Ambition: (The Eventing Series Book 1)

by Natalie Keller Reinert

  I told myself it would be fine — that everyone had to work through this sort of crisis when they started out in the business — loving horses and making a living with horses are not entirely the same thing. I just hoped she chose my team in the end. I had just been getting used to having a friend around, and I didn’t want to go back to being alone again.

  Mickey hadn’t been off the farm since he arrived back in June. And before that, he’d only been at Eileen’s little farm. His experience with traveling was still ninety-nine percent racehorse, and now he was definitely gearing up for a race. I looked at his sweating flanks and wide eyes with apprehension. “We can’t leave him tied while we go to the dressage ring,” I told Lacey.

  She settled my old Stuebben on Dynamo’s withers, sliding it back an inch or so until it was in the perfect spot. “I’ll take him for a walk. If you can handle your test alone.”

  “I guess I’ll manage,” I whined, trying to get her to laugh. But she just shook her head.

  “Girth is loose,” she said, and went over to Mickey. He showed her his hindquarters but she slipped past him anyway, gave him an elbow in the shoulder to move him away from the trailer, and ran his chain shank over his nose. “Don’t piss me off,” she told him.

  I watched them walk off, Mickey dancing sideways on the end of his shank, Lacey ignoring his antics until he got too close to her, then giving the nose chain a sharp yank. A shanking got his attention, and he would focus on her for a few moments before something else upset him, and then he’d start all over again. They disappeared around a corner, heading for a shady area behind the trailer parking, and I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Lacey was good with him. They’d be fine.

  I hoped. I had to concentrate on Dynamo. We had a dressage test in less than half an hour.

  “Dynie, you lovely boy,” I crooned, running a hand down his sleek, wet neck. “Look how well-behaved you are. You’re mummy’s boy.”

  Lovely mummy’s boy ignored me and strained his neck to its utmost, trying to reach a few blades of hay which were poking through the trailer window. His lips clapped together just shy of the green wisps.

  “Tragic,” I told him, and jumped up into the trailer’s tack room in search of his bridle.

  “And here is the wonderful Dynamo,” said a man’s voice outside.

  I poked my head out of the tack room and saw, between me and Dynamo, the rear view of a very athletic fellow.

  Well, hello.

  I might not have time for a dating life, but I could still appreciate a fit man in a well-cut pair of breeches and good boots. That Man From Snowy River hat thing he had going on was really working for me too…

  He took off his hat and rumpled dark red-brown hair with one tanned hand. Dynamo regarded him with quiet anticipation, hoping for a peppermint. But all I could think of was Dr. Em, trying to hook me up on a date. Was that why he kept showing up?

  Flustered, I tried to stop my hands from shaking as I pulled down the bridle. The bit rattled against the wall, and Peter turned around and smiled.

  I drew in a quick breath, torn between a very healthy appreciation and a very righteous prejudice.

  The way he’d looked at me at Sunshine State, peering down at me with a quirked eyebrow as I rushed to separate Becky and Lacey, gazing at me with silent disapproval when I hugged Lacey on my way out of the show jumping. He gave you a thumbs-up at ACE, I thought fleetingly. He warned you about the water option.

  Then I shoved the memory away. So what? He’d won the ACE grant, and he’d known even then he was going to win. He could easily spare a little false encouragement for the no-hoper trying her heart out in the arena. And he’d been wrong about the water complex. We’d managed it just fine. And we’d won that day — no thanks to him and his advice.

  Now he smiled and stepped forward, holding out his hand. “The program still says Juliet, but I believe you said I had to call you Jules.”

  I hesitated in the door of the tack room, and his smile flickered just a little. “Regina is still upset you beat us at Sunshine State, you know,” he said lightly, with an attempt at humor. “Maybe you could come by my rig and tell her she’s still beautiful. She hears it from me all the time, and I’m not sure she believes me.”

  “Regina?” I blinked. Who was that? A girlfriend? He was bringing up his girlfriend already? And what on earth did that mean, already? I was losing track of my thoughts. His smile was really very lovely — wide and friendly and genuine — and it was scattering my brain.

