"Mick's behind this," she'd cried, referring to their trainer. "He's hated Rags from the start because she doesn't fit the image of a sleek, lean racehorse."
Her father let out a dry huff. "That filly's image is the least of her problems. She's come in last or near last every race she's run."
"She's only two!" Piper fired back. "She could be like the high school klutz who goes on to become an Olympic runner. Besides, I've never agreed with the way Mick handles her. He's big on whipping, and Rags digs in her heels when she's handled harshly."
"A little use of the whip isn't the problem," her father said with resolve. "When a horse shows nothing, it's time to start putting it in claiming races. Besides, I want her off the place. She's an eyesore, which reflects badly on our stable." He walked out of the room, and the following week, the die was cast. He slotted Rags to run in her first claiming race, and he picked the Fair Grounds because it attracted the biggest crowds, which would give him the best chance of getting rid of a filly he viewed as a liability to the Harrison bloodline.
In this particular race, all horses were eligible to be bought out of the race for $5500, and prospective buyers were filling out forms to deposit in the official claim box. The moment the horses would break from the starting gate, ownership changed hands, and if someone in the crowd that had gathered at the paddock slipped a claim form for Rags into the box, she'd be taken away by strangers that same afternoon.
Piper also knew the prospect for a thoroughbred that didn't prove itself in this business. Some would be sold by the pound for slaughter to foreign markets, others mistreated and forced to run under inhumane conditions, destined to breakdown on the track and be euthanized or ultimately sold to kill buyers when they failed to perform. Her father and his trainer never abused the horses at their stable, but selling a low prospect runner in a claiming race was their ethical means of getting rid of it. If not for a rule excluding owners, trainers or their relatives from buying, she would've put in her own claim and figured out a place to stable Rags, but that wasn't an option. But buying Rags back from a new owner would be, if she could raise the money. Paying for jockey school had wiped out her savings.
Her only hope now was that no one would want to claim a mouse-brown filly with mule ears and a mane and tail that resembled tattered Rags, the basis for her name. At least that's the way everyone viewed Rags. But what she saw was an awkward youngster with a proud, spirited and very stubborn nature, a filly with a potential that remained untapped. She knew because she'd been exercising Rags for the past year, always under instructions from a man whose skill as a trainer she questioned because after every workout Rags showed a notable lack of sweating, a clear sign that she viewed galloping around a track as a boring pastime that didn't warrant putting out effort.
Even now, Rags stood quiet and unruffled while the other horses danced about on their leads, eyes wide with uncertainty, tossing their heads as if ready to bolt. But Rags wasn't simply standing calmly by. She was uncharacteristically alert for a young horse with so much activity around it. Which in Piper's estimation was a dead giveaway to those who knew horses that she was a filly of superior intelligence who was taking everything in, the horses, the people, the sounds, even the smells, as her raised muzzle and gently flaring nostrils revealed.
Feeling increasingly unsettled with the prospect of someone in this gathering also seeing her potential and playing the claim game, Piper scanned the faces of those standing at the saddling paddock, wondering who, in the crowd of unfamiliar faces, might claim Rags and take her away.
A shot of adrenaline had her gaze shifting back to a group of men, the sight of which sent her blood pumping. Nudging her sister, Georgia, who was standing beside her, she pointed in the direction of the men, all members of the Cajun family that owned the property bordering theirs, and said, "Why in heaven's name would the Broussards be here?"
"Probably to claim a horse," Georgia replied. "Anne heard them talking about buying a thoroughbred. It was Ace Broussard's idea, but Anne didn't think that bunch of roughneck cowboys would go through with it, given their snide comments in the past that raising thoroughbreds was pointless since they can't cut cattle, spin on a dime, or move herds through marshes."
Piper was aware of the Broussard's shoddy remarks over the years, not only about raising thoroughbreds, but relating to their showy antebellum home on the Vermillion Bayou and the highbrow teas the women hosted on the lawn. The fact that their sister married one of them didn't seem to curtail the remarks, although in all fairness, their father's frequent reference to the coonasses next door continued to stir the bad blood between the families.
