Grade 7 Star Writers Winner
Taylor McGowan '18
“And they’re in the gates! They’re…”
My footsteps thudded softly on the cobblestones. Sunlight washed the world in soft gold; I squinted under the brim of my baseball cap, drinking in the details of my surroundings. To my right, a pristine white rail stretched into the morning mist, separating the ornate stone walkway from the glistening turf beyond; to my left, a sparkling silver grandstand stretched toward the clouds, silhouetted against a brilliant blue sky. A cheer rose from the crowd, crescendoed until the sound resonated in the pit of my stomach, and faded into suspenseful silence.
I scrambled past the late arrivals, hurrying down the path. The racetrack remained still and eerily quiet. Eager faces, shadowed under wide-brimmed hats, watched the gate, anticipation sparking in a thousand pairs of eyes. I heard grass tear as a lone hoof pawed at the ground.
Almost there.
I held my breath. The tap-tap of my pint-sized boots hitting the cobbles was the only sound. The home turn loomed just ahead, the curve emerging as I delved further into the fog.
“And they’re off!”
My tiny fingers latched onto the rail as a bell trilled, breaking the tension like a coiled spring being released. A tremendous sound like thunder rolled over the track as exactly forty-eight hooves struck the turf in tandem – twelve horses leaping into a gallop from a dead standstill, white-rimmed eyes flashing, clods of dirt flying off their heels. I cheered until my lungs reminded me I needed oxygen. My eyes combed the pack. A chestnut gelding led the field – his coat a warm, rusty red, a white stripe peeking from under his dark green blinkers. At his tail ran two bays and a black, their coats glossy in the sunlight. Over the roar of frenzied hoofbeats, the announcer shouted commentary to the crowd. My ears caught only snippets of his words. The chestnut at the front was Fever Pitch; the black was Midnight Hour. Beyond that, I couldn’t be certain.
Then a strong, familiar arm wrapped my shoulders. “Grandpa!” I squeaked, surprised by thrilled by his arrival.
He smiled down at me. His thinning silver hair was combed back over his scalp, his teeth faintly yellowed by coffee, a thick moustache bristling above his upper lip. A worn porkpie hat perched crookedly on his head. “Hey, there, sweetheart,” he said warmly, ruffling my hair. “Sorry it took me so long.” He winked one dark brown eye. “Takes a few minutes to place a bet.”
“A bet!” I cried. My eyes continued to the track the horses as they galloped around the clubhouse turn, but my attention switched to my grandfather. My six-year-old mind couldn’t handle more than one subject at once. “It’s been forever since you’ve bet, Grandpa.”
He smiled, patting my shoulder. “This filly’s special, Amber,” he told me. He laughed heartily. “She’s a spunky little girl, like you, with that same pretty golden hair.” He lowered his voice, like he was telling me a secret. “Her name’s Little Feather, and she’s going to win.”
“What’re her odds?” I asked. Hushed. Excited.
He gave me a knowing smile, wiggling his bushy white brows. “Odds have never mattered much to me, Amy-bear.”
Eagerly, I raised my hands to my face, cupping them into binoculars and watching the pack as it rearranged itself. “Which one is…”
And then I saw her.
At the very back of the pack, trailing behind the eleventh runner, ran a small-statured filly, her coat a smooth, honey chestnut, her teacup hooves cream-colored under high white socks. She had the delicate, dished face of an Arabian, a small muzzle that would’ve fit in my palm, and a blaze streaking straight between her eyes. She ran with her head up, nostrils flaring pink as she resisted her jockey’s hold on the reins.
Her silky flaxen mane and tail whipped free to the wind, warm and shining in the sunlight.
My breath caught in my throat. A spunky little girl with pretty golden hair.
“There!” I cried with delight, clinging to the rail. “There she is! The one at the back!”
“Oh, that’s her!” he chortled.
