Kentucky Rich (19 page)

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Authors: Fern Michaels

BOOK: Kentucky Rich
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Nealy looked across at Hunt. “What's the matter? You look a little green around the edges. Is something wrong?”
He licked his dry lips. “I just ran the race in my head.”
Nealy laughed. “Flyby won, of course.”
“By three lengths.”
“Wow!” She leaned over and wrapped her arms around Flyby's neck. “Did you hear that, boy? You won by three lengths.”
“Six minutes to post time,” the announcer called out. Nealy listened. His words seemed to run together. “The late Native Dancer was a horse with thunder in his stride and victory in his heart.” There was a pause, then, “The one name that's been heard around the world is Flyby. At this minute he's as famous as his owner, trainer, and jockey. Here at Churchill Downs we're calling her a phenomenon. The big question is, will she win the Run for the Roses? Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the playing of ‘My Old Kentucky Home.' ”
When the last note sounded, Nealy leaned over, and whispered in Flyby's ear, “Do your best! That's all I ask.”
One by one the horses were led into their gates. The sound of the metal door clanging shut behind them echoed in Nealy's ears. The number 13 horse put up a fuss, and extra help was needed to get him into the gate.
When it was Flyby's turn, Nealy gave Hunt a wink, then rode into the gate unassisted. “Good boy, Flyby, you're such a gentleman.”
Four more horses to go.
Nealy pressed down in the irons and prepared herself for that most important moment when the gate would open. “I'm saying a prayer, boy,” she whispered. “For both of us.”
One minute to go.
“Maud,” she whispered, “this would be a good time for you to let me know you're watching this. Some little thing, a breeze on my cheek, a sound, something,” she said, holding out her hand, palm up. A heartbeat later she stared into her open hand. A bright shiny penny stared up at her. “Dear God.” With seconds to spare, she popped the shiny penny into her mouth and under her tongue.
The bell rang, the gates opened, and the horses flew out.
“And they're off in the Kentucky Derby!” the announcer roared over the loudspeaker. “Flyby got away cleanly and moved to the left right at the start. Serendipity takes the early lead, and Crusader is on the inside as he challenges early. Celebration is third on the inside, with Nightstar fourth. General Don is fifth and Crusader is in the sixth position. Then comes Phil's Choice, seventh. On the outside, Texas Rich is eighth and caught wide. Leisure Boy is between horses. As they round the clubhouse turn Crusader moves to the front. Serendipity goes to the outside and challenges Nightstar for position. Saturday's Warrior in blue and yellow moves up from behind and makes his play. General Don is fifth, with Phil's Choice tucked in at the rail and sixth at this point. Texas Rich gains speed and challenges Flyby for the first position.”
Nealy couldn't hear anything except the thundering of hooves beside her and behind her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Texas Rich gaining ground but wasn't worried. Flyby hadn't even begun to show what he could do. Even when Texas Rich passed her, she wasn't worried.
Nealy bent low over Flyby's neck to talk to him. “Take it easy, boy, you'll get your chance. There's some racing room on the inside. Let's go for it,” she urged, reining him left, closer to the rail.
Hunt stood at the finish line, watching, praying. Over the crowd's roar the announcer called out the order. “In the middle of the track comes the favorite, Nightstar, the Coleman horse, and he's making his run for the roses. On the far outside is Phil's Choice. General Don swings to the middle of the racetrack. Down the stretch they come in the Derby,” the announcer screamed into the microphone, spurring the crowd to even greater excitement. “Texas Rich takes command by a head. Celebration on the inside. But here comes Flyby with huge strides, gobbling up ground and getting the lead.”
“Go! Go! Go!” Nealy shouted, her heart thumping hard against her chest. She could feel Flyby make his move and knew she was knocking at heaven's gate.
Hunt slapped his racing form against the rail. “Go baby, go! Go!” he shouted.
The announcer screamed again, “Here comes Crusader, his colors showing the way. On the outside Serendipity is coming off the middle, and here comes Phil's Choice, but they can't catch Flyby, who is flying!”
“This is it!” Nealy said, using her voice and hands rather than a whip to let Flyby know what she wanted. “I can smell those roses!” she bellowed at the top of her lungs.
