“Oh, honey, what’s wrong?” Marge rushed to Susan’s side and sat on the bed, cradling her despondent daughter in her arms.

  “M-m-mom. Why doesn’t anybody want me? Alan didn’t want me. Not enough.”

  Her misery was palpable, tearing through Marge ‘til she thought her own heart would break.

  “Baby, I know it doesn’t seem like it, but things will get better. I promise. We’ll find you a horse. We’ll get you back in that saddle. That’s all you need. That’s all you ever wanted.

  Marge rocked her girl, back and forth, much as Susan had cradled her ten years ago. Her husband, Suz’s step-father, had taken a plunge off the ski trail. Dead on impact. Susan had been on ski patrol and had helped bring down the man who’d given her his name and his love. She’d been the strong one then. Marge thought, now it’s my turn.

  Susan wailed. “She’s getting married.”

  “Who, dear?”

  “Beth! Beth and David. At Christmas, and I have to be a bridesmaid and wear an ugly dress and pretend it’s wonderful. And then they’re going to Florida for six months so Beth can train with some dressage master and do the Championship circuit.” Susan sat up and grabbed onto her mother. “I hate her! I hate her so much. She just met him, and he’s gonna marry her!”

  Marge shook her head. There wasn’t much she could say to that. She knew if she’d been Suz’s age, she’d probably feel the same. Knowing that the man she thought she loved was a cheating bastard with commitment issues wasn’t something that would put any girl in a forgiving frame of mind. All she could do was be there for Susan, so she crawled into bed with her daughter and pulled the quilt over them.

  Susan seemed poised to sink into sleep when she whispered, “I’ll try to be nice to Bill. I’ll take him in the woods tomorrow. I’ll even let him grope me if he wants.”

  Marge hitched a breath, trying not to laugh. “Sorry, hon. Lonely Heart Bill checked out this afternoon.”

  “Oh, Mom!”

  Chapter Two: Breeders Cup

  Manuel Velasquez exited the hospital room. The buzz and beeps and chatter of machines keeping his best friend alive bit like sharks, ripping huge chunks out of his heart. Antonio Duarte lay hooked up to life support, in an induced coma, because of him and his fucking bad decision to take the hole on the rail.

  The Breeder’s Cup for three year old fillies. It had been a fast break, the field tearing down the backstretch, with blazing hot splits. He’d been on the spoiler, the one they all feared—GuildtheLily, a golden chestnut, small, compact. On a good day she’d blow the field away. It was Manny’s job, at twenty-to-one odds, to make that a good day.

  He’d hugged the rail, taking the short route, risking the deeper going on the artificial surface. Lily liked mud, her low center of gravity allowing her to dig in and drive with her haunches. The trainer had been prepared to pull if the track was hard and fast. The day’d dawned bright and hot and the owner, with the box seats and trophy blonde, said ‘go’ so they went. The trainer hadn’t liked it but that wasn’t his job. All he needed was to get the horses fit and ready to run.

  The filly broke sharp, as usual, but settled quickly into her rocking horse gait, smooth as silk for one so short-strided. Manny sat chilly, waiting it out, letting her get a feel for the surface. She didn’t fuss, hugging the rail behind the four leaders, strung out across the track on the backstretch. Antonio’d been right behind him at Lily’s flank, close enough he could hear the grey snort at every stride. He waved his stick, keeping Antonio’s mount from bearing in. Glancing back under his arm he saw Antonio lug on the outside rein, but the huge beast had the bit and wasn’t listening.

  Lily slid closer to the rail leaving Manny no choice but to switch the whip to his left hand and give her a love tap, just a reminder to give him and his leg some space. She gave him a fuck you ear flip and forged after the leaders. The turns at Santa Anita were wide and sweeping. It made for room on the outside but not with four of them strung across the track, not a one looking like they’d run out of steam given the fast pace. Manny’s head clocked time like a metronome. No world record pace but they might be pushing a track record with this one.

  The bay ahead and on the inside had a tendency to bear out. If they were lucky, he’d make use of that as they emerged out of the turn. Antonio and the grey inched closer. A bubble of silence settled over Lily and her shadow, not even the thud of hooves off the cushioned track surface reverbed, the only audible the whoosh-whoosh as man and beast strained to suck air into tortured lungs.

