Saratoga Sunrise
By
Christine Wenger
Smashwords Edition Copyright © 2011 by Christine Anne Wener
http://www.christinewenger.com/
Cover Art © Shutterstock.com
E-book Formatted by Jessica Lewis
http://authorslifesaver.com
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Many thanks to Mr. Tom Gilcoyne of the National Museum of Racing and Hall of Fame on Union Avenue in Saratoga Springs. His assistance and knowledge were invaluable.
Thanks also to the librarians at the Saratoga Springs Library and the archivists at the Historical Society of Saratoga Springs at Congress Park. The Society is located in the building which was formerly Richard Canfield's Casino.
I tried to be as historically accurate as possible, but any oversights are mine and mine alone.
Henry of Navarre, owned by B. McCelland, was the actual winner of the Travers Stakes in 1894. The jockey was F. Tarral and the pot was a mere $2,350.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
About the Author
Connect with Christine
Also Available
CHAPTER 1
Saratoga Springs, New York
July 22, 1894
Sara Rose Peterson stepped onto the railroad platform in Saratoga Springs and into pandemonium.
"United States Hotel here!"
"This way for the Grand Union!"
"Clarendon!"
"Adelphi, please!"
Gingerly, Sara took another step. Her injured leg was achy, but thankfully, it was cooperating today. Taking a few more steps, she smiled, happy that she didn't fall on her face and cause undue attention to herself.
Looking around, she allowed the sights to delight and welcome her. She loved arriving at the Springs and being in the middle of the chaos. Her New York City life was usually quiet and lonely and all this excitement made her feel alive and energetic.
Porters sang out the names of the grand hotels that were embroidered on their hats.
"Carriage to the Windsor!"
"Congress Hall here!"
"Pavilion!"
"Carriage to the Columbian!"
Sara smiled as the bell in the cupola of the turreted brick station clanged a noisy welcome, adding to the bedlam. Looking around, she saw plainly dressed townsfolk and elaborately dressed visitors alike craning their necks to get a glimpse of the stylish ladies who'd arrived on the afternoon train and the wealthy and powerful men who were escorting them.
Heavy hogshead trunks strapped with steel bands, hatboxes,
and wooden crates in various sizes were being unloaded from the train and stacked in piles under the signs of the various hotels.
Servants clad in colorful livery glowed with importance as they kept a watchful eye over a certain stack of trunks or gave instructions directing the porters to take them to a waiting carriage. Horses whinnied, and the smell of manure mixed with the steam of the train.
Nothing has changed here at The Springs. Except me.
Sara sighed and looked around for her father, then spotted him by a rail car giving orders as his racehorses were being unloaded. Weaving and dodging through the crowd, trying to hide her limp from critical eyes, she slowly walked toward him.
After the long journey, she knew she was limping more than usual. She dismissed the pain as she always did and focused instead on the beautiful thoroughbred being led from the train car down the wooden ramp to the platform.
A man with a long white beard and a perfectly bald head pointed and said, "That must be Seawind. He's a fine animal. He'll win the Travers Stakes by a long shot. My money's on him."
Sara straightened her back proudly. Seawind was the fastest horse she had ever ridden, and by far the fastest horse her father had ever acquired. Seawind would win the Travers for sure, and when he did, all her dreams would come true.
"Ladies and gentlemen, move away, please," ordered a deep, commanding voice. "Seawind is getting nervous."
Sara stopped walking to look at the man who was speaking about her horse. Just as she was approaching the ramp, he looked down at her with a scowl.
"Miss, please move away. I don't want anyone to get hurt."
Sara still didn't recognize the tall, handsome man with the neatly-trimmed beard and moustache who was holding her horse's lead rope, but he continued to shout and gesture for everyone to move away. Walking next to him was Toady Evans who was both handler and jockey for her father's stables. Sara wondered why Toady wasn't leading the horse and giving orders.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you to please move away. Seawind is getting agitated from all the attention," the man yelled, handing the reins to Toady. His twinkling eyes contradicted the stern tone of his voice.
Toady tried to control the horse, but Seawind still fussed. His head bobbed, his eyes were wide in fright and he walked sideways. Seawind was going to fall off the narrow ramp! Sara knew she could calm the horse, if she could only get through the crowd.
"Excuse me, please." Forcing her tired leg to move, Sara
pushed her way closer to Seawind. "Please, let me by. Please."
"Toady, hold him still! Get him down the ramp!" the handler commanded to the jockey. Then he looked down at her. "Miss, I told you to get out of the way. The horse is agitated."
She ignored his instructions. Seawind was her horse and she could control him. As she reached for his bridle to hold his head steady, the unthinkable happened. Her leg gave way and she started to fall.
Sara let out an involuntary shriek of dismay as Seawind reared up. She could see the bottom of the stallion's front hooves as he reared. She winced, preparing herself for the inevitable pain, just as she had on that icy day in January – the day she lost her mother...forever.
Strong arms reached out to steady her, then whisked her away from the frightened horse.
"Are you all right?"
