The Horsewoman(24)

Focus, I told myself, but not, Relax.

I’d always felt nerves, what Mom liked to call the good nerves that came with competition.

Never like this.

I was happy to be going thirtieth in the order. I’d have a chance to watch how the preceding riders and horses handled the course—where in the second half to pick up speed, where others had taken chances and they’d played it safe.

Today’s event might have been titled “Power and Speed.” The course seemed to break at the eighth jump. That’s when the clock started. That’s when a rider who could manage to keep the last eight striped poles off the ground had the chance to post a score.

As nervous as I was, I was stupidly excited at the same time. This was the biggest jumping event of my whole stupid life.

Focus.

Up in the tent, Mom and Grandmother were at their table. They’d decided to watch from there, even though Grandmother said she couldn’t curse freely without scaring the decent people. Daniel would shout any instructions from the in-gate, though he was convinced that if he’d done his job during the week, I’d be fine out there on my own.

“What do you want to do until Emilio brings up Coronado from the barn?” Daniel said.

He meant the small Atwood Farm barn at the show. The way it worked, Emilio would bring Coronado to the schooling ring about twenty minutes before my spot in the order, and we’d start jumping in there until my name was called.

Mr. Gorton would be here eventually. Knowing him, he’d demand a private viewing stand next to the central announcer’s gazebo.

“I just want to be alone for a few minutes,” I said. “You okay with that?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Relax,” he said again, smiling at me.

“Callate,” I said.

I found a place high up in the bleachers, on the opposite side of the ring from where Mom and Grandmother were. Matthew Killeen went out early and posted 30.19, a banging score that put him right into first place. Tyler Cullen, going twentieth, posted a score of 30.58. When he finished the round, he turned to look at the clock and I could see how pissed off he was. He’d come so close to Matthew’s time, and he hated to lose to anybody, Matthew most of all.

Ten out now.

I heard my phone beep with a message, pulled it out of the back pocket of my breeches and saw: he’s here.

From Daniel.

He meant Coronado.

I made my way down through the bleachers and over to the schooling ring, to where Daniel and Emilio stood with our big horse. Just without Mom in the saddle this time. Emilio helped me up. Daniel handed me my gloves, then walked over to the middle of the ring. I put Coronado in motion, a couple of slow laps around the ring, then over one of the jumps. Then another lap, and over the other jump.

More nervous than ever.

Still stupidly excited.

I heard the in-gate announcer say, “Frankie next, then Adam, then Georgina.”

Georgina Bloomberg. Her father had been mayor of New York City once. Later on, he’d spent enough money to buy our whole sport running for president.

What the hell was I doing here?

“Becky four,” the announcer said.

The next few minutes were a blur, until I heard the announcer say, “Becky next.”

I slow-walked Coronado over to where Daniel was already waiting for us in the gate. He looked up at me, smiled, nodded, put out his fist so I could lean down and bump it. I looked around now, taking in the whole scene: the course, the tent to my right, stands that were mostly full, one of the biggest rings in the whole sport. I was about to take my place at the grown-up table.

My heart thumped like the palpable bass of a rap song playing from the next car at a stoplight.

I heard the announcer naming me as the rider of Coronado, owned by Steve Gorton of New York City and Caroline Atwood, Atwood Farm of Wellington, Florida.

The horse that had gone before me walked past us. I gave Coronado a little kick to get him going.

Then I heard, “Is this where I wish you good luck?” from the other side of the in-gate from where Daniel was standing.

Steve Gorton.

No owners ever came down here. There he was, anyway.

Don’t look back, I told myself as Coronado walked out into the International.

Showtime.





TWENTY-FOUR



DON’T THINK ABOUT Gorton.

Think about the sixteen jumps out here.

Eight before the speed round.

Let’s go.

No need to push Coronado in the first half. Get through the first eight clean. After that, let the big guy run.

Just like that, we were over the first jump. Six strides in the line between the first and the second. Then we were over that one. No big turns in this part of the course. No surprises. It would be the second half that felt like Daytona.

Don’t get ahead of yourself.

The next two jumps were along the wall in front of the members’ tent. Cleared both, then went right into a slight turn, quickly squaring him up, counting strides inside my head as I did.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Cleared it with ease.

Come on.

It was as if somebody had hit a mute button inside the ring. I couldn’t hear the crowd, couldn’t hear the sound of the PA announcer’s voice. All I could hear was my horse, his breath, the sound of his hooves.