"I get paid for training. I'm not running my own horses. Jesus, Addie, the board and vet bills alone will eat you alive. 'Chasing is for rich people."
"We are rich."
"Not if you try to be a major player overnight. We have to keep that money in solid stocks and bonds. If I can double the money in ten years, then we can think about owning a big string of our own."
"What's life for, Charles?" She used his proper name. "To hoard money? To read balance statements and call our stockbroker daily? Do we buy a sensible little farm or do we rent for ten years? Maybe I think life is an adventure—you take chances, you make mistakes. Hey, Chark, maybe you even lose money but you live."
"Live. You'll wind up with some bloodsucker who married you for your fortune. Then there'll be two of you squandering our inheritance."
"Not our inheritance. My inheritance. You take yours and I'll take mine. It's simple."
"I'm not going to let you ruin yourself."
"Well, brother, there's not a damn thing you can do about it." She stopped, blinked hard, then said in a low voice, "You could have killed Nigel. I don't put it past you." She drew close to his face. "I'll do one thing for you though. You're so worried about me? Well, this is my advice to you. Dump dear old Uncle Arthur. He's a dinosaur. And a very well-off dinosaur, thanks to Mom's will. He got his ten percent as executor. And after you dump the old fart, do something crazy, Chark. Something not useful. Buy a Porshe 911 or go to New York and party every night for a month. For once live your life. Just let go." She turned and walked outside.
He yelled after her, "I didn't kill Nigel Danforth!"
She cocked her head and turned back to face him. "Chark, for all I know you'll kill me, then you can have the whole ball of wax."
"I can't believe you said that." His face was white as a sheet.
"Well, I did. I've got races to run." She left him standing there.
The making of a good steeplechaser, like the making of a good human being, is an arduous melding of discipline, talent, luck, and heart. The best bloodlines in the world won't produce a winner, although they might fortify your chances.
Thoroughbreds a trifle too slow for the flat track find their way to the steeplechasing barns of the East Coast. Needing far more stamina than their flat-racing brethren, the 'chasers dazzle the equine world. Many a successful steeplechase athlete has retired to foxhunting, the envy of all who have beheld the creature soaring over fences, coops, ditches, and stone walls.
They gathered at the Springdale track for the $100,000 purse of the Colonial Cup, the last race in the season. After this race the points would be tallied, and the best trainer, horse, and jockey would emerge for the season.
Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber figured the most useful thing they could do was to keep Mim occupied despite her nervousness. They knew better than to disturb the Valiants before a race. Keeping Mim clear of them seemed a good policy.
Tucker, on a leash, complained, but Harry refused to release her. "You don't know where you are and you might get lost."
"Dogs don't get lost. People do."
"She's yappy this morning." Miranda, wearing her favorite plaid wraparound skirt and a white blouse with a red cable knit sweater, seemed the essence of fall.
"The crowd excites her."
"I'm on a recon mission. I need to chat up any animal who will talk to me."
Heedless of Tucker's tasks, Harry pulled her along to the paddock. After being dragged a few feet Tucker decided to give in and heel properly. If she couldn't have her way, she might as well make the best of it.
The lovely live oaks sheltered the paddock. The officials busied themselves in the final hour before the first race.
Colbert Mason spied Mrs. Hogendobber and waved to her. Miranda waved back.
Arthur bustled out of the small officials' office, his Worth and Worth trilby set at a rakish angle. Most of the other men wore hats, too: porkpies, cowboy hats, lads' caps in every imaginable fabric, and one distinguished navy blue homburg. The manufacturers of grosgrain ribbon would survive despite the dressing down of America. Horsemen had style.
The one blond uncovered head among the group belonged to Fair, who had ridden over in the van. He walked over to join his ex-wife and Miranda.
"May I get you ladies a drink or a sandwich?"
"No, but I'd like to sit a spell. This commotion is tiring." Miranda dumped herself on a park bench.
"Imagine how the horses feel." Fair sat next to her.
"Fair, make her let me go," Tucker implored.
He reached down and scratched those big ears. "You're so low to the ground, girl, I bet all these shoes and legs are bewildering."
"No, they're not."
"Ignore her. She's whined and whimpered since the moment we arrived." Harry sternly raised her forefinger to the dog.
"You know, when we were married, I always wanted to bring you here, but somehow I never got the time."
"I'm here now."
"Do you like it?"
"It's wonderful. Miranda and I toured the town. I had no idea it was so lovely."
"People here know how to garden." Miranda's passion, apart from the choir and baking, was gardening. "I'm tempted to ask for cuttings."
"Bet they'd give them to you." Fair smiled. He put his arm around Harry's shoulders.
"Where's Mim?" she said. "We started out with her—"
"We drove over with her and Jim. That's not the same as starting out." Miranda chuckled. "That Mim, no sooner had we parked than she rocketed out of her car."
"Don't worry. Arthur headed her off before she could get to Addie and Chark. And Jim stuck right with her. He's the only one of us capable of dissuading Mim from her plans."
"She doesn't mean to lean on those youngsters." Mrs. Hogendobber stretched her legs out in front of her, wiggling her toes. She'd walked more in the last twenty-four hours than in the preceding month. "Oh, that feels good."
"Nerves," Harry succinctly said.
"There are plenty of owners worse than Mim. We practically had to tranquilize Marylou Valiant in the old days." He laughed.
"If I'd been dating Mickey Townsend I'd have to be tranquilized too." Harry giggled.
"I thought you liked Mickey." Miranda finally released her purse from her death grip and set it on the ground next to her.
"I do like Mickey. He's full of energy. He's got plenty of that burly masculine charm that Marylou could never resist. But he loses money at the races and doesn't pay his staff until he wins it back."
Fair crossed his arms over his chest. "If he'd married Marylou, he wouldn't have had those worries. Racing isn't for folks who need a weekly paycheck. Plus you need nerves of steel. He has them. I worry more about his temper than the money. He comes up with it somehow."
"It's the somehow I'm worried about," Harry said under her breath.
"Why?"
"Fair, two jockeys are under the ground and—" She looked up then blurted out, "What the hell—?"
Miranda, Fair, and Tucker turned their heads left in the direction of Harry's amazed look. "Gracious!" Miranda exclaimed.
"Bet you didn't recognize me in street clothes," Cynthia Cooper joked.
Fair, a gentleman, stood up and offered Cynthia Cooper his seat as she and Rick Shaw approached.
"Well, do I look the part?" Rick wore a plaid lad's cap, a tweed jacket, and baggy pants.
"Do you think you're incognito?" Harry smiled at him.
"You look splendid." Miranda praised the sheriff, a man with whom she might have disagreements but for whom her affection never dimmed.
Harry lowered her voice. "You know the Virginia gang will recognize you."
Cynthia replied, "Sure, we know that. We've never seen a steeplechase, and the boss here had an impulse, so . . . voila!"
Harry, not believing a word of it, simply smiled. Rick and Cynthia were aware none of the three believed them; probably Tucker didn't either, but they'd go along with the story.