“But she’s losing,” I cried suddenly, realizing the horses were surging into the home stretch. The black gelding, Midnight Hour, was at the front of the pack, snorting, white foam flecking his chest. Sweat slicked his coal-black coat.
Then, towards the back, a flicker of gold.
“There’s Little Feather at the back!” the announcer’s voice boomed, and the crowd jumped to their feet, straining to see. “She’s moving up, she’s…”
“Go, Little Feather!” I squealed, climbing to the top of the rail and clapping. “Come on, girl, go!”
Grandpa shouted and yelled beside me. His porkpie hat was on the verge of falling off, and his eyes glittered. “Go on, girl! Bring it home!”
I watched in awe as the filly bounded forward, passing the lagging Fever Pitch and moving up the center of the track, like sunlight made flesh and blood. Only then did I see the look of terror on her jockey’s face – the reins flopped loosely on her neck, her rider’s hands flailing to regain them. The little mare wore a mask of pure determination as she stretched out her head like she’d been fighting to the entire time, lengthening her stride and accelerating at an impossible rate. Her tail billowed like a gilded flag in the breeze.
Suddenly, only Midnight Hour remained in her way.
The announcer’s voice continued, barreling on like a verbal freight train. “Impossible! Unbelievable! Fifty-to-one!”
Midnight Hour’s jockey’s head swiveled back in disbelief as the golden-haired filly advanced on the sleek, muscular gelding, her breaths puffing mist into the brisk morning air. She didn’t seem to notice that her jockey’s hands were tangled in her mane in a desperate death grip, or that she was getting zero guidance from the reins. The filly – though her dainty ears would’ve barely brushed the gelding’s chin – charged forward until she drew alongside the favorite. Side by side the two horses hurtled for the wire. Then, as if she’d been waiting for her moment all along, the filly darted forward, and, swishing her tail cheerfully in Midnight Hour’s seemingly-awestruck face, stretched her neck out and leaped past the finish.
I didn’t even realize I was screaming until my vocal cords started the ache, the din around me turning to white noise in my ears. Grandpa trawled me through the crowd by the hand as he dashed to cash his bet. All around us, the crowd swelled forward, cheering, clapping, gossiping, their voices blending into the cacophony of shouts, the click of camera shutters, the sound of pounding footsteps, and the announcer’s rich, baritone voice as he released the final results. People swarmed through the doors leading back into the main building and Grandpa just followed the flow of the tide.
It was all a blur as we waited in line at the betting windows, Grandpa crowing to anyone within earshot about how he’d pegged the little filly as a winner right from the start. “It’s always the little girls,” he told them. “Always the little golden-haired girls.” Then he’d toss me a smile, and muss my own hair – wavy and shoulder-length, a perfect match to Little Feather’s straw-colored mane and tail. They’d murmur congratulations, shaking their heads in utter disbelief as their own not-nearly-as-successful bets were paid out.
Grandpa finally stepped up the counter, sliding his ticket to the bookie with a sly grin on his face. “Congratulations, sir,” the woman said, nodding politely as a smile played with her lips. “Your gamble paid off, I see.”
“Can you remember a time when it didn’t?” he asked, laughing as he waited for the cash.
“You don’t come here often, so I’m not sure I can.” She slid a single bill under the window, winking at him. “I’ve been trying to get rid of this all day, but nobody’s been quite as lucky as you. Use it well.”
I stared as Grandpa gently lifted the crisp one-hundred-dollar bill, sighing in appreciation, and tucked it into his pocket. “Thank you!” he called, leading me away. “And I will!”
Grandpa grasped my hand as we skipped toward the parking lot. “What are you going to spend it on, Grandpa?” I asked, anxious to hear his plan.
“What I always do with my winnings, Amy-bear.” Another wink. “Spend it on another…”
“’Spunky, little, golden-haired girl,’” we chorused.
“That’s right,” he said. “It’s always the same.”
