Hunter Derby: (Show Circuit Series -- Book 3)

by Kim Ablon Whitney

  It was fun to have someone else in the ring. When they were both done flatting, Zoe came to walk next to her so they could chit-chat. As she asked Dakota about school and life, Zoe’s phone buzzed. It was a reply coming in from Hannah.

  Was in class, Hannah wrote back. I miss that sweet boy too.

  Dakota’s here, Zoe replied with one hand and the other on the buckle of the reins.

  Tell her I say hi.

  “Hannah says hi,” Zoe said.

  “Tell her to come back to work for us,” Dakota said. Then she shook her head. “No, don’t say that. I don’t want her to feel bad. She should be at school, don’t you think?”

  Zoe stuck her phone back in her pocket. “Yeah, she should. It’s what she needs to do.”

  Zoe liked thinking of Hannah at school. Even though Zoe missed her, it was nice to know that other people had to do things they didn’t exactly want to do. Hannah wanted to be with Chris but for right now that wasn’t possible. She needed to be a normal college girl and figure out her life without him. She and Zoe had talked about how they both could use a break from guys.

  Zoe definitely needed a break from guys—she’d been involved on some level pretty much straight since she was fourteen. The last guy she’d slept with was Morgan Cleary and that was a few weeks ago, which was pretty epic in terms of a hiatus for her. But she wondered if what Hannah actually needed was to be with other guys, not to take a break from guys completely. Chris had been her first boyfriend, her first time.

  “Do you think she and Chris will ever get back together?” Dakota asked.

  “I don’t know. But if they ever do, I don’t think it’ll be for a while. She hurt him pretty badly.”

  “I liked them together,” Dakota said.

  “Me too.”

  They headed out the gate of the ring and back to the barn. Two grooms stood ready. One to take Dudley and the other had Sonny ready for Dakota. It was unspoken that Zoe would put Plato in his stall herself.

  Linda shuffled out of the barn, looking nearly geriatric. She pulled her sunglasses off her head down onto her face. “Can you come back into the ring after you get him put away?” she asked Zoe. “I can’t really move the jumps.”

  “I’ll be your jump crew,” Zoe said happily. She’d do anything to pitch in at Morada Bay. Zoe had taken to hanging around on the days that she didn’t have to call her counselor. She was a horse person through and through—the place she felt most comfortable was the barn. She loved the way she felt at Morada Bay, the person she was there, and would stay as long each day as Linda wanted.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The next morning after Zoe’s stalls were done, Kirsten asked her to ride Pepper.

  “Me?” Zoe said, although there was no one else around and it was clear that Kirsten was talking to her. “You want me to get on him?”

  “Yes, that’s what I said.” Kirsten scratched the side of her head. She wore her hair in a French braid, and had on baggy cargo shorts and hiking boots. She didn’t look like the horse people Zoe was used to. “You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”

  There had been no actual job description that came along with her agreement to volunteer at Narrow Lane. Maybe riding was an improvement over doing stalls but it didn’t quite feel like it given the quality of the horses.

  “No, I guess not,” Zoe said. What choice did she have? She felt like she understood slightly better what it might be like for inmates forced to make license plates or what have you.

  Kirsten pointed to the tack room. “His tack is labeled.”

  Each horse had a labeled bridle, saddle, and clean saddle pad. Zoe had to give them points for organization. She grabbed the bridle marked Pepper off the hook and went to find the saddle. She saw it and shuddered.

  Bucket seat, huge pommel, long dressage-like flaps. Was it even leather?

  It didn’t look anything close to the six-thousand-dollar custom calfskin leather of the saddles she was used to. Maybe it was plastic or pleather. She looked closer to see the brand inscribed on the little grommet—Wintec.

  She found Kirsten back in the barn. “Um, can I use my saddle? I have it in my car.”

  “No, the horses have to go in the saddles they’re ridden in for lessons,” Kirsten said curtly, leaving no room for negotiation.

  Zoe slunk back into the tack room and heaved the heavy Wintec monstrosity off the rack. Using this saddle was like an NBA player forced to wear a pair of Payless sneakers for tip-off.

