Secretariat Reborn (22 page)

Christian began to hyperventilate. If the stallion wasn’t in the paddock, he had stayed in his stall and died when the roof collapsed. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “He’s not dead.” He jerked free from Allie and walked toward the back of the property, shouting into the darkness, “Chris! Chris!”

Allie followed him. “He’s not here. The paddock fence is intact, so he didn’t break through it.”

He stopped, looked up at the stars, and felt warm tears.
More fucking tears
, he thought and pictured the old bay stallion. For a stud, Chris was an exception, gentle and well behaved. He never kicked, bit, or even flattened his ears. Daily, Chris had never failed to trot to Christian, greeting him with his rumbling, deep-throated nickering.

Allie walked up. “I’m so sorry, Christian.”

Christian embraced her and wept. “He didn’t deserve to die like that,” he stammered through his sobs. The ghastly images filled his mind of the stallion’s death, his wide terrified eyes, his burning mane, and cooking flesh—the unimaginable suffering. Christian let go of Allie and sank to the dirt. Sitting, he clasped his legs and lowered his head against his knees and whimpered.

His thoughts drifted to his dead father and this stallion he had loved, gone now, both of them. A double whammy ripped at his insides.

Allie massaged his shoulders. Through the blur of tears, he glanced up at her, strong, silent, and composed. Women were supposed to be the weaker sex, but that was bullshit, probably a myth created by insecure men. Allie was living proof.

After several minutes, he sniffled, cleared his throat, and stood. “Damn, Allie,” he mumbled, wiping his watery eyes. “This really sucks.”

“Yes,” she said and put her arm around his waist. Together they walked back to the burning barn.

Several hours later, the flames were extinguished, leaving only smoldering embers. Firemen packed up and left, along with the police. One by one, the neighbors also headed home with promises to lend a hand in the coming days. Vic, a lofty cowboy who raised rodeo bulls and lived nearby, offered the free use of some empty stalls. Mystery and the other three horses in training could be stabled there until a new barn was erected.

With dawn only a few hours away, Christian and Allie walked
hand-in-hand to the house. A chilly north wind howled and swept through the dark pastures. Christian felt weary and depressed plus filthy and cold. Sometime during the commotion, he had lost his leather jacket, along with everything else.

He squelched his sorrow and was determined to put the event to rest and move on. On the driveway behind him, he heard the rhythm of trotting hooves. “Allie, I hear a horse.”

“It’s one in the pasture. They’ll be worked up for days.”

“I don’t think so.” He stopped, took a few steps back toward the barn, and strained to see in the moonlight. Like a ghost, a horse emerged from the shadows and stopped several yards away.

“Hey, boy, what are you doin’ loose?” Christian walked toward the animal and then recognized the distinctive long, black mane. “Chris,” he exclaimed. “You made it, buddy!”

The stallion answered with a whinny and stepped to him. Christian threw his arms around the horse’s thick neck and hugged him. “I’m so glad to see you, boy.”

“I can’t believe it,” Allie said. “He must have jumped that five-foot fence. At his age, I didn’t think it was possible.”

The old bay stallion tossed his head up and down. Christian laughed. “He’s saying ‘Of course I could jump it.’” The horse nuzzled him and nibbled on his shirtsleeve. Christian stroked the stud’s head. “You’ve made everything okay, Chris.”

Six months after the barn fire, Christian stood near the farm track and watched Mystery gallop past with Allie on his back. The rising August sun lit up the horse’s shimmering coat, a burnt orange, almost copper. The leggy colt was slightly short backed, according to Allie, with heavy bone, muscled shoulders, and a powerful rear end. He had a slight dish head, remnants of his Arab blood, with deep-set, intelligent eyes. Every time Christian saw him, he had to catch his breath. Mystery had developed into the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.

Allie circled the track twice with most horses, but with Mystery,
she went four rounds, complaining the colt was still too chunky. Part of the weight was the result of his mass consumption of food: eight to ten quarts of oats and sweet feed daily and half a bale of hay. She wouldn’t deny a growing colt the grain, but hoped to work it off with longer exercise time.

Allie pulled the colt up in front of Christian. He held the reins, and she slipped off.

“What do you think?” Christian asked, patting the colt’s neck.

