Lilac's Chance

An Original Chapter Name

"We're in trouble."

Bonawinds is drowning.

I'd never considered Texas a rainy state, and maybe it isn't usually- Hank says that he's never seen this much rainfall in his life, and it must be a record. But it's been pouring for three days straight and already we're tiring of it. There's nothing to do but muck stalls and feed horses, and though I've taken Last Chance out for a long trot through the rain once or twice a day to keep her in shape, we can't go much faster thanks to the sloppy footing. So we have far too much time on our hands and nothing to do with it.

I'm curled up on one side of my couch, reading a predictable western I found in the kitchen, and Braydon's simmering on the other side, skimming through a magazine. We'd gotten into a debate over whether swimming or hill work was best for rehabilitative purposes on an injured horse, and even though it was a good-tempered argument, no boy likes losing.

I focus on Hank, who's dripping onto the doorway, stomping out mud-clad boots. He's straight-faced and grim, and at first I think it might be the weather, but Flicks, settled on my lap, tenses and I realize that she's sensing something worse.

He closes the door, just as wind and rain conspire against us and hurl against it and the windowpanes, rattling them ominously. "What's wrong?"

"That filly of yours."

My heart skips a beat. Last Chance. "Is she down? I checked on her, like, two hours ago. Or colic? Did you call a vet yet? I have to-" I'm halfway out of my seat and spilling Flicks across the floor before Hank can lift a hand, staying me- and Braydon, who's also started to rise, concern leeching all color from his face.

"The filly herself is fine- last I checked, she was perfectly happy and dry and kicking the stall door to get at the colt I was brushing." Hank's mouth quirks. As annoying as Last Chance can be, her intense dislike of other horses is kind of funny- when she's not trying to kill somebody. But then his face stills again. "Bona called. And though Mr. Piperson took back his offer, it's made him start to wonder whether there's wisdom in selling the mare after all."

"No," I start, noting the accusatory glare Braydon shoots my way. "That's not-"

"And, from a business point, it makes sense. A bird in the hand..."

"Worth two in the bush," Braydon chimes in. He slowly sits back down, and, reluctantly, I do so too, but my mind is anything but settled. It's racing, faster than any horse, but there's no train of thought to take me anywhere.

Hank nods. "So if we want to keep her, we have to start entering bigger races. Hope she turns a profit. And if she doesn't-"

"He sells," I finish blankly. I stare at my hands. There's still a bit of dirt under my nails, and they're rough with reins and constant work. Only hours ago they were guiding Last Chance through white sheets of rain. And now...

But a tiny, niggling part of me wonders if it would be terrible if Last Chance sold to a racing barn. Having successfully jockeyed her, whoever bought her would probably take me with. I could have more than one ride.

Then I banish the thought. Braydon loves that horse- I can't take her from him. Not like that. "So, we race? Bigger and better?"

"We win," Hank says firmly.

Braydon and I exchange a glance. This is what other people don't get, that he understands, that is the entire meaning of me.

Losing is never an option.

*****

Halt. Go. Halt. Go! Halt. Go!

Last Chance hates me right now, if her pinned ears and gaping mouth are any indication. Her tail swishes unhappily over her golden haunches as I sit back and pull her to a halt. Again.

"What's this supposed to accomplish?" Braydon asks. He's slouched over his saddle horn, chewing on a stalk of grass, Fudge an absolute statue beneath him. He looks irritatingly cowboyish, like this could be the eighteen hundreds instead of the twenty first century. I'm grimy and gross and a solid member of this year and season in a helmet and sneakers and leggings, and Last Chance is too dazzling and angry to slip back in time, to when racehorses truly were royalty.

Now we're just schooling in mud.

"It's supposed to help her with breaking out of the gate," I say, trying to bury the abrasiveness in my voice. Braydon isn't fooled, but he is amused. "In something as short as a Quarter Horse race, we want her to get out fast and ahead of every other horse."

Last Chance shakes her head and arches her neck. I feel her press her tongue against the bit, maddened by the dozens of aborted gallops we've taken, evidenced by the scattered prints in the track. The weather has let up a little, giving us a window of time to do something more than jog through a veritable ocean. It's ugly out, though. A cold breeze carries to us the scent of more rain and the sky is coated in blister-yellow clouds.

Braydon absorbs what I've told him. "And not Thoroughbred races?"

"No. They're longer, which gives me more time to get ahead of the pack. Of course, it depends on the horse. A come-from-behinder can get away with a slow break, because he'll take his time coming up from behind to overtake the leaders. A front runner, though, will want to break cleanly and get to the front as fast as possible," I explain, slipping the reins through my fingers. Last Chance hasn't stopped moving, and she walks an anxious circle around Fudge, head in the air and nose pointed up, trying to evade the bit. I check her sharply and she stops, rolling her eyes back to glare at me.

"She's not happy," Braydon observes.

"No," I agree. "But this will only make her want to run more."

And that's all we need.