Ace slanted a sidelong glance at his grandfather. "Then you've watched her?"
Henri shrugged. "Some."
"How?"
"Field glasses."
"Why?"
"Because when you boys said you were goin' into thoroughbreds I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. You're also better off with a filly than a colt 'cause you got two shots to make good. She could turn out to be a fast runner, but if she don't make it there you still got a broodmare, but when a colt can't run you got nothin'. But that filly's got the attitude of a runner and she's built like one too, with good muscle tone, wide feet, good length of back, and she's not a big heavy horse. She's also got sharp eyes and she's takin' in everything goin' on around her but she's not sweatin', and that's what you want."
Ace eyed Boonie's Lagnappe, who was still dancing on the end of his lead. His neck held a sheen of lather so maybe that was a strike against him. But what he lacked in composure he'd make up in size, standing a good seventeen hands, which would give him a long stride compared to the ugly filly, who couldn't be more than fifteen hands. "The filly's small," he commented. "She'd have to run twice as fast as the colt just to keep up."
"An Arab's small too and they can run a hole in the wind," his grandfather fired back.
While trying to hide his disappointment that Pépère didn't like the chestnut colt, Ace took a moment to study the filly. True, she looked like she'd just shaken off after rolling in a mud puddle, but she stood with those oversized ears straight up, head raised in a haughty pose, like she was better than the rest, and the sharp gleam in her eyes showed unusual intelligence, as if taking everything in. He had no idea what else Pépère saw, yet he didn't question that what he saw was a winner. If he'd learned only one thing about his grandfather over the years, it was that he'd been blessed with an uncanny ability to see potential in a horse where others saw a dud.
He shifted his attention to the crowd gathered at the paddock, searching out Charles Harrison, wanting to gage his position. Did the man honestly want to dump the filly, or was this race aimed at giving her a first win? Some trainers entered young horses in maiden claiming races, not to be claimed, but to get experience while racing against horses that would give them the best crack at winning the race so they could move to the next level. That could be the case. Although the claim price was low, it was high enough that most potential claimants would pass on such an unappealing horse.
Not finding Harrison among the onlookers, he was about to return his attention to the filly when he spotted Piper Harrison, whose cold glare was fixed on him. If the hard glint in her eyes had been the glint of daggers he'd be a dead man. Her response did give him his answer though. She did not want Ragamuffin to be bought out of the race, which meant the filly had potential. Still, he wasn't inclined to want to claim a horse with so many factors against her.
Returning his attention to the racing form, he scanned the figures, then made one last effort to plead a case against the filly, and try to make one for the colt, saying to his grandfather, "The chestnut colt's been moving up every race he's run, coming in third his last race, while the filly's been coming in last most races."
Henri let out a sardonic snort. "That don't mean she can't run if she's handled right. She's got the stuff to do it, I'd bet my best boots on it."
Alex braced his hands on his hips and said while eyeing the filly, "You could be right on all counts, Pépère, but I'm not convinced, so I'm passin'."
"Me too," Pike said.
"Amen," Hank added. "From what I'm lookin' at, we'd be throwin' good money after bad because if it turns out she can't run, we'd never be able to dump a horse lookin' like that."
Ace felt a rush of uncertainty. He had the money to go it alone but wasn't sure he wanted to with this runty, strange-looking filly, who came across more like an escort pony than a racehorse. But, in this filly his grandfather saw something lying dormant the rest of them didn't see, and that was enough for him. He glanced at his watch. "It's less than fifteen minutes before claims are cut off. Are you sure about this, Pépère, absolutely sure?"
Henri let out a huff. "Sure I'm sure. That filly's got a racin' machine bottled up inside she won't let out unless she's made to. Right now she's got an attitude, like racin's a game she wants to play but not by their rules. Change to her rules and on her terms and you'll give her a reason to win the game, and she will."
