by JoAnn Ross
“Would you happen to know who’s calling?” he asked with a patience he was a long way from feeling.
Another long sigh. More checking out of fingernails. Her shoulders lifted and dropped in a shrug that managed to be both dramatic and uncaring at the same time. It was a gesture only a teenager was truly capable of carrying off.
“Pete said it was some lady you used to work for in Lexington.”
Pete Campbell was more than just a business partner. He was more of a father than Alec’s own had ever been while alive. “Winnie Tarlington?”
Another shrug.
“Okay.” Curiosity spiked. “I’ll be right in.”
“I suppose she wants you to go train another stupid racehorse for her?”
Alec caught the hint of worry edging her churlish voice. Looking at Zoe now, hunkered beneath the cheery umbrella that was such a contrast to whatever dark inner demons she’d been fighting, he saw not the sullen, body-pierced teenager who could have starred in an MTV video, nor the angry would-be juvenile delinquent who’d gotten away last month with a stern warning after her first—and pray God, only—shoplifting charge.
What he viewed was a confused, abandoned, lonely child whose young life had spun out of control when her mother had fallen off a yacht in the Mediterranean and drowned six months ago, proving that T. S. Eliot had been wrong about April being the cruelest month.
“Winnie’s been out of the business the past couple years. But even if she does have a line on something, you don’t have to worry about me taking off and leaving you.”
“Like I care. I keep telling you, I can take care of myself.”
Alec resisted, just barely, from pointing out that she’d been doing a pretty piss-poor job of that. He returned to the house and picked up the receiver Pete had left on the kitchen counter.
“Hey, Winnie. How are you doing?”
“Still kicking.” The rain had the wires crackling a bit, but her voice sounded far younger than Alec knew her to be. “And, from what I hear, a great deal better than you.”
Alec wasn’t surprised that she knew of the change in his circumstances. The horse world was a closed, incestuous environment where everyone made a point of knowing everyone else’s business.
“Not that the horrid Yankee didn’t deserve getting knocked on his keister,” she continued. “After what he did to that sweet filly. In fact, I would have given anything to have seen you break his jaw…. But I didn’t call to gossip. I have a horse I want you to train.”
“I thought you’d gotten out of the business.”
“So I keep trying to tell myself. I swore, when I sold off the horses after Palmer passed on two years ago, that I was getting too old to ride that crazy roller coaster. Then I stumbled across a Thoroughbred that will make the world forget Go For Broke.”
Go For Broke had been Alec’s ticket to the big time, the Thoroughbred’s speed, stamina, and unrelenting heart coming together in a remarkable union that had made Alec the youngest Triple Crown-winning trainer in racing history. For a brief time, he’d been king of the world.
Unfortunately, that same year his wife had taken off with a sleazy European duke she’d met at one of the Derby parties. The stallion came up lame in his first race as a four-year-old, but was still living a peaceful, and Alec assumed, happy life at stud, adding his remarkable genetic makeup to future generations of champions.
“This horse is magic. I tell you, Alec, the stars smiled on me the day I claimed him for a song.”
“You claimed him?”
“I know, I know. You don’t usually find champions in claiming races. But no one picked him up in the Keeneland sale, so his owner decided to try that route. And am I glad he did, because this big horse is greased lightning in a bottle. Why don’t you come by the farm tomorrow morning and get a look at him in action?” The excitement in her voice reminded Alec of that first time they’d stood side by side and watched the yearling Go For Broke run. “I’ll be there.”
3
AS HE DROVE down from the mist-draped hills early the next morning, Alec tried to temper his enthusiasm.
Had it only been two short months ago when every sunrise offered new challenges, when his days were brimming over with opportunities for achievement beyond anything all but the most ambitious man could have imagined? And he’d admittedly been an ambitious man, determined to outrun his father’s legacy. Unfortunately, those days seemed to belong to a different lifetime.
Yet, Alec asked himself, as he had for the past sixty days, given the same circumstances, would he have done anything different? He rubbed his knuckles, as if unconsciously recalling that satisfying punch.