She gazed into the blue eyes of the handler. "Y-Y-Yes." Sara tried to calm her thundering heart. She couldn't stay upright; her leg was too fatigued and she thought she was going to faint. She swayed.
He easily scooped her up and cradled her in his arms as if she didn't weigh a pound.
"Please, put me down!" Sara pleaded. "Seawind's frightened and I can help calm him."
"Toady!" the man turned and yelled, "Put a blindfold over Seawind's eyes, and get him out of here. Quick! Get him out of this crowd."
"No...let me...help Seawind," she begged. "He trusts me."
The gallant gentleman who held her smelled of leather, and horses and of a warm July day. The slight breeze tossed his hair and she noticed that his mustache and beard contained glints of red from the shining sun. He was even more handsome close up.
He didn't seem to hear what she had said. Instead he looked at the scene before him. Then he glared down at her, his blue eyes burning like the hottest part of a flame.
"What did you think you were doing? I told you to get out of the way."
"I was
going to help," she whispered.
"You can't be serious."
"I am most definitely serious," she said quietly. "Now please put me down. I wish to get to Seawind."
"The horse is fine now. Toady got him out of here."
Sara closed her eyes and struggled to think. Her emotions were all jumbled. While thankful for her narrow escape from injury, she was still worried about Seawind. All her hopes and dreams were centered on the beautiful thoroughbred. And being in such close proximity to this strong, rugged man confused her even more. When she opened her eyes, she was mortified to see the eyes of the crowd upon her. "I think you can put me down now Mr.–"
"Summers...Um. . . Jack Summers."
"Mister Summers, are you going to carry me all the way to
the United States Hotel?"
"No. Although I could. You weigh no more than a newborn colt." He dipped his arms to set her on her feet.
Still unsteady, she hobbled toward a bench under a nearby elm tree.
Jack rushed to her side and took her hand. "You're hurt...you’re limping! You need a doctor." He helped her to sit down.
She gazed into his eyes, now the blue of Lake Saratoga on a sunny August day. They showed earnest concern for her plight. Stunned at the direction of her thoughts, she pushed them away. "Mr. Summers, there is nothing a doctor can do for me."
"But you're hurt!"
"I'm fine, really. It was just a tiring journey."
"A long journey would not have done that much to–"
Sara held a gloved hand up to quiet him. "I limp from a carriage accident that occurred several months ago," she told him frankly. “It's not from Seawind's rearing, Matter of fact, Seawind has helped to strengthen my leg. He's my horse."
Sara saw a flush of scarlet cross his face and was dismayed. She didn't mean to embarrass him, nor did she want his pity.
He sat down beside her, still not letting go of her hand. "I'm sorry, Miss. I just assumed you got hurt just now and–" He shifted uncomfortably on the bench. "Please forgive my stupidity."
His hand was gentle in hers and his concern so genuine that
Sara rushed to alleviate his discomfort. "Mr. Summers, I assure you that you did not hurt my feelings. I'm quite used to remarks about my limp and–"
"Remove your hand from my betrothed!"
Sara was jolted by the loud, voice, and immediately moved her hand from Jack's.
"Monty, please!" Sara looked at Montague Fordice in dismay. She had never heard such an outburst from him.
Jack Summers rose to his feet, and Sara noticed that they were about the same height. However, where Montague was a bit soft and gray in pallor with slicked down hair under a bowler hat, Jack was slim, muscular, and sun bronzed with hair that blew free in the summer breeze. It was easy to see that Jack was familiar with hard work and the outdoors, whereas Monty was wealthy and hired others to labor for him.
"How dare you accost this woman," Montague bellowed. "I demand to know your name at once.
A crowd was beginning to form around the trio, and it appeared to Sara that Montague was enjoying the attention. However, she was beginning to feel nervous with all those eyes staring at her. She was glad to see her father hurrying through the crowd toward them.
Sara tugged at her gloves without taking her gaze off her betrothed. "Mr. Fordice, please, do be quiet and let me present Mr. Jack Summers. He has assisted me and has been most kind." She looked at Jack. "Mr. Summers, may I present Montague Fordice?"
Jack held out his hand, but Montague ignored it.
"Sara, my precious little girl, are you all right? Toady told me that Seawind reared and you–"
She put her hand on her father's to calm him. He always worried so about her – sometimes too much.
"Daddy, I'm perfectly fine," she whispered so no one else would hear. "Seawind was frightened by the crowd, and I was trying to get to him. However, my leg gave out, and Mr. Summers assisted me over to this bench."
Bond Peterson held out his hand in a gesture of friendship. "I'd like to thank you, Jack. My daughter is my whole life."
Sara wondered briefly as to how her father knew her rescuer's first name, but then noticed Jack's hesitation, as if he didn't want to touch her father's hand. Finally, with what seemed to be a forced smile, he reached out and shook it.
Jack's gaze darted to Sara. "Sara is your daughter?" It was more of a question, than a statement. "Oh, I remember. . . she said Seawind was her horse," he muttered under his breath.
Bond nodded at Jack. "I shall always be indebted to you, Jack, and will be increasing your wages promptly."
