Racing Savannah

Chapter 13. Hold on Tight

At daybreak on Tuesday, day two of my jockey training, I begin exercising the horses. Now that it’s September and the humidity is fading into fall, my skin isn’t slick with sweat like dew coating the grass, but I’m still hot as hell.

I steer Echoes of Summer out onto the track and click my tongue, urging her into a trot. An exercise rider who works for another horse owner calls out, “Women don’t belong on the racetrack! Go make me breakfast!” The rider smiles goofily and the guys around him start chuckling. I ignore them and ride on by. Assholes.

At the 3/8 pole, Bryant Townsend rides up beside me and gives me a look.

“What?” I say over the sound of hooves slamming the dirt. “You come to tell me girls shouldn’t be jockeys?”

“I came to tell you don’t even think about stealing any more of my business. Yeah, Star hasn’t won yet, but now I won’t get any money off him.”

I look straight ahead, continuing to trot. What Bryant says makes me feel somewhat guilty—jockeys only make money when the horses they ride win, and when Jack asked me to become Star’s jockey, that meant Bryant would lose business if Star were to win.

“I need this chance,” I tell Bryant.

“Just don’t agree to race any other horses. I have a car payment and bills to deal with.” Bryant speeds up, leaving me to think about how lucky I am to have a place to live.

After I finish exercising Echoes of Summer, second up on my schedule is Star. Sweat drips down my face as we trot around the track, warming up.

Three other exercise riders are right beside me when a baby raccoon appears on the top of a fence post. A colt screams and jerks his head. Then two of the fillies do the same thing. Which of course means that Star goes ballistic at forty miles per hour.

I hold on tight as Star rears onto his hind legs. Oh shit. “Star,” I say in a soothing voice. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” But I’m terrified. Star returns to all fours, sidesteps, and jerks his head again, whinnying, and I kick his sides and try to urge him forward, but he won’t budge.

The next time he jerks, he uses such force I can’t hold on. He pitches me sideways off his back. I free my feet and leap, making an emergency exit. Avoid Star’s hooves. Attempt a shoulder roll. Land on the track, right on my butt, kicking up dust. Star takes off, the stirrups banging against his sides. The wailing alarm sounds. Other horses dash past me. I’m sitting on the interstate without a car. Outriders begin to chase after Star as I bring myself to a sitting position, and right then a speeding colt clips my shin with his hoof and I scream in pain.

I fall to the dirt, clutching my leg.

“No, no, no!” Jack sprints up to me and slides onto the track like a baseball player into second base. “Are you okay?”

I don’t respond. I hold a gloved hand out toward him. It’s shaking.

Jack squeezes my hand and shuts his eyes, panting. “Don’t ever do that to me again,” he says under his breath. Is he talking to me or to the horse gods?

“Go get Star,” I mutter, clutching my leg.

“No,” Jack says.

Dad and Gael follow behind Jack, and seeing the horrified look on Dad’s face makes my eyes water. It’s been a long time since I’ve fallen off a horse. My leg feels like I got wacked with a crowbar. Damn.

It takes a few minutes for my heart to stop racing and my body to stop shaking, but I think my leg and butt are okay.

Mr. Goodwin jogs up. “Do you need to go to the hospital?”

“I’m fine,” I say through clenched teeth. “I just had the wind knocked out of me.” There is no way I’m giving up my chance to race this Saturday! “What you need is a damned raccoon exterminator already!” I tell Mr. Goodwin, making him and Jack chuckle.

“I’ll get right on that,” Jack says.

“Maybe you should go to the doctor,” Dad says, but I shake my head.

“I didn’t hit my head or anything, and nothing hurts except for my leg and my butt,” I whisper, embarrassed. Horsemen around the track are staring at me. People fall off horses all the time—Dad is just being a drama queen. I don’t want him to have to pay for an emergency room visit just because my butt is sore. I’d know if I broke something. My leg is gonna have a nasty bruise tomorrow, that’s for sure.

“We need to get you off the track,” Mr. Goodwin says, looking over at the gates. “We’ve got about twenty riders waiting.”

Cedar Hill is a business, after all. I lurch to my feet, and Dad tells everyone that he’s keeping me home from school to make sure I don’t have a head injury.

“Dad, don’t. That’ll make me look like a complete pansy.”

“You’re staying home.”

“If she’s staying home from school, I’ll bring over some film for her to watch,” Gael says, winking at me. He knows Dad is overreacting.

“I’ll carry her back,” Jack says, slipping an arm under my knees and the other under my shoulder blades, lifting me off the track. Mr. Goodwin gives his son a look, but Jack doesn’t pay attention.

“Put me down,” I tell Jack through clenched teeth. “Nobody’s gonna take me seriously if you’re carrying me all over the place.” He immediately drops me back to my feet and a pang of pain engulfs my shin. I hiss and hop on one foot.

My dad starts rubbing his eyes and wiping sweat off his face, glancing between Mr. Goodwin and Jack. I can see Dad’s pulse racing beneath the skin of his neck.

“Son, get her off the track,” Mr. Goodwin says, and Jack grabs my arm and pulls me toward Hillcrest.

“Can I still race on Saturday?” I ask, hobbling.

