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

by Natalie Keller Reinert

  “Shit.”

  Kerri popped her head in. She was red-faced from raking the shedrow in the ninety-degree heat. “You okay?”

  “This filly … I was hoping they’d drop her in for a tag, but they put her in an allowance.”

  Kerri came in and peered at the condition book. “This that filly of Mary Archer’s?”

  “Yeah.”

  Kerri shook her head. “I heard she’s crazy.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Track cafe.”

  “When are you ever on the backside?”

  “I went to the races there a few days ago, when you were with Mason Birdwell at the sale.” Kerri sat down and rubbed sweat from her face with the bottom of her t-shirt. “When you guys were looking at babies. I didn’t talk to anyone. I just listened. Some of Archer’s boys were talking about the horses in their barn, and this one came up. Chestnut with a white face, right? Runs like her tail’s on fire?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I don’t think we want her, Alex,” Kerri said soberly. “They’re all talking about what a headcase she is. She flipped over with a farrier a few days ago and put him in the hospital.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything. Any horse can do that.” I pushed my chin out mulishly.

  “Well, she isn’t in for a tag, like you say, so … ”

  “So Mary isn’t ready to dump her yet,” I said. “She will be.” I got up and closed the condition book.

  “Think so?”

  “Know so. Mary Archer is only interested in getting wins as quickly as possible.”

  Kerri laughed. “And one other thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Making you miserable.”

  I swatted Kerri with the condition book as we headed out of the office. But she was right. I wondered what would happen if Mary found out I wanted her filly. Probably nothing good.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Right Spots

  Finding the right spots for the horses was proving to be more difficult than I had expected. Alexander had done the lion’s share of that work in Florida; he would point out a race and say, “That would be perfect for the gray filly,” or “It’s like they wrote this for Mister Morgan,” and he’d call up the racing secretary and I’d call down to the barn and let them know we were shipping to Tampa for a race.

  I found myself flipping through page after page of races, getting lost in the fine print, all the caveats, all the non-winners of two in the past six months or the optional claiming prices or the New York-bred-only conditions, and it wasn’t until Kerri sat down, opened the book to the races three days away, and put her finger upon the sixth race that I realized I’d been putting way too much thought into this.

  “This is the race for Personal Best,” she said decisively. “Maidens on the dirt, seven furlongs, optional tag fifty K. This will tell us if he can run with allowance horses or not.”

  I looked at her. She tossed the book across the desk and smiled at me.

  “You just have to do it, Alex,” she said softly. “I know you’re afraid of fucking this up. But not running these horses … that’s worse. They’re fit. Put them in and let them run.”

  I nodded, ignoring the condition book splayed open in front of me. Scared of fucking this up … my God, this girl had no idea. “You’re right,” I said anyway. “I’m scared of fucking this up. I didn’t realize how much Alexander was still doing. He handled all the—”

  “I don’t think that’s the case at all,” she interrupted me. She looked stern, and older than she was, and not at all like she was going to go home tonight and watch My Little Pony over a glass of chocolate milk, which she totally was. “You’re just downplaying everything you did. But just because his name was on everything didn’t mean you weren’t training those horses. Come on, Alex. You know how to do this. Even I can see that. And Roddy can see it, too.”

  I frowned. “You’re still hanging out around Roddy.” It was a statement, not a question.

  She shook her head, like she couldn’t believe that I was bringing up that old complaint. “Just listen to me for a second. Roddy says our horses are some of the best looking at the track. That’s a compliment, Alex. I get that you don’t trust a soul here, and I totally get why, but take a compliment when it’s offered. And enter Personal Best in this race.”

  She got up and went back out to the shedrow, where she was welcomed by the neighs of six racehorses who regarded her presence as the potential for additional food, and left me looking at the damn condition book. The best looking horses at the track, huh? Even coming from Roddy, that was some compliment. Of course, he was probably just trying to get Kerri to sleep with him. But I’d try to ignore that part. “Okay,” I muttered, trying to pump myself up. “Let’s see if they’re the fastest, too.” I picked up my phone.

