September Week One Workouts
Ashes to Ashes& Red Herring. Mourning Passion& The Devil's Hourglass.
Indian Darling& Wish Upon A Star.
Midnight Thriller& Fiery Touch. Canjun Moon & Hokum.
Dirty Diana& Van Guard
Indian Darling& Wish Upon A Star.
Midnight Thriller& Fiery Touch. Canjun Moon & Hokum.
Dirty Diana& Van Guard
red ashes
Courtesy of Event of the. Photos
About damn time that we get these guys going again, Brooks called back as he walked into the barn. Justin and Ripley were tacking up a pair of horses for the first workout of the day. It was a workout Brooks had been looking forward to for a while. It would be the last of Red Herring's workouts. He'd fallen ill with a virus leading to thirty days out of training and thirty days under hard gallops and breezes. Brooks' blue jean eyes narrowed as Ripley cringed away, walked back into her office. He rolled his shoulders, reminding himself that their shattered relationship was more a product of Ripley's decision, and turned his attention to the colt that had been clouding his thoughts.
Roiling muscle moved beneath copper penny hide. The horse stood tall and proud with his broad shoulders and full rump on brilliant display. The Arizona colt had weakened under the Triple Crown pressure, but now... Now, Brooks thought, he was about to come roaring back to full strength. His blaze face turned and sharp eyes narrowed and scanned Brooks' frame. Brooks sucked in a breath, taking in the full heat and power that circled Red Herring. Two months off and the colt looked better than ever. He'd grown to 16.3 hands and now stood even with Ashes to Ashes who scowled from beyond. Brooks wanted to clap his hands, explode with emotion. Red Herring was coming back and his first stop would be in the Hollywood Gold Cup.
Justin stroked a hand down Ashes to Ashes' neck. The Crooked Fire stallion stared jealousy at Brooks and Red Herring. Not one for being surpassed, he stomped furiously, tossing his head and threatening to lift off of the ground. Brooks cocked an eyebrow, patted Red's burly shoulder and stepped up to face his pride for the last two seasons. I know big, handsome man. You want my attention more than anyone in the world. Brooks sighed, turned to Justin. You tell anyone I'm about to hug this horse and I'll deny it. Justin grinned, nodded and faced the opposite direction. Brooks took a deep breath, taking in the sculpture that was Ashes. Without further ado, Brooks flung his arms around the horse's powerful neck. Ashes tensed at first, then when no harm came he relaxed. His eyes grew gentle and content. And this was what the connection between rider and horse was all about.
Brooks released the stallion, patted his neck and turned to Justin. You take care of him today, pardner. That's my pride right in the palm of your hand. Justin shrugged, rolled his eyes, but he understood that Brooks seriously meant what he said. He took the reins from Brooks' hands and led the stallion out of the barn. This would not be his first ride on Ashes, but it would be his first workout with him. Brooks followed with Red Herring, talking to his burly colt and impressed with the classic way that he seemed to carry himself with now. At first I thought Rip was wrong in demanding he get two months off, but, really, he looks better than he ever has. Justin grinned as he leaped aboard Ashes. The stallion stiffened, snorted uneasily. Perhaps he will be more competitive on the dirt scene than you two think.
Brooks swung up into the saddle, sighing as if he were returning to his home after a long, arduous vacation. Hey Red. Ready to get going again tough horse. Red pranced in place, eyeing Ashes to Ashes with fury and eagerness in his eyes. Ashes returned the dominating glare, switching his tail with challenge glinting in his gaze. There was definitely about to be a race. And it would be wild one to say the least.
The stallion and colt jogged down the path, Ashes in front. Justin was grinning inside at the feel of the strength that rippled through Ashes' body. His dark frame glittered as if polished. He was perfectly groomed and ready to roll. If ever Ashes was ready to run the race of his life, it was probably now. The stud always seemed to fire best off of a layoff. Justin gave his neck an appreciative slap as Ashes stepped onto the dirt track.
Red Herring bucked the moment his shoed hooves touched dirt. Long since prepared, Brooks moved easily with the rough movement, hands twining with the long mane. The blaze faced colt then proceeded to rear, eyes blazing in full fury and passion. He was a runner. He'd grown up and he was ready to roll. The second Ashes moved into a gallop, Red was rumbling after him, tail flying out behind like a banner. Brooks stood in the stirrups, high as could be. He could not let Red exude so much speed in the beginning of the workout. Red needed to remember what it was to race. Ashes would have him for lunch if he didn't.
