“I’m thinking maybe we should have gotten a puppy a long time ago.” Jake kept his voice low. Frog twitched a little in her sleep.
“Yeah, if we’re not careful, she’ll wind up being his dog. We’ll have to fight for her,” Rich whispered back.
“Hostile takeover.”
Rich snickered.
There were worse ways to spend an evening.
The morning of the cross-country phase of Jersey Fresh dawned bright and clear. New Jersey was a little behind the mid Atlantic in terms of spring; as late as the end of April, there had been some light snow. But the ground was just right for cross-country, and the mild temperatures had horses on their toes and ready to leap out of their skins.
It was a perfect day for eventing.
The only thing that could make it better was if Tom were there too.
His father had surprised Jake by not only showing up but asking questions as well.
“I don’t understand,” his dad had said that morning at breakfast. “Why are you going to continue to compete Kryptonite when he turned in such a poor performance yesterday?”
Jake had sipped his black coffee and said nothing. He was already getting into the headspace for the rides the day and didn’t want to argue with his father.
“Because anything can happen in cross-country,” Rich had said, placing a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of Jake. “Kryptonite might be in twenty-ninth place now, but he’s a good cross-country horse and can move up significantly in the standings if others have a bad day. Believe me, even the best horse-and-rider combination can have a bad day cross-country. Then there’s the stadium jumping, which takes an entirely different level of control and skill. He’s not out of the running just yet.” Pushing the plate closer to Jake, he added, “Eat, eat.”
“You sound like Mrs. Claus in one of those Christmas specials. ‘No one likes a skinny Santa,’” Jake said, imitating the animated character he remembered from his childhood.
“You need protein to keep up your energy.” Rich scowled at him. “Eat.”
“So you’re saying we want bad things to happen to the other riders?” His father looked slightly shocked. It surprised Jake. He would have thought his dad would be all over the concept of making good on the misfortune of others.
“No, not at all,” Rich tried to explain. “It’s just that it ain’t over ’til it’s over. As long as Kryptonite doesn’t get eliminated, he still has a shot at moving up. Maybe not into the medals, but a decent enough showing that he’s still in consideration for the team.”
“But Pegasus is doing well? She’s in second place right now, correct?”
Jake knew he must be grinning like an idiot, but the dressage test he’d completed with The Moose the day before had been like a dream. She’d been elegance personified, and the eventing community was buzzing with her praise. It had rankled just a little that some had speculated that the change in trainers had been the reason The Moose was showing so well lately. There might be some truth to that, but not in the way most people thought. Her training had remained the same under Rich as it had been with Tom. It was Jake who was no longer babying her, thanks to Rich.
“Very well,” Jake murmured into his coffee.
His father’s lack of knowledge of the sport he’d funded for so long became even more apparent when he commented that ten minutes didn’t seem that long to him, not enough to prove the mettle of horse and rider.
“The Kentucky Derby is a mile and a quarter. The Belmont is a mile and a half. These horses are galloping anywhere between two and three miles and the terrain isn’t flat. They’re also jumping up to thirty to forty obstacles as well. Believe me, this is an extreme test of the athleticism of both horse and rider.” Rich seemed slightly offended, though he tried his best to hide it.
After a breakfast Jake hadn’t wanted but knew he needed to eat, they went down to the stables. His dad continued to show both his ignorance and his interest with his questions.
“Why are you putting that on her?” he asked as the Angels slathered heavy grease down the fronts of The Moose’s legs to prep for her turn on course.
“The fences are pretty solid for the most part,” Rich said. “The grease can protect their legs as they go through a brush jump, or help them slip over a fence where they might otherwise catch.”
“Catch?” His father’s brow furrowed and he looked decidedly unhappy.
“It’ll be okay,” Jake assured him.
The closer they got to the time to head over to the course, the more his dad showed signs of tension. It was there in the way he gripped his binoculars and in the tight set of his mouth. His questions were less out of curiosity and became ones of concern.
“I’ve been listening to some of the other competitors here.” He held a rolled-up program in his hands, which he had crushed in the middle. “This course is supposed to be tricky, with lots of turns and not many straightaways. Didn’t you once say turning Pegasus was like trying to turn an aircraft carrier? I thought at one point you were going to call her Inertia.”
Rich snorted.
Jake was surprised his father had remembered. “She’s a bit of a freight train, but she’s a lot more responsive than she used to be. You’re thinking of her when I first got her as a four-year-old.”
“I just can’t help thinking of that event last month overseas. The horse crushed its young rider, killing her instantly, and had to be put down due to its own injuries.” For the first time in Jake’s memory, his father looked his age. There were dark circles under his eyes, and it appeared as though he hadn’t slept well the night before.
“Enough of that.” Rich reached for his dad as though to steer him away.
His father frowned and jerked his arm out of reach before Rich could take hold.
