Miranda Kenneally: Racing Savannah

“Get those clothes off, girl. Gotta get them in the wash before a stain sets.”

“It’s okay, I can do—” I start to say, but Yvonne gives me a death glare.

“Don’t you dare go near my laundry room.” I smile at the thought of Yvonne standing in front of a laundry room door, holding a battle axe, ready to fight off any intruders who want to do a load of whites.

“I know how to wash my own clothes,” I say.

Yvonne wags a finger in my face. “One time I found Mr. Goodwin in my laundry room teaching Master Jack how to wash colors, and after I got done yelling at those boys, they looked like I’d caught one of them doing the nasty in the backseat of a car. They probably wished I’d caught them doing that.” She grumbles, “Mr. Goodwin claimed he was trying to teach Jack an ‘essential life lesson.’ Sheesh!”

Dad cracks up. “Doing the nasty.”

“Gross,” I say. I never want to hear my dad say “doing the nasty” again.

“The moral of the story is stay out of my laundry room ,” Yvonne goes on.

“But laundry is an essential life lesson,” I say.

Dad laughs, biting his knuckle. “Doing the nasty.”

Yvonne wags her finger at me. “You let me handle the laundry and you go eat a ham sandwich.” She points her finger at Dad. “Danny, you see the bones on your girl? She looks like she’s never eaten before.”

“Who wants lunch?” Cindy interrupts, as a grumbling Yvonne returns to sewing the shirt. It looks soft. Is it Jack’s? I bet it would reach my knees if I slipped it on. God, I’ve become a laundry stalker.

Cindy brings sandwiches, chicken salad, and cookies to the table. Cindy takes a dainty bite of sandwich, looking nauseous. Her pregnancy has been awful; it’s hard for her to keep food down. “What’d you find in town, Shortcake?”

I wince then quickly force a smile. Like Dad, Mom always called me Strawberry Shortcake because of my hair color, and it annoys me every time Cindy calls me by my nickname. It belongs to my parents.

“There’s an arcade called the Fun Tunnel that has tons of skee ball lanes. I found lots of places to eat. I saw the school, Hundred Oaks. Looks pretty nice. But it’s like five miles from here—I’ll have to take the bus to school. I wish I had a bike.”

Dad and Cindy glance at each other. I can see the gears turning in their heads. We can’t afford a bike, and we all know it.

“I talked to Jack Goodwin earlier,” I say. “He seems pretty down to earth.”

Dad and Cindy glance at each other again. I swear, did they develop ESP or something?

She taps her fork on her plate. “Shortcake, I don’t think spending time with Jack is a good idea.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. The Goodwins place a high premium on their privacy .”

Cindy shakes her head. “It’s not that…he sneaks girls into his room. The other maids say they never see the same girl twice. You’re too good for him.”

I snort. What a silly thing to say. I’m too good for a millionaire horse farm owner? Whatever. Besides, the first thing I discovered when I got here is that the household staff lives for gossip. They exaggerate everything.

“I’m sure Jack doesn’t have a revolving door to his bedroom.”

Yvonne tightens her thread and loops the needle through the cuff. “I heard from the gardener that Master Jack gave Candy Roxanne, that harlot of a country music singer, a tour of Mrs. Goodwin’s rose gardens. And apparently one thing led to another and he was picking thorns out of his—”

“Yvonne,” Dad says, his voice laced with warnings. He pats my hand. “You know Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin want us to keep our distance. I can’t afford any problems with my new job. Not with a baby on the way.”

“I got it, I got it.”

Dad takes a bite of chicken salad. A piece gets stuck to his mouth, and Cindy leans across the table to sweep it away with her napkin. He gives her a quick kiss. Oh gag me.

Deep down I wish I had someone who would adore me like that. Back in West Virginia, I dated occasionally and fooled around with this guy Adam sometimes on weekends, but I’ve never had a boyfriend-boyfriend. Maybe this’ll be the year I finally get one.

I can’t help but think about how Jack treated me when he thought I was here with a senator. He flirted, he asked questions, he smiled at me. It felt effortless…but he wouldn’t have flirted if he’d known who I was.

After I finish my sandwich, I head to Greenbriar to find Star. I should get to know the horse before warming him up tomorrow morning.

I jog past the mud pile where the farmhands burn manure and make it into fertilizer. Dad told me Mr. Goodwin sells it to soup companies; they use the fertilizer to grow mushrooms. Remind me never to eat creamy mushroom soup again.

The large wooden doors are wide open as I charge through a flock of birds mooching grain, and the intoxicating smell of hay and horse and manure hits me in the face. Sunlight fills the cool barn, warming me like a good hug.

I find Rory Whitfield grooming Star. He rubs the colt’s nose then uses a soft brush to smooth his face. Rory is cute, but not my type. He’s taller and lankier than Jack and hasn’t fully filled out his frame yet.

“Hey,” I say.

He gives me a grin. “Hay is for horses.”

“Damn, I thought you might be cool. But with lines like that…” Rory laughs at my expression. “So you’re a groom here?” I ask.

“Part-time. I’m still in school. I’m a senior.”

“Me too. Starting Hundred Oaks on Monday.”

“That’s where I go,” he says.

Rory steps away from Star to chat with me, and I find he’s real easy to get along with, just like the guys in the barn I used to work at. Turns out that Whitfield Farms is right up the road from Cedar Hill. He has two parents, three brothers, and a barnyard full of animals. Like Cedar Hill, Whitfield Farms has been around since the Civil War, but instead of horses, they raise cows and breed dogs. In fact, Jack bought his three hounds from Rory’s father a few years ago.

“Why do you work here if you got your own farm?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes. “Demand for dairy has gone down, so my parents aren’t really forthcoming with an allowance. I gotta work here if I want cash.”

“I get you. That’s why I want the exercise boy job.”

Rory swivels to grab a different brush, breaking the cardinal rule of Horse 101: never turn your back on a horse. Star takes advantage of the situation and nudges Rory’s shoulder, shoving him toward the stall door. Then the colt lies down on the floor and rolls back and forth across his straw bed like a puppy. What a prankster.

I laugh. “Good one, Star.”

“Come on, boy,” Rory says. “Get up.”

The horse scrambles to his feet then trots around his stall. He’s definitely a Thoroughbred: lots of energy with a dash of crazy. I love his goofy personality. Star walks over to me. He’s long and sleek. Not an ounce of fat on him.

“Be careful,” Rory says. “He’s been biting.”

Star rests his chin on my shoulder and I rub his neck. He smells super musky, which leads me to believe the grooms are having a hard time keeping him clean. He must act up during his baths. Rory grabs a shovel, scoops up Star’s manure, then charges past me to dump it in a wheelbarrow.

“You are a handsome boy,” I tell Star. He sniffs my hands and snorts and tries to bite my arm. I rip it away just in time. Thoroughbred racehorses aren’t pets. They bite like sharks.

“No!” I say.

Star looks me in the eye and I stare right back, daring him to defy me again. The staring contest goes on for over a minute. I wonder if he’s looking into my soul, finding something I don’t know about. Pain roars through me when I think of Moonshadow and how frightened I am to get close to another horse, considering what happened to her. Finally Star breaks eye contact, leans forward, and nips at my hair, nickering.