  She brought Pepper in from the paddock and put him on the cross-ties. Of course he was caked in dirt, clumps of it matting his coat, and Narrow Lane didn’t have a vacuum. Zoe did her best, currying and brushing, sending clouds of dust into the air and up her nostrils. By the time she was done, she was coated in a layer of grime. Pepper looked only marginally better. The only thing that could actually get him clean was a bath. Even a vacuum’s power would have had its limits.

  She put on the tack, including the saddle. It took extra might to hoist it onto his back and the long flap hit her in the eye. She couldn’t believe she was going to actually put her ass into that thing.

  She led the Crappy Appy by the rubber rainbow reins into the indoor. There was no outdoor ring at Narrow Lane. Zoe assumed it was easier for the kids to hang on inside without rustling leaves or birds in the trees spooking the horses.

  The only mounting block was the wheelchair ramp. Zoe led Pepper up to it and hopped on. It was amazing what a bad saddle and school-horse-type could do. Just like that she no longer felt like Zoe Tramell, former star junior rider. She felt like a backyard rider who could barely post.

  Kirsten appeared. Zoe thought she saw her trying to disguise a small smile. Maybe the horse didn’t even need to be ridden; Kirsten just wanted to see Zoe suffer. Zoe let the stirrups down a few holes, which was a chore since the leathers were stiff. She squeezed Pepper into a walk and headed out to the rail.

  “What do you want me to do with him?” she called to Kirsten.

  “Just make him go forward and listen to your aids. Lots of transitions. Sometimes he can be a bit of a bully and I like to remind him who’s boss.”

  “Do you usually ride him?” She was trying to feel out why she had been granted this opportunity.

  “Sometimes,” Kirsten said cryptically.

  Zoe had to post enormously high to even get her butt out of the bucket seat of the saddle. Pepper’s stride was short and choppy. After the horses she had spent her whole life riding, he felt like a donkey. Of course he was stiff and didn’t even know what a frame was.

  She tried to ignore how awful the whole thing felt and just go about her business. She rode transitions and pushed him forward and kept him straight. At the canter, she felt like she had fallen into a couch—only it was an extremely uncomfortable couch. She tried getting up in half-seat but the pommel kept ramming her in the crotch.

  Pepper’s canter was barely a canter; it felt like he was trotting behind but maybe that was a net positive for his job. After a while, it didn’t exactly feel good but it felt better. Zoe got used to having no frame and no suppleness and she actually took a little slice of pleasure in getting Pepper to respond to her aids and demonstrate crisp transitions. Kirsten watched for a while, told her to concentrate on the walk and trot, disappeared again, then returned and told Zoe to take Pepper out on the Sensory Trail.

  Zoe swiveled her head to look at her. “The what now?”

  “The sensory trail. It’s outside next to the driveway. It’s marked—you’ll see it. Just take her through it once or twice.”

  Kirsten opened the sliding door and Zoe rode Pepper out into the bright sunshine. Zoe sat back in the couch of a saddle, feeling like she was riding Western on a trail ride. She found the sign. Narrow Lane Sensory Trail, donated by the Miller Family Foundation.

  It was a wide, groomed path through some trees with various stops along the way for activities, kind of like one of those exercise trails with stations to do pull-ups or sit-ups. Onl
y instead there was a basketball hoop to throw a ball into, a mailbox to open, fake owls perched on trees that Zoe couldn’t figure out what the hell they were there for, and a tree house with laminated photographs of all the horses in the barn. That one stumped her too. She stood for a few moments and looked at the hodge-podge of breeds and sizes.

  Zoe wondered what horses like Pepper thought of their jobs. Did they mind carting around these kids? Most of the horses had probably been donated. This was a second chance for them. Maybe Zoe had more in common with horses like Pepper than she wanted to think about. They were all on the second stage of their career, just trying to fit in and make it work. She leaned down and begrudgingly gave the Appy a pat.

