Jessica understood. Her initial chill toward Doherty thawed when she observed his competence in managing people and horses. Being open to his advice would help them work well together. “I will. I already overheard someone calling me ‘Michael’s woman.’”
He looked down the corridor to a group of stable hands huddled with their heads together. “The resentment of your celebrity and the prospect of Michael buying your way onto the track is palpable. Ignore it. You Americans like to call our steeplechases accidents waiting to happen. Maybe so. There’s chaos on the course for certain. Some of those horses will run like the devil if they have a tail in front of them, but to win, the jockeys will thrash a whip on their rump until they pull ahead.”
“I prefer not to use a crop.”
Doherty gave her another look as if she barely comprehended what he said. “The Devon-on-Thames team?” he said with a nod in their direction, “they’ll just as soon use the crop on you as their horse. Watch out for them. If they can spook a horse to get it off stride or cause its jockey to err, they can take that horse plus others it careens into out of the race.”
Her stomach sank. She had a lot to learn in the coming days. They stopped walking. Doherty motioned inside a stall. “This is Bealltainn.”
A massive horse stood along the back wall. At over seventeen hands tall, his back was six feet off the ground. When Jessica entered his stall, he raised his head in a prideful gesture, making it impossible for her to reach it. He flared his nostrils and looked down on her with a certainty of purpose that made her skin prickle. Energy buzzed through him, slicking down his inky black coat with a glaze of sweat. Even standing still, light seemed to ripple over him. He had a depth in his eyes that made doubting reincarnation unwise. He was an ancient warrior only temporarily at peace.
She reached out to stroke him when Doherty grabbed her arm. “He’s terrified of being whipped.”
Bealltainn’s white-ringed eyes looked at her with calculated suspicion as his body shied from her hand. It was too late to undo the fear. With a gesture as innocent as a pat, the thought that she was just one more human who would beat him was indelibly burned into his head.
“Damn it,” she said under her breath. “That was stupid. I shouldn’t have rushed. I don’t have the time to build his trust in me.”
“Bealltainn knows his job and you know yours. Just focus on fine tuning your communication. His conditioning is excellent, and he has the speed and skills to win the race. As a stallion, he views any horse in front of him as competition for a mare. The urge to be first is primal. Just stay on his back and out of his way.”
He brought her to the barn’s common area furnished with couches and bulletin boards, intended for informal gatherings during brief breaks. It sat empty and unused. Doherty walked up to a large aerial photograph of the course. Surrounding it were smaller images of the individual fences, or flights, named Becher’s Brook, Booth, The Chair, Valentine’s Brook and the Canal Turn. Some were as famous as the track itself. “Each flight has been designed to bring horse and rider to the brink of failure. That’s why winning here creates legends.” He paused for a moment as if considering how much to say. “Legends create wealth. I want you to be as familiar with the course as possible. More is at stake in these races than just winning.”
Jessica listened intently to Doherty’s overview of the course. The course was two and one-quarter miles with sixteen flights ranging from a low of four feet to a high of five and one-half feet. Ditches in front of several flights forced a horse to jump early. If mistimed, the arc of the jump would be too short, causing the horse and rider to crash into the obstacle. Landings were lower than the take-off point on some flights and higher on others, a factor that worked to constantly undermine confidence and speed. A ditch or water feature behind a flight would make a horse feel the landing had been taken away and cause momentary panic. The Canal Turn was a high hedge fence, but immediately after it, the track made a blind, ninety-degree bend to the left. The horses couldn’t anticipate this turn and missing meant plunging into the canal. More importantly, when a herd of horses tackled the obstacles at the same time, a sharp turn by one would mean a collision with another. The variables and perils were endless.
“The maiden race is one lap around, but the private is two. I’m most concerned about this one,” he said motioning to Becher’s Brook. “It looks easy. The takeoff presents as a four foot ten inch hedge, but the landing is a water-filled ditch at six feet nine inches low. Jockeys say it’s like jumping off the edge of the world.”
