Blades of Bluegrass

by D. Jackson Leigh

  “Okay.” Lame. But Britt was at a loss for what to say. “I guess I’ll see you later today for my appointment with Dr. Thomas.”

  “Four o’clock.”

  “Yeah.”

  Teddy hesitantly gave Britt’s forearm a slight squeeze. She smiled, but her eyes were a bit sad. “See you then.” She rounded the idling sports car and drove off without looking back.

  Britt was a little surprised, yet half expecting Teddy’s withdrawal. She just didn’t know why. Britt had no doubt that Teddy had initiated their night together. Sure, Britt had set it up with the afternoon and evening of flirtation, and made an assumption when she reserved the rooms. But she was totally backing down until Teddy made it clear she was a more than willing participant. Everything had been fine until Britt had left her to check them out of the hotel and have the valet bring their car around. What had happened in those few moments?

  “Where’s Teddy going?”

  Britt jerked and pressed her hand to her chest. “Christ. You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

  Pop snorted. “I made enough noise to wake Lynn’s old deaf and blind hound dog. You were just a million miles away, staring after that little sports car that I’m guessing was being driven by our hot blonde.”

  “Our hot blonde?”

  “Far as I know, you haven’t laid claim to her yet. So I figure she’s still up for grabs.” Pop wiggled his eyebrows at Britt.

  “I’m not sure she’s available for either one of us,” Britt said, taking one last look at the parking lot exit as if Teddy might reappear, then scowled. “Especially not you, old man.” She looked at her watch. “We’d better check on our horses. The auction will be starting in about an hour.”

  * * *

  Britt paused with Pop at the top of the semicircular auditorium, surveying the open seats. Marianne Woodard, the woman who had bid big and won the Story Hill Farm filly in an earlier auction, waved at Pop.

  “Come on,” he said and headed toward Marianne.

  Britt frowned. It was unusual for a seller to sit with a known buyer because it was a signal to other buyers there was probably an agreement already made and they were wasting their time. What was Pop up to?

  Marianne and her son owned a training farm in South Carolina. They’d made a name for themselves in the stakes races, but word was that she’d put together a group of investors, intending to land a Triple Crown contender at her farm. In Britt’s estimation, Home from War could be the horse Marianne wanted.

  Whatever Pop had up his sleeve, Britt grudgingly approved. Marianne was widely respected for her knowledge and method of training. She’d be happy if all their yearlings went straight to Marianne’s facility.

  Pop sat on Marianne’s right—the last seat in that row—because he was a little deaf in his right ear, leaving Britt to sit on Marianne’s left, so that her prosthetic arm wasn’t on their shared armrest. It always seemed to just work out that way, but Britt knew Pop was constantly conscious of her comfort around other people.

  This auction was filled with colts the inspectors had scored high, and the bidding was fierce. Marianne seemed relaxed, taking her time as colt after colt was led out and the auctioneer began to work the bidders.

  The auction handler led a black colt with a white star out while the announcer crooned his impressive bloodlines. Britt sat straighter in her seat, taking in the slope of his shoulder, his straight legs, long back, and muscled rump. He was slimmer than Home from War, who had a more powerful build. Still, she was intrigued. She’d spent most of her military career living in base housing, saving her money by living modestly and investing most of her salary. She’d hit it really big a while back when she invested in a new digital operating systems start-up and the stock went sky high. Not even Pop had any idea of her net worth, and she’d been toying with the idea of buying her own racehorse. She would, of course, place it with Marianne or her son for training.

  She followed the bids but didn’t make one. She’d wait until the interested parties narrowed down to two. It was getting close when some latecomers to the auction decided to crowd into the seats right behind them, and she almost missed who’d made the last bid. It didn’t matter, though. The money had risen to more than she, as an individual, could invest. A California trainer who’d entered and won with more than a few horses at the Derby, Preakness and Belmont had snatched up the colt. But he’d also crippled or killed just as many horses with his aggressive methods.