  “My mare. I’d convinced her she was going to win, y’see, and she felt quite let down.” He leaned casually against the trailer wall, gazing up at me.

  Oh, that was right. I’d forgotten his mare’s name. That made more sense. Why had my thoughts gone straight to a girlfriend? Clearly, I was insane. Or had heat stroke. “That must’ve sucked for her,” I managed to say. “Getting beat by a boy.” His blue eyes made me feel a bit dizzy. I put out a hand to rest on the doorframe. Stay cool. Don’t let him get to you.

  He caught the irony and grinned. “She’ll recover… eventually. And she’ll be a better man for it.” He turned and eyed Dynamo, who had given up on any hopes of peppermints and was now cocking a hind leg, half-asleep. Peter turned back to me and that eyebrow quirked in what was now a familiar way. “Maybe today. Your old boy is going to have to wake up if he wants to beat the girl today.”

  “Are you in Open Intermediate too?”

  He shrugged. “Of course. We’re going to see a lot of each other, you know. There are only so many Intermediate events to choose from.”

  He was right about that — most events only offered Novice through Preliminary. Lochloosa was the only schooling show with such upper-level classes in the area. “Is this the beginning of a beautiful rivalry?” I grinned, trying my hand at flirtation. Green, but game. And I really couldn’t help myself. I hated him, of course, but…

  Peter chuckled. “Or something like that. Listen,” he said, straightening up. “I have a dressage ride to get to, and I’m guessing you do, too. But, in celebration of this rivalry, I say at the end of the day, the winner buys the loser a Coke.” He paused. “Or Diet Coke?” He smiled up at me boyishly. My heart skipped a beat, but I managed to twist a winsome smile into a grin.

  “Don’t worry about what I like,” I told him. “You’ll get your Coke after the show-jumping.”

  “Come on, Dyno, buck up!” I muttered. I pushed my hands forward a little, freeing up his head to move forward, and squeezed my calves against his ribcage, hoping he’d pick up the pace and move forward, filling in the loop in my reins. Nothing. His trot was more of a plod, and his canter felt like he wanted to pitch forward on his nose.

  The warm-up ring was pulsating with energy, horses flinging themselves around the arena, horses running away, horses throwing their heads up, mouths gaping, legs wild. But Dynamo remained dopily quiet, dawdling along the rail, while the traffic to the inside of the arena went spinning around us in fast-forward.

  In the dressage ring next to the warm-up, the rider on deck ahead of me was trotting her horse around the outside of the white chain fence. The rider in the arena was saluting the judge; her test was finished. I had about ten minutes before we were meant to go boldly down that center line.

  And my horse was practically dead.

  My reins were slick with sweat. He was hotter than he should have been. I was wishing for Lacey to come to the rescue with a bucket of water and a sponge for his mouth, but she was off somewhere nursing her anger and keeping Mickey from having a nervous breakdown. “I’m sorry, Dynamo, but you’ll have to wait until the test is over for a drink,” I told him. “Let’s go wait in the shade.”

  Standing under the tree near the arena entrance wasn’t going to put any more energy on him, but if he wasn’t feeling well, nothing would. I might as well let him relax and cool off a little.

  The bell rang, and the rider on the bay horse went into the arena for their test. The rider turned
and flashed me a grin as he approached the in-gate, and I gasped. It was Peter, looking like an Olympian.

  He was right about his mare, Regina. She did expect to win. The mare produced every movement on the test with character and expression. Her extended trot flung her forelegs out twice as far as her working trot. Her collected canter looked as though she was fully capable of simply launching into space, and only chose not to out of her own forbearance. She was exquisitely aware of her own power.

  “Her jumping must be incredible,” I told Dynamo, and a girl leaning against the tree looked up.

  “It is,” Becky said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “My dressage test could not have gone any worse,” I snapped, cutting off Lacey before she could even ask. She stood still, Mickey pacing in a circle around her. I pulled off Dynamo’s bridle and slipped on his halter. “Zero impulsion, horrible transitions. I don’t know. I’m going to have to skip the rest of the event with him. Something’s wrong. The heat has gotten to him, I guess.”