Boy, Ashes was smooth as a jazz dance. Justin leaned close as the stallion galloped over the inside dirt. He was powerful, strong and just had an incredible ability to rate himself. Justin grinned when Red Herring rocketed up to Ashes neck, white rimmed eyes filled with loathing. Justin shot the grin at Brooks who nodded back. Think you can take us? Justin laughed. I don't know this is your horse Brooks. Think he can? Brooks considered briefly, shrugged his shoulder. Justin caught a glimpse of a sharp grin a moment before Red Herring roared ahead of them.
Shaking the reins, Justin released Ashes up the rail. The blood bay horse shot forward, legs sweeping over the ground and cutting holes through the wind. His ears bobbed up and down, playing in his black mane. Justin felt a sense of ease with this horse. Ashes felt like he could tackle anything and with aplomb. He burst up the rail as Red hit the turn, knocking the burly chestnut out a horse width. Red pinned his ears, shook off the knock and dug in to run head and head with Ashes.
The dirt routers streaked through the backstretch, legs extending to massive lengths. Today was a lung opener. The next three days before their races would be stamina building gallops. Today was a warning to their opponents. While Witch Creek may be lacking in the dirt department, things were about to change. Ashes to Ashes and Red Herring were rested and waiting for the more tired horses that had been running for months without a break. The time to strike was now.
Their gallops became louder and fiercer. Each step was a drum beat to a war song. Ashes was brilliant in his run, Justin's hands hadn't even moved and the stallion was keeping pace with the dog that was Red Herring. Red, ever determined to drive his older counterpart crazy, never let the four year old have a breather. He'd moved up to run nose and nose with the bay horse. His eyes were crazed with eagerness to run Ashes into the ground. Brooks leaned close and low, moving every stride with the horse. Red was simply out of this world brilliant today. Brooks sighed. How had Ripley known?
The homestretch spread like a brown carpet before them as the pair surged off of the final turn. Red Herring finally got his nose in front of Ashes, but Brooks could sense that Ashes had a lot still in his bag of tricks. He'd ridden him enough times to know. Brooks watched Justin's hands carefully. Red seemed keen to keep on going by the horse, but his energy was better spent grinding it out. Ashes could only run so fast. Red could sustain his run for longer periods of time and over more ground.
Then the signal came. Justin tapped his fingers on the leathers, grinning wildly when Ashes flew up the rail. Brooks let Red go at first, a furlong out from the wire. He brought him in though, letting Ashes get a half-length lead. Ashes was loaded with speed and he cruised. Red's surprise attack at the end would catch him off guard. Justin felt the cunning eyes of Brooks eyeing Ashes. He cursed the fact that Brooks knew the stallion so well. Justin whispered to the horse, begging him to be prepared. He kept tapping the reins, dragging the stallion's attention to his competition instead of just simply running.
Then the moment came two hundred yards from the wire. Brooks jabbed his heels into Red's sides, shook the reins, and the rabbit eyed chestnut whipped forward. He flew as if being chased, dismantling the half-length lead and shooting to a neck lead himself. Justin called on Ashes and now they had a duel. Each horse bore down upon the ground with mighty strides. Each tested speed against speed, stamina against stamina. This was a test of heart and skills, knowledge and experience. Brook and Justin stood the moment they crossed the wire. It was too close to call. Perhaps it wouldn't be when the pair of horses finally returned to the track.
Roiling muscle moved beneath copper penny hide. The horse stood tall and proud with his broad shoulders and full rump on brilliant display. The Arizona colt had weakened under the Triple Crown pressure, but now... Now, Brooks thought, he was about to come roaring back to full strength. His blaze face turned and sharp eyes narrowed and scanned Brooks' frame. Brooks sucked in a breath, taking in the full heat and power that circled Red Herring. Two months off and the colt looked better than ever. He'd grown to 16.3 hands and now stood even with Ashes to Ashes who scowled from beyond. Brooks wanted to clap his hands, explode with emotion. Red Herring was coming back and his first stop would be in the Hollywood Gold Cup.
