Jockeying for You

JOCKEYING FOR YOU

STACY HOFF

SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

New York

JOCKEYING FOR YOU

Copyright©2016

STACY HOFF

Cover Design by Leah Kaye-Suttle

This book is a work of fiction.  The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher.  The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law.  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Published in the United States of America by

Soul Mate Publishing

P.O. Box 24

Macedon, New York, 14502

ISBN: 978-1-68291-234-8

www.SoulMatePublishing.com

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

To my family,

Eyal, Ryan, Aaron, Marilyn, and Michael,

Who always make me feel like I’ve come in first place.

Thanks for jockeying for me.

Acknowledgements

So many thanks need to be given for this book. Horse racing is a sport I initially knew nothing about, despite my life-long fascination with horses. In order to write this novel, I read everything I could about the topic. I also traveled up and down the state of New York, from Belmont Park to Saratoga Springs, to interview experts and see the different race tracks in person. Despite all these efforts, however, this story would not have come to life had it not been for the people below. Thank you for getting me over the finish line. 

National Museum of Racing and Hall of Fame
(Saratoga Springs, New York) for providing priceless expertise, fact-finding assistance, and enthusiasm for my project. Special recognition goes to their Historian, Allan Carter, and their Education Curator, Karen Wheaton.

Oklahoma Training Track
(Saratoga Springs, New York) for providing information about life on the track, as well as giving me a wonderful tour.

Rhonda Lane
for her expertise on the horse racing industry and allowing me to pester her with my endless questions.

Debby Gilbert (Founder and Senior Editor of Soul Mate Publishing, Inc.)
for all her support and furthering my writing career. I am truly happy to have found a home with Soul Mate Publishing.

Dan Spiegel
for maintaining my website,
www.stacyhoff.com
, with dogged diligence.

Judy Roth
for her line-editing magic and valuable feedback.

Amina Connelly
for being the most positive and encouraging beta reader an author could ever want.

Chapter 1

Ryder Hannon assessed the thoroughbred stallion in one of her stalls at New York City’s Belmont Park, her blue eyes cool. “I think Golden Child is shying away from using his back hoof. Better have the vet check him out. I don’t want him racing if he’s in any pain.”

“Already did,” Lenny answered, his white beard stretched wide in a grin. The stooped-over man had five red strands of hair on his otherwise bald head. “I taught you to be a good trainer. But don’t ever think you’re smarter than the teacher.”

Ryder pushed the bangs of her short blond bob away from her face and smiled back sheepishly. “Right. I should’ve guessed you’d have already sought the vet out.”

“Yup. I wasn’t in this business forty years for nothing.” Lenny’s gruff voice was laced with affection. “I got your father into horseracing. Way before you were even born. So don’t be a hotshot at twenty-seven.”

Ryder suppressed a smile.
Yes, Lenny, I know all about it.
If one of her horses fell on her head she couldn’t forget it. Even if he hadn’t told her this story a gazillion times, her father certainly had. Since her father had passed on, Lenny seemed to be doing double-time with family anecdotes to make up for the shortfall. Between the two men’s tales, she could have written a biography of how Lenny had made her father an assistant trainer, training horses at the young age of seventeen.

The two men had become close, a de facto father-son relationship despite the lack of blood tie. They remained close even when her dad gave up the horse training business to become a jockey instead. Only to become one of the best horse racers ever. In fact, racing had turned her father, Philip Hannon, into a legend.

When Philip’s only child, a girl, was born, the name “Ryder” was given with the expectation she would one day carry on the Hannon winning tradition. That was, to the extent any horse owner would consent to having a female jockey.

Lenny had done what he could to help Ryder become a jockey, too. As a trainer, Lenny was in an even better position than her father because trainers were responsible for picking which jockey was selected to ride. Owners didn’t typically get involved in a trainer’s selection, unless the stakes were real high, or they didn’t like the trainer’s choices.

As soon as Ryder turned eighteen, Lenny selected her as the jockey for a few small scale “under the radar,” type races. Ones where the owners wouldn’t bother to ask him too many questions. Within a short time, Ryder had successfully ridden enough low-dollar claiming races to obtain her jockey license and join the Jockey Guild.

But soon, word got out to the horses’ owners about Lenny picking a female jockey. Her work dried up and she sat idle, busying herself with Lenny’s training work and waiting for her next chance.

It wasn’t until two years later, when Ryder turned twenty, her big chance came around. One owner, as a favor to both Lenny and her father, agreed to let her ride in a “fillies and mares three years old and upward maiden race.” This relatively low scale race had been the opportunity of the lifetime until the horse tripped and fell on top of her. A serious concussion ended her racing career, at her doctor’s insistence.

