by JoAnn Ross
Alec drew in a harsh breath and watched, unbelievingly, as the horse cleared the fence with a good six inches to spare, then, chased by whatever inner demons haunted him, streaked across the infield, flying over pond and bushes before finally coming to a halt. If he’d had brakes, they would have squealed in protest at such a sudden stop.
He spun and faced them, brown eyes huge and showing white, his wide nostrils flared.
Mystified, Alec turned toward Winnie. “What the hell just happened?”
“I guess I forgot to mention that he also jumps fences.”
4
UNABLE TO RESIST an animal in obvious distress, Alec climbed over the fence and slowly approached the horse. Legends Lake was shaking so hard Alec feared he might actually fall over. His ears were pinned back and the whites of his eyes were visible as he snorted through flared nostrils. His tail was kinked, his muscles rigid.
From the beginning of creation, animalistic instincts had been geared toward either fight or flight. The horse, having learned in the early dawn of its existence that flight beat fight, ran, not because man had trained it to, but because it was its nature.
At this moment, as he approached Legends Lake, it was more than obvious that every ancient escape instinct in the Thoroughbred’s body was on full alert. His flanks shone with sweat, his muscles quivered.
Still, Alec didn’t pause. He kept moving forward, talking quietly, soothingly, as he might to a small, frightened child.
“Hey, big boy … What’s the problem?”
He held out his hand, allowing the horse to get a sniff of him, but was not surprised when, instead, Legends Lake shied away and went trotting across the infield where, in another month or so, the bluish-purple spring buds would give the Kentucky grass its famous blue-green cast.
“Didn’t feel much like crossing that finish line today, huh?”
The colt spun back toward him, lowered his head. He snorted a warning, his breath coming out in white puffs, like dragon smoke.
The exercise track was located in the midst of yet more acres of fenced pasture. Sweeping the meadow with a judicial glance, Alec decided that if the horse did get it into his head to jump the far fence, he’d still be fairly safe. For now, at least. Unfortunately, there was also the danger of him breaking his leg or neck on a fence plank if he did bolt. Deciding that the prudent thing to do would be to let the Thoroughbred calm down a bit, Alec slowly, deliberately turned his back and returned to where Winnie was waiting.
“I take it he didn’t behave like this during the race where you claimed him.”
“I swear there wasn’t a single sign of any trouble.”
“Not even coming home? How did he load?”
“As easily as he entered the gate today. Walked right into the trailer as if he knew it meant he was going home. And the drive back here from Turfway didn’t affect him in the least.”
“So when did you discover he plays steeplechase?”
“When I decided to run him at Hialeah. I’d hired Dan to serve as interim trainer, and everything was fine on the way. And when we got down to Florida, he settled right in. Didn’t he, Dan?” she asked the younger man.
“Yes, ma’am,” he seconded her claim. “He ate well, breezed great—”
“And behaved exactly like the champion he was born to be,” Winnie broke in. “He led straight out of the gate, just like today, and held it until he took it into his head to jump the fence at the far turn.”
“Christ.” Alec decided that the fact he hadn’t heard of the chaos that must have ensued revealed exactly how far out of the mainstream he’d become in a mere two months’ absence from the track. “Was anyone hurt?”
“Not a single horse or jockey, thank God, which is undoubtedly the only reason the race stewards let us get away with a severe warning. But they warned me that any repetition will result in him being banned from the track for life.”
“That’s only fair, Winnie.”
“I know.” Her gaze shifted across the infield to the obviously disturbed horse. “I’m afraid he didn’t help his case any when it took another hour to get him quieted down enough to walk him back to his stall for the medical exam,” she admitted. “Which, by the way, turned up negative for any foreign substances.
“We brought him home that same night and he settled right down as soon as he was in the trailer and didn’t give us a moment’s trouble. In fact, he travels better than any horse I’ve ever seen.”
Alec was mystified. “Who was his trainer at the last place?”
“Bobby Jenkins.”