  Manny knew the explosion would come soon. The grey would lunge, like something shot out of a cannon. If Antonio’s mount got that first stride in, he’d never get Lily into the next gear fast enough to catch them. He was running out of time. The distant thunder of the crowd loomed like a wall as they emerged off the turn, headed for the eighth pole, and still no room. If the bay was going to bear out, Manny needed it to happen now.

  Whether or not Antonio or his mount lost patience and decided to make their own luck, Manny would never know. He felt rather than saw the surge and had no choice but to go with them. He settled his hands low on Lily’s neck, letting her stretch, pumping with his arms for all he was worth.

  Almost too late the bay directly in front of them staggered and bore out, taking the other three toward the outside of the track and leaving a hole. A small hole. Just enough for Lily. Too small for her and the grey.

  The track loomed wide open as they emerged onto the straightaway. Manny saw Antonio lift the crop in his left hand, saw it swing in an arc, felt the wall of sound like a physical barrier crash against them. He knew—knew—it was already too late. His filly jerked left, rubbing the rail, bouncing off it, then off the grey, bumper cars at forty miles an hour, living flesh pummeling living flesh. The last thing he remembered was Lily floundering in entangled legs, the sickening crack of bone and the descent into hell.

  “Are you all right, Manny?” The nurse touched his arm with concern. “I can have some coffee brought up if you like.”

  Manny shook his head no. “Thanks Anita. I need to get to the inquiry. Call me if there’s any change.” He watched the woman walk down the sterile hallway, reluctant to move. He knew he had reason for concern even though the inquiry was standard procedure. He’d been through enough of them in his career. But this time he might not get off so easy.

  ****

  “Yo, Manny, wait up!”

  Manny turned to face his friend, Mike Flannigan, a reporter for Racing Times and one of his staunchest supporters. “Hey Mike,” he grimaced, knowing there would be no getting around the questions. Might as well get it over with. “Where do ya want to do this, Mike?”

  “Let’s go down the back stairs. My car’s in the lot on the other side of the building.”

  Manny waved his friend to follow him and headed to the exit doors at the end of the hall. They raced down the two flights knowing that at any moment the hordes of reporters and cameramen waiting like vultures in the front lobby would realize he was ducking out. Mike led the way to his battered Chrysler minivan and keyed the doors open.

  Manny raised his eyebrows at the ride. “Isn’t this Laura’s van?” Mike laughed and slid into the driver seat.

  “Yeah, and who’s gonna be looking for a Mom-mobile? They’ll be watching for my Audi, not this piece-a-shit.”

  Manny envied his friend. Mike liked his cars fast and his woman barefoot and pregnant, with three on the ground and one in the oven. It was what he’d wanted for his life before…

  “Where to, amigo?” Mike interrupted his thoughts. “Starbucks? Or you want to drive aways up the coast?”

  Manny considered his options. “Let’s just drive for a while. Do you mind?”

  “Nah, traffic’s okay. Weather’s fine. Road trip, it is.”

  They sat in companionable silence, Mike knowing him well enough not to press him until he was ready. For his part, Manny was willing to let Mike go wherever he wanted. His head still ached from the concussion. He’d gotten off easy, something that was hard to swallow given the circumstances. Losing track of time, he zoned in and out until an unexpected bump woke him from his stupor. Mike had pulled into a roadside café in the middle of nowhere. The lot was mostly empty. Apparently it was time for the talk.

  “I need a drink. How about you?” Any other time the answer would have been no, given the rigors of his diet and need to maintain weight. Instead he muttered, “Yeah,” and felt the burden lifting. He wasn’t there yet … but he was close.

  They settled in a dark corner. A blowsy waitress in a stained miniskirt and tank top brought them beers and burgers. Manny took a bite and chewed with disinterest. He’d long ago lost the taste for greasy red meat. Between bites he muttered, “Fuck, twenty years.”

  Mike perked up, his notebook and pen at the ready. “Been that long? You started when?”

