Other People's Horses (Alex and Alexander Book 2)

by Natalie Keller Reinert

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Copyright

  Chapter One - Red-headed Fillies

  Chapter Two - Favorite Children

  Chapter Three - Family Calling

  Chapter Four - Decisions

  Chapter Five - Littlefield

  Chapter Six - Old Friends

  Chapter Seven - Parting Company

  Chapter Eight - The Spa

  Chapter Nine - Friends and Enemies

  Chapter Ten - The Neighbors

  Chapter Eleven - Doubts

  Chapter Twelve - Clients

  Chapter Thirteen - Filly-Crush

  Chapter Fourteen - Shopping for Babies

  Chapter Fifteen - Buy the Pretty Ones

  Chapter Sixteen - Mornings and Afternoons

  Chapter Seventeen - The Right Spots

  Chapter Eighteen - Chasing Perfection

  Chapter Nineteen - Putting in a Claim

  Chapter Twenty - Delaware

  Chapter Twenty-One - Walking in Circles

  Chapter Twenty-Two - The Drought Buster

  Chapter Twenty-Three - Slamming Doors

  Chapter Twenty-Four - Breaking Free

  Chapter Twenty-Five - New Tricks

  Chapter Twenty-Six - Gate Scratch

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - Traffic Trouble

  Chapter Twenty-Eight - Partners

  Natalie Keller Reinert has always had the horse bug

  For my partner, Cory.

  Copyright © 2013 Natalie Keller Reinert

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, organizations, places, events, and incidents

  are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Red-headed Fillies

  “Oh-ho-ho, look at that shit!”

  “Hang on, Juan! Break that bronco baby!”

  “Give that filly a smack! Now… Now! Aw, man. You missed your shot!”

  It was going to take more than a smack, I thought. It would take a freaking lobotomy to fix that filly.

  I’d only been watching her for a few minutes, but that damn Five Star Won filly, pretty as a picture and dumb as a post, was giving me a really nice reminder of why I’d quit climbing on babies. Well, quit climbing on all but the most sensible, talented, worthwhile youngsters. I’d gotten choosey in my old age; now that I didn’t have to ride in every set, I didn’t. I let the full-time exercise riders put up with all that bullshit. Me, I was the assistant trainer. I had bullshit of my own to deal with.

  But my bullshit wasn’t down here at the training track yet. He was idling in the training barn, I guessed. Pouring coffee. Peering at ankles. Puttering around. Alexander wasn’t in a hurry much anymore.

  That stupid filly! She’d been twisting and corkscrewing the whole way from the training barn to the track, leaving divots in the gravel horse-path that would have to be filled in by the landscapers later, before another delicate baby twisted a slender ankle in one. Her hooves were sending pebbles flying like tiny missiles at the other babies in the set, and they went skipping ahead onto the track to get away from her. Even her own kind didn’t want to be seen with her!

  I sighed impatiently. Now she was outright refusing to step hoof onto the harrowed dirt of the training track, as if the line of demarcation where the ground abruptly changed from gravel to sand was a sign of imminent danger that only red-headed fillies could decipher. What did it say to her? Panthers ahead! Rattlesnake den! Hot lava! Whatever it was, the message of doom was meant for her and only her. The other kids went trotting away, leaving her in the dust. She didn’t care. She went on bucking.

  But for all the Five Star Won filly’s considerably athletic and carefully plotted theatrics and acrobatics, she would lose the war in the end. I had told Alexander more than once that Juan Silva had a seat constructed from Velcro and super glue, and as usual, his denim-clad ass was sticking tight to that little flat exercise saddle, his legs shoved out in front of him and his booted heels somewhere near the narrow little filly’s chest, his center of gravity as close to her plunging tail as he could get it. He knew, and I knew, and anyone who had been on a few hundred or thousand young racehorses knew, that letting his weight fall forward was the kiss of death, the last decision you regretted before you were spitting dirt from between your teeth.