  Irritated, she turned to glare at the men who continued to talk too loud behind them. She wanted to growl, to order them out the second her brain identified them. Pop beat her to the punch.

  “Brock. Outside if you want to jaw.” The fact that Pop whispered took none of the command from his tone.

  Brock sat back in his chair, thoroughly admonished by his father in front of a well-known big-time political donor and Gen. George Banks. Britt narrowed her eyes at her father. How dare he bring that bastard here?

  “Hip number zero-zero-seven-seven. Bred by Story Hill Farm, he’s already registered as Home from War. By War Front out of Unbridled Storm, a three-point-two million-dollar stakes winner by Tapit out of Lemons Forever, most recently named the 2017 Kentucky Broodmare of the Year.” The announcer who introduced each horse as it was led into the ring rattled on about the colt’s spectacular bloodlines and the winning race records in his family tree for what seemed like ten minutes. Finally, he cued the auctioneer.

  “Bidding for this impressive colt begins at…” The auctioneer paused and checked his paperwork for the minimum set by the seller, then consulted with a man standing in the wings, who nodded. “Bidding begins at one million dollars. Do I have one million?”

  Confirmation came before the figure was fully out of the auctioneer’s mouth.

  The bids climbed ever higher. When the number of bidders had winnowed down to three at eight million, Marianne lifted her hand and gave a terse nod for eight-point-five million. Three ground men worked as spotters for the auctioneer, and the one closest to Marianne had wisely kept an eye on her.

  “I’ve got eight-five. How about nine? Nine million.”

  A bidder across the room nodded, but before the auctioneer could announce confirmation, Marianne nodded and flashed her open hand to her ground man. He immediately spoke over the other ground man, and the auctioneer responded.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I have nine-point-five million. Can I get ten?”

  The third bidder shook his head. But the California trainer who’d won the black colt stared at Marianne, then turned to the auctioneer and gave a firm nod.

  “Ten million has been bid for hip number double zero-seven-seven. Give me ten-point-five. Ten-point-five. Ten-five.” The higher the number the faster the auctioneer’s chant rang out.

  Marianne nodded, but not as firmly as before. Britt saw Marianne’s hand tighten on the armrest. She was about to hit her limit.

  Britt placed her mouth almost in Marianne’s ear. “Let me in your consortium for this colt, and I can chip in up to two million immediately. Three if you can front me a few days to move some assets around.”

  Marianne turned to stare at her, then started to turn to Pop until Britt grabbed her arm.

  “He doesn’t know. I’ve been investing on the quiet and got lucky.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’ve got ten-five. Gimme eleven. Eleven.”

  Marianne nodded.

  “Eleven.” The auctioneer, his cadence slowed as bidding became a duel between two top trainers, looked to the California trainer. “Eleven-five?”

  The trainer stared back.

  “Eleven-three. Can I get Eleven-three?” It was more of a statement than a question, but the trainer only stared. “Eleven-two.” The trainer nodded.

  “Eleven-two. Eleven-five. Can I get Eleven-five?”

  General Banks stretched forward in his seat and whispered to Marianne. “Let
me buy in. I can put up a million.”

  Britt shook her head. “Let him in, and I’m out.”

  Marianne shook her head.

  “Eleven-two. I’ve got Eleven-two.” He raised his gavel.

  “Get it done, Marianne.” Pop’s gruff voice cut through their whispers.

  “Twelve million.” Dispensing with discreet nods, Marianne’s calm alto rang out across the auditorium, followed by two full seconds of complete silence.

  The auctioneer’s gavel froze in mid-air, and then he pointed the gavel at Marianne. “Twelve million. The bid is twelve million. Do I have twelve-five?”

  The California trainer shook his head and gestured with his hands to signify he was out completely. He’d already spent a lot on the black colt.

  “The bid is twelve million.” He and his three ground men scanned the audience one more time for any new bidder. Finding none, the auctioneer slammed his gavel down. “Sold. Twelve million for hip number zero-zero-seven-seven, Home from War.”

