“If there’s an opportunity, I will. Otherwise, I won’t. I’m smart, but thanks for worrying about me.”
“You’re welcome. I’ve got to meet with some owners before the meet begins. You’ve got my cell if you need to tell me anything.”
“I do. Have fun.” She chuckled, knowing how much I hated hobnobbing with the rich and wealthy who saw the horses as playthings and little more. Maybe a status symbol, but only if they won. Thankfully my horses won—a lot.
I hurried to the bathroom to wash my hands and make sure I didn’t smell too much of horses before entering the realm of the rich and the dabbling. I strode into the clubhouse wearing my clean pair of paddock boots, skinny jeans with a white t-shirt and a navy blazer over it. I’d brushed my hair and applied a hint of lip gloss. To those who weren’t familiar with the racing scene, I was just another wealthy patron who’d paid to have the good view. Maybe a little under-dressed, but I needed something, like the blazer, I could put on quickly in the tack room. Underneath the blazer, my t-shirt had the farm’s logo on the pocket, intertwined horse shoes with a heart and a club in each one. If I got dirty, and horses loved to slobber on white shirts, all I had to do was grab a fresh one from the bag in the trailer.
Mr. Bagly, a bulky man with bushy gray hair, wearing his gold Longinees watch and a heavy signet ring on his hand, spoke with Flora Darly, one of my horse’s owners. I exchanged pleasant greetings with those I passed.
“Ettie!” Flora waved me over. “I’m glad you didn’t make me come down there. The backstretch and Jimmie Choos just don’t mix.” She laughed, and I glanced at the heels tall enough to be used as a spike through someone’s heart. I’d seen her in designer sneakers and jeans leaning against the fence watching a horse breeze. Her clothes had been purchased with holes and fraying for more than I’d paid for good tack. Today though, she wore a garishly gorgeous red sheath dress and matching shoes, toned down by the small gold horseshoe earrings with tasteful diamond studs. She knew my symbols.
“I would never make you do that on race day.” We exchanged air kisses. “I don’t mean to intrude.”
“Oh no, honey. Kenneth and I were just about done here, weren’t we?” She turned and dazzled him with a smile that left him not realizing he’d been snubbed and badly.
“Of course. Good luck today, Flora. I look forward to hearing from you.” He turned. “Ettie.” He didn’t shake trainer’s hands. I might not have washed them since coming from the barn. I knew men like his type. I avoided working for them and Mr. Bagly set his stakes firmly in Dean Atkins’ track. Small world, indeed.
Flora led me to her table and we sat. “I’ve got high hopes for the big races today. Even if Kudzu will run in the third and Iris in the fourth, there’s going to be a lot of excitement. Dean’s been telling everyone how his horses are going to lap the track—and yours.” She shook her head. “All talk and no action. Don’t you just hate men like that?” She laughed, her voice a tinkling of bells with just enough enchantment that it wouldn’t be noticed by any but the gods. Few fae got involved with horse racing, but those who did always hit the board. She tapped her blood red nails against the side of her glass. With her skin the color of perfectly fired porcelain and hair darker than the blackest horses, I didn’t doubt which fae court she belonged to.
“I’m focus on my horses. I’ve learned not to make promises, not when you’re dealing with big animals who all have minds of their own.” Whatever grievance Flora had against Dean, and I could think of many, I refused to be a part of it. “But your horses are running well and I believe this is a great track for them. The footing’s been fast, very fast even, all morning, and you know how Kudzu likes to make for the front and run. He’ll be at the top of his game.”
“Of course.” She smiled as if the very thought of one of her horses having an off day simply couldn’t be tolerated, or even a possibility. “And Iris? You’re going to tell the jockey she doesn’t like to be rushed. Let her set her own pace.”
“Yes. And Ortiz is riding her. She’s got a light hand.” Gabriella Ortiz worked almost exclusively with my stable, though I’d steered trainers who I trusted to her for meets and races where my horses wouldn’t be running. She’d given me first option on all her rides and hadn’t let me down yet.
“Wonderful. I hoped she’d make it. I may have a couple more horses for you. I’ll be in touch, but there’s a lovely two-year-old running down in Florida who I think needs a bit of that Kentucky bluegrass, and an older mare who just loves to run is in California. I’m consolidating my operations. Things are getting just too unstable out there and it’s not just the fault lines.”
“I’d be happy to make room for them in my barn. You know I love training your horses.”
“Very good. I’ll send word then and coordinate with Betsy, but they should arrive probably late next week. Give them some time to settle in and then we’ll see what they can do. I’m afraid the two-year-old is blooming a bit too late to make a Derby run. You know how much I love being at Churchill Downs.” She sipped her drink, not quite a mimosa, but a mixture of fruit juices with a bit of something tossed in. Her family had vineyards in Northern California, as well as Venezuela, so perhaps
