Miranda Kenneally - Racing Savannah

“I win,” I tell him, scratching his face. He likes that.

I help give him a bath and check his shoes, and find out he’s a two-year-old colt. Rory confirms that Star is indeed a Ferrari of horses, a descendant of Nasrullah and Man o’ War, super famous racehorses from way back in the day. Five years ago, his sire—his father—nearly won the Triple Crown. We never saw horses like Star in Charles Town, because those races didn’t have big prize money. Those races attracted minivan-like horses; they got the job done okay, but they weren’t flashy or special. The only truly special horse I knew was Moonshadow.

I sigh and follow Rory out of the stall.

“Hey, do you want to hang out tonight?” he asks. “There’s a party we can hit up. I’ll introduce you to people.”

“As friends or a date?” I’m not wild about hooking up with a guy I might be seeing on a daily basis around the farm. Could get awkward real fast.

“Just friends. You’re, like, over a foot shorter than me. I’d break my neck trying to kiss you.”

I decide I like Rory Whitfield.

“Yeah, sure. Tonight sounds good.”

Jack suddenly appears in the barn. “Whitfield, could you excuse us please?”

Rory nods then heads out without another word. Jack’s eyes meet mine and we stand in relative silence. Those damned squawking birds won’t shut up.

“I want to apologize for my behavior this morning,” Jack adds. “Dad always says a gentleman doesn’t hit on his staff.”

One point for me—I was right. His dad must control the puppet strings.

Wait. He was hitting on me?

My heart rockets out of control. He’s cute, but I could never trust him. I’m sure all he cares about is his fortune, just like other rich people, like awful Mr. Cates back in Charles Town.

Jack goes on, “It won’t happen again.”

“Good to know,” I say, copying his super professional voice.

He looks shocked momentarily then struts over to a stall. “Can you help me get Strawberry ready to be loaded into her trailer?”

“Of course.” I move toward the mare’s stall. “Where are you taking her?”

Jack blushes. “I’m taking her to stud up at Lotus Farms.”

I choke back a snort of laughter, picturing Jack having to stand there staring at his watch while two horses get it on. He grins at my reaction, but it melts away quickly. Apparently running a horse farm means you are never allowed to smile.

A yearling pokes his head out of his stall to see what we’re up to. I open Strawberry’s tack trunk, pull out her treats, and change the subject.

“Jack, is there anything I need to know about Star before tomorrow’s race? Like, anything I should do during our warm-ups?”

“Star is scared of something, and none of us can figure out what it is. Not even your dad or Gael knows. And if they can’t figure it out, I guess we’ll never know,” Jack says, attaching a lead to Strawberry’s halter.

Lots of horses are scared of silly things. I once knew a powerful stallion that was terrified of dandelions.

“What’s Star’s record this year?” I ask. “I haven’t seen him mentioned in the Daily Racing Form.”

Lines zip across his forehead. “He hasn’t placed or shown yet.”

“Out of how many races?”

“Six.”

With Star’s breeding, he should have at least shown by now. I cringe as I feed Strawberry a treat.

Jack nods at my reaction. “I’m trying to get some wins before the Dixiana Derby in October.”

“What’s the purse?”

“Tomorrow’s is $75,000. The Dixiana is guaranteed $500,000.”

I whistle. “How much was the stud fee for Star?”

Jack adjusts his hat, averting his eyes. “Over half a mil.”

I whistle again but louder this time, making him laugh nervously. Paying for Star to be born was like ordering the most expensive thing on the menu. Most midrange Thoroughbred stud fees are around $250,000–300,000. I imagine that’s what the Goodwins charge when other owners want to breed their mares with Cedar Hill stallions.

“It’s one of Dad’s tests. He gave me a budget and wants to see what I’ll do with it.” Jack shakes his head. “I hope Star can at least place tomorrow. Otherwise I’ve wasted a shitload of my dad’s money…and I’ll have failed his test.”

“And then you won’t get a sticker, huh?” I joke. Must be nice to have money to play with.

“I want my father to know I can handle running the farm. I don’t want to let him down.” He gives me a sad smile, sounding sincere about wanting to work hard, and I feel a hard pang in my chest for him.

A successful horse turns a profit. And Star hasn’t even made back the money the Goodwins spend on his grain and horseshoes.

