Big Book Of Lesbian Horse Stories (15 page)

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Authors: Alisa Surkis

BOOK: Big Book Of Lesbian Horse Stories
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“Don't worry, baby,” Ginger hastened to console her. “Look what I got in exchange.” She pulled out a cardboard dress box. “Go ahead, open it,” she urged.
Terry opened the box, revealing brand new racing silks in white and gold. “They're perfect!” she exclaimed with pleasure.
“Think of us here, when you ride Silky,” Ginger murmured suggestively.
Terry looked with pride at Ginger. That once hardnosed filly was gentled, and Terry rewarded her the way she rewarded all her horses—with a little sugar. Later, as the evening shadows crept their way up the cream satin sheets, Terry said, “You never stop surprising me, Ginger.”
“I have one more surprise for you,” said Ginger. She led Terry over to the window, and there, where the Phantom Arrow was usually parked, was a gold horse van. “I figured you'd want Silky to travel in style.”
Terry was on cloud nine as she prepared Silky for the Stakes, but she had to keep reminding herself that they weren't out of the woods yet. All of Silky's extra training had to be done in the dead of night, after Shorty had left the track. He was the worm in the apple. Silky grew fitter than ever, and Terry prayed that the race would come before Shorty wised up. It was getting harder and harder to convince the filly to lose when each night she was being asked to run like a champion. But luck was on their side, and at last only one hurdle remained—getting Silky to the Stakes.
Every horse running in the Bluegrass Stakes was being brought in at least a week before the race, but a week would be more than enough time for Shorty to notice that Silky was missing and tip off Jimmy. The evening before the Bluegrass Stakes, Terry was grooming Silky, waiting for Ginger to arrive with the van. Her mind was wrapped up in dreams of her and Ginger and a little house with a white and gold picket fence and acres of open pasture for Silky. She started slightly when she heard Shorty's whine.
“Dat horse is sure lookin' good,” he said. Shorty was leaning over the stall door, chewing on an old stogie. Terry bit her lip in vexation. Damn that old man!
“Yup,” continued Shorty conversationally, “she sure has got a glow.” He leered at Terry. “Miz Delmonico, she got a kind of a glow too, don't she?”
Terry had to get rid of Shorty fast, before Ginger arrived with the van!
She pushed back her disgust and turned to Shorty.
“Silky is looking good, isn't she? You must be putting something special in her oats.” Terry forced a smile. “Here, old-timer”—she dug in her pocket for a silver dollar—“ reward for a job well done.”
The old man's rheumy eyes lit up as he caught the coin Terry tossed to him, and he shuffled out of the barn in the direction of Gillespie's.
Terry sighed with relief as she caught sight of the gold van pulling up outside the barn. She decided not to tell Ginger about her conversation with Shorty. There was no point in worrying her now—especially since she had to drive the whole 500 miles to the Bluegrass herself. Terry was riding in the back with Silky. She knew Ginger needed her, but Silky needed her more. With a hasty kiss to Ginger, she loaded Silky into the van and settled down next to her. Silky whinnied excitedly as the truck's engine roared to life. “Don't worry, girl,” Terry soothed her, “you're finally gonna get your chance!”
They pulled in at the track at ten in the morning, Ginger's face white with fatigue and Terry stiff and cramped from the close quarters. But Silky was calm and fresh, and that was what mattered. The start time was 2
P.M.
sharp. Terry groomed Silky and warmed her up, while Ginger stood nearby, smoking cigarette after cigarette. Terry wondered what she was thinking as they both watched the competition—sleek, tautly muscled horses being pampered by teams of well-trained professionals. These were horses that were used to winning, horses that had been bred to win. But Terry knew that all those fancy sires weren't worth a damn—Silky had the speed and that was what counted. But did she have the will to win after being made to lose for so long? They'd find out soon enough.
“You'd better get ready,” Ginger said, dropping her cigarette and grinding it under her heel. As Terry and Silky followed Ginger, Terry spotted a man leaning against the side of the gold van. She'd seen him only once, but she'd never forget those snakelike eyes. He straightened up as Ginger approached, and she stopped in her tracks. “Jimmy!” she exclaimed.
