Once his hunger was appeased, he wandered over to check the practice board for team assignments. He’d received only two slots, so he sought out the track steward to schedule additional times. Judging by the line forming, he wasn’t the only driver with multiple teams. Estefan attempted conversations with a couple drivers he’d seen at his end of the barn. All he got were clipped responses. Maybe acquaintances would develop when he’d appeared at more races.
No one worried about starting lines or staggered starts on practice days. Although, how the horses would react to the dropped tape couldn’t be determined. Again, he wished for those two weeks back when he handled the training at Hampton Farms. Maybe later in the day, he’d hire stable boys to hold up a rope. He lowered the leather goggles he’d commissioned from Nicolai over his eyes and checked the fit. Leaving a space between the team at the rail and his, he guided Mariposa and Bailarín into position. A clicking of his tongue set the pair he considered the best trained into motion.
A whip snapped in the air. The other team bolted forward and pulled ahead on the initial curve.
Estefan eased his team from the first over position into the pocket behind the lead sulky, and he watched his horses’ legs for pacing and strides. He planned to take this garden trip for the second and third quarters, and then he’d steer them to the outside in the last quarter mile. His plan worked, and he passed the other team about ten feet short of the finish pole, keeping them at their fastest pace until the finish was ten yards behind. Then he let them fall back to an easy trot. On other circuits, he rode at the inside rail or started staggered diagonally from another team.
Nube and Mancha didn’t handle the conditions and variables as well, but their second session was a definite improvement. By the time Estefan finished grooming them and scraping the red clay from beneath their hooves, he barely had the energy to hunt down a meal before falling onto the cot.
The next morning, he unpacked the white satin shirt Mamá sewed with the black polka dot collar and cuffs, symbolizing the most common coloring for Appaloosas. He traded his broad-brimmed beaver hat for a tight-fitting cap with a short bill. The combination of goggles and a leopard-spotted neck scarf should keep him from swallowing too much clay and muck. He’d drawn the third heat of the day, which allowed him fifteen minutes to warm up Mariposa and Bailarín with a brisk walk before harnessing them into the sulky.
When they reached the track, he struggled to keep their heads level and lined up to the starting tape. Noise from the crowd set their tails swishing, and their ears switched from being erect to lying flat. Their agitation passed through the reins to him, and his stomach cramped. After a couple deep breaths, he started singing but doubted if his notes reached them.
Within seconds of the start, he was stuck in the death hole—third position on the rail. Boxed in, he counseled himself to relax, that in the third quarter he’d maneuver into an open space. But every attempt to ease to the outside was blocked, and the team finished fifth in a field of six. Humility and chagrin warred inside him on the ride back to the barn. Sitting round-shouldered, he’d never considered his horses wouldn’t qualify for the quarter-finals.
As soon as he settled the pair into their stall, he ran to the steward to put Mancha and Nube on the waiting list for a later heat. If a team scratched, at least he could get the second pair experience in a track setting.
By mid-afternoon, fluffy white-and-gray clouds scuttled across the horizon. The humidity rose, making his clothes stick to his skin, but thankfully, no rain fell. That was a challenge he didn’t need the horses to face.
In his second race, the team showed a similar reaction to the roar of the crowd. But Estefan started singing from the moment he entered the oval. The reward was seeing their ears erect by the time they reached the starting tape. The sudden movement made the horses balk, but he quickly got them under control. This time, he drove the team on the outside of the pack, making the overall distance longer. What mattered more was that the team wouldn’t get boxed in again. Mancha and Nube finished fourth—better than the first team, but still outside of qualifying.
On the ride back to the barn, two thoughts occurred that almost stole his breath. He’d never practiced Savina’s horses around loud noises or sudden movements. Nor had he given her tips on what to watch for so she could stave off panic. But worse was the fact the names of also-rans almost never appeared in newspaper articles. His horses had to reach the finals in order for Savina to read about his progress. How arrogant he’d been and how far he’d fallen. And he had no one to lift his spirits.
