Other People's Horses (Alex and Alexander Book 2)

by Natalie Keller Reinert

  “I don’t have a problem with that,” Birdwell said matter-of-factly. “I have a problem with you.”

  My face was burning, on fire with embarrassment and shame and rage all at once, and as I heard a few quiet coughs I realized that our section of the cafe was silent, listening in fascinated delight to the collapse of a client-trainer relationship.

  “I don’t like the way you look at me, Alex, and I don’t like the way you talk to me, Alex, and I don’t like having my opinions dismissed, Alex.”

  Every time he said my name, curdling its brief syllables with disgust, I felt my temperature rise, until I thought that if I had to call him “Mister” again in that subservient master-and-servant manner, I would simply combust. I would go up in flames and take this whole damn sales pavilion with me. The alcohol in its colored glass bottles would explode, and half the world’s millionaires would be gone in the space of a moment. And no one would miss them, I thought bitterly, and we would all be better off without them.

  I couldn't be here anymore. I couldn't take another moment of Fasig-Tipton or money or the people who had it. If this was a temple of horseflesh, the moneychangers had just defiled it for me.

  I got up.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” His voice was challenging.

  “I’m going home for a nap,” I said evenly. “And then I’m going back to the barn to take care of my horses. It’s clear that this meeting is over. Good luck with your colt.”

  “I’m your biggest owner,” Birdwell said smugly. “I say when the meeting is over.”

  I threw a twenty on the table. “That’s for lunch.”

  He looked blearily at the twenty, and I wondered why so little gin had taken him over so quickly. They must make the drinks strong in this joint. Birdwell shook his head like a dazed Labrador retriever, his jaw slack and wobbly. Then he was rummaging in his bag and pulling out a pill bottle. Oh, no, I thought. Oh, no. The waitress set a fresh glass on the table just as he got the lid wrenched from the bottle, and he washed down two large pills with a swig of the cocktail. He swallowed noisily and smiled at me. “You see,” he said nonsensically.

  I did see. I made for the exit, pushing my way through the sea of chairs and the rich people who filled them.

  He caught up with me across the street, as I leaned against the rail of the Oklahoma track and tried to summon the will to get into my car, parked there in the grass, and drive the couple of miles to the house. My hands were shaking and my mouth was dry with fear, not of Birdwell, God no, but of what Alexander would say. Don't fuck this up, Alex, and he hadn’t said it to hurt my feelings, he’d said it because he knew I would want to. Thirty broodmares and twenty-two foals and I was throwing it all away. Birdwell touched me on the shoulder and I jumped, spun around, and glared at him. But his face seemed contrite. I bit back my angry exclamation and waited. If I could salvage this, I really should.

  “I didn’t mean to question your professionalism,” he said, slurring the last word into a whirlpool of s’s. Muscle relaxants and gin. At least the doses were human and not horse. That’s what sets the owners apart from the horsemen, I supposed. “I need someone experienced to help me out tomorrow night. I’ve never done this. You guys have been there for me as a breeder. Meet me here tomorrow for the sale. And arrange for the horses to be shipped to Florida afterwards.”

  He’d said horses, plural. Was he going to give in, skip the giant sale-topper and buy more than one? I sighed. I’d fucked it up, but he was giving me a second chance. I had to give him one, too. “I’ll be here. Meet me in the lobby at six.”

  Relief flushed his pasty face red and he looked like a little boy forgiven for rudeness. “That’s great. And we'll go to Siro’s afterwards to celebrate.” He gave me an unsteady little salute and turned around, back in the direction of the sales pavilion. I hoped he had a driver with him.

  I turned away from the wobbling figure of my client — my one and only client, how lucky I was! — and leaned back on the white rail, gazing across the harrowed dirt of the track, the uncertain green-brown of the infield with its crackling July grass, to the trim little gray barns of Oklahoma. Was it really called Oklahoma because a trainer had felt so far away from the track? If that was the truth, he surely wouldn’t have felt like such an exile now, with Oklahoma’s one-sided shedrows celebrated by artists as the true beauty of Saratoga. He surely wouldn’t have felt like such an exile as I, stranded down three suburban blocks of ranch houses and stop signs from the backside. If being across the street put a trainer in Oklahoma, I was stabled in Oregon.