Piper focused on Henri Broussard, patriarch of the family, whose eyes were fixed on Rags and not in a dismissive way. He saw her potential. Which had her stomach churning. The last people she'd want Rags to go to would be that bunch of Cajuns, or before long they'd have her running in two-bit match races against every quarter horse in the parish. "If the Broussards are here to claim a horse it better not be Rags."
Georgia laughed. "Are you kidding? Those guys don't even give us the time of day when we go over to see Anne. They sure wouldn't claim a Harrison horse."
Piper could not dismiss the knot of dread twisting in her stomach. "Then why is Henri Broussard staring at Rags the way he is?"
"Probably because he saw in the racing form she belongs to Daddy and he's trying to figure out how it happened. Ramblin' Man's one of Louisiana's leading sires and his little progeny isn't exactly a beauty queen, so relax. They won't be leaving with Rags. Besides, right now they're eyeballing that big chestnut colt like he's the horse they're after. So, look on the bright side. If someone does claim Rags you could approach them about galloping her in her morning workouts since you've been working her from the start, and once they see how well you handle her it could be your entry into jockeying."
Piper noted that while the Broussard brothers were indeed sizing up the chestnut colt, Henri Broussard's gaze remained fixed on Rags. "Maybe it would be a way to get into jockeying through the back door, but only if she's claimed by anyone but the Broussards. Those guys are such sexists there's no way they'd hire a female jockey."
That, she knew for a fact. Ace's reaction on learning she was a jockey, two months before, said it all. She'd completed the steps to getting her license, including attending jockey school, but she hadn't yet ventured onto the backstretch, that sacred area at racetracks available only to those directly involved with the horses stabled or scheduled to race there.
Over the years she'd gazed across the infield at the long covered shed row with its line of stables, and although she'd never been there, she knew the building housed a cafeteria, dormitories where some of the workers lived, and offices for the trainers to register horses for upcoming races. She'd also heard Mick's reference to the backstretch family, which turned out to be a consortium of trainers, grooms, farriers, jockeys and their agents, all of whom knew everything about everyone there… except about her.
She'd entered the cafeteria, excited that day. After all, here she was, a licensed jockey, one of the selected few allowed behind the scenes, but when she introduced herself she was met with cold stares, one of them coming from Ace Broussard, whose grandfather trained racing quarter horses. Ace would have been welcomed into the backstretch family since many top jockeys in the country were Cajuns. What none of those jockeys were was female, and the bunch in the cafeteria that day let her know with their icy reception that a female jockey wasn't welcome in their male-dominated world.
She returned her attention to Henri Broussard, who continued to study Rags, then she eyed his grandsons, a grouping of tall, muscular, dark-haired men, all sun-bronzed from years of working cattle, each clad in worn western garb.
She pursed her lips in disgust. They might be considered hot as sin by half the women in Vermillion Parish, but the swarthy, five-o'clock shadow look had a ring of untrustworthiness, which for her was a turn-off. But if by some quirk of fate Henri Bro
ussard ended up claiming Rags, she'd figure out a way to gallop the filly during her morning workouts while keeping tabs on how she was being treated. And maybe along the way she'd prove herself as a jockey, and if Rags turned out to be the horse she knew she was, ultimately ride her into the winner's circle.
What poetic justice that would be, riding a Broussard horse across the finish line in front of a pack of thoroughbreds that included one of her father's horses.
***
Ace stood with his grandfather and his brothers, Pike, Hank and Alex, while sizing up the horses in the saddling paddock prior to the post parade. A couple of years back when he suggested he and his brothers go in together to buy a yearling thoroughbred, train it with a view to reselling it as a race-ready two-year-old, they'd all been enthusiastic about the prospect of making a bundle of money in a relatively short period. The problem was, during those two years they'd deviated from the plan, deciding to jump in and buy a horse already racing and hope to hit pay dirt.