~**~
Madison Square Garden, New York City
Mid-September 1887
Her arrival backstage at the venue for the Wild West exhibition had been eased by a telegram from Uncle Perry. Discovering that had lessened some of her anxiety about having to verbally present herself and her act to strangers. Just like Estefan predicted, William Cody was impressed with the appearance Clavo and Canela made. In auditions, something always went wrong. Savina had enough experience to persevere when the horses shied at a flapping banner and almost dumped her off. Her second routine went well enough for her act to be accepted into the show.
Because of the rigors of traveling across the country and wrangling the horses into an unfamiliar barn, she was exhausted and wished for a day to rest. But the Wednesday evening after her audition, her acts had two slots on the program. Her Indian Princess act came at the beginning of the second set, and the one she’d dubbed Grecian Maiden occurred two acts before the finale. That space put on the pressure because she had to ride out of the arena, get the horses back to their stall, change into her farm wife dress, and then act in the dramatic finale, “The Attack on a Settler’s Cabin.” The performance schedule was hectic, but her pay was twice what she’d received dancing at the Ming.
Now, after a week of performances, she could look back at how shaky the first few were and see how her training hadn’t been adequate for the setting. Wondering why Estefan failed to advise her around the horses’ bad reaction to noises only set her thoughts in the wrong direction. After two solid weeks of poring over every single word on the sporting pages and finding no mention of his name, she’d admitted their plan was doomed. People had to be in close proximity to develop and sustain a caring relationship.
Everything she’d read about Buffalo Bill being a flamboyant character was true. After receiving notoriety from the persona created in Ned Buntline’s dime novels, Buffalo Bill became known for his role in the stage shows titled “The Scouts of the Prairie” during the last decade. Behind the scenes, the businessman William Cody was sharp and cared about putting on a good show for the paying crowds. He was also knowledgeable about the value of quality promotional materials.
Her favorite day so far was when a photographer arrived mid-morning and didn’t leave until he captured images of all the performers, both individually and together with the casts of production numbers. Each performer received copies to distribute when they traveled outside of Manhattan. The mirrors in the communal dressing rooms were well decorated.
Today, as she donned the black braided wig that made her neck and shoulders itch, she remembered Cinnia’s mention of a similar experience. How much bigger had her pregnancy grown? Was Dorrie’s garden still producing?
“Indian Princess, five minutes. Get moving.” Joyce, the female stage manager, stood at the far end of a row of vanity tables.
Savina lifted a hand and waved. “Almost ready.” She glanced in the mirror, making sure the tinted greasepaint covered her face and neck before shoving her feet into her cowboy boots. Pushing back thoughts of the day she received them, she hurried to the stalls where Clavo and Canela waited. How much easier the process was the first week when Bud stayed. Each time she harnessed the Appaloosas, she was more efficient. Waiting offstage for her cue still raised her heart rate. Then the announcer called her act and she plastered on a smile and snapped the reins.
Lights and colors flashed by a
s she cantered into the arena with one bare foot on each of the horse’s rumps, flexing her knees to absorb their gait. Anticipating the increase in noise, she kept the reins tight and let the horses run a few extra feet before she started. This routine was more athletic, consisting of changes in positions from standing to kneeling and standing then switching to the other horse. All the while, she kept up the pantomime of a lost maiden looking for her people. Cody liked the idea of the acts telling a story, and the added hand movements were easy to add.
After tending the horses, she had about an hour before a costume change. Lingering in the communal dressing room was her favorite part of the day. She chatted with a couple of friends who she’d shared meals out with. Listening to how others spent their free time gave her ideas for places to visit. Unfortunately, not all interested her—shooting galleries, Brighton Beach, the shops on Fifth Avenue. Seeing the aquarium or riding the carousel at Coney Island sounded fascinating, but their proximity to Engeman’s Race Course only reminded her of Estefan.