“This is not the time for this discussion, Mr. Stanford,” Rich snapped. “Rotational falls, the ones that are the most dangerous because the horse flips, are down fifty-seven percent, and the course designers—”
“Rich.” Jake stopped him with a raised hand and turned to his dad. “You’re right, Father. That was a terrible accident. The whole sporting community was just sick about it. Every time something like that happens, we question if we’re being crazy and reckless by competing at this level. Or even riding at all. I don’t know if I can explain it to you, but when you’re one with the horse—when you’re a team—it’s the best feeling in the world. None of us would trade that for anything. We know the risks. We choose to take them.”
“Not to mention, you run a greater risk driving the Beltway every day,” Rich added.
His dad exchanged a long, unreadable look with Rich before he faced Jake again. “Your mother used to say the same thing whenever I worried for her safety. And then something entirely different killed her in the end.” He took a deep breath. “You’re right. Go have a good ride.”
Jake hesitated. That little speech was so out of character for his father he wanted to say something, but he had no idea what.
“You need to get going.” Rich nodded to Becky, who handed Jake the reins. “I’ll walk you out to the start box and then meet you at the finish line.” He shot a dark look full of unspoken meaning to Becky.
She cleared her throat and said, “If you’ll come with me, Mr. Stanford, I’ll show you the best place to watch.”
“He’s not going to be able to see most of the course.” Jake watched Becky expertly guide his father away. He tossed the reins over The Moose’s head so he could mount her.
Rich stepped in beside him. With his cane hooked over his wrist, he offered his cupped hands so Jake could get a leg up. Jake accepted the aid and sprang lightly into the saddle.
“No, but she’ll take him to the spot where he can see the approach into the water and the far turn for home on the other side of the loop, and then make sure he gets to the finish line when you’re done. Now put your father out of your mind. Concentrate on The Moose.”
Which was good advice, as his
mare did a little jig, impatient with the slow walk to the starting area. He could feel her practically float along underneath him, showing the natural elevation that made her such a joy to ride in the dressage ring. Her excitement was contagious, but he had to remember that for all her ability, she was still relatively new to competing at this level. He couldn’t take anything for granted.
They warmed up as usual, cantering some wide, looping circles before taking the practice jumps a few times. He walked her up to the start box, making sure to stay clear of the other riders getting ready for their run.
The wheeling melee of horses, riders, and spectators had a celebratory feel, as though they were at a fair. Most of the riders had their own colors they chose to ride under, which added to the festive air. Jake checked to make sure his number was visible on his armband. The show penny that went over his head and shoulders had an even bigger version of his number, and he straightened it as they trotted in a circle around the box.
Over the loudspeaker, an announced called out the next-to-go order. “Up next in thirty seconds, Conner O’Riley on Bently’s Irish Spring. On deck, Jake Stanford on Pegasus.”
Irish Spring, a big dapple gray gelding that reminded Jake of Puddle Jumper, entered the start box, spinning on his hindquarters and half rearing as the announcer counted down from five and the buzzer punctuated each word with a short tone. When the announcer reached one, he stopped counting, and the next second a long tone sounded. Horse and rider exploded out of the start box, headed for the first fence.
Jake continued walking The Moose. There was no sense in getting her ramped up; the two of them would have to wait until Irish Spring was far enough along that they wouldn’t collide should the previous horse ahead on course run into trouble. If there was a problem, Jake would be signaled to halt, and the clock would be stopped on his run until he could safely finish the course.
That wasn’t going to happen though. This event was his to win. He could feel it in his bones.
Before he knew it, the warning buzzer sounded. He walked The Moose into the start box. She was alert but not out of control. Her ears swiveled as she took in the crowd, and she shifted her feet nervously. He could feel the bundled energy beneath him and knew it was his to command. He patted her neck. “We’ve got this, babe.”
An ear flicked back in his direction. She settled to wait out the countdown.
At the long tone, he closed his legs around the barrel of her body and clucked. She leapt forward as though released from a cage, thundering down to the first fence with a song in her heart that echoed in his.
As usual, the first couple of fences weren’t too challenging. They cantered down to them easily, getting a feel for the course laid out before them.
The course designer wasn’t interested in giving them an easy run, however. New elements had been added since the last time Jake had ridden at Jersey Fresh, and the twisting turns took every ounce of concentration to keep The Moose on track. Narrow fences encouraged a run-out to the side. Fences set in combination with odd angles did the same. These fearsome jumps would make even a seasoned campaigner take a second look, but The Moose made it all seem easy, coming down to every combination as though she’d schooled it a thousand times. Jake couldn’t remember when he’d had a better run, and he found himself cantering down to each element calling out, “Go, go, go!”
The Moose met each obstacle with a kind of joie de vivre Jake hadn’t felt in years, not since the early days with Puddle Jumper. They took a wide oxer in stride as though it were a cardboard box and then neatly navigated a tricky one-stride combination. A hairpin turn required Jake to sit up and haul back on the reins to get The Moose to make the corner, but he loosened them again on the straightaway, taking advantage of her enormous stride length to eat up the ground before he had to contain her again.