Justin stroked a hand down Ashes to Ashes' neck. The Crooked Fire stallion stared jealousy at Brooks and Red Herring. Not one for being surpassed, he stomped furiously, tossing his head and threatening to lift off of the ground. Brooks cocked an eyebrow, patted Red's burly shoulder and stepped up to face his pride for the last two seasons. I know big, handsome man. You want my attention more than anyone in the world. Brooks sighed, turned to Justin. You tell anyone I'm about to hug this horse and I'll deny it. Justin grinned, nodded and faced the opposite direction. Brooks took a deep breath, taking in the sculpture that was Ashes. Without further ado, Brooks flung his arms around the horse's powerful neck. Ashes tensed at first, then when no harm came he relaxed. His eyes grew gentle and content. And this was what the connection between rider and horse was all about.
Brooks released the stallion, patted his neck and turned to Justin. You take care of him today, pardner. That's my pride right in the palm of your hand. Justin shrugged, rolled his eyes, but he understood that Brooks seriously meant what he said. He took the reins from Brooks' hands and led the stallion out of the barn. This would not be his first ride on Ashes, but it would be his first workout with him. Brooks followed with Red Herring, talking to his burly colt and impressed with the classic way that he seemed to carry himself with now. At first I thought Rip was wrong in demanding he get two months off, but, really, he looks better than he ever has. Justin grinned as he leaped aboard Ashes. The stallion stiffened, snorted uneasily. Perhaps he will be more competitive on the dirt scene than you two think.
Brooks swung up into the saddle, sighing as if he were returning to his home after a long, arduous vacation. Hey Red. Ready to get going again tough horse. Red pranced in place, eyeing Ashes to Ashes with fury and eagerness in his eyes. Ashes returned the dominating glare, switching his tail with challenge glinting in his gaze. There was definitely about to be a race. And it would be wild one to say the least.
The stallion and colt jogged down the path, Ashes in front. Justin was grinning inside at the feel of the strength that rippled through Ashes' body. His dark frame glittered as if polished. He was perfectly groomed and ready to roll. If ever Ashes was ready to run the race of his life, it was probably now. The stud always seemed to fire best off of a layoff. Justin gave his neck an appreciative slap as Ashes stepped onto the dirt track.
Red Herring bucked the moment his shoed hooves touched dirt. Long since prepared, Brooks moved easily with the rough movement, hands twining with the long mane. The blaze faced colt then proceeded to rear, eyes blazing in full fury and passion. He was a runner. He'd grown up and he was ready to roll. The second Ashes moved into a gallop, Red was rumbling after him, tail flying out behind like a banner. Brooks stood in the stirrups, high as could be. He could not let Red exude so much speed in the beginning of the workout. Red needed to remember what it was to race. Ashes would have him for lunch if he didn't.
Boy, Ashes was smooth as a jazz dance. Justin leaned close as the stallion galloped over the inside dirt. He was powerful, strong and just had an incredible ability to rate himself. Justin grinned when Red Herring rocketed up to Ashes neck, white rimmed eyes filled with loathing. Justin shot the grin at Brooks who nodded back. Think you can take us? Justin laughed. I don't know this is your horse Brooks. Think he can? Brooks considered briefly, shrugged his shoulder. Justin caught a glimpse of a sharp grin a moment before Red Herring roared ahead of them.
Shaking the reins, Justin released Ashes up the rail. The blood bay horse shot forward, legs sweeping over the ground and cutting holes through the wind. His ears bobbed up and down, playing in his black mane. Justin felt a sense of ease with this horse. Ashes felt like he could tackle anything and with aplomb. He burst up the rail as Red hit the turn, knocking the burly chestnut out a horse width. Red pinned his ears, shook off the knock and dug in to run head and head with Ashes.
The dirt routers streaked through the backstretch, legs extending to massive lengths. Today was a lung opener. The next three days before their races would be stamina building gallops. Today was a warning to their opponents. While Witch Creek may be lacking in the dirt department, things were about to change. Ashes to Ashes and Red Herring were rested and waiting for the more tired horses that had been running for months without a break. The time to strike was now.