  They all rose from their seats and filed outside the auditorium.

  Pop was practically vibrating with energy, and Marianne was all smiles. He shook her hand. “Congratulations. You’ve got yourself a prime colt in that one. The best I’ve ever bred.”

  “Thank you, E.B., for this opportunity. Story Hill Farm stock have always been sound investments for us. We’ve been waiting for this one, and the timing for both of us is just right.” She turned to Britt. “Congratulations, Britt. You’ve just bought yourself half a racehorse.”

  “Thanks.” Britt smiled, then frowned. “Wait. A couple million isn’t half of twelve.”

  She looked to her father. If he’d wormed his way into her horse business with any of his dirty political money, she’d be done with all of them. Even Story Hill Farm. She glared at Pop. Would he have allowed this? Betrayed her, too?

  “Hold your horses.” Pop put his hands up to stop her. “When you were born, your grandmother came up with the idea that each year whatever yearling sold for the smallest amount, that money would go into an account in your name. Well, over the years, that money and investments from it have added up. I, of course, have the power of investment over the account until you withdraw the money. I’m happy to inform you that you’ve just invested in a racehorse.”

  “How much?”

  “Five million.” Marianne answered for him. “And I had five million. So, when the bidding went past ten million, I knew I’d have to drop out if it went past eleven. I could come up with six million for my half, but I didn’t have two million more until you told me you did. I wanted to laugh because I knew you didn’t know you already were going to own half the colt.”

  Britt didn’t know what to say. Her throat tightened and tears threatened. She wished Dad, General Banks, and the other man weren’t there. This should be a private moment between her, Pop, and Marianne. She wouldn’t let them spoil it. She stepped forward and hugged Pop.

  “Thank you.” She kissed the stubble on his cheek and clung to him for a long minute. “You’ve always been here for me. You are truly my home.”

  Then she surprised herself and Marianne by giving her a quick hug before she stepped back. “There’s no one I’d trust more than you or your son to train any horse I own.” She glanced back at Pop. “But I guess Pop knows that.”

  Pop smiled and nodded.

  “Well, you certainly won’t have to worry about this colt, since we also have six million reasons to see him do well.”

  They all laughed, even the three men who had been ignored during the conversation. Then Marianne excused herself from the group.

  “I have to go see about our colt.”

  “Wish I could have gotten in on that one,” General Banks said as Marianne walked away. “Guess I’ll have to settle for placing a few bets come race time.”

  “Excuse me.” A man tapped Britt on the shoulder. “Are you Captain Britt Story?”

  Britt turned to face the man. “Yes. I am.”

  “You’ve been served, Captain Story.”

  “What is this?”

  The man was already walking away. This had to be something else her father had schemed. Britt tore open the envelope and began to read.

  “What is it?” Pop asked, coming around her to look over her shoulder.

  “It’s a subpoena to appear before a Congressional hearing on the military’s lack of response to female troops being assaulted by male members of their own units.” She glared at General Banks. “Especially deployed troops.”

  “It’s that pesky Elsbeth bitch.” Brock waved his hand like shooing away gnats.

  “I wouldn’t take Senator Amanda Elsbeth lightly, Brock,” the political donor said.

  What was his name? Britt hadn’t deemed him important enough to her world to remember.

  “We will refuse to let you testify on the grounds of national security,” General Banks said.

  “This subpoena is for Britt Story, actually. Not Captain Britt Story.” Britt didn’t think it made a difference legally, but she was going to pretend it did.

  General Banks’ face reddened. “You are still in the army, soldier, and I’m ordering you not to appear before that hearing.”

  The donor turned to Brock. “I thought you were taking care of this.”

  “I am. Everybody calm down.” Brock paced away from the group, then back.

  The donor shook his head. “We won’t back the general if he’s going to bring this same sexual-harassment baggage with him that’s plagued every candidate we’ve tried to float since that ‘Me Too’ crap started.”

