Silks and Sand

by K. Rowe

  Silks

  and

  Sand

  By

  K. Rowe

  Copyright 2013 by K. Rowe

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine, journal, or online.

  The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

  First printing.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 10: 978-1481130035

  ISBN 13: 148113003X

  Sturgeon Creek Publishing

  Editing: Joyce M. Gilmour

  www.editingtlc.com

  Facebook: K. Rowe-Author

  Acknowledgments

  John Porter, John Carey, and George Farr of T.C. Westmeath Stud, Ontario, Canada for the use of War Cry for War Monger’s sire.

  War Cry

  Ben Huffman, racing secretary for Keeneland and Churchill Downs racetracks.

  Thank you for your time and assistance in helping to make this project as accurate as possible.

  1

  Galloping around the racetrack was all Tom Christmas ever wanted to do. It was in his blood, it was in his pedigree. His father and grandfather were champion jockeys. He grew up with the sweet smell of hay, the tangy scent of sweaty horses, and the beautiful blue grass of Kentucky. He was on course to become the greatest jockey ever, but it wasn’t meant to be.

  Now, sitting on an old a track pony just inside the rail, Tom watched the morning workouts. He was trainer for Evan Stoddard of Stoddard Stables. Having grown up with Evan, the two men shared much in common. Tom’s father, Tim, worked for Edward, Evan’s father. And so it had been for at least four generations. The Stoddards and Christmases were twined into one horseracing dynasty. When the horses were winning, everyone was happy; when they weren’t, things got quiet between them.

  The air was cool—far too cool for early April. A heavy frost gathered on the newly sprouted clover and a thin layer of fog hung low on the exercise track. As a horse galloped by, Tom looked at his stopwatch. “Ah, good, Bradley, ease up and let him breeze another quarter,” he hollered over the sound of pounding hooves.

  “Okay!” he replied. The bay colt he rode huffed steam from its nose like a dragon. Tucking the watch in his coat pocket, Tom took off his ball cap and ran his fingers through his short, sandy brown hair. Elsewhere on the track, the other grooms, Miguel de Luna and Tito Vasquez, worked some of the younger horses. The track pony shifted its weight. Tom reached down and gave the old chestnut gelding a pat on the neck. “Hang in there, Rusty, morning’s almost over.”

  “So, how’s Ziggy doing?” Evan asked, resting his arms on the rail.

  “Good, good. Should have him ready for the meet at Charles Town.”

  “Too late for Keeneland.”

  “Yup, but he won’t disappoint you,” Tom said.

  “Excellent,” he replied, rubbing his hands together. Evan didn’t normally spend much time watching horses work. His job, as owner, was pairing the right horse to the right race, hoping for a win. He didn’t deal with the cold particularly well.

  Standing about six feet tall, Evan was a bit on the lanky side; his rugged good looks, dark brown hair, with eyes to match left many women swooning. Still considered a prime target in his late thirties, he enjoyed the attention he received at the track. And he dressed for the occasion: normally a smart business suit, and sometimes boasting a fedora. The women flocked to him. When it was all over, he happily came home to his beautiful wife, Susanne.

  But today, Evan found himself quite underdressed for the weather. He wore jeans, paddock boots, a red plaid flannel shirt, and a lightweight gray jacket. “How about Lost Wanderer?”

  “He’s coming along slow after that tendon injury. I’d lay him up another month.”

  “Okay.”

  “Daddy? Can I ride Rusty with Mr. Tom?” a squeaky little voice said. Evan looked down and saw his seven-year-old daughter, Cindy. She was a picture of tiny beauty, a miniature version of her mother. Her silky blonde hair fell in curls about her neck and shoulders; her bright blue eyes sparkling even in the early morning light.

  “Uh, you need to ask Tom, honey.”

  She lifted her head. “Mr. Tom, can I ride Rusty with you?”

