Chance Meeting

by Laura Moore

  Steve was assigned fifteenth and twenty-ninth in the order of go, on Macintosh and Vanguard, respectively. He wasn’t the only one entering the Grand Prix with more than one horse. Earlier, Steve had pointed out a woman to Ty, Cassie Miller, telling Ty she’d be one to watch. Cassie Miller had some horses under her that were phenomenal, a big, dark bay stallion especially impressive. She was based at a farm in Virginia they might stop by, he’d added in passing.

  “Seems as though you’ve gotten awfully friendly with this Cassie Miller,” Ty had remarked, her eyes on the woman warming up a flashy gray gelding. “Quite beautiful.”

  “Yeah, and you should see her other horse. My heart was going pitter-patter, no doubt about it.”

  Laughingly, Ty had promised to keep her eyes peeled the moment Cassie Miller’s name was announced, so her heart could go pitter-patter, too.

  Steve had left Ty stationed at the far end of the ingate while he went out to walk the course, telling her to stay put, not to bother coming back to the warmup area during the class—it was a madhouse with riders, grooms, and everyone’s second cousin. This way, Steve would know exactly where she was. Steve had said that the course designed by Holmgeld would be tough, and it was. The fences were big and flamboyant, the distances and approaches technically challenging. The first ten riders in the class, most of them veterans of the show circuit, didn’t come near to a clear round. But those ten fault-riddled rounds permitted those watching in the stands to perceive what the riders were grumbling about among themselves: a few spots on the course were nailing some of the riders and their mounts. The biggest threat was the triple combination. It consisted of an in-and-out and a brightly painted, tall vertical rail. Getting the distance and the pace right for the triple demanded absolute precision, because right after it, placed on an angle by the corner of the ring, was a Liverpool, a water jump with a double-oxer straddling it. In addition to knockdowns over the combination, there already had been three refusals at the Liverpool. Those were definitely problem fences.

  The announcer on the PA came on, introducing Cassie Miller, riding her first mount of the evening, Orion. Ty immediately understood why Steve was so taken with the animal. A gorgeous dark bay stallion, he cantered into the ring to a collective “Oohhh” of appreciation from the crowd. Ty watched Cassie Miller rein the stallion to a halt, salute the judges, then ask him to take three showy steps backward, before kneeing him into a flowing canter. From the side of the ring, the electronic buzzer sounded, signaling the start of the timer, and Cassie Miller and her horse were off.

  Ty knew it was going to be a clear round from the very first fence. Orion took the huge castle jump with twelve inches to spare, a jump so big, so assured, that for a while it appeared as if he might simply remain airbound. Forelegs stretching out as landing gear, Orion was earthbound once more, off and galloping, choosing at that moment to reveal his “temperamental” side; the outrageous buck he gave sent nervous laughter through the crowd. Unfazed by her stallion’s antics, Cassie Miller had him heading straight toward the next fence, sailing over that, too, with the same awesome power. And unlike the others before him, Orion didn’t so much as blink at the Liverpool. They brilliantly negotiated the course to the very last fence, the spectators rewarding Cassie Miller and Orion with a burst of applause. Then, with Orion’s ears pinned flat, they galloped to wire, finishing the course of sixteen fences in an impressive forty-eight point five seconds—the round everyone following would have to beat. Steve included. The chances looked pretty grim, even for the experienced riders. Ty watched a rider from Canada, who’d represented his country in several World Cups and Pan American games, turn in as fault-ridden a round as younger, less experienced riders. A horrified gasp resounded throughout the Garden when his massive gray Dutch Warmblood demolished the triple spread, a jump with three sets of colored rails placed in ascending height, like a staircase. The horse had approached the obstacle a shade too flat and ended up literally walking up the fence. As the spread of rails collapsed beneath the horse’s hooves, they thudded to the ground, the sickening sound filling the arena. Ty closed her eyes, afraid to look anymore, only to open them seconds later, awestruck to see the Canadian bravely continuing his round, accumulating eight more penalty points, before finishing the course.

