Horse Race (2 page)

Deborah laughed. “Don’t worry, I know what you mean,” she said, turning the wheel a little to avoid a rock. “I’d like to see the old gang, too, especially Eddie and Stephen.” Eddie was a Maskee groom, and Stephen was Mr. McLeod’s usual jockey.

“I don’t think that’s who Carole was thinking of,” Stevie put in with a grin. “The ones
she’s
going to miss are Hold Fast and Monkeyshines.”

The others laughed while Carole blushed. She
had
been thinking of the two horses when she had spoken. “I’ll miss the people, too,” she said defensively. That just made everyone laugh even harder.

“Anyway,” Deborah said when the laughter had quieted down, “the usual gang—people
and
horses—are out at one of the California racetracks for some important stakes races. But Mr. McLeod didn’t want his younger horses to miss their chance to run,
and
he didn’t want to ship them all out to California, so he sent them to Kentucky with Garvey.”
She shrugged. “That’s lucky for me, since several of the other trainers I need to interview will be at Bluegrass Park this weekend, too.”

“Why do they call Kentucky the Bluegrass State, anyway?” Stevie asked, looking out the window again. “The grass here all looks pretty green to me.”

Carole rolled her eyes. “Don’t change the subject, Stevie,” she ordered. “We’re talking about horses, not grass.”

“I thought we were talking about trainers,” Lisa said mischievously.

Deborah laughed. “Actually, I was just getting to the horses,” she said. “Maskee has about half a dozen horses at Bluegrass right now, but there are a few very promising youngsters in the bunch. One in particular is a filly named Cookie Cutter.”

“Oh, let me guess,” Stevie said immediately. “Um, her mother’s name is probably Dessert, right? And her sire must be Chocolate Chip. Or maybe Mixing Bowl.”

The others giggled at the guesses. They knew that sometimes the owners of Thoroughbreds came up with names for their foals by combining both parents’ names. “How do you know Cookie Cutter is named after her sire and dam?” Carole teased. “Maybe Mr. McLeod was just feeling a little hungry when he came up with the name.”

“Actually, Cookie Cutter
is
named after her parents,” Deborah said. “But your guesses are a bit off, Stevie. Her dam is Baker’s Dozen, and her sire is Swordplay.”

“Sword—Oh, I get it.” Stevie grinned. “Cookie
Cutter
. That’s clever.”

But Carole was less interested in the horse’s name than the horse herself. “Is Cookie Cutter as fast as Monkeyshines?” she asked.

“It’s a little early to tell that,” Deborah said. “In fact, it’s a little early for anyone to be talking about Cookie Cutter at all, since her very first race is the day after tomorrow. It’s unusual for an unraced horse to be so highly regarded. But her bloodlines are excellent, and she’s shown a lot of speed in her workouts.”

“You sound like an old pro talking about this stuff, Deborah,” Carole said admiringly.

Deborah shrugged. “I know some of the lingo, but I’m still no pro,” she said honestly. “I’m learning, though—as fast as I can.” She paused, and a very interesting twinkle came into her eye as she glanced at the girls in the rearview mirror. Stevie noticed it and wondered what it meant. “For instance,” Deborah continued, “did you know that there are people at the track whose only job is walking horses to cool them down after a workout?”

Carole nodded. She knew that from her previous visits to the racetrack. “They’re called hot-walkers, right?”

“Right,” Deborah said. She paused again. “Well, as soon as I heard that the Maskee barn was a little short-staffed because the regular people are out in California, I started thinking: Who do I know with experience walking horses who would be willing to pitch in and help out?”

Lisa gasped. “You mean …?”

Deborah nodded, taking her eyes off the road just long enough to glance back at the girls again. This time all three of them saw the twinkle in her eyes. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “I volunteered you to be hot-walkers while we’re here this weekend.”

All three girls started talking at once, thrilled at the idea of helping care for Mr. McLeod’s beautiful Thoroughbred racehorses. For a second nothing they said made much sense, but they knew Deborah wouldn’t mind.

Stevie was the first to regain the power of coherent speech. “This is going to be great,” she declared.

