The Horsewoman(34)

“Just because you don’t need to be perfect doesn’t mean you can get away with even one sloppy line,” he said.

“So, perfect-ish?” I said.

When it was time, I followed him down through the bleachers, and finally to the schooling ring, where Emilio was waiting with Coronado. Daniel was a few paces ahead of me when I heard him say “Mierda” under his breath.

I knew that one without a translation, because I’d heard it from him often enough.

Shit.

Steve Gorton was leaning against the fence, about ten yards away from Coronado, champagne flute in his hand. It was only four o’clock, but he’d clearly decided it was the cocktail hour. I knew he wasn’t here to toast me.

Daniel quietly said to me, “Please do not engage.”

But as soon as Emilio had me up in the saddle, Gorton came walking over. Everybody in this ring knew the protocols of our sport, everybody except him, apparently. The only people a rider wanted to talk to before going into the ring were his trainer and sometimes his groom. No one else.

The last person I wanted to talk to right now was this guy, finishing the last of his champagne, walking across the ring as if he owned the place, and all the horses and jockeys in it.

“Let’s try to stay on today,” he said when he got to me.

Seriously?

If Gorton heard Daniel exhale loudly, he didn’t show it.

“Let’s try to stay on today,” he said.

“That’s the plan,” I said, my voice even.

“You actually look pretty relaxed for someone who rode him the way you did last time.”

Well, I thought, maybe I can engage him just a little.

“I mean, what the hell, right?” I said. “The worst thing that could ever happen to me on this horse already happened.”

I tried to make myself look busy fussing with Coronado’s reins, and checking the stirrups, even knowing they were already perfect. Hoping he would take the hint that our conversation needed to be over now.

“I’d wish you good luck,” he said, “but you’d know I didn’t really mean it.”

“You know what, Mr. Gorton?” I said, smiling down at him, thinking he looked even smaller from up here. “Kind of thinking that luck’s not going to have anything to do with it.”

Then I turned Coronado so quickly that he nearly knocked Steve Gorton on his ass.

“Oops,” I said.





THIRTY-SIX



MOM AND GRANDMOTHER were in the tent, but I knew Mom was keeping score herself up there, checking off the riders one by one. As always, Daniel was holding my phone for me. I heard it ping as we got to the in-gate.

He looked down and checked it, put it away.

“Under nine faults and we’re in,” he said.

I could get away with two rails, then. But nothing more than that. If I did get two rails, it meant I had to be under 74 seconds. If I wasn’t, it would mean nine faults, and good-bye.

“You are in control now,” Daniel said, and put out his fist.

“About time,” I said.

There were no easy parts of today’s course. But the second half was harder, no doubt. It almost always worked that way. And the jump-off course, if we made it, would be like one of those crazy car-chase scenes in the movies.

Coronado had a perfect distance on the first jump. Perfect distance. Perfect timing. And the second one. And third.

Okay, I thought.

Okay.

I was still nervous as hell, but I wasn’t in panic mode. I wasn’t riding scared.

Just riding my horse.

Made the turn and came around past the hated big screen. It was there so the fans had full view of every jump, especially the ones in the corner. But I always ignored it. It made me feel as self-conscious as if I were looking at myself in a mirror.

Coronado was riding easy. Cruise control. I knew I had more horse than he was showing. But for now, I was keeping him under the speed limit, even if it went against who he was and who I was.

Two more jumps clear, on the far side of the ring from the tent. They could have raised the top rail on the last two jumps and we could have cleared them both with room to spare.

Quick combination now.

Nailed the sucker.

Halfway home, just like that.

Straightforward jump coming up to start the second half. Good distance again. Still riding easy. Made sure to ease him into the jump, not feel as if I had gotten ahead of my horse.

Another perfect distance.

Didn’t matter.

I felt him clip the rail with one of his hind legs. Heard it go down. To a rider, it sounded as loud as a window breaking.

Still I didn’t panic.

We were out of the jump-off, but I didn’t care about the jump-off. Just finish clean. Or with only one more knockdown.

Just no more than that.

The toughest rollback in the round was coming up, followed by a quick combination. I cut the turn perfectly, squared the horse up, gave him the exact right distance.

Five.

Six.

Cleared the first jump.

And then, damn damn damn, clipped another rail on the next one.

Heard it go down. Sometimes you clipped them like that, or even rattled them, and they stayed up. Not this time.

The drop on this one sounded to me like a bomb going off.

Now there was no margin for error. Eight faults still got me to Saturday. Another rail—or a time fault—and we were out.