Venom (3 page)

Lord of the Fires is eager enough to keep up, but the unevenness is back. I ask for a lead change so he's leading with his right leg instead of his left when he reaches forward in each stride. He gives me the
change, but switches back on his own after just a few steps. After two laps, we pull up and I turn Lordy for the out gate. Now that we've slowed down, he feels okay again. What I know for certain is that I have not been imagining he's bordering on lame.

There's quite a crowd at the gate. Trainers wait, asking if horse, then rider, is okay. Hands reach out to touch horses' sweaty necks and offer reassurance. Grooms stand ready to help take horses back to the barn. When the loose-horse alarm sounds, it's amazing how many people emerge from the barns—to see the damage, to pick up the pieces.

“You okay?”

Em is at Lordy's shoulder, her hand reaching up toward my knee.

My heart flutter kicks. Em looks genuinely worried. “How's Lordy? Did you see what happened?”

Maybe Em's just worried about the horse. “Don't know. It was that gray mare of Geoff O'Reilly's. Flipped out.”

“Ryan Murray got carried off on a stretcher. He did something to his leg, I think. He couldn't stand on his own.”

Legs heal, I think. It would have been worse if the rider had been unconscious. My stomach squeezes. White sheets. Bandages. The hiss of a machine squeezing air into someone's lungs.

“He'll be fine,” I say quickly, pushing away the memories.

Lordy has decided it's time to head back to the barn. Em is keeping up beside us, half walking and half jogging.

“He might be a little off,” I say. “After the gray bolted past us, we had some trouble. When we cantered, he seemed stiff or something.”

Em scoots back a few steps and watches us. “Looks fine now. Are you sure?”

“I'm sure. I know what I felt.”

“Because I can't save your sorry ass every time you have a bumpy ride.”

Em hasn't missed too many chances to remind me that she's the one who convinced Scampy to hire me back. I don't push it. Em will do the right thing.

“I'll wrap Lordy after I cool him out,” she says. “You're okay?”

“Yeah. Nothing like a jolt of adrenaline to wake a guy up.”

Em laughs. “Coffee would work too. You want a cup? I don't want to put on another pot just for me.”

“Sure. I'll grab a cup after I ride Chiquita.”

It's a good thing Em sprints off between the barns. The minute the words are out of my mouth, heat rises in my cheeks. She doesn't need to know my thermos is still half-full. She certainly doesn't need to know that her offer of coffee makes me want to grin. I shut down the smile and
turn my attention to getting Lordy back to the barn.

Whatever thought I might have had of a cozy cup of coffee in the tack room with Em quickly evaporates. Tony has his feet up on the truck bench in the tack room. The truck bench is one of several pieces of furniture that once had some other purpose. It's bolted to the floor beside a stack of milk crates. The top crate serves as an end table. The others are packed full of neatly rolled leg wraps, bottles of liniment and copies of
Thoroughbred Times
and
Blood Horse
.

Tony's eyes are closed, and he sounds like a sick diesel engine on a cold morning. The last thing I need to do is disturb his beauty rest.

The barns hum with activity. I rush to keep up with the horses that Em gets ready for me to ride. Scampy has also asked another exercise rider, Wee Jimmy Jump-up, to help. The spring meet is rolling along, and Scampy has increased the number of horses he wants worked each day. Tony reappears
at some point, but he's in a sour mood. We all keep out of his way.

After I've ridden six horses, I'm ready for my lunch even though it isn't even nine. I'm munching my way through my sticky sandwich when I hear several loud bangs out in the aisle. Scampy yells, “Settle down in there!”

“Who's that?” I ask when a new dark bay horse with a narrow blaze sticks its head over the top of the stall door.

“Devil May Care. A Stunning Mate stud colt out of Pussy Winnow, a Black Kat mare from Johnson's farm.”

Scampy speaks the language of blood-lines as easily as he breathes and chews gum. Stunning Mate is the name of a stallion in Ontario who sired a few decent horses before he had to be put down. He broke a back leg in a freak accident out in his paddock. I've never heard of the new horse's dam, Pussy Winnow. But I've certainly heard of Black Kat. He's one of a whole bunch of top-notch Thoroughbreds that can be traced back to a couple of Kentucky horses.
Both of those superstars have “Kat” in their names.

