Miranda Kenneally - Racing Savannah

I kiss the horse again. “You’re such a pretty boy.”

“Thank you,” Jack says, grinning.

“I was talking to the horse.”

“I don’t believe you. My bro Wrigley is nothing compared to me. Right, bro?” He slaps Wrigley’s side.

“Is Jack always such an ass?” I ask the horse. I can’t believe I said that. I feel my face turning the color of strawberry ice cream, but Jack just laughs and keeps on beaming. I better watch my mouth before the Goodwins boot me right on out of here.

I reach into my back pocket to grab a sucker—an orange one. You know how some people take antianxiety meds? Well, I eat candy. I rip off the crinkly wrapper and stick the sucker in my mouth. Instant relief.

I peek up at Jack’s blue eyes. He’s nicer than I figured he’d be. And he has a sense of humor too.

“Who are you?” Jack asks with this shit-eating grin on his face. “Did you come with Senator Ralston to meet with my father today? Are you related to him?”

Me? Related to a senator? I look down at my holey jeans, boots, and tight black T-shirt. I’m about to fess up that I’ve just moved into the Hillcrest dungeons and therefore he and I can never speak because his family values their privacy when a man storms out of the house and up the hill to us.

“Jack!” The man is dressed exactly like him—pressed shirt, dark jeans, and cowboy boots. “Abby Winchester has called the house eight times since breakfast looking for you and I’m about to smash the phone against the wall.”

Eight times? Stalk-er, I sing in my head.

Jack keeps a firm hand on Wrigley’s lead and lets out a long breath. “Hi, Dad.”

Mr. Goodwin goes on, “Why aren’t you answering your cell—” He stops. Takes one look at my red hair, freckled skin, and short, jockey-sized body, and then his eyes grow wide. “Are you Danny Barrow’s kid?”

“Yes. Savannah Barrow.”

Jack furrows his eyebrows. “You’re the new groom’s daughter?”

Mr. Goodwin drags a hand through his hair. “Can I see you in my office, son?”

“Yes, sir. Savannah, can I catch up with you later? Maybe we could—”

“Jack. Now,” Mr. Goodwin says.

Jack ties Wrigley to a hitching post, his voice changing from casual to super serious. “Nice to meet you, Savannah. If you’ll excuse me.” Then he disappears inside the house with his father and the three hounds at his ankles.

I gently pat Wrigley’s muzzle, as I stare up at the white manor house.

Now that Jack knows who I really am, the groom’s daughter, he doesn’t even give me a second glance.

Figures.

On my way to Hillcrest to retrieve my riding gear, I skirt the stone wall that doubles as a fence bordering the property. Mom once told me, “They call them slave walls.” It had embarrassed me to hear Mom say something so un-PC, but when I confronted her, she said, “We can ignore history or we can learn from it. I choose to learn from it.”

What I wouldn’t give to hear her voice now.

She died when I was eleven after having been diagnosed with breast cancer the year before. It was stage four by the time the doctors caught it, but Mom fought hard. We didn’t have insurance, so we couldn’t afford the medical bills that skyrocketed to over $200K. Then Mom was suddenly buried…and Dad was buried under a mountain of debt. And without her, my whole world fell apart.

Dad worked as a groom for a wealthy horseman who was more interested in gambling than the racehorses themselves. Mr. Cates didn’t give a crap that his employees didn’t have insurance, and he worked his horses into the ground, racing them when they were injured with stress fractures or worse.

Shortly after my mother died, Dad said he needed my help with a sad mare named Moonshadow, who had been lethargic ever since her first foal had been weaned. Mr. Cates didn’t care that the horse was sad, but I did. I told my dad I would help her feel better again.

I rubbed the mare’s nose and searched her eyes. “I know how it feels to lose somebody too.”

I started riding Moonshadow nearly every day, and she taught me just how great at riding I am. She made me feel proud of myself. As soon as I got to know her, I told her all my secrets.

The first one?

“I love my dad, but I’m never gonna end up working for minimum wage like him. I want more.”

Back in Charles Town, Dad spent 99 percent of his time in the barns, and coming to Tennessee hasn’t changed that habit one bit. So I figure he must be in Greenbriar, where the Goodwins’ best horses live. It’s the fanciest barn I’ve ever seen; it has a digital contraption that keeps flies and mosquitoes at bay and classical music plays 24/7. I don’t even have an iPod, for crying out loud.