“I hope so,” Deborah said, smiling. “It’s going to be hard work, you know. Garvey has only two full-time grooms working with him this weekend, which makes them really short-staffed. He may need you to pitch in as unofficial assistant grooms, too.” She paused again, and her smile grew broader. “I guess that’s probably why Mr. McLeod insisted on paying you the going rate for hot-walkers.”

“What?” Carole could hardly believe it. Mr. McLeod was actually going to pay them to do something they would gladly do for free? “He doesn’t have to do that!”

“But he can if he wants to,” Stevie put in quickly, shooting Carole a look. Stevie was famous for spending her allowance as quickly as she got it. She was always in need of extra cash.

“Actually, he insisted on it,” Deborah said. “After all, if it weren’t for you girls, he’d have to hire people locally to do
the work. But before you get too excited, I’d better warn you that hot-walking is just about the most menial job there is at the track. It doesn’t pay a lot.”

But when she told them how much they’d be getting, Stevie let out a whistle. “That sounds pretty good to me,” she said.

Lisa nodded. “It’s more than I make baby-sitting,” she admitted.

“And wouldn’t you rather baby-sit horses than humans anyway?” Carole put in.

Deborah smiled at her in the rearview mirror. “Does that mean you’d rather muck out stalls than play with Maxi, Carole?” she teased.

Carole shrugged and grinned. “It’s a toss-up,” she teased right back. Then she leaned back in her seat and returned to watching the gorgeous Kentucky landscape rush by. “Money or no money, it was awfully nice of you to ask us along on this trip,” she told Deborah.

“I can’t take all the credit,” Deborah admitted. “As soon as I mentioned the trip, Max suggested I take you with me.” She laughed. “Actually, he sort of insisted. Then he mumbled something about back-to-school blues and moping girls …”

The Saddle Club exchanged glances. They
had
been awfully depressed about returning to school after such an exciting summer—even Lisa, who actually liked school most of the time.

“Poor Max,” Lisa said. “We must have really been driving
him crazy if he went out of his way to send us on such a great trip. What are the odds of that?”

Deborah gave her a surprised look. “ ‘What are the odds of that?’ ” she repeated. “Where did you pick up that expression?” It wasn’t a phrase Lisa used every day of the week.

Lisa grinned. “Hey, we
are
heading for the racetrack, right?”

“Who cares about the odds or why he did it?” Carole put in. “The important thing is that we’re here. Right, Stevie?”

But Stevie wasn’t paying attention. She was singing again. “ ‘Camptown ladies sing this song, doo-da, doo-da.’ ”

Carole rolled her eyes. “If you don’t know the words, why bother to sing the song?”

But Lisa recognized the song from her piano lessons. “Those
are
the words, Carole,” she said. She joined in to sing with Stevie for the next line: “ ‘Camptown racetrack five miles long, oh, doo-da day!’ ”

Before long, Carole and Deborah had picked up the tune and were singing along.

After a few minutes Carole noticed that the farms were getting smaller and the houses closer together. “We must be getting closer to town,” she said, breaking up the sing-along.

Deborah nodded and stifled a yawn. “We’re almost to our hotel,” she said. “Thank goodness. I don’t think I could drive much farther. I’m ready for a quick dinner and an early bedtime.”

“Too bad,” Carole said. “Because I could look at Kentucky for hours and hours more. It’s beautiful.”

“Maybe we’ll have a chance to drive out and look around some more tomorrow or the next day,” Deborah said. “I can’t make any promises, though—my story is going to keep me awfully busy. And your work will keep you pretty busy, too.” She smiled. “But I know you’ll find some time to have fun. You always do, right?”

“Right,” The Saddle Club answered in one voice.

L
ISA RUBBED HER EYES
. Carole yawned. Stevie stretched her arms wearily.

“Are we really awake?” Lisa mumbled. It was five-thirty
A.M.
, and they had just climbed out of Deborah’s car near the stable area of Bluegrass Park.

“I’m not sure,” Carole said. “I’m afraid it may be a dream, since Stevie isn’t singing ‘doo-da, doo-da.’ ” Stevie had kept the others up half the night by singing “Camptown Races” in her sleep.