  Well, Oregon hadn’t been so bad. It could have been worse. I shrugged. What I really needed, I thought, was a horse in a race. I hadn’t found a spot for anyone yet. This condition book stuff was harder than I had expected. Tougher even than dealing with inebriated owners.

  My phone buzzed. I looked down. New York area code. “Hello?”

  “Alex Whitehall?”

  “Yes.”

  “Marty calling from the secretary’s office.”

  Ah, the racing secretary. This should be good.

  “Wanted me to ask you if you were planning on dropping that bay colt, Idle Hour, into anything soon. He has a six furlong in two days, AOC fifty, he needs to fill.”

  “Dirt or turf?”

  “Dirt.”

  I thought. Idle Hour had put in a good work a day ago. The secretary must have noticed and realized he’d fit this race well. And he would. He was better than a fifty thousand dollar allowance/optional claimer, sure, but he hadn’t run since March and this would be a nice return from the layoff. “I can do that.”

  “That’s great, thank you very much.” Marty sounded pleased. I knew I was. The fewer favors I owed the secretary, the better. I might be a newbie, but I knew that much.

  And just like that, I had a horse in a race at Saratoga.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Buy the Pretty Ones

  “You look nice.”

  I smoothed my hands down over my skirt. I hadn’t worn this skirt in … I couldn’t remember the last time I’d worn this skirt. Maybe when Alexander and I had gone to New York a few years ago, that happy fall when we’d taken off and stopped working so damn hard. We’d had so much fun that year. Was there something wrong with us that we were hardwired to take on more horses and clients, to work ourselves to the bone so that we’d drop in the traces someday having forgotten the meaning of the words “vacation” or “night out”? I frowned at my skirt, remembering the promises we’d made.

  But it’s hard to be a top trainer and still have a social life, isn’t it. I’d made my choices. Alexander had made his. And tonight I had to put on my skirt and make some rich man buy the right horses. That was part of the career I had chosen for myself and fought for, so I’d better be happy about it.

  “You okay?” Kerri had noticed my scowl. “Is it too tight?”

  “Does it look too tight?” I couldn’t possibly have gained weight. I barely had time to eat. I pressed at the crease across my hips in a sudden feminine panic. That crease had always been there, right?

  “No, it looks fine. You just … You just didn’t look happy, that was all.”

  I looked at Kerri’s innocent face. Her wide brown eyes blinked back at me. “You’re a sweet girl,” I said suddenly, and she smiled, grateful.

  ***

  The valet wasn’t impressed by my rental car. I guessed it wasn’t Bentley enough for him. But I flung the plastic key at him anyway and abandoned the little red car without a backward glance, snatching the ticket out of his wavering hand with all the vitriol of a scorned Hollywood starlet. I was out with the rich bitches tonight. It was not my element, but I was damned if I was going to let anyone see that.

  I hadn’t bought a horse at Fasig-Tipton’s Saratoga Sale since my second year with Alexander, way back in the annals of history, when he’d brought me up here so that he could get his hands on a couple of yearlings for some clients we’d long since tired of and sent on
their way. The clients had come in a private jet, and then a limo, the wife teetering on spiky stilettos that made me long to invite her for a tour of the graveled stabling area with a tiny dog’s head peeking out of her purse. The dog, tear-stained and pink-ribboned, never made a sound throughout the entire night, even as the gavel fell on purchase after purchase, even as colts whinnied and fillies neighed, even as champagne corks popped in the buyer’s lounge and a hundred happy millionaires slapped one another on their Brooks Brothers-clad backs.

  I’d left that night convinced of two things: that big money and young horses were not a good combination, and that that damned dog had been a doll. I still wasn’t convinced that it hadn’t been a stuffed animal the whole time. Or perhaps it had been working at its owner’s muscle relaxants while it was doing all that traveling around in her handbag.