After several months researching bloodlines, studying the condition book, and even investigating which colors were the most saleable with thoroughbreds since looks seemed to be as important as conformation at horse auctions, they'd settled on Boonie's Lagnappe who was up for claiming in today's race, and $5500 was well within their budget. Although Boonie's Lagnappe hadn't won a race yet, his performances showed he'd been improving with each race.
To make certain the horse was a good prospect, they brought their grandfather along, having agreed between themselves that if Pépère didn't see the potential in the colt they'd pass. Not only had Pépère been born with an ability to know the minds of horses, he'd trained racing quarter horses for several decades, scaling back when the last of the old match race tracks shut down. But he still trained a few quarter racing horses for selected people in the area, mainly Cajuns who'd run their horses at Louisiana tracks. He'd be training Boonie's Lagnappe too if they claimed him, a challenge Pépère was willing to take on, if only to show the Harrisons that a Broussard could beat them at their own game.
"Man, that's one good-lookin' colt," Pike said, as the big chestnut horse pranced in place at the end of his lead, muscles twitching, flowing mane rippling, his coat glistening like burnished copper beneath the late afternoon sun.
"Yeah, he's that alright." Ace scanned the tote board, where each horse's odds appeared as bets were being made. "He's also the favorite, which means we'll have competition since there'll be others filling in claim forms for him."
Pike glanced at the tote board. "Then we'd better pray the steward pulls our claim slip out of the tie box."
"That's for sure." Ace turned to Henri Broussard. "So, Pépère, what do you think? Is Boonie's Lagnappe a potential winner?"
When Henri didn't respond, Ace followed the direction of his gaze to the only filly in the race, a muddy-colored animal with proportions defying everything they'd studied about thoroughbred conformation, and with a mane and tail looking like the twisted strings of a badly-used mop. Nudging his grandfather to get his attention, he said, "What's your opinion on Boonie's Lagnappe? Do we drop our claiming form in the box? He's well-put together, and his conformation's spot on. "
Henri studied the big chestnut colt but not more than a few seconds. "It don't matter how a horse is put together, you need a horse with heart, one not willin' to back down from competition. Without heart, you got nothin' and that colt don't have heart. He's sweatin' and a horse lathered at the start's nervous and won't run well 'cause his energy's drained before he's outta the gate. That colt's not bein' risked in this race, he's bein' dumped. There's your winner." He pointed to the filly.
"You can't be serious," Ace said, while eyeing a horse the color of swamp water. "That filly looks more like a quarter horse than a thoroughbred, and her ears are so big she could be mistaken for a mule." He scanned the racing form in his hand, searching for the only filly, and after taking a minute to peruse the information on a horse appropriately named Ragamuffin, he saw she was owned by Charles Harrison. It was also obvious why Harrison wanted to get rid of her. She'd been sired by Ramblin' Man, Harrison's top stud, and the filly would be a heads-up to potential breeders that their mares could also throw a misfit. Addressing his grandfather again, he said, "You are aware that the filly belongs to the Harrisons."
"I know whose horse it is," Henri said with irritation. "I've been at this since long before you was born and I know when a horse got what it takes to win. Not only is the filly well-muscled, she has a broad chest and powerful hindquarters, everything she needs to catapult her to the front of the pack out the startin' gate."
"Except the filly hasn't won anything yet," Ace pointed out.
"That's because she don't wanna run. She's got what it takes but she don't wanna play by the rules 'cause she hasn't been handled right."
Ace slanted a sidelong glance at his grandfather. "Then you've watched her?"
Henri shrugged. "Some."
"How?"
"Field glasses."
"Why?"
"Because when you boys said you were goin' into thoroughbreds I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. You're also better off with a filly than a colt 'cause you got two shots to make good. She could turn out to be a fast runner, but if she don't make it there you still got a broodmare, but when a colt can't run you got nothin'. But that filly's got the attitude of a runner and she's built like one too, with good muscle tone, wide feet, good length of back, and she's not a big heavy horse. She's also got sharp eyes and she's takin' in everything goin' on around her but she's not sweatin', and that's what you want."