Jack avoids my question. “Let’s go check out that leg.”

He leads me back to Hillcrest and escorts me to my bedroom. There, he looks around my super tiny room. It’s only big enough for a twin bed and a small dresser that doubles as a nightstand. A framed picture of my mother hangs beside the door. Yellow paint is peeling off the walls and the only sunlight filters through a tiny rectangular window near the ceiling. The twin bed has the same bedding I’ve had since I was eight—Strawberry Shortcake.

Jack chuckles at my bedspread as we plop down. “I knew you were a Shortcake.”

I want to dive under the covers and die from embarrassment. I need a new comforter immediately.

After helping me remove my gloves and vest, Jack pulls my boots and socks off, lifts my legs onto his lap, peels my pant leg back, and examines my shin. He whistles at the big purple welt forming. “You should ice it, but it doesn’t look serious—”

“Son,” Mr. Goodwin says, appearing in my doorway with my father. Both men stare down at my legs in Jack’s lap. “You need to get back on the track and let the horsemen know why we have a twenty-minute delay this morning. You need to do your job, understand ?”

The emotion disappears from Jack’s face, he removes my feet from his lap, and he suddenly stands. “Yes, sir.”

“I hope you feel better, Savannah,” Jack says seriously before leaving, clicking the door shut.

Dad watches Jack disappear then sits down on my bed. “What happened out there? How did you lose control?”

“Star’s strong and he was scared.”

My father shakes his head. “I don’t want you riding that horse anymore.”

“No—”

“Don’t argue—”

“The only reason the Goodwins are training me as a jockey is to ride Star—”

“And you think they’ll let you now after you lost control of the horse and fell?”

“That happens to everybody! And raccoons were involved! This happened to a rider on the third day we were here, for God’s sake!”

Dad clenches the Strawberry Shortcake comforter in his fist and shuts his eyes.

I can’t give up the chance to make a better name, a better future for myself. The fact I’m still using the same kid bedding just proves I need better opportunities. Sometimes you’ve gotta take risks to get something better.

“Please,” I say. “I’ll do anything. Please let me keep working.”

“I’ve gotta get back to work,” he says. “Stay in that bed.”

“Dad!” I call out, but he leaves without another word.

God, is it all over after less than a week? I bury my face in my pillow. What happened this morning scared me…but not having a future in horseracing scares me just as much, if not more.

Midafternoon when I’m icing my shin for the fourth time, Gael brings film for me to watch and I move to the common room because I don’t have a TV. It brings a smile to my face that Gael isn’t gonna let me quit just because I fell.

“When I was a jockey,” Gael says, “I fell at least once a month. And I didn’t even have raccoons to blame.”

Later in the day, Dad sits on my bed with me. “I’m sorry I yelled at you this morning,” he says. “But you need to get your body in better shape so you can ride at high speeds if you want to keep your job.”

“I can keep it?” I exclaim.

Dad runs a hand through his hair. “What happened this morning wasn’t your fault.”

“Yeah, it was those goddamned raccoons.”

Dad pats my knee. “Hey, watch your mouth, Shortcake.”

“Can I race this weekend?”

“We’ll see…but you need to start doing more workouts with Gael. And don’t think I won’t hesitate to stop your training if I don’t think you can handle it, understand?”

I hug his neck, promising myself I’ll be extra vigilant from now on. He’s right—this job can be the difference between life and death.

Dad hands me a packet of papers. “Jack came by. He brought your schoolwork.”

“Groan,” I say. “He must not know me very well if he thinks I actually want to do my homework.”

On top of the papers is a thick beige note card embossed with Jack’s name in gold ink. John Conrad Goodwin IV. What guy has his own stationery? It even smells like his cologne. Jesus Lord.

The note reads,

Star says he's sorry. For his punishment, I'm withholding carrots and he isn't allowed to play in the pasture with the fillies for a week. That'll teach him a lesson. I'd go crazy if someone took away my favorite food and access to girls. Feel better soon -JG

I laugh silently at the note. But couldn’t he have told me this in person?

“What’s going on between you and him?” Dad asks.

I bring the note card to my mouth, to chew on the corner. “We’re working with Star. That’s all,” I lie, wishing I could erase last weekend’s make-out session from my mind.

“Make sure that’s all it is,” Dad says, giving me a stern glare. “I had a hard time keeping him out of here this afternoon. I told him he couldn’t see you ’cause I didn’t want you stressed out in case you got a concussion this morning.”

So that’s why he sent a note.

“Jack only wants to get in your pants,” Dad says.

My hands fly to cover my eyes. “God, Dad! Shut up!”

“Mr. Goodwin would never allow his son to date you.”

It hurts hearing Dad say that. Because I know it’s true. I’ve heard it from Mr. Goodwin’s own mouth.

“You know the maids’ stories about all the girls Jack messes around with in his room. And like Cindy told you, you’re too good for him.”

I might have thought that a week ago. But a week ago, he wouldn’t have sent me a card and collected my homework. I smell the card again, enjoying his cologne, thinking of his funny words. I really like who he is as a person.

Regardless of what anybody says, I’d give him another chance if he wants to try to make us work. But still, which Jack is the real Jack? The farm owner at home or the sweet goofball who emerges when we’re alone?