  That’s the thing about these slender Thoroughbreds, and these delicately built fillies in particular: There’s nothing in front of you when they finally get their heads, drop their shoulders and throw those bucks. Just the road rising to meet you, and not in a drunken, friendly, proverbial kind of way.

  Juan managed to wrangle her onto the track at last, but his battle wasn’t over. I chewed at my lip anxiously. She was anti-social, our little Miss Five Star Won filly. She chose to ignore her work partners, something distinctly un-equine. They were heading off down the lane toward the turn, making fairly tidy straight lines in the sand, jogging in pairs like model citizens. The chestnut filly, however, elected to stay behind. She preferred the thought of heading back to the barn – alone – to the prospect of making her way around the track with her group. I thought that was odd for a herd animal, but then again, was anything really too strange for this particular little witch?

  I kept Parker next to the gap, where I could snatch at her bridle in the unlikely event that she actually managed to dislodge Juan and head back to the barn. My pony gently offered with a toss of his fine head to stand in the gap itself blocking her way, but I declined with a little tug of rein, keeping him off the path. I wouldn’t put it past her to just plow right into him if he blocked the path, and I wasn’t about to endanger my sweet Parker the Pony because this goofy filly didn’t want to work. He was worth ten of her, anyway. A good pony was worth his weight in gold, and Parker the Pony was the best. The Five Star Won filly wasn’t even mine. She was a client’s, and if I got sick enough of her, which was a prospect not that far off, I was going to tell Alexander to send her idiot self home to her mother.

  “She’s nothing but a banana-head. Five Star Banana-head,” I murmured to Parker. That was a fun name, I decided, and so I calculated the number of characters in the name. Twenty letters. Too many for the Jockey Club to accept, and the banana-head’s owners would probably not be amused by my suggestion anyway. It wasn’t exactly a blue-blooded Thoroughbred name, and they were not the sort of people to stick vanity plate monikers on their blood-horses. I did like that about them, even if I disliked their filly. Every now and then I liked the owners instead of the horses. It was pretty rare, but it happened.

  The blue-blooded filly showed off her appreciation for her aristocratic ancestry by grunting like a pig in muck, then ducked her head hard, snatching the reins through Juan’s hands and gaining enough space to throw a spine-twisting buck. Juan, his head somewhere near her haunches at this point, riding the acrobatics with laudable composure, glanced back at me with a strangely bland expression, as if asking me if I was getting all this. Maybe he was thinking of taking out his whip, and was wondering if I would approve. Well, he was welcome to it. Good riders, like good ponies, were not common enough to be allowed to go to waste. If it were him or the filly, I’d have to choose Juan. Take out the stick and teach her a les
son, Juan!

  Anyway, it was my fault he was in this situation, so what right would I have to question his methods for getting out of it? I was the one who made the horse and rider assignments every morning, moving the little magnets on the white board. I put him on that horse and once there he had every right to do what he thought best to stay safe on her back. But there was a silent consensus in the barn that since I was a woman, I didn't approve of hitting horses. It hadn’t done any harm to the babies, so I’d let the rumor stand. People thought women were softies, even at the racetrack. But people were fools. I myself had a very nice racing whip and I knew how to swing it. Safety first! Sometimes you had to remind the thousand-pound babies who was in charge.

  The war with the filly was reaching a critical juncture: she was reaching her breaking point, where she would either lose her head completely and flip over or fling herself to the ground (nothing would surprise me from this filly. Nothing.) or give in to Juan and follow his instructions. She squealed and crow-hopped, bouncing stiff-legged down the track like a bronc with a bucking strap, and Juan was fed up at last; he took his stick over his head and brought it down with a resounding crack on her right hindquarter.

