Susan Johnson - Hot Streak

However, money hadn't changed the Maryland Hunt Cup. Forty years ago when timber racing was struggling to return from the World War II doldrums, an editorial bemoaned the lack of entries for the postwar renewal. Someone had suggested a $50,000 purse might encourage more owners and trainers to run their horses. The editorial argued against a large purse, suggesting entries would be swelled by horses unsuitable to the course.

The Hunt Cup didn't offer a purse until 1972, and it was only $15,000 now. The few horses and riders here today, Carey thought, were up for the unique challenge of this race. The purse was only a minor bonus.

He'd entered for several reasons, some less tangible than others. First, the Hunt Cup was by reputation the most terrifying, most formidable course in the world with timber jumps lethal to both man and beast. Carey thrived on that danger-the cutting edge excitement of survival. Secondly, this hunt country had been home to his mother's family for generations; a Carrville always risked his life in the Hunt Cup. Faithful to its original intent as a race for gentlemen sportsmen through home fields, the Hunt Cup was still the only steeplechase in the world charging no admission. So he rode for the sense of adventure and family. And, last but not least, the thought of winning the triple crown in world steeplechase brought a rush to his senses. He'd had eight wins in fourteen mounts in this race but the perfect combination of victories at all three-Aintree, Autueil, and here at home, had always eluded him. If he won today, he would have achieved something no American rider had ever done before.

He wished he were less tired.

He wished he'd had another day to rest after the sleepless nights in Nice.

Maybe the field would fall away, he speculated with casual hope and considered expectation. It was known to happen here and at Aintree. There had been times at both races when the last horse standing had won, and this year only a field of twelve had been entered. The famed third fence usually took out a few riders, and the sixteenth and seventeenth of the twenty-two fences often claimed their victims. Perhaps simply staying on would be enough to win.

But his cynical sigh brought Tarrytown's ears forward as though he, too, understood more than luck was involved. Reaching out, Carey stroked the velvet softness of Tarrytown's coat as they waited to move up to the starting post. “You've got a nice long rein today,” he said, his fingers trailing down the gleaming chestnut's powerful, deep neck, “so carry me through and I'll just stay on one way or another.”

Tarrytown twisted back and nuzzled Carey's leg as if to reassure him. And Carey grinned, oddly relieved, knowing his horse understood his weariness. In the years they'd been riding together, they'd developed a communication distinctly their own with a telepathy peculiar to their special natures.

“It's a slop course,” Carey added. “Pray we lose a few competitors to that.” Early morning thunderstorms had softened the ground so the turf was going to be muck to anyone not in the lead. They had to get out front and hold it from the start.

Tarrytown apparently had decided on the same strategy-a favorite of his-because he broke away at the starting post with power and speed that was both remarkably elegant and economical. Coming into the first fence, Tarrytown lowered his head to see what he was up against, and Carey allowed him to make his own arrangements. He knew from experience Tarrytown was bold but careful. This horse didn't take any chances. Although he had the courage to face any steeplechase fence and the weight to hit them without necessarily falling, he preferred a clean jump. All Carey had to do was keep himself under control and watch.

Tarrytown shortened his stride and jumped, tucking his front legs under in his own peculiar style to avoid the top rail. As they soared over the fence with extravagant inches to spare, Carey's weariness lightened.

Eleven riders followed them over the first two fences but predictably the third fence took its toll, and four horses either fell or were brought down in a terrible struggling mass. The field was precipitously cut to eight, and further dwindled to six when two horses failed to get over the ninth fence, hitting the top rail simultaneously and splitting it as they went down. Another rider fell at the twelfth fence when his mount balked at a loose horse.

By the fifteenth fence, Carey could feel Tarrytown's mood as if he were saying, “I'm going.” They were in balance, in complete harmony, physically flowing as a single component of motion. It was the bareback training from age three and the high wire, his father always said, that made a rider one with his mount. Similar to dance, one had to feel and hear and sense the movement with intrinsic emotion, not logic. That purist training made Carey the supple, effortless jumper he was today, lifting his weight completely off his horse while it was in the air, yet touching down smoothly, exhibiting unparalleled poise from lift-off to finish. With good reason, Carey Fersten was heralded as the most stylish rider in the sport.