Once she stepped outside her rooming house located two blocks from the arena, she grew intimidated by the too-tall buildings and always bustling crowds. Usually, she hopped on a trolley and spent time in the New York Public Library. The stone columns at the entrance reminded her of the backdrop in Cinnia’s shop. Maybe she should find out where the ballet company performed.
“Whatcha doing staring in the mirror?” Clarice tidied the items on a nearby vanity then moved to the next one.
“Thinking of a friend I left b-behind when I c-came here.” Of a different life far away. Straightening, she stared hard at her image. A life spent performing was what she wanted. She had to quit worrying what others thought of her stutter and ask to be included in their next outing. Or she needed to find friends with similar interests.
Shortly after her one month’s anniversary of being in the show, Savina arrived at the arena to get ready for the Saturday matinee.
Joyce jumped up from a nearby chair. “I need to speak with you.”
“All right.” Savina set down the bulging tote holding her make-up and accessories.
“Cody pulled the managers into the office yesterday to discuss changes in the acts.”
Changes? I’ve barely mastered my routines. “How d-does that affect me?” She slumped into a chair. “Mister C-Cody seemed so p-pleased at my audition.”
“What other stunts can you do? Audiences want to see new things and exciting acts.”
“Stunts? Like what?” Her throat grabbed, and she swallowed hard.
“Well, the arena is a large space.” Joyce frowned and glanced down at a notepad in her lap. “Management thinks your moves are too restrained. Can you do them bigger? Do you know how to shoot arrows? The Indian Princess and a bow and arrows seem like a good fit.”
So I’d hold the reins in my teeth? “And stay atop the horses?” Her stomach clenched. Thoughts of how she or the horses could be hurt rambled through her mind.
“Can you do flips?” Joyce waved her pudgy hands in the air. “Now that would be spectacular for you to do something like a cartwheel or a back flip.”
Savina stiffened. I’m not a trained dog. If she could do one, would she even land on a moving horse? Two of the set pieces the show was famous for—“The Attack on a Settler’s Cabin” and “The Attack on the Deadwood Stagecoach”—hadn’t changed since the show opened four years earlier. With a stiff smile in place, she nodded. “I will start p-practicing tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Savina. That’s what Management likes to hear.”
Shaking her head, Savina dropped her face into her hands. This request had dampened her zeal for performing. What was the limit of her activity on their backs that Clavo and Canela would accept? Would the training saddle assist her to learn new moves? Might her extra efforts reinjure her foot, possibly permanently? Estefan had been so knowledgeable and provided solid advice. She needed that confidence right now. If only she’d asked him to teach her the song he used to calm the horses.
~**~
Early October
Estefan stood in line at Madison Square Garden, ticket in hand for the Saturday matinee performance. He looked around at the crowd of people streaming into the arena. Not as many as at a harness race, but an impressive number of attendees. Once he claimed his seat, he almost recoiled from the noise of this many people packed close together, talking and laughing. At least at the race tracks, the spectators were in grandstands twenty feet or so away.
Two races had come and gone without his teams reaching the finals. Mariposa and Bailarín made the semis in Goshen, New York, but he needed them to do better. He’d been training hard for the past few days at Freehold Raceway where the next race was scheduled. Being so close in New Jersey convinced him not to pass up this opportunity to see Savina.
An announcer called the first act, and Estefan barely registered a sharpshooter’s tally of target hits. These weeks apart proved how much he’d relied on her upbeat support while on the ranch. His whole body ached with how much he missed her. Finally, he heard the Indian Princess announced and scooted forward in his seat. At the sight of a woman with black braids, he figured the rider wasn’t her…until he recognized his horses. Clavo and Canela looked steady enough.
What is she doing with the reins in her mouth? Since when does she do archery? His hands clenched into fists around the printed program. Those hand movements and hops between the horses previously hadn’t been in the act. Before he’d seen enough to analyze her control of the horses, she disappeared off stage.