  ***

  “It’s about time you entered him,” Alexander growled.

  I was getting no sympathy from him. I guessed he’d had a rough morning. Maybe Polly hadn’t smiled at him while she pushed eggs onto his plate at breakfast. The thought of her made me cringe, and my self-loathing ratcheted itself up a few more notches. I needed approval from someone, and soon. The constant barrage of criticism was taking its toll.

  “I just didn’t want to put him in a bad spot,” I explained, trying to keep the whine out of my voice. “It’s his first race. It’s a big deal.”

  “If you want a stakes win by the end of the summer, you don’t have time to waste being a perfectionist,” Alexander said. “He’s a maiden, it’s six furlongs, it’s medium to easy company … what else can you want? He needs a few races under his belt so that he knows what the hell is going on out there. You don’t want him to run green in a big race. Now that is a beginner’s mistake.” He paused. “Hang on a moment.”

  I hung on, gripping the phone tightly, feeling the heat of it against my face. It was all I had to connect to Alexander on the other side of the world. I wondered why he hadn’t wanted to Skype, but it was just as well, I supposed. If he was going to chastise me for not being brave enough, I didn’t necessarily need to receive said chastising through a video conference.

  I could hear him talking on the other end, as if he had loosely cupped his hand over the phone. “Yes, I’ll just be a few moments … well, that sounds lovely, Polly. I look forward to it.”

  Something twisted in my gut.

  “Are you there?” He had come back to the call. “Alex?”

  “I’m here,” I said tightly.

  “Listen, darling,” he said, his voice smoother now. “I think you did the right thing. You have a lot to overcome. I understand that. But you must remember that you are there to race these horses, and if they are sound and ready then you must run them. You will do them no favors by keeping them cooped up in their boxes. Let. Them. Run.”

  “I will,” I promised. “Alexander?”

  “Yes?”

  “How are things there? You never say much.”

  He paused. “It’s very busy,” he said finally. “This is a massive stallion station. Polly couldn’t possibly run it alone, although she puts up a good show of it. It’s almost more than a two person job, even with a good manager to help. And with the breeding season just around the corner, there are mares coming out of our ears, let me put it to you like that, even the ones that are just here for quarantine before they are sent on to other farms.”

  “And Polly’s nice?” I persisted. “I liked her when she came to our wedding.” Well enough, I thought. She’d been so vivacious and entertaining, she’d stolen the show, but I hadn’t really minded. Too much attention focused on me was never a good thing.

  “Polly’s very nice,” Alexander said guardedly.

  Was it guarded? I thought it was. I thought I was going insane.

  “Good,” I said, too heartily.

  “Listen, darling, I’m afraid I have to cut this short—”

  “Oh.” I thought of my bed, I thought of my
pillows, I thought of drawing the curtains and burying myself under the blanket for the rest of the day.

  “It’s just Polly has invited quite a lot of people over, and—”

  “Of course, baby,” I said sweetly. “Have fun. Say hello to Polly for me.”

  Alexander paused once more. And then, softly, he said, “It’s only for a few months more, love.”

  “Alexander?”

  “Alex?”

  “I love you. And I’m going to cry. So I’m hanging up.”

  And I did, so quickly that I didn’t know if he said it in return or not. But of course he must have.

  ***

  Personal Best was a disaster in the paddock, a nightmare in the gate, and a monster in the lane. He came home the best by fourteen lengths. I stood in the winner’s circle with his reins in my hand, fending off his enthusiastic lips as he tried to get white foam from his mouth all over my pretty green blouse, and smiled like I meant it. And I did. This one’s for you, Mary Archer, I thought. This one’s for you, every gossiping bastard on the backside.

  This one’s for you, Alex. This one’s for me.

  And Personal Best, nostrils red-rimmed, eyes wide, veins popping, looked around the unfamiliar environs of the winner’s circle, the crush of people all around him, and looked positively thrilled.