Jack chuckled. "Mr. Peterson, I've only worked for you for less than a day, and you're increasing my wages already?"
"That's correct. Money is no object when it concerns my Sara."
"I didn't know he was in your employ, Bond." Monty sniffed. "But I wholeheartedly agree with you. Sara is so precious, such a treasure. We are both indebted to Mr. Summers." He stiffly nodded to Jack. "But I must say that my jealousy flared when I saw you holding the hand of my beloved betrothed.” He bowed to Sara. "Forgive me."
Jack met Monty's gaze. Something transpired between them that Sara didn't like.
“You’re forgiven, Monty." She fanned her face. "Now, please, may we proceed to the hotel? It's getting quite hot in this sun."
Her father patted her hand. "Of course, whatever you wish, my dear. The horses are already on their way to the stables."
Bond held out the crook of his arm. Sara rose slowly and took it, standing still for a while to get the circulation back in her leg.
She turned toward her rescuer. "Thank you again for your assistance, Mr. Summers."
"Any time, Miss Peterson." He started to tip his hat, then realized he wasn't wearing one, and smiled. Sara thought that when he smiled, he looked as handsome as ever.
"Thank you again, Jack," Bond said. "We'll leave you now.
I imagine you have a lot of work to do to get Seawind and the other horses settled."
Jack nodded. "Yes. Yes, I do." Jack excused himself and walked back toward the train.
Sara thought it strange that he didn't address her father, his employer, as "sir", but as her father took her arm and they walked to their waiting carriage, her thoughts turned to Seawind. She hoped that he had settled down for Toady.
"Monty, you're welcome to join us in our carriage, unless you have other plans," Bond said, turning toward him.
Monty brushed imaginary dirt from the lapel of his coat. "I have my own carriage and four." He face flushed red. "And I would be honored if Sara would accompany me in my carriage."
He didn't address her, but addressed her father, and Sara felt herself getting angry. More and more it seemed that Monty forgot that she was even there or that she had a brain in her head.
"By the by, Bond," Monty rubbed his hairless chin, "how did you come to hire Jack Summers?"
"He was highly recommended by a business associate of mine, who's a professor at Cornell. Mr. Summers will be tending to my stable this season."
Bond looked down at Sara and patted her hand in the crook of his arm. "I'm grateful that Jack was there." Raising an eyebrow, he scrutinized Montague Fordice. "Reflecting back, I don't remember even hearing you say a welcoming word to my daughter."
"But...but...I was distracted. I w-was highly upset that Sara was almost hurt," Monty stammered. "Thank goodness she is fine. I'd like her to accompany me to the United States Hotel in my carriage, if you wouldn't mind, Bond."
"Why don't you ask me, Montague? I'm right here," Sara asked as her anger continued to grow. The man must surely think her invisible.
He looked shocked to see that she actually was present. "Why, of course, you are. Well, then, would you join me?"
"No, thank you. I'll join my father and Aunt Trixie." Sara took satisfaction in knowing that she piqued him a bit. Turning her back on Monty, she waved to their long-time driver.
Johnson, clad in scarlet livery, opened
the door of the carriage and assisted Sara. Her Aunt Trixie waited in the carriage with her parasol perched high over her head. She was cooling herself with a white lace fan and looked wilted.
"Sara, where on earth did you disappear to? Are you all right?"
"Aunt Trixie, I'll tell you the whole scrumptious story later," she whispered.
Her aunt laughed. "See that you do."
"Johnson, to the hotel, please," Bond ordered.
The driver nodded. "Yassir, Mr. Peterson."
The carriage lurched. Sara glanced back over her shoulder at Jack and Monty still at the train platform. She couldn't make out their words, but it was obvious they were fighting. She saw Monty push Jack. Jack began to walk away, but Monty pushed him again from behind. Jack turned around, swung a muscled arm, and punched Monty in the stomach. Monty doubled over, fell on the platform of the train station, and curled up into a tight ball.
Sara knew it was wicked of her, but she gave a silent cheer for Jack Summers.
# # #
What a different picture Montague Fordice presented with Bond and Sara Peterson out of sight, Jack thought. The man’s feigned politeness was gone, and he was itching for a fight.
It was amusing that the man was insinuating that he, a "mere groom", was interested in courting Sara Peterson, a rich heiress. Jack couldn't understand his concern. All he did was save her from getting trampled by her own horse. But when Fordice started shoving him, he had gone too far. Jack warned him several times to leave him alone.
And when Fordice pulled his arm back to punch him, Jack socked him first.
Walking around the prone body of Fordice as if he were a fresh mound of horse droppings, he thought of Sara Peterson, wondering if she knew what a fool she was going to marry, but then he decided that it was none of his concern.
He thought of how tiny she had felt when he lifted her into his arms. She was as light as a cloud and her violet eyes made him think of the deep purple irises his mother used to grow in the front garden of their home on Union Avenue. Sara's cheeks had flushed easily with a pink glow, probably from the embarrassment of being carried, and then from being gawked at by the growing circle of spectators that Fordice had attracted. She was beautiful, but so very delicate. And she’d hurt her leg.
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