Born Of The Bluegrass. Darlene Scalera

with a soft one, the rhythm matching her murmurs of hope and fear, and her hands dully cramping.

      She crouched to the side, running her hand down the front of the legs, feeling for the heat or swelling that signaled hurting. “Staying away isn’t a choice, you see. In fact, there is no choice. All right, yes, some will say there’s always a choice, and in my head, I know that.”

      She rubbed the legs with a mix of alcohol and liniment. “But in my heart, there is no choice. I have to go. Or it will be like giving him up all over again.” She wrapped the legs with clean white cotton from the ankle to just below the knee and then wrapped them again with flannel, careful they were tight enough to stay but not too tight to cause the legs to fill with fluid. “I’m only going to be nearby, you see. Not close enough to cause any trouble but close enough to get a glimpse or two, watch him grow. God, you should see him. Maybe you did. Yesterday. Right here at the barns. Yesterday. I held him in my arms.”

      She fell silent so the shake in her hands would stop, and she could fasten the last steel pin.

      She straightened, unfastened the tethered horse, removed his halter. “I have to go, Solstice. He’s my child, you see.”

      She turned, bent to move the feed tub, when she felt a breath along the left curve of her neck and then, the sharp edges of teeth closing around her ear. She didn’t move. Neither did the horse. A slight bearing down and her ear would be his. A long second went by. The pressure along her flesh stayed the same, not hard enough to cut the flesh but tight enough to hold on. Another second passed. She heard the scratching of another groom raking outside. She stood with the perfect stillness that had bonded her to this horse. As soon as they’d met, she’d recognized the animal’s need for a space to call on and always find calm. After that, when he had come to her and butted her shoulder or nipped the thin cotton cloth on her back, she’d stood absolutely still, giving him one area of quiet in a noisy, confusing world.

      She calmly waited, not touching him, not moving. Several minutes passed. Solstice’s mouth opened and his moist grip released her. She straightened, standing a little off to his side. His head turned to her. His eyes, like all horses, set wide so that even when he looked at her, he always seemed to be looking past her. Except this time. She stared at that animal, and he stared back at her without mistake. She saw the white and black of his eyes and within them, a look that seemed to say, “I was listening.” Like she had done when she’d first come and had listened and heard too much noise inside him.

      THE NEXT DAY she led this animal she loved to the paddock. His trainer had been eyeing the second tier of stakes races for two-year-olds when Solstice’s colic had come. His other injuries had dropped him back further. His failure to rally and his willfulness had brought him to today’s claiming race. Still he was nickering and pulling like it was Derby Day, and she had to jerk the reins a couple times to stop him from doing his dance. He’d known he was going to race when his hay and water had been removed after breakfast, but she suspected his restlessness also stemmed from her divided attention. Even as they entered the circle of the paddock, she couldn’t help scanning the crowd. She was always looking now for Reid and the child. She had hoped they’d be with the Foxes, but it was only Prescott and his grandfather who followed the jockey and Solstice’s trainer to the saddling enclosure and into the walking ring.

      Then she saw them—Reid, her son, her son—at the outside fence. Reid was watching the horse. The child’s attention was everywhere—to the horses, the milling crowd, the afternoon light, the call of music. She heard, “Riders, up,” and the jockey came forward for a leg up. The cup of a hand was all the connection she would have with the dark-eyed, dark-skinned man about to ride Solstice, but she willed a win into that palm.

      The racetrack workers usually gathered at the course’s backstretch to watch the races. Dani, however, headed to the grandstand fence, close to her horse, close to her son and his father.

      Another Fox Run groom joined her at the rail as the post parade began. “He’ll park,” he assured her, folding a slice of pizza in half and taking a large bite. “He’s a speedball.”

      Dani watched Solstice following the pony girl and the palomino. The horse had seemed to relax as soon as the saddle was put on his back. In his gait was a certainty as he went from a walk to a jog to a canter. Even into the starting gate, always a moment of anxiety, Solstice strode in and waited as if already assured a win.

      Dani waited, the sun on her shoulders, her hands holding on to the cool metal fence. The trumpet blast sounded. For a beat, the world went still. Then the gates opened.

      “And they’re off,” she whispered, the breeze catching her words and carrying them up, up above to where women in wide hats sipped champagne, a summer strawberry split on each flute’s rim, and her son sat beside his father on spindly bentwood chairs.

      The colt broke clean but at the first turn, was six horses back, two lanes from the rail. Still the steady beat to his stride echoed his earlier assurance of being the only winner in this race. He lengthened his stride, passing until he was in fourth position by the second turn. There he stayed as if waiting. Dani saw the hole between the second and third horse and Solstice slip through it as easily as entering a dream, and her voice joined the swell of the crowd as the horse, her horse, headed down the homestretch, the strong August sun turning his coat purple and the daylight decreasing between him and the leader, a gray with white stockings.

      Solstice’s proud black head was at the other horse’s shoulder, then neck, the jockey coiled low on his back, a passenger now. Three strides to the wire, the heads aligned until Solstice lengthened his neck and stuck his nose in front of the favorite’s.

      The tote board flashed Photo Finish but Dani was already crying, having no doubt who won and not caring that the other groom was chuckling over her reaction to an ordinary race. Solstice cantered, then turned toward the winner’s circle as Dani came to meet him. She smiled at him as the results came up on the board, and they moved into the winner’s circle but once again, Solstice’s looks went around her as if she were in the way.

      They came out of the winner’s circle and were heading to the test barn when a man came out and hung the tag on Solstice’s bridle. Horses that ran in a claiming race were up for grabs, and Dani knew the tag now swinging against Solstice’s profile meant another trainer had claimed him. Still she stopped and stared at the tag as if she’d never seen such a thing before. She heard the assistant trainer swear, but the head trainer was stoic, Prescott and his grandfather indifferent. They still got the purse. But whoever had put down the required amount of cash in the racing secretary’s office and dropped the claim slip got the colt. It happened all the time.

      She was also going away, Dani reasoned. She too had been claimed. Still the reckless excitement of the win left her as she led the animal toward the spit box. She heard a child’s voice and thought she was imagining it. Then she heard Reid’s voice answering, “Yes, that black beauty there.” She looked and saw Reid and Trey coming toward her and Solstice until she was only conscious of the man, the boy, the animal.

      Reid smiled and nodded hello as he came up and stood next to her at the horse’s side. Her son stood next to him, holding his father’s hand, looking up at the huge animal.

      The man ran a knuckle gently along the horse’s damp neck. “Ready to come home?” he asked.

      Dani looked at Solstice. The animal looked right through her.

      Hamilton Hills Farm

       Lexington, Kentucky

      HAMILTON HILLS had been built high on an emerald plateau as if destined for greatness from the beginning. Reid looked out across the acres of legendary lush grass, the reaching lines of white fence and knew the idyllic scene was an illusion. The farm that had set the standard for achievement in the Thoroughbred industry for half a century had died with his brother.

      Still, few could view the vast tranquillity spread out before him and not believe a better tomorrow was coming. Reid was one of them. He looked at the land steadfast in its innocence and simplicity and was glad to be home. He’d brought the horse. And the woman. The woman with the deep silence and