Regret Not a Moment (27 page)

“Then you’ll be busy training her every day, so my presence will just be a burden, won’t it?” John challenged.

“How can you say that?” cried Devon, coming to her feet and moving around the desk to sit on John’s lap. Once settled there, she put her arms around his neck and murmured, “Your presence could never be a burden. I miss you so much when we’re apart.” Then, pulling back a little, she added, “Besides, you know all about racing. I could use your advice.”

John threw back his head and laughed. “What a romantic argument!”

Devon studied John. There was something wrong between them and she did not know what it was. He was withdrawn, preoccupied most of the time. On some occasions he was as affectionate as ever, but he had not initiated sex since she had told him about the baby. Yet he had seemed so happy about the news.

Devon wanted to ask him what the matter was, but she was afraid to broach the subject. Afraid to discover something that would upset her. It was easier to just gloss over the matter and hope it would go away.

JOHN studied Devon beside him in the owner’s box. For the Blue Grass Stakes she had dressed with special care, and John realized that it had been some time since he had seen her clad so formally. Usually she wore riding breeches or dungarees. Her concession to the dinner meal was to change into a clean pair of slacks or a simple frock. No more dressing for dinner as they once had. Now, however, she wore a splendidly cut white silk dress that flowed around her legs thanks to a myriad of tiny pleats. A fitted navy bodice emphasized her still-tiny waist and full bosom. She wore pale silk stockings and strappy sandals of white kid with heels so high that she gained three inches in stature. An extravagant picture hat of navy straw lined in white organza and trailing two long white streamers of the same material made Devon’s aqua eyes appear to be a shade of celestial azure.

“What are you staring at?” Devon asked with a grin.

“You look wonderful,” John murmured softly.

Devon, happy, returned to her conversation with Marion Davies. Their other guests in the box included W. R. Hearst, Sydney and Bart, and John’s and Devon’s parents.

John studied his mother. She looked as she always had for as long as he could remember. Serene. Poised. Matronly. Utterly sexless. He turned his gaze to his father. Strict. Judgmental. Unaffectionate. Also utterly sexless. He shifted his scope of vision to encompass Devon’s father, Chase. Portly, kindly, but a bit pompous. Boring.

John realized that he had probably always been afraid of what age and maturity might bring. Perhaps that was why he had remained single until his thirties, and why also he had been so reluctant to admit to himself that he wanted to marry Devon. Growing older meant commitment and responsibility to others. Had those burdens sapped his parents of their vitality?

Is that what’s bothering me so much about this pregnancy? he asked himself. The idea of encumbrance? A child was a fearsome responsibility. More so than a wife. With a wife, mistakes could be ameliorated. Many of his friends were divorced, though his family would be horrified if John did any such thing.

1 don’t want a divorce, of course, he emphasized to himself. At the same time, the option was there, wasn’t it? That was the difference. Even if divorce were not an option, he knew many married couples who led lives completely independent of each other. They took lovers. They stayed together for the sake of convenience. Or for the children.

That was it. A child was an immovable, unavoidable, irrevocable burden. And try though he might, illogical though it was, John could not forgive Devon for imposing it upon him.

Just at the moment that this strong wave of resentment engulfed John, Devon took his hand and squeezed it with anticipation.

“Let’s go down to the paddock and check on the horses, John,” she whispered. “I have a few things I want to go over with McClintock.”

It had been a concession of Devon’s to allow Fearless Leader to have their house jockey, Slim Bocaso. On the other hand, McClintock, though younger and less experienced, raced only in Kentucky and knew the track better than Bocaso. It was difficult to say which was the greater advantage. Often in a tight situation the older jockey with responsibilities would try to avoid danger, while a younger jockey still making a name for himself would take the kind of daredevil chances that could result in a spectacular win—or a tragic loss. Devon felt that with the odds stacked against her as they were, she wanted her filly to be ridden as aggressively as possible.

Devon and John made their way through beautifully dressed well-wishers and rivals in the owners’ boxes, then down to the seedier back side, the part of the racetrack where the work really took place. John observed that almost every male that Devon passed interrupted his work to stare at the lovely vision she created, her white dress wafting around her on the light breeze.