  By the time Steve cantered boldly into the ring on Macintosh, Ty’s stomach was twisted into tight knots. Terrified and proud, she watched his blond head emerge from beneath his black velvet hunt cap, the flash of his smile and tilt of his head as he acknowledged the judges. The hunt cap once more firmly in place, Steve reined Macintosh three measured steps backward, as Cassie Miller had done before. With the same invisible use of aids, Steve moved the gelding into a strong canter. It wasn’t because she was in love with the man riding the deep red chestnut, and it wasn’t because, through some weird set of circumstances, she had become his business partner; neither of these was the reason her nails dug deep crescent moons into her palms or why she started whispering, “Yes, yes, that’s it!” over and over again, her eyes glued to Steve and Macintosh. It was because this was as extraordinary an example of precision riding as a person ever got the chance to see. The round was flawless. Calm, unhurried, Steve rode Macintosh with the lightest touch imaginable, guiding the big, solid gelding around the course, setting him up and then letting his horse’s powerful body do the rest. Silent, reverential spectators watched the exquisite display of horsemanship. A quiet so profound that the creaking of leather and the deep-belly grunt of Macintosh taking off, followed by the scattering shower of dirt hitting the wooden jumps as he landed, were the only sounds to be heard. Then applause erupting, echoing throughout, urging Steve and Macintosh on as they galloped to stop the clock in a time of forty-nine seconds. A clear round, a blink of an eye slower than Cassie Miller’s, but that was okay for now, because Steve and Macintosh had done their job. They’d earned themselves a spot in the jumpoff.

  Slowly, Ty unclenched her hands, all stiff and achy. Taking deep breaths, she willed her heartbeat to return to normal, only now aware that her shirt was soaked and sticking uncomfortably to her back. A good guess that she was in far worse shape than Steve, who’d looked as cool as ice out there in the ring.

  But Lord, could he possibly pull that off again astride Gordo? And could Cassie Miller repeat her own fine performance with her gray horse? Would anyone else be able to challenge them?

  Ty didn’t have to wait long for answers. Another American rider, based in New Jersey, who’d competed in the Barcelona Olympics, came out riding the veteran Grand Prix horse with which she’d had such great success. She, too, turned in a fabulous round, although Ty personally felt that Steve’s was as yet unmatched in terms of classic equestrian perfection.

  But the tide of luck certainly appeared to turn in favor of the next few horses. Despite some hair-raising distances and really hard rubs, two more horses went clear, the jumps left miraculously intact. And whatever it was Steve had said Friday night to the judges must have had an impact. After each of those wildly iffy rounds, the crew went scurrying out to confirm that poles were lying snug in their metal cups. Just as Ty’s nerves were escalating to panic proportions, the announcer pronounced Steve’s name again, hearty clapping welcoming him back into the ring. It was astounding how as the evening progressed, a place as huge as the Garden had become so intimate—the people seated high above experiencing a real connection with the riders, as one after the other cantered out to test his or her mettle. A few riders already had become the crowd’s favorites. From the applause Steve received, it was an easy guess he’d won some more hearts tonight.

  Gordo looked superb as he cantered into the ring, his head sawing back and forth in eagerness. Like Macintosh, and some of the other horses competing, his mane was braided. The braids stood out, shiny black rolls against his blood bay coat.

  Where Macintosh’s character was ideally suited to the kind of precision-crafted performance Steve had turned in earlier, Gordo, as the saying went, wa
s a horse of an entirely different color. What that gave the spectators sitting on the edge of their seats was the chance to observe Steve Sheppard ride in a completely different style, one that was an equally stupendous display of timing, balance, nerve, and athleticism.

  From the get-go, it was clear that Gordo wanted nothing more than to plunge headlong into the difficult course. Steve, however, had a different idea, and tonight he was calling the shots. He held Gordo back, waiting and waiting, measuring the distance, then letting the thoroughbred go like a rocket launching from the pad. With each landing, Steve was already gathering him, holding him in check, ensuring that Gordo stayed rounded, balanced, and jumping on stride throughout the tricky course. More than a few times, while Steve was ruthlessly keeping Gordo to a controlled canter, Ty couldn’t help glancing nervously at the red numbers on the clock, worried that he might rack up a time penalty. But Steve seemed to have his own internal clock pacing him. He got Gordo to the last fence, let him fly, then had him racing flat out to the wire.