“I’m sure you made the right call on the stud fee. Breeding usually works out. Star ran so fast this morning, he probably would’ve made it to Cincinnati before tomorrow if he’d just kept on going.”

Jack laughs quietly, and before I know what I’m doing, I reach out and touch his wrist, to show I support him. He coughs. Then I jerk my hand away. Shit.

I nervously lick my lips, hoping my being forward doesn’t influence whether he gives me the job or not.

He takes off his hat to reveal disheveled blond hair that curls around his shirt collar. We’re standing so close, I can see a red tint mixed in with the blond.

“You’re easy to talk to,” he says, turning his cowboy hat over in his tanned hands. They’re strong and calloused, like they’ve hauled plenty of wheelbarrows. His big blue eyes peek up at me.

“Jack!” a girl yells. He shoves his hat back on as a younger girl who looks to be in middle school comes running up.

She latches on to his elbow like a barnacle. “I’m coming with you to Kentucky!”

“You can’t come, sweetheart,” Jack replies, wrapping an arm around her. “Have you met Savannah yet? This is my sister, Shelby.”

Shelby says hello but goes right back to pestering her big brother. “I want to be with Strawberry.”

Jack looks at me. “Shelby thinks that Strawberry Fields belongs to her, but Dad would say otherwise.”

“I’ve been with Strawberry ever since she was a foal!” Shelby says. “And I’m not abandoning her today.”

“This isn’t something you should see,” Jack says with a soft voice.

“Come on! I’ve seen cows do it over at Whitfield Farms.”

Jack’s face hardens. “The Whitfields let you watch that?”

“Er, well, Trey and I watched one day. His parents didn’t know—”

“I’ll be having a talk with Trey,” Jack says, setting his hands on his hips.

“No, don’t!” Shelby whines. “My life would be over!”

Trey must be one of Rory’s brothers. Jack whispers to me, “Shelby has a crush on him.”

“I do not.” She pounds Jack on the chest with her fist.

“There’s no reason to get violent,” Jack says. “We all have crushes from time to time.”

“Like your crush on Abby Winchester?” Shelby teases.

“I don’t have a crush on Abby, okay? Shut up about that.” Jack avoids my stare.

“She’s sooo pretty,” Shelby says to me. “She told me that last year she won Fairest of the Fair in her county.”

“Of course she did,” I mutter.

“If I can’t go with you and Strawberry, will you take me to the movies tonight, Jack?”

“I wish I could, sweetheart, but I already have plans.” He suddenly focuses on his watch. “I need to get going if I’m gonna make it back in time. See you tomorrow, Savannah.”

He walks away without another word, leading Strawberry and his sister to the trailer. But then he glances back at me, smiles, and waves. I return the wave.

Who does he have plans with tonight? Does he have a date? And more importantly, why do I care?

The Goodwin kids are not what I expected…I figured they’d spent all their time taking tea and laughing hoity-toitily or something.

I open the door to Star’s stall and slowly approach the horse, to continue getting to know him. “So, it’s just me and you…want to tell me why you buck your riders?” He lets out a little snort and nudges my hand then tries to chow down on it.

“Hey, now!” I shove his face away from me. Sure, he’s being snotty, but I’d take horses over humans any day of the week. Horses never give a damn if I have labels on my clothes.

Herds are sort of like high school—they definitely have their own social dynamic. There’s always a stallion or gelding who thinks he’s in charge. Out in the pasture, horses bully each other around food and water; lead horses get their fill before others get a bite or a sip, and if a horse that’s low in the pecking order tries to butt in, he’ll get bitten or kicked. And there’s always a troublemaker or two, wallowing in the mud and teasing the fillies.

Once Star has calmed down and he’s treating me with respect, I pet his ears and let him eat a treat out of my palm. I want him to feel safe with me so he’ll let me ride him. “Good boy. Now, let’s see, what are you scared of? Raccoons, obviously. Are you scared of fillies? What about mud puddles?”

I rub his head until his breathing slows and he falls asleep.

Later on Saturday evening, Rory is driving me down the streets of Franklin, giving me the grand tour.

“We have three Shell gas stations, but each has a different nickname. There’s the Social Shell, where almost everybody goes to get gas. I always see somebody I know there. Then there’s the Secret Shell, which no one notices, because it’s not on one of the main highways. And the last is called the Soviet Shell, because it’s usually out of gas and the snack shelves inside are always empty.”