“I told you girls you could sleep for another hour,” Deborah said. “The exercise riders don’t get here until about six, and the hot-walkers start after that.” She sounded just as wide awake and cheerful as always. Lisa guessed that Deborah was used to getting by on minimum sleep because of the
baby. Of course, not sharing a room with Stevie probably helped, too.

“We’re not just hot-walkers,” Carole said. “We’re unofficial assistant grooms, too, right?” She stifled another yawn. “That means we’ve got to be here early.”

“Have it your way,” Deborah said, looking amused. “Come on, let’s go meet everyone.” She led the way through the maze of barns with the three tired girls stumbling after her.

Lisa woke up a little when she recognized the Maskee Farms colors decorating one of the shed rows. She followed as Deborah led them inside.

All three girls felt a lot more awake once they were inside the long, narrow stable. Outside the track gates, most people were still sleeping, but in here the day had already begun. Horses looked out of their stalls or munched on the last few bites of their breakfasts. Music was pouring out of a small portable radio plugged in at the far end of the row. A tall, athletic-looking bay colt was in cross-ties being carefully groomed by a young woman with a ponytail. Two men were deep in discussion just a few yards away.

“That’s Garvey Cannon,” Deborah whispered to The Saddle Club, nodding toward the taller of the pair. “I recognize him from his picture.”

“You mean you’ve never met him?” Stevie asked.

Deborah shook her head. Then she stepped forward and introduced herself to the young trainer. Garvey was large
and broad-shouldered, with a thick neck and huge arm muscles. Atop his bulk, his head, with its ruddy skin and thin blond hair, seemed almost too small. The assistant trainer looked even larger next to his companion, a tiny, slender man Lisa guessed was a jockey or exercise rider.

“So you’re the reporter McLeod was talking about,” Garvey said flatly as the small man wandered off toward the bay colt in the aisle. Lisa noticed that Garvey didn’t smile. In fact, he didn’t look very pleased to see Deborah at all.

Deborah nodded and gestured for the girls to step forward. “And these are your temporary hot-walkers,” she said. She started to introduce them, but Garvey cut her off.

“Them?” he said in disbelief. “But they’re just kids. These are valuable animals we’ve got here, you know, not hacking ponies.”

Lisa felt her face flush at Garvey’s tone. But once Deborah had reassured him that Mr. McLeod had approved the whole thing, Garvey seemed to relax a little. “Okay, he’s the boss,” he said with a shrug of his huge shoulders. He glanced at the three girls. “I just hope you know what you’re doing,” he added. “We’ve got some important races coming up this weekend. I don’t want anything to hurt our chances.”

“We understand,” Carole said. “Don’t worry, you can count on us.”

Garvey didn’t look terribly reassured, but he shrugged again and pointed with one huge finger to the stall behind Stevie. “That’s Cookie Cutter right over there. She’s our
star, or at least she will be if she performs tomorrow like everyone thinks she will—knock on wood.” As he spoke, the trainer reached out and rapped on the wooden wall with his massive fist.

Lisa turned with her friends to look where the trainer had pointed. Cookie Cutter was peering back at them out of her stall. She was a chestnut filly with a gleaming reddish gold coat and a wide white blaze down her intelligent face. The stall was open except for a barrier of webbing, so the girls could see almost every inch of the gorgeous Thoroughbred, from the tips of her alert ears to her delicate ankles and hooves. “Oh, she’s beautiful!” Lisa exclaimed. She took a step forward, then hesitated. Some racehorses could be highstrung or even nasty. Just because Cookie Cutter looked sweet and friendly didn’t necessarily mean she was. “Um, is it safe to pet her?”

“Sure,” Garvey said with another of his massive shrugs. “She’s friendly enough. But if you really want to win her over, feed her a few of these.” He reached into a bucket hanging nearby and pulled out several large, crisp, palegreen leaves.

“What is it?” Carole asked, gingerly taking one of the leaves.

Garvey grinned, revealing several big gaps where teeth used to be. “Cabbage,” he replied. “She loves the stuff.”