  “Sure, but he’s only heading back to the barn. His old bones are tired of chasing down youngsters.” He reached and offered his hand. Evan ducked under the rail and helped Cindy into the saddle, putting her in front of Tom.

  “Can I steer him?” She tried to get the reins out of his hands.

  “Hold on a minute; we need to wait for the other horses.” Tom held the reins out of her reach. He knew she loved to ride, and wondered why her father hadn’t bought her a pony.

  Evan stood next to the old gelding, petting his neck. “Hey, I’m going to Toronto in a couple weeks.”

  “Gonna check out the Woodbine meet?”

  “Yeah. And I was gonna look at a few yearlings before the Keeneland sale.”

  “That’s in September. Gotta ways to go. Most of the young’uns are still out in the fields covered in mud.”

  “Oh, that’s okay.”

  “Evan, remember, we have a deal. You said you wouldn’t make any decisions without consulting me.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. I’m just going to look.”

  Toronto in late April might as well have been Antarctica in the dead of winter. Evan shivered and pulled his coat closer around his neck. He cursed himself for coming here.

  Driving to the track, he swore he saw a few patches of snow. Now as he stood not far from the rail, the afternoon sun did little to warm him. No, he’d never survive in this country, he mused, rubbing his fingers through his gloves. Kentucky winters were bad enough.

  The numbness in his fingers persisted. Evan thought about calling it a day. He’d seen two races and wasn’t particularly impressed with the horses or the jockeys. Tomorrow, he’d venture to one of the stud farms and see a crop of yearlings. He wasn’t feeling very hopeful about the prospects; for some reason, there seemed to be a lack of good horses right now.

  As the third race of the day was announced, the trumpet sounded, and the horses came onto the track. Evan looked at the race card, a $70,000 allowance race for fillies and mares.

  He studied the names and particulars of each horse: age, sire, dam, breeder, owner, and jockey. Horse racing was a gamble for everyone. The breeder gambled that pairing the correct stallion (the sire) and the correct mare (the dam), would produce a wonder horse. In reality, less than 10 percent of the foals would go on to greatness. The owners gambled, hoping their horse was ready to run and win. The jockeys gambled with their lives—piloting one thousand pound animals at forty miles an hour in close company. And the track patrons happily gambled with their money.

  Evan watched the horses. One in particular got his interest, a bay filly named Innittowinnit. Her sire happened to be a past winner of the Kentucky Derby and Preakness—two of the three jewels in American racing’s Triple Crown. No small feat for any horse; he was beaten by a nose in the Belmont.

  Yes, this was a horse to keep an eye on, Evan thought as he focused on the jockey’s silks and tried to memorize the owner’s colors. As the horse passed, he noticed something odd—a ginger colored ponytail poking out the back of the jockey’s helmet. He looked at the race program and saw the name: G. de Veoux. G? G who? he pondered. G evidently stood for girl in this case.

  The horses were loaded into the starting gate. Evan kept his eyes on number three: Innittowinnit.
She stood quietly in the starting gate, looking down the track—a good sign. The bell sounded, the gates flung open, and a dozen horses bolted away. A blur of colors passed the stands, the thunder of hooves barely audible over the roar of the crowd.

  Evan held his small binoculars to his eyes. Innittowinnit took an early lead and appeared strong. The race, at a mile and a sixteenth, meant the jockeys needed to ride their mounts with tactical precision. Let a horse run too fast and you had nothing left for the homestretch. Let a horse cruise along, and you risked getting tangled up in the pack, unable to get free. Evan noticed the jockey for Innittowinnit kept the filly in good position. They’d dropped to third in the backstretch, but that had little consequence.

  As the horses rounded the turn into the homestretch, Evan saw the filly Innittowinnit in excellent position. The jockey had a left-handed whip, nudging the filly away from the rail and into open sand. They looked to finish strong.

  “Go! Go!” he shouted, happily getting caught up in the moment. Around him everyone hollered at the top of their lungs. “Come on!” he cheered even louder.

