Lilac's Chance

Chapter Twenty-Two

I like Prisoner's Base.

She reminds me of my dad's top horse, Bloodless Day. Fast. Focused. Unpredictable. And always, always, a mean streak a mile wide.

Last Chance is sweet with humans, and sour with horses. Prisoner's Base? She's truly rotten to the core.

"Hold her!" Jefferson barks as I'm legged up onto the mare. I almost retort that I'm not even onto her yet, but then the groom at her head snaps the chain against her gums, making the mare toss her head in dismay. I take the time to gather my reins, trying Prisoner's hold. She arches her neck and tries me back, but the groom is there and tugging her forwards.

It's race day.

Last Chance is ready and waiting in her stall, Braydon who knows where until race seven. But it's race four that concerns me now.

"You know how to ride." Jefferson nods to me. "But watch your striding- she likes to run out a bit, so hold her so she doesn't go too wide."

"Yes sir," I say sagely, but it's not the trainer that holds my attention. My gaze meets that of the jockey across the saddling area from me- J. He glowers back at me from the back of a shiny black gelding, Demeanor, who's odds are 25-1. Prisoner is 3-1.

I know he won't forgive me for this.

The racetrack isn't busy with spectators today- the heat is deterring, the sunlight is blinding and there's no interesting races happening to draw competitors, so it's just trainers and waiting jockeys and grooms and a handful of owners watching us ride out. I study the miniscule crowd at the railing, but don't see Braydon.

"Looking for Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome?"

The voice, so sudden and welcoming, also surprises me. Prisoner's Base, too. The mare jerks beneath me, lifting her knees a little as she snorts nervously and angles her head towards the pony rider. It's Josie and her little paint, watching me with a little smirk.

"Hey!" I exclaim. "Long time no see."

She cocks her head, half-laughing as her paint horse dances underneath her. "I've been busy with finals. It's only my first year, but college is brutal. Where's your little blonde horse?"

"Seventh race," I tell her, just as Prisoner takes offense at Josie's mount. She squeals and whirls, as though about to kick. Instinctively I smack her shoulder with the crop and tug and pull her back to where she was. It only takes a second, but by the time we're walking nicely again, the paint has skirted away from us.

"You don't pick the nice horses, do you?" Josie frowns. "Or enemies. J was talking it up earlier, about how he's going to put you in your place."

"How?" Prisoner ducks her head a little and shakes it, neck snaking towards the paint. He flattens his ears in reply. "The horse he's on now sucks, and he's not even racing later on."

Josie shakes her head, ponytail whipping her face. "It's all talk. But not a lot of jockeys are liking you right now. You're not respecting the fact that this was J's ride."

"If J wants her back," I say, snapping at the reins, "he can have her. He just needs to ride her properly."

My friend's grin lights up the track better than any sunrise could. "That's a girl. Now go show them who's boss."

And we do.

From the moment Prisoner steps from the gates, we're showing them. Not another horse has a prayer as I guide her straight to the front, knuckles buried in her mane, goggles pulled down not for mud but for wind. We're not getting caught in the mess of horses behind us.

Demeanor, J's mount, is right next to us for a moment, but then Prisoner snaps at him and he jerks his head up, startled. J, for all his faults, doesn't react, staying calm and cool in the saddle, though when I look under my arm, his eyes flash momentarily with anger.

I smack Prisoner's shoulder with the crop. Pay attention.

We do, and we fly faster.

It's a short race, so I don't worry about saving her energy, rather choosing to push her longer and lower. Prisoner's Base stretches out gorgeously. Every stride is just reaching for the next, and there's nobody next to us on the outside. Demeanor, running strongly, bright saddle blanket flapping, is still wary of passing my mount, so I focus sharply ahead and lower my hands, flashing my whip at Prisoner. Her red-tipped ears flicker, her eyes rolling white. Nostrils flare as she heaves in air.

I feel her mouth harden in resistance as she fights me back, head angling towards Demeanor. She slows, meaning to attack. All at once she feels sinister and slippery beneath me- not Last Chance's hot anger at other horses, but a cool hatred at everything around her.

"Listen to me," I shout at the mare, words whipped away by the speed we're going at. I flash my whip at her, and when she doesn't respond to this, slash it at her hindquarters.

In a final, tremendous effort, Prisoner surges forward. Her ears flatten so they're invisible in her fiery mane, her neck lowers as she flattens her stride, and we're roaring up the track and counting the lengths between us and Demeanor and J by the time we flash under the wire.

*****

I'm still shaking with exhilaration when Braydon meets me in the shedrows. "That was a good race."

"That mare is a monster," I reply, but cannot fight the smile tugging at my mouth. It was a good race. Not easy, not record breaking, but it was hard and we still won. My heart is crashing against my ribs, still galloping, and my hands ache with the nonexistent weight of a thousand pound horse fighting me. "But Jefferson was pretty happy with the run. He even offered me a few other horses to ride."

Braydon frowns slightly. "And how are you going to handle all of that while working at Bona?"

"I didn't-" I start, but he seems to lose interest, cutting me off.

"Speaking of which, you should probably go get ready for this one. I'll go start grooming Last Chance." He turns and walks away before I can reply.

I watch him go, stung and a little confused. There's more than half an hour before I have to go get ready, and I'm not picking up the extra rides, exactly for the reason he's said. But now I'm tempted to, if only to tick him off. "I wish I knew what your problem was," I mutter, narrowing my eyes at his retreating back.

There's a dappled gray colt in the stall I'm stopped in front of, and he nickers an agreement. "But if I knew what his issue was, I'd probably just hit him." The colt bobs his head, as though saying yes, ears pricked and eyes bright. He's a friendly guy, and I allow myself a moment to stroke his soft cheek. It's horses like this that make me love the sport I live and breathe.

"Unlike that devil I rode earlier," I say aloud. But I love her too, in her own way. She's the type of horse that makes the rider fight, to earn what they get. It feels like that's the kind of horse I've been chasing after my whole life. Not an easy guy like Goodie, or a fun guy like Skip. No. The harder the journey, the more satisfying the destination.

"Right?" I ask softly. "But how hard is too hard?" The colt nickers again, but I have no treats to give him. So, with a final pat to his cheek, I head back to the jockey's lounge.