Lilac's Chance

Chapter One

The man is shaking his head before I even finish speaking my name.

"No," he says. "I'm not putting you on one of my horses just so it can lose to one of yours."

I grit my teeth and resist the urge to tell him that his horses aren't even good enough to go against mine. There's no need to be unprofessional, even if that's exactly what he's being.

"Thank you for your time," I tell him instead, and turn around to leave the barn.

It's a crappy one, as far as racehorse stables go. All the halters are nylon, cheap and shabby, and the heads that hang over the stall doors are bored an ungroomed. This is where my career has gone.

Texas itself isn't so bad. The weather isn't the moderate Kentucky weather I'm used to, but there hasn't been any snow so far, much to my transmission's relief, and there's ice but not too much of it. I'm not sure how much more Mother Theresa can take before she gives out permanently.

This was my last chance.

I zip my jacket up and duck my head, watching my breath float ahead of me as I walk towards my truck.Rosy red clouds tint the horizon, circling a pale blue sky, but the gorgeous afternoon goes unnoticed as I slip into Mother Teresa, pressing my forehead against the wheel. There's a dent forming there, a permanent one. This isn't my first time being refused, but it feels like my last. I'm running out of stables to apply to as a jockey.

My phone rings. There's only one person that would call at this time, and he's the last one I want to talk to.

I answer it.

"Lilac, hello. How'd the interview go?"

"Hey, Dad." I lean back, digging my head into my seat where another dent is forming, and breathe out a long sigh. "Not well."

The trainer is exiting the stables. He catches sight of me, sitting in Mother Theresa, scowls, and gestures for me to leave. I almost want to flip him off, but again stifle the urge to and fumble for my keys as Dad speaks. "Well, maybe that's a good thing. Maybe it's time for you to come home and do what you're meant to."

What I'm meant to do is get on a horse and start galloping and never stop, but I don't think even Superhorse Bloodless Day could do that. 'Never' is a long time.

"Maybe." The engine turns over once, twice, and then Mother Teresa roars to life with a vehemence that rattles my teeth. On the other end of the line, I hear Dad wince against the mouthpiece. Bump.

"I could get you a new truck as well, you know that. Ford came out with a new model that's better than ever."

"You could give me a colt instead," I counter. I don't really want one- I'd rather be just a jockey- but if I have to build my own name up through training as well, then that's what I'll do.

Dad is silent for a moment. "Which colt?"

"Any. Bloodless Day and Celebration's." Celebration is our best broodmare. Every foal she's had goes on to be a stakes horse. A few were very nearly Derby horses as well. Fast. Incredible fast.

"Anything on Piperson Farms is yours, Lilac honey. If you want to work with that colt, of course you can. It's due any day now."

I meant legally, but Dad never understood that. And, of course, I'm not the one doing all the work if it's my father that gave me the colt, and supervised me through Willifred. What I need is to buy my own horse, raise it and train it myself.

Of course, that still wouldn't work. Not after what I'd been accused of.

I put the phone on speaker as I back the truck up, swing it wide, and zoom out of the ranch's narrow driveway, passing by a truck driven by what undoubtedly is the resident jockey. He narrows his eyes at me as I floor it, roaring onto the back road. Mother Teresa bounces along the dirt enthusiastically, ready to go anywhere, do anything, so long as it isn't too far away or rattles the transmission too badly or requires too much gasoline.

My eyes shut for a split second as I allow myself a moment fully immersed in annoyance. Maybe I should go somewhere where nobody knows me. Maybe I should go to England. Or Dubai.

Dad finally speaks again. "I don't know what you want, Lilac. You have everything. You just need to ask, and I'll give it to you."

That's exactly the problem, I think, swerving around a deep hole in the ground. Maybe what I want is to not be given everything.

It's silly and maybe it's selfish, but it's my silly selfishness. Nobody gave me the feelings that boil inside of me like an abandoned teakettle.

"Tell me when you're ready to come home," Dad says finally.

Never.

I hang up.

The afternoon is gradually growing more violent. Wind whips up around Mother Teresa, throwing stones against her and shaking bare branched trees. I'll have to find a hotel room soon- it's far too cold to sleep in the truck- but so far I haven't passed any main roads. Or even any paved roads. Just as I'm wondering if I went in the wrong direction, it happens.

One of the tires glances off a reflective patch of dirt in the road- ice. And just like that, the wheel is yanked out of my hands, unmovable like a horse with the bit caught in his teeth. I brace against the seat, breath stuck somewhere between my lungs and my heart, staring in horror as the world spins, dipping dangerously down. There's a ditch, filled with litter, and a tree, and suddenly everything stops moving.

The windshield shatters, glass tinkling as it falls out of place, just like my dreams.