Ryder winced at the painful memory. Seven years later, she still had several physical scars from the fall. Rough, raised streaks of skin spread out under her ribs. At least she was alive. The eleven-hundred-pound horse could have killed her. As a trainer, she’d be safe.

Lenny and her mother were only too happy to have her pursue a safe, quiet life. But she would never know if her father would have wanted her to get back in the saddle. He had died shortly thereafter.

Lenny had been quick to step up more than before. He had made her a promise to turn his business over to her when she was ready. Ryder had clung to all of Lenny’s instructions like a child would a teddy bear. She had mastered it all. Lenny realized this and took it as his cue to finally take a back seat in the business. The devoted old man had been true to his word.

For a full year now she had been running it. Lenny often fought his urge to get out of the back seat. Not easy for a man who loved control but who also loved her as the child he never had. Her gratitude for the seemingly gruff Lenny was without bounds.

“You’re not going to get all sentimental, are you, Lenny?” Ryder pretended to admonish. “In my book it’s too early in the morning to reminisce.”

Lenny glanced at his watch. “Early? It’s late. I can’t believe it’s 11:00 a.m. already.” Grabbing Golden Child’s reins he hurried to bring the stallion back to his stall. “I’d better go see what’s holding up the doc.” Moments later, Lenny was gone.

With any luck the vet would be there soon. Belmont Park’s back of the house was nothing short of organized chaos this morning. The area behind the racetrack, closed off from the general public, was a heavily populated barn type area with lots of little buildings. People and horses went in and out of the backstretch like busy bees in a hive.

Several of her own horses were being hot walked after their workout. Other horses were being washed and rubbed down by groomsmen. Jockeys were checking with their agents to learn which horses would be ridden. Jockeys’ valets were readying the gear for the afternoon’s races. As a trainer, her own day would calm down once the races started. She’d get a chance to sit down and catch up on everything from paperwork to talking to owners. Maybe the to-do stack on her desk would even reduce a good amount.

Ryder turned to go back to her office when the sight of an imposing man caught her peripheral vision. She looked up, immediately noticing the man’s height gave the horses some serious competition. Standing at five-foot one-inch tall, Ryder never felt so tiny. It was one thing to be short compared to a thoroughbred. Another to feel the same way around a man.

His broad shoulders and muscular frame—from what she could make of it underneath the light blue oxford shirt and black slacks he wore—was no less imposing. Had the man not worn a dark expression, his handsome face would have been first to receive praise. His thin, yet well-formed lips were slightly downturned. His dark, mid-length hair was brushed away from his face, showing dark eyes that warned of an impending storm. The handsome yet imposing appearance made Ryder feel immediately physically attracted yet cautious.

Another temperamental owner. Just what I need.
“Can I help you?” Ryder asked in her most professional voice.

“That depends on whether you’re Ryder Hannon. Are you?”

“Yep. You found me. What can I do for you, Mr. . . .?”

“Carter. Jake Carter.” The man raked a hand through his hair. “Can we go somewhere to talk?”

“I’m not usually in the habit of going off with strangers. But I’ve heard of you, Mr. Carter. You own a heck of a lot of excellent horses. We can sit down and talk business. I didn’t know you wanted a new trainer.”

“Yes. I need to hire rather quickly. I’ve been checking out a few people. I hear you’ve got some particular talents that could serve my newest horse well.”

Ryder’s eyebrow arched. “What talents are those?”

“Are you willing to talk, or not?”

“Sure. We can chat in my office. Things ought to be calmer for me around one o’clock. Is that too late for you? It’ll give us about an hour before post-time if one of your horses is racing today.”

He shook his head. “I don’t have a race on today. You?”

“Yes, one. But not until almost three o’clock so most of my afternoon is free and clear.”

“Excellent. We’ll have lunch at the Turf and Field Club.
I have a regular table there so ask for me. See you then.”

The track’s VIP restaurant. Figures
.
A first for me
. “Sure. Bye,” Ryder said softly. She doubted the man heard her. He was already down the path.

Jake surveyed the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Turf and Field Club, the track’s members only restaurant. Good for him to score such a coveted table. It paid to tip well. Keeping the wait staff happy was easy to do if one could afford it. Luckily, he could. The number of races his thoroughbred horses won kept him in the black. Not easy to accomplish in an industry where profits were about as stable as earthquakes. One bad investment could easily create a profit pit. An avalanche of bills. And eventually, business obliteration. The trick was to invest wisely. Both with the horses he bought and with the staff he hired.

Whether Ryder Hannon was going to join his staff as a trainer was unclear. He’d talk to her over lunch and see if she lived up to her outstanding reputation. Of course, there would be no definitive way to know how good she was until she actually started working with Handsome Dancer.