Devon’s gasp of surprise brought John out of his reverie. And he also gasped when he saw the cause of his wife’s distress. Fearless Leader was standing by his stall, his front leg buried in a bucket of ice.

“What’s wrong?” Devon demanded of Willy, who remained staring down at the leg, a look of disgust on his face.

“Not sure. Track doc says cannon bone’s swelled up. He was favoring it this morning.”

“Oh, no!” Devon cried. The cure for an inflamed lower leg was rest and lots of it. To force Fearless Leader to run with the discomfort, as some owners would, might cause a severe injury that could spell the end of his racing career.

“You’re going to have to scratch him from the race?” Devon asked. She was close to tears at the thought of all the time and effort they had put into preparations for this race. It was their first chance to show the blue bloods of the racing world that Willowbrook’s three-year-olds were prime stock. It was important to the future of the stable to feature as many of their horses as possible. Firefly and Fearless Leader had performed well as two-year-olds, but the secret was to demonstrate staying power. The potential for long racing careers was what brought high stud fees and what sold brood mares from a particular farm.

“If we don’t scratch him, he may not be able to run again this season. Then we’d have to train him all over again next year,” Willy grumbled. “It’s just better to sit this one out.”

Devon’s shoulders slumped in dejection. John put his arm around her. But no sooner had he made the gesture than he felt her straighten her spine smartly and raise her head.

“It’s a good decision, Willy,” she said firmly. “We’ll just have to count on Firefly to make a good showing for us.”

Without a backward look, she strode down the long center aisle of the paddock to the section where the fillies were stabled. Rick McClintock, wearing Willowbrook’s scarlet and black silks, was engrossed in conversation with Jeremiah.

“Gentlemen,” Devon said crisply, nodding to the two young men.

“Ma’am,” said Rick, removing his cap.

“How’s she doing?” she asked, indicating Firefly with a gesture of her chin.

“Top form, Miss Devon,” said Jeremiah, with a broad grin.

“You heard about Fearless Leader, I suppose?”

Both men looked down and shifted their feet. It was a blow to everyone who worked for Willowbrook to have Fearless Leader scratched from the race. Although Jeremiah and Devon had faith in Firefly, they both knew that racehorses were unpredictable. It was possible that she would fare badly. It would have been better to have had two chances to show off their new operation.

John drew alongside his wife and watched the exchange. He was amused to hear Devon discussing the upcoming race in the peculiar slang of the racetrack. She had learned it quickly and it seemed like second nature to her now. Still, it was always a surprise to hear the vulgar trainer-to-jockey lingo enunciated in Devon’s impeccably well-bred accent. The surprise effect was compounded by her delicate looks. But Devon used the slang for none of those reasons. She used it because it saved time and because it was most effective for communicating with the men who worked at the track.

“Okay, McClintock,” said Devon in a commanding voice, now fully recovered from the news of Fearless Leader, “I want you to come out shooting ducks.” That meant that Firefly should be started at top speed rather than held back until the end of the race.

“Yes, ma’am,” said McClintock respectfully. He had no resentment of owners, and no hesitancy to accept orders from Devon. He had seen her in training sessions with Firefly. She could ride like a jockey and she was completely fearless. And she had a special rapport with the filly that was impressive.

Turning to John, she put her arm through his and said, “Shall we return to our places?” She was once more the gracious society lady. The race was now in the hands of McClintock—and Firefly.

Back at their seats, Devon looked down at the
Racing Form
in her hand. There were ten entries in the race—nine, now that Fearless Leader had been scratched—and each came from a farm with an excellent reputation. Her horses had not been favored to win. That honor went to the Vanderbilt’s colt Rainmaker. The track odds against Firefly had been twenty-four to one the last time Devon had checked. The odds changed from moment to moment as gamblers continued to place their bets. Booming over the background noise, the loudspeaker announced that Fearless Leader had been scratched from the race. Within ten minutes the odds against Firefly had jumped to sixty-six to one. That was because when two horses with the same owner ran in the same race, the odds against them were identical by regulation. The gambler won the same amount no matter which of the two horses placed. Without Fearless Leader driving up the chances of a win, gamblers were not willing to put their money on the lone Willowbrook filly.

