Chapters 1 2 3 4 5 6
A Horse of a Different Color
Chapter 1
Dawn had just spread her cloak of many colors over the morning sky. It was chilly out; everyone’s breath could be seen clearly. The small group of people gathered near the rails of the racetrack huddled in on themselves for warmth and chatted together in a desultory manner. Their eyes were fastened on the far side of the oval track, and the dark blur moving there in a slow gallop.
“He looks good,” one of the men remarked hopefully.
An older man, who was smoking a cigarette, grunted. “Yeah, no sign of the heat in his leg this morning,” he agreed in a husky voice. “He should be ready for the race tomorrow.”
The only woman in the little group frowned. “But don’t you think that his stride is a bit off?”
The older man shrugged. “He’s still growing,” he pointed out laconically. “His back end hasn’t caught up with his front. Hazards of racing a yearling. It shouldn’t affect his performance tomorrow.”
“Well, you’re the trainer,” she replied acerbically. “You know best.”
He shot her an annoyed look as the other man standing with them looked uncomfortable. “Camille, really,” he said. “Doug’s a very good trainer with a lot of experience. We should listen to him.”
“Of course,” she said mock-sweetly. “It isn’t as though we own this expensive yearling or anything…oh, wait, we do! Being the owners entitles us to a say in what our colt does and how his training proceeds. I want him to win, and I doubt that he’s going to do that if his stride is more like a giraffe’s than a racehorse’s.”
The man winced and glanced at the trainer, who merely shifted his cigarette to the other side of his mouth and blew out a cloud of smoke. He was used to dealing with owners like Camille Rochet; pampered, rich, spoiled, and determined to get their own way. He had to put up with her crap because she and her husband Seymour paid the bills. But that didn’t mean that he had to like it.
“If Doug says that he’s ready for the race tomorrow, then I’m going to believe him,” Seymour said stoutly.
“We’ll see,” Camille sniffed. “But if he’s wrong…” she added ominously, leaving the rest of the sentence hanging in the air.
Silence descended. Seymour looked embarrassed; Camille pulled her coat more tightly around her body and looked out at the horse breezing around the track with a grim set to her pink lips; and Doug finished his cigarette morosely while trying his best to ignore the two owners. Finally the young racehorse rounded the last bend and galloped toward them, his pace easy and not very fast. Breezing was to exercise the horse and assess his readiness to race, not to wear him out. The jockey pulled the rather skittish colt to a halt and turned him toward the people standing behind the rails. He pushed his safety helmet back a little and lifted his goggles off of his eyes as he did so.
Doug walked out onto the track and caught the bridle. “What did you think?" he asked the jockey.
“He feels good,” Matthias Billings replied promptly. “He’s not favoring his right front leg at all.”
Doug nodded, looking pleased. But he stiffened as an imperious voice called out from behind him: “I hope, Mr. Billings, that you intend to run a more aggressive race on Farley’s Hope than you did last time. I don’t think that you would have been caught up against the rails like that if you’d started your run earlier. As it was, you only placed fifth. It was decidedly embarrassing.”
The jockey’s fingers gripped the reins tightly as Doug’s teeth closed so tightly in his cigarette that it was almost cut in two. “I’ll try my best, Mrs. Rochet,” Matthias said woodenly.
“Of course you will. Because of you don’t, we’ll have to start looking for another jockey to ride our horse,” her voice was cold and tinged with venom, and her husband closed his eyes and looked resigned.
Doug turned and walked over to the owners. “Why don’t we go and discuss strategy for the race tomorrow?” he said. “Let’s get out of the cold and have some cappuccino.”
“That sounds great,” Seymour said, taking his wife’s arm, “Let’s go, darling.”
Camille reluctantly departed with her husband and the trainer, and Matthias blew out a long breath of relief before he swung out of the saddle. He gathered up the colt’s reins and led him away toward the barns, talking to the horse as he went. “You’ve got it easy, pal,” he told Farley’s Hope. “You’re a gelding. You don’t have a thing to worry about. You don’t have to think about finding a nice mare – or a stallion for that matter,” he added dryly. “We human males have to suffer. Although I suppose if we were really desperate we could have our balls cut off too, but that’s sort of a last resort,” his voice was full of amusement. Now that Camille Rochet had been diverted by Doug, his good humor was rapidly returning. Matthias tried not to let much get to him in the normal run of things.
He arrived at the barn and led Farley’s Hope to his stall. A stable girl came to take the reins from him, shivering a little. “Cold today,” she remarked, her teeth chattering. “How did he do, Matty?”
