Bright, Broken Things, page 8
“Hey — can you guys break this one for me?” Dean stopped her.
“Probably. I’ll talk to Geai and get back to you.”
She rushed off to meet Jake, frustration erasing the excitement of Dean’s purchase. She’d love to start that colt, but she wasn’t the one who would have that pleasure.
13
“Do we get to watch?” Trisha asked.
Nate caught the tone of his co-worker’s comment, and it wasn’t suggesting she was interested in the yearlings. He was getting used to their joking, but was it really this strange to have a guy working with horses around here? With riding horses, maybe, but racehorses? Al had always had mostly men working for him. Not that he was against women like some of the old-timers were; it’s just the way it worked out, the demographics of it all. Thanks to Geai, Nate was just outnumbered three to two, but Geai only popped in and out throughout the day, leaving Nate to fend for himself most of the time. The manager was here now, at least as they gathered to bring the yearlings in so they could chill before the next stage of their lives began.
“I’m selling tickets,” Nate said dryly. If he was going to stay here, there was only one thing to do: fight back. And by fight, he meant, give as good as he got.
“No,” Geai said, with one word putting mock pouts on their faces. “After lunch, you’ll finish the broodmare barn. And if you still have time after that, you can pick out the yearlings’ fields.”
Trisha, who was in her mid-twenties, her dark red hair pulled away from her round face in a tight ponytail so there was no missing her expression — sighed audibly. All of it didn’t exactly make him uncomfortable, but at the track, the ratio would likely be more in his favour.
It was early days yet, but he liked the job so far. Regular farm chores were fine with him, and everyone pulled their weight. Turning out, bringing in. He liked mucking stalls; when the rest of them finally fell into silence, it let him think, and somehow the honest hard work left him more optimistic than he’d been in a long, long time. Same shit, different day, as the saying went, but there was nothing wrong with that.
He fed the horses breakfast, watered off and did night check on Geai’s day off, and though he would have been happy to do it more often, the old man wouldn’t let him. He was pretty sure “day off” for the manager only meant he avoided the help. None of them had ever been asked to do anything with the stallions. Maybe Liv or Emilie did that. But Nate gathered Liv went into Woodbine on weekends to gallop, and he wasn’t sure of the extent of Emilie’s involvement with the farm activities beyond social media convenor and tour guide. He’d have to ask, next time he saw her. She’d be back at school now, so he didn’t know when that would be.
He was looking forward to starting the yearlings. They’d been out all night and had their grain reduced for a few days to encourage more willing attitudes for today’s first lessons. They walked in agreeably enough and dove into the piles of hay in the stall corners.
“We’ll grab the last two?” Nate turned to Kyrie as he secured a stall door.
One last yearling and the babysitter, a plump red off-track Thoroughbred gelding named Twizzle, waited at the gate. By the look of the yearling’s bleached chestnut coat and unkempt tail, the colt hadn’t seen much of the inside of a stall in who knew how long. He was a complete contrast to the Triple Stripe homebreds, whose manes had been shortened, bridle paths cut. They’d been given some attention after being dragged in from the field, like kids with new haircuts for the first day of school.
The colt was a good size, but stood a safe distance from his companion, wary of the old gelding. Nate took a step toward him as Kyrie snapped her lead to Twizzle’s halter, and the colt took a step backward. Nate stopped. This one was going to be fun. It didn’t help that he couldn’t use the older gelding as a buffer. He tipped his head to Kyrie, and she walked Twizzle toward the gate. Nate followed, and the colt, who had enough herd instinct not to want to be left out by himself, followed too. Nate slowly snapped on the rope.
“Hold up a sec, Kyrie.”
She did, and the colt stopped and dropped his head, his nostrils vibrating with a quiet snuffle. He touched Nate’s arm with his nose. Not completely feral, then. Good.
“All right. Let’s see how this goes,” Nate said.
Geai was waiting outside the training barn, arms crossed, well wide of the door. Twizzle disappeared into the darkness of the aisle. The colt got within ten feet, and stopped.
