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.
The Tryout
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.
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.