  The horses had less than two hundred yards to the finish line. Innittowinnit held on, maybe she’d pull it out right at the end, Evan thought, his numb fingers crossed. The filly was now second. Just as the jockey raised her whip, the horse on her right veered away from a right-handed whip and cut her off.

  To add insult, the horse on her left gave no ground, so Innittowinnit was jostled roughly between horses. Evan held his breath. Most collisions on race tracks amounted to nothing—except some angry jockeys. But on occasion, a horse would get bumped and charge up behind another, clipping its heels. And that was what happened. Innittowinnit clipped heels with the horse in front and stumbled.

  Evan watched in horror as the horse’s front legs seemingly disappeared from under her. It would end up being a terrible wreck. The rest of the field bore down behind them. Innittowinnit would go down, the jockey thrown, and both would cause a chain reaction, taking down more of the field.

  But to Evan’s utter amazement, it didn’t happen. He watched the jockey pull on the reins and seemingly get the filly’s legs back, and after an awkward few strides, they were running.

  Somehow, they finished third. Evan was quite impressed. How any jockey could manage to turn a nearly devastating event into a decent showing amazed him. He’d been around tracks long enough and seen some of racing’s best jockeys end up in hospital for less. This jockey piqued his interest.

  Making his way toward the back of the grandstand, Evan found the jockey’s dressing room. It was, of course, guarded by a particularly menacing security guard. Evan didn’t mind waiting; he’d checked the race card and it appeared the female jockey didn’t have any other races that day.

  “Hello,” Evan said politely to the security guard.

  “May I help you, Sir?”

  “Yes, is there a way I can speak to one of the jockeys?”

  “I can ask.” He opened the door and stuck his head in. After a few words with someone inside, he turned. “Who do you wanna speak to?”

  “Umm, this one.” He pointed to the race program. “G. de Veoux.”

  “All right.” The guard turned back to the door. Evan could hear some of what he was saying. “Okay, she’s getting dressed; she’ll be out shortly.”

  “Thank you, thank you very much.” Evan found a small spot of sunshine near the door. He didn’t think he’d ever thaw out. Could any place be so cold? He decided that when finished with business, he’d find some sort of outdoor clothier and purchase long underwear. Tomorrow would be spent looking at yearlings, so he figured he had better have warmer clothes.

  A few minutes later, a very petite, nicely dressed woman appeared in front of Evan. “Oui? Vous m'avez demandé, le monsieur?” she said in a very thick French-Canadian accent.

  His jaw fell open slightly. She was beautiful. Standing perhaps 5’2” with ginger hair and brilliant green eyes, Evan thought she looked like an oversized doll that his daughter would play with. His heart began to beat faster and he had to remind himself that he was a happily married man. But this little doll was a total knockout.

  He tried to say something back. “Je…suis…désolé...Je que...ne fait pas... parle le français.”

  The woman threw back her head and laughed. “It is okay, Monsieur, I speak English.”

  Evan let out a rather audible sigh and smiled. “Thank God, because my French is terrible!” He struggled to pull off a glove. “Uh, I’m Evan Stoddard from Stoddard Stables, Lexington, Kentucky.”

  She took his hand, noting that despite his gloves, they were ice cold. “Ginger de Veoux of Toronto.”

  “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “Would you like to go someplace warm? Your hands are like ice.”

  “Yes, please! I don’t really like the cold.”

  She giggled and led him to a small restaurant. Once inside, Evan felt more comfortable. They were seated at a table. “So, Monsieur, why do you wish to speak to me? Do you have a horse here that needs a jockey?”

  “Well, I have quite a few horses; unfortunately, none of them are here.” He took off his gloves and coat. “I saw you in the third race—”

  “Oh, that was a tough one.”

  “I don’t know how you managed to keep that horse on her feet.” He picked up the menu and perused it. “By all accounts, you both should have gone down.”