“Hi, doll,” said Jimmy, peering at Ginger. “Well, Shorty told me something was up, but I doubt he would have pictured this—Silk Stockings at the Bluegrass Stakes!” A rumbling laugh shook him.
“What do you want, Jimmy?” The voice was expressionless, but Terry could tell from Ginger's rigid back there was a cocktail of fear and anger mixing inside her.
“What do I want?” Jimmy looked at the sky as if it held the answer to the question. “Me, all I wanted was to share some good news with you. Now that this filly of yours is running in the big time, I figured you should have some protection. So I had her insured for a million bucks.” He paused for a moment, but no one said anything.
“Don't get me wrong—it'd be a real shame if something happened to her, but a horse like this, trying to run a race that's out of her league, could end up with a broken leg.” Jimmy shrugged his shoulders and smiled as he continued, “Happens all the time.”
A cold sweat began to drip down Terry's back. Silky, her leg broken—probably Shorty would be the one to take her out and put a bullet in her brain.
“And I'm not going to be selfish about the money—share and share alike, that's me,” Jimmy continued, his eyes never leaving Ginger. “There'll be enough to pension the old man off—I know you never liked him, and truth to tell, I'm getting a little sick of him myself. It'll be just like old times, huh, Ginger? There's worse things than a million bucks, right, doll?”
Terry's hand tightened on Silky's halter. What would Ginger say? A million bucks was the kind of dough that could turn someone's feelings on their head. And Jimmy was playing her like a piano with his smooth talk. Terry could do nothing but wait, helplessly.
Ginger was answering Jimmy, her voice dull, “S-sure Jimmy, I guess there's worse things. Maybe, though, there could be some other way for you to—” Suddenly she threw her head up as if she'd heard the starting bell. “Put those down!”
Jimmy had picked up the new white and gold racing silks and was casually running his hand over them. He looked startled at Ginger's sudden change of temperament. “Listen,” he began menacingly, but Ginger didn't let him finish.
“I don't want your dirty hands touching anything of mine ever again,” she said in a low, thrilling tone. “You can do what you like to me, but Silky's going to run this race and she's going to win it!”
Terry felt a rush of pride flow through her at Ginger's defiance. Jimmy stared at her for a second, and then let out a huge belly laugh.
“Win! You actually think this nag is going to win! I never thought I'd see the day Ginger Delmonico would turn sucker. Don't you know what the odds are? Two hundred to one!”
“I know the odds,” said Ginger.
Jimmy whooped some more. “Ginger Delmonico, betting a hopeless long shot, with a sure thing staring her in the face!” His smile twisted contemptuously. “You sure must be soft on this little jockey.”
“Leave her out of this!” The words tore out of Ginger as if someone had put a hot branding iron on her thigh.
Jimmy continued to smile, but in a way that sent chills down Terry's spine. “Tell you what, Ginger. I'll let this one race go. Let's make a bet on it. If Silk Stockings wins, she's yours, no more strings attached. But if by some strange chance, she loses . . .” Now even the smile was gone.
“If she loses?” prompted Ginger in a voice Terry could barely recognize.
“The jockey's out, I'm in, and the horse is dead,” said Jimmy. And now his voice was like ice. “But you already knew that, didn't you, doll?”
“It's a bet,” said Ginger. Jimmy put out his hand and Ginger took it as if it were a coiled snake.
“I'll see you after the race.” Jimmy's parting words hit Terry like a fist in the gut.
Ginger staggered, almost collapsing against the van after he'd left. Terry dropped Silky's halter and ran to her side. “Ginger!” she cried, tears springing to her eyes.
“Can that sob stuff, sister,” Ginger croaked weakly, “you've get a race to run. Get these silks on, it's time to weigh in.”
“What about you?” Terry said anxiously. Ginger looked as drained of blood as if she were a steer who'd just taken a trip to the stockyards.