  Birds flew from the tree over my head. Crickets were momentarily shocked into silence. Even steady little Parker pricked his ears at the sharp sound. The filly herself took off like a bolt of lightning, but Juan was ready for her; he’d already shifted his weight to prepare for her leap forward and now he was urging her on, sending her chasing after her stablemates who jogged sedately around the far turn, portraits of racehorses at work. Parker sighed and dropped his head until his chin was resting on the railing, certain at last that his services as pony would not be needed. Mile gallop now out of the question, he could relax and take a nap while the youngsters toiled.

  I kicked my feet out of the stirrups, watched the flying filly and Juan’s swinging stick, and thought much the same thing.

  ***

  Alexander brought coffee down from the barn in the usual style: a stainless steel mug in each hand, reins wrapped around the horn of his saddle and knotted securely. Betsy was a steady pony; she knew her way to the track without any help from the boss. Morning routines were her bread and butter, and she put her feet in the exact same places every single day.

  “Like a cow,” I’d smirked, just the once.

  “Like a trainer’s pony,” Alexander had insisted, expression smug, and after that he wouldn’t let me ride her. “Train your own pony,” he’d told me, and I’d had to turn Parker, a former lesson horse from a livery in New York City, into something approaching Betsy’s own sedate reliability. Once he got used to dirt beneath his hooves instead of asphalt and stopped shying at rabbits and lizards and the neighbors’ lowing herd of Black Angus, he was really very good at his job. As good as Betsy, I’d wager, but Alexander would have snorted if I’d said so aloud, so I didn’t mention it. Alexander already snorted at me quite enough on a daily basis. If it had been tough just being his farm manager, adding assistant trainer duties was downright exhausting. Ever meet a man who was impossible to please? Meet my charming husband.

  “Ready for round two?” Alexander smiled, leaning over to hand me the mug, a twin to the empty one I’d discarded in my saddle bag already. I looped my own reins around the saddle horn. Parker had looked up to watch Betsy pick her careful way to his side, but now he dropped his head again, snoozing through coffee break as usual. He left a puddle of drool to slowly drip from the white railing where he pressed his chin.

  I drank deep and settled the mug against the horn of the saddle, keeping a hand on it to stop it from tipping. A minor, but important, improvement to the thousand-year history of equestrian tack occurred to me. “I wonder if the guys at Quarter Pole have ever gotten a request to install a cup holder on a saddle. There's plenty of room next to the horn.”

  A cup holder would play a huge role in cementing my relationship with Western saddles. I’d grown up with jumping horses and their light little English saddles. I hoisted myself into this bulky big boy every morning because if I had to catch a runaway, it was a lot tougher to haul me out of all these blocks and horns and panels and what-have-you. The lack of a cup holder was a real missed opportunity. I should patent it. I’d make a mint.

  “I shouldn’t wonder,” Alexander said carelessly. “Everyone in this town is a fiend for some beverage or another. You could just as easily put a can of Bud Light in there. Now that would please quite a lot of horsemen.” He squinted to see the horses on the backstretch. Juan had caught up with the rest of the set and reined the galloping filly back to their pace. Even across the misty infield, her temper was clearly visible in the way that she shook her head furiously against the pressure on her mouth, the way she swished her tail violently against her hocks. “That one is a witch, all right. She go out with the others today, at least?”

  “In the back, fighting all the way. But she kept up with them all the way to the gap. Then she stopped and put on a show.”

  “With Juan starring as Buffalo Bill.”

  “Yup.”

  Alexander sighed. “Chestnut fillies…”

  “Don't say it.” Every chestnut filly that was born here or sent to us, he said it. Every chestnut filly I wanted, he said it. And then when I asked for her anyway, he said no.

  Naturally, I now wanted a nice chestnut filly to win races for us more than anything. But nothing had turned up yet. Still, I kept looking for the redhead that would be my champion. It was illogical, of course. You couldn’t ride color, or run it, either, but it had become a minor obsession with me. If I let myself think about it, I’d have to admit that at least part of it was a desire to prove Alexander wrong.

  Just once, to be right.

  “She's the one perpetuating the stereotype, not me.”