Hell no.
The answer, as always, kept him from indulging in an unproductive pity party. He’d been down before. And each time he’d come crawling back up. Racing was a business of pinnacles and valleys. Having always considered safe another word for boring, Alec wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
As he approached the bluegrass country of Lexington—once referred to as the Athens of the West—his headlights cut through the predawn gloom, illuminating the lush landscape of paddocks, pastures and dry-laid rock fences. Even as Alec admired the bucolic scene, he was grateful Angus had chosen the untamed hill country to make his home. There was something about those ancient mountains that stirred Alec’s soul every bit as much as the sight of one of his Thoroughbreds crossing the finish line in first place.
The sun was rising in a pale-pink silver light as he recognized the black Kentucky oak plank fence bordering the pastures of Tarlington Farms. He stopped at the tall gate—with its wrought-iron curlicues and stylized TF—and announced himself on the intercom. Buzzed through without hesitation, he continued on, the pea gravel of the long winding driveway crunching beneath his tires.
Winifred Tarlington was wealthy enough to still be sleeping amidst silk sheets in one of the ten bedrooms of her restored white-columned antebellum mansion. But Alec knew her well enough not to look for her at the house. He climbed out of the truck and headed down a lane canopied by stately old oaks toward the shedrow. It was a walk he could have made blindfolded.
“Well now, you don’t look nearly as bad as I’ve been hearing.” Winnie approached, as reed slender as a jockey. Indeed, in the pearly dawn light she could have been mistaken for a young jockey, rather than the wealthy, ninety-year-old woman Alec knew her to be.
“Let me guess. Word is I’ve pretty much gone back to my roots and turned into a hillbilly redneck right out of Deliverance.”
“That’s pretty much it.” She looked up at him, her eyes bright and touched with both concern and humor. “You don’t look like you’ve been drinking.”
“It was my daddy who was the drunk.”
“And wasn’t that a crying shame. With all his God-given talent and potential?” She sighed and shook her head. “Well, there’s no point in crying over spilt milk. Because speaking of potential, I want to introduce you to my new baby boy who’s going to make the world forget Secretariat. Maybe even Go For Broke.”
Her green eyes sparkled with enthusiasm and intelligence. Since the woman definitely had a mind of her own—as did he—their time together hadn’t always been easy. But it had been profitable for both of them. And enjoyable.
Legends Lake was still in his stall, already saddled and polishing off his breakfast. He nickered softly at Winnie, who told him how beautiful he was and rubbed his broad nose with a blue-veined hand while Alec’s heart sank.
The only thing this horse had in common with Secretariat was his gleaming dark-red color. A true champion was lean, well-muscled, approximately sixteen hands high, with a strong, straight neck, a well-balanced V-shaped chest and a confident demeanor. Like Secretariat. Go For Broke. The unfortunate Fortissimo.
Legends Lake, on the other hand, was too tall: nearly seventeen hands, with lean flesh stretched over long, angular muscles. If he’d been a man rather than a horse, he would have been Ichabod Crane from The Legend of
Sleepy Hollow.
“Good-looking horse,” Alec said blandly, fighting back his disappointment.
“Liar. He’s admittedly got more conformation faults than Carters has liver pills. But aren’t you the one who’s always said that you don’t go to a stakes paddock to study textbook conformation?”
“Point taken.” Alec gave the horse a slower, more judicial appraisal.
“He’s got a gorgeous heart,” Winnie offered into the silence.
“His feet definitely aren’t textbook.” One turned out, the other in.
“They’re not that bad. At least they’re pointed in the same direction, which is what’s important.” She opened up the stall door, drew the horse out. “Why don’t you withhold judgment until you watch him walk?”
Despite his less than perfect feet, the Thoroughbred had a good strong stride. Of course that didn’t mean he could run worth a lick. Alec continued his examination, beginning with the hooves, working up the pastern, the ankle, the cannon bone, and onward up the leg. Despite gawky first appearances, the horse’s balance, symmetry, and alignment were all within acceptable bounds.
