Lilac's Chance

Chapter Twenty-One

Crunch.

Step.

Crunch.

Step.

Last Chance sighs, shakes her head and flops her ears, then takes another step as she contentedly chews her hay. I'm under her feed bin, mesmerized by her eating. There's something calming about the whir of fans, the constant snorts and sighs of other horses in the shedrow, the wooden wall pressing against my back and chips beneath me. It's hot, which has exhausted us all, but I'm relaxed with the knowledge that I have nothing else to do for the rest of the day but this.

Crunch.

Step.

Braydon, sitting on the tack trunk outside the stall and listening to music, suddenly says, cautiously, "hello."

Last Chance straightens and curves her head away from her hay, looking over her shoulder and out, so I twist to follow her lead as someone responds, "hello. Is this the Bonawinds stall?"

It's Jefferson.

"Yes, it is," I say, maybe louder than needed, but Jefferson's head appears over the stall door and he doesn't look offended. Actually, he looks quite comfortable despite the long flannel shirt he's wearing in this miserable heat, a cowboy hat flopped over his head.

"Piperson."

"Lilac," I remind him sternly. This is who I am. Not a product of the Piperson estate, but of myself. Lilac.

He nods. "Right. Have you changed your mind?"

I shake my head. Once it's made, I don't change easily. Jefferson doesn't seem bothered, however. Instead he seems even more energized. "Well, I have a mare I really would like to see you race anyways, even if it's just when you're around to race this one." He juts a thumb at Last Chance, and the filly's ears fly forwards in interest.

I'm interested, too. "Really? Which mare?"

"Prisoner's Base."

I suck in a breath, pretending to consider. But there's really nothing to mull over. I've seen the mare race- she's fast. She's a terror, but she's fast, and that was with a subpar jockey like J. With me...

We'd be unstoppable.

"Only when I'm here with Chance?" I check, casting a look at the palomino. She's not the horse that's going to make me famous, but I won't abandon her for anything. If it weren't for her, I'd be back at Piperson Farms with my tail between my legs. If it weren't for her, I wouldn't be friends with Braydon. If it weren't for her, I'd be back under Dad's thumb.

I owe her everything.

Braydon speaks up, invisible over the stall wall. "Do you even have time for that?" He sounds disgruntled.

Jefferson turns to face him, but I cut him to the answer. "What am I doing with my time right now?" My voice is sharper than intended, but it annoys me that he thinks that it's even his business. I'm the one who's racing. I'm the one that's going to be exhausted by the end of the day, not him. "I can do it. I'd love to do it, as long as it doesn't interfere with Chance."

"No, of course it won't mess with your mare’s schedule," Jefferson assures me. "Would you like to try Prisoner out tomorrow morning, then? How does seven sound?"

Seven is when I ride Chance, because there's less horses on the track by then. She's less distracted and grumpy, so we can get down to business. I'll worry about the other horses when we actually race, but as long as we break clean and get to the front it won't be an issue. "Is seven thirty okay?"

Jefferson hesitates, thinking it over. "That's when I have Prospero scheduled to go... but I could pull some strings. If that's okay."

It has to be.

I look up at Jefferson, nodding again. "That sounds good."

He tips his hat at me- Texans!- and withdraws, leaving silence to fill the wake between Braydon, Chance, and I.

Chance comes over to me to snuffle at my open palms for treats, but already my mind is far away from here and my heartbeat has tripped from a trot and into a gallop.

I'm racing again.

*****

Hot leather burns across my hands as I fight Chance. It's early, she's brisk, and each step she takes carries us up instead of forwards. A leggy bay breezes past us on the inside, making Chance shake her head in annoyance, but she doesn't give chase. I resist the urge to pull her back and instead soften my grip on the reins. Soon she's walking nicely, though her back feels tense beneath me.

"Let's just keep her at a slow canter today," Braydon says at the rail, looking down at the notes he, Hank, and I compiled into a plan a few days ago. "Get her frustrated and wanting her to run for tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," I answer sharply, focusing on the ground up ahead. Already it is a mess of scattered hoofprints, shadows of earlier gallops that scoop up the light of the rising sun. It crests the horizon, muggy and hot. I want to finish up quickly and get back to the shedrow before it gets too gross out, but I still have Prisoner's Base to ride.

And whose fault is that?

Chance's head lifts when I bridge my reins- she knows what this means- and she flows easily into a canter, head tilted forwards as she begs for more speed. Sand scatters as we fly across the track, it's many-grained whisper following in our wake.

Up ahead is the leggy bay, still working but slowing. His jockey is knuckled into the horse's jet-black mane, his hands moving in perfect synchronicity with his mount's head. I'm appreciative of the good match, but also opportunistic- this is a good time to give my mare a little more confidence. Not that she really needs it.

She embraces the chance to go faster, taking up the little slack I offer, and charges forward. Our shadows meld together, chugging along beneath us, stretching out and growing longer as Chance lengthens her stride. We're just off the rail, the bay about halfway across the track, and I urge my mare forwards. Not a gallop, but fringing on it.

As we draw closer to the bay, Last Chance hesitates, lifting her head and flicking her ears. She doesn't want to get close enough to pass him, but I drive her on anyways. Legs pressed against her hot skin, arms straining and holding her up, and we slide neatly past the bay and further up the track.

"Good girl!" I exclaim, standing in the stirrups to draw her back. Chance shakes her head, cantering on a few strides and bearing down on the bit, but then she finally drops into a balanced trot. I look over my shoulder to make sure we're not getting in the way of the bay, and then trot across the track towards the waiting Braydon, who's standing with arms crossed and a leadline dangling from his hands.

He doesn't say a word as he attaches the line to Chance's bit, holding her steady as I swing off. Chance prances when my feet hit the ground, ears pricked and eyes dancing with excitement. She wants to keep going. "How was that?"

"You pushed her a little fast around the one bend."

"Just trying to get her a little more confident passing up horses. We're not going to be able to run wire-to-wire forever," I explain, biting back a sharper retort. What does Braydon know about racing?

Braydon frowns slightly, as though he can read my mind. Guilt softens my mood and I turn away from him to stroke Chance. "She'll be okay for tomorrow?"

I pause in my praise over the palomino and glance at him. "We always are."