If she could pull off successfully training his wayward horse, she’d be the first. Of all the horses he’d bought, Handsome’s prospect had become the ugliest. Despite having the greatest potential of any horse he had owned. It’d take somebody truly special, unique, and very patient to train the untrainable. Handsome Dancer’s spirit was as wild as it was strong.

Could the same be said for the potential new trainer? Ryder Hannon was a tiny thing, stature-wise. But she had to have a lot of guts and spirit herself to have been a jockey. Not only was the sport incredibly dangerous, it was quite rare to have a woman among their ranks. Not because women weren’t capable of doing the job. No, it was because most horse owners were male and insisted on having other men jockey. For a woman to be selected was an accomplishment unto itself. Ryder not only had the right racing pedigree but an invaluable skill set in her own right. One he needed. Because if Handsome Dancer couldn’t stop throwing jockeys off his back like some kind of bucking bronco, then whatever potential the horse had would be for naught.

Handsome’s failure would be more than an income tax loss. It would be a loss of something he actually believed in. Every instinct screamed Handsome Dancer was something special. From lineage to perfect body form—everything but personality—Handsome Dancer was the secret weapon he’d been longing for.

Not that anyone agreed with him. Handsome had been initially put up in a cheap sixteen-thousand-dollar claiming race by his prior owner. Worse, there were no claims for Handsome for even that meager amount. Then Handsome lost his race when he refused to leave the starting gate. The owner was then ready to accept any price someone would pay for him.

Jake’s ears pricked up when he heard Ryder’s voice. Upon seeing her, his eyes grew wide. The woman had changed out of her leggings and mucky boots and now wore a form-flattering dress.
Speaking of perfect body build.
The slim but attractive curves on her tiny frame were beautifully enhanced by the dress’ simple tailoring. Despite being unquestionably athletic, she was definitely a woman. The open-toed sandals she wore had a high heel, giving height to her tiny stature. Her blond bob hung loose around her face, shining with the same bright gleam as a freshly groomed horse’s mane. Her blue eyes were made more dramatic by a new application of eyeliner.

If she was trying to impress him on looks alone, it was working. He’d have to make sure to focus on her words instead of her pretty mouth. But he wasn’t here to woo women. When money and his dream were on the line, priorities had to be placed where they mattered. On the horse.

Jake stood up from the chair as the maître d’ walked her over. She thanked him with a soft voice and sat down. The maître d’ left.

“You sure you can control a horse with a soft voice like that?” Jake asked, half-teasing.

He could tell she was sizing up his comment, whether it was a joke or an admonishment. Rather than help her out, he decided to see what she’d make of it.

“They don’t call me the
horse whisperer
for nothing,” she finally let out with an accompanying shrug.

He smiled.
Good. She can hold her own. With Handsome Dancer, she’ll need to. He won’t explain himself, either.

“Glad you brought that up. Tell me a little about your philosophy.”

“All right. I imagine you’ve already heard a bit about how I train or we wouldn’t be talking. My approach is simple, I help the horse train himself.”

Jake felt his eyebrows furrow. “Excuse me? What?”

Ryder frowned.

One of his regular waiters approached, pen and paper already out. “Give us a minute, Robert?” Turning his attention back to her, he asked, “I’m sorry, you were explaining your philosophy. It sounded very . . . unorthodox.”

“I’m guessing you’ve seen my track record, so I’m confident
unorthodox
works. I don’t treat a horse like it’s some kind of four-footed magical carpet, ready to take off at our command. Horses are live creatures. They let us command them when they want to. And if they don’t, no amount of breaking them is going to win a race.”

She paused, cleared her throat, then picked up the glass of ice water in front of her and took a sip. She was peering at him thoughtfully over the rim of the glass. “It’s not as crazy as it sounds. I simply believe a horse that wants to win will do its best to do so. A horse that doesn’t, won’t. The jockey can use the whip dozens of time. It won’t matter. A horse may go a little faster to stop being struck, but it won’t pull out its last reserve of energy to win. That’s why I don’t have my jockeys use a whip on a regular basis. They’re only allowed to use it for the horse’s own safety, like to prevent it from bumping into another horse or a guardrail.”

Jake felt his brow furrow deepen. “Without using a whip, how does the horse know when it’s time to go all-out for the home stretch?”

Ryder met his steady gaze. “Of course, a lot of jockeys use whips to let the horse know when to go faster. But it seems redundant to me. Why use a whip when it already knows from the jockey’s body language what it needs to do?”

His eyebrow was now arching. “Body language?”

“Sure. Like when the jockey gets lower in the saddle and leans all the way forward to hang on the horse’s neck, the horse knows it’s the home stretch. When the jockey is straighter in the saddle at the beginning, the horse knows not to use up his strength too fast.”