Their gallops became louder and fiercer. Each step was a drum beat to a war song. Ashes was brilliant in his run, Justin's hands hadn't even moved and the stallion was keeping pace with the dog that was Red Herring. Red, ever determined to drive his older counterpart crazy, never let the four year old have a breather. He'd moved up to run nose and nose with the bay horse. His eyes were crazed with eagerness to run Ashes into the ground. Brooks leaned close and low, moving every stride with the horse. Red was simply out of this world brilliant today. Brooks sighed. How had Ripley known?
The homestretch spread like a brown carpet before them as the pair surged off of the final turn. Red Herring finally got his nose in front of Ashes, but Brooks could sense that Ashes had a lot still in his bag of tricks. He'd ridden him enough times to know. Brooks watched Justin's hands carefully. Red seemed keen to keep on going by the horse, but his energy was better spent grinding it out. Ashes could only run so fast. Red could sustain his run for longer periods of time and over more ground.
Then the signal came. Justin tapped his fingers on the leathers, grinning wildly when Ashes flew up the rail. Brooks let Red go at first, a furlong out from the wire. He brought him in though, letting Ashes get a half-length lead. Ashes was loaded with speed and he cruised. Red's surprise attack at the end would catch him off guard. Justin felt the cunning eyes of Brooks eyeing Ashes. He cursed the fact that Brooks knew the stallion so well. Justin whispered to the horse, begging him to be prepared. He kept tapping the reins, dragging the stallion's attention to his competition instead of just simply running.
Then the moment came two hundred yards from the wire. Brooks jabbed his heels into Red's sides, shook the reins, and the rabbit eyed chestnut whipped forward. He flew as if being chased, dismantling the half-length lead and shooting to a neck lead himself. Justin called on Ashes and now they had a duel. Each horse bore down upon the ground with mighty strides. Each tested speed against speed, stamina against stamina. This was a test of heart and skills, knowledge and experience. Brook and Justin stood the moment they crossed the wire. It was too close to call. Perhaps it wouldn't be when the pair of horses finally returned to the track.
mourn the devil
Courtesy of Event of the Year Photos.
Nickers of welcome sounded from the barn the moment Red Herring and Ashes to Ashes returned from cooling out. A nicker fluttered the nostrils beneath Ripley's work scarred hand. Her green eyes flicked up from the delicate quivering and met the eyes of the best two year old horse in her barn. A gentle awareness gleamed in the old eyes, as well as simple affection for the woman who stood before her. Hourglass was the only yearling that Ripley had bred and birthed out of the Year Eleven crop. She'd been special from the start. Her cute little scampy nature was beginning to develop into the toughest minded turf filly in the country. Ripley had never been more delighted to see a horse turn into a star than with this particular horse. This horse whose own mother Ripley had raised, trained and seen grow into a star. Time flew by when you least expected it to.
A deeper nicker sounded from the colt that Reese was currently fiddling with. Mourning Passion, a black half-brother to Screaming Mimi, stared with an imperious gaze as the two older horses were led by him. He of only one victory was facing down grade two and grade one caliber animals. Reese thought him either brave or foolish. She turned his savage head to look him straight in the eye, analyzing the emotions that glittered there. If there was ever a smarter colt than Mourning Passion, Reese did not want to meet him. The son of Tempered Passion and Requiem danced on toes the color of flint. He was fast and strong. He was brilliant in mind and on the track he was scary quick. No, Mourn was not foolish. He was very brave for a horse of little experience.
So Ripley... What surface are you thinking of for this workout? Ripley looked up from picking Hourglass' toes. We'll do the dirt today. I swear if I ever get the need to fix something that's not broken, we'll have to stick her on the dirt. I don't think Mourn will be as willing to tackle the turf. It's starting to get slick and I don't want to risk him. He's too young. Reese grinned in agreement. Her relationship with Ripley Marsh was definitely improving. You know what. I think Mourn will eventually be able to beat The Devil's Hourglass. Ripley's eyes lit with a challenge. But he won't beat her today.
You don't know that. Reese cackled and darted out, dragging a trotting Mourning Passion with her. The colt's ears flickered excitedly over his head as he moved sideways, eyes gleaming with the sudden excitement. He danced excitedly as Reese hurtled herself onto his back. He tossed his head, snorted eagerly. His savage head twisted on his elegant neck to high Hourglass as she stepped out quietly from the barn. Reese shivered at the cold look, positive that Mourn was stashing information for the later running. She didn't mind though. She loved having a calculating mount.