  “When I was sixteen. Seems like yesterday, somehow.”

  Mike flipped through a few pages of his notebook and read it aloud. “Second generation Venezuelan-American. Your dad was, what,” he looked up at Manny, “a fifth-generation rancher in the Valley?”

  “Yeah. Guess I took after Mom and her side of the family. According to her I was born on a horse and raised in a barn.”

  Mike laughed, “Can I use that? It’ll make good copy.” He flipped a page and ticked off a laundry list of accomplishments. “You’ve been called one of the most celebrated jockeys of your generation. Lemme see here, if I count it right you’ve got a string of wins that would rival even Eddie Arcaro: Kentucky Derby, Belmont Stakes, the Florida Cup, Arkansas Derby, and an even dozen Breeders cups.” He looked at the jockey whose attention was on his beer glass, now empty. He went on, hoping something would trigger Manny into talking. “You’ve ridden horses for the sheikhs and for one-horse-wonder stables. Not a bad resume.”

  Tuning out Mike’s droning, Manny thought about his dad, a tall man, lean and hard as the landscape. He’d been quick with the palm of his hand but forgiving when his only boy never outgrew his Hispanic heritage. His dad had been the one to groom him for the track, finding patrons and driving him to all the local Mexican tracks. He’d waited in the battered old Ford truck while Manny’d catch ride up to eight horses in a day. His dad and the tracks made him tough and resilient. Dad was the one who insisted he keep his mother’s maiden name, figuring O’Malley didn’t have the cachet his son needed for the big time. God, he missed them both.

  “Manny?”

  “Uh, sorry Mike. Got lost in thought.”

  “So, are you ready to tell me?”

  “Actually, there’s not much to tell. You’ve seen the footage. It pretty much played out like it shows. We both went for the hole. My filly freaked at the noise when we rounded the turn. She bounced off the rail and into Antonio’s ride. Their legs got tangled up and we all went down. I don’t remember anything after that. Not until I woke up in the hospital.”

  Mike said, “Looked like Antonio was reaching back with his crop, right into your filly’s face.” Manny shrugged. “When you guys started bouncing off each other, looked to me like he was off balance.”

  Manny shut his eyes trying to recall the exact sequence. He’d been reliving the nightmare every night since the crash. “I think he hauled on her mouth, trying to get out of the way, but we were packed in tight, with the other four veering back in on us. We had no chance.”

  “Well, he managed to pull up some but the last slam did it. He went off head first and his horse did a somersault over top of him, nailing him in the head. I guess that took your filly down. She did a roll over him.” The reporter hesitated, knowing Manny’s brain was in slow motion, rerunning the footage over and over. “That was what crushed his spine.” He sat back and stared at his friend. “You were lucky. Concussion. Some bumps and bruises.”

  “Yeah, fucking lucky.”

  “They had to put both horses down.” He lit a cigarette, took a deep drag and exhaled slowly. “I heard the board exonerated you.” Again Manny just shrugged. “I also heard you wrote a check to the owner of the grey.” He raised his eyebrows waiting for an explanation.

  Manny stared stony-faced at the table. It was no one’s business what he did but he understood Mike’s need to pry. It gave him the human interest angle that made his reporting a cut above. And he knew if he didn’t give the man something, he’d go ahead, ferret out the details and fill in the blanks anyway.

  “The grey’s owners are a bunch of Vietnam Vets who invested a bit of cash to follow a dream. They hired a down-on-his-luck trainer for a cut of the winnings. They’d done a hell of a job with that horse, on the cheap. That meant no insurance. It was the least I could do.”

  “I also heard…” Manny stood up abruptly, cutting off any further questions, his face a mask. “Okaaaay. Guess we’re done here.”

  Manny threw some bills on the table and stomped out, leaving his friend to ponder whether or not the rumors were true. The board may have cleared his name but, as these things went, questions would remain. He wouldn’t be surprised to hear that Windemere Farms had fired his friend. He had a suspicion it wouldn’t matter in the long run. He followed Manny into the hot California sun.

