Miranda Kenneally: Racing Savannah

“This is my bro, Wrigley.”

“Your bro?”

“My sister tells me I’m an idiot around girls.”

That’s the biggest bunch of bull I’ve ever heard. I can sense the cocky confidence radiating off his tanned skin.

“So why did Star run away?” I ask.

“Two baby raccoons climbed a fence at the track. One of the hands managed to chase them away, but not before a bunch of the colts and fillies started screaming. I think that’s why Star took off.”

“Makes sense.” Anything will scare horses when they’re young. Especially if they’re Thoroughbreds. Dad says they’re crazy because of inbreeding. Thoroughbred bloodlines are worse than the royal families of Europe.

When we reach the top of the hill, the racetracks and barns come into full view.

“Here we are,” Jack says, glancing over at me.

Exercise boys are riding around both practice tracks. A field of haystacks sits beyond the tracks, and a garden full of sunflowers and vegetables lies between the tracks and the manor house. The biggest of the six barns is larger than a Walmart. The barn Dad worked at in West Virginia is a shack by comparison.

Wrigley starts sniffing my hair and nuzzles his face against mine.

“Wow,” Jack says. “Wrigley doesn’t like anybody but me. My father hasn’t raced him yet ’cause he’s too stubborn and mean.”

“Maybe he’s just lazy and doesn’t want to race.” I kiss the horse’s muzzle. “And being stubborn is his way of getting out of it.”

“Maybe.”

“Your dad lets you keep Wrigley even if he can’t race?” Caring for a Thoroughbred for one year costs more than a new pickup truck.

Jack pats the horse’s neck. “I love him—and I believe we can train him. You’re really good with horses. Does your dad own a farm?”

I laugh again. “Me? Own a farm?” Wrigley pushes against me and nickers. He’s saying hello. “Hello,” I say back.

“Wrigley,” Jack says, securing the lead around his hand. “It’s not nice to be so forward.”

I kiss the horse again. “You’re such a pretty boy.”

“Thank you,” Jack says, grinning.

“I was talking to the horse.”

“I don’t believe you. My bro Wrigley is nothing compared to me. Right, bro?” He slaps Wrigley’s side.

“Is Jack always such an ass?” I ask the horse. I can’t believe I said that. I feel my face turning the color of strawberry ice cream, but Jack just laughs and keeps on beaming. I better watch my mouth before the Goodwins boot me right on out of here.

I reach into my back pocket to grab a sucker—an orange one. You know how some people take antianxiety meds? Well, I eat candy. I rip off the crinkly wrapper and stick the sucker in my mouth. Instant relief.

I peek up at Jack’s blue eyes. He’s nicer than I figured he’d be. And he has a sense of humor too.

“Who are you?” Jack asks with this shit-eating grin on his face. “Did you come with Senator Ralston to meet with my father today? Are you related to him?”

Me? Related to a senator? I look down at my holey jeans, boots, and tight black T-shirt. I’m about to fess up that I’ve just moved into the Hillcrest dungeons and therefore he and I can never speak because his family values their privacy when a man storms out of the house and up the hill to us.

“Jack!” The man is dressed exactly like him—pressed shirt, dark jeans, and cowboy boots. “Abby Winchester has called the house eight times since breakfast looking for you and I’m about to smash the phone against the wall.”

Eight times? Stalk-er , I sing in my head.

Jack keeps a firm hand on Wrigley’s lead and lets out a long breath. “Hi, Dad.”

Mr. Goodwin goes on, “Why aren’t you answering your cell—” He stops. Takes one look at my red hair, freckled skin, and short, jockey-sized body, and then his eyes grow wide. “Are you Danny Barrow’s kid?”

“Yes. Savannah Barrow.”

Jack furrows his eyebrows. “You’re the new groom’s daughter?”

Mr. Goodwin drags a hand through his hair. “Can I see you in my office, son?”

“Yes, sir. Savannah, can I catch up with you later? Maybe we could—”

“Jack. Now,” Mr. Goodwin says.

Jack ties Wrigley to a hitching post, his voice changing from casual to super serious. “Nice to meet you, Savannah. If you’ll excuse me.” Then he disappears inside the house with his father and the three hounds at his ankles.

I gently pat Wrigley’s muzzle, as I stare up at the white manor house.

Now that Jack knows who I really am, the groom’s daughter, he doesn’t even give me a second glance.

Figures.

On my way to Hillcrest to retrieve my riding gear, I skirt the stone wall that doubles as a fence bordering the property. Mom once told me, “They call them slave walls.” It had embarrassed me to hear Mom say something so un-PC, but when I confronted her, she said, “We can ignore history or we can learn from it. I choose to learn from it.”

What I wouldn’t give to hear her voice now.

She died when I was eleven after having been diagnosed with breast cancer the year before. It was stage four by the time the doctors caught it, but Mom fought hard. We didn’t have insurance, so we couldn’t afford the medical bills that skyrocketed to over $200K. Then Mom was suddenly buried…and Dad was buried under a mountain of debt. And without her, my whole world fell apart.

Dad worked as a groom for a wealthy horseman who was more interested in gambling than the racehorses themselves. Mr. Cates didn’t give a crap that his employees didn’t have insurance, and he worked his horses into the ground, racing them when they were injured with stress fractures or worse.

Shortly after my mother died, Dad said he needed my help with a sad mare named Moonshadow, who had been lethargic ever since her first foal had been weaned. Mr. Cates didn’t care that the horse was sad, but I did. I told my dad I would help her feel better again.

I rubbed the mare’s nose and searched her eyes. “I know how it feels to lose somebody too.”

I started riding Moonshadow nearly every day, and she taught me just how great at riding I am. She made me feel proud of myself. As soon as I got to know her, I told her all my secrets.

The first one?

“I love my dad, but I’m never gonna end up working for minimum wage like him. I want more.”

Back in Charles Town, Dad spent 99 percent of his time in the barns, and coming to Tennessee hasn’t changed that habit one bit. So I figure he must be in Greenbriar, where the Goodwins’ best horses live. It’s the fanciest barn I’ve ever seen; it has a digital contraption that keeps flies and mosquitoes at bay and classical music plays 24/7. I don’t even have an iPod, for crying out loud.

After grabbing my riding gear from Hillcrest, I tramp through mud on my way to Greenbriar, passing by two of the smaller barns. The Goodwins own about forty horses, but they have enough barn space to house over 1,200. Apparently they make a lot of their money renting stalls (studio apartments for horses) to Thoroughbred owners who use the Goodwin practice tracks to get ready for the real races on weekends. Mr. Goodwin keeps plenty of people on staff—veterinarians, farriers (blacksmiths) to fix horseshoes, farmers to work the hay, tons of grooms and exercise riders, and stall managers.

I arrive in front of Greenbriar to find Dad and a bunch of guys sitting in lawn chairs.

“What a bunch of lazy asses.”

Dad jumps to his feet as the other guys laugh at me. “It’s break time.” He draws me into his arms for a hug. I bury my nose in his shirt, inhaling his earthy smell of grass and leather and hay. My dad’s only thirty-six, and his height makes him look even younger.