Taking Chances: Kayla's Chance

Three days later I was helping lead Risky and Silver out to their paddock when a familiar black car pulled up. Mr. Rosery stepped out of the driver’s side-and Becky stepped out of the passenger side.
I was so stunned that I froze until Silver started to pull me after her mom.
“Oh isn’t she darling,” Becky gushed, walking towards the paddock where Jaime was releasing Risky. “We should caller her Princess-doesn’t she just look like a Princess Uncle Al?”
Uncle?!
“You can call her whatever you want,” Mr. Rosery said. Then to us: “Where is Rich? I came to negotiate those sales papers…”
Sales papers?!
“I didn’t hear Mr. McLochland say anything about selling,” Jamie said.
“Well he hasn’t answered my calls so I’m assuming he wants to talk in person.”
“What are you doing here Becky?” I asked.
“It’s Ms. Treymane to you,” Becky said haughinggly. “And I figure if I’m going to race horses, I’d better start with a good one.”
“Race horses?” I asked, split between laughter and despair. The Treymanes were very wealthy and with Al Rosery on their side-it didn’t bear thinking about.
“Yes, race horses. If they’re good horses, they’re good investments. Now where is this Rich person? I want to take Princess home today.”
“She’s too young to go anywhere,” Jamie said as she came out of the paddock.
“And her name is Silver,” I added.
“Come on Rebecca. When we talk to Rich, remind me to say something to him about his staff.” He guided her towards the stallion barn. Jamie started to call after them, but I stopped her and stormed off towards the training barn where I knew my father was going over the morning’s workout results.
“Becky Treymane?!” I practically screeched as I came in and shut the door.
He looked up, slightly startled. “Who?”
“Becky Treymane. Mik’s ex-girlfriend. The ditsy drama queen.”
“What about her?”
“You’re selling Silver to her!”
“Kay I’ve never spoken to a Becky Treymane about Silver. Al Rosery’s been calling, asking when we can negotiate the sale terms but I haven’t returned the calls.”
“She called him uncle,” I said, panicking now. “She’s going to use her connection with Rosery Acers to get back at me.”
“Whoa, hold up there cowgirl. What are you talking about?”
I tried to gather myself. “Mik broke up with Becky and she thinks it’s because he wanted to date me. I’d been talking about Silver all day. She’s somehow related to Mr. Rosery so she probably thinks she knows everything about racehorses and she wants to get back at me so she wants to take Silver away from me.”
Before my father could respond, the door swung open and the persons in question stepped in.
“Rich, there you are!” Mr. Rosery boomed.
“Nice to see you again Al,” my father rose to shake the other man’s hand.
“And the filly’s looking well. Always good. This is Rebecca Treymane,” he motioned to Becky. “My god daughter. She’s taken a liking to the filly. I figure it will make a good graduation present for her.”
“Nice to meet you Ms. Treymane,” my father said, taking Becky’s hand.
Damn his manners.
“She’s so beautiful!” Becky gushed. “I can’t wait to get her home. I already have a name picked out. ‘Becky’s Princess’.”
“She already has a name,” I said flatly.
Becky sent me a glare. “Names can be changed.”
“Rich,” Mr. Rosery said, lowering his voice. Like I couldn’t hear him. “I must have a word with you about your staff-“
“This is my daughter,” my father said and I detected a bit of anger in his tone,” Kayla McLochland.”
“Oh I beg your pardon,” Mr. Rosery said, not seeming very sorry at all. He turned back to my father. “I assumed you wanted to o the negotiation of the sale face-to-face.”
“I’m still not sure I’m going to sell,” my father responded. “I’ve got a few months left to decide.”
“Yes I noticed you haven’t put her with a nurse mare yet. If you don’t want to go through the trouble of finding her one, I have a mare that was suppose to nurse a colt of mine that died. So when we take her home, she’s already got mare.”
“We don’t use nurse mares,” my father said tersely. He had always been against any sort of what he called, “cheating”. Drugs and nurse mares were among those things.
“But it’s beneficial to the foals. We’ve got Radioactive with a draft mare. Plenty of milk.”
“What about the nurse mare’s foal?”
“I don’t own the horse. I just rent it.”
“Who’s Silver?” Becky broke in.
“The name of Risky’s filly,” I said.
“Yes we-well Kayla-figured that getting Risky’s name in the filly’s wasn’t as important as getting By Chance’s. So we called her Silver Chance,” my father said.
“Is she already registered under that name?” Mr. Rosery asked with distaste.
“That’s the name going in to the Jockey Club,” my father said.
“A shame.”
My father’s mouth was opening in retaliation when a knock sounded at the door as Mik and Luke let themselves in.