“Really good. I think he’s ready for tomorrow,” the jockey told her as he took off his helmet and ran a hand through his curly teak-colored hair.
She patted the horse’s neck. “That’s great. I’ll be betting on him. So don’t let me down, okay?” she said mock-sternly to Matthias.
“I’ll try not to. Listen, I’m going to get a cup of coffee and an English muffin. Could you saddle Far From Home for me? Doug wants do some time trials with him today.”
“You got it. As soon as I’m finished making this guy comfortable, I’ll saddle up Far. See you in a bit,” she waved a hand at him.
“Thanks, Julie,” he called, walking away toward the lounge where the jockeys hung out between races. There was always hot coffee and low-fat snacks there, courtesy of the racetrack staff and the valets who attended to the jockeys’ needs. His boots made a low sound as he climbed the few steps leading to the door of the lounge, and he pushed it open and sighed with pleasure as the warmth of the room inside hit him. He soaked it up as he called a greeting to the handful of other jockeys there. Most of them were exercise riders rather than regular jockeys at this time of the day; Matthias himself wouldn’t usually be here this early except the Rochets had insisted that he ride the colt rather than Farley’s normal exercise rider. God, the things you did for money…
He smiled and greeted the young woman who kept the jockeys in coffee and snacks, and she returned it with far more energy than he felt right at the moment. He took the cup of coffee that she handed him, and an English muffin with low-fat margarine spread on it. Taking a seat at an empty table, he set his booted feet on an empty chair and stretched out his minuscule frame. He wasn’t the shortest jockey who’d ever lived; but in his stocking feet he was only five foot tall exactly. Once upon a time that fact had bothered him, but now it was one of the main reasons for his very successful career riding racehorses.
He relaxed and ate the English muffin, taking sips of the hot coffee in between. Soon enough he’d venture back out into the cold, cold world and mount Far From Home to run the time trials that Doug wanted, but for now he was content to sit back and daydream a bit as he ate his breakfast. His aquamarine eyes went half-lidded as he fell into a trance-like state, the warmth and brightness in the lounge conspiring to put him to sleep.
But he couldn’t stay here all day, much as he might have liked to. He sighed as he dusted English muffin crumbs off of his slim fingers, then threw away the empty Styrofoam plate and coffee cup. He waved at everybody before he pushed his way out the door, shivering and cursing under his breath as the cold hit him. He rubbed his arms as he hurried back to the stables to claim his next mount. Horses thrust their heads out over their doors and stared at him as he hurried along the block, finally arriving at the stall that belonged to Far From Home. He could hear the beast whinnying and moving agitatedly in his stall, and Matthias frowned as he called out: “Julie? Are you in there?”
He peered into the dim stall, seeing the chestnut gelding stomping and jerking within. His ears were laid back, and he was still wearing his halter. He hadn’t been saddled. Concern swept through Matthias, and he called more loudly: “Julie? Where are you?!”
No answer. Then his eyes caught hold of something lying in the straw of Far’s stall. A dark lump that was…human-shaped! Horrified, Matthias unbolted the stall door and went inside. He put up his hands and crooned soothingly to the horse, who gave him a wild-eyed look before subsiding somewhat. He managed to grab a hold of Far’s halter, pulling the horse’s head down as he spoke softly into his ear. The gelding finally subsided, his agitation dying away. Matthias grabbed a rope and tied the halter to a ring near the door, only then turning toward the person lying in the straw. His heart sank when he saw a bright spill of blonde hair. Julie. His stomach twisted in anxiety as he knelt down next to her and put out a hand to check her pulse. It was weak, faint. He fumbled in the pocket of his windbreaker jacket for his cell phone, pulling it out and dialing 911. He told the operator that he’d found a stable girl in the stall of an agitated horse, and that the beast might have stomped her or kicked her in the head. She promised an ambulance right away.
It was too bad it was so early in the morning, as the track had a doctor on call for the races in case one of the jockeys got hurt. But the doctor didn’t usually arrive until just before the first race began, hours from now. Biting his lip, Matthias swept aside the girl’s hair to see if she’d been kicked in the head. But there was no blood in it. There WAS blood on the back of her jacket, however. And a round hole in the fabric. He stared down at it, his eyes trying to register what he was seeing. A bullet hole?! Someone had shot Julie?! That couldn’t be right…but it was. Matthias didn’t know what to think.
Doug arrived at the door with his owners at his back. “What’s going on?” he demanded, peering inside.
Matthias twisted his head to look up at the trainer over his shoulder. “Somebody shot Julie,” he replied grimly.