Ace had no idea how his grandfather would change the filly's attitude, but he was a master at reading horses' moods and knew innately how to negotiate with them their sulks, gripes and objections. Checking the tote board, he noted that the odds for Ragamuffin were 39-1, then he glanced at Piper, who continued to glare at him, a scowl on her face. Clearly she didn't want the filly to be claimed, and for some reason she seemed to have concluded that he was thinking along those lines, which maybe he was, reluctantly.
He returned his attention to his grandfather, who stood with a cryptic smile on his lips while eyeing the filly, his expression one of complete confidence, his eyes sharp with interest, like he'd discovered the next Miss Maple, a mare he'd talked about from as far back as they could remember. He'd picked Miss Maple up for practically nothing at a horse sale, and after instructing her in the finer art of intimidating her competition, she went on to win every race she ran from then on.
Realizing they were running out of time to put in a claim, he checked the tote board, noting that Ragamuffin's odds were now 44-1, then making a flash decision to go for it, he headed in a beeline to fill out a claim form for the horse almost every bettor there viewed as the least likely prospect in the lineup, a horse that could fail once again and start a descent into racing obscurity, taking with her his $5500. Then he quickly shoved aside his misgivings, focusing instead on his own words to his brothers the night before. "Samuel Riddle bought eleven yearlings at the Saratoga sale back in 1918. Ten turned out to be duds. The eleventh was Man o' War."
Ironically, the price Riddle paid for Man O' War was also $5500. Maybe a good omen?
Holding that thought, he completed the form and dropped it in the box, and by the time he returned to the paddock the horses were saddled and the trainers were giving the jockeys a leg up. After a couple of circuits around the walking ring, the horses, accompanied by their escort ponies, headed to the track and the parade to post, some walking briskly, others trotting, and ultimately, all of them jogging toward the starting gate.
Except for one homely filly who stopped to survey the crowd, until her jockey, with a short whack of his whip, reminded her why she was there.
Gazing skyward, Ace crossed himself and hoped he hadn't just made the biggest mistake in his life.
CHAPTER 2
Le Tournoi – Ville Platte, Louisiana
Dressed in a silky white tunic and hooded surco with a high-peaked cone on top, his long slender lance tucked under his arm, Ace sat on his horse while waiting for the annual jousting event to begin. He scanned the contenders, all clad in the traditional knight-like garb, all eager to race their steeds around the quarter-mile track at break-neck speeds while aiming their lances at the small metal rings dangling from seven poles set around the track. The knight with the most rings and the fastest time over the three heats would be crowned champion.
He'd been competing for years, always placing among the top contenders, and he had a line-up of trophies gathering dust to attest to his skill, though it wasn't the trophies that kept him returning year after year, but the camaraderie. With barbecue pits smoking, spectators—mostly friends and relatives of the contestants—cheered their brothers, boyfriends, fathers and cousins, with a big community feed following the event.
As he waited, he scanned the line-up of riders, recognizing most of the contenders. Not seeing a female among them, he leaned toward Logan Guidry, a fellow competitor, and said, "Rumor has it a woman's competing this year. I hope it's not true."
"It is," Logan grumbled.
Determined to not let his aggravation over
a female competing in a traditionally all-male sport affect his focus and mess up his ride, Ace said in as impassive a voice as he could muster, "Someone from around here?"
Logan let out a sardonic huff. "Yeah, your neighbor, Piper Harrison."
On hearing her name, Ace felt his temper rising, though he couldn't blame Piper for his claiming race miscalculation. He'd gambled his money on Pépère's hunch coupled with Piper's obvious displeasure that the filly might be claimed, presumably because she had potential. But taking possession of a filly that came in three lengths behind the rest of the field not only turned out to be a $5500 disaster, it was far removed from his original plan of pinhooking.
Still, Pépère had undying faith that they had a winner, and he was in the process of changing a rebellious, noncompliant filly into… Ace wasn't sure yet.
