Racing Savannah

Roots and Beginnings

Welcome to Cedar Hill Farms of Franklin, Tennessee.

Est. 1854.

John C. Goodwin III, Owner.

Welcome to Hell would be a more appropriate sign, considering Dad just uprooted me from West Virginia and hauled me to Tennessee two days before senior year.

My father couldn’t give up this opportunity to work as head groom at a fancy farm that trains horses for the Kentucky Derby and Breeders’ Cup, and I didn’t want to be the evil daughter who stamped her foot and refused to come.

It doesn’t totally matter, because home is where my dad is. But it still sucks that I had to leave my part-time job exercising horses. It would’ve become a full-time position when I graduated from high school, and now I have to start all over again.

I punch the code into the alarm box, the heavenly white gates swing open, and I steel myself for the half-mile trek to Hillcrest, the staff quarters. My claustrophobic new home. Hillcrest is attached to the gargantuan white manor house, where a smatter- ing of comfy rocking chairs dot the wraparound porch, waiting for someone to sit down.

Back in West Virginia, it was just me and Dad and She Who Must Not Be Named living in our trailer. Now we’re sharing quarters with six other staff members and their kids. To escape, I took a walk to downtown Franklin this morning, but I’m cash poor at the moment so there wasn’t much to do besides loiter, and the last thing I need before school starts is to gain a reputa- tion as that weird girl who loiters.

So here I am, back in hell, gathering my courage to go talk to the lead trainer about getting some work as an exercise rider so I can cease being cash poor. I used to exercise racehorses at the track and casino in Charles Town. But that was at a totally dif- ferent level—the horses I rode there were like driving a Ford and here they are like Ferraris. Hell, the Queen of England stables her horses thirty minutes away.

What if the trainer thinks I’m unqualified? Or a hack? I’ve been riding since I was four, but still. Just go talk to him, Savannah! The worst he can say is no…and then I can go back to loitering. I inhale then let out the deep breath I’ve been holding and take in the scent of cornbread, fresh laundry, dirt, cedar trees, and of course, horseshit.

I can do this.

I charge down the driveway and suddenly a wailing, high- pitched alarm goes off. My first thought is: Tornado! But the skies are as blue as a robin’s egg. Seconds later I see a brown and white blur streaking across the grass. A racer. Two guys on ponies are chasing it. He must have escaped!

I sprint toward the horse as he zigzags my way. The horse seems curious. But not curious enough to slow down. He zips past me as I yell “Stop!” and take off after him. The horse circles back around. I hold a hand up. “Whoa, there.”

The horse slows to a jog, studying me, his expression both wary and nosy. Then he charges me. I reach out and snatch his bridle. With a firm grip, I thrust him away from me, showing him who’s boss. That’s when I discover he’s wearing a saddle.

“Did you throw your rider?” Suddenly he rears up and kicks his feet. When he returns to all fours, I get up in his face again. “Whoa!” He cowers, bowing his head.

One time a horseman told me I have a way with horses. Dad told me not to listen when men say things like that because they’re just trying to get into my pants. But I do have a way with horses. Dad, however, does not have a way with words.