Ripley slipped into the saddle, let her sturdy filly step out into a jog down the path after Mourning Passion. Her eyes glinted with a fire about to rage, her muscles were coiled nice and tight. She was not a dummy either. Mourning Passion could look at her with those cold eyes, but he never would chill her into fear. The star marked filly muscled the leaner colt right out of the way, flicking her tail over his thick rump. Ripley casually patted her neck. Hourglass is going to teach your boy some manners. I hope you don't mind. Reese glared at Ripley's back, but shrugged. She was the boss. She'd planned the workout for some reason. He says 'bring it.'
Ripley laughed as Hourglass stepped foot onto the track. Her ears pricked right up as the track spread out wide before her. Her eyes danced with eagerness and enthusiasm. This was her platform, her throne. No hotshot dirt colt was going to topple the throne just by showing up. She squealed furiously when he darted up her inside slick as a fish. She launched a fierce kick, nearly throwing Ripley. The woman hung on, knowing the filly wouldn't bolt to continue the attack. She clacked her teeth, pinning her ears. Mourn squealed back and darted toward the rail. Reese forced herself to relax, made herself think of something else besides those hooves just missing herself and her relatively untried colt. That's the way to teach manners I suppose.
Ripley signaled Hourglass to move into a canter two horse widths away from Mourning Passion. The dark filly kept her head cocked to the inside, ears pinned flat against her head. She looked fierce and dangerous. Ripley eyed Mourn. He was bent outward toward the rail, head cocked to eye her as he galloped freely. He wasn't taking any chances, protecting himself and his rider. His dark form was beautiful and pure in its movement. He was perfection where Hourglass was gross with weight until she got running.
The pair galloped strongly into the backstretch, ears flicking constantly, nostrils flaring as they forgot about one another and thought more about what was going on. Reese, finally settled in, perched confidently at Mourn's withers, dark eyes lighting with contentment. His first start had been very encouraging. He'd finished behind a slightly more experienced two year old from Dark Justice Stables. Now that he had that knowledge he could only go up. His next start would come very soon and he would be even more ready. He floated over the dirt with such confidence and class that Reese believed he would turn into something special at least by the end of next year.
Hourglass rumbled in the hot seat just off of Mourning Passion's barrel. Her well-rounded body turned into something absolutely fierce and striking mid-run. At a standstill, Hourglass simply looked chunky. In action, Hourglass turned into something dangerously lethal. Ripley hadn't budged an inch since setting the filly down into a gallop. Here was talent that roared no matter the situation. Her eyes flickered over Mourning Passion a time or two as they skipped over the dirt and into the homestretch. Ripley could feel the tensing up. Hourglass was expecting him to blitz. And she was exactly right.
Reese released the reins. Mourn grabbed the bit and surged forward in the form of a black whirling tornado. He stormed over the track, hooves beating mightily into the dirt track. He was a dervish in full flight, uncontained, uncontrollable. Mourn's ears were lost in his gorgeous mane as he dashed up the track. Reese was grinning as she glanced beneath her arm. Where was Hourglass? She heard a roar of hooves to her distant outside and whipped her head up, staring in shock.
Hourglass now flew five paths away from Mourning Passion, short strides expanding into massive ones. Her eyes were full of lethal heat and she looked bent on defeating Mourning Passion. Reese did something she normally wouldn't do then. She guided Mourn sharply into the middle of the track, brushed him up against Hourglass. He pinned his ears and bared his teeth in full fury and disgust. Hourglass cast him a similar look. The riders shook their horses up to refocus them, set them down for the last furlong of the run.
Together the lean black colt and burly bay filly stormed to the wire. There was a look of pure fury, hatred and competitive fire dancing upon their faces. Hourglass' teeth were bared in loathing when Mourn continually brushed her. Like a linebacker, however, Hourglass was pushing him all over the track. He dug in deep, fighting her for everything she was worth. He was not an easy opponent. Reese tangled her fingers into the colt's mane, called on him with words alone. There you go handsome man!
