Born Of The Bluegrass. Darlene Scalera
and so pretty, she’d held out her hands. They’d laid him naked on her breast. It wasn’t enough. She’d asked for a little more time. They’d brought him to her washed and wrapped in blankets. She’d inspected every inch of that tiny body, memorizing, promising not to forget, trying to explain. She fell asleep, cradling him in her arms. He’d been gone when she awoke. She’d never touched her baby again.
Until today.
Her hands held each other now as she walked with the night’s ghosts. She had no rights, she knew that. She had relinquished all claims. She would never demand anything—not family or love or forgiveness. She would ask for nothing from the child or his father. But would it be so wrong to be near, to watch the child grow from a toddler to a boy to a man? Invisible, silent, watching, protecting, she would be no more than the specters surrounding her now. Surely it wasn’t asking too much?
Her father was right. The child had a home, a family, a name. She would do nothing to jeopardize that. She would ask for nothing, expect nothing. She had no rights.
But she’d given her son up once. She wouldn’t give him up again.
NOW WAS the one moment Reid knew peace—when the morning was dawn, soft and moist and warm as the steam rising from the barrels of water heating in the backstretch. When all the world was vague and muffled—the hooves on the turf, the talk between the trainers huddled at the rail, watching their charges. It wouldn’t last long. The mist would break, and the horses, the people would no longer be illusions in the lavender August light. Everything would become real once more, and Reid would remember that what was one minute could be gone the next. A turn of the head, a chance look and whole lives could change. But, for now, moving though the morning haze, he might have been dreaming.
He joined his trainer, Smiley Woods, at the rail. Smiley had trained two of Hamilton Hills’ three Derby champions, and Reid knew the man would be welcome at any farm he choose. He’d even told him so when Hamilton Hills’ financial state became public, and the offers for Smiley’s services began pouring in. But Smiley had only shook his head and said, “This is where I belong.” Such was the spell Hamilton Hills could cast.
Reid nodded now to the one man he still trusted, then turned his attention back to the horse coming down the lane.
“What do you think?”
The horse trotted by, his ears pinned, his hind end bouncing, pulling so hard at the reins, his rider was gritting his teeth. “He’s a bombshell.”
About a hundred yards away, the animal reared up, but the exercise boy was ready for him and kicked him forward. A few lengths down the rail, the Fox Run Farm trainer leaned out over the rail and shouted, “Contain him.”
Smiley watched the horse head for the turn. He was a mammoth man with a perpetual scowl that had earned him his nickname. But despite his size and scowl, there was a constant calm around him. The horses had taught him to walk slowly and speak softly.
“I knew a gelding once who moved like that in the back end, and he—”
He broke off, a life at the racetrack having schooled him in superstitions and jinxes. “I would want to see some X rays,” was all he’d say.
Reid watched the dark colt, long-legged, tight-bellied, all reckless desire to run, and although a healthy respect for curses and hexes wouldn’t permit either man to say this aloud, both knew what they saw as the dark horse shot past them. It could have been Aztec Treasure flying across the soft soil.
“He’s a stall walker.” Smiley’s gaze never left the colt. “Guard told me he had a fit last night, pawing at the door and snorting, running in circles as if already on the track. The vets leave him to last. He’ll take a nip as soon as your head is turned. Imagine he likes to kick too, but the groom who’s with him now has been with him through the infections and the fracture, and they say he’s almost playful with her.”
They watched the animal go wide, grinding his bit, fighting the rider.
“Horse does love to run though.”
Reid looked at the trainer, saw his rare smile of secret delight reserved solely for Thoroughbreds and Kentucky bourbon.
Smiley looked at his stopwatch, then back at the horse. “Some that ornery are just mean or maybe scared. This one though, he thinks he’s superior. You can see it in his eyes. There’s no wildness there or fear. Just one hundred percent insolence.”
“His dam was Every Bit A Lady. Good grass mare. Had some success in the New York stakes.”
Smiley nodded. “As steady as they come.”
“This one though—he’s up, he’s down. The Foxes have about written him off as one big mistake.”
Smiley silently studied the horse.
“He’s running in a claimer tomorrow.”
The large man glanced over. “And I thought you came up to Saratoga for all the high society hoopla?”
Reid returned the other man’s wry smile. Both knew the invitations had been few after the accident and the investigation. Those that did come now went unanswered.
Smiley looked back across the oval. “But, here you are, scouting for salvation.”
Reid followed his trainer’s gaze. They’d both seen it happen before. One horse. That’s all that was needed. A few healthy purses on the track, then an enviable income earned in the breeding shed for a good number of years. One horse.
The two men stood so close, their elbows hit as they leaned on the rail and watched the horse run, tail streaming straight out, nose, neck, back all aligned, born like hope, to go forward.
“He’s had a few setbacks, hasn’t been able to get his performance back up. They wanted him to have some impressive runs before they turned him out to stud. He only started one season before he was waylaid with ailments. I’m betting he’s got a few wins in him.”
Smiley, as always, watched the horse. “I’ll give you my best.”
It was the closest thing to a promise at the track.
“I’ll work with you on this one.” Reid saw the trainer slip him a glance. “We should have enough time until the rains come. If they do come early, I’ll ship him south the last few weeks, but I’ll go with him.”
“You taking this one personal, huh?”
The horse went by at a walk now. The rider exited the track, steering the animal toward the barns.
“It’s always personal.”
The animal’s head swung from side to side and his ears lay flat as he fought being reined in. Reid headed toward the colt, following the winded, damp horse as if already assured redemption.
The colt’s ears were still pinned when they reached the barns. A female groom giving a leg up to a rider watched the horse’s return, then crossed the soft dirt toward the animal. She was thin with the lean frame that comes from excessive work or excessive worry. Her face was unadorned and her hair in the single simple braid of a young girl. But as she moved toward the animal, Reid saw beneath her straight-legged denims and loose T-shirt, the fullness of breasts, the curves of hips, the body of a woman.
“Get the hose for this one,” the rider warned as he dismounted. “He’ll never stand still for the sponge.”
The groom reached behind the horse’s head and scratched him on the spot of the withers where horses can’t reach. Reid saw the animal’s head turn to look at the diminutive woman. The colt’s ears pricked forward.
“He’ll let me know,” the groom replied. “He’s the boss.”
Reid moved toward the horse as the woman took something from her pocket, offered it in her palm to the animal. “A peppermint, a carrot or two, and he’s a lamb,” she told the rider as the horse nuzzled her palm. “He just likes to remind you of who he is.”
She