“His chest is awfully narrow.”
“That’s better than too wide.” True enough. A too-wide chest tended to throw a horse’s balance off.
“He’s got a nice enough neck,” Alec allowed.
When he stroked that long thin neck, Legends Lake lowered his head, inviting Alec to scratch his forehead, which he did.
“Granted, his head isn’t real pretty,” Winnie admitted.
“People get too hung up about that.” He skimmed a hand down the front of the long, homely face, satisfied that the horse’s broad nostrils would allow plenty of air into his lungs when he ran. “Always falling for the big-eyed, pretty face.” The same way men tended to do with women.
Legends Lake might not have the huge, thick-lashed show eyes that looked good on television, but they were intelligent and calm, without any of the white showing that might suggest he’d be flighty.
“He’s got champion breeding,” Winnie assured him.
As she rattled off an impressive bloodline, a faint voice of reason in the back of Alec’s mind pointed out that potential champions didn’t end up in claiming races. They were pampered, syndicated, only run in the most prestigious races, then retired to stud farms where they continued to earn their investors big profits.
“That’s royal blood all right. But is he sound?” Even the greatest bloodline couldn’t always prevent a horse from ending up with a weak immune system, which could prove deadly, given all the viruses running rampant around racetracks.
“I have his vet records,” Winnie answered. “He’s never been sick a day in his life.”
“So, what were you doing in a claiming race anyway, big boy?”
Alec skimmed his hands along the horse’s bony body, stroking, checking for hidden flaws. All the time, Legends Lake continued to munch from a block of fresh green alfalfa hay while watching the newcomer with interest.
“How do you run on mud?”
The horse snorted. His ears pricked up even as he chewed. He was obviously listening intently now.
“Doesn’t bother him in the least.” Winnie reached into a pocket of her corduroy barn jacket and pulled out a quarter of apple, which the horse’s huge yellow teeth delicately plucked from her outstretched palm. “Which, I suppose, is to be expected since he was born and bred in Ireland. Wet-weather racing runs in his veins.” Winnie called over a young woman who’d moved in to clean Legends Lake’s stall as soon as he’d been taken from it. “This is Julie. She’ll be riding him today.”
Alec and Julie exchanged hellos, then she led Legends Lake through the shedrow. He walked with confidence, the unnaturally long stride revealing enjoyment at the opportunity to stretch his lanky muscles.
“This doesn’t exactly look as if you’ve retired,” Alec said as he viewed the exercise riders breezing the horses around the oval dirt track.
Thoroughbreds were trotting in one direction, cantering in another. Early morning steam rose from their backs; fog curled like white satin ribbons around their fetlocks.
“Since I already had the setup, it made sense to go ahead and board a few horses. Gives the Horse Center down the road a bit of competition and keeps us all on our toes.”
In the center of the practice track, a pair of mallards floated on a small pond. In a few months the winter-bare bushes would be a riot of blooming watermelon pink azaleas and snowy rhododendron. The show of colors echoed that of the Tarlington silks that Winnie had chosen when she’d first come here as a young bride, whose only prior experience with horses had been reading Black Beauty as a girl.
She’d learned the business well. But more importantly, she honesty loved and respected the horses that had made up a stable renowned for winners.
Even after she climbed up on the bottom rail, the top of her head didn’t come up to Alec’s shoulder. It seemed she’d shrunk a bit since he’d last seen her. But she definitely hadn’t lost any of her spunk.
“This is Dan Jordan.” She introduced him to a young man in his early twenties, who was already at the rail, watching the morning exercise, stopwatch in hand. “He’s been helping me out some until I could get you on board.”
“I haven’t agreed to train the horse yet,” Alec said mildly. The truth was that two months ago he wouldn’t even be considering taking on such a tall, lanky bag of bones. Which just went to show, he considered grimly, how far he’d fallen.