  General Banks sputtered. “I have an exemplary record. I have always been absolutely faithful to my lovely wife. My father was an alcoholic who made my childhood miserable, so I’ve never had more than two beers in a twenty-four-hour period. I have no skeletons in my closet.”

  “I’m done here,” Britt said. “I’m going to see my colt.” She turned to her grandfather, who’d been standing by silently as the others revealed glimpses of the secret Britt had been carrying. “Coming with me, Pop? I’ll need a ride later.”

  “I’m sure we can find better company down at the barns,” he said.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dr. Will Thomas, Col. Tom Winstead, and Teddy looked up when Britt knocked and entered the large lab room. Relief and uncertainty flashed across Teddy’s face, but she came forward to meet Britt halfway.

  “I was beginning to think you’d decided to not show up.” Teddy whispered so the men, who were hunkered over a colorful prosthetic arm, couldn’t hear. Her hand on Britt’s arm was warm and a little damp.

  Britt twisted her arm to loosen Teddy’s grip and took Teddy’s hand, squeezing gently. “I wouldn’t let you down. I said I’d be here.”

  Teddy visibly relaxed, her eyes brightening. “Home from War?”

  Britt squeezed Teddy’s hand again. “Twelve million.”

  Teddy brought her free hand to cover her mouth in a surprised gesture. “Oh my God. Twelve million? That’s amazing.” She pulled Britt into a tight hug and whispered into Britt’s ear, “I’d kiss you if we were alone.”

  “I wish you could have been there.” Britt stepped back when Teddy released her. “There’s a lot more to tell, but I’ll save it for later. Let’s get this done.”

  Teddy led Britt to a chair placed next to a table full of computer equipment and the bionic arm the men had been examining. “We need you to sit in this chair and take off your outer shirt.”

  Britt still wore the Oxford shirt she’d purchased in Louisville, but as usual, it was a size or two too large because of the T-shirt and shoulder harness she wore underneath. As always, Teddy didn’t offer to help her shed the shirt. She wouldn’t unless Britt asked. Teddy did, however, remove her standard prosthesis and pressure sock, then examined Britt’s residual limb. Finally, she turned to the men still bent over the new arm.

  “We’re ready when you are,” Teddy said.

  Colonel Winstead looked up and smil
ed. “Excellent.” He nodded to Dr. Thomas, who picked up the digital arm. They both approached wearing large grins.

  “Dr. Thomas, Colonel Winstead.” Britt kept her greeting professional, even though she wasn’t in uniform, but smiled slightly and held out her hand to shake theirs in a welcoming gesture.

  “I know you have to address him by rank, but I’m just Will, remember,” Dr. Thomas said.

  Britt nodded. “Right. Will.”

  He held up the bionic arm, predominantly black, but with red, green, and yellow wires visibly running between, ducking under, or fused into silver circuit boards. “And I’d like you to meet Lucy.”

  “Lucy.” Britt deadpanned the name and raised an eyebrow. Had he really named that thing like it was a person? Okay, maybe she had started to think of her clicking-hook arm as Joe, but she’d never actually admit that to anyone.

  Will shrugged. “I name every custom-made prosthesis. It’s easier to remember than a number. I mean, I know that when they go into widespread production, we’ll have to identify them by a serial number, but with so few now, I prefer names. All the left limbs get one starting with L. All right limb names start with an R.”

  “Custom-made?”

  “While you were in surgery to have your left arm amputated, we took digital scans of both your right limb and what remained of your left one, then used them to reconstruct—with up to ninety-eight percent accuracy—an exact replica of your left arm and hand before it was injured.” He held the new prosthesis out to her. “Lucy.”

  Britt stared at the digital limb, too stunned to move. “That’s my hand?” She had flashes of her damaged hand, flopped across her chest and tied down before the medic and two soldiers from her unit lifted her onto a stretcher and double-timed it to a waiting helicopter. She blinked and was staring at the bionic arm again.

  Will’s answer was gentle, as if he understood the emotional impact of what he’d revealed to her. “A nearly identical replica.”