“Three-year-old,” Scampy says before I have a chance to ask. “No experience. He had some damned infection last year, so he never raced. We'll get him going tomorrow.”

Another boom sounds from the colt's stall as Devil May Care pounds the wall with a back hoof.

“Stop that!” Scampy scowls at the horse and picks up a broom. “I'll smack you a good one if you keep that up!”

The horse lets fly with another kick. Scampy whacks the outside of the stall door with the broom. The broom makes a loud noise, but doesn't hit the horse. Devil May Care pokes his head back over the half door and snorts.

“Don't think I like this horse,” Scampy says as he puts the broom down. When he reaches over to touch Devil May Care's neck, the horse pulls his head back and retreats into his stall. “How were the rides today?”

I follow Scampy into the tack room and we go through the list, starting with Lord of the Fires. I hesitate and then say, “We had a little trouble. That gray mare of Geoff's bolted. Lordy sort of took off.” I know there's no point in hiding what happened. Scampy's probably heard all the gory details seventeen times already.

“You shouldn't have let him get away from you like that,” Scampy says.

“I know. But he—”

“Be ready next time. Em's got him wrapped?”

I nod.

“Anything else?”

For the first time, I don't tell Scampy everything. I don't mention Lordy was uneven. I want to keep my job.

“No—that's it.”

Scampy narrows his eyes like he doesn't believe me. He doesn't push, though. “What about Chiquita?”

One by one I bring Scampy up to speed on what the rides were like. Chiquita was strong and relaxed. Twitter wanted to race
the big red four-year-old out of Doc Masters' barn. Bing Bang Bong just wanted to nap. “He's really lazy,” I say. “It's like he has no interest in what's going on.”

“Dumb as a bag of hammers,” Scampy says. “I'll call Dr. Conrad and we'll see how much longer she wants to keep him here.”

Bing definitely lacks enthusiasm, but I don't think the horse is dumb. He just needs another job. I don't mind giving him a bad report card, though. For one thing, he hasn't placed in a race yet, so it's no big secret he's a little short on talent. But I also know that the owner, a lady vet from Vernon, always takes her retired racehorses to another trainer. The horses learn other jobs that don't involve racing. I've heard they usually wind up with pretty good homes as show jumpers or eventers or pleasure horses. That's more than I can say for some of the horses after their track careers are done.

“Need a hand?” I ask Em, who is pushing a wheelbarrow piled high with sacks of feed.

“I'd never say no to an offer like that,” she says.

We unload and stack the feed. We fetch three more barrows loaded with heavy feed sacks from Scampy's truck before we take a break.

After that, I help Em fill the hay nets and top up the water buckets. Then I join Grandma in the stands to watch the races.

It's a fluky Saturday. Scampy doesn't have a horse running. It's great to be a spectator. Next weekend it will be all hands on deck. I won't have the luxury of sitting down for a whole afternoon.

A couple of weeks later, Grandma and I are at the kitchen table.

“Spencer—where's your head?” Grandma glares at me. “I asked if you wanted another spud.”

“Sorry. Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, please.”

Grandma drops the baked potato onto my plate. “What's on your mind?”

Em. Em. Em. I'm not about to tell my grandmother that I can't get a girl out of my mind. Ever since the day when Geoff O'Reilly's gray mare messed up my morning, I've looked at Em differently. Which is dumb, because she's still her old, slightly snotty self. But she had reached up to touch my knee. That moment was the highlight of my month.

“Girl trouble?” Grandma winks and pushes the gravy jug across the table.

“No.” Fortunately, the Lordy problem is getting more complicated so my quick response isn't exactly a lie. “Are you ready for tomorrow?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Working on it as we speak.” Grandma fishes several sheets of paper out of a stack she's pushed aside to make room for the dinner dishes. She slides the list of tomorrow's race entries across the table toward me. She has also printed out Billy Bob's Picks. Billy Bob is one of several race handicappers who offer advice to people like
Grandma. Grandma figures he's the best in the business.

I point at the fifth race. “Lordy's running.”