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A Horse of a Different Color
Chapter 1
Dawn had just spread her cloak of many colors over the morning sky. It was chilly out; everyone’s breath could be seen clearly. The small group of people gathered near the rails of the racetrack huddled in on themselves for warmth and chatted together in a desultory manner. Their eyes were fastened on the far side of the oval track, and the dark blur moving there in a slow gallop.
“He looks good,” one of the men remarked hopefully.
An older man, who was smoking a cigarette, grunted. “Yeah, no sign of the heat in his leg this morning,” he agreed in a husky voice. “He should be ready for the race tomorrow.”
The only woman in the little group frowned. “But don’t you think that his stride is a bit off?”
The older man shrugged. “He’s still growing,” he pointed out laconically. “His back end hasn’t caught up with his front. Hazards of racing a yearling. It shouldn’t affect his performance tomorrow.”
“Well, you’re the trainer,” she replied acerbically. “You know best.”
He shot her an annoyed look as the other man standing with them looked uncomfortable. “Camille, really,” he said. “Doug’s a very good trainer with a lot of experience. We should listen to him.”
“Of course,” she said mock-sweetly. “It isn’t as though we own this expensive yearling or anything…oh, wait, we do! Being the owners entitles us to a say in what our colt does and how his training proceeds. I want him to win, and I doubt that he’s going to do that if his stride is more like a giraffe’s than a racehorse’s.”
The man winced and glanced at the trainer, who merely shifted his cigarette to the other side of his mouth and blew out a cloud of smoke. He was used to dealing with owners like Camille Rochet; pampered, rich, spoiled, and determined to get their own way. He had to put up with her crap because she and her husband Seymour paid the bills. But that didn’t mean that he had to like it.
“If Doug says that he’s ready for the race tomorrow, then I’m going to believe him,” Seymour said stoutly.
“We’ll see,” Camille sniffed. “But if he’s wrong…” she added ominously, leaving the rest of the sentence hanging in the air.
Silence descended. Seymour looked embarrassed; Camille pulled her coat more tightly around her body and looked out at the horse breezing around the track with a grim set to her pink lips; and Doug finished his cigarette morosely while trying his best to ignore the two owners. Finally the young racehorse rounded the last bend and galloped toward them, his pace easy and not very fast. Breezing was to exercise the horse and assess his readiness to race, not to wear him out. The jockey pulled the rather skittish colt to a halt and turned him toward the people standing behind the rails. He pushed his safety helmet back a little and lifted his goggles off of his eyes as he did so.
Doug walked out onto the track and caught the bridle. “What did you think?" he asked the jockey.
“He feels good,” Matthias Billings replied promptly. “He’s not favoring his right front leg at all.”
Doug nodded, looking pleased. But he stiffened as an imperious voice called out from behind him: “I hope, Mr. Billings, that you intend to run a more aggressive race on Farley’s Hope than you did last time. I don’t think that you would have been caught up against the rails like that if you’d started your run earlier. As it was, you only placed fifth. It was decidedly embarrassing.”
The jockey’s fingers gripped the reins tightly as Doug’s teeth closed so tightly in his cigarette that it was almost cut in two. “I’ll try my best, Mrs. Rochet,” Matthias said woodenly.
“Of course you will. Because of you don’t, we’ll have to start looking for another jockey to ride our horse,” her voice was cold and tinged with venom, and her husband closed his eyes and looked resigned.
Doug turned and walked over to the owners. “Why don’t we go and discuss strategy for the race tomorrow?” he said. “Let’s get out of the cold and have some cappuccino.”
“That sounds great,” Seymour said, taking his wife’s arm, “Let’s go, darling.”
Camille reluctantly departed with her husband and the trainer, and Matthias blew out a long breath of relief before he swung out of the saddle. He gathered up the colt’s reins and led him away toward the barns, talking to the horse as he went. “You’ve got it easy, pal,” he told Farley’s Hope. “You’re a gelding. You don’t have a thing to worry about. You don’t have to think about finding a nice mare – or a stallion for that matter,” he added dryly. “We human males have to suffer. Although I suppose if we were really desperate we could have our balls cut off too, but that’s sort of a last resort,” his voice was full of amusement. Now that Camille Rochet had been diverted by Doug, his good humor was rapidly returning. Matthias tried not to let much get to him in the normal run of things.
He arrived at the barn and led Farley’s Hope to his stall. A stable girl came to take the reins from him, shivering a little. “Cold today,” she remarked, her teeth chattering. “How did he do, Matty?”