“Well, hell.” When the trainer had died of a heart attack while bidding on a Florida-bred stallion at January’s Keeneland sale, few had mourned his passing.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Winnie said quickly. “Bobby didn’t have the reputation for being the most soft-spoken trainer in the business—”
“That’s putting it mildly. Look, I don’t have any problem with people practicing their religion, even if it involves chanting mantras or sticking pins into voodoo dolls.” Actually, Alec knew a very successful jockey from the Dominican Republic who was rumored to do exactly that. “But I have a helluva lot of problems with any guy who’s chosen to train racehorses taking that biblical statement about men having dominion over animals too damn seriously.”
“He did win the Belmont last year.”
“A chimpanzee could have won the Belmont with Proud Dancer. That horse was bred for endurance, not speed. Which is one of the reasons why it hadn’t so much as placed in a race before taking the Belmont.”
“And hasn’t since,” she allowed.
“Well, at least now we know why he was in that claimer. Your horse has a major mental problem.”
“Why do you think I called you?”
“I’m a horse trainer. Not a miracle worker.”
“From what I hear, you’re not exactly in a position to be choosy these days.” When he didn’t immediately answer, she placed a coaxing hand on his sleeve. “Legends Lake could become a real legend, Alec. A horse people talk about for generations. But he needs—no, let me rephrase that—he deserves the best.”
“Dammit, Winifred!”
Legends Lake, hypersensitive to the smallest nuance, immediately cantered around the pond to the other side of the infield.
“You saw him,” Winnie continued to press her case. “He runs like the wind. A horse like this doesn’t deserve to end up as dog food.”
“I’ve never known you to be an alarmist. We both know that doesn’t have to be his fate. There are a lot of other options: dressage, jumping, even trail riding.”
“Those opportunities aren’t open for stallions. I’d be forced to geld him.”
“True.”
“Then I’d lose him as a stud horse.”
“True again. But if gelding him opens up other opportunities—”
“No.” Clearly primed for battle, she tossed up her chin and squared her shoulders. Winifred Tarlington was certainly not the easiest in a long line of owners Alec had worked for. She was, however, the one he most respected. “I’m not gelding Legends Lake. We just need to figure out how to get his head straight.”
“We? You’ve had a good run, Winnie. A great run. Why would you want to take on a problem like this now, when you should be sitting back, enjoying the fruits of all that labor you and Palmer put into building this place?”
“Because, although I hate to admit it, I’m not as young as I used to be. In fact, I’m getting damn near ancient. Since Palmer and I were never blessed with any children or grandchildren to pass the business to, rather than let the government end up with all we built—” her wave encompassed the track, the barns, pastures and the magnificent house that always reminded Alec of Twelve Oaks—“I decided to divvy things up while I’m still kicking….
“So, here’s the deal I’m offering: If you can keep Legends Lake from being permanently banned from racing so he can win the Derby, I’ll deed you fifty-percent owners
hip the minute we get to the winner’s circle. And bequeath the remaining fifty percent to you in my will.”
The offer was more than tempting. It was astounding, especially considering the fact that there weren’t a helluva lot of other owners bidding for his services right now. There were, unfortunately, a great many catches. Beginning with ridding the horse of his screwy steeplechase tendencies.
Even if he could pull that off, winning the Kentucky Derby was never guaranteed, no matter how much natural ability a horse might possess.
“Hell, why stop at winning the roses? Why don’t you shoot for the Triple Crown while you’re at it?”
“Actually, now that you bring it up, I firmly believe that together, you and Legends Lake can pull off a Triple Crown sweep. But I didn’t want you to feel overly pressured at this stage in the game.”
Alec couldn’t help laughing at her cockeyed optimism.
“Why don’t you speak with Legends Lake’s breeder,” she suggested. “That way you can ask any questions you want about his breeding before making up your mind.”
It was, Alec thought, a valid suggestion. “I assume you have his number?”
