Song of the Spirits (In the Land of the Long White Cloud saga)

by Lark, Sarah

  But the paddock for the horse race formed the main attraction, and people had begun to camp out there several hours ahead of time. Many of those wanting to place bets would wait until the last minute to choose the horse and rider they considered most likely to win. The start and finish lines were located right in front of the mine entrance, as was the improvised betting office. It was being managed by Paddy Holloway, the proprietor of the Wild Rover. People could place their bets near the beer stands and follow the end of the race later.

  They had selected the patient local pastor as judge—and he had only accepted the job so that he might deliver a sermon about the dangers and godlessness of gambling before the race. For a man of God, he demonstrated exceptional flexibility in declaring himself prepared to hold a service on the morning of the festival in front of the mine, even though, as a Methodist, he had nothing to do with Saint Barbara. But Reverend Lance took a pragmatic perspective: the men in the Lambert Mine surely needed divine assistance in their daily lives. What they wanted to call this friendly power, he left to them.

  Elaine played “Amazing Grace,” a song which—except at weddings—was always a suitable choice.

  By that afternoon, as race time approached, the revelers had satisfied their hunger and most of them were a little tipsy.

  As Elaine rode her mare into the paddock, she noticed that the audience was overwhelmingly male. Madame Clarisse’s girls, in their colorful, low-cut summer dresses, stood out among the men like flowers in a meadow and cheered her on as she rode past. The few other women in the crowd kept silent. They consisted largely of haggard miners’ wives who had stuck around mainly to keep their men from gambling away all the money. A few of the local matrons sat next to their husbands near Marvin Lambert on the dais. They were already gossiping mercilessly about the presence of the easy women and—even more shocking—about Elaine competing in the race. They had come to the unanimous opinion that it was indecent. But good Miss Keefer had never taken decency all that seriously.

  Elaine, who knew perfectly well what the women were whispering about, waved triumphantly at them.

  Timothy noticed that and grinned to himself. Elaine could be so self-assured and blithe. Why then did she shrink back like a whipped dog whenever a man spoke to her?

  Even now, she lowered her gaze when he greeted her—though she could not hide herself behind a curtain of hair that day. She had put her hair up and had even donned a bold little hat—presumably on loan from Madame Clarisse. Its gray color matched Elaine’s riding dress, and someone had wrapped an indigo-blue ribbon around the brim. Banshee’s mane and tail were likewise decorated with colorful ribbons.

  Elaine noticed Timothy’s gaze and begged his pardon with a smile.

  “The girls insisted. I think it looks indescribably absurd.”

  “Not at all,” Timothy said. “On the contrary, it suits her. She looks like a Spanish matador’s horse.”

  “Were you in Spain too?” Elaine asked. She steered Banshee up alongside Timothy’s horse and appeared relaxed compared to her usual self. She was in a crowd of people, and so no more alone with Timothy now than in the pub.

  Timothy nodded. “Spain has mines too.”

  By this time, the paddock had filled. In all, nine men and one woman were prepared to ride against each other. The field was as diverse as Timothy had expected. He recognized Jay Hankins, the smith, on his high-spirited mare. The stable owner was on a tall, big-boned gelding into whose pedigree a thoroughbred might have erred some years back. Two youths from a farm were riding their father’s workhorses. Two young foremen from the Biller and Blackburn mines had rented horses just for the race. Though one of them sat very skillfully in the saddle, the other appeared to be more of a novice. Ernie, the saddler, naturally, would not be denied a chance to participate, though he hardly stood a chance of winning with his well-mannered old gelding. The last rider, Caleb Biller, however, was a surprise. The son of Marvin Lambert’s main competition, sitting astride an elegant black stallion, was greeted with cheers. His mine’s men would undoubtedly put all their money on him.

  “And that may not be such a bad place for it,” Timothy remarked. He was riding next to Jay. Elaine had moved back when she found herself stuck between the two men.

  “Biller’s horse looks grand, a real thoroughbred. It’s sure to leave us all in its dust,” Timothy said as he scratched Fellow’s throat.