“This is a private conversation,” Becky snapped, her eyes flashing when she caught sight of Mik. “What are you doing here?”
“Well I own the place,” Luke said with a bite in his tone. “And my son is learning to run it so it requires some on-the-job training.”
“What are you doing here?” Mik retaliated.
“Buying a horse.”
He had to visibly bite down on a laugh. “Which one did you have in mind?”
“The one Kayla was going on and on and on about. It seems she comes from a pretty impressive pedigree.”
“Pedigree doesn’t always make the horse.”
“Of course it does. If the horse’s parents can’t run, the offspring won’t be able to either.”
“Not necessarily. Secretariat’s sire couldn’t run distance but he set a record in The Belmont Stakes.”
“I don’t care about a secretary, or a sire, or Belmont. I only care about the filly I’m buying.”
“You should care about Secretariat, the Triple Crown winner because he’s in Silver’s pedigree. A sire is a horse’s father and you should be interested in Silver’s. And The Belmont Stakes is a race that could potentially win a horse the Triple Crown, which are three of the biggest races in America and Silver could potentially run in them. And you’re not buying her,” I said.
“She’s not your horse,” Becky snapped.
“Or yours.”
“Girls, enough,” my father said. He looked to Mr. Rosery. “If I decide to sell her, I’ll give you call. Until then, have a nice day.”
“Yes, you do that,” Mr. Rosery said. “Come on Rebecca.”
When they were gone, I looked at my father. “You really want to sell Silver to someone like her?”
“Mr. Rosery seems to be advising her and his horses are fit to compete with ours.”
“Compete but not win against.”
Mik and Luke chuckled.
“This isn’t funny!” I snapped at Mik. “Your ex-girlfriend is getting into the racing business.”
“I have plenty of ex-girlfriends in the racing business,” Mik responded.
“But you’re friends with them. Becky’s doing it to get back at me.”
“Sounds kind go dramatic don’t you think?” Luke asked.
“Becky lives for the drama,” I muttered.

“The first week in June,” my father said that night at dinner.
My mother and I looked up at him. “What happens?” I asked.
“There’s a maiden for two-year-olds at Keenland. Some pretty stiff competition. I think Al Rosery’s got a horse entered.”
“That would be Off the Record, Off the Radar’s full brother,” I said.
“Yep. He’s been at Keenland for a week and a few days ago breezed just shy of the track record for three eights. I’m moving Centerfold to Keenland next week with a few of Luke’s horses. I’m putting Jeff on as the jockey so Kayla, I need you to give him instructions.”
“Me instruct Jeff?”
“You’re the one who knows how to make him run.”
The praise made me feel a foot taller than my five foot two inches. I had never been the only one a horse would run for. Of course Centerfold would run for Jeff too; Jeff was an amazing jockey. But for now, I was the only one who knew the secret to making the big colt run. There was a part inside me that wanted to keep it that way. But I wasn’t a jockey and didn’t really want to become one.

The next Wednesday, three days before Centerfold’s race, we unloaded the black colt at Keenland with Luke’s other horses. The night was cool for and the shed rows were relatively quiet and still.
Centerfold walked off the trailer last. The other colts and fillies pranced, ears pricked, nostrils wide to take in their new surroundings. Flip shied at a bush that moved in the slight breeze, but my father’s colt walked with a long stride, his head down and ears dropping. He looked more like a lead pony than a racehorse.
As fate would have it, our stalls were directly across from Rosery Acers’ shed row. Tonight they were quiet except for the groom on the night shift. I recognized Off the Record from a distance.
He was at the very end of the row with an empty stall on his opposite side. He was big; my estimation was about 16.3 hands and growing. His coat was liver chestnut and shone even in the dim light. On his forehead he sported a wide diagonal white slash. If he had been human and the marking had been thinner it could look like he’d walked into a knife. But it had the same effect it would have had on a man-a look of danger. Added to that was the bobbing of his head and the snorting. I briefly remembered the racing papers reporting that the colt ran like a bat out of hell and his temperament wasn’t much better.
One of our two fillies spooked with Off the Record slammed a hoof against his stall door.
“Hope he settles down,” my father muttered. “I don’t’ want him disturbing my horses.”
I was thinking along the same lines.

The next morning, Keenland was bustling. Horses were being led to and from the track, getting bathed, hot walked, groomed, and fed. I was waiting by the gap as Jaime led Centerfold towards me. It would be the only time I would work him on Keenland soil before the race. I was galloping a half mile, then breezing three eights. The official timers were ready and Bo was off somewhere videotaping so I could show Jeff how the colt ticked.