“Of course. And it happens to be a she. Kate O’Sullivan, from County Clare. Her maiden name was Fitzpatrick.”
“She’s Joseph Fitzpatrick’s daughter?” The man was a legend, having been the best in the business during his lifetime.
“None other. She’s gaining a reputation as a top breeder. Of course, I’ll pay all expenses if you decide it’s necessary to take Legends Lake back to Ireland.”
“Not that I’ve agreed to take the job, but for the sake of argument, why would I want to risk making a problem horse worse with an overseas trip?”
“Because Kate O’Sullivan could be a huge help. She’s supposed to have a near miraculous gift of communicating with horses.”
From what he’d seen, Alec figured that if he were to take on the job, they’d need a miracle worker.
“You needn’t worry about the trip making things worse. I told you, the horse is the best traveler I’ve ever owned.”
“You know I don’t respond real well to outside pressure.”
“Then don’t give me your answer now,” she said, appearing to know when to stop pushing her case. “Why don’t you go on back to your mountain, sleep on it, and I’ll call you in the morning. Meanwhile, would you be willing to help us get him back in the stall?”
It was not easy. It took nearly two hours for the horse to trust Alec enough to be led back to the shedrow, where once back in his stall, he turned as docile as a newborn lamb.
All during the drive home, Alec weighed the pros and cons of taking on Legends Lake’s training, reminding himself how Winnie had believed in him when nearly everyone else thought that he’d end up no better than his alcoholic criminal father. Along with giving him the opportunity to become rich and famous, the Lexington horse owner had also provided the key that had allowed him to overcome—at least until the incident at the Gulfstream Turf Club—the snobbery and exclusiveness of the horse world. And for that he’d always owe her.
The dream came shortly after midnight, stealthily creeping into Kate’s mind on padded cat feet. A horse—as white as the nearby cliffs—galloped across a misty meadow starred with fragrant white flowers.
The Celtic mother goddess, Etain, was riding bareback, her long fingers tangled in the silky mane, her hair streaming out behind her like a gilt flag, the muscles of her strong bare thighs pressed against the horse’s flanks. The pounding rumble of the horse’s hooves, as it raced over flower jeweled meadows and green and gold hillocks, drummed like a goatskin bodhrán.
The scene shifted, like tilting, changing facets of a kaleidoscope, and Kate became the one riding the magic steed, which was no longer white, but a deep chestnut that gleamed like red fire. As they raced the wind it was her fingers clutching the mane, her legs tightening against the horse’s sides, her body becoming one with the magnificent stallion, her spirit becoming one with his powerful strength, grace and speed as they left the bounds of the earth.
Another tilt. Now there was a man seated behind her on the horse, his body pressed against her back, hard and strong, and so very male, as the three of them—man, woman and steed—moved as one, soaring over the glowing ball of fire that was the sun.
5
“SO?” PETE CAMPBELL DEMANDED, looking up from the stew he was stirring.
“So what?” Alec pulled a beer from the refrigerator.
“What’s the story of this horse Winnie latched onto?”
Alec popped the top on the can and took a long swallow. “He’s a natural.”
“Sounds like I hear a but in that statement.”
“He’s about as ugly as homemade sin.” He grabbed a piece of freshly peeled carrot. “And off in the head, to boot.”
“He jumped clean over the fence?” Pete asked after Alec had described the race. Brown potato peels had begun flying a little faster into the sink.
“At that moment, I think he could have jumped over the moon.” Alec snatched another piece of carrot.
“You keep eating my vegetables and there won’t be any left for supper.” Pete moved them to the far side of the cutting board with the flat edge of the knife. “That explains what he was doing in a claimer.”
“Yeah.” Alec wasn’t surprised Pete had hit on the crux of the matter so fast.
After all, the robust man with the formerly fiery hair that had faded to the color of rust and freckled face wreathed in wrinkles from years spent outdoors, had undoubtedly forgotten more about training horses than the collective wisdom of all the other trainers currently working the circuit. High blood pressure and three heart bypasses had forced Pete Campbell into semiretirement, but Alec still valued both his friendship and his opinions, which he never bothered to sugar-coat.