Allie swept the damp bangs off her forehead. “Well, he’s very kind. Doesn’t buck or give me trouble. He’s also level-headed and doesn’t spook easily. And he’s so good-looking he has the makings of a terrific show horse, but—” she sighed. “Not a racehorse. So far, I’m not impressed. First of all, he’s clumsy and overweight, and mentally, he acts like a clown. He has no interest in competing for the lead when Meg brings another horse alongside. Unfortunately, some Thoroughbreds never develop the right attitude.”

Meg was a seventeen-year-old neighbor who lived a few miles away. She barrel raced her quarter horse, but for extra money, she came to the farm in the mornings and helped Allie exercise the horses, and afterward, walked and cooled them down. Allie said that Meg had a good seat, and learned quickly about the vast difference in riding a Thoroughbred versus a hobbyhorse.

“With Thoroughbreds, you tighten the reins, letting them take the bit, and they go faster,” Allie had explained. “Loosen and drop the reins on their neck, and they slow to a stop.” All other breeds of horses were taught the opposite, stop when a rider pulls back on the reins and go with a free rein.

Christian was quiet, unhappy that his gorgeous colt was not showing any signs of becoming a racehorse. He had assumed his father knew best and the cloned colt with Secretariat’s DNA would also become a great Thoroughbred.

Christian wasn’t merely disappointed, but also worried. If Mystery couldn’t win his first few races, Christian would end up in Vince’s debt.

Meg emerged from the barn, riding a black gelding.

“Hi, Christian,” Meg said when she and the horse walked past Christian, heading toward the track.

“Hey, Meg,” he barely responded, his thoughts still on Mystery, the money, the gangster.

In the barn, Christian held Mystery while Allie removed the colt’s tack. “You do know that Meg has a terrible crush on you?” she said, giving him a tee-hee glance. “She melts every time you speak to her.”

“Is that right?” he said unenthusiastically and stroked the colt’s head.

Allie grew serious. “Don’t get so down about your colt. Mystery is still young, and I just started riding him. Some colts don’t get it together until they’re three. He has plenty of time.”

Her words struck him.
Plenty of time. Mystery might have it, but I don’t
. He had to repay Vince by next summer. He watched Allie walk Mystery through the barn to a concrete slab out back to hose him down.

A white SUV pulled up to the front of the barn, and a thin, long-legged woman with light curly hair climbed out. She had the look, walk, and talk of a cowgirl, but she was Allie’s vet, Betsy. Christian walked out to greet her. “Hi, Betsy.”

“Hey, Christian,” Betsy said. “Where’s Allie?”

“Around back,” he said. “She’s giving Mystery a bath.” He had come to know Betsy during one long, late night in the barn when he, Allie, and Betsy worked on a mare down with sand colic.

In spring Florida often suffered from drought that could turn the green pastures into brown stubble and a sandy wasteland. A horse that ingested too much sand, bad feed, or a poisonous weed could get a stomachache and die from rolling on the ground and tangling their intestines. With oil tubing, fluids, and walking the horse, Betsy had saved the mare that night without surgery.

Living with Allie on the farm, Christian was learning that the big, powerful animals were really fragile. They had delicate legs the
width of a man’s arm that had to support a thousand pounds while moving at forty miles an hour. One broken leg might cripple the other three with laminitis. They had touchy digestive systems that could host fatal conditions, and their flighty nature could send them crashing through a fence or cause them to remain in the security of their stalls even when the barn was burning.

Betsy’s vet assistant left the passenger seat, opened the back of the SUV, and began taking out equipment.

Christian glanced at the equipment. “What’s up?”

“I’m here to X-ray Mystery’s knees,” Betsy said. “See if they’re open or closed. A young horse moving too fast can develop bone chips if the knees are still open.”

Christian folded his arms. “According to Allie, going too fast isn’t an issue for Mystery.”

“He’s still a baby.” Betsy good-naturedly patted his arm. “Give him time.” She strolled into the new barn.

His eyebrows rose. “Right,” he mumbled.

Allie handed Mystery’s lead to Christian. “You mind walking him a bit, so I can help Meg with the gelding and talk to Betsy?” Meg rode in and dismounted.

Betsy turned and stared at Christian and Mystery. “My word, Allie, he certainly is a handsome creature.”