I knew where he’d put it. He’d drop it in the little glass jar he kept on his nightstand, labeled “For The Ponies,” and keep it there until he found another little golden-haired girl to spend it on.
“Wonder when you’ll find the next one,” I mused.
“I don’t know, sweetheart,” he admitted. “I really don’t know.”
Beep.
I tilted my head at Grandpa. “What’s that noise?”
Beep. Beep.
But it was like he couldn’t hear me.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Suddenly, darkness slammed over my vision like a falling curtain, and a feeling of vertigo engulfed me as I spiraled away from my racetrack and my grandfather and into deep shadow. My world spun like an amusement park ride. Then it came to an abrupt halt and my eyes snapped open.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Sighing, I slapped the snooze button on my alarm clock, rolling back over and burying my face in the pillow. 6:45. Sunlight streamed through the slatted blinds. I groaned and hoisted myself into a sitting position and rubbed the sleepiness from my eyes. The same dream. “A spunky, little, golden-haired girl,” I muttered, touching my bare feet to the floor and numbly starting my morning routine. Brush my teeth. Comb my hair; tie it back. Wash my face. Get dressed in old jeans, a t-shirt, and worn, dirt-caked boots molded to my feet. Make the bed.
I fell back onto the mattress, air whooshing between my teeth. The clock’s luminous green digits informed me that it was now 6:57.
Sunlight flashed off something reflective.
My eyes, refocusing, homed in on a glass jar sitting on the nightstand. A strip of masking tape wrapped around its center, words scrawled onto it with thick black sharpie. I didn’t need to read them again to know what they said. “For The Ponies.”
“’All the pretty little ponies,’” I sang softly, remembering the lullaby Grandpa had always used to lull me to sleep when I was little. I lifted the jar, rolling it over in my palm. At the bottom was a single bill – a crisp, unscathed hundred-dollar, its green dulled by the layers of dust it had collected over the course of seven years. A year after Little Feather won my grandfather that money, he’d succumbed to a heart attack while at the racetrack. He was buried next to his wife with a photo of his old gelding, Pete, and a petunia he’d salvaged from Little Feather’s champion’s bouquet and preserved. With his porkpie hat on his head, of course.
He’d never found another golden-haired girl to spend that hundred on.
After his death, my custody was passed to Opal Dupree, a racehorse owner. When I was twelve, I picked up a sort-of job at the track stables as a groom; my late father’s assistant was the barn manager there, and he paid me per horse under the table – quite generously, I might add, considering he’d be out of a job without the training Daddy gave him. I brushed horses, hayed, watered, dished out grain, tacked up racers and swept aisles. We didn’t really need the money – Opal came from a wealthy, supportive family, and we lived comfortably – but I did it, because it reminded me of Grandpa. The man who raised me. Who loved spunky little girls with pretty golden hair. Who never listened to the odds. Who loved a good underdog and would bet his life savings on a horse if his intuition told him to.
I blinked away the threat of tears and set and set the little jar back on the nightstand. I miss you, Grandpa. Every day.
I hastily got up, grabbed my coat, and pulled it on, zippering the soft blue fleece to my chin. I started for the door. Stopped.
Take it or leave it?
Sometimes, on a hunch, I’d bring the hundred dollars with me, hoping to a find another golden-haired girl to bet on and honor his memory.
Shaking my head, I tucked the jar into my pocket. The clock read 7:00 am.
Time to go.
~~
Fifteen minutes later, my bike jolted to a stop in the gravel lot behind the stables, handbrake screeching. I chained it to a tie ring and jogged through the barn doors.
Almost instantly, I relaxed. The smoky air of the outside was replaced by the sweet, warm atmosphere you could only find around horses, thick with the aromas of tangy grain and hay and that unmistakable equine scent that made even the worst days better. The barn glowed softly in the shafts of natural light pouring in from the windows and doors; strong, familiar silhouettes stood in every stall, either drowsing in the corners, munching at flakes of hay, or hanging their heads over the doors, eager eyes searching for attention. Some of the handsome faces were familiar; others weren’t. But they all inspired the same feeling – a certain completeness, like a missing piece of my heart had been returned to its proper place.