  “It's completely unscientific to equate coat color with temperament,” I retorted.

  Alexander laughed, a little coldly. “Since when has horsemanship been a science? We all believe in black magic and lucky charms.”

  I took a deep gulp of inky coffee to avoid answering him. He was right.

  As usual.

  I drank more coffee.

  In addition to being right all the time, Alexander made damned good coffee. I’d always thought the English only drank tea. Alexander said tea was all good and well for people with nice, normal lives, but for horsemen who got up at four o’clock in the morning, year-round, something stronger was required. And the brew he had come up with, after some tinkering with different blends and grinds, was that something stronger. It looked like a lake had sprung up from a coal mine. Or the La Brea tar pits. But it tasted of dark chocolate and espresso and red wine and concealed more caffeine than could possibly be good for my heart. Or his. It was delicious and probably dangerous.

  Ah, but we lived healthily enough, out of doors and always exercising. A little extra caffeine wouldn’t kill us. I drank deep.

  An orange glow was starting to pierce the heavy shroud of fog that lay over Ocala. Sunrise was the prettiest time of day here, no matter the season. I waited for the horses to reappear from the cloud bank and spent the time reflecting on the difficulties of having married a man who was always right and knew he was always right, unquestionably and implicitly, and who did not mind telling his wife she was wrong. I sipped my coffee, imagining my morning-slow heart beginning to pick up the pace, and watched the sky above the thinning fog. There were high clouds rolling in from the west. Well, that wasn’t right. I pondered them for a few moments. A June morning should have a clear sky. Something was brewing out there.

  The youngsters emerged from the fog, came jogging around the turn and made their way back towards us. Parker, awakening from his power nap, pricked his ears and watched them. Did he see them the way that I did, the way that Alexander had taught me, the way that a true horseman saw a horse? Their peculiarities of gait isolated and memorized, their expressions read and their moods analyzed, their every movement conveying essential k
nowledge of their health and potential and ability and faults? I barely saw a whole horse anymore; I saw them in bits and pieces, in angles and joints and lengths, and only when all those subsets had been studied and connected did I step back to see an entire animal that was functioning in perfect harmony.

  That was on a good day, anyway.

  There was always something though. The bay filly in front with the jagged splash of a star held her left ear cocked, all the time. She moved nicely enough, she seemed agreeable and cleaned up her oats, but that ear bothered me. Was there some infection deep down we hadn't been able to pinpoint? Or could she have some wildly unusual problem with her inner ear that could cause her to lose her equilibrium someday? That could be dangerous. That could spell disaster if it happened in the wrong place, say, somewhere on any given racetrack, on any given afternoon.

  And the gray filly next to her, with that damn paddle to her stride, like she was going to reach out and swipe the horse next to her with each step. It worried me every day. Horses could paddle, true enough, and display all sorts of similar deformities of gait and stay sound, but that knowledge didn’t make me any more comfortable. Perfection was a help, not a hindrance. There was no harm in striving for it.

  And there, behind her, tossing her head up and down, the plain bay. The one with the occasional heat in her left ankle. It was a phantom inflammation: there one morning, gone by dinner, only to reappear two weeks later on a Tuesday morning and disappear the next day. Did she bump it herself, moving carelessly while galloping? Did she twist the ankle playing in her paddock? Or was this a harbinger that she was a horse who just wasn’t going to hold up?

  I washed down all my fears with more of Alexander’s rich coffee. I would have drunk it if it were awful, of course. Coffee was a necessity for a girl who got as little sleep as I did. And was my lack of sleep any wonder? Who could sleep, with twenty-one two-year-olds this spring, and every single one a puzzle to be worried over day and night? Not to mention the yearlings, the foals, the handful of three-year-olds we had bred ourselves. The two stallions aging gracefully in the stallion barn. The fields of broodmares lazing under oak trees. The older ones were ours, but the younger set were only half Cotswold Farms horses.