  Every time Mickey circled behind her, she lifted a bored arm and let the lead shank pass over her head. She was too nice to tell me she’d told me so, God love her, so I didn’t give her my usual fake horror story about the guy I saw who had his head cut off that way.

  “I don’t think Mickey is going to make your day much better,” Lacey said, and then added, “Oh, I saw Becky.”

  “I did too! She’s grooming for Peter Morrison!” I wrenched upward on the billets, loosening the girth strap. Dynamo pinned his ears and shook his head at me. God, he was pissed at me too. The only person in town that didn’t hate me right now was Peter bloody Morrison, and I definitely needed to keep my distance from him.

  “Who? Not that guy you don’t like, the one Dr. Em was trying to fix you up with, the one who won that prize?”

  “Yes! Him! All of the above. He had his horse in before Dynamo’s round. Becky was by the ring. She literally said two words to me and then ignored me completely. She just went up to him when he came out of the arena and gave his horse a cookie, then she picked up a bucket with his name on it and walked away with him.” I stripped the sweaty saddlepad off of Dynamo. “He’s wringing wet. Please find a hose and give him a long cool shower. I’m scared he’s going to have heat stroke or something.”

  “We should take them both home,” Lacey said, not moving. “This is too much for them. Too much stress for Mickey, too much heat for Dynie. Come on, Jules, let’s just load up and go.”

  I shook my head. That would be nice, but there was no easy way out in this game. “I have to at least get on Mickey. He can’t just show up, act like a freak, and then go home. He needs to understand that he comes to shows to work. And Dynamo needs cooling out before he gets in the trailer, anyway. Switch with me, please.” I reached out and she handed me Mickey’s shank, wet with sweat from the pacing horse’s lathered neck.

  But Mickey was truly an emotional disaster. And an emotional horse is not the most safe creature to handle. Wheeling around, treading on my feet, swiveling his head every which way — it was all I could do to get the saddle on him. A young girl from the trailer parked next to mine, impeccably dressed in buff breeches and a pink polo shirt with a jumping horse embroidered on the chest, came over and shyly asked if I’d like any help.

  I eyed her warily. She was only about thirteen, but when I was thirteen I’d been showing horses for seven years, so age wasn’t necessarily a detractor. “Promise not to get hurt, okay? Your mom will kill me,” I told her.

  Her braid was coming loose. She tucked a few extra strands of blonde hair behind her ears and took Mickey’s lead-shank. She gave him a careful pat on the shoulder, and Mickey’s muscles twitched in response. “You’re Jules Thornton, aren’t you?” she asked shyly.

  “Yeah, I am,” I said, startled. I stopped pulling at the girth long enough to give the girl a look. “You know who I am?”

  “You ride Dynamo,” she explained. “I cut your picture out of my trainer’s Chronicle of the Horse. I saw you win at Sunshine State in the summer, and at Rocking Horse in the open prelim.”

  “That’s right.” Hey, I had a fan. I’d be far more pleased if I wasn’t so concerned about Mickey doing something stupid and killing her. My one and only fan, Mickey, be nice, I thought to him, but he ignored my telepathy with finesse.

  “Who is this?”

  “This is Mickey. Danger Mouse. Today’s his first starter event.”

  “He’s lovely,” the girl said rapturously, and gave him a long stroke on the neck. Mickey, quelled for the moment by her attention and touch, stood still. She looked him over carefully. “Where’s his forelock?”

  “He cut it off on a board. It’s growing back though. Watch him,” I told her. “His ears are still focused on the other horses over there. If he moves, it will be sudden and fast.”

  But he didn’t move. He was very good… unusually good. I paused for a moment, studying him.

  I didn’t like how still he was standing. Thoroughbreds shouldn’t stand stock-still, without a muscle twitching, ears pricked and eyes wide. Thoroughbreds have a tendency to explode out of such a stillness. I shook my head and hurried to get on my hard hat and pull the bridle out of the tack room.

