Several minutes later, the groom named Whitfield reappears with Minerva. She’s a chestnut, about sixteen hands high, and might be the most beautiful horse I’ve ever seen.
“She’s a great horse,” Whitfield says. “She’s raced in fifty-three races. She’s won eleven, and placed or shown in thirty-five.”
She bends down to scratch her nose on her knee.
“Come on, pretty girl,” I whisper to her. “Help me through this.”
I’m standing in the clocker’s tower with Gael, Dad, and Jack, watching Bryant Townsend breeze around the track atop Lucky Strikes, one of Mr. Goodwin’s prized horses. The stallion won the Preakness three years ago.
“That’s complete shit, Townsend! Complete shit! You can do better than that!” Gael is five feet tall, but when he yells, he might as well be the Hulk.
Townsend finishes seven furlongs (nearly a mile) in 1:35. That’s insanely fast. It’s like he was riding a rocket, not a Thoroughbred.
And Gael thinks that’s complete shit?
Townsend may never learn how to talk to a girl, but he knows what he’s doing on the racetrack. I take a deep, rattled breath and tighten my gloves. I can do this.
Gael turns to me and claps. “Your turn.”
I jog over to Minerva. The mare smells of sweat and liniment, and she seems relaxed, flicking her ears at me. I secure my helmet, goggles, and vest before getting a leg up from the groom to mount.
“Thanks, Whitfield.”
“It’s Rory,” he says.
“That’s a girl’s name,” I tease.
“And being an exercise boy is a man’s job,” Rory snaps back. We smile at each other.
Weaving the reins between my pinky and ring fingers, I squeeze her flanks with both heels to get her moving. I follow the horse’s movements, posting on her back, flowing with her body. Minerva knows racing is what she’s all about—her graceful gait is measured and sure-footed. Heck, Minerva could probably train exercise riders herself, she’s such a professional.
If I get the job, I wouldn’t be the first female exercise rider at Cedar Hill—Dad told me two other women in their twenties work here every day, but I’m still enough of a novelty that a lot of the staff have stopped working to watch.
I steer Minerva out onto the track and wait for Gael’s signal. He raises a hand and I use my outside leg to urge Minerva into a canter, warming her up over the course of a lap. The sound of her hooves relaxes my muscles and the trip is so smooth I feel like I’m riding a surfboard over gentle ocean waves.
When I pass the clocker’s tower for the second time, I take off and we fly around the track. At the first turn, I urge the horse faster and into a breeze.
“Good job, girl!” I yell, as dirt splatters onto my goggles and face.
On the final turn, Minerva jerks her head to the side and I have to hold on to her reins as tight as I can, making sure she doesn’t ride off the track and straight into the wild blue yonder. Getting her back under control makes us slow down and adds seconds onto my time. God. Do Jack and Gael think I’m complete shit?
As I cross the finish line, I pump my fist and whoop, glad I’ve shown what I can do. Even if I don’t get the job, I tried my damned hardest. I pat Minerva’s neck and brush her hair, whispering how beautiful she is as she whinnies and slows to a canter.
After cooling down, I dismount, wipe the dirt off my face, hand the horse off to Rory, and go face the music.
“So what’s the story?” I say.
“I’d say she’s got what it takes to start working,” Gael says, cleaning his sunglasses on his shirt. “What do you say we get her started on Monday, Jack?”
“No,” Jack says, and my heart plummets to the ground. “She’s not starting on Monday.”
“No?” I whisper.
A sly grin sweeps across his face. “No. I want you to start tomorrow, at River Downs in Cincinnati.” He turns to face Gael and my father. “She’ll warm up Star before the race. Then I’ll decide if she gets the job or not.”
“But,” Dad starts, until Jack raises a hand.
“She’ll wear a helmet and vest, and I know she’ll take every precaution to keep herself safe. She says she’s been around horses her whole life—let’s see if she’s ready for the next level.”
“She’s not ready to ride Star,” Dad says. “That horse doesn’t want anybody riding him.”
“She handled him well today,” Jack says. “She kept him calm, which none of the rest of us seem to know how to do. That’s what he needs most before a race. And if the horse ends up liking her, then I want her taking care of him. Understand?”
Dad’s not the kind of guy to take orders from teenage boys, but Jack moves and speaks with authority. Dad nods once.
“Thank you,” I say to them, bouncing on my toes.
“Don’t thank me,” Jack says. “Just figure out how to keep Star calm. He needs a win bad.”
“Ahem.” We all turn to find Mr. Goodwin standing there with an eyebrow raised. “I didn’t realize it was happy hour already.”
Jack steps up to his father. “I might hire Savannah as an exercise rider.”
Mr. Goodwin stares me down. “What?”
“She had an excellent tryout, and like I told you earlier, she caught Star on foot. Maybe she can figure out how to handle him.”
