Miranda Kenneally: Racing Savannah

When I pull away, I bounce on my tiptoes, scanning the group. “Is Gael around?”

“Gael? What do you need him for?”

“I want to talk to him about riding—”

That’s when this douche of a jockey comes strutting out of Greenbriar. Bryant Townsend is 5’1”—an inch taller than me, but I could take him.

“Forget the horse, Barrow. Come ride a cowboy,” he says, making rude gestures with his pelvis. What an ass. Dad looks like he might kill Bryant, but I hold him back—I can handle myself.

“Tell me when you see a real cowboy and I will.”

“Oooooooh,” the guys say, laughing.

“You’re all fired,” Dad says. He waves an arm at the guys, and they go back to talking horses and trucks, ignoring my father.

“Wow, what a great help you are, Dad.” He gives me a noogie, and I duck away. “Not the hair!” It takes forever to bind my red curls in a French braid.

It doesn’t surprise me that Dad fits right in here. He’s a good head groom—he knows when to be strict, but most of the time he’s relaxed, which keeps his staff relaxed, which ultimately keeps the horses calm. And he knows more about horses than anyone I know. I completely understand why Mr. Goodwin snatched him away from Charles Town.

“So how about some lunch?” Dad asks.

“Can you help me find Gael first?”

“We shouldn’t waste his time—”

“You don’t think I can get a job here, Dad?”

He inclines his head, smiling slightly. “It’s worth a try, I guess. But don’t get your hopes up. They got some of the best exercise boys I’ve ever seen.”

Exercise riders make $10 per horse per day giving super-fast horses their daily workouts. It’s way above minimum wage. If I can make more money by riding horses, I can make a better life for myself than working in a motel or gas station after high school.

So watch out Cedar Hill—here I come.

We find Gael in the Greenbriar pasture, inspecting a yearling’s hoof. Dad told me he’s a former jockey from Spain. He’s tiny, but he could still beat the crap out of most guys on this farm.

“Can I help you, Barrow?” Gael asks Dad, flashing a glance at me.

“I want to be an exercise rider,” I reply, pulling my gloves out of my back pocket. “And I’m trying out today.”

“Says who?” Gael asks.

“Says me.”

Dad shakes his head at the blue sky. “Generally you ask for a job interview, Shortcake.”

“Being an exercise rider is dangerous,” Gael says. “Just last month one died in Arizona after being thrown from a horse.”

“I’m always careful.” I hold up my protective vest and helmet. “And I have plenty of experience from working at the Charles Town Races in West Virginia.”

Gael’s eyes widen. “Good for you, drama mama.”

“Did you just call me drama mama?”

Gael ignores me. “Charles Town is a Grade 2 track. Those horses aren’t the fastest, craziest horses in the world. That’s what we got here. This is the big show.”

“I bet riding a Goodwin horse is safer than the ones I used to ride. It’s only truly dangerous to ride injured or weak horses, and you know the Goodwins have the best horses.”

Gael gives my dad a grin. “She knows her shit.”

“Of course she knows her shit. She’s a Barrow.” Dad squeezes my shoulder.

“May I try out? Sir?”

Dad gives me a nod, proud I remembered to ask for the job interview this time.

“Well…” Gael says. “I’m afraid it’s not my decision.”

“Dad, please,” I say.

“It’s not his call either,” Gael says.

“But the lead trainer always makes decisions when it comes to training horses. So whose decision is it?”

“Mine.”

I twirl around to find Jack Goodwin. He adjusts his cowboy hat and shoves his hands in his pockets, swaggering toward me with his hounds.

“What’s going on?” I ask Dad and Gael.

“You haven’t heard?” Jack uses his super serious voice, like when he discovered who I really am. “I’m running the farm this year.”

“What do you mean you’re running the farm?”

“It’s one of his father’s tests to get him ready to run the farm one day,” Gael mutters to me. “He made Jack learn to drive a truck when he was ten. And he started drawing up stud fee contracts when he was twelve.”

Hell, I’m happy I passed algebra II last year. And he has to run a farm?

“And you’re going to school too?” I ask Jack. “Senior year isn’t gonna be easy.”

“I’ll get it done.”

Talk about a busy schedule. Can he go to school, run the farm, sleep, and be stalked by this Abby Winchester girl all at once?

“So what’s the deal with me getting a tryout?” I ask.

“Jack wants me to clear all decisions with him,” Gael says, not sounding at all perturbed he has to take orders from a seventeen-year-old. “It’s up to him if you get one.”

“So can I try out? Sir?”

A tiny smirk appears on Jack’s face. “What are your qualifications?”

“Let’s see. I’ve been riding since I was four years old. I was an exercise rider at Charles Town Races. And oh yeah, I caught Star on foot this morning. Remember that?”

Jack’s smirk erupts into a full-blown grin.

“You caught Tennessee Star on foot?” Dad exclaims.

Gael looks from me to Jack. “What?”

“Just ’cause she caught Star once doesn’t mean she could handle him on the track,” Jack says, staring me down. “You want a job as an exercise rider? Then I want to see you ride Star.”

“No,” Dad says. “He bucks all his riders.”

“C’mon, please? I’ve been riding for thirteen years. You know I can do this!”

Dad throws his head back. “Could she at least ride another horse besides Star?”

Jack thinks for a sec. “Let’s see her ride Mystic Minerva. But I reserve the right to see her ride Star before I make a decision.”

Why is he so interested in me riding Star?

Dad snaps and points at a tall groom with a mess of floppy brown hair who’s been eavesdropping. “Get Minerva saddled up, Whitfield.”

“Townsend,” Gael barks. “Get on Lucky Strikes and take him around the track a few times. I want you to show Savannah how the tryout will work.” Townsend goes with another groom to get Lucky Strikes out of his stall.

While waiting, Jack squats and scratches his dogs’ ears, muttering to them, “You stinky dogs, you. You’re handsome devils, and, Athena, you’re a beautiful girl. Give me a kiss.” The dog licks and slobbers on his face. He peeks up at me a few times, but I tighten my gloves and pretend not to notice him.

Several minutes later, the groom named Whitfield reappears with Minerva. She’s a chestnut, about sixteen hands high, and might be the most beautiful horse I’ve ever seen.

“She’s a great horse,” Whitfield says. “She’s raced in fifty-three races. She’s won eleven, and placed or shown in thirty-five.”

She bends down to scratch her nose on her knee.

“Come on, pretty girl,” I whisper to her. “Help me through this.”

I’m standing in the clocker’s tower with Gael, Dad, and Jack, watching Bryant Townsend breeze around the track atop Lucky Strikes, one of Mr. Goodwin’s prized horses. The stallion won the Preakness three years ago.

“That’s complete shit, Townsend! Complete shit! You can do better than that!” Gael is five feet tall, but when he yells, he might as well be the Hulk.

Townsend finishes seven furlongs (nearly a mile) in 1:35. That’s insanely fast. It’s like he was riding a rocket, not a Thoroughbred.

And Gael thinks that’s complete shit?

Townsend may never learn how to talk to a girl, but he knows what he’s doing on the racetrack. I take a deep, rattled breath and tighten my gloves. I can do this.