For the past two weeks the filly had been enjoying what could only be described as a high-class equine retreat. Instead of spending her days confined to a stall, except for the hour in the morning when exercising on the track as it had been at the Harrison's, the filly had the run of a long narrow pasture where she could challenge other horses over the fence, she was fed high-quality timothy hay instead of the grass hay that went to the rest of the stock, and when stabled for the night, she bedded down in a foot of fresh rice straw, where she remained stretched on her side, peacefully snoozing, until well into the morning. No pre-dawn workouts for her. No workouts at all up till this point.
Pépère also decided she needed an animal companion to defuse her surly disposition, an old-time remedy for discontented horses. Gumbo, one of their brush goats who routinely escaped the pasture, filled that need in a timely manner, befriending the filly over her stall door during one of his getaways, and the two were inseparable. But before long, Ragamuffin would have to accept a rider.
From the time she'd arrived at the ranch she'd laid her big ears flat back and nipped when being bridled, and she balked at anyone trying to saddle and mount her, so Pépère's solution was to leave her be till she settled in. Although, when he hooked her up to the walker for exercise, she willingly agreed because when she was done she'd get a portion of oats with molasses and be turned out into the paddock with Gumbo to graze, frolic or bask in the sun.
Returning his attention to the tournament, Ace again scanned the contestants, his irritation mounting as he said, "Being Piper Harrison, I'm not surprised she's horning in on an all-male tradition here since she recently got her jockey's license."
"That explains why she stands crouched in the saddle, which gets her forward over the horse's neck," Logan said. "She might have something going riding that way because she placed high at the tryouts against candidates from all over the state, so she could be a little competition."
Ace grunted in disdain. "Yeah, well, I'm not sweatin' it. Doing well in the tryouts is one thing. Headin' around a dusty track with a hooded cloak flappin' against the horse while aimin' a lance at a two-inch circle's another. It's all about grippin' with your legs while balancin' a lance and focusin' on the rings, and I doubt Piper has the strength for that."
"Except she doesn't grip with her legs because she's in a jockey crouch," Logan pointed out.
"Maybe so, but you also have to have a good horse to win, and those Harrison horses are all flighty thoroughbreds. Pray she comes in last so this'll be the end of women tryin' to act like knights, or before long, the event'll be taken over by females and we might as well hang up our capes and lances."
"Amen. As for bein' a jockey, I doubt Piper will get far," Logan said. "Exercisin' a horse in a training track's a far cry from handlin' twelve-hundred pounds of flighty, high-spirited thoroughbred in a pack of a dozen riders while racing forty miles an hour. Women don't have the strength or guts for that."
Ace wasn't so sure. "My sister-in-law, Anne, has a different take. Accordin' to her, Piper's crazy competitive. We better hope we're in top form today so we can nip this in the bud or next thing you know we'll be runnin' in a powder-puff derby instead of a jousting tournament."
Logan let out a snuffle of disgust. "You've got that right."
Eyes scanning the line-up of competitors, Ace searched out a diminutive knight clad in a hooded cape, and seeing none, he said to Logan, "It doesn't look like Piper Harrison's here so maybe she got the message and dropped out."
"Keep dreaming." A female voice came from behind.
Ace glanced around to see Piper clad in a flashy red cape imprinted with a rampant lion charge, a black tunic with a coat of arms, and a chainmail hood she must have picked up at a costume shop. Even her black mare was clad in a hooded horse trapper, also with a rampant lion charge. To say she stood out in a crowd of men wearing baggy pants and white hooded capes would be a gross understatement. "Good luck then," he clipped. "If you don't place here you can find yourself a broomstick, and come Halloween, ride it around and get to use that get up again."
A pair of hazel eyes flashed with wry humor. "Thanks, Broussard. I'll keep that in mind. Meanwhile, if you want to stay in the running you might hike up your stirrups and get your butt in the air, except you're pretty much stuck in that big old western saddle. Too bad."
Ace narrowed his eyes at her. "At least I've got a seasoned cow pony who won't balk at his shadow."
Piper let out a hoot. "I'm surprised you're talking down thoroughbreds now that you have one of ours among your cow ponies. Have you finally decided to breed a little endurance into your racing quarter horse stock?"