Meg chimed in, “Are you talking about the colt or Christian?” The four women giggled and gawked at Christian.

He felt the flush on his cheeks and took Mystery down the drive. On the return trip to the barn, Allie met him.

“That’s good enough,” Allie said. “He barely broke a sweat this morning, and I don’t want to keep the vet waiting.”

“Good, I’ve gotta get to work,” he said and handed the lead to her. He slipped his Ray Bans on his face, kissed Allie’s cheek, and patted the colt. He nodded to the smiling women. “Ladies, have a good day.” He strolled up the drive to the house and his vehicle.

•   •   •

On the ride to town, Christian reflected that maybe he was worrying needlessly about Mystery and his lack of desire to run. Perhaps Secretariat had also started out fat, awkward, and slow. Like most people, Christian did not know the details about the legendary horse except that he won the Triple Crown, broke some track records, and was hailed as the best Thoroughbred of all time, although Christian remembered hearing his father argue that Man o’ War deserved the title.

The question bothering Christian was whether a clone that resembled Secretariat in every physical way—red coat, three white socks, star and strip down the nose, great body, and large heart—would also inherit his talent and soul, his tremendous stride, and the competitive nature to dominate a field.

For several months, life had been good for Christian, and he hoped his luck would hold out. After the fire, the new barn had gone up within a week. Little Lenny, Allie’s lanky blond cousin, had showed up with his bulldozer and pushed the rubble of burnt timbers aside and leveled an even pad. Christian questioned Allie about Lenny’s name, since the young guy was far from little, but Allie said that his name had nothing to do with size, but that his father was also a Lenny. As a small kid, her cousin had gotten the nickname.

A lumber store delivered the materials for the barn on the following afternoon and told Allie that she could pay for them when her insurance check came in. Neighbors and friends chipped in, and they had a good old-fashioned barn raising. In days, the beams and sides went up. A roofing company set the trusses and the metal sheeting, while Christian and some of his friends built the ten inside stalls.

Unlike the old hay barn that had been converted into a horse stable, the new barn had exits at each end of the center aisle. The roomy stalls had two doors, one leading into the aisle, and the other a split door that opened to the paddocks outside.

Christian dug trenches and dropped in the PVC piping for
automatic waterers in the stalls. An electrician took another day to run the wires and hook up. The barn was finished in less time than it took Christian and Allie to apply the two coats of paint.

Kate had survived her burns, but faced months of reconstructive surgery and skin grafts. Christian had asked Allie about the wisdom of a hospital visit. Allie had said, “Go if you want, but I doubt Kate wants to see anyone in her state, especially you. And what purpose will it serve to confront her? She’ll only lie like she did to the police.”

Kate had fabricated a story to the detectives that she had come to Allie’s farm to visit Christian, a dear friend, and saw he was not home. While waiting for him to return, she had gone to the barn to see the horses. She was smoking a cigarette and had tripped in her high heels and hit her head. When she came to, the barn was on fire, and she was trapped.

The evidence suggested a different story. Investigation showed the charred beams near the hay held traces of an accelerant. An empty gas container, not belonging to Allie or Christian, was found near the barn and had Kate’s fingerprints on the handle. Two more full containers of gas were found near the house, suggesting that Kate also intended to ignite it. After reading Kate’s statement, Christian informed the detective that Kate didn’t smoke cigarettes.

Christian figured that somewhere between Kate’s story and the evidence was the truth. She had started the fire in the barn, but before she got out, Christian had raced up in his SUV, probably startling her and blocking the only exit. She panicked and, fearing being exposed, she ran into a back stall to hide. She tripped and was temporarily knocked out. A lump on her forehead and mild concussion confirmed that this part of her story was accurate. The state’s attorney charged Kate with arson, but the trial was pending until her recovery.

Christian took Vince on several fishing trips. The first time out, he rerigged Vince’s spinning reel and pole, stripping it of the weights, wire leaders, and big hook. He told Vince, “You’d only catch channel cats with this rigging, and they’re worthless.”

On the end of the fishing line, Christian attached a three-foot, thirty-pound test leader line with a small hook and added a rattling, popping cork so the live bait floated, jumped at the surface, and looked natural. The rattle cork noise attracted fish.