As my father gave me a leg up, I caught another horse out of the corner of my eye coming towards the track. Off the Record.
“Morning Rich,” Mr. Rosery said.
“Morning Al,” my father answered as he adjusted something on Centerfold’s bridle.
“Nice looking horses,” Mr. Rosery said, laying a hand on Centerfold’s neck. “Who’s he a training partner for?”
I had the sudden urge to kick my mud-caked boot out of the stirrup and ruin the back of Mr. Rosery’s Italian suit.
“We don’t use training partners,” my father replied. They were another thing he considered as cheating. He would race the horses against each other every now and then, but wouldn’t purposely make one loose. “He’s a two-year-old running his maiden on Saturday.”
“That wouldn’t happen to be the race I’ve got a horse in, would it?”
“I believe it is.”
Mr. Rosery snorted. “I’d wish you good luck but it wouldn’t do any good. Off the Record’s going in as the handicapper’s favorite.”
“Well we’ll just see on Saturday. Go ahead Kay.”
I urged Centerfold forward. I glanced back momentarily and caught Mr. Rosery saying something Off the Record’s exercise rider. Then we hit the track and Centerfold started pawing to test the track and I refocused on him.
I warmed him up then urged him into the middle of the track as we passed the gap. I kept him on a loose rein and he stretched out comfortably and even added some length to his strides. In no time at all we were rounding the first turn.
I gathered up the reins. As soon as I felt the contact with the colt’s bit, his ears swept back and he snorted. His stride faltered and I checked him. A moment later I realized his studder step wasn’t from me bringing him back.
I head the pound of another pair of hooves approaching fast. I glanced under my arm to see Off the Record flying towards us. I ground my teeth together. Interfering with another horse’s workout intentionally was not considered good track etiquette. And I had a feeling this meeting was no accident.
The other colt drew even with us. Off the Record snorted and tossed his head. Centerfold’s ears tipped back and he tossed his head, pulling a nose ahead of the other colt. Off the Record matched it.
“Easy,” I crooned as the big colt grinded the bit in frustration. Off the Record pulled ahead by a nose. I felt Centerfold try to get the reins out of my fingers to peruse the other horse.
“Just hang on boy,” I soothed, “we’ll get him.”
At the half mile pole, I wound mane through my fingers, crouched low in the saddle, and let him out.
Centerfold exploded. There was no other way to describe it. I felt the loss of contact and knew the colt had taken the bit in his teeth. But I wasn’t especially worried. Off the Record had pulled a half a length ahead of us. We overtook him in seconds. A peak under my right arm revealed the exercise rider trying to catch us and failing.
The colt was breathing loudly, propelling himself forward as if we were climbing and incline. I sank my heels down and hung on.
When we passed the pole where the workout was supposed to end, I let the reins go. But to my horror, Centerfold didn’t break stride. One tug on the reins confirmed my fear. He still had the bit, and couldn’t feel any pressure on the reins.
I stood and tugged on the reins to no response. I sank my heels and hauled back. “Whoa!” I called over the pounding of his hooves.
I’d never had a horse totally get away from me. But I knew what could happen if they weren’t stopped. If they stepped wrong and stumbled, the jockey wouldn’t be able to help them right themselves and they could fall with potentially deadly results for both horse and rider.
It had happened to a gelding my father had been training. During a race he’d gotten overeager and taken the bit in his teeth. The green jockey had been thrilled that the horse had gotten to the lead coming around the final turn. But the horse had stumbled and the jockey couldn’t check him. The gelding had flipped the horse behind him and tripped over the other horse and landed on top of him. All the while the jockey of my father’s horse was lying under his mount. If the jockey of the second horse hadn’t been thrown into the infield, uninjured, and had managed to keep the horses down, my father’s jockey would have probably been trampled to death instead of just having several broken bones.
I played with the reins, trying to get Centerfold’s attention back on me. I pulled to the left, then the right with no response. I put a steady pressure on the bit, then released but the colt kept running. Finally, I resorted to hauling. I forced my heels down, sat back as far as I could, and gathered up the reins as much as Centerfold would allow. And I finally felt contact on the bit. I grabbed mane and let the reins go slack. And the colt broke stride and slowed to a canter.
I eased him to the outside rail and slowed to a walk. He was blowing hard and walking with his head down. When we reached the gap, I dismounted and Jaime took his reins.
“I’m so sorry Dad,” I said the second I saw him. “I let him out and he took the bit and wouldn’t stop-“
I realized then that my father wasn’t listening. He was starring at his stopwatch.
“Dad?” I asked hesitantly.
“If the timers and I are in sync,” he said, “that horse just broke the track record for three eights of a mile.”