“Really good. I think he’s ready for tomorrow,” the jockey told her as he took off his helmet and ran a hand through his curly teak-colored hair.
She patted the horse’s neck. “That’s great. I’ll be betting on him. So don’t let me down, okay?” she said mock-sternly to Matthias.
“I’ll try not to. Listen, I’m going to get a cup of coffee and an English muffin. Could you saddle Far From Home for me? Doug wants do some time trials with him today.”
“You got it. As soon as I’m finished making this guy comfortable, I’ll saddle up Far. See you in a bit,” she waved a hand at him.
“Thanks, Julie,” he called, walking away toward the lounge where the jockeys hung out between races. There was always hot coffee and low-fat snacks there, courtesy of the racetrack staff and the valets who attended to the jockeys’ needs. His boots made a low sound as he climbed the few steps leading to the door of the lounge, and he pushed it open and sighed with pleasure as the warmth of the room inside hit him. He soaked it up as he called a greeting to the handful of other jockeys there. Most of them were exercise riders rather than regular jockeys at this time of the day; Matthias himself wouldn’t usually be here this early except the Rochets had insisted that he ride the colt rather than Farley’s normal exercise rider. God, the things you did for money…
He smiled and greeted the young woman who kept the jockeys in coffee and snacks, and she returned it with far more energy than he felt right at the moment. He took the cup of coffee that she handed him, and an English muffin with low-fat margarine spread on it. Taking a seat at an empty table, he set his booted feet on an empty chair and stretched out his minuscule frame. He wasn’t the shortest jockey who’d ever lived; but in his stocking feet he was only five foot tall exactly. Once upon a time that fact had bothered him, but now it was one of the main reasons for his very successful career riding racehorses.
He relaxed and ate the English muffin, taking sips of the hot coffee in between. Soon enough he’d venture back out into the cold, cold world and mount Far From Home to run the time trials that Doug wanted, but for now he was content to sit back and daydream a bit as he ate his breakfast. His aquamarine eyes went half-lidded as he fell into a trance-like state, the warmth and brightness in the lounge conspiring to put him to sleep.
But he couldn’t stay here all day, much as he might have liked to. He sighed as he dusted English muffin crumbs off of his slim fingers, then threw away the empty Styrofoam plate and coffee cup. He waved at everybody before he pushed his way out the door, shivering and cursing under his breath as the cold hit him. He rubbed his arms as he hurried back to the stables to claim his next mount. Horses thrust their heads out over their doors and stared at him as he hurried along the block, finally arriving at the stall that belonged to Far From Home. He could hear the beast whinnying and moving agitatedly in his stall, and Matthias frowned as he called out: “Julie? Are you in there?”
He peered into the dim stall, seeing the chestnut gelding stomping and jerking within. His ears were laid back, and he was still wearing his halter. He hadn’t been saddled. Concern swept through Matthias, and he called more loudly: “Julie? Where are you?!”
No answer. Then his eyes caught hold of something lying in the straw of Far’s stall. A dark lump that was…human-shaped! Horrified, Matthias unbolted the stall door and went inside. He put up his hands and crooned soothingly to the horse, who gave him a wild-eyed look before subsiding somewhat. He managed to grab a hold of Far’s halter, pulling the horse’s head down as he spoke softly into his ear. The gelding finally subsided, his agitation dying away. Matthias grabbed a rope and tied the halter to a ring near the door, only then turning toward the person lying in the straw. His heart sank when he saw a bright spill of blonde hair. Julie. His stomach twisted in anxiety as he knelt down next to her and put out a hand to check her pulse. It was weak, faint. He fumbled in the pocket of his windbreaker jacket for his cell phone, pulling it out and dialing 911. He told the operator that he’d found a stable girl in the stall of an agitated horse, and that the beast might have stomped her or kicked her in the head. She promised an ambulance right away.
It was too bad it was so early in the morning, as the track had a doctor on call for the races in case one of the jockeys got hurt. But the doctor didn’t usually arrive until just before the first race began, hours from now. Biting his lip, Matthias swept aside the girl’s hair to see if she’d been kicked in the head. But there was no blood in it. There WAS blood on the back of her jacket, however. And a round hole in the fabric. He stared down at it, his eyes trying to register what he was seeing. A bullet hole?! Someone had shot Julie?! That couldn’t be right…but it was. Matthias didn’t know what to think.
Doug arrived at the door with his owners at his back. “What’s going on?” he demanded, peering inside.
Matthias twisted his head to look up at the trainer over his shoulder. “Somebody shot Julie,” he replied grimly.
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