Page 8 of A Photo Finish
The thing is, I liked being a groom, but I’ve always wanted to be a jockey, and I lucked into the right body type to pull it off. Sometimes, I miss the quiet moments that came with working behind the scenes. Those times when it was just the horses and me. It’s why I still live above the barn in my tiny apartment up that long, narrow flight of stairs. I like walking through the stables at dusk, hearing the quiet munching on hay. I like taking care of my own horses. I like the soothing rasp of brush bristles across their coat rather than the loud buzzers and speakers as I blast through mud, trying to make it across the line first.
So, I try to create those quiet moments for myself. And this pre-race ritual has become part of that. No one bugs me—Billie makes sure of it—and I get a bit of time to go inward and just be with my horse.
Right now, that horse is DD, our little black championship-winning stallion, with long legs and an intelligent disposition. Once I’ve put the finishing touches on his grooming, I lead him out into the bright sunshine—something we don’t see much in Vancouver in April. This area brings a whole new meaning toApril showers bring May flowers. At this time of year, we pretty much live in a mud puddle, so even though it’s sunny, the track is wet.
When DD’s hooves clop loudly onto the asphalt road that leads down to the track, Billie pops up, seemingly out of nowhere. She’s always ready and waiting for me. We talked strategy earlier in the day, so at this point, we can just walk together in a companionable silence.
She comes to stand beside me, bends down, and cups her hands behind me, ready to give me a leg up. “Up we go, Tiny Soldier.”
I feel my cheek twitch; Billie’s terms of endearment that reference my size never end. Where she’s tall for a woman, I’m petite, and where she’s curvaceous, I’m . . . well, flat as a board.
I drop my knee into her waiting hands, and she hefts me up into the tack, gives my knee a squeeze, and sends me on my way. The rest of my journey into the starting gate is a blur, as usual. The pony horses, the stewards, the other jockeys and horses around me, it all blends together, and I focus on DD and getting us to that finish line safely and quickly. When our pony horse steps up, the rider gives me a friendly nod. The pony rider is completely different from a jockey. They ensure we get to the gate safely, like a security blanket for a nervous horse. An important member of the team.
At the gates, he sends me off with a “Good luck.”
DD is a great stallion, reliable and smart, talented beyond compare, but claustrophobic. And when they close the gate behind him, I feel him coil up like a ball of energy, like an elastic pulled back too far, ready to explode out of the small space.
This is where my vision narrows. All I see is what’s between his long, pointy ears. The rest of the world seems to go soft and blurry as we both settle into our focus.
Until I hear a voice that sends a slithering sensation down my spine. “Hey. New girl.”
I ignore Patrick Cassel. He’s one of the most sought-after jockeys in this area. He rode DD in one race last year, but he defied Billie’s instructions on how to ride the race and, well . . . let’s just say that didn’t end well for him. Now he’s on Gold Rush Ranch’s blacklist—we all basically pretend he doesn’t exist. And when he sees Billie coming, he promptly turns and walks the other way.
Looks like that level of avoidance doesn’t apply to the quiet little blonde, though.
“Dinner after this, and I might let you win. What do you say, Princess?”
I try not to shudder at the thought. Patrick is slimy and entitled and makes me feel like I have bugs stuck under my clothes. Based on Billie’s retelling of their encounter, he’s condescending and sexist to boot. I want nothing to do with the man.
“I’m pretty sure princesses only kiss frogs in fairytales, Patrick,” I mutter. “I’ll pass.”
And before he can say anything, the bell rings, and the gate flies open. DD and I are off, and that interaction with Patrick disappears from my mind as we thunder down the track, staying toward the back of the pack through the first turn. Exactly where the little black horse likes to be.
I stay low and light on his back, mostly letting him do his thing. This horse was bred to run—and he loves it. When we push out of the clubhouse turn everything is going according to plan. Now is where we move up.
Until I feel a dark bay horse move in beside me. From the corner of my eye, I see Patrick Cassel’s lime green silks. As he pulls ahead, I try to ignore him and reserve my focus for DD.
Until he shouts over the pounding of hooves, “Time to learn a lesson, little girl.”
My instincts shift into overdrive as I watch his hands move ever so slightly to change his path. Dread courses through my veins. And before I have a chance to react, he’s cut us off sharply, bumping DD’s shoulder with his harsh angle, killing our forward motion. And on the slippery footing, the results are disastrous.
With his head and neck already slung low, and legs stretched out in a gallop on a slippery track, DD stands no chance.
I feel our motion shift downward and before I know what’s happened, DD and I are both down in the mud.
* * *
“I’m going to kill him.”Billie paces at the bottom of my hospital bed. “Like, literally murder him.”
I’m in too much pain to react much to her meltdown. My leg is swollen like a tree trunk, and they won’t give me any painkillers until they have time to look at my X-rays and MRI scans. Like you need a medical degree to confirm that it’s fucked up.
“You need to tell Vaughn that I love him and to get the bail money ready. Because I’m going to tear Patrick limb from puny limb.”
A ragged sigh escapes my lips as I look around my room. The walls are that signature pale mint color, a color I imagine they produce solely to paint hospital walls, and all I can smell is that harsh, sterile scent that permeates every single hospital I’ve ever been in. Which is a lot because my brother Rhett is a walking disaster. A rodeo prince with no fear. And even though I’m a year younger than him, I was always the one stuck playing caretaker at the hospital while he was treated for one injury or another. It was the only way my dad could run our farm and keep us afloat enough to take care of the four of us.
So, Ihatehospitals. I don’t care about Patrick. But I am worried about DD. He came down on my leg but didn’t walk off without a limp either. I scrub my hands over my face and force a deep breath into my lungs.
It could have been so much worse.