“And it's Flyby running for the finish, two lengths, four lengths, six lengths ahead. Here's the finish! Flyby wins by eight lengths and makes racing history for his owner, trainer, and jockey, Cornelia Diamond. What a punch that horse has! Texas Rich gets the place spot.” Nealy stood up in the irons and felt Flyby slow down. He'd won. He'd truly won. The roses belonged to Flyby.
And then she was in the winner's circle surrounded by her family, track officials, and the media. “How'd it feel, Miss Diamond?”
Nealy looked down at the man holding the microphone. “There's no other feeling like it in the world,” she told him. “He's a great horse. I never doubted him for a moment.”
“How did it feel going out?”
“Great. He took off like a rocket. I didn't push. I was comfortable, and so was he. We just waited for our time, and he found it and knew exactly what to do.”
“What do you have to say to all those people who said you couldn't do it?”
Nealy stuck her finger under her tongue and pulled out the penny. “I'd say they need to be more open to women involving themselves in the Thoroughbred industry and that they shouldn't be such stick-in-the-muds where their training methods are concerned. I might be the first, but I sure as hell won't be the last. Quote me on that.”
The shiny penny clutched in her hand, Nealy watched as the blanket of red roses was draped across Flyby's withers. “For you, Maud,” Nealy whispered, her eyes filling with tears. “I never break a promise. Tell Jess I hope I made him proud.”
She jumped off Flyby and handed him to his groom.
 
 
Minutes later, back at the barn, Hunt threw his arms around Nealy and kissed her soundly. “You're quite a woman, you know that?”
She blushed.
“I'm so proud of you,” he said, beaming. “What you said in the winner's circle . . . that was really good, Nealy. You didn't exactly thumb your nose at them, yet you said what needed to be said.”
The moment Nealy spotted a gaggle of reporters coming toward her, she sent Smitty to fend them off.
“Emmie, come here,” Nealy said, bending to her level. “I have something for you.” She slowly opened the palm of her hand. “Just before the starting gate opened, Maud gave me this to give to you. It came all the way from heaven. I think she wanted you to have it back.”
Tears rolled down Emmie's cheeks as she reached for the shiny penny.
In spite of Smitty's efforts, the owners, trainers, and jockeys came one by one to express their congratulations. It was the politically correct thing to do. In turn, Nealy was gracious and polite.
And then came the moment she had dreaded. “Fine horse you got yourself there, Miss Diamond.”
Nealy would have recognized his voice anywhere. She turned, her heart thundering in her chest. She raised her head to look into her father's eyes and almost fainted in relief. His eyes, once eagle-sharp and bright blue, were now milky white. Cataracts.
“Thank you,” she said gruffly.
“That was a fine race. I didn't think a girl could do it.”
“You and a lot of others,” she tossed back at him.
“Sassy little gal, ain't ya? You remind me of someone, but I can't think who at the moment.”
“I guess I just have a universal personality.”
“Are you taking him to the Preakness?”
“Wouldn't miss it for the world.” She patted Flyby's mane. “We're going for the Triple Crown.”
“I'll see you there,” Josh Coleman called over his shoulder.
“Look for me in the winner's circle,” she called after him. She watched him as he walked away and wondered how, after all these years, she could still despise the man. As far as she could see, he hadn't changed—not in looks and not in manner. Too bad. A change would have done him good.
A gentle breeze carried the scent of a familiar cologne.
“Excuse me, Miss Diamond,” a smooth, sophisticated voice called out.
Nealy whirled around and gasped. Another phantom of her past.
The man extended his hand. “Dillon Roland, Leisure Boy's owner.” Nealy jammed her hands into her pockets and saw the expression on his handsome face pinch with confusion. “I'm sorry to bother you, but I heard you're running the Preakness and the Belmont. I am, too. I wanted to meet my competition.”
“If you'll excuse me, I'm really busy right now.”
“I'd like to do some business with you and was hoping we might arrange a meeting.”
“No thank you,” she answered curtly.
He was incredulous. “I beg your pardon?” he stammered.
Nealy felt a wonderful sense of power. “I said,” she said, looking him straight in the eye, “no thank you. What part of
no thank you
don't you understand? It means I'm not interested in doing business with you.”
