Taking Chances: Kayla's Chance

Something awoke me in the middle of the May night-only I didn’t know what. I sat up and looked quickly to the clock. 2:03 A.M.-early even for me.
I threw back the quilt I’d been snuggled into and groped for my light. I cursed under my breath as my toe bumped into a textbook. I found the switch and filled the room with light. Simultaneously I slipped on my jacket and boots and flipped the switch back down as I entered the dark hallway in the three bedroom cottage.
There was a light on in the kitchen where my mom sat with a cup of coffee, looking out towards the barns.
“What’s going on?” I asked, barely waiting for an answer as I inched towards the door.
My mother turned her coffee-brown eyes on me, the excitement she was trying to smoother in her eyes. “It’s Risky,” she said.
I needed no other words. I flew out of the house and down the dirt path to the barn. My mother, father, and I occupied the biggest cottage, closest to the barn at Stopwatch Stables in Lexington Kentucky. My father, Richard McLochland, has been training thoroughbred racehorses for the stable for nearly twenty years.
Six years ago, the owner, Luke Anderson, had wanted to reward my father for his loyalty and hard work when one of the colts he’d trained had become the stable’s tenth Horse of the Year. So he’d told my father to pick one broodmare that was about to drop her foal, and he could keep the foal for himself.
My father had chosen the chestnut mare Questionable, whom he had trained himself. As a filly she’d run and placed second in the Kentucky Oaks and third in the Breeder’s Cup Distaff and was a direct descendent of the Triple Crown Winner, Secretariat. Questionable had been bred to one of the best stallions in the world, Seattle Storm whom was a direct descendent of the Triple Crown Winner Seattle Slew. In his racing days, Storm had run in all three Triple Crown Races and many people were still convinced he would have won had the track on Preakness Day hadn’t been muddy. He’d come just shy of the record in the Kentucky Derby and beaten the Preakness winner by six lengths in the Belmont Stakes.
Everyone, including my father, had been disappointed when Questionable had given birth to a filly. Fillies were weaker than colts in racing and no one had thought Questionable’s foal could stand up to the big boys.
The filly had been on her feet only a few minuets after her birth which was highly unusual. My father had named her Risky Business and over the years she had earned the nickname Frisky Risky.
She’d proven to be a handful on the ground and at the track. As a weanling she would race the other colts, most often beating the most promising ones. As a yearling she’d become head of her paddock, even overtaking the older racing fillies.
No one had thought Risky would be any good on the track. Even my father had been afraid that she would bully the other fillies and be too slow for the colts.
But when she was on the track, Risky was all Business. She had trained faster than the other yearlings and was ready for the races months ahead.
In her first race, she set a track record against all fillies and come off the track still prancing. The racing papers had commented it had been like watching a colt race a field of fillies.
In her second race, her style changed drastically. In her first race, she’d led the pack effortlessly; in her second race, she trailed the other colts until the last second when she’d put forth a shocking amount of speed to finish first as the only filly.
As a two-year-old she ran in and won the Breeder’s Cup Juvenile against the top two-year-olds in the country. As a three-year-old she ran in the Triple Crown Races; losing the Derby by a nose, winning the Preakness but going lame to prevent her from running in the Belmont.
At four, everyone thought super filly was down, but she’d come back to prove otherwise, winning nine Grade 1 stakes races, including the Breeder’s Cup Classic and had been best older filly and Horse of the Year.
Last spring Risky had been bred to the black stallion By Chance. Due to ownership issues, Chance’s dam had never raced but was a descendent of Seabusciut. His sire had been a Grade 1 stakes winner but no where near Triple Crown material. That was where Chance’s name came through. Somehow, he’d become one of the top winning colts in the World. He’d had a rough two-year-old season, only winning half of his starts and his owners had sold him to a stable in Europe. Under new ownership, Chance had thrived and become the top 3-year-old in Europe. At four, he won Grade 1 Stakes including the Dubai World Cup and the Breeder’s Cup Classic. At five he’d won another six stakes and had retired the next year. Two of his colts had run in this year’s Kentucky Derby, one losing to the other by a nose and one of his fillies had walked away with the Kentucky Oaks and there was talk of her going up against her half-brothers in the Preakness.
But the day after the Kentucky Derby, By Chance had been attacked by a mare and broken his cannon bone. He’d had to be put down.
Other than the mares that had been covered this year, the crop of foals from this year were the last of the By Chance line. And Risky was one of the last to foal.
There was a small crowd gathered outside Risky’s stall. Among them were Jeff Roughshot, Risky’s jockey and exercise rider; Jaime Carmichael, Risky’s groom; and Luke Anderson and his son Mik.
“Nice outfit,” Mik teased.
I glanced down at myself, and then glared back at him. He was somehow already dressed and managed to look awake. His six foot two inch form was dressed in faded blue jeans and a green t-shirt that read ‘Stopwatch Stables’ across his muscular chest. His brown hair fell carelessly into his eyes of almost the same color. His white teeth flashed when he smiled, contrasting against his tan skin. He was two years older than me, a senior in high school and an only child like me. We’d been competing with each other since I’d been able to control my first pony. He’d been like the big brother I never wanted.
“Sorry, I normally get two more hours of sleep,” I muttered, looking over Jeff’s shoulder.
Risky was standing in the middle of the stall, my father holding tight to her halter. The vet, Dr. Beaton, was examining the mare. When he touched her swollen belly, she pinned her ears and pawed the straw with a front hoof.
“Easy,” my father murmured, running a soothing hand down her tensed neck.
“How’s she doing?” Luke asked.
“Very well for a first foal,” Dr. Beaton responded.
Risky responded to that statement by lashing out at him with a hind leg.
“Hush Risky, it’s all right,” my father soothed. The big mare’s ears pricked forward for a moment at the sound of his voice, then pined her ears again as the vet continued his examination.
“Dad you’re more nervous than she is,” I accused.
He didn’t get to answer for just then Risky whinnied and her eyes widened.
“I’d say we’re in business,” Dr. Beaton said. “Alright let’s step back and giver her some room.”
My father sent the vet an incredulous look.
Horses have been doing this for thousands of years without our help. If she needs it, we’ll give it to her.”
The two men stepped out of the stall. Risky snorted and pawed the thick bedding again. She circled the stall twice before lowering her golden body to the floor.
A half an hour later, my father and Dr. Beaton were drying off the gray foal. It shook its head and threw out a front hoof, attempting to stand even before it was completely dry. Risky turned to look at it, seeming confused at first. Then her mothering instinct took over and she nudged it.
At its mother’s encouragement, the foal pushed out the other front leg and scrambled to find its footing.
As if tired with the fussing, Risky stood herself and turned around to her foal. Dr. Beaton and my father backed off and Risky took over, bathing the little one with her tongue.
With a burst of energy, the foal pushed up and managed to stay up for half a second before crumbling again.
“Up even faster than her mama,” Mik commented.
“A filly,” my father said as she tried to gain her feet again. “I hate to say I was hoping for a colt again.”
“Could share some other traits with Risky,” I said, coming to the filly’s defense.
“Could be.”