  Chapter Three: Homecoming

  A sharp rap on the screen door startled Susan from her reverie. She’d finished unpacking her few belongings, and had begun setting her small bedroom to rights. She’d left it in a shambles the night she’d decided to head back home to New Hampshire.

  “Susan. Maggy? Anybody home?”

  She yelled down the stairwell, “Come on in, Lotte. I was just unpacking.” The wooden door opened and closed with a bang. She could hear her friend moving about the cluttered living area. The woman was a bundle of nervous energy, unlike her husband, Jacob, who tended to the laconic side.

  “Hey, Lotte. Maggy is working today over at the new office. She said she wouldn’t be back until later tonight. I’m going to feed in her place, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Ja, ist gut.” Lotte frequently lapsed into her native German around ‘her girls’, especially Beth who was fluent in the language. Lotte forgot the rest of them were not so inclined. She sat on the old sofa and plopped booted feet on the scarred maple coffee table. Susan took the rocking chair across from a clearly agitated woman and prepared herself for the coming interrogation.

  “So.”

  Susan waited while Lotte nibbled at a fingernail. It didn’t take long.

  “Did it snow?” Ah, weather report first. That meant she didn’t have all the information and was on a fishing expedition. Susan merely nodded. Baiting Lotte was one of their favorite spectator sports, something Jacob seemed to enjoy as much as the rest of them.

  “And your mother?”

  “Fine.” Susan nearly wriggled with delight as Lotte’s face, open to her every fleeting emotion, lapsed into distress and frustration. And frustrated she should be. She was the one who had introduced her to the cheating jerk, Alan.

  “Um. About the thing…” Susan raised an eyebrow, yielding no quarter. “For this I am sorry.” A slow tear trickled down Lotte’s weathered cheek, as unexpected as it was touching. Lotte was the perpetual matchmaker, forever hooking her girls up with one suitor or another, usually successfully and almost always with a man, if not a horseman himself, at least tolerant of the obsession.

  Susan moved to the couch and wrapped her arms about the tall woman. “I’m sorry. No, please don’t cry. You couldn’t possibly know he’d do that.”

  “Jacob had such a … what do you call it? Hissy fit? He is always the one to tell me not to interfere. But I only want for each of you to have what we do. It is not good to go through life alone.”

  That was something Susan could appreciate. No two people could be more in love, even after twenty years, than she and Jacob. Susan had honestly thought Alan would be the one to fulfill that dream.

  Lotte brushed away the tears and sat up straight. Susan thought, uh-oh, there’s more.

  “I have something else to discuss.” Susan cringed and waited, fully expecting Lotte to request that she leave, seeing how she no longer had a job and no way to make the minimal rent the Bauer’s charged their four adult working students. “You have the problem. This is something I understand.”

  “Problem.”

  “Hmm, this not having a job. It is a worry. For you, for all of us.” She paused to collect her thoughts as Susan’s stomach clenched. If she had to leave, she’d never be able to find another situation like this. She’d have to go back home, maybe never ride again. The tears welled, threatening to spill at any minute.

  Susan mumbled, “I understand,” and pulled away. She was barely unpacked. It would take almost no time to clear her things out and get back on the road.

  Lotte stared at her, confused, then the light bulb went off. “Nein! This is not for you to leave, Susan. Please, sit. This is a good thing.”

  Susan sat on the edge of the couch wondering what ‘a good thing’ might be. Lotte’s next words hit like a winning lottery ticket.

  “We have a job. Nein. That is wrong. We have two jobs for you!”

  “Two? Lotte, I don’t understand.”

  “Our Beth gets married in two weeks. Then she and David go off to Florida. This you know?” Susan shook her head vigorously, suspecting she knew where this was going. “So. Our Maggy has full time work and cannot always be here. My Jacob has his dressage students. I have the hunter-jumpers. We have three new students who have eventing horses and no instructor. Until now!”

  “Oh, Lotte, really?”

  “Ah, but that is not all.” Susan could barely contain her excitement. Three students of her very own, a place to stay, a chance to ride. She could get back on her feet, find another horse, maybe even compete. Lotte’s hand on her shoulder shook her out of her flight of fancy. “Roberta and Beth need someone to ride that thoroughbred mare.”