He stared at her. “May I ask why?” He seemed confused, unwilling to accept the fact that she wasn't interested in his offer.
“Sure. Your reputation precedes you, that's why. Now, if you'll excuse me. . . .”
When he made no move to leave, Nealy wondered if her rudeness hadn't done more harm than good.
“Have we met before? You look vaguely familiar,” the debonair horse owner said quietly, his expression openly puzzled.
A little familiar?
she wanted to ask.
We went to bed together, not once but several times. You told me you loved me and that you'd take care of me. Then, when I said I was pregnant, you threatened to blow my head off with your shotgun if I ever told anyone you were the father of my child
. “Not that I recall. I think I would remember someone like you,” she said coldly. She turned her back on the man who was her daughter's father and walked away in search of Hunt.
“Let's get some food and some sleep, and then let's get these horses loaded. I want to go home.”
On a cloudy, overcast day in June, Nealy and Flyby rode out of the winner's circle for the third time, a Triple Crown winner!
“It's stud heaven for you now, Flyby,” she told him on the way back to the barns. “You never have to run again unless you want to. It's you and Charlie in the paddock from here on in. You did me proud today. What that means is you're the best of the best now. There's only a handful like you in the whole world. Blue Diamond Farms is now on the map. All because of you. Let's cool you down so we can go home where we belong.”
P
ART
II
16
Visually, little had changed at Blue Diamond Farms in the twenty-one years since Flyby brought home the Triple Crown. The Kentucky bluegrass was just as blue, the board fencing just as white, the huge bronze statue of Flyby greeting visitors at the entrance to the farm just as awesome, just as breathtaking.
Wealth and power were everywhere, but the owner paid it no mind. While the outward trappings remained the same, internal family changes had taken place, some for the good, some for the bad.
In late July, following the Triple Crown win, Blue Diamond Farms hosted a second wedding. Nealy and Hunt planned everything to duplicate Maud and Jess's wedding, right down to the hour they said “I do.” A year later they were blessed with a son they both doted on.
Soon after Nick was born, Carmela went into semiretirement. Until she died five years later, she still cooked from time to time, but the day-to-day business of cooking and cleaning was left to a younger woman who lived off the premises.
Continuing the wedding tradition, Emmie and Buddy joined hands and hearts the year Emmie turned twenty-three. The couple lived happily on the farm in their own home a quarter mile away from the main house. Buddy assisted Hunt in managing the farm, and Emmie worked toward her goal of bringing a second Triple Crown win to Blue Diamond Farms. So far the right colt hadn't been born, but she remained optimistic.
The next three years brought nothing but sadness and grief. First Stardancer died and was buried in the stallion cemetery, then Charlie died and was buried next to Molly in the pet cemetery. The stonemason carved out an etching of his head crowned by a halo into the marble marker. The third death struck directly at Nealy . . . Hunt suffered a heart attack while haltering Flyby. It was Flyby's loud whinnies signaling something was wrong that brought Nealy and Nick running, only to discover they were too late.
Danny, Hunt's father, was so overcome with grief that he'd retired, packed up, and moved out of state. He called from time to time to ask how everyone was doing, but Nealy knew she would never see him again.
Smitty continued to run the business end of the farm with an iron hand. She had been the glue holding everything and everyone together after Hunt's death. She dried tears, offered her shoulder to cry on, and staunchly stood tall, her own grief hidden. Over the years she had become more to Nealy than just a business manager; she'd become Nealy's mother, sister, aunt, and best friend.
Life went on and Nick, Hunt and Nealy's son, turned twenty, and according to Smitty, was the spittin' image of his pa. He was tall, well over six feet, hard-muscled, sharp-eyed, and as handsome as a new spring colt. But it was his gentle ways, his soft voice, and most of all his special
touch
with horses that made him the apple of his mother's eye. She'd always thought Emmie had inherited her touch, but she'd been wrong. She wasn't wrong about Nick. And for that reason she was convinced that one day he would be the best horse trainer ever to come out of the state of Kentucky and quite possibly the whole United States. Nealy had taught him everything she knew, but there were some things that couldn't be taught, things that were instinctive. Nick had those instincts.
