The Horsewoman(6)

But then she was seeing the fox again, and could feel Coronado rising up underneath her, out of her control. Then she was in the air again, landing hard on her shoulder, right before the horse was on top of her, as if she were collapsing into herself.

Some riders said they went numb when their horses fell on them. Some said they could feel bones inside them snapping like twigs. She hadn’t felt any immediate pain, just the terror of being unable to take in oxygen, even as she felt Coronado try to get his legs underneath him.

That was the last thing she remembered. She had no memory of them lifting her into the ambulance until she awoke on the way to the hospital and saw Becky sitting beside her.

“How’s my horse?” Maggie had asked.

First words out of her mouth.

Becky had told her Coronado was fine, and how the horse had brought her to the spot where Maggie was lying near the canal.

“Such a good boy,” Maggie’d said, and then passed out again and didn’t wake up until she was out of surgery.

Now she had nothing but time to think, and all she could think about was time.

“The Olympics start at the end of July,” she’d told Dr. Garry, “which means I’d have to start qualifying no later than the spring.”

“If you don’t qualify this year,” he said, “then you can shoot for next year.”

“You don’t understand,” she said. “The Olympics happen every four years.”

When the doctor left, she checked her phone. Only nine o’clock. She felt as if the longest night of her life was just beginning.





SIX

Caroline



CAROLINE WAS ABOUT to fix herself a cup of tea when her doorbell rang. She moved stiffly to answer the door.

She had been a rider herself when she was younger, though she hardly rode at all these days. But her own career, because of the daredevil way she rode—more like her granddaughter than she’d ever admit—had been littered with falls, and injuries to her knees, shoulders, neck, and back that showed themselves with stiffness and a lingering limp. She sometimes thought she had an easier time managing her diabetes than she did all her aches and pains.

“Sorry I didn’t call first,” Steve Gorton said.

Caroline managed a thin smile before answering, “No, you’re not,” then waved him in.

He was maybe six one or six two, and had been an unmemorable college football player at Penn back in the early nineties. She’d looked it up, along with his age—past fifty now. He wore his hair piled too high on top, probably colored it, and shaved it too close on the sides in a way that accentuated his jowls. Even in Florida, he sprayed on his tan. Forever young, or trying like hell to look that way, in T-shirt and jeans and sneakers.

She asked if he wanted a drink. He said scotch if she had it. She went into the kitchen and poured him a glass of Dewar’s and brought it out to him.

“How’s she doing?” he said.

“Considering a horse landed on her,” Caroline said, “about as well as can be expected.”

Gorton nodded. “We need to talk about my horse, Caroline.”

“Our horse,” she said.

Now he smiled.

“Sure,” he said. “Go with that.”

They both understood the terms of their partnership. It was an arranged marriage, the kind they’d called shotgun marriages when she was young. A horse like Coronado, what they were sure was their Olympic horse at last, was as much Caroline’s dream as it was Maggie’s. She’d eventually mortgaged the barn for the final time, gambling away what little financial stability they had left.

Maybe more.

“I’ve been talking to some of my friends in the business,” Gorton said. “About potential riders for Coronado.”

You have friends? Caroline thought, but held her fire.

“You gave me rider approval in the contract,” she said. “And for now, that rider is still my daughter.”

“All due respect,” Gorton said, “but Maggie is lucky if she can ride a wheelchair right now.”

“The accident just happened,” Caroline said. “There’s still nearly seven months to the Olympics. Her results from the end of last year roll into this one. Even if she doesn’t start competing again until the spring, there are still enough qualifiers for her to make the team.”

Gorton sipped his drink, placed his glass on the coffee table, ignoring the coaster she’d placed in front of him.

“Never bullshit a bullshitter,” he said.

“We don’t need to go shopping for another rider when she’s barely out of surgery,” Caroline said.

He sighed.

Maybe it was part of the Wharton curriculum, but Caroline interpreted his every gesture, every sound, as dismissive.

“I may be new to this sport,” he said, “but I can read a calendar as well as the next guy. Maggie’s first event of the year was supposed to be the Grand Prix, the date for which is coming up soon. Now she’s not going to be in the ring. But let me explain something to you: Coronado sure as hell is.”

Caroline started to speak, but Gorton raised his hand and continued.

“I got into this sport to win,” he said. “When I win, somebody else loses.”

“A beautiful thing,” she said. “Truly.”