Knowing she’d practiced two types of routines, he flipped through the program to locate a mention of another trick riding act and found it in the second act. Waiting through the other acts was torture until the announcer proclaimed the Grecian Maiden. The routine he remembered watching had been graceful and fluid. This series of actions were jerky, like she forced her limbs into flamboyant gestures and multiple jumps without making them connected.
From the crowd sailed a white object that landed in the ring ahead of the horses. They darted toward the center to avoid it.
Estefan tensed, his heart rate pounding in his ears.
Savina dropped to her knees to stay on then arched her back and added a big sweep of her arm before struggling to stand again. The pair ran around half of the arena before Savina’s movements looked like she’d regained control. Then she did an intricate change of positions to move in a circle from facing front then to the back and returning to facing front.
At the first stiff action of her next move, he jumped to his feet and ran down the stairs to the railing. He’d spotted her wide frightened gaze and knew she was about to test the limit of her abilities.
Savina crouched on Canela’s rump, facing backward, and slowly reclined until she laid flat, one leg raised with toe pointing matched by the opposite arm.
Crazy woman. She had no way to correct her position or save herself from falling if the horse took a false step.
“Sir! Do I have to escort you back to your seat?”
Estefan turned toward the stern voice to connect gazes with a scowling guard who stood with thick arms crossed. “No need. I’m leaving.” He stayed in sight of the arena until he saw her move into a safe position and a smile returned to her face. As soon as he got his temper under control, he’d go in search of the dressing rooms and find out what she thought she was doing.
Ten minutes later, after a long walk and a glass of lemonade, he located the backstage area and sent someone to inform her she had a visitor. At his first sight of her as she stepped through a partially opened curtain, he sucked in a breath. Still as lovely as ever. “Over here, Savina.”
She turned and her eyes shot wide. Then she skipped across the five feet separating them, her garment trailing behind her, and wrapped her arms around his back. “Estefan.” She nestled her head under his chin, shoulders shaking.
Having her in his embrace eased the tension from his muscles. “Mi mariposa.” Her body felt so frail un
der the filmy costume that floated with every movement.
“Oh.” She leaned back and cupped a hand on his cheek. “You’re so thin.”
“No one leaves me sandwiches after my practices.” He ran a hand over her hair and inhaled her spicy orange scent. “How I’ve missed you.”
With a sigh, she melted against his chest. “Me, too. D-did I wish you here when I needed you most?”
The sensation of her hands moving up and down his back was wonderful. “I came because I couldn’t stay away any longer.” He loosened his hold so he could lift her chin and gaze into her green eyes. Into eyes that pooled with unshed tears. “Tell me what’s happened.”
“You saw b-both p-performances?” Her chin pressed against his hold.
Turning away wasn’t a choice here. He wouldn’t let her hide. “I did. Talk to me.”
“The horses are wonderful, Estefan. Many p-people have c-complimented their looks and c-conformation.” She brought up a hand between their bodies and adjusted his collar.
“Go on.”
“I was so h-happy the first month. Then everything c-changed.” Her shoulders slumped. “Management wants b-bigger and showier acts. Stunts more than routines.” She blinked hard and cleared her throat. “B-but I d-don’t know what the horses c-can d-do, and I know nothing about training Clavo and Canela right. I d-don’t want to harm them or myself out of ignorance. T-tonight I c-could b-barely force myself to d-do the last trick, b-because I was so afraid of falling.”
The tremble in her voice brought a lump to his throat. “I saw that in your posture and wanted to jump into the arena to help. The way I see things, you have only one question to ask yourself.”
“What?” She bit her lip as she met his stare.
“Do you still enjoy performing? Is this act the one you want to perform?”
A single tear slid down her cheek. Shaking her head, she sniffled. “What they’re asking might b-be g-good for the audience. B-but it’s not what I envisioned when I d-developed the routine. I wanted to perform with g-grace and b-beauty, not flash.”
Montana Sky_Hearts In Rhythm Page 9