A combination of fences had them jumping a hogsback and then a ditch, before galloping down to a hedge that had a small opening in the center that they had to clear. Jake clapped a hand on The Moose’s neck as they successfully navigated that set of obstacles, and then he took hold of the reins as they made another sharp turn. The Moose showed no signs of tiring and they were within shouting distance of the optimum time. Things couldn’t have been going better.
A more superstitious person might have questioned how well they were doing, but despite a lifetime of competitive riding, Jake wasn’t particularly prone to such worries.
He should have known better.
A long downhill slope had The Moose strung out and galloping flatly as they approached an intimidating oxer designed to look like a chess board, complete with a giant king and queen piece flanking each side. He needed to check her back to collect her for the leap, but she was having none of it, shaking her head and refusing to bow to the bit, coming at the fence with her head nearly sideways.
In desperation, he sat back and hauled back on the reins, letting her go at the last second so she could make the jump. She leapt large, throwing him out of the saddle. He landed with a thump halfway up her neck. She galloped on.
The jar of the landing rattled his teeth. Clinging to the side of her neck, he pushed himself upright, only something went wrong. The grass and sky spun around him, and he clutched at her mane, trying to regain his balance.
The Moose faltered, sensing his imbalance, and he struggled to regain his seat, squeezing his legs to urge her forward. He had roughly 116 meters before the next element to get his shit together. She was giving him her all—he would not fail her now. Beating down the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him, he urged her on with a hoarse yell, bearing down on the next set of fences. They cleared a set of brushes to the cheers of the crowd, who had no idea how hard he struggled to remain on board.
They were so close to the finish. Elements twenty-nine A, B, and C had been notorious throughout the day, bringing ruin to many a winning dream. If he could just hang on a bit longer…. The Moose came up a long uphill run, blowing with every stride as she headed toward the combination.
Anyone with a modicum of sense would stop the run. There was no way he could maintain his balance; he didn’t even know which way was up. Stopping a horse in the middle of a cross-country run was practically impossible though. The Moose’s blood was up. Her competitive spirit was engaged. She was going for it. All he had to do was hang on. If he could just stick tight a bit longer, they’d be finished. He’d worry about the rest of the competition tomorrow.
She felt his lack of direction, his absence from the team. Instead of hurdling down to the series of jumps, she bobbled. He closed his legs on her sides and she leapt forward but slowed once more, uncertain and concerned.
Though he hated doing it, he brought the crop down with a resounding crack on her side. Again she jumped forward but quickly faltered when another horse would have continued running flat-out. She broke from a canter into a trot on the approach to the combination, and came to a halt just in front of the first fence. When she stopped, he fell onto her neck and clung to her mane, hoping the vertigo would ease soon and that he wouldn’t actually vomit on camera. The Moose curled her head back to snuffle gently at his face.
He stroked her neck, grateful she was smart enough for the two of them.
Knowing he had to move off course out of the way of the next competitor, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, but the world spun in circles, and he slipped sideways off his horse. He landed on his hands and knees, and rolled to one side to lie faceup, staring at the slowly drifting clouds. The Moose dropped her head and nosed him.
Once again, Donald found himself waiting in a hospital to find out what was wrong with someone he loved. At least this time Jake hadn’t been hurt, not as far as he could tell. He’d been standing near the finish line listening to Evans give a blow-by-blow account of Jake’s run when Evans had sucked his breath in sharply.
“What?” Donald had asked, but by this time, he could see for himself. Pegasus had broken gait, coming to a halt in front of the second to l
ast combination, and Jake had slithered out of the saddle onto the ground.
Evans was on the move toward Jake before the jump judges could blow their whistle and call for the next horse on course to pull up, running with a halting stride toward one of the officials in a golf cart.
“I’m his coach. Take me to him.” Evans demanded entry into the cart. Before Donald could catch up, the cart zipped away. Donald knew he’d have to wait to find out what had happened and if Jake was all right.
Being abandoned like that had made him feel angry and helpless, but before he could figure out his own way onto the course, his phone had chirped.
Find Becky and have her come get The Moose.
How Evans had gotten his number, he didn’t know or care. All he knew was that he had something useful to do, and for that, he was grateful.
Evans had also given him updates along the way. Jake is okay, just dizzy. Taking him to the hospital to get checked out. Evans texted him with the name of the nearest local hospital and where Donald could find them when he got there.
He hated to admit it, but he was glad Evans was competent at his job and compassionate enough to keep him informed.
Evans was angry too. It was clear he didn’t like for one moment what the doctor who’d examined Jake had to say.
“What do you mean, benign positional vertigo? There’s nothing benign about it!”
The doctor ignored Evans and spoke primarily to Jake and Donald. “We will, of course, do an MRI to rule out other causes, especially since Mr. Stanford here rides horses, but I suspect we’re dealing with BPV.”
“What exactly are we talking about?” Donald asked.
The doctor, who looked every bit as young as Jake, shrugged. “There are crystals in the inner ear that respond to gravity and regulate balance. Sometimes they become dislodged and move into the semicircular canal. This makes you sensitive to changes in head position when you normally would not be affected by it. Have you had a blow to your head recently?” He directed the question at Jake.
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