“Hey, boy,” I murmured, stroking the sleepy face of a lanky dapple-gray stallion. He leaned into my touch, blowing a long, contented breath into my palm. “Tired, huh?”
The horse’s thick silver lashes fluttered as he closed his eyes. I laughed. “Me, too,” I admitted, scratching his forehead. “I’ll bring you a carrot later, how does that sound?”
His ears flew forward at the mention of his favorite snack.
“Good, huh? I’ll be back.” With one final pat to his muscular gray neck, I hurried down the aisle for my list of assignments.
“Amber!”
I power-walked down to the opposite end of the barn, wary of spooking the horses but not wanting to be late. I skidded to a halt in front of my employer.
“Morning, Mr. Hudson,” I recited, grinning as I saluted the man leaning against a stall door. His dark hair was laced with silver and his thick brows were set low over pale green eyes, his skin tanned and leathery from hours spent in the sun. His large, calloused hands were lathering a bridle with saddle soap, cleaning all the little nooks and crevices with surprising finesse – fingers darting over, under, and between the straps, polishing buckles, working the suds deep into the leather until it carried a soft sheen in the sunlight. Soap was caked under his fingernails.
“Morning, Amber.” He backhanded sweat from his forehead, grabbing a towel from a bridle hook and wiping the leftover foam from his hands. He reached for a clipboard and tossed it to me.
“Silver Hawk,” I read from the sheet of paper, “Tempest, Sweet Surrender, Fugitive…” I scanned the rest of the list, recognizing each name. Tempest was the gray stallion I’d promised a carrot; Silver Hawk was stabled next door, with the mares Sweet Surrender and Fugitive kept just across the aisle. “Spectacular Escape…” Spectacular Escape, or ‘Houdini,’ as he’d been appropriately nicknamed, was a black gelding at the very end of the aisle. He was a mellow, laid-back horse with a sweet disposition and a taste for Granny Smith apples. “And…” I squinted at the page. “Vendetta?” I looked up at Mr. Hudson, who was tying the bridle he’d just cleaned into a neat figure eight. “Is he new?”
“She,” he corrected me, stepping into the tack room and hanging up the bridle. “It’s a mare, and yes, she’s new. She’s down…”
Suddenly, a bellow sounded from the other end of the barn. Mr. Hudson and I dashed out in time to see David, the groom responsible for stall-mucking, land flat on his back in the dust. “…there,” Hudson finished lamely, watching as the groom got up and clutched his left thigh. When he released it we could see a perfect hoofprint pockmarking the denim of his jeans. He spun in a circle, kicking the wheelbarrow and spitting curses.
Inside the stall, a shrill, panicked whinny shook the walls. Splinters went flying as its occupant lashed out with her heels. I caught a flash of wild, white-rimmed eyes before the mare threw her head back down for another assault on her prison, bashing two neat, hoof-shaped holes in the wood.
I turned back to Hudson, staring. “She’s a little… crazy,” I said weakly.
He chewed his lip. “Little bit.” At my incredulous expression, his voice took on a note of pleading. “But I’m in a bit of a fix, here, Amy. Obviously she doesn’t like David much, and no one else is willing to so much as pass her stall. She’s running in the Lakewood Stakes at noon and she can’t tack herself.” He looked at me imploringly. “Please? I need your help, here.”
Another kick reverberated through the building, spraying more shards of wood into the neighboring stalls. The mare slammed back to earth and whirled around – flanks heaving, her nostrils dripping and flaring pink, her coat glossy with sweat. Her entire body shook.
I sighed. “I’ll do it,” I muttered. “I’ll take care of it.”
“That’s my girl.” He mussed my hair, and I thought ruefully of my grandfather. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“No worries.” Except for that if I get kicked, it’s not likely I’ll be around for you to “make it up to me.”