Jessica nodded. “I’ve heard of it, but mostly because that’s where most crashes occur.”
“That’s right. On the second lap, the horses’ legs have turned to rubber and buckle with the effort to keep upright. You’ll have to keep your center of gravity as far back as possible and shove your feet home,” referring to resting the stirrup iron on the instep of her foot. He demonstrated by leaning backward, extending his arms forward and raising one leg to make it look like he would be lying down on the horse’s back, not crouched over its neck. “It’s a precarious position jockeys must take mid-flight, but it places them at risk. For a crucial moment, they can’t see where they’re going. You have no choice if you want to keep your horse upright at the speeds you’ll be traveling.”
Beside a door labeled “Lockers” was an antique red leather chair with a scale built beside the seat. Brass ballasts moved along a metal rod measured the occupant’s weight. “This is used as a conversation piece now, but it’s a not-so-subtle reminder not only of the generations of history here, but that cheating won’t be tolerated.” He motioned for her sit down. “Races used to be fixed by playing with the jockey’s weight. If you were clever, you’d fix the scales so your competition would be forced to carry more.” He put his hand in his pocket and leaned toward the scale. Without touching it, the scale moved. “Pretty easy,” he said with a grin. He pulled his hand out of his pocket and produced a magnet. “Cheating detections and weight rules have gotten more sophisticated.”
“My family was entrapped in a cheating ring. That’s why I demand to race clean,” she assured him.
“I’m glad. Me too. But, you’ll have other factors to deal with. Even though your weight is the same as most jockeys, you’re taller. It will be harder to fold yourself over a horse’s neck and be compact. Your balance will be precarious. They’ll use that against you on the course.”
She got up and started to walk into the locker room. He pulled her back. “There aren’t many other female jockeys during regular season and none here now, so don’t even bother to look for the ladies lockers.”
He continued the tour and steered away from the Devon-on-Thames area, but not before Jessica saw heads raise and shoulders pull back in challenge. The disgust of having a woman invade a singularly male world was palpable. One groom from Tully Farm grabbed a rake, held it like a battering ram, and moved quickly in front of them. It was a ballet of subtle motion with a very clear meaning.
“Got it. I understand,” she said, hoping to sound confident.
“You’ll have your first breezes this afternoon and will ride the course on one of our other horses to get the feel for it. Be here at six tomorrow morning.” He gave her another apprising look. “Any questions?”
She had more questions to know where to begin. If she started with any, she’d be pegged as ignorant and naïve. She shook her head. “I’ll know where to find you if I do.”
With a salute of appreciation, he strode off.
The earth was damp with morning fog, and the infield glistened with droplets of moisture as horses and workout boys got started on the day’s training. Jessica hugged herself against the morning air, noting how England’s famed chill reached into her bones. Extra gauze secured with white medical tape protected her cut fingers. She remained stiff from being tossed around from her car accident, and her one ride around the course proved she needed more conditioning than Bealltainn, but the masseuse and the luxuri
ous soak in a hot bath last night had worked out most of her kinks.
Even through the muffled sounds of a world not quite awake, she could hear the whispers about “the American” or “that woman.” Worse, conversations among other stable hands would cease completely as she walked near them. Unfamiliar with the grounds without Doherty as her guide, she took care to enter the barn directly into the Tully Farm stalls. A slight, wiry man with shocking red hair and amber eyes greeted her.
“Mornin’ Miss!” he greeted loudly. Then more quietly so only she could hear, “Phoenix.” He extended his hand. “I’m Jax. Doherty told you about me.”
She immediately relaxed and returned his warm smile. She shook his hand. “Jessica. I’m sure Doherty told you about me as well.”