"That's for me to know and you to wonder." Ace turned his horse abruptly and cantered over to take his place in the lineup of contestants, wanting to put as much distance between him and a woman who had nothing going for her, in his book of females of interest, except maybe her looks, and any number of Cajun girls could match that.
For the moment though, he needed to concentrate on taking all those rings in the fastest speed of the day for the sole purpose of winning that tall impressive trophy for a very different reason this year, and camaraderie be damned.
***
Wanting to arrive at her sister's house without being seen by any of the Broussards, especially Ace, Piper left her car at home and cut across the cane field on a packed dirt roadway that separated sections of standing sugar cane. In her arms she clutched a large trophy, which was strategically hidden from view by a white plastic trash bag. On arriving at the property line, she scanned her surroundings, noticing that Joe's truck was gone, but Anne's car was parked beside the house, so Anne would be home alone.
Satisfied that she'd be able to sneak into the house unnoticed, she scurried up the porch steps and knocked. A couple minutes later, Anne opened the door, peered down at the plastic bag and moved aside for her to enter. Piper made her way around Anne's protruding belly with its precious little package inside, a baby girl they'd be naming Susanna, and setting the bag with the trophy on the dining table, she said to Anne, "Can you keep this here, maybe under your bed? I don't want Daddy to see it."
Anne walked over to the table and pulled open the mouth of the plastic bag and shoved it down, revealing a tall, impressive trophy with a double-handled cup on top. She eyed the trophy. "I take it this is what you won at the tournament. Sorry it conflicted with the baby shower. I heard you were quite the spectacle, not exactly the way to crash an all-male tournament if you don't want Daddy to know about it."
Piper eyeballed the trophy, still a little stunned she'd taken first place. "My aim was to catch Ace and old man Broussard's notice with a goal of showing them, not only can I ride with the boys, but I'm the one they need exercising Rags and riding her in her next race. You said earlier there's been no talk about hiring a jockey so all I need to do is prove I'm their best bet. But to get to that point I first have to convince Henri Broussard that I'm available for galloping his racing quarter horses since you said his exercise boy's out with a broken collarbone."
"He is, and good luck. You'll need it." Anne traced a finger along the side of the shiny cup and down the smooth walnut
pedestal with its engraved plate. "You know you won't be able to keep this from Daddy. He'll be ready to skin you alive when he finds out you rode Phantom Lady in the tournament. I assume that's the horse you rode. Joe said it was a big black mare."
"It was, but why should Daddy find out, with him and Mother and the entire barn crew away at the Fair Grounds in New Orleans until tomorrow?"
"It'll be in the newspaper. Joe said he saw someone from the paper interviewing you."
"They did, but Daddy and Mother don't take that paper. Besides, they'll be so pumped up after winning the race in New Orleans, they'll be focused on that."
"Until they learn you took Lady. I can't believe you did without running it past Daddy."
"If I'd done that he would've said no, and since he's completely against my becoming a jockey I'll never get to race any of the horses in our barn, even though I've been galloping all of them and could run any in a race. But what's done is done. I did what I set out to do and if Daddy finds out and decides to throw a tizzy fit, that's his problem."
Brows gathered as she stared at the trophy, Anne said, "Since when did you become interested in jousting?"
"I'm not, but I figured it would be a good way to get Ace's attention since he owns Rags."
Anne let out a sarcastic snort. "You did that all right and he's totally miffed he lost to a woman, and it's a double whammy since the woman happens to be a Harrison. Coming in first didn't help either because he's convinced you've opened the competition to women who'll arrive in flashy regalia like yours, all trying to out-costume each other. And if you think Ace would so much as consider letting you ride Rags, whether it's exercising or racing, think again. He's steamed because you beat him. You've got a male ego thing going with him."
"Yeah, well with all the jockeys coming and going around our place, all viewing me like I'm a leper, I know about male egos, so I'll try a different approach."
"Ace isn't a jockey. He's a cowboy. He thinks differently."
The Final Turn (Cajun Cowboys Book 2) Page 2