Working on autopilot, I started at the top of the list and worked my way down. Silver Hawk; Tempest, who looked a little miffed about my empty pockets; Sweet Surrender; Fugitive. Spectacular Escape had been turned out that morning, so it took a little extra time to brush the thick coating of mud from his shoulders, legs, and haunches. I’d thinned his unruly, coal-black mane and brushed out his tail; I’d even trimmed his forelock, polished his hooves, and wiped his face and around his eyes with a damp cloth. But at 11:45 – standing in front of a tied Spectacular Escape, who had been half-asleep throughout the royal treatment – I couldn’t deny either of two things. One – that the horse in front of me was completely, utterly clean, and that there was not a hair or speck of dust out of place that I could waste time fixing. Two – like Hudson said, Vendetta wasn’t going to tack herself, and she raced in fifteen minutes. It was time to face the task I’ve been putting off for nearly half an hour.
Handing Spectacular Escape off to his trainer, I gathered my grooming box and set it in front of Vendetta’s stall. Inside, the filly spun and kicked, rattling the door like an earthquake; all I could see was her hindquarters as she threw them into the air, her heels tearing at the walls.
I didn’t know what else to do, so I started like I always did – with a greeting.
“Vendetta,” I called softly, drawing out the syllables. Inside, the mare momentarily stopped thrashing, trembling from head to toe. “Hey, there, Vendetta…” I reached for the latch. “That’s a good girl… That’s a nice, good, calm, gentle girl…”
I slipped inside. Closed the door behind me. “Nice girl, Vendetta, nice, sweet girl…”
The mare squealed, lunging for me with bared teeth. Unsuccessfully trying to stifle a scream, I flung myself back, landing hard on the floor of the stall. Black spots peppered my vision as every ounce of air was knocked from my lungs.
My chest ached, my heart pounding against my ribcage. The mare stood between me and the door, barring my escape; crawling left would trap me in the farthest corner of the stall, a place I didn’t want to be. Wheezing for air, I pressed myself against the wall.
Vendetta stared down at me.
For the first time, I saw the filly in her entirety.
Her face was gorgeously feminine, with a soft, yet strong jaw, delicately chiseled head, and a small muzzle studded with tiny white whiskers. Her dark eyes were bright and round, with curly cinnamon eyelashes; her petite ears flickered in confusion, uncertain whether they should pin flat against her head in agitation or point forward in curiosity. Her cream-colored forelock was neatly parted, revealing the small white diamond in the center of her forehead – a stark contrast to the rest of her body, which shimmered a soft, honey gold.
“Whoa,” I said gently, urging the mare to stay where she was. I slowly, painfully, got to my feet.
Immediately, she reared back, eyes glinting. I plastered myself to the wall as she slammed back to earth, snorting and prancing. “Whoa,” I said, more firmly. “It’s okay, girl. I’m not going to hurt you.”
She watched me with the cold, suspicious eyes of a prey animal as I reached for one of my brushes, slowly bringing it into her view. She sniffed cautiously at the bristles. “That’s a good girl,” I whispered as I nervously touched it to her neck. She backed skittishly but didn’t run. “Good girl…” I swept the brush in a long, slow, soothing stroke.