“Aye. He did at that. Even if he was a mute I’d ‘a known who you were.” He gave a wink and tossed his head toward the opposite end of the barn. “They were settin’ to give you a maiden’s welcome.” He held out his hand showing condoms, deflated and tied at one end. He held up another, bulging with water. “Seems they wanted to give you a token christening.”
“Water balloons? Seriously?”
“Sure enough. They won’t be doin’ that again.”
She didn’t question his methods. The steely way he commanded the other grooms meant the message was clearly and firmly given. She was off-limits.
A stable hand brought Kilkea, fully tacked, to her. The horse pranced with nervous energy. Jessica started their workout slowly, acclimating Kilkea to the hustle and sounds of a new environment. Working him on the flat track before training over flights, she noted several groups of observers. The people and farms attending the upcoming private race marked a profound shift from those typically found at a track. Impeccable hand-tailored suits stood alongside white thawb robes and red and white shemagh headwear of the oil nations. The traditional seats of equine wealth—United States, England, West Germany, Argentina, and Ireland—were joined by the emerging power centers of Dubai and Saudi Arabia. Some call horseracing the “Sport of Kings,” and the farms represented proved that to be true. The passion for horses provided a neutral ground for interactions, politics safely, if temporarily, placed aside while the subtle gamesmanship of mega-national corporate competition raged. The wealth on display was staggering, and she wondered how Michael fit into this world.
Kilkea arched his neck and bucked, not settling even after a long workout. She mentioned her concern to Jax, who nodded slowly before he walked away.
After riding the course, she decided memorizing the distance in strides would be helpful. She stood in front of the large course map in the common area and calculated distances between flights based on the average amount of ground covered with each galloping stride. Kilkea would cover less ground per stride than the large Bealltainn. Concentrating, she closed her eyes to commit map to memory.
A body pressed up against her and a hand cupped her buttock. She whipped around and saw the back of a man looking with interest at the bulletin board on the other wall. All his movements choreographed to create the guise of innocence if accused of touching her.
“Don’t touch me,” she said, making sure her meaning was clear.
He turned around with the perfect expression of calculated expression of shock and bewilderment on his face. “What’d you say, Miss?”
“You heard me.”
The man had a face misshapen by both birth and fights and a body made more for a boxing ring than a horse’s back. A group of men ribbed each other and sniggered as Jax stepped beside her.
“You’re alright, Miss?” he asked under his breath.
“Yeah, fine,” she answered with enough cut to her words to make him step back.
“That one’s Freddy. His mates from Devon-on-Thames follow him like pups.”
From the look on Freddy’s face, it showed he had decided her misery would be his only mission. She committed their faces to memory and vowed to stay away from them.
It was difficult. With the comings and goings in a busy barn, it was impossible not to cross paths with members of the other teams. Freddy was a skilled schoolyard bully, always keeping his actions just under the radar and rarely getting caught. As the de facto leader, he made sure his men kept up their relentless pressure. He had taught them well, and she couldn’t ignore the abrupt and purposeful brushing up or knocking against her at every opportunity when passing in the corridor. The actions were both threatening and degrading. The men worked as a team on and off the track, sending the clear message that she was an outsider and needed to remain that way.
Neither born into money nor having a way to keep it from slipping through his fingers when he had it, Freddy, like the other jockeys, knew how to fight to win. He had a spine of tempered steel and an attitude to match. Once a disgruntled jockey had it out for you, neither human nor horse was safe. At most tracks, little comingling happened up or down the ladder. Trainers socialized with trainers. Owners with owners. Jessica was both trainer and jockey, and she had Michael’s wealth behind her. Freddy’s resentment of her was clear.
Barnyard bullying wasn’t the only harassment she experienced. Next came the discovery of empty syringes discarded in Tully Farm’s trash. Jax was ready for the ploy and produced surveillance tapes and blood tests to prove their horses were clean.
Next, Freddy tried to inject a potent and long lasting painkiller into Bealltainn when the horse was in a turnout area.