The handsome young face immediately lit up like a beacon in the gray gloom. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. MacKenna.” His earnest, soft drawl brought to mind South Carolina’s pine-scented red clay lanes and hoof-churned, rose-beige sand tracks. “I’ve been in racing since I turned twelve and started as a hot walker at Dogwood Stables, where my daddy was barn foreman. But it’s not often that I get to meet a legend in person.”
The words, which were obviously meant as a compliment, had Alec feeling older than the mud the horses were currently plodding through.
“Secretariat was a legend. Citation, Exterminator, Man O’ War, and Go For Broke were legends. I’m merely an unemployed trainer.”
“Not for long,” Winnie offered. “That damn Yankee lawyer may think he’s in tall cotton after temporarily driving you out of the business, but Legends Lake is your ticket back to the big time. And think how grand you’ll feel when this horse beats the socks off Litigator in the Derby.”
Litigator had been Lady Justice’s stablemate. A huge, strong bay Thoroughbred with an iron constitution, he was being touted as the favorite to win this year’s Kentucky Derby. It was a Derby victory Alec had, just sixty short days ago, planned to be a part of.
“Did you set things up as I instructed?” she asked Dan.
“Yes, ma’am, Miz Tarlington. Everyone’s just waiting for you and Mr. MacKenna.”
“Why don’t you drop the Mr. MacKenna?” Alec was feeling older by the moment.
“Geez, that’d be a real honor, Mr. uh, Alec.”
Alec managed, just barely, not to roll his eyes. He turned his attention back to the track, realizing that the horses were being led into a portable starting gate.
“You’re going to race them?” This definitely was not a typical morning breezing.
“We’ve arranged a special event in your honor.”
Legends Lake was not showy; he did not prance or toss his head as Go For Broke had always done. He just calmly walked into the gate, not so much as sidestepping when the back gate was shut behind him. Then he stood patiently, waiting for the more skittish horses to be led into place. His eyes were nearly at half-mast, making him look as if he were about to fall asleep.
Terrific. If this horse really did represent his only opportunity back into racing, Alec was in deep, deep trouble.
Finally the bell rang, the automatic gate sprung open, and they were off.
Legends Lake burst from the gate like a giant arrow released from a greased bow.
Reluctantly impressed, Alec reminded himself that a lot of horses broke fast, only to fall behind by the backstretch.
But this didn’t prove the case with Winnie’s new favorite. He ran like the wind, long lean muscles rippling. When he was in motion, relaxed, obviously enjoying himself, ears pricked forward, hooves pounding in perfect rhythm, throwing mud up behind him, it was almost possible to forget how ugly he was.
Two other horses moved forward, one on the outside, the other on the inside, trying to cut Legends Lake off, but it was as if they didn’t exist. He could have been all alone, streaking across open pastures, or, Alec considered, considering his birthplace, the rolling green fields of Ireland.
Alec didn’t need Dan calling the time; the stopwatch he carried in his head told him that the horse was running a remarkable pace for mud.
As the Thoroughbred came down the stretch, giving no sign of fading, a gray gelding managed to come up on his outside. Putting on a burst of speed, Legends Lake went from turbo-drive to warp speed. His lanky legs stretched even longer, rising and falling like powerful pistons.
“I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself,” Alec said to Winnie, who, oddly, despite the colt’s considerable lead, appeared to be holding her breath. “You’re right. You’ve definitely caught yourself lightning in a bottle.”
Alec knew trainers who’d run over their grandmothers to have the opportunity to work with this ungainly appearing, three-year-old phenomenon.
That’s when it happened.
Legends Lake blew his cork. With no motivation that Alec could see, he suddenly reared, threw back his head and wildly pawed at the air. Julie jumped off his back as deftly as a gymnast dismounting from the vault and managed to roll out of the way just before the Thoroughbred began streaking toward the four-railed infield fence.
Seeming unsurprised by this behavior, the riders atop the other horses steered their mounts away from what could have proven a disaster.