  Fellow was looking around nervously for Banshee. After months of spending practically every evening in the stall next to hers, Fellow did not want to let her out of sight.

  Jay shrugged. “The horse alone can’t win a race though. It comes down to the rider. And that young Biller…”

  Elaine, too, mustered her competitive instincts. Until that moment, she had believed Fellow to be her most dangerous opponent. Timothy Lambert’s gelding was a lively dapple gray with undeniable Arabian ancestors. There was no question he would be faster than Banshee on the straightaways. But this blond young man—she had never seen Caleb Biller before—sat astride a true racehorse. However, he did not appear to feel completely comfortable with it. Horse and rider were clearly not a well-rehearsed team.

  “Old man Biller bought that nag for him especially for this race.” Ernie Gast and the stable owner were discussing the same subject. “He came out of England but he’s already run the racetrack in Wellington. They want to win by hook or by crook. That will put a little fear in old Lambert. If after this he has to hand the trophy over to his archnemesis…”

  There were three miles to go before that, Elaine thought, though she, too, had lost her nerve a little at the sight of the powerful black stallion.

  Elaine found a starting position on the outside right, which proved a good choice. A few of the horses, already nervous from being cramped together in the paddock, shied at the starting shot. They did not want to run past the man with the still-smoking pistol and ended up in a kerfuffle at the starting line. The two youths on their workhorses and the foreman on his rental horse could not make their horses do anything. The latter fell off his horse almost immediately but was lucky enough not to end up among the trampling hooves. Jay Hankins was less fortunate. His mare suffered a blow to its fetlock joint and foundered. For him the race was over before it had even begun.

  Elaine, however, came out of it well, as did Timothy. The two of them found themselves racing beside one another behind the farm boys, who set out at a sprint, followed by Caleb Biller on his stallion. It would have been madness to tear through the pack at full speed. The path was lined with cheering men, and it would have been too dangerous for Elaine to give her horse free rein. Madame Clarisse’s girls had posted themselves right around the first curve, and they started cheering as soon as they saw Elaine and Banshee coming. Florry was wearing a colorful floral dress and bouncing up and down like a rubber ball. She was waving two flags, which promptly caused two of the other horses to shy, Caleb Biller’s stallion among them.

  “Watch out,” Ernie called to the young man when Ernie’s gelding almost ran into Caleb’s rearing black stallion. “Ride, damn it, before that nag jumps into the crowd!”

  The shocked spectators along the edge of the path scattered, screaming. Terrified, the younger Biller gave his horse his spurs—at which the horse shot off at a gallop, passing the farm horses and the foreman on his rented horse, and disappearing around the next curve.

  “There he goes,” a frustrated Ernie remarked. “We won’t see him again before the finish line.”

  “Oh, I don’t believe that,” Timothy returned. “He won’t be able to keep up that speed for three miles. That horse has never had to run that far. Even the big track races aren’t much more than a mile and a half long. Just wait; we’ll be seeing him again before you know it.”

  Timothy’s strategy matched Elaine’s very closely. He took the first two miles at a brisk but not breakneck pace, and his gelding galloped contentedly alongside her mare. Elaine did not fight that and wondered a bit at herself. Despite
the proximity of Timothy and Ernie, who caught up to them initially but soon fell behind, she began to enjoy the ride. She even managed to return Timothy’s smile as they passed the frustrated stable owner. His horse had tried to keep pace with Caleb Biller’s stallion and was now completely exhausted after barely a mile.

  It was no different for the farm boys. Their naturally sluggish workhorses gave up after another half mile. Banshee and Fellow, by contrast, still showed no signs of tiring, and their riders were both still fresh.

  Timothy looked over at Elaine with admiration. He had always found her attractive but never as charming and vivacious as now. She had lost her little hat immediately after the race began, and her tight hair bun had likewise fallen apart after the first mile. Only the headwind was keeping her locks out of her face. It looked as though she were waving a red flag behind her, and her face seemed to glow with an inner light. Riding this fast made her happy, and for the first time, her eyes did not assume an expression of suspicion when her gaze met Timothy’s.