“Don't you worry about me.” Ginger summoned up a weak smile. “Ginger Delmonico always lands on her feet.”
Terry knew it was all up to Silky now. Would she and Ginger have a life together, or would Ginger be forced back into the mob, forced to endure the caresses of the man who'd beaten her, kicked her out on the street, and killed her horse? Would Terry go back to the occasional exhibition race, the whiskies at Gillespie's? Would she end up a drunk, like her old man, her days spent shoveling manure to earn the price of a bottle, her nights in some alley, with the Elevated rumbling overhead? And Silky—what would be her measure of pain and suffering? What would be her last thoughts before Shorty put a bullet through her brain? Terry couldn't even let herself think about that. She buried her face in Silky's neck for a brief moment before she swung astride her and headed for the track.
 
Terry felt like she was in a dream as the starting crew got the horses to the gate. The starter raised his pistol and the crowd fell quiet. There was the shot, the gate opened, and with that proud toss of her head, Silky was off!
The roar of the crowd and the pounding of horses' hooves blurred together in Terry's ears. Ginger's face, pale and pinched, floated before her, then Jimmy's with his hard eyes and Shorty's with his leer, then Silky's long horsy face with a quizzical expression. Suddenly the faces disappeared like so many popped balloons. She was in the Bluegrass Stakes and Silky was running the race of her life!
After two furlongs, Silky was one of four horses in the lead, four horses running so closely together you couldn't see daylight between them. Bottoms Up, the favorite, was hugging the rail, with Sailor's Delight, Silky, and Southern Comfort in a huddle next to him. As they rounded the turn after the fourth furlong, Southern Comfort began to fade back. At the same time, Bottoms Up lengthened his stride on the stretch, so that he led by half a length, while Sailor's Delight and Silky ran neck and neck. Terry felt a growing confidence and excitement—she knew that Silky still had speed to burn.
Suddenly, as they rounded the second turn, Terry noticed something—as Sailor's Delight faded back, so did Silky. What was wrong? Had the night in the van been too much for her? Or was it—and now Terry's heart caught in her throat—was it that Silky remembered that she was supposed to lose to Sailor's Delight? Terry felt sick inside—not just at what losing now would mean, but at the thought that she had turned Silky into a horse without heart—what everybody had believed her to be all along.
Terry leaned forward and whispered fiercely into Silky's ear, “I never gave up on you, Silky! Don't you dare give up on yourself!” Silky's ears twitched, intelligently. Terry loosened the reins and Silky leaned forward, as if testing her freedom. Slowly, she gained on Sailor's Delight and passed him. Bottoms Up was now two lengths ahead. Then one length. Now Silky's nose was even with Bottoms Up's withers. They were coming into the final stretch. The crowd was cheering madly, but Terry didn't even hear them. Again Bottoms Up lengthened his stride, but Silky went one better—she flew across the finish line.
The colors of the track blurred and ran together in Terry's eyes, like a watercolor painting left out in the rain. As she brought Silky down to a canter, the crowd began to pour onto the track, past the track police, who were helpless to stop them. They had just witnessed the biggest upset of the century, and they wanted to get as close as they could to the horse who'd done it. Through the roar of the crowd the loudspeakers blared the voice of the track announcer, making the win official. “And by a nose, Silk Stockings beats the favorite, Bottoms Up, to win the Bluegrass Stakes!” Now Silky's name would be on everyone's lips.
Terry turned Silky around and headed toward the winner's circle, her eyes anxiously searching the stands for a redhead in a white and gold dress. Where was Ginger?
Suddenly she saw her, not in the stands, but on the track hurrying toward her, trailing photographers, reporters, and track officials behind her. When they met in the middle of the track, Terry slid off Silky into Ginger's tight embrace. Over Ginger's shoulder, Terry saw Jimmy, his face purple with rage, trying to reach them, but he was pushed aside by a photographer, and the flashbulbs began to pop.
Ginger handed her a ticket as the crowd began pushing them toward the winner's circle.
“What's this?” Terry asked, beginning to smile.

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