Jax grabbed Freddy’s collar and twisted his hand, tightening the hold to a near choke. “I thought I told you crumpet-sucking febs to stay clear.” He pulled back his other hand, fist level with Freddy’s nose.
Freddy’s face reddened. “Get your Fenian frotch hands off of me,” he sputtered. “I’m not doin’ nuthin to you.” A smile grew on his face as other men drew close in a silent summoning.
Jessica watched the confrontation, amazed that Freddy would try something so bold with no effort to conceal his intent. Two men used their bodies to get her to step backward, away from the growing conflict. She was aware of more movement in the barns.
Freddy snapped the syringe in two, dropping the pieces on the ground. The spilled drug created a tiny milky pool in the dirt. “No need to get your plastic Paddy boys involved.” He looked around. “Quite a show you got there for the little lady.” His tongue rolled against his lower lip as he smirked.
Jax shoved him away, obviously wishing he could throw a punch. He motioned for one man to stand by Bealltainn’s paddock and fell into step beside Jessica as they returned to the barns.
“I’m sorry, Miss Jessica. I took his bait.”
She was confused. “Sorry?”
“That stunt gave him a very clear idea of the number of men Michael has watching you. He’s a clever bloke. If anyone was questioning whether they should band against you, that scene brought him more allies.”
“What’s a ‘plastic Paddy,’” she asked, confused that the phrase seemed to increase Jax’s anger even more than the attempt to drug Bealltainn.
It took a few deep breaths before his color returned to normal and he could answer her. “It means I only pretend to be Irish. It’s a reference to me growing up in Belfast and thinking of myself as an Irishman instead of someone who grew up in the United Kingdom.”
“Oh,” she said slowly. “I understand.”
He turned and faced her. “Even workin’ with the grooms from Dubai, caring for horses is enough to bridge language barriers. See those men over there?” He indicated men from other barns. Some were lean with creamy tans or olive skin while others had jet-black hair and beards. “Last night at the pub you would have thought it was World Peace Day at the United Nations. Don’t be fooled. They’d lose their jobs if they defended their beliefs on the sparked flint of inebriated love. So, we all are smart enough to keep away from politics, but tensions are building. It won’t take much to get fists to fly.”
Her dread increased. She wasn’t an impartial observer. Her very existence had once threaten
ed to tip irreparably the balance of their struggle. She was as tied to their conflict as they were. At the track, the visible hatred and distrust was displayed for being a woman in a man’s world. She wondered how much of that chauvinism was a cover for other reasons a target branded her back.
Doherty met them at the barn and handed her an eventing vest. “You’ll need to wear this during training runs, too.”
The vest was an ingenious device considered a jockey’s personal airbag. Clipped to the saddle, the snug-fitting garment surrounded the wearer with arm-sized tubes of cushioning air deployed when the ripcord-like tab was pulled during a fall that separated rider from horse. Pressurized air flooded into the multiple tubes and provided lifesaving protection.
She slipped it over her head like a poncho and secured the sides with a combination of zippers and Velcro tabs to test its fit. “Good idea. Helmets and goggles seem silly when a half-ton animal could fall on you.”
Doherty didn’t exude his usual charm. He was pre-occupied with scanning the Devon-on-Thames team. “I hope you feel ready for your maiden hurdles race. A few people want to meet you before then. There’s an owners dinner tonight. Join me?” He flashed a brilliant smile, well rehearsed to get his desired effect from the ladies.
“No, thank you. I’ve got a routine that’s working for me. I’d rather just stay focused on the races and not be gawked at.” He nodded in understanding, gracious at her decline. The real reason she wanted to stay in was nerves. Tension increased before any big event, but what she felt among the men was disproportionate. Some kind of disconnect existed, but she couldn’t identify the cause. Michael’s men did not belie additional strain, but she found herself pressing her ear to her hotel suite’s door and only going to bed when she heard the soft shuffle of the guard in the hall.
The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2) Page 19