At the nineteenth fence, Tarrytown was still strong and jumped the next two timber obstacles with a gutsy speed and power that was part conceit and part elation. He was the kind of horse who liked to take the lead and hold it against the competition, and the diminishing field was far behind. Moving into the inside position by habit, they turned toward the finish and both felt the irrepressible stirrings of triumph. Victory beckoned, the cheering crowd was faintly distinguishable above the beating of their hearts, the straight green stretch of turf was all that was left between them and the first triple crown in steeplechase history. Carey tried not to think of the melodramatic stories of horses falling or stumbling just short of the finish line, or the instances when some physical hazard abruptly ended a seemingly triumphant victory. “Let's take her home,” Carey murmured, his voice deliberately calm. But the electric energy pulsing through his body was more potent than the tranquillity of his tone.

And Tarrytown dug in, cruising down the stretch with ease and enjoyment, as though he were finishing a country meeting flat race instead of four miles of the most treacherous racing in the world.

“Show off,” Carey whispered, exhilaration in his voice, Tarrytown's boundless stamina and gallant heart never ceasing to amaze him.

The handsome bay turned on an additional burst of speed in response, as if the stopwatch mattered and he had his own private goals.

Their winning time was the second fastest on record.

An American had won the triple crown for the first time.

An amateur rider, rare in the ranks of professional jockeys, had attained the remarkable prize.

The most brilliant contemporary rider had finally brought it home.

I t was getting late. He'd talked to old friends, danced, drunk, enjoyed the congratulations, and pleased his mother by being solicitous to all her favorite people. The victory was sweet. He'd done it-the triple crown. Actually, Tarrytown had done it and he'd been along for the ride. His spirits were high, and he was accepting some cordial parting compliments from the Benchley master of the hounds when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning slightly, Carey recognized the tall brunette, smiled at her, swiftly concluded his conversation with Elliot McLeod, and, turning back to her said, “Good evening, Mrs. Garrett. How did I miss you earlier?”

“I only recently arrived. Family things to do.”

“Ah, that explains it. How are all the little Garretts?”

“Fine, healthy. Asleep.”

“And Mr. Garrett?” He glanced around briefly.

“In Europe.”

“How nice,” Carey said pleasantly, his eyes sliding down to her toes and up again. “For him, I mean,” he added in a tone which belied his words; his dark eyes were provocative with inquiry.

“Yes,” Sarah answered.

“Would you care for a nightcap somewhere?” Carey asked, looking over the busy ballroom still full of guests.

“I'd love one.” Her voice was decisive, not coy. It was the Sarah he knew.

“Your place or mine is the customary response,” he said with a teasing grin.

“My children are more curious than these people here,” she responded, her gaze sweeping the room.

“My place, then,” he said smoothly. “How convenient. Shall we walk over?” He put out his hand.

Her long silk gown trailed along the damp grass as they walked hand-in-hand across the moonlit pasture. Tilting her head to look up, she asked, “Do you remember the first time we went riding?”

His smile flashed white. “Do you?”

“Pickney's pond was high.”

“And you were the cutest girl in the county.”

“Why did you divorce?” she asked in the same girlish voice that always reminded him of summer sun and swimming in cool, shady places.

“Are we changing the subject?” His heavy brows quirked in a tentative inquiry but his smile was wide.

“Yes, and don't try to be evasive. Remember I knew you when you didn't even have fuzz on your upper lip. No practiced charm, Carey, darling, just an answer.” Her angelic expression contrasted the bulldog directive.

“You always were a persistent brat,” he acknowledged with amused tolerance. “Why did I get married would be a better question. But marriage didn't seem to suit me, to answer your question about my divorce. Are you happy with Edward?” It was a sincere inquiry, like a young child asking how high the sky is.

“We get along.”

His grin was boyish, dйgagй. “What more can one expect?” He swung her hand lightly back and forth. “How do you feel about a swim with an old friend? I can't promise Pickney's pond with wild strawberries and flitting dragonflies, but Mother's pool is at least secluded.”