Physically, the years had been kind to Nealy Coleman Diamond Clay. She was still an attractive woman. Still as healthy and strong as ever. Hardly a day went by that she didn't take Flyby out for a breeze alongside whatever current pair of two-year-olds were being trained by Emmie and Nick. Even to the casual onlooker, the three of them riding abreast were quite a sight.
When Nealy had first come to Blue Diamond Farms there had been fewer horses in residence, about half of which belonged to Maud and Jess. Now there were 150, and two-thirds belonged to Nealy. In addition to acquiring horses, she had acquired the farm adjoining hers. It included a house, several outbuildings, and another eight hundred acres. This new acreage she used for retired stud horses and mares.
Nealy's unorthodox methods had made news once again after Flyby's Triple Crown win when she announced that she would put Flyby to stud only three times during the breeding season, thereby limiting his offspring to three foals a year. Other farms bred their champion stallions considerably more often, but Nealy was of the opinion that this overbreeding compromised the quality of the foals.
Even though Flyby's foals went for several million dollars each, money was not the goal. Money had never been a goal. It was quality, always quality.
It was spring again in Kentucky and just three weeks until the Kentucky Derby. Nealy sat on the front porch waiting for the sun to rise, coffee cup in hand.
“A penny for your thoughts, Ma.”
She twisted around. “Nick!”
He laughed. “You always act so surprised when I come out here early in the morning to sit with you, but I've been doing it for years, ever since . . .”
“Since your dad died,” she finished for him, and saw him nod. “Sometimes I think he's here with me and that I can hear him talking. It's just a feeling,” she said, smiling. “There's nothing ghostly about it. You know what I mean. I still miss him as much as I did those first horrible days.” She grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “He would be so proud of you. Do you miss him, Nick?”
Nick sat down in his father's old chair. “More than you know. You feel his presence here on the porch, and I feel it in Flyby's stall.”
Nealy stared at the statue of Flyby out by the front gate and thought about Hunt, of how happy they'd been those first few years and how miserable they'd been later. She sipped her coffee.
“Do you think Grandpa will ever come back?” Nick asked.
“No, I'm afraid not. But be sure you call him every few days to let him know we're thinking of him.”
“I will.”
“What would you say if I told you I've been thinking about taking a vacation?” When she saw her son's mouth drop open, she couldn't help but laugh. “I know I've shocked you, but I'm serious, and what I want to know is . . . if I decide to go ahead and plan the trip, do you think you and Emmie can handle things here?”
“Ma, I'm not even going to answer that. You should know better than to ask. Where are you going?”
Nealy leaned back in her chair and crossed one leg over the other. “I have no idea. But somewhere. The only time I went anywhere was when I left Virginia to come here and when I took Flyby to his races, but I didn't even get to see New York the way a tourist would. Hawaii maybe,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. The idea of palm trees and warm beaches sounded very appealing at that moment. “Your dad always wanted to go there, but we never could find the time. He wanted to go to the Orient, too. But that was in the early days of our marriage, and it was always
someday.”
She stared into her empty coffee cup, thinking of all the things that should have been, could have been but for . . . “Maybe I'll just go into town and do some shopping,” she said, pulling herself out of her melancholy. “Smitty has a birthday coming up. What do you buy for someone who has everything?”
“Ma, I don't have a clue. I saw an advertisement in the paper last week for some gift shop in Lexington that sells monogrammed toilet paper.” At Nealy's look of surprise, he said, “Honest, Ma. Do you think people actually buy stuff like that?” He guffawed. “You could give her a trip to some faraway exotic place. Maybe send her on a cruise. I bet she'd like that. Better yet, why don't the two of you go together?”
Now it was Nealy's mouth that dropped open. “That's a wonderful idea, Nick!” How come she hadn't thought about that?
Nick scrutinized his mother. “Something's wrong, Ma. What is it?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I just feel . . . I have this feeling . . . I can't explain it. I know something bad is about to happen, but since I don't know what it is, the feeling spooks me. Flyby is all right, isn't he?”
Nick knew not to discount his mother's feelings. She had an uncanny knack for predicting things before they happened. “He's fine.” Nick stood up and clapped his mother on the back. “My mother the seer.” He looked to the east and saw a snip of pink sky showing through the clouds. “It's going to rain. That's probably what's bothering you. I gotta get down to the barns. Let me know if you're going into town.” He took the porch steps in two strides.