After grabbing my riding gear from Hillcrest, I tramp through mud on my way to Greenbriar, passing by two of the smaller barns. The Goodwins own about forty horses, but they have enough barn space to house over 1,200. Apparently they make a lot of their money renting stalls (studio apartments for horses) to Thoroughbred owners who use the Goodwin practice tracks to get ready for the real races on weekends. Mr. Goodwin keeps plenty of people on staff—veterinarians, farriers (blacksmiths) to fix horseshoes, farmers to work the hay, tons of grooms and exercise riders, and stall managers.

I arrive in front of Greenbriar to find Dad and a bunch of guys sitting in lawn chairs.

“What a bunch of lazy asses.”

Dad jumps to his feet as the other guys laugh at me. “It’s break time.” He draws me into his arms for a hug. I bury my nose in his shirt, inhaling his earthy smell of grass and leather and hay. My dad’s only thirty-six, and his height makes him look even younger.

When I pull away, I bounce on my tiptoes, scanning the group. “Is Gael around?”

“Gael? What do you need him for?”

“I want to talk to him about riding—”

That’s when this douche of a jockey comes strutting out of Greenbriar. Bryant Townsend is 5’1”—an inch taller than me, but I could take him.

“Forget the horse, Barrow. Come ride a cowboy,” he says, making rude gestures with his pelvis. What an ass. Dad looks like he might kill Bryant, but I hold him back—I can handle myself.

“Tell me when you see a real cowboy and I will.”

“Oooooooh,” the guys say, laughing.

“You’re all fired,” Dad says. He waves an arm at the guys, and they go back to talking horses and trucks, ignoring my father.

“Wow, what a great help you are, Dad.” He gives me a noogie, and I duck away. “Not the hair!” It takes forever to bind my red curls in a French braid.

It doesn’t surprise me that Dad fits right in here. He’s a good head groom—he knows when to be strict, but most of the time he’s relaxed, which keeps his staff relaxed, which ultimately keeps the horses calm. And he knows more about horses than anyone I know. I completely understand why Mr. Goodwin snatched him away from Charles Town.

“So how about some lunch?” Dad asks.

“Can you help me find Gael first?”

“We shouldn’t waste his time—”

“You don’t think I can get a job here, Dad?”

He inclines his head, smiling slightly. “It’s worth a try, I guess. But don’t get your hopes up. They got some of the best exercise boys I’ve ever seen.”

Exercise riders make $10 per horse per day giving super-fast horses their daily workouts. It’s way above minimum wage. If I can make more money by riding horses, I can make a better life for myself than working in a motel or gas station after high school.

So watch out Cedar Hill—here I come.

We find Gael in the Greenbriar pasture, inspecting a yearling’s hoof. Dad told me he’s a former jockey from Spain. He’s tiny, but he could still beat the crap out of most guys on this farm.

“Can I help you, Barrow?” Gael asks Dad, flashing a glance at me.

“I want to be an exercise rider,” I reply, pulling my gloves out of my back pocket. “And I’m trying out today.”

“Says who?” Gael asks.

“Says me.”

Dad shakes his head at the blue sky. “Generally you ask for a job interview, Shortcake.”

“Being an exercise rider is dangerous,” Gael says. “Just last month one died in Arizona after being thrown from a horse.”

“I’m always careful.” I hold up my protective vest and helmet. “And I have plenty of experience from working at the Charles Town Races in West Virginia.”

Gael’s eyes widen. “Good for you, drama mama.”

“Did you just call me drama mama?”

Gael ignores me. “Charles Town is a Grade 2 track. Those horses aren’t the fastest, craziest horses in the world. That’s what we got here. This is the big show.”

“I bet riding a Goodwin horse is safer than the ones I used to ride. It’s only truly dangerous to ride injured or weak horses, and you know the Goodwins have the best horses.”

Gael gives my dad a grin. “She knows her shit.”

“Of course she knows her shit. She’s a Barrow.” Dad squeezes my shoulder.

“May I try out? Sir?”

Dad gives me a nod, proud I remembered to ask for the job interview this time.

“Well…” Gael says. “I’m afraid it’s not my decision.”

“Dad, please,” I say.

“It’s not his call either,” Gael says.

“But the lead trainer always makes decisions when it comes to training horses. So whose decision is it?”

“Mine.”

I twirl around to find Jack Goodwin. He adjusts his cowboy hat and shoves his hands in his pockets, swaggering toward me with his hounds.

“What’s going on?” I ask Dad and Gael.