  Because the woods reached right to the mining compound’s fence, the course followed the inside fence for quite a while. But they were now approaching the miners’ quarters, and the course by necessity turned outward. The turn in front of the mine’s southern gate was rather tight—when Timothy had studied the course, he only hoped that every competitor had taken the time to ride over the course ahead of time. Anyone who tried to take this stretch at a full gallop ran the risk of falling off.

  Timothy and Elaine slowed their horses well ahead of the turn; again, it was as though they had agreed on it beforehand. Elaine brought Banshee all the way down to a trot, which proved to be a wise move. Caleb Biller was in the middle of the road, limping miserably toward them and leading his handsome horse by the reins.

  Elaine observed without pity that at least the horse was all right. In fact, the stallion was not even dirty. So it seemed he had thrown his rider from the saddle.

  “He shied,” Caleb complained. The cause of the accident was easy to ascertain. In the middle of the road—despite three straight days of sun—was a large puddle, something that would have been unthinkable on an English racing course. The stallion had never seen such a thing, and, after taking the sharp turn, had panicked.

  “Bit of bad luck,” Timothy replied to his defeated opponent. He did not sound especially sympathetic.

  “Why doesn’t he just climb back up?” Elaine asked when they’d resumed galloping. “The horse is fine; he could still win.”

  Timothy grinned. “Caleb Biller isn’t the bravest rider. Even as a child, he was scared to death on top of his pony. I’ve been wondering all day how his old man got him up on that stallion.”

  Elaine giggled. She felt strangely light and almost drunk. She had not had such fun in years—and that despite the fact that she was competing against a man. It must have been the exceptional circumstances of the race. Regardless, at that moment, she was not the least bit scared of Timothy Lambert. On the contrary, she was cheered by the sight of him, his slim but strong frame on his dapple gray, his brown hair flying in the wind, his friendly eyes and his frequent laughter, which carved dimples into the corners of his mouth.

  They had reached the last mile of the course, and only one opponent was still ahead of them: Blackburn’s foreman on his rental horse, a dark horse in the race, since he wasn’t expected to win. The steed—actually light brown—appeared to be quite tough and the foreman was an experienced rider. As Elaine and Timothy moved to overtake his clearly fatigued gelding, the rider began to zigzag and hold his riding crop far out to the side. Fellow was afraid of passing him. Elaine tried to overtake him on the other side, but the road was narrow and the brown horse did not want to let her pass. He threatened Banshee and bit in her direction. Frightened, the mare fell back.

  “That bastard won’t let us pass,” Elaine cried, her countenance flashing with anger and outrage.

  Timothy had to laugh. He was not used to such words coming from the “Saint of Greymouth.”

  Timothy yelled at the rider in a voice well accustomed to giving commands, but the foreman did not even think of giving way to the heir of the Lambert Mine. He kept his eye on his pursuers and continued zigzagging across the course.

  Elaine deliberated feverishly. It was probably a thousand yards or so to the finish line, and the road would stay narrow; in addition, it would soon be lined with spectators, making any attempt to overtake him even riskier. There was only one place where the road widened, at the point where they reentered the mine complex. The course led through the main gate, in front of which was a sort of parking area where freight wagons were usually deposited. That area should be empty now, unless people were standing there. There was enough space to overtake him there, but it was a very short stretch. Unless…

  Elaine decided to risk it. When the road widened, she firmly directed Banshee to the left—there were only two or three little clusters of people, who scattered quickly when Elaine yelled, “Clear the way!” Banshee caught up with the other rider, but she would not manage to overtake him before the gate and get back onto the road.

  Timothy, who had sped up after Elaine as well, did not realize at first what she had in mind. Only when she made no move to cut in front of the other rider—instead, spurring Banshee on straight toward the fence—did he understand. It took all his courage not to rein in Fellow. But the white mare had already flown over the fence and returned to the course by then, leaving the astonished foreman on his rented horse behind her. Timothy had no time left to think. Fellow was already leaping into the air and clearing the fence as effortlessly as Banshee. Timothy closed the gap between himself and the mare and looked breathlessly over at Elaine. She was beaming. Her face was flushed, her eyes sparkling.