Hourglass whirled beneath the wire a savage head in front. Mourn squealed as she continued to gallop out past him. Reese stroked his neck as he fought to go on. The black son of Requiem had just learned what it mean to be courageous in the face of fire. She could never be more proud of him than she had been at that moment. He rolled out into a confident gallop, putting on a burst of speed as he drew up alongside Hourglass. She flashed him her angry look, but softened when Ripley began to talk to her. There you go, girl. Absolutely perfect.
A deeper nicker sounded from the colt that Reese was currently fiddling with. Mourning Passion, a black half-brother to Screaming Mimi, stared with an imperious gaze as the two older horses were led by him. He of only one victory was facing down grade two and grade one caliber animals. Reese thought him either brave or foolish. She turned his savage head to look him straight in the eye, analyzing the emotions that glittered there. If there was ever a smarter colt than Mourning Passion, Reese did not want to meet him. The son of Tempered Passion and Requiem danced on toes the color of flint. He was fast and strong. He was brilliant in mind and on the track he was scary quick. No, Mourn was not foolish. He was very brave for a horse of little experience.
So Ripley... What surface are you thinking of for this workout? Ripley looked up from picking Hourglass' toes. We'll do the dirt today. I swear if I ever get the need to fix something that's not broken, we'll have to stick her on the dirt. I don't think Mourn will be as willing to tackle the turf. It's starting to get slick and I don't want to risk him. He's too young. Reese grinned in agreement. Her relationship with Ripley Marsh was definitely improving. You know what. I think Mourn will eventually be able to beat The Devil's Hourglass. Ripley's eyes lit with a challenge. But he won't beat her today.
You don't know that. Reese cackled and darted out, dragging a trotting Mourning Passion with her. The colt's ears flickered excitedly over his head as he moved sideways, eyes gleaming with the sudden excitement. He danced excitedly as Reese hurtled herself onto his back. He tossed his head, snorted eagerly. His savage head twisted on his elegant neck to high Hourglass as she stepped out quietly from the barn. Reese shivered at the cold look, positive that Mourn was stashing information for the later running. She didn't mind though. She loved having a calculating mount.
Ripley slipped into the saddle, let her sturdy filly step out into a jog down the path after Mourning Passion. Her eyes glinted with a fire about to rage, her muscles were coiled nice and tight. She was not a dummy either. Mourning Passion could look at her with those cold eyes, but he never would chill her into fear. The star marked filly muscled the leaner colt right out of the way, flicking her tail over his thick rump. Ripley casually patted her neck. Hourglass is going to teach your boy some manners. I hope you don't mind. Reese glared at Ripley's back, but shrugged. She was the boss. She'd planned the workout for some reason. He says 'bring it.'
Ripley laughed as Hourglass stepped foot onto the track. Her ears pricked right up as the track spread out wide before her. Her eyes danced with eagerness and enthusiasm. This was her platform, her throne. No hotshot dirt colt was going to topple the throne just by showing up. She squealed furiously when he darted up her inside slick as a fish. She launched a fierce kick, nearly throwing Ripley. The woman hung on, knowing the filly wouldn't bolt to continue the attack. She clacked her teeth, pinning her ears. Mourn squealed back and darted toward the rail. Reese forced herself to relax, made herself think of something else besides those hooves just missing herself and her relatively untried colt. That's the way to teach manners I suppose.
Ripley signaled Hourglass to move into a canter two horse widths away from Mourning Passion. The dark filly kept her head cocked to the inside, ears pinned flat against her head. She looked fierce and dangerous. Ripley eyed Mourn. He was bent outward toward the rail, head cocked to eye her as he galloped freely. He wasn't taking any chances, protecting himself and his rider. His dark form was beautiful and pure in its movement. He was perfection where Hourglass was gross with weight until she got running.
The pair galloped strongly into the backstretch, ears flicking constantly, nostrils flaring as they forgot about one another and thought more about what was going on. Reese, finally settled in, perched confidently at Mourn's withers, dark eyes lighting with contentment. His first start had been very encouraging. He'd finished behind a slightly more experienced two year old from Dark Justice Stables. Now that he had that knowledge he could only go up. His next start would come very soon and he would be even more ready. He floated over the dirt with such confidence and class that Reese believed he would turn into something special at least by the end of next year.