“The horse is glitchy. But Winnie’s right about him being born with the urge to run flat out in his blood.” He reached for another piece of carrot, caught the look in Pete’s eyes and took another swallow of beer instead. “I’ve never seen a horse with so much potential.”
“More than Go For Broke?”
“God, yes.”
They were both silent. Thinking. Considering.
“Sounds like you don’t got much choice.” Pete dumped the carrots into the bubbling dark brown beef stew.
“That’s pretty much what I was thinking. Which is why I’m going to turn Winnie down.”
“Wrong choice.”
Alec tossed down the rest of the beer, crushed the can, then threw it in a high looping arc into the trash. “What the hell do you expect me to do?”
He yanked open the refrigerator door again, reached for another beer and because this time he felt need, rather than thirst, settled for a Dr. Pepper instead. Alec knew from firsthand experience that the one thing his stepdaughter didn’t need was an alcoholic for a father.
“It’s only been six months since Zoe lost her mother,” he pointed out when Pete didn’t answer.
“From what you’ve told me, Liz hadn’t been around for that little girl all that much since she ran off from here with that no-account French count six years ago.”
“He was a duke. Or an earl.”
“Or maybe the duke of earl,” Pete suggested dryly.
That earned Alec’s first real smile of the day. “Could have been,” he agreed.
“Ever think she feels guilty about disrupting your life?”
Alec took a long swig of Dr. Pepper. “If she does, she’s either hiding it pretty deep inside her, or she’s one helluvan actress.”
“Probably a bit of both. Besides,” Pete continued doggedly, “from what I’ve been able to tell, your act of martyrdom hasn’t exactly turned this family into Father Knows Best. The kid looks like she’s auditioning for a job at that massage parlor across the county line, the one everyone, including the sheriff, knows is nothing more than a hooker hangout.”
“Zoe has a lot of pent-up anger an
d resentment to work out,” Alec repeated what the school-appointed shrink had told him after the shoplifting incident.
“So did you,” the older man reminded him. “Once upon a time when you were her age.”
That was true enough. Alec had just turned fifteen when he’d left Kentucky in the middle of the night after Fortissimo’s collapse. He’d ended up in Louisiana, land of King Cotton, black gold, yellow catfish and a passionate horse-racing tradition going back to the days of French possession.
Lying about his age, he landed a job as a hot walker in Folsom, just north of New Orleans across Lake Pontchartrain. His job, for which he was paid below minimum wage, was to cool the horses down after their morning exercise runs.
It had been Pete who’d found him sleeping in an empty stall, taken him under his wing and literally turned his life around.
“I was lucky. I had you.”
Alec thought of what might have happened to him if Pete had called the cops that night he’d shown up at the track to check on an ailing filly.
Instead, the older man had taken Alec home with him, where his seemingly unflappable wife had immediately run the filthy teenager a bath and fed him supper. It might have been only tuna casserole and sweet tea, but Alec hadn’t had a meal since that he’d enjoyed more.
Jenny Campbell had passed on eight months ago, leaving her husband of fifty years as rudderless and lonely as Alec had once been. Which was why it had seemed perfectly natural to invite Pete to come live here and help build his dream stable.
“And Zoe has the two of us. So, she’ll be fine.”
“I told Winnie I needed to sleep on it.”
“Why don’t you do that?” Pete suggested easily. Too easily, Alec thought. “And while you’re sleeping, you might want to consider that the girl’s mood might perk up some if her daddy wasn’t so miserable himself.”
“I’m not miserable.”
Pete shrugged his huge shoulders. “Wouldn’t want to call any man a liar. But if the way you’ve been these past weeks is what you’d call a good mood, I’d sure hate to see what a bad one looks like. You know what you said about Winnie’s colt being born to run?”