I remembered how Grandpa used to get me to relax when I was scared – whether it was because of a thunderstorm, a horse at the racetrack, or even just the dark. “Hush a bye,” I sang quietly, the words returning to me as I continued, “Don’t you cry… Go to sleep, my little baby…” I brushed to the lazy rhythm of the lullaby as I sang. Vendetta shivered, exhaling heavily. “When you wake, you shall have… All, the pretty little ponies…”
Subconsciously, I realized the mare’s muscles were relaxing beneath my hands, her head lowering toward the ground, the tension loosening in her braced legs. I kept my voice soft and even as I moved to her other side, flicking the brush over her hindquarters. “In your bed, Mama said, ‘Baby’s riding off to dreamland…’ One by one, they’ve begun, dance and prance for little baby…” Vendetta sighed, blinking slowly. “Blacks and bays, dapples and grays, running in the night…” I put away the stiff brush and reached for a comb. The mare’s ears swiveled forward but she remained still. “When you wake, you shall have, all the pretty little ponies…” I combed through the locks of her mane and forelock, switching to her tail once the hairs lay flat and smooth. “Can you see the little ponies, dance before your eyes… All, the pretty little ponies, will be there when you arise…”
I lapsed into quiet humming as I put away the comb. I scraped the dirt and gravel from her hooves, painted them with a thin coat of clear polish, and lay the saddle pad across her spine. I eased the saddle onto her back and tightened the girl. “All the pretty little ponies,” I murmured as I held the bit in my palm, letting her take it of her own accord. I tucked the crownpiece over her ears and fastened the buckles of the bridle. “All, the pretty little ponies…” I walked her into the aisle, where Hudson waited with her trainer.
“All, the pretty little ponies,” I whispered, one last time, into the ear she pointed in my direction. I handed my employer her reins.
“Thank you, Amber,” Hudson said gratefully, patting my shoulder. “I knew you could do it.”
“Mm, hm,” I muttered.
“You should come see her run, you know. I think we can survive without you for fifteen minutes.”
My head snapped up in surprise. “Really?”
“Really.” He winked, holding out a hand for my grooming box. “Go on.”
I thanked him hurriedly, jogging past Vendetta and her trainer. But I wasn’t headed for the grandstand.
There’s was something else I had to do first.
~~
I drew my baseball cap as low as it could go on my forehead as I stepped up to the betting window, my fingers latched tightly around the hundred-dollar bill in my palm. A spunky little girl with pretty golden hair. “One hundred dollars on Vendetta, in the sixth race,” I said to the bookie, deepening my voice so much that I coughed.
The woman behind the window stared at me. “You sure you’re old enough to be here, sweetheart?”
My stomach lurched. “I…”
She interrupted, gazing at the hundred dollars resting on the counter. “You’re William Grey’s granddaughter? And that’s the money he won on Little Feather seven years ago?”
I nodded mutely.
She took the bill, put into the register, and passed me my ticket. She winked behind a pair of red wire-rimmed glasses. “If anyone asks, you didn’t get that from me.”
Unable to stop a smile, I thanked the bookie as lavishly as I could, finally remembering her from the day of Little Feather’s winning race. Then the trilling, brassy notes of a bugle made me jump. “I’ve got to go!” I cried, running for the doors. “I’m going to miss her!”
“Be careful!”
I broke out into mid-morning sunlight.
“And they’re in the gates! They’re…”
My footsteps thudded softly on the cobblestones. Sunlight washed the world in soft gold; I squinted under the brim of my baseball cap, drinking in the details of my surroundings. To my right, a pristine white rail stretched into the morning mist, separating the ornate stone walkway from the glistening turf beyond; to my left, a sparkling silver grandstand stretched toward the clouds, silhouetted against a brilliant blue sky. A cheer rose from the crowd, crescendoed until the sound resonated in the pit of my stomach, and faded into suspenseful silence.
I scrambled past the late arrivals, hurrying down the path. The racetrack remained still and eerily quiet. Eager faces, shadowed under wide-brimmed hats, watched the gate, anticipation sparking in a thousand pairs of eyes. I heard grass tear as a lone hoof pawed at the ground.
Almost there.
I held my breath. The tap-tap of my boots hitting the cobbles was the only sound. The home turn loomed just ahead, the curve emerging as I delved further into the fog.
“And they’re off!”
I gripped the rail as a bell shrilled into the silence, the gates opening in one earsplitting, metallic bang. Ten horses bolted forward onto the close-packed dirt track.
A cheer swelled from the crowd as a red chestnut glided forward for an easy lead, tailed by a gray mare and a darker brown gelding. The trio galloped into the first turn.