  Bucking, plunging, rearing, and pawing, we led our fire-breathing dragon down the track, in front of the milling crowds of the grandstand, and over to the spit barn so that we could walk him in endless circles until he peed for the state vet, and then the long trudge back to our own barn, passing the Saratoga stables with their flower pots, the clutch of fans at the backside cafe or leaning up against the picnic tables or the backstretch rail, across the street and down the residential blocks, until we got back to the quiet of the barn. There were a few people sitting under the trees in the corner, leaning back in plastic molded chairs from Wal-Mart and drinking Coors Light. The one in the middle shouted for us to come on over and join. It was our Parrothead landlord, Mike Weston.

  We walked over, colt in hand.

  “That colt a winner?” Mike asked, grinning. “You left a damn long time ago. I thought, she must have gotten a check this time, to be gone that long, heh.”

  “Yes sir,” Kerri said triumphantly. “Not bad for a firster.”

  I liked how she was picking up racetrack jargon. ‘Firster’: That was cute.

  “Well, have a beer, girls. You done good.” Mike paused. “And the horse, too, heh. He’s a cutie.”

  Personal Best liked cheap beer as much as anyone. “He’s underage, but okay.” That got a laugh.

  One of Mike’s friends spoke up. He was much younger than the others, closer to my age, or Kerri’s, than the middle-aged guys who surrounded him, white-skinned with a short but thick brown beard that nearly obscured his face, and the V neck in his candy-cane-striped T shirt and the skintight clench of his black jeans told me he was probably from a more urban place than Saratoga Springs. “Good job, horsey,” he said in a drawling voice. “Way to win your race.” He laughed quietly, more to himself than anything, and I thought he was already drunk. Not Mason Birdwell drunk, just pleasant sunny afternoon drunk.

  “Johnny’s had a few,” Mike confirmed with a grin. “Start early in the day, don’t you Johnny? Heh.”

  “I’m on vacation,” Johnny said comfortably, and let his furry face slacken into a sloppy smile.

  “I wish I was,” I replied. “But we’re not. Mind if we take the beer to go?”

  Mike waved his hand. “Grab these, girlie! Heh! Go on, take that horse out of here. He needs a shower.”

  Kerri skipped along beside me, holding the plastic ring of the half a sixpack Mike had pushed on her. “He’s into youuuuu,” she sang.

  “Who? Mike Weston? Gross, Kerri. Some alcoholic old dude.”

  “No, that younger one. Johnny. Don’t look! He’s still watching you.”

  “He’s watching the horse. And now,” as we turned the corner into our shedrow, “he’s not even watching that.”

  Kerri shook her head and ran ahead to turn on the hose. The horses were carrying on, whinnying to one another like they’d been separated for months. There were evening chores to do, skipping out the stalls, filling the water buckets and hay nets, giving everyone supper, raking the shedrow yet again. It was hot as always, and there was a grumble of thunder in the distance. Out in the yard, on the other side of the barn, I could hear raucous laughter from Mike and his drinking buddies. I would have been welcomed had I gone over to join them, but facts are facts, and these were mine: I was a sweaty, exhausted mess with an hour of work ahead of me. I was almost certainly going to order a pizza for dinner and fall asleep on the couch. Everyone in Saratoga still hated me. But we had a win. I rubbed Personal Best between the eyes, ruffling up his forelock, and he pushed against my hand. We had a win, and that was a fact, too.

  Still, I peeked around the corner while Kerri was mixing feed. And as soon as I did so, the young guy with the beard, Johnny, turned his head from his aged drinking buddies and returned my stare from across the lawn.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Chasing Perfection

  Emboldened by our big win, energized by the surprised looks I received as I led Personal Best out of the winner’s circle, spurred on by the she got lucky comment I overheard from a venerable old trainer leaning over the rail, I started dropping all of my horses into races.