Hourglass rumbled in the hot seat just off of Mourning Passion's barrel. Her well-rounded body turned into something absolutely fierce and striking mid-run. At a standstill, Hourglass simply looked chunky. In action, Hourglass turned into something dangerously lethal. Ripley hadn't budged an inch since setting the filly down into a gallop. Here was talent that roared no matter the situation. Her eyes flickered over Mourning Passion a time or two as they skipped over the dirt and into the homestretch. Ripley could feel the tensing up. Hourglass was expecting him to blitz. And she was exactly right.
Reese released the reins. Mourn grabbed the bit and surged forward in the form of a black whirling tornado. He stormed over the track, hooves beating mightily into the dirt track. He was a dervish in full flight, uncontained, uncontrollable. Mourn's ears were lost in his gorgeous mane as he dashed up the track. Reese was grinning as she glanced beneath her arm. Where was Hourglass? She heard a roar of hooves to her distant outside and whipped her head up, staring in shock.
Hourglass now flew five paths away from Mourning Passion, short strides expanding into massive ones. Her eyes were full of lethal heat and she looked bent on defeating Mourning Passion. Reese did something she normally wouldn't do then. She guided Mourn sharply into the middle of the track, brushed him up against Hourglass. He pinned his ears and bared his teeth in full fury and disgust. Hourglass cast him a similar look. The riders shook their horses up to refocus them, set them down for the last furlong of the run.
Together the lean black colt and burly bay filly stormed to the wire. There was a look of pure fury, hatred and competitive fire dancing upon their faces. Hourglass' teeth were bared in loathing when Mourn continually brushed her. Like a linebacker, however, Hourglass was pushing him all over the track. He dug in deep, fighting her for everything she was worth. He was not an easy opponent. Reese tangled her fingers into the colt's mane, called on him with words alone. There you go handsome man!
Hourglass whirled beneath the wire a savage head in front. Mourn squealed as she continued to gallop out past him. Reese stroked his neck as he fought to go on. The black son of Requiem had just learned what it mean to be courageous in the face of fire. She could never be more proud of him than she had been at that moment. He rolled out into a confident gallop, putting on a burst of speed as he drew up alongside Hourglass. She flashed him her angry look, but softened when Ripley began to talk to her. There you go, girl. Absolutely perfect.
indian prayer
Courtesy of Event of the Year Photos.
Ripley sat quietly in her training booth, green eyes flickering over the world that she had created for herself, her staff and her horses. Things were going better than she ever could have hoped for. Foals were being born that reflected every inch of the Witch Creek statement. They were powerful, incredible and determined to give and pick a fight no matter the race or competition. This was what made Witch Creek what it was today. Ripley had reflected the same qualities fighting herself from the brink all the way to the top. She had seen much in her 31 years of life. Too much in her opinion. She let out a sigh, weariness expelling with it. There were horses to watch and manage. She could not rest on her laurels for more than ten minutes. Particularly on a workout day.
She turned then, hands clasped behind her back, and noted the next pair of fillies jogging down the dirt path. Wish Upon A Star, recent winner of her first major victory in the Autumn Cup Grade Three Turf, strode proudly with her elegant ears pricked. She was developing into something. Her future was still shadowy, even to Ripley, but the unspeakable quality was there. It was measured and brilliant and waiting to exploited and molded. Wish so obviously belonged on the track for a long duration. She was a lesson to Ripley that not every single one of her horses was going to be precocious right from the getgo.
A snort-squeal echoed through the air to touch Ripley's ears. She smiled at the sight of the plain Jane bay currently flitting around like a whirling dervish. Native Flame and Strike The Win's Year Eleven baby sure was turning into a spitfire. She tossed her head repeatedly, shaking the reins with verve all the way back to Laura DeComte. The young woman was grinning at the bad behavior of her three year old filly. Indian Darling needed to be more of a minx now and then. Now that she was running in the higher class races the bay filly needed to step up and take command. Indian Darling and Wish Upon A Star and possibly Dirty Diana would be the faces of the older mare division next year.