The similarity to that one magical day was disorienting. The mist, the sunshine, the crowd, the horses. It was all the same – except Grandpa wasn’t going to sneak up behind me, ruffle my hair, and point out his spunky little girl. This time, I knew who the golden-haired girl was – and the bet ticket was in my pocket.
“Come on, Vendetta,” I muttered. “You’ve got this.”
I’d caught a fleeting glimpse of the filly’s odds. I wasn’t exactly comforted.
“It’s Crimson Glory at the front, followed by Silver Hawk and Velvet Touch! Behind them is Gathering Storm... With Dawn Rising and the debuting Vendetta trailing at the back!” the announcer declared, assessing the pack. At the front, Silver Hawk challenged Crimson Glory for the lead. The latter started to drop back and was eventually swallowed by the close-packed mob.
And at the rear, Vendetta ran at her own leisurely pace, ignoring the smack of her jockey’s crop hitting her flank. Her eyes were bright and her white socks glistened in the sun.
“She’s never going to win if she runs like that the whole time,” I whispered. “At least Little Feather was making an effort.”
“They’re into the second turn, and it’s Silver Hawk by a length, with Velvet Touch just behind! Vendetta is falling behind Dawn Rising! Crimson Glory is starting to fade…”
The ten horses hurtled into the backstretch. Vendetta remained at the back, breathing in a cloud of her competitor’s dust. Her coat, mane, and tail gleamed gold. The jockey had momentarily stopped cropping the mare and she seemed to lose even more ground as they galloped into the next turn. Near the front, the dark chestnut Velvet Touch was making his move, nosing ahead of Silver Hawk. Crimson Glory was sinking back towards Vendetta.
“Vendetta has not yet made her move! Is the race already over for this gorgeous little filly?”
The ticket turned to lead in my pocket. I wasted Grandpa’s money.
Smack!
The sound of a whip made me look up – just in time to see Vendetta fling her hindquarters skyward in a tremendous buck, her jockey’s mouth open in a soundless scream of terror. The filly bounded forward like she’d been shocked. Lean muscle rippled under her satiny coat, her legs pumping, her stride lengthening and becoming more fluid.
She didn’t advance – it was like the rest of the pack fell back to meet the filly, making way for her as she floated through like a bird preparing to take flight. Her eyes danced with a sudden excitement, energy flowing through her body. She was a magnet – compelling, alluring, captivating her audience like she’d been born to do so. Her coat glowed like liquid gold.
“Go!” I’d never shouted like I did then. I clambered up to the top of the rail like I was a little kid again, feeling the breeze as the pack galloped past. Vendetta flew up the middle of the track like she’d sprouted wings. She ran neck and neck with Velvet Touch, two sets of legs – one golden, one chocolate – moving in perfect sync. The crowd rose to their feet as one, roaring as the pair thundered toward home. The announcer’s words blurred together in his frenzied attempt to describe the incredible showdown on the home stretch.
They were three furlongs away.
Two furlongs.
One furlong.
I squeezed my eyes shut and yelled Vendetta’s name.
Silence.
Dead silence.
Then, “Please wait as the stewards assess the photo finish.”
I sucked in a breath, feeling my pocket for the bet ticket. Minutes ticked by. The crowd stirred restlessly, anxious murmurs buzzing through the grandstand.
I crossed my fingers. And hoped.
“Please turn your attention to the results screen.”
Thousand pairs of eyes swiveled to the enormous board in the middle of the track. Starting at tenth, neon orange lettering scrolled toward the top. Crimson Glory. Gathering Storm. Dawn Rising. Silver Hawk. More names I hadn’t recognized.
There was a pause at the second place slot.
V.
Tick, Tick. Tick, Tick.
V-e.
Tick, Tick. Tick, Tick.
Velvet Touch.
