Page 2 of My Queendom for a Horse

I step aside. If my dad’s here with Sean, and he’s not jumping in to defend me. . . Suddenly my blood runs cold. We are in Ireland, which is much closer to where Sean lives than I usually am, but what are the chances we’d run into him by accident?

He’s a banker, not a jockey. His family still races, but I imagine his work keeps him from trolling the racetracks every so often.

“Dad.” I don’t even have to ask.

I can tell he’s guilty from the look on his face.

“You’re in silks.” My dad steps out from behind the awning that was blocking him from my view. “You fired our jockey and you’re planning to ride. Aren’t you?”

He’s got me there. “I had to let him go. He was drinking again. His carelessness was ruining Five.” And also, we couldn’t afford to pay him, anyway.

Dad inhales slowly. “I know I’m the one who called him, but like you, I had no choice.” He glances sideways at Sean.

“Your dad made the right call. The terms for the balloon note he showed me are just awful, and—”

My head pivots. “Go away. This doesn’t concern you. It’s between my dad and me.”

“Kris,” Sean says, “be reasonable. Your farm has been in the family for more than a hundred years, and—”

I snatch the money he just took back. “After the way you dumped me? I wouldn’t dump my soda on you if you were on fire.” I shake my head. “Go away, Sean. We don’t need your help.”

He flinches, but he nods and pivots on his heel. One thing rich Brits are excellent at is walking away without a fuss. The only thing worse for them than talking about money in public is making a scene.

“And as for you.” I spin around to face my dad again. “You’re the reason we’re in this mess, so you don’t get to question the way that I fix it. How could you call him without even asking me first?”

Dad inhales shakily. “But Kris—”

“But nothing. Go away and let me place my bet.”

If he wasn’t torn between chasing after Sean and yelling at me, he might have ignored me. But as it is, Dad’s already struggling with the fact that his meal ticket is practically jogging away.

The odds against Five Times Fast aren’t terrible, but they aren’t great either. He’s not a favorite, for sure. Which means with a bet of fifty thousand, I’ll make enough to pay the first balloon payment that’s due next week.

Only, when I try to place the bet a second time, the woman narrows her eyes at me. “You’re wearing silks.”

It’s her job to ask. My bright yellow silks mark me as a jockey, and jockeys can’t bet against their own horse. Most jockeys don’t bet at all. It’s poor form, really. You run the risk of pissing off the boss, or making future employers nervous, or both.

I hand her Five Times Fast’s registration papers and my passport. “I am a jockey, but I’m also the owner.”

She glances at my paperwork. “You’re the crazy rider-owner.” She slaps her hand over her mouth.

It’s not common to ride a horse you own. Usually you’re a terrible rider, or you’ve got a terrible horse. I’m hoping to disprove that particular stereotype today. “That’s me.”

Owners can bet on their own horses, as long as it’s to win or at least to place, so she accepts my money. “You’re optimistic.”

Desperate is probably the more accurate word, but saying ‘optimistic’ is more diplomatic. I extend my hand and she hands the papers back. She runs my money through a counting machine, shakes her head, and hands me my ticket. “Don’t lose that, now. It might be worth a lot.”

I really, really hope it is.

I push past dozens of people waiting to place bets. The constant noise at the racetrack is comforting in its familiarity. I try to pretend this is like any other race, but my stomach isn’t buying it—it’s twisting into knots. The fourth race at Down Royal, the Ladbrokes Champion Chase is the first Grade One race of the Irish steeplechase season, and it starts in thirty minutes. Ladies’ day is always packed, but the beautiful weather today probably contributed to the mass of bodies.

I navigate briskly through the throng of people, jumping to the side to avoid impalement on a ridiculously long peacock feather. The best-dressed contest this year is offering a trip to Rio de Janeiro, and the women have stepped up their game accordingly. It’s all part of the fun of racing, but I don’t have time to look around. I need to do my final check-in and then get Five ready. It always passes in a blur, the final moments before a race. It’s been seven years since I rode as a professional jockey, and I’m a little nervous to be doing it again.

At least my tall bay pony is perfect.

Five Times Fast is sleek and shiny and his feet practically float as I lead him toward the racetrack. I think he’s the prettiest bay here, and he’s easy to recognize with just the one small dollop of white over his front right hoof. His coat gleams and has very faint dapples. His ribs don’t show, but they almost do. That’s what you want with a racer, really. As fit as he can be without looking half-starved. He isn’t sweating at all in spite of the workout we just finished, the warmth of the sunshine, and the anxious energy that always precedes a race in a strange place.

Five loves to race, and it shows. His ears swing right and left, but his eyes are calm. I lean my head against his, and he exhales loudly, as if to tell me he’s ready. I hope he really is.

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