Devon could barely contain her excitement when the starting gun sounded. She immediately leapt to her feet and brought the binoculars to her eyes. McClintock was doing just as she had instructed. Firefly was in the lead—flying down the track like a fury. There was a theory that a winning filly ran not toward the finish but away from the pack of colts chasing her. A panic run. But Firefly was in control—that was clear even from the stands.

Rainmaker had started at the end of the pack, but as he passed the first furlong he began to pick up speed. Devon could see the Vanderbilt jockey whipping him now—not frantically, but enough to let him know that it was almost time to exert himself.

“And in the lead it’s Willowbrook’s Firefly, followed by Tornado and Jungle Girl,” said the track announcer. “In the middle of the pack, we’ve got Rainmaker nose to nose with Salt and Pepper; close behind is Fake It, Now’s the Time, and Sugar ’n Spice. Trailing by two lengths is Sassafras.”

No sooner had the announcer finished this chant than Rainmaker surged forward. The voice on the loudspeaker raised its pitch in excitement.

“Look at this move by Bob Vasquez on Rainmaker. He’s pushing past Salt and Pepper, now Jungle Girl. And Tornado takes the lead, with Firefly in second place and Rainmaker behind by a length. Now moving ahead!”

Devon, oblivious to the screams around her, concentrated all her attention on the three lead horses. As Rainmaker drew nearer to Firefly, he turned his head slightly, looking into the filly’s eyes. It was a common form of confrontation in wild-horse packs. Fillies almost always backed down. And, with a sinking heart, Devon saw Firefly falter for a moment as Rainmaker edged past her. It was Rainmaker and Tornado nose to nose.

“It looks like it’s not going to be a filly today,” said the track announcer.

“No!” Devon whispered to herself. And on cue, Firefly, finding herself falling behind, pushed forward, her competitive spirit apparently overcoming her natural submission to the male. Rick McClintock was whipping her frantically and she was responding with all her heart. She was gaining, gaining…

“I can’t watch!” Devon heard Sydney cry beside her. But Devon could not look away.

“It’s Rainmaker in the lead as they approach the finish, Firefly neck and neck with Tornado. Now Firefly’s passing Tornado!”

Devon could hear the excitement in the announcer’s voice as her filly pushed past all the others. All the others except Rainmaker. He was holding his lead.

“We’re going to win!” John exclaimed jubilantly.

Devon held her breath. Held it… The track announcer crowed, “And it’s an amazing finish with Willowbrook’s filly Firefly in first place, bringing glory back to a venerable name!”

THE next day Devon appeared at the track, impatient to discuss with Willy the training regimen he had in mind for Firefly’s bid in the Kentucky Derby.

She found him on his knees unbandaging the filly’s legs, studying them for injuries. His back was to her and he did not see her approach, but a broad grin broke out on Jeremiah’s face at the sight of her.

“Miz Whitney’s already been down here offering to buy her,” Jeremiah announced without preamble.

Willy looked up from his work just long enough to mumble his usual grumpy, “Mornin.”

“Well, I hope you told her she isn’t for sale.” Devon smiled.

“We told ’er,” Willy said, standing upright and facing Devon.

Devon was a little amused. Despite their victory, despite the percentage of Firefly’s prize purse that Willy would be awarded as Willowbrook’s trainer, he still did not seem able to smile.

“Well, I’m here as threatened,” Devon joked.

Willy studied her as if he did not know what she was talking about.

“How do you want to work out our collaboration on Firefly?” Devon asked, more seriously.

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

Exasperated by his deliberate obtuseness, Devon said, “To get her ready for the Derby.”

“I’m not runnin’ ’er in the Derby,” Willy said flatly.

Devon stared at him, incredulous. “What are you talking about?”

“Fearless Leader’ll be fine by then. It was nothin’ serious.”

“I’m glad to hear that, but Firefly won the Blue Grass Stakes.”

“She faltered.”

“She won!”

“I don’t want to risk somethin’ like that happening for a race as important as the Derby,” Willy said. And with an air of finality, he kneeled to examine the filly’s rear legs.