Ace eyed Boonie's Lagnappe, who was still dancing on the end of his lead. His neck held a sheen of lather so maybe that was a strike against him. But what he lacked in composure he'd make up in size, standing a good seventeen hands, which would give him a long stride compared to the ugly filly, who couldn't be more than fifteen hands. "The filly's small," he commented. "She'd have to run twice as fast as the colt just to keep up."
"An Arab's small too and they can run a hole in the wind," his grandfather fired back.
While trying to hide his disappointment that Pépère didn't like the chestnut colt, Ace took a moment to study the filly. True, she looked like she'd just shaken off after rolling in a mud puddle, but she stood with those oversized ears straight up, head raised in a haughty pose, like she was better than the rest, and the sharp gleam in her eyes showed unusual intelligence, as if taking everything in. He had no idea what else Pépère saw, yet he didn't question that what he saw was a winner. If he'd learned only one thing about his grandfather over the years, it was that he'd been blessed with an uncanny ability to see potential in a horse where others saw a dud.
He shifted his attention to the crowd gathered at the paddock, searching out Charles Harrison, wanting to gage his position. Did the man honestly want to dump the filly, or was this race aimed at giving her a first win? Some trainers entered young horses in maiden claiming races, not to be claimed, but to get experience while racing against horses that would give them the best crack at winning the race so they could move to the next level. That could be the case. Although the claim price was low, it was high enough that most potential claimants would pass on such an unappealing horse.
Not finding Harrison among the onlookers, he was about to return his attention to the filly when he spotted Piper Harrison, whose cold glare was fixed on him. If the hard glint in her eyes had been the glint of daggers he'd be a dead man. Her response did give him his answer though. She did not want Ragamuffin to be bought out of the race, which meant the filly had potential. Still, he wasn't inclined to want to claim a horse with so many factors against her.
Returning his attention to the racing form, he scanned the figures, then made one last effort to plead a case against the filly, and try to make one for the colt, saying to his grandfather, "The chestnut colt's been moving up every race he's run, coming in third his last race, while the filly's been coming in last most races."
<
br /> Henri let out a sardonic snort. "That don't mean she can't run if she's handled right. She's got the stuff to do it, I'd bet my best boots on it."
Alex braced his hands on his hips and said while eyeing the filly, "You could be right on all counts, Pépère, but I'm not convinced, so I'm passin'."
"Me too," Pike said.
"Amen," Hank added. "From what I'm lookin' at, we'd be throwin' good money after bad because if it turns out she can't run, we'd never be able to dump a horse lookin' like that."
Ace felt a rush of uncertainty. He had the money to go it alone but wasn't sure he wanted to with this runty, strange-looking filly, who came across more like an escort pony than a racehorse. But, in this filly his grandfather saw something lying dormant the rest of them didn't see, and that was enough for him. He glanced at his watch. "It's less than fifteen minutes before claims are cut off. Are you sure about this, Pépère, absolutely sure?"
Henri let out a huff. "Sure I'm sure. That filly's got a racin' machine bottled up inside she won't let out unless she's made to. Right now she's got an attitude, like racin's a game she wants to play but not by their rules. Change to her rules and on her terms and you'll give her a reason to win the game, and she will."
Ace had no idea how his grandfather would change the filly's attitude, but he was a master at reading horses' moods and knew innately how to negotiate with them their sulks, gripes and objections. Checking the tote board, he noted that the odds for Ragamuffin were 39-1, then he glanced at Piper, who continued to glare at him, a scowl on her face. Clearly she didn't want the filly to be claimed, and for some reason she seemed to have concluded that he was thinking along those lines, which maybe he was, reluctantly.
He returned his attention to his grandfather, who stood with a cryptic smile on his lips while eyeing the filly, his expression one of complete confidence, his eyes sharp with interest, like he'd discovered the next Miss Maple, a mare he'd talked about from as far back as they could remember. He'd picked Miss Maple up for practically nothing at a horse sale, and after instructing her in the finer art of intimidating her competition, she went on to win every race she ran from then on.
Tall Dark Stranger (Cajun Cowboys Book 1) Page 20