Geai stepped forward with a low, slow sweep of his arm, and that pressure was enough to move the colt. Another good sign all was not lost. The colt was just scared and hadn’t been exposed to much, but with patience, patience, patience, maybe they’d get him broke sometime before his third birthday, Nate thought wryly.
Not that what he did resembled the vision that word might conjure for someone outside this sphere. Breaking, broke — those words still got tossed around in the horse world, even if the only place you were likely to see bronc busting these days was at a rodeo. Gentling wasn’t really accurate — he couldn’t control what had happened before he met a horse, which meant sometimes there were ugly moments whether he liked it or not. For the rest of these — raised right — starting under saddle was a mere formality. This colt would be a challenge. He’d need to build trust. He couldn’t afford any ugly.
“Just put him in the first stall on the left, there,” Geai said, now that the colt was moving.
That suited Nate just fine, because he wasn’t sure they were getting the yearling much farther into the belly of this whale. It took another wave of Geai’s arms to encourage him into the stall. Nate wondered how loading on the trailer to get him here had gone.
The energy the colt gave off in the stall wasn’t positive, and in the interest of safety, Nate left quickly.
“I won’t be getting on that one anytime soon,” he said, watching the colt spin.
“But I’m making popcorn,” Kyrie quipped.
“Broodmare barn,” Geai growled. “After lunch.” Then he turned to Nate. “I’ll meet you back here at one o’clock.”
Nate nodded. He watched the colt for a while after Geai and Kyrie left. The colt stood still now, at least, but his eyes were wide as he returned Nate’s gaze, his ears twitching forward and back. Nate felt called out, like the colt saw through him. He’d have to rediscover his own confidence to pass some along to this one.
He jogged back to the apartment, then he changed into running clothes, throwing a handful of peppermints into a pocket. As he pushed buds in his ears, he cued up his designated playlist and set off.
It felt like he was the only human on the farm, the others either taking off into town for lunch or staying in the cool of the break room to eat what they’d brought. There was no sign of anyone at the house, though there never was, the front of it facing the other way and the surrounding trees providing privacy to the back. When he reached the stallion area, Geai was likely tucked away inside getting his own lunch. It was hot, so the stallions were inside. The shade of the wooded area as he dashed in gave him relief from that, sweat freely dripping from his pores.
He followed the path, watching his step for roots and rocks and the piles of manure Emilie had warned him about. He could feel the magic of the trees, their secrets and stories, but didn’t slow until he emerged on the other side.
The girls were waiting for him. They gathered at the fence, ears pricked, eyes expectant.
“Hey, ladies! How are we today?”
These were the maiden mares and the older matrons who hadn’t had a baby this season for whatever reason. All were in foal for next year. They would be the early group, with January and February due dates. The star, as Emilie had informed him the day of the interview, was a beautiful bright chestnut with a zig-zag of white starting above her eyes and tripping down the bridge of her nose, stopping short of her nostrils. Sotisse, Sovereign Award winner, carrying one of the first of Just Lucky’s offspring. Next to her was Just A Cameo, dam of Just Lucky. She’d lost her foal this year, he’d heard, but had been bred to a big name Kentucky stallion named Coincidence. She was a lovely bay, a few shades lighter than her successful son. Just Lucky had helped earn her Canadian Broodmare of the Year status the year he’d won the Triple Crown.
He doled out peppermints, then finished the run with a sprint and bounded up the stairs. Time for a quick shower and something to eat before he met Geai. In just a few days, he’d probably lost at least five pounds of the sloth weight he’d gained these past eight months of feeling sorry for himself. He didn’t own a scale, though… and wasn’t ready to buy one. It was enough to be sure — mostly — he could make race riding weight if that day happened to come.
Geai was already there, topping up waters, tossing more flakes of hay. When he finished, he waved Nate over and started putting names to faces.
“Don’t worry about that one,” Geai said as they passed the first stall. “That’s Claire. No official name yet.”