  A clean round in forty-eight flat—faster even than Cassie Miller and Orion’s time! The crowd went wild, cheering madly for the new first-place team.

  Ty wanted nothing more than to rush to the warmup area, find Steve, and throw her arms around his neck, no doubt babbling in her attempt to tell him how proud she was of him, but remained where she was. Not for anything in the world would she muck up the works, distract Steve in any way. But as she watched the final competitors, all she could think about was getting to the last rider so the class would end and the jump-off could begin.

  Out of the thirty riders who’d qualified for the Grand Prix class, a mere seven ended up going clear, advancing to the jump-off. Of that group, only Steve Sheppard and Cassie Miller shared the distinction of having gotten both their horses to jump clear. Ajump-off consisted of a shortened course, but by eliminating certain fences, turns as a result became sharper, trickier. And because the jump-off represented the final opportunity for horse and rider to beat the competition, it was the moment to go all out, pull out all the stops.

  The order-of-go in a jump-off was for the rider with the best time to go last. This allowed the final rider to know exactly what he or she was up against. Tonight, Cassie Miller was in what might be termed the seesaw position. She’d go into the ring as the very first round on her gray gelding, Limelight, who’d squeaked in a clear round in just under the allotted time of sixty seconds. On Limelight, she’d be setting the pace, like a rabbit in a running race. The other riders (herself included, when she rode the course for the second time on the stallion, Orion) would then try to chase Limelight’s time down, bettering it. Steve was in the enviable position of having had the fastest time over all. He and Gordo would be the last round of the evening.

  “Hey, Miller.” Steve, like Cassie Miller and the other three riders, was already in the saddle, ready to go. He nudged Macintosh closer to the dappled gray. “Good luck out there.”

  “Thanks,” Cassie Miller replied with a quick, nervous smile. “Got any last-minute advice?”

  “To you? You got to be kidding!” Steve grinned. Though he, too, was feeling the same nervous anticipation that was making Cassie Miller’s eyes as big as saucers, Steve had years more experience dealing with it. She wasn’t more than a rookie, really, despite her success. He took pity on the younger rider.

  “You might want to take a chance and cut your turn inside the oxer, rather than around it. Your gray looks nimble enough to handle it.”

  “Inside, huh?” Cassie looked out over the course, picturing the ride. “Yeah, I think he can do it. Not sure about Orion, though.”

  “No,” Steve agreed. “And I’m not sure the other riders-will try it on their horses, either. But you’ve got a big advantage. That stallion of yours covers so much ground, you probably won’t need shortcuts. Oh, here’s another bit of advice.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Ride fast. Real fast.” He gave her a wicked grin.

  “Just try and catch me, Sheppard.”

  “Oh, I will,” he called out with a laugh as Cassie Miller cantered into the ring. Cassie Miller had an excellent round and an even faster time, thanks to Steve’s suggestion, but she came away with four faults nonetheless. A knockdown at the vertical rail of the triple combination that Limelight rapped with his hind hooves was a stroke of bad luck that gave the next two riders a little breathing space. All they had to do was go clear, and they’d place ahead of Cassie Miller and Limelight. Of course, what they wanted to do was win. This night, however, wasn’t to be the night. Both riders trotted back out of the ring with eight points apiece, each having attempted to leave out a stride in the triple combination, a distance that was already a stretch. Their horses didn’t make it, chipping in a stride at the very end, their hooves slamming into the rails. The cups too shallow to hold them, the poles came tumbling to the ground. The additional four points accumulated were just one of those things—a rub too hard, and a rail dropped.

  Steve was next. The other female rider besides Cassie Miller in the jump-off, the Olympic veteran, had, with exceptional generosity, offered to switch her order-of-go with Steve, thereby giving him an extra minute or so between Macintosh and Gordo.

  No stopping this time to salute the judges. A brisk canter brought Steve and Macintosh into the ring. They continued down to the opposite end, circling wide, bringing Macintosh’s rolling canter steadily up to pace, stoking the engine, as they headed for the first jump and the buzzer sounded for them. Steve’s mind was clear of everything except the eight fences laid out before him like a map, the turns and angles he planned to make bright dashes showing the way.