  Now that I was back, and responsible for bringing home some good horses, I was determined to try and enjoy myself. After all, it really was a privilege to see the animals that were going to be led through the sales ring tonight. Some of the finest Thoroughbreds in the world were on offer here in Saratoga, and more than one of these butt-high yearlings would one day be tearing through a track record, or be touted as the next Triple Crown contender, or go pounding through the desert night in chase of the Dubai World Cup. These were the world-class horses. These were the cream of the crop. Who wouldn’t want to see them?

  But to get to them I would have to get through that lobby. I gazed, disconsolate, through the glass windows of the sales pavilion. The lobby was simply packed with elegant people, women with feathers in their hair and men in sports jackets and tailored pants and loafers, putting on their country chic for the night.

  It wasn’t exactly my crowd.

  And then wouldn’t you know it, out came Mason Birdwell, wearing the requisite navy blue blazer and tan pants. He looked like an overgrown school boy, escaped from his prep academy. He was grinning madly. I supposed he was drunk already.

  “Alex!” he called, waving his arm as if I couldn’t see him lumbering down the sidewalk towards me. “Alex, are you ready for some fun?”

  ***

  Do they have any sort of process in place for weeding out the drunks at a high-dollar auction? A fit-to-bid exam, to be administered at random? I don’t suppose they do, because it wouldn’t be in their favor. As long as a fellow can pass the credit check, he can drink as much as he wants, that’s probably the auction house viewpoint. And who can blame them, when you get results like that of Mason Birdwell, Thoroughbred buyer. A slogan I’m sure he was ready to have printed on business cards by the end of the night.

  Birdwell dragged me through the crush of gossip straight back to the bar near the walking ring, where we’d had our calamitous lunch the day before. It was still hot out, and women were sweating through their makeup. I touched my own nude cheeks and allowed myself a smug smile. Did people not understand they were going to go outside? In the summertime? I jumped as Birdwell thrust a glass at me, a twin of the one in his grasp.

  “What’s this?”

  “Have a drink, have a drink!” he demanded, tippling his own glass, and I wondered just when he’d gotten started.

  “You’re in a good mood tonight,” I ventured, sipping from my glass. Whiskey and something. Interesting choice. “Are you ready to take home a few nice horses?”

  “I’m ready! Why did I ever get out of this game, Alex? This is the sport of kings! Of kings!” His voice raised above the general buzz and a few heads turned.

  This.

  Again.

  “Well, it’s certainly a wonderful sport,” I allowed. Although I wouldn’t exactly call you a king. “There is probably a king or two around here, too.”

  “I met one!” Birdwell shouted. “I met the sheikh!”

  “Shhh. You’re going to upset his security detail.”

  Birdwell hushed. I congratulated myself on quick thinking.

  “Now, Mr. Birdwell,” I continued, deciding to take over, “I think we should go inside and be ready for the first hip. Remember I really think she’s got a lot of —”

  “Oh, I don’t like her,” Birdwell interrupted. “I talked to Roddy Ellis earlier and he said she was a little cow-hocked. I don’t want a cow, Alex. I want a racehorse.”

  “You talked to Roddy Ellis? Wait … when?”

  “Earlier. I went by your barn to visit and you weren’t there. Roddy came over and said hello. We had a little chat.” Birdwell seemed to realize that I wasn’t thrilled by the news that he and my barn neighbor had struck up a conversation, and shut it down.

  I was seething inside. Roddy Ellis, client stealer. Roddy Ellis, assistant trainer seducer. Roddy Ellis, nosey leading trainer. This guy was all over my business. Between him, and Mary Archer, and all their little coattail riders, I was ready to pack up the shedrow, throw the horses on the next van to Florida, and get my own ticket to Australia. I could be next to Alexander, running the stud farm there … and maybe get Polly to take a nice long vacation of her own …

  I shook my head to clear it. Birdwell noticed and cocked his head at me, puppy-like. I took a breath. “I think we should look at the filly. They’re going to bring her into the walking ring in just a few minutes. Let’s just go over—”

  “I don’t want to see her!”

  “Mason, you can’t just buy the pretty ones. They all have something going on. The key is to find the one that works right anyway.”

  “I want to buy the pretty ones!”

  Whoa. Whoa. Wow. I took a breath.

  The bartender leaned over. “Sir, is everything okay?”

