. “We love it!” she said, meaning both her and George.
Dusty turned away with tears in his eyes. “Look at this,” he said, to Renegade Man. “You’re famous.”
Tom shook his head. “How’d you do that?”
“Graphic arts, permission from the photographer; Rickety never paid him for it, so he was happy to give it up. Do you like it?”
“I love it.”
“Ben?”
He’d turned the program over, something Dusty and Tom hadn’t done yet. There were ads in the middle and on the bottom, but across the top was a collage depicting the stages of a Thoroughbred’s life: a foal standing at its mother’s side, a young horse in training, a horse race, a horse being shown over a jump, a cowboy, and finally, horses grazing in a pasture. He looked up. “I don’t know what to say.” His voice cracked. “This says it all.”
“Awesome!” she said, and took off down the shedrow. She glanced back over her shoulder. “Oh, those are yours. They’re on the house.” The three of them laughed. She was already texting the photo to someone else. “What do you think?” she wrote to Linda Dillon.
Winning Odds Trilogy Page 82