  The first fence was a tall brush jump, Christmas-like with arborvitae and poinsettia clustered around its wings. Macintosh’s ears were swiveling, listening as Steve talked to the horse over the pounding of his heart and the thundering of Mac’s enormous hooves. Holding him steady, then loudly clucking his encouragement and driving him forward with his seat. Steve unhesitatingly asked Mac to take the jump long, because he knew Mac wouldn’t disappoint. In the air, Steve already shifting his weight, his head turning, looking for that line, the sharp left inside the oxer, so Mac could shave seconds off in the gallop over to the triple combination.

  And so it went, Mac listening, responding with heart, courage, everything in him. A ride so fine Steve was almost sorry to clear the eightth and last fence. But not that sorry, he acknowledged with a happy grin as he and Macintosh galloped triumphantly, Steve patting Mac’s braided neck in affection and gratitude while excited applause sounded all around them.

  “Nice round, Steve,” “Good going, Shepp,” voices called as he left the ring through the gate. Bubba was waiting for him, smiling from ear to ear. Next to him, Enrique was holding Gordo’s reins. Steve went straight over to them, dropping his stirrups, dismounting before Mac had even come to a stop.

  “Way to go, Shepp.” Bubba gave Mac a quick pat and a kiss on his velvety muzzle before stripping Steve’s saddle off. Enrique was waiting, Gordo’s saddle pad already lying on the bay’s back. He held Gordo’s girth at the ready. The three men’s movements were as efficient as those of a pit crew in the Indy 500.

  Bubba handed Steve a cold bottle of water. Steve uncapped it, chugging down a few quick gulps. Gordo was already saddled, Enrique just double-checking his boots. Steve helped Bubba straighten the cooler over Mac’s steaming body, then walked over to Gordo, pulling himself into the saddle with fluid ease.

  “Go get ’em, Boss. Gordo wants that ribbon bad, I can feel it.”

  “So do I, Enrique, so do I.”

  Steve arrived at the in-gate just as Cassie Miller negotiated the last two fences of the course. Aquick check revealed no poles down. She was going like a bat out of hell, too. Figures, Steve thought, shaking his head in a mixture of admiration and annoyance.

  Gordo was impatiently pawing the dirt footing with his left foreleg. Through his fingers, Steve could feel the gelding’s teeth grinding the steel
bit in his mouth, the vibrations running up the leather reins. Gordo knew the score, all right. And Steve wanted a win for him. Badly. If only he could keep him balanced through that triple combination, they might be able to out-gallop that son of a gun Cassie Miller was riding right now. Eight perfect fences were all that stood between them and a blue ribbon and a real neat chunk of cash.

  The spectators were clapping, their excitement growing, knowing Steve was the final rider of the night. But Steve wanted more, because this time, he and Gordo were going to rock the Garden.

  * * *

  “Damn, he’s going to do it, and I was so sure I had him,” Cassie Miller muttered, shaking her blond head. Standing beside her was her husband, Caleb Wells. They were by the in-gate, his arm wrapped about her shoulders. He gave an encouraging squeeze. “It ain’t over till it’s over, Slim.”

  “Yeah, but look at him go, Caleb. He’s easily matching Orion’s stride, and those corners he’s taking! My God, do you see that? Sheppard’s hunkered down like a barrel racer!”

  “Yeah, but here comes the triple,” her husband warned. “Maybe this is where his horse’ll run out of steam. That’s a long, tough line, Cassie.”

  Caleb had a point. The triple had been a bitch; it had gotten Limelight, after all. The first part of the combination, the in-and-out, was big, bigger than before, the jump crew having raised it a notch. Then came a distance of five long strides for the horses to reach the third fence, vertical rails now set at six feet. After a night of jumping, a lot of horses’ legs simply didn’t have enough spring left to clear it. There it loomed, huge and unforgiving.

  Cassie Miller and her husband watched Steve Sheppard coming closer and closer to the in-and-out. “Up and over. That’s it!” Cassie encouraged. As soon as Vanguard landed safely, she was counting the strides left to the vertical. One, two, three, four . . . a split-second hesitation, and then Vanguard was going for it, jumping out of Steve’s hands, propelling himself up, his hooves skimming the top rail. At that moment, it was as though every single person in the entire Garden held his breath. Twenty thousand eyes tracked Steve Sheppard on his horse.