I nearly laugh. I hardly know you—don’t know you at all, really—but my early impression is that you’re a man who would dare almost anything. “It was to do with Teddy,” I say quietly. “With me agreeing to marry him.”
“I see. Your father thought if he gave in about the horses, you’d see the merits of the life you’d have as Teddy’s wife and be more likely to accept his proposal.”
“Something like that.”
“So . . . a bribe.”
“It’s the way he works. He buys what he wants.” And crushes what he doesn’t, I think but don’t say. I’ve already said more than I should. “Let’s meet the horses.”
I’m grateful when you fall in beside me, leaving whatever it is you’re thinking unsaid. With any luck, you’ll be too distracted by the horses to return to the subject. Talking about my father to you feels wrong. Not because anything I might say would be untrue but because I’ve been raised to keep family matters within the family. It’s a code my father has drilled into all of us, to my mother and my sister and me. Loyalty to the family and obedience to its head—to him. I’ve seen what happens when someone betrays the code.
“How many horses do you keep here?” you ask, forcing me back to the moment.
“There are six stalls but only four horses at the moment.” I point to the first two stalls on the left. “These two are companion horses. Strictly for riding.”
Two sets of curious eyes peer back at us, the first belonging to a smooth-riding roan named Bonnie Girl, the second to a stout black gelding my sister named Nipper because of his tendency to bite when he was young. He never bit me. But then, Cee-Cee has never been an animal person—or a people person, for that matter.
Bonnie Girl whickers as we approach, nostrils flared, ears flicked to attention. She smells freedom, can taste it, and I’m sad that I can’t oblige her. She whickers again and nuzzles my palm. I turn my face to hers, dropping a kiss on the velvety red muzzle, wishing I’d thought to at least bring them a treat.
“Sorry, girl.” She nudges my cheek as if to absolve me of my neglect. I pat her affectionately and bestow another kiss.
“She’s fond of you.”
“We’ve been together a long time. My parents bought them when I outgrew my pony. One for me and one for my sister.”
“Which was which?”
I open my mouth to say something I shouldn’t, then catch myself and shrug instead. “Cee-Cee wasn’t really a horse person, so I ended up with them both. They’re getting up in age now, but they still ride well.”
“Are these the horses we were supposed to ride today?”
I nod, reaching over to stroke Nipper’s forelock. “I hate that we can’t take them out. I don’t come as much as I used to. I think they would have enjoyed a day out.”
You smile and give Nipper’s neck a pat. “I think I would have enjoyed it too.”
Nipper whinnies and shakes off the touch but immediately leans in for another. Wary but hungry for connection, needing to be touched, to be seen. I look at him in his box, obedient, expectant, hoping I’ll reach for the stall latch and lead him out, and I suddenly feel a wave of sadness.
“Poor thing,” I say softly. “It’s no fun being penned in all the time, is it? Waiting for someone to turn you loose?”
You drop your hand and turn, saying nothing for a moment. I pretend not to notice you studying me, but the weight of your gaze makes the back of my neck tingle. What? I long to shout. What is it you see? But part of me is afraid to know. Most of me, really. I’ve always been so careful about how much I let the world see. But it doesn’t seem to matter. You see it all, especially the parts I don’t like. And you want me to know that you see them.
“Are we still talking about the horses?” you say when the silence grows awkward. “Waiting to be turned loose, I mean.”
Your voice is thick in the quiet and vaguely unsettling. I feign amusement, knowing full well I haven’t pulled it off. Still, I must keep up the pretense. “Of course I’m talking about the horses. What else would I be talking about?” I step away then, a little too abruptly, and wander toward the stalls on the opposite side of the aisle. “Come see my presents.”
You move to my side, your eyes still on my face. You want to press me for more, but you don’t, as if you’re afraid I might startle and skitter away. You’re right about that. I might.
“This is Cracker Jack Prize,” I say, pointing to a sleek, dark bay with bright eyes and a thin white blaze streaking his muzzle. “He was foaled in ’39, which means he’s still a baby in horse years.”
“Quite a looker.”
“Isn’t he? The trainers say he’s going to be a champ. A good brain and a brilliant pedigree. His sire was Dark Upstart out of Lexington, a high earner until he had to be retired because of a slab fracture.”
You look surprised and a little impressed. “And here I was thinking you’re a novice. You sound like a pro with all that horse jargon.”
I smile and relax a little, pleased by your praise. “I told you. Lots of reading.”
“He seems a bit standoffish compared to the others.”
“Horses aren’t like people. It’s not love at first sight. It takes time to develop a bond. I practically grew up with Nipper and Bonnie Girl. They were like pets. But it’s different with racing horses. They’re athletes rather than companions. And neither will be here long. This is just a ‘getting to know you’ visit until they’re green broke.”
“Which means?”
“Responsive to cues. Comfortable with a saddle. But that’s just the start. When they’re old enough to course train, they’ll be moved to Saratoga.”
“With Teddy’s horses?”
I stiffen, perturbed that his name has come up again. “Yes, I suppose. Cracker Jack will be prepped over the winter and spring and hopefully start racing as a two-year-old next summer.”
You step past me to peer into the last stall. “And who is this beauty?”
I eye the chestnut filly with her strongly chiseled face and perfectly matched half socks, a beauty despite her less-than-glamorous pedigree, and I feel a fresh pang of guilt. “I don’t know, actually. I haven’t named her yet. The trainers aren’t quite as keen on her, but I think she has a lot of promise. At least I hope she does. For now, I’ve been calling her Little Girl. Not terribly original, but it’ll do until she gets her official name. I need to hurry up and decide, though, before I run out of time.”
“Out of time?”
“Naming a Thoroughbred is a big deal. There are all kinds of rules you have to follow, like names not being more than eighteen characters. And there’s a whole process. You submit six names in order of preference to the Jockey Club, and they have the final say.”
“How is that fair?”
I shrug. “Those are the rules. I’m leaning toward Sweet Runaway as my top choice. No guarantee they’ll let us have it, but at the moment, it’s my top pick.”
You have the strangest look on your face as you listen to me speak, an intensity that makes me want to look away. “Name her Belle’s Promise,” you say abruptly.
“Belle’s Promise?”
“You said you think she has promise.”