“Lord of the Fires?” She puts on her reading glasses and studies the race information. “Six furlongs. Nick Espinoza is riding. He's been doing okay recently. Claiming race: $25,000. What do you think?”

“He shouldn't be racing.”

Grandma peers over her reading glasses and raises her eyebrows. “Espinoza or the horse?”

“The horse. He's still not right. He was the one I was riding the day that gray mare got loose. He felt awful.” Awful is a bit strong, but I don't want Grandma to lose her money betting on a horse I know won't be near the winners.

“I'm sure Scampy knows what he's doing.”

I pour a healthy dose of thick gravy over my baked potato. “They've been looking after him okay, I guess. Em's been icing and wrapping his legs. But I rode him a week
ago and he's still not himself. When I asked him for speed, it was like he just wasn't that interested. He was sort of uneven in the turns—not strong and smooth like he used to be.”

Grandma mashes some peas into her potato and loads up a forkful.

“It's not like he's seriously lame or anything. I rode him twice last week and again on Monday. But he's not right. I can feel it.”

“Horses aren't machines. They have good days; they get sour.”

“I know that. But he was pretty consistent last season. This summer it's like he's always being careful, not going all out.”

“What does Scampy say?”

How do I answer
that
? Grandma doesn't need to know Scampy fired me for questioning how he was treating the horse. “Scampy has his own way of doing things.”

Grandma slides her reading glasses down her nose and gives me a hard look.

“Yesterday Wee Jimmy Jump-up rode Lordy,” I say.

“And? What did Jimmy say?”

“He'd never say anything against Scampy. He actually said Lordy felt good! It doesn't make any sense.” For a moment I consider telling Grandma about my suspicions that Scampy is doping the horse. She wouldn't appreciate it. Scampy and Grandma go way back. Back to the Dad days.

Grandma puts the tip of her pen beside Lord of the Fires' name. “So—what do you think?”

“He shouldn't be running. If Scampy doesn't scratch him, I'd say you'd be wasting your money to bet on him.”

Grandma puts a big black
X
beside Lordy's name. “Who do you like in the seventh?” she asks. We spend the rest of the meal trying to predict the unpredictable.

On Saturday Em and I stand elbow to elbow at the rail, squinting into the sun as the horses barrel around the final turn and charge down the backstretch. Two horses
are neck and neck, running stride for stride toward the finish line. A big bay is closing the gap, but looks to be too far back to catch the leaders. The rest of the field straggles behind the others. Not that we care about the stragglers. Lord of the Fires is one of the two leaders!

“Go, Lordy!” Em yells, as if the horse might hear her over the roar of the crowd. “Go! Go! Go!” She pumps the air with her fist. When the other horse gives a huge final effort in the last three strides and pulls just ahead of Lordy, she slumps forward. “Ohhh. So close!”

The announcer calls out the names and numbers of the top three horses, and the payout amounts flash up onto the odds board. Lordy ran at 12:1 odds. If someone bet two bucks on him to win and he had won, they'd get twenty-four bucks back. Even though he came second, it still wasn't a bad payout. I feel a twinge of guilt when I think of my bad advice to Grandma. Apparently, Scampy knows his horse better than I do.

Em punches me in the shoulder.

“Ow!” I rub my arm. “What was that for?”

“I knew he'd run a good race,” Em says. “Sorry. Didn't mean to hit you so hard.”

“We'd better hustle,” I say, knowing Scampy will be expecting us. Tony is handling Lordy today. He's the one who will collect the horse in front of the grandstand. The horses are already making their way there. Jockeys hop off and have a quick consultation with trainers before they scoot off to get ready for another race.

“Don't be such a sore loser,” Em says as we set off at a jog back toward the barn. The announcer indicates that Lord of the Fires has been randomly selected to go for drug testing. When Lordy gets back from the drug-testing barn, he'll need cooling out and a bath. This isn't officially part of my job, but I like hanging out with Em and giving her a hand.

“I'm not mad,” I insist. And I'm not. But I am worried. I can't stop thinking about Scampy coming out of the stall with that
syringe. I wonder if anything will show up in the drug tests.