Nate recognized the bright white face that popped up. It was the filly he’d seen Liv on the day he’d moved in. “How come?” he asked, even though Emilie had already told him he wouldn’t be working with Claire. “I don’t mean the name.”
“She’s Liv’s project.”
Nate realized he’d stopped, returning the filly’s wall-eyed stare. That one didn’t miss a trick. She felt like an old soul. He remembered how non-reactive she’d been that day. Liv had looked more worried than she had.
“What’s the story there?” he ventured.
“Claude bought her at the November sale in Lexington last fall. He went down for a broodmare. The van that came from Kentucky had the broodmare on it, and this one, too. She’s New York-bred. The stallion is okay, but the mare wasn’t much. Got her for a song.”
“Why, though? What’s he going to do with a New York-bred?”
“He felt sorry for her. As you can see, she’s not very big. Imagine her as a weanling — she was just little, and not in the best condition. Can’t fault her conformation or attitude, though. He’ll try her at the track. If she shows nothing there, Liv will make her a riding horse.”
That was sweet. The girl had a pet.
He probably shouldn’t call her a girl — it would probably offend her. Also, he should probably stop being so snarky. He broke away from his staring contest with the filly and followed Geai to the next stall.
“This is Just Gemma, a full sister to Just Lucky.” There was obvious pride in the manager’s voice, matched by clear affection for the filly as he slipped open the door and let her nuzzle his hand.
“Nice,” Nate replied. The filly was a lighter bay that Just Lucky, her colour more like the mare Just A Cameo’s, but her build was similar to her famous brother. High hopes for that one, he’d bet.
He tried to remember the names Geai rattled off — the official Jockey Club registered ones. Two colts next: Sans Défaut. Excursion. The truth was, if no one told him their barn handles, because they no doubt had them, he’d make up his own, anyway.
“The last three are boarders, just in for breaking. This one here should be okay. A colt bred just down the road. Friends of ours, Dean and Faye Taylor at Northwest Stud. They spend some time with theirs.”
That name jarred his memory because of Emilie’s warning about Faye Taylor. Who was Dean, again? The brother, he recalled.
In the next stall stood a tall, good-looking yearling, dark coat polished to a sheen, his halter brand new with a shiny brass plate. Nate hadn’t seen him before, but the white square with its black number one explained that before Geai did.
“Also for Dean, but he bought this one out of the sale yesterday. He’s by our stallion, Starway. And your friend here,” Geai continued, stopping in front of the last stall, “we don’t really know anything about. A friend of Dean’s. One of his owners. A favour.”
Ah. One of those deals, which never bode well. But Nate kept his mouth shut.
“Ours all tie. I expect the Northwest-bred one might as well. The sale horse is anyone’s guess. This one I suspect does not.”
The shy yearling circled to the back of his stall with a wary look in his eye and a worried flutter of his nostrils. Liv’s statement at the interview came to mind: we’re not in a big hurry to get them going. Good thing, that, because this one wasn’t getting anywhere fast.
Introductions complete, Geai waved Nate toward the tack room. “Everything you need should be in here.”
For the first day, that wasn’t much. A bridle with a simple snaffle bit, from which he removed the reins. A shaped felt pad. A surcingle. A grooming kit.
“We have driving lines,” Geai said.
“Will I need them?” He raised an eyebrow at the old man. Was Geai going to tell him how things were to be done?
“Up to you.” Geai shrugged. “You’re the boss.”
“I am, am I? Why don’t I completely believe that?” His lips twisted up on one side.
“You’re the one getting on them. If you don’t want to long-line, that’s your call. Now, if it looks like a wild west show, I might have something to say.”
You think I’m some kind of cowboy? But he kept the retort to himself. “Long-lining is fine,” he said, checking his irritation. “I just don’t find it necessary most of the time. If once we’ve put in sixty days, you don’t agree, let me know, and we’ll do it your way next year.”
“You intend to be around next year?” There was that look again, the old man sizing him up.