“Why?” Nealy called after him.
He turned around and regarded her with a sideways look. “Because you're my mother, and I want to know where you go and what you do.”
“That's my line,” Nealy laughed.
“You know what, Ma? I bet if you went into town and got yourself fixed up, you could probably scare up some good-lookin' guy to take you dancing.”
“Go!” Nealy thundered.
“You have gray hair!” Nick shouted over his shoulder. “You're too young for gray hair!”
Nealy sighed. Gray hair. A sign of impending old age. Was forty-eight old? Obviously her son thought so. At twenty, she supposed forty-eight sounded ancient. That meant Rhy was fifty-two and Pyne was fifty. And her father was over a hundred. She wondered if he'd ever had his cataracts operated on.
If she went into the house and called SunStar Farms, who would answer? Damn, why was she suddenly thinking about her family? Were they the reason she was feeling spooked? She hadn't thought about them in a long time. Why today? Maybe Nick was right, and it was just the impending rain. He always said she wigged out when a storm threatened. Of course it wasn't true. It was just Nick's way of teasing her.
“Gray hair, indeed!”
“Nealy!”
Nealy turned to see Smitty at the screen door. “What are you doing up? I thought you said you were going to sleep in today. It's Saturday.”
Smitty came out on the porch, her expression tight. “Your bad habits have rubbed off on me. I can't sleep past four-thirty anymore. Nealy, I . . .”
“What's wrong, Smitty?”
“Wrong? I don't know whether you'll think what I have to tell you is wrong or if you'll think it's right.”
“Wrong, right, what are you talking about?”
“I woke up to the news on my radio. You know how those jocks like to give every bit of horse news there is. They said . . . what they said was that Josh Coleman suffered a stroke. Then they gave a rundown on his farm, his family, his career. . . . I thought . . . I thought you might want to get in touch with your brothers or something.”
Nealy uncrossed her legs and sat forward. “Now why would I want to do a thing like that?” The fine hairs on the back of her neck started to prickle.
“Probably for the same reason you kept up with your family these past years by reading everything I put in front of you. If you want, I can find out more.” When there was no response, she said, “It wouldn't hurt to make a few inquiries to find out what his condition is. After all, once he's gone, you may not be able to collect on that check of his you never resubmitted after payment was refused.” When Nealy gave her the evil eye, she backed off. “Okay, okay, forget I mentioned it.”
Nealy felt something like relief. Her intuition had been right. Smitty's news was the reason she felt so spooked. “What would you rather have for your birthday gift, a cruise or a roll of monogrammed toilet paper?” she asked, sidestepping the subject altogether.
“Yes to both, but it won't do you any good to try to change the subject on me. This is serious business. I think that if it's not already too late, you should pay your father a visit. Either make your peace with him or damn him to hell and eternity. Whichever makes you happy. Death is final. You won't get up to bat again.” She looked Nealy straight in the eyes. “Do people really wipe their rear ends on monogrammed toilet paper? That seems so . . . decadent.”
Nealy guffawed and stood up. “I'm going shopping.”
“Shopping?” Smitty echoed, a stupid look on her face. “In all the years I've known you, you've never gone shopping. Shopping?” she repeated.
“I'm going to get my hair colored. Nick doesn't like the gray. He said if I fixed myself up, some man might latch on to me and take me dancing. When my own kid tells me something like that, I think it's time I paid attention.”
“I'll be damned.”
“That about sums it up,” Nealy said, heading for the house. “While I'm out, I think I'll go by the animal shelter and see about adopting a dog. I didn't have the heart to get another dog after Charlie crossed the Rainbow Bridge. But I think I'm ready now. How about you, Smitty? I know you love cats. Do you want me to get you a cat?”
“Why the hell not? Sure, get two. Get the least likely to be adopted ones, the ones they would put down first.”
Nealy nodded. “Come with me, Smitty, and pick out your own cats. It's not like you can't get away from the office now and then. With that mess of people you hired, you don't have anything to do but stand around looking over their shoulders. One of these days, one of them is going to take a poke at you.”

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