“Savannah might be a good hand in the barns. It’s probably best to assign her there,” Mr. Goodwin says, and I shake my head quickly. I can’t lose this opportunity! I can’t get stuck working a crappy job after I graduate high school.
“I’m trying to shore up my investment with Star,” Jack tells his father in a strong voice. “If your exercise boys can’t control him, I’ll find one who will.”
A smile begins to form on Mr. Goodwin’s face. “All right then,” he says and claps Jack on the back. “You’re the boss.”
“We’ll talk after Star’s race tomorrow,” Jack tells me.
I jump into my dad’s arms and hug him hard. “Please let me do this. Please.”
“Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
I pull away from Dad to find Jack smiling at me with no evidence of a smirk. Mr. Goodwin sees his son’s smile too, and his expression grows darker. “Jack, shouldn’t you be hitching the trailer so you can take Strawberry Fields to Kentucky?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And did you call Abby Winchester?”
Jack rubs the back of his neck. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
Jack walks off with his father, not looking back. Even though he’s supposedly the acting owner, it seems that Jack isn’t completely in charge of everything.
Does his father control his every move?
There’s No Place Like Home…Sort Of
After my tryout, Dad opens the door to Hillcrest. It’s the middle of the day on a Saturday, so many of the maids, cooks, gardeners, and horsemen are hard at work. Still, a few people are watching TV or reading the paper in the large common area, which is filled with comfy couches and squishy chairs. Two younger boys are huddled together over a comic book. Fifteen people live in Hillcrest, hence my sudden-onset claustrophobia.
The second I cross into the kitchen, She Who Must Not Be Named is all over me, Mom-style. Must be the hormones. Cindy hugs me long and hard, and I get a whiff of apple shampoo. Her new blue maid’s uniform stretches over her rounded stomach; my little brother or sister is growing in there.
She’s nearly five months pregnant. Dad was really apologetic and embarrassed this happened, considering it’s just gonna make things harder on us. He stayed single until about a year and a half ago when he started seeing Cindy, who’s twenty-eight. She’s nice enough, I guess, but I don’t think of her as my mom.
I’m still pissed she got pregnant—it’s not like they’re married…or that we have the money for this. In a way, it’s a good thing we left West Virginia, because at least here we get free housing. Maybe now Dad will have more money to spend on baby clothes and insurance and stuff. I may not like the situation, but I sure want the kid to have a better life than I did growing up.
Cindy brings my hand to her stomach. “He’s real active today.” I can’t help but smile when I feel the baby moving.
“Wow,” I say. “If it’s a boy, we should name him Hercules.”
“We are not naming the baby Hercules,” Cindy says.
“How about Zeus then?” Dad asks.
“That sounds like a name Jack Goodwin would give one of his hounds,” Cindy replies. “I heard one of his dogs is named Athena and one is Thor. He also let his little sister name one of his dogs Jasper, after the Twilight character.”
“I think you should name the baby Yvonne,” Yvonne says, sewing a man’s shirt at the table. The Goodwins’ Laundry Dictator wears her gray hair in a bun and her maid’s uniform miraculously doesn’t have a single wrinkle. She glances up, sees my clothes are splattered with dirt, and leaps to her feet as if she’s twenty years old, not sixty.
“Get those clothes off, girl. Gotta get them in the wash before a stain sets.”
“It’s okay, I can do—” I start to say, but Yvonne gives me a death glare.
“Don’t you dare go near my laundry room.” I smile at the thought of Yvonne standing in front of a laundry room door, holding a battle axe, ready to fight off any intruders who want to do a load of whites.
“I know how to wash my own clothes,” I say.
Yvonne wags a finger in my face. “One time I found Mr. Goodwin in my laundry room teaching Master Jack how to wash colors, and after I got done yelling at those boys, they looked like I’d caught one of them doing the nasty in the backseat of a car. They probably wished I’d caught them doing that.” She grumbles, “Mr. Goodwin claimed he was trying to teach Jack an ‘essential life lesson.’ Sheesh!”
Dad cracks up. “Doing the nasty.”
“Gross,” I say. I never want to hear my dad say “doing the nasty” again.
“The moral of the story is stay out of my laundry room,” Yvonne goes on.
“But laundry is an essential life lesson,” I say.
Dad laughs, biting his knuckle. “Doing the nasty.”
Yvonne wags her finger at me. “You let me handle the laundry and you go eat a ham sandwich.” She points her finger at Dad. “Danny, you see the bones on your girl? She looks like she’s never eaten before.”
“Who wants lunch?” Cindy interrupts, as a grumbling Yvonne returns to sewing the shirt. It looks soft. Is it Jack’s? I bet it would reach my knees if I slipped it on. God, I’ve become a laundry stalker.
Cindy brings sandwiches, chicken salad, and cookies to the table. Cindy takes a dainty bite of sandwich, looking nauseous. Her pregnancy has been awful; it’s hard for her to keep food down. “What’d you find in town, Shortcake?”