  “Okay,” I told my little fan. “Get the halter down around his neck and buckle it there so we still have a hold of him. Perfect. You know what you’re doing!” Mickey’s head free, his halter held by her firm hand on his neck, I slipped the reins over his ears, then lifted the bridle up in front of his face, opened his mouth with a gentle thumb, slid the bit between his teeth, and then pulled the bridle back, first behind one ear, then the other —

  And he exploded like a firecracker, soaring straight up into the air, and the girl tried gamely to hang onto the lead shank but he was too strong for her, and before we knew what was happening he had flipped over completely, landing with a thud in the deep summer grass, waving his legs in the air and swinging his head lethally from side to side, as violent as an alligator’s tail. His jaw slammed into the aluminum wheel-well of the trailer and left behind a dent and a smear of blood.

  Before we could even register what was happening, before any of the startled horsemen around us could run to our aid, Mickey was leaping back up to his feet, the bridle hanging down to his hooves, and both I and the girl darted forward, snatching at anything — the reins over his neck, the dangling bridle near his hooves, the halter that was still buckled around his neck, hanging like a belt. Improbably, we both caught him, I by the reins and she by the halter, and we stood clinging onto the leather and the horse, while the horse stood still and trembled, his eyes dull, somewhere within himself. I watched him numbly, the refrain oh shit, oh shit, oh shit running through my brain.

  “Ashlyn? Ashlyn, what the hell are you doing over there?” A woman was shouting furiously, and then there was a short, angry, sunburnt woman in shorts and tank top running over from the neighboring trailer, unheeding the fact that she was surrounded by horses, a situation in which you never, ever, run, and the girl handed me the halter guiltily, hissing “Mom, don’t run!”

  The woman stopped a short distance away. “I’ve been looking for you and you’re over here dealing with crazy horses? You have your own crazy horse to deal with, might I remind you!”

  “I’m sorry, Mom, but that’s Jules Thornton. She needed help. Her horse got spooked or something. He’s not crazy!”

  Great. Now everyone in the peanut gallery knew exactly who I was. Jules Thornton, rising star. Jules Thornton, up-and-coming young rider. Jules Thornton, Trainer, Endangers Pony Clubbers with Insane Horses. Jules Thornton, you know the one, she had the dueling working students back at Sunshine State?

  I couldn’t seem to avoid being the center of attention before I even kicked my feet into the stirrups.

  “Do you need a hand?” a sardonic voice asked, and I looked through the crowd and bit back a groan. It was Becky, standing with her arms folded, a bridle slung over one shoulder, looking as triumph
ant as I had ever seen her.

  “Becky — hey…” I felt myself blushing furiously and wanted to sink down through the grass, into the muck beneath, sink down through the dark sand and into the water table and flow away into the Everglades and never be seen again.

  Becky strode over and took Mickey’s bridle from where it was dangling from my hands, slipped it over his head and settled it snugly into place. The horse ignored her, his ears at half-mast, his eyes half-closed, and as she stepped back he let out a huge sigh, as if he was letting go of the tension which caused his anxiety attack in the first place.

  “He’s looking good. Too bad about the forelock.” Becky turned to walk away. “Good luck with him,” she called as she went, not bothering to look back.

  I watched her go as the little group of spectators dispersed, everyone back to their own horses and their own worries. People will tell you that they love horses because they are an escape from the worry of the real world, but the truth is that nothing is more worrisome than a horse.

  But Mickey seemed to have gotten himself together now. I didn’t know what happened, a spook, I guessed, but now he seemed quiet enough. Foolishly, without walking him out to see what I had, I put my boot in the stirrup and swung up into the saddle.

  Immediately, I could tell he wasn’t comfortable. Something wasn’t quite right. I could say that I expected a nice normal movement from him, but even so, his steps felt too quick somehow. He started bouncing across the parking field, lifting his legs in a gait not quite a trot and not quite a canter, but something infinitely higher and more buoyant than the two, and certainly nowhere near the nice quiet walk I would have preferred. He was growing more and more knotted up by the moment, working himself into a frenzy, and no matter how deep I tried to sit or how slowly I tried to breathe, he seemed determined to throw another fit. The worrisome bit was, I had no idea what the fit might be. He’d been so angelic at the farm. Was he a bucker, a bolter, a spinner? Or was the rearing and flipping act he’d just shown back at the trailer his favored method of rebelling?