  “We showed him!” she called out excitedly, spurring Banshee on to full speed.

  Timothy would have been only too glad to slacken the reins, or at least pass the finish line right at her side. But then he pulled himself together. None of his men had bet on Elaine. If she lost, Madame Clarisse’s girls would be out a few cents, but if she won, dozens of miners would have lost their hard-earned money. Timothy hesitated.

  “Do it now,” Elaine called to him. “Your horse is so much faster than mine.” She laughed. Maybe she had been thinking the same thing.

  Timothy struck Fellow with his crop. Unwillingly, the horse pulled ahead of Banshee, crossing the finish line half a horse’s length ahead.

  Timothy hardly managed to bring Fellow to a stop. The crowd of spectators had erupted into screaming and cheering. He sat astride his excitedly prancing horse and accepted the ovations of his men. Elaine looked at his the elated expression on his face, framed by brown locks of hair, and his peaceful eyes. They were very bright just then, which highlighted the green flecks in them. His gaze reflected no disapproval of an excessively wild ride, as William’s had, nor any gloating triumph, as Thomas’s certainly would have. No, Timothy was simply happy and wanted to share his joy with others. Laughing, he brought Fellow alongside Banshee, spontaneously taking Elaine’s hand and holding it in the air.

  “Here’s the real winner, people! I would never have dared to jump over that fence on my own.”

  Elaine had been beaming and feeling as free and buoyant as Timothy, but when he touched her, it all came back in a flash. Thomas’s hands on her body, her panic at his strong grip. Those caresses of William’s that she had trusted, and which had only turned out to be lies.

  Timothy sensed her tense up, all the delight and confidence draining from her. She didn’t say anything. She even attempted to hold a cramped smile, but when he let go of her hand, she pulled away as though she had burned herself. In her eyes was that same panic he had seen flare up that first day in front of the church.

  “Forgive me, Miss Keefer,” he said, dismayed.

  She didn’t look at him.

  “Don’t worry about it. I need to fix my hair…”

  Elaine’s narrow face, so recently flushed fr
om the hard ride, had turned pale as death. With trembling fingers, she tried to put her hair back into a bun, but it was hopeless, of course.

  “It looks wonderful as it is, Miss Keefer,” Timothy said, fumbling for words that would soothe her, but the girl now appeared to retreat when he even so much as looked at her.

  She shook her head when a cheerful Jay Hankins wanted to help her from the saddle. A deeply satisfied Marvin Lambert directed the first three finishers to dismount and climb the small winners’ podium he’d had built. Elaine slid out of the saddle as she tried to get ahold of herself. She climbed the steps alongside Timothy and then stood there, looking alarmed and ready to bolt, nothing like the exultant, self-possessed girl she had been a few minutes earlier.

  Marvin Lambert handed over the winner’s trophy, and a drunken guest filled the rather large silver cup with whiskey. “To the winner,” he cheered as he held up his glass. The men in the audience did likewise. Timothy laughed and took a sip. Then he handed the trophy to Elaine. When she gripped it, she accidentally brushed his hand and nearly let the trophy fall.

  “To you, Miss Keefer,” Timothy said. “It was wonderful to ride with you.”

  Elaine drank deeply and tried to pull herself together. Timothy Lambert had to think she was crazy. And now the old man was approaching to congratulate her, making as if to kiss her. She couldn’t. She…

  “No, Father,” Tim said calmly.

  Astonished, Marvin Lambert left the girl alone.

  “Is there some objection to a kiss for the second-place winner?” he said grumpily.

  “Miss Keefer sets great store by her reputation,” Timothy explained. “The ladies…” He indicated the matrons on the dais who were already gossiping about Elaine’s unexpected second-place finish.

  Marvin Lambert nodded soberly and merely reached his hand out to Elaine to congratulate her. As she accepted a check for a small money prize, she smiled, but she looked as if she were in pain.