  Bonnie Chance came in second three days after Personal Best’s bow, running a long race on the grass and coming from behind to challenge the wire-to-wire leader. The following day Virtue And Vice stretched out his long gray nose in the stretch and missed a photo for third in another turf race. Later that afternoon, Shearwater ran a troubled trip in a large field and came in fifth, but only four lengths off the winner. Elegantly Wasted, a nearly black filly with delicate legs that always seemed to get banged up, was scratched after she tripped and bumped one ankle with the opposing hoof, leaving a warm spot that was tender to the touch. The winner’s circle eluded me after Personal Best’s dazzling debut, but I couldn’t complain. With Kerri, Manny, and the unlikely Gabe as my support team, I could ignore the cold shoulders on the backside, or at the feed store, the only other equine place that I ventured in Saratoga. My big horse had a win, and the others would come soon.

  And I stuck with my support team, compartmenting Alexander in an annex somewhere. He called less, so I responded in kind. I phoned him less, told him less. It wasn’t just that I was tired of always asking for his advice, and knew that I had to stop and stand on my own two feet. In fact, I triple-guessed every move that I made without running it past him first. It was the fact that I seemed to have dropped down his list of priorities. It stung, and I wasn’t about to be the one to make up for the lost communication.

  And the background noise helped keep my phone in my pocket, as well: the muffled voice I could hear beneath the yawning gaps in our conversation, telling me Polly was always nearby, always asking when he was going to be ready to eat, to have a drink, to go out and check the mares in the Big Tree field, or the Ghost Gum paddock, or the Water Tank pasture, wherever and whatever those things might be, to meet with the shipping agent and go over quarantine details with her on the new mares, to go and look at the stallions who had just arrived from England or Kentucky or California. And he always sounded anxious to please her, and just as anxious to sound apologetic to me … Not that the condolences in his tone were any comfort.

  But as appealing as it was to be sitting in my wood-paneled living room beneath an earth-toned afghan and feeling sorry for myself, I lost myself in work instead. I threw myself into training my horses and teaching Kerri the basics of the racing game (although every time I turned my back, she was in Roddy Ellis’s shedrow, laughing at the jokes he told her in that smooth Southern drawl), and I worked very hard to not think of anything but them, my pupils. Six horses are really not that many, but you can make that half-dozen as time-consuming as sixty if you
work at it. I micromanaged unmercifully, and the results spoke for themselves.

  Every horse was polished and gleaming, not just groomed to perfection but turned out impeccably: every horse’s mane was pulled to a perfect four-fingers length, every horse’s tail was banged perfectly straight halfway between hock and fetlock. Every horse went to the track six days a week, so that their hindquarters and shoulders rippled with muscle and their abdomens grew greyhound-lean. Even their heads had been stripped of excess flesh until they had the taut, sleek look we called their “game faces.”

  And I decided to ride daily, after all. I galloped Personal Best myself every morning, and alternated which other horse I’d take to the track, so that I would ride every one of the horses every week. No more long walks to the track, no more leaning on the rail, squinting into the foggy distance. So many trainers had never been on a racehorse’s back, I reasoned, but I could use my personal knowledge, my innate understanding, of how each horse moved and reacted to the track, as my winning edge. I knew that Bonnie Chance shied slightly at shadows, and only changed leads at the top of the stretch if you gave her a smack with the whip. I knew that Shearwater was deeply offended if another horse pushed him too close to the rail, and preferred to come from the middle of the track. I knew that Personal Best would run from any spot, at any point in the race, after any sort of mishap, and never, ever stop, and I adored him all the more for that. Kerri took to calling him my boyfriend. Lord knew I kissed him enough.

  And I obsessed over everything. The strict adherence, to the very last ounce, to the measures on the feed charts posted on the wall; the evenness of leg wraps, the uniform straps of halters hanging from pegs in a row. The level flatness of the shedrow after the morning’s rut had been raked over. The brightness in my horse’s eyes when they came back from the track. I obsessed over the things I could control, and made them perfect. I obsessed over the things I could not, and they kept me awake at night. The tragic parade of Roddy Ellis’s spent horses, every day more blown from hot weather and overwork, hot-walking through our shedrow with their heads hanging low. Luna Park, the chestnut filly that didn’t belong to me, was being used up at an alarming pace.