The Prize. Stacy Gregg
railing to join her.
“So?” Riley looked at her expectantly. “How did he do?”
“He covered eight furlongs in one minute forty-one,” Georgie said.
Riley looked pleased and gave Marco a slappy pat. “Hey, not bad, boy!” he told the chestnut.
“Is that time good enough to win the Firecracker?” Georgie asked.
“Maybe,” Riley said, “but there’s a big difference between blowing him out like this on the track all alone and riding a real race when sixteen other jockeys are trying to cut in front or ram you off the track. It’s not until you’re coming down that final furlong with the pack at your heels that you find out what your horse is really made of.”
Georgie looked at the little chestnut gelding dancing and fretting anxiously beneath Riley. Less than six months ago if you had asked any racing pundit in the country whether this scrawny, diminutive horse stood a chance of winning the coveted Firecracker Handicap, a race worth $232,000 in prize money, they would have laughed at you. Marco’s racing career was all but washed up when Georgie purchased him for $150 from his former trainer Tommy Doyle. The dirt cheap price tag reflected the total failure on Marco’s part to win any races – and the fact that the four-year old Thoroughbred had a reputation for doing lethal 180 degree turns in the middle of the track which meant that even the bravest jockeys refused to get on him.
Georgie had bought Marco in the hope that she might be able to put his turning tendencies to good use and train him as a polo pony. But Marco was even more lethal on the polo field than he was on the racetrack and Georgie didn’t have a clue what to do with him – until Riley had offered to swap him for a more suitable polo mare.
At the time, Georgie’s boyfriend was doing her a favour. But it had never occurred to her that Riley could actually see any potential in this difficult and temperamental Thoroughbred. Everyone else had given up on Marco, but Riley persevered with the little chestnut, retraining the horse, experimenting with his feeding and workout schedule, and making friends with the complicated little gelding.
Then, last month, he entered Marco in his first race and the chestnut won by a clear two lengths with Riley on his back.
Looking back, Georgie wasn’t surprised that Riley had turned Marco around. Her boyfriend had a way of getting a song out of the most difficult horses. Sometimes Georgie could swear that he had the ability to read their minds. How else could you explain the change in Marco?
“The talented horses are always temperamental,” Riley told Georgie. “Marco just needed someone to believe in him.”
Riley’s belief in Marco was proven justified when the horse won again in his second race. This time the win was hard-fought. Riley had been boxed in behind a clutch of riders on the railing all the way to the three-quarter marker. Things had looked impossible but somehow he had found a hole and driven the chestnut hard towards it to break free of the pack, putting on a burst of speed in the home straight to edge out in front of the favourite by a nose.
Even with two wins under their belt, Riley wasn’t content.
“He’s still holding back. There’s more speed in him,” Riley told Georgie as they walked together back to the stables. “Look at him! He’s hardly even breathing hard.”
Jogging and skipping alongside Riley, Marco was bounding about as if the track beneath his feet were made of hot coals. Riley didn’t pay any attention to the Thoroughbred’s dangerous antics and eventually Marco stopped larking about and settled down. By the time they had reached the stables he was walking sedately at his jockey’s side.
That was the way it was with Riley and horses, Georgie mused. He was real quiet with them, but somehow he always got them to do exactly as he wanted. She had seen that from the moment she met him. She’d been having trouble with Belle in her first term at Blainford and it was Kenny, the Academy’s caretaker, who suggested that she get some help from his nephew.
Georgie had been expecting some wizened guy like The Horse Whisperer but it turned out that Riley was a teenager just like her. Riley’s dad, John Conway, was the owner of Clemency Farm and Riley worked for him riding track most mornings before his classes at the local High School.
Riley and Georgie had been dating for a term now – despite predictions of doom from Daisy who said it was plain crazy even trying to go out with a boy who didn’t attend Blainford. Georgie knew that Riley had his own reservations about dating a girl from a private equestrian school. It didn’t help that total numnahs like Conrad were determined to cause trouble. The last time Riley had clashed with Conrad, the Burghley House head prefect found himself pinned to the wall with a polo mallet at his throat. Georgie hadn’t asked Riley back to a school event since then. And she was hardly going to tell him about the fatigues that the prefect had given her last week.
Riley led the gelding into his loose box back at the stable block, and Georgie bolted the door after him.
“Did I tell you that I’m going to enter him in the Hanley Stakes?” Riley asked. “I figure he needs one more outing before the Firecracker, just to keep him on form.”
“What sort of race is it?” Georgie asked as she undid Marco’s girth.
“A grade three, over a mile and a half,” Riley told her as he slipped the gelding’s bridle off. “It’s a big distance for him, but I want to see how he handles it. He’ll be up against The Rainmaker.”
Georgie had heard of The Rainmaker. Thoroughbred Magazine had called the jet-black stallion “one of the most perfectly put together Thoroughbreds the sport of racing has ever seen” and the smart money was on the big black horse to win at Churchill Downs. At sixteen-three hands high, The Rainmaker was a massive horse compared to Marco who stood at a mere fifteen-two.
Georgie slid the saddle pad off Marco’s back, and nearly collapsed under its weight. “Ohmygod!”
“Are you OK?” Riley rushed to take the saddle from her. “Be careful. It’s heavy.”
How could such a tiny jockey’s saddle weigh so much? Georgie stuck her hands into one of the pockets stitched into the brown leather and pulled out a round metal disc.
“What are these?”
“Lead weights,” Riley said. “All horses have to carry a certain weight when they run. It’s a handicap to even out the odds.”
“So will Marco have to carry weights when you race him in the Firecracker?”
“Nah,” Riley pulled two more weights out of the lead pad. “I’m already heavier than most of the other jockeys anyway. And Marco and me aren’t the favourites by any stretch. But all the same, I’ve been training him to carry the maximum – just in case.”
He went to take the saddle out of Georgie’s hands, but she refused.
“I’m going to be Dominic Blackwell’s groom this week,” she said. “So I might as well get used to doing all the work.”
“So this Blackwell guy, he’s, like, a top showjumper?”
“Uh-huh,” Georgie said. “I’ll be working for him for six weeks and if he gives me a good grade then I’m through into the second-year eventing class – otherwise, well, I’m just through.”
“So you’re working for him during school?”
“Uh-huh,” Georgie said. “And after school and weekends – you know, helping out at the competitions.”
“So I should expect to see you again when? Next Christmas, maybe?” Riley said sarcastically.
“It won’t be that bad!” Georgie was taken aback. “We’ll figure something out.”
Riley looked doubtful. “I hardly get any time with you, Georgie. All the other guys at my school are always taking their girls out on dates. We never go anywhere together.”
“We’re