  She knew some hunters and jumpers that hadn’t made it for whatever reason and their owners had donated them, taking the tax-break as a kind of consolation prize and trying not to cry over the tens of thousands they’d spent going straight down the shitter. But most of those horses were donated to colleges for their riding programs. It took a special kind of attitude to be a therapeutic horse. Pepper might be the worst horse she had ever ridden but in this world he was probably one of a kind.

  She looked down at his ugly spotted head. He flicked an ear back, like maybe he was communicating with her in some way.

  “Come on, you old nag,” she said to him rather fondly as she turned him back to the barn.

  A truck was coming down the driveway. She didn’t think a family would have a pick-up truck. It looked more like it might belong to a farrier or vet. But then the truck slowed to a stop next to Zoe and the window rolled down.

  “You’re getting to ride Pepper.”

  At the man’s voice, Zoe turned. He was wearing breeches and boots. John Bradstreet. Even though she’d only seen him across the road, she just knew it was him. Linda was right. He was kind of cute. Black hair, fair skin, those nearly freckled lips that people with fair skin tend to have.

  “Yup, I’m having the ride of my life on this Crappy Appy.”

  She thought it would be funny. She thought it would be something they could bond over. Laugh about. She wasn’t sure why John was coming to Narrow Lane but it had to be something like to give them errant mail that had come to his address by mistake. Yet, he knew Pepper by name. They were his neighbors after all. Still, even if he was friendly with Kirsten, didn’t he have to acknowledge how crappy their horses were compared to his?

  But John recoiled. Whereas he’d been leaning toward Zoe, almost into the passenger seat while still keeping a hand on the wheel, now he retracted back into the truck. She most certainly wasn’t winning any first impression rose with this moment.

  He didn’t say anything else, just drove on to the barn.

  Zoe slunk back into the bucket seat of the Wintec saddle. What had she said that was so wrong?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The text came in while she was flopped down on the bed eating from a too large bag of Doritos. She hadn’t bothered to shower yet.

  Free tonight?

  She sat up.

  Morgan Cleary.

  They had hung out a few times at the end of circuit, when she was still pretty messed up on drugs. And hung out, of course, meant slept together. Each time Zoe was interested in someone new she told herself to wait, to not sleep with him right away. But somehow it never worked.

  With Morgan, she felt she had extenuating circumstances for sleeping with him. First, he was Morgan Cleary, the son of one of the wealthiest families on the circuit. Second, it was around the same time everything had come out about her and the saddle stealing and she was just so grateful that anyone, let alone someone like Morgan Cleary, would want to have anything to do with her.

  After Florida, she never expected to hear from Morgan again. She was primed for a full-on ghosting and set not to let it bother her. She knew he lived in New York City and had a farm in Westchester but she didn’t think he’d ever be in touch. She didn’t even think he knew she was in Bedford now. But apparently he had his sources.

  Think I can be. Worth canceling my other plans?

  She wasn’t going to tell him she was still in her riding clothes with Dorito dust all over her fingers and had absolutely no plans for the evening.

  Just thinking of going to the game. Thought you might want to join.

  With Morgan, just going to the game took on a different meaning. Morgan’s family owned the Mets. He was currently working for a farm league affiliate, biding his time until his father let him take over as president of the big league operation. Morgan also competed in the jumpers on several very nice horses. He won nearly everything in the A/O divisions and also showed in some grand prix classes.

  Zoe liked baseball well enough and she liked what being with Morgan offered—a feeling of still being relevant in the show world and a taste of the high life. If she was good enough for Morgan Cleary, wasn’t she good enough for the rest of the horse show?

  I’ll cancel.

  In her mind, baseball game equaled tiny cut-off jeans that barely reached over her butt cheeks and a gauzy off-the-shoulder shirt, paired with strappy sandals.

  The fabric of her T-shirt was so thin it was nearly translucent. Her blond hair brushed against her shoulders as she checked herself out in the mirror. Perfect.

  Gone was the pathetic Dorito girl. Enter pretty girl with cocky I’m-the-shit attitude.