  “I ride with my senses.” She pointed to her head. “And most of the time it’s the brain that tells me what to do long before I know what’s going on…I guess you could say I ride by instinct.”

  “Fascinating. It serves you well.”

  The waiter came by and took their orders. Evan eased back in the chair. He still couldn’t believe someone so beautiful rode race horses for a living. “Uh, I don’t wanna sound too personal, but as a woman, do you get many rides?”

  “Not as many as I’d like. Some owners dislike female jockeys; they feel we’re not tough enough, or strong enough.” She reached her hand across the table. “Take my hand.”

  Evan was hesitant. He still fought the battle inside, and he feared anything would drive him mad when it came to this woman. No, no, this is purely business, he thought, you have a beautiful, loving wife at home, and a wonderful daughter; this is just business. He reached and took her hand. Ginger squeezed with all her might.

  “Christ!” Evan gasped.

  She held his hand in a death-grip for a moment before releasing. “See, I’m strong.”

  “I’d say.” He took his hand back, rubbing it. “Look, I know most jockeys have agents and ride for various owners, but I was wondering if you’d be interested in riding for me?”

  “Interesting proposal.” She took a sip of water and sat back, lacing her fingers together. “And you would have enough horses to keep me employed?”

  “Uh, probably not. I have twelve that are runners, and ten that are in training to start this year.”

  “Not a very big stable.”

  “No, but it’s an old one, founded in the mid-eighteen hundreds by my great-great-grandfather.”

  “Mmm, history, and a special place in your heart.”

  Evan nodded. “Indeed.” He unwrapped his silverware, placing the napkin in his lap. “To be fair, of course, I wouldn’t expect you to ride exclusively for me—just when I have horses running.”

  “And I would move to Kentucky?”

  “That would make things much easier…I even have a guesthouse you could use.”

  “This all sounds very attractive, Monsieur Stoddard, but I will have to give it some thought.”

  He fished around in the pocket of his blazer, finding a business card. “I’ll be in town for a few more days; my cell phone number is on there. Please, call me if you wish to do business.”

  2

  The next morning felt only a bit warmer than the previous day, and now a steady rain pelted down as Evan navigated to the stud farm. “What was the name of that place?” h
e said, grabbing a slip of paper. “T.C. Westmeath Stud Farm.”

  With some difficulty, he located it, and found a place to park. He got out, and was met by a small, older gentleman.

  “Good morning, you must be Mr. Stoddard,” he said with a light French accent, offering his hand.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Jean Mércod, the breeding manager.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “So you’d like to look at some yearlings?” Jean guided Evan inside a small office. An old potbelly stove in the corner kept the room toasty warm.

  Evan pulled a list from his pocket. “I’d like to see these horses, if possible.”

  Jean took the list and read over it. “Fine selections, Mr. Stoddard.”

  “Well, this’s been a family business for over one hundred years; I take my job seriously.”

  “Yes, it appears so…Uh, would you care for a cup of tea before we head out?”

  He pondered the thought. Yes, he was still dreadfully cold. “That’d be lovely.”

  “Right, lemme put the kettle on.” Jean grabbed an old cast-iron teakettle, went to the sink, and ran water into it. “Won’t take long to boil, stove’s quite hot.” He set the kettle on top of the stove and took two mugs from the shelf. “How do you like your tea?”

  Evan chuckled. “Well, normally it’s iced with loads of sugar. But on a day like this, I think I’ll have it hot with lots of sugar!”

  They laughed.

  “Any cream?” Jean asked.

  “Hmm, never had it that way.”

  “Would you care to try?”

  “Sure. I’m up for an adventure.” He eased himself into an overstuffed chair closest to the stove. Oh, the warmth felt good.

  They drank tea and discussed horses, breeding, and bloodlines. When the mugs were empty, Jean escorted Evan out to the barn where the farm stallions were housed. Five lovely heads looked over stall doors.