“I guess that remains to be seen. But gotta think positive, right?” At the moment, he had nowhere else to go. He left the tack room, Geai following, and hung the surcingle and headstall on a hook outside the first stall, setting down the pad and grooming tote. “Not going to do much with them today, anyway. I just want to see where their heads are at. We can start with yours.”
Yours. They weren’t his; at least, not yet. By the end of the program, he might be enough a part of the team to change that to ours.
They buzzed through the Triple Stripe homebreds quickly. He’d meant it when he said he wasn’t doing much with them today. It was more about assessment; a little meet and greet. Seeing what they knew, what they didn’t.
They were pretty good with their feet. Seemed happy enough to be groomed. Of course the colts tried to nip — yearling colts were yearling colts. Each of them was chill enough he introduced the surcingle, Geai joining him in the stall; snapping a lead rope to the halter, unsnapping the wall tie.
Nate placed the pad on their backs first with no more reaction than a quiver of the skin, like they were trying to dislodge a fly. He set the surcingle on top, moved it around a bit. Then reached under, holding the long strap around their barrel to be sure no one lost their mind before buckling it and holding it in place because it wasn’t yet secure. When the yearling didn’t explode — he’d seen that; some of them took a while to accept the restriction of it — he snugged it up enough he trusted it to stay in place, then took over the rope shank, Geai leaving the stall while he circled the baby first way, then the other, because some of them waited till they moved to take offence, and that’s when the explosion came. Those bugs needed to be worked out before he took the next step. But all the Triple Stripe homebreds handled the first day without a hitch.
The Northwest colt was a little less polished. Mostly it was his feet he fussed about. He tied okay, except for the bitey thing. When Nate tightened the surcingle and asked him to move forward, he hopped a bit, then got over it. In a couple of days, he’d be up to speed. The sale horse was good, too. The final one, though...
The last yearling went immediately to the back of his stall as soon as they approached. Nate hadn’t even opened the door yet. When he slid it open, the colt spun his butt, putting his nose in the corner. Nate stopped and glanced at Geai.
“I guess this one’s going to take a bit longer,” Nate said. “Leave it with me.”
Geai only gave a slight twitch of one eyebrow — more a gesture of speculation than doubt — then nodded.
“Be safe,” was all he said.
“I’ve got worker’s comp, right?” Nate grinned, and Geai laughed.
He didn’t assume someone had mistreated the colt. It was possible, of course, but it was just as possible he’d simply not been handled, and was naturally suspicious. Just like people, some horses were extroverts, some were introverts, and you had to work a little harder to make friends.
I shall call you Arthur, he thought, watching the colt cautiously turn back to face the door after he’d closed it and stepped away. “Guess that’s it for today then,” he said to Geai, gathering everything up to return to the tack room.
“The girls would have been disappointed,” Geai said wryly.
Nate laughed. “Maybe they saved a couple of stalls for me.” At the very least, he’d be able to help them bring in.
Geai didn’t rush off, waiting in the aisle with his usual arms-crossed posture until Nate reemerged. “You should go into Woodbine one morning and get licensed,” he said. “Get on a couple. Let Roger see you.”
“You haven’t even seen me on a horse yet.” Nate gave him a wry grin.”Trying to get rid of me already?”
“I don’t believe in holding people back.”
Hmm. So the only person around here who was going to do that was him. This outfit was already proving to be a good place to work. It was all class, and he expected the track contingent was no different. Roger Cloutier, Claude Lachance’s private trainer, might need a rider to go south. It’d be nice to spend a winter in Florida, wouldn’t it? Expand his horizons. But...
“Thanks,” he said. “That would be great. But not sure you’ll get rid of me that easily quite yet.”
14
A smattering of framed pictures rested on top of the buffet in neat black frames. Her parents’ wedding photo; baby pictures of her and Emilie; high school graduation photos. There were no photographs of her extended family in the house, not even in the carefully curated album her mother had organized. It had been so long since she’d seen any of them, she wondered if she’d even recognize them now. Except for her grandfather. She was sure she would always recognize him.