  She went to Morgan’s Instagram. Most were riding shots but there were a few without his helmet. He was medium height and had brown hair. What wasn’t obvious in the photos was that his hair was thinning in the back. Even in his twenties, it was pretty clear he was going bald. He was good-looking, though. Not smolderingly hot but good-looking in that way that wealthy people manage to be even if they’re not blessed with gorgeous features.

  She definitely didn’t want Morgan seeing her depressing apartment, so she waited outside the building for him.

  Morgan drove a Porsche, which wasn’t a horse show car at all. Most riders drove SUVs to fit all their horse stuff and their dogs.

  Zoe climbed in the passenger seat. The inside of the car was all gleaming leather. In a car like his, she could almost forget about the state of her life.

  Of course any real horse person had a car that was covered in dog hair, tack, and saddle pads. But Morgan wasn’t a real horse person. He could ride—that was for sure. He had talent and he won plenty of big classes. But he wasn’t an in-the-trenches rider. He was the meet-the-horse-at-the-ring kind.

  “You look hot,” were the first words out of his mouth.

  “Thank you,” Zoe said, leaning back into the cool of the leather.

  “What’s going on?” he asked. He acted like they’d just hung out a few days ago, not like they hadn’t seen each other, or even talked, in weeks.

  Zoe tried to roll with it. “Not much. Rode a whole bunch today.”

  A whole bunch was an exaggeration. In her old life, she was used to riding eight or ten horses a day.

  “Where are you working again?” Morgan said.

  “For Linda Maro—Morada Bay.”

  She certainly wasn’t going to mention anything about Narrow Lane. She assumed Morgan vaguely knew she had been in outpatient treatment and about the saddle stealing, but she wasn’t going to bring it up. It must not have bothered him, or he wouldn’t be taking her to the game.

  “Right. Nice place,” Morgan said.

  “Oh, you know it?”

  “We looked at it before we bought our place. It was a little too small. It’s only six acres, right?”

  “I don’t know the exact number,” Zoe said.

  “It was too small,” he said.

  “How about you?” Zoe asked. “What did you do today?”

  Morgan went on and on about his work with the team. Zoe tried to be interested. Maybe it was interesting but Morgan somehow made it seem boring. It was all about numbers and licensing deals. It had nothing to do with the players or the game.

  He turned on music and it was nearly too loud to
talk over, which was fine with her. He drove too fast, jockeying in and out of lanes on 95, trying to get an edge on all the other drivers but, Zoe noticed, ending up pretty much even with cars he’d passed a few miles earlier.

  Intellectually she knew his driving was downright stupid but as he floored the engine and darted ahead of a car, her stomach fluttered. She gripped the sides of the seat and thought about later that night when they’d inevitably have sex. She thought of his body against hers.

  They pulled up to the ballpark. As others went to great lengths to find parking or overpaid to park in a lot, Morgan turned into the owners’ and players’ lot. Here, his Porsche fit right in next to the Maseratis and BMWs, with the exception of the occasional pick-up truck of the redneck ballplayer that would have fit in more at a horse show than Morgan’s car.

  Morgan made a joke about how much parking cost for him. “100 Million and you get the best spot in the park. Such a bargain.”

  Everyone knew Morgan—the parking attendant, the security guards, the ticket-takers. They called him Mr. Cleary. Zoe loved how it felt to be with him. It reminded her of how she used to feel at the shows as a junior: important, belonging to the privileged class, nearly worshipped. When she used to go in the ring, it felt like the whole show stopped to watch her. She missed that feeling more than she could have ever imagined and for the moment figured she’d have to just enjoy a slice of it from being with Morgan.

  Morgan was wearing khakis and a button-down shirt and next to him Zoe began to feel slightly self-conscious about her clothing choice. She had assumed they’d be passing through the main turnstiles into the ballpark like any other fan, which now—as they wound their way through the air-conditioned back office hallways of the park—she realized was completely stupid.

  She had only ever been to a few ball games, most of them minor league games. One time she’d seen the Orioles at Camden Yards and another time she’d seen a game at Wrigley. Both those times she had horrible seats. She tried to shake the nagging feeling that she’d chosen the wrong clothes. Morgan hadn’t said anything so maybe it didn’t matter. He’d told her she looked hot.