I leaped straight up into the air, screaming for joy. “Vendetta” materialized in the number one slot and the crowd went wild, the shock evident on every onlooker’s face. People raced to the winner’s circle as the golden filly trotted into its center. Her jockey’s face was pale under the dirt caked on it, but he gave the flashing cameras a brave, though shaky smile. I found myself gravitating toward the area.
Five minutes later, I stood on the outer rim, just behind the reporters, photographers, and interviewers waiting for a comment.
“Amber!”
I heard a familiar voice.
“Amber, come over here!”
Hudson. I saw my employer waving from beside Vendetta and her trainer, a grin plastered to his sunburnt face. “Get in here for a photo, kiddo!”
Before I knew it, I was being pushed through the crowd, and I stumbled to a stop beside Hudson. “What…”
Hudson laid an arm across my shoulder in a fatherly embrace. “Smile for the cameras! You’re the groom, Amy – she wouldn’t have gotten out here without you.” He winked. “At least, I hope not.”
Still in a daze, I grinned at the many lenses focused on my face. Vendetta nudged past her owner, trainer, and Mr. Hudson to nuzzle my cheek, and I turned, wrapping my arms around her long, graceful neck. I planted a kiss on her nose and smiled as the cameras clicked and flashed. “Thanks, girl,” I whispered in her ear. “For everything.
~~
The evening air was refreshingly brisk as I walked through the wooded meadow, my footsteps whispering through the grass. Birds chirped softly overhead; the field was bathed in faint orange light as the sun gradually sank behind the horizon, painting the sky with strokes of yellow, scarlet, and fuchsia. Crickets started to serenade the emerging stars.
I knelt in front of a granite headstone. Seven years had carpeted in the ground around it in lush green foliage, white and pink clover flowers peeking into view. I read the words inscribed in the glittering stone. William Grey. 1954 – 2006. Loved by all, forgotten by none. The outline of a galloping horse was carved beneath.
I smiled through tears, laying a small, delicate yellow flower on the grass – a begonia from Vendetta’s victory bouquet, one of four I’d collected. Two rested on other graves in the cemetery – those belonging to Timothy and Amanda Grey, who died in 2001 and 2002, respectively. My parents. The last was at home, being pressed for preservation.
“Hey, Grandpa,” I said softly, folding my hands in my lap. The sound of crickets faded slightly, perhaps confused by my interruption. “It’s been a long time since we’ve talked, so I figured it wasn’t a bad idea.” I smiled at my ramblings. “I spent Little Feather’s hundred today.” I hesitated. “Her name was Vendetta, and she was a spunky, little, golden-haired girl, just like you would’ve wanted. She was beautiful and wild and… and she won, Grandpa. She won.” My victory money was back at home, in the jar. I hadn’t gotten up the courage to count it yet. “She won and I was so, so proud. Of her. Of me. I just couldn’t believe it. I never imagined I’d find another Little Feather.”
A sweet breeze wreathed through the cemetery, rustling the branches of the magnolia tree overhead. A few dusky pink blossoms fell around me. “Opal bought Vendetta, you know. After the race. She thinks she could go on to win some really big races. She wants to try for the Derby someday. I think she could do it. I really do. And…” a tear slid down my cheek, and I didn’t bother to wipe it away. “…and I just wish you could be here to see it. You would love her, Grandpa, just like I do. I think she and I are a lot alike.
The last ray of sunlight started to dissipate, a thin veil of darkness starting to fall across the field. “I should probably go now,” I said quietly, getting to my feet. “I just wanted to say hi. I think I’ll be back soon. I promise I will be. I’ll tell you what happens, and maybe… maybe I’ll have even bigger news next time. I think so. I hope.” I sighed, putting my hands in my pockets. “I love you. I’ll tell you what happens with our spunky little golden-haired girl.”
I meandered away, humming under my breath as I headed home.
Hush a bye, don’t you cry, go to sleep, my little baby… When you wake, you shall have… All, the pretty little ponies…