  Birdwell rounded on the young man. “Everything is just fine! I am going to buy a racehorse tonight! The prettiest one I can find!”

  I noticed that he used the singular. I picked up my purse from the bar and set down my drink in its place. “Thanks for the drink, Mason. Have a nice night.” I started away, pushing into the sea of designer dresses and feathered fascinators blocking me from a view of the walking ring. I wanted to see the damn cow-hocked filly for myself, even if she wasn’t going home with me tonight.

  Birdwell grabbed at the strap of my bag. “Where are you going?”

  I glared back at him, his pudgy white face slack with incomprehension and alcohol. I wondered if Alexander had known that his client had become an alcoholic sometime during his vacation from horse racing. This guy was bad off. We were better off without him. “Send your overbred horse to Roddy Ellis, Mason. I don’t want him in my barn.” I wrenched away, leaving my first client and the mainstay of my business standing slack-jawed at the bar, and a sea of stares in my wake.

  ***

  The sale passed in a blur. At first, I fought my way to the rail of the walking ring to watch the young beauties, my hip number one amongst them. She strode out proudly, looking around at her public like a queen; never you mind that she was a little cow-hocked, never you mind that she was a little parrot-mouthed, never you mind that she was a little on the small side. She was going to make somebody very happy, I was sure of it. And when I watched her re-emerge from the sales pavilion, anxiously pulling at her chifney bit while the groom lifted his hand to hold her back, the monitors all read that she’d been knocked down for just $35,000, and I thought that maybe I should have just gone in and bought her for Cotswold, hang the client.

  But we had enough horses already. Both our own, and other people’s. Even if Mason pulled every mare and weanling off the place, we’d have enough. We’d done fine without him. We’d done better. When I was honest with myself, I knew that keeping Mason Birdwell as my client had just been about proving myself to the people around me. I didn’t need him. I didn’t need to establish myself as something bigger than Alex and Alexander. Alex and Alexander were a big deal already.

  I didn’t need to … I just … I just needed to.

  The filly paraded by, long nose twitching above her overbite, and disappeared into the stabling area. She’d step onto a van tomorrow, and ship away to
Florida, or Kentucky, or perhaps stay here in upstate New York, learning to carry a rider and canter like a racehorse in an indoor racetrack while the snow piled up outside. I’d see her sire and dam’s name paired together in a racetrack program someday and think, “I’ve seen that match before,” and realize that was her, the hip number one that caused all that fuss at Fasig-Tipton.

  I snagged a drink before I went into the sales pavilion, nimbly sidestepping a cluster of well-heeled buyers to avoid Mason Birdwell, who was earnestly explaining to a double-chinned woman in a Kentucky Derby hat how wronged he had been by his trainer, and found a seat in the balcony. I regretted not bringing Kerri. I was wary of her, but she was a nice girl and the only friend I had in Saratoga.

  I sighed and leaned my elbows on the balcony rail, and watched fine horse after fine horse go through the ring.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Mornings and Afternoons

  I sent Idle Hour to the post with my heart in my throat.

  He’d been a pro in the paddock, circling quietly under the tree with the number tacked to it in that quaint old Saratoga fashion, the slight curlicue in the number’s curving end belying that this was a place that had never acknowledged the hard edges of the Machine Age, despite the enforced institutions of the parimutuel machines or the glittering LED tote board and race monitor that dominated the infield and blocked the backstretch run from grandstand observers. The valet had come out with Willy Impreso’s saddle and the orange saddle cloth with the big black “7” in varsity type upon it, and Idle Hour stood still to be saddled, looking around as much as Gabe at his head would allow him, apparently relishing the sights and sounds of this outdoor saddling area. He even forgot to kick out behind when we fastened the over girth, me on one side in black dress trousers and a sleeveless green blouse that was too frivolous for such grunt work, and the more sensibly dressed valet on the other side, both dragging on the girth to draw it as tightly as possible over the tiny red saddle and around Idle Hour’s narrow rib cage. I hunched my shoulders in an attempt to stop myself from popping a seam on the blouse, but I shook my head at Gabe when he offered to give me the lead shank and take care of the girth himself. This was the trainer’s job: to tighten the damn girth, and look fabulous doing it.