Maggie patted Wish's neck as the classic bay filly stepped onto the dirt track. Her ears pointed straight into the air and her eyes glittered with absolute pleasure. Wish was becoming more of Maggie's favorite three year old every day. She just had a pleasant and willing aura that was hard to find at Witch Creek. Maggie patted her sleek neck, feeling contentment circulate through her system. It was wonderful being with a steady barn year after year and watching horses grow up. It was so much better than catch riding. She glanced back at Laura, smiled. She'd saved her niece from years of bitter hardships by bringing her to Witch Creek. If only Laura knew. Maggie shrugged, rolled her shoulders and nodded up to where Ripley stood, still and watchful.
Laura aimed a short, sarcastic salute at Ripley. She grinned when the head trainer shook her head. Darla nickered excitedly, black stockinged legs lifting in eagerness. Alright Darla. Think you can handle a mile workout against Wish? The filly tossed her head, eyes pinning. Thought so. The Native Flame filly bolted then, legs sweeping quickly over the ground, and darted around a much slower Wish. Maggie looked up, shook her head in irritation, and allowed Wish to step out into her gloriously perfect gallop stride. The Hall of Fame produced filly confidently tracked the much hotter three year old. Maggie stroked her mane, pleased with her attitude.
Wish drew up to a length behind Indian Darling before Maggie shut off the engine. Wish could coast brilliantly for a mile and a quarter and beyond. Maggie enjoyed the lull that came with this particular filly. She worked so well and knew exactly when to move. It carried over in her races, but now Wish was starting to find the winner's circle. It made a difference in terms of her confidence level. She galloped strongly just outside of Indian Darling, ears pricked forward, swinging side to side with easy confidence.
Indian Darling was freaking intense, thought Laura. She didn't know where the change had come from, but, boy, was it making a difference. She stormed up the backstretch with powerfully fast strides. She was bloody brilliant at the moment. Few horses could show this kind of ability. Darla did well second off of a layoff. She would be running in the Valorizzare Derby next week at The Wire. The Wire had been Indian Darling's home turf throughout the last two years. She did not need to be prepped in any way, shape or form over that quirky track. Darla had been a star on the rise there earlier this season. It was only when she was switched to the races at Green Horse Fields that she had started to lag back a little. Laura patted her muscled neck, nodding along to the rhythm of Darla's strong strides.
The bay fillies were clipping off absolutely solid fractions, fractions that had Ripley raising her eyebrows. Wish still galloped fluidly behind Indian Darling. The Native Flame daughter was absolutely bent on cooking Wish. Ripley crossed her arms, noted the way that Laura was holding the reins, shook her head. The girl had a loaded gun sitting beneath her. Darla's mouth gaped around the bit, lather flinging back over her lean frame. Ripley, noted that the pair had passed through the four furlong marker. Wish was holding her own as Darla clicked off the fractions, but surely she would get a little tired as well. She was only a length off of the vicious pace.
Laura buckled down on Indian Darling, imploring her to give in a little and settle. The filly was absolutely flying without a horse in front of her to slow her down. The girl gritted her teeth, tugged on the reins twice, jerking the bit from Darla's death grip. Finally, the filly lengthened herself out and relaxed. She took a couple big breaths, snorting at various intervals, but, finally, she was back in control. Laura patted the filly's warming neck, praised her for the cooperation.
With three furlongs left, Maggie began to tick off the times. Darla had taken them through very quickly. Not quite at racing times, but strong times nonetheless. Wish was not showing signs of a lot being taken out of her. She willingly picked up a faster pace and moved to run at Indian Darling's barrel. Her ears were still flicking about with ease and her eyes were calm and relaxed. Maggie was sure that Wish would be a potent marathon runner for next year's older horse classics. She just moved with such ease and such verve at the end of her race.
Darla hugged the rail of the turn. Her ears were pinned, her mouth gaping again, but out of fury, not fight. Laura allowed increments of rein to slide through her fingers, noted the quickening of stride. Indian Darling was fast and she could carry her speed. She would be tough to say the least in the Risorgimento Series. Laura grimaced when her stirrups scraped the paint, moved Darla off slightly and pushed Wish further out off the turn. Maggie sent an angry look at her direction, but took the brush with a grain of salt. She set Wish down then, certain her filly would be prepared to make a sustained, swarming run. Wish proved her right when she whipped up to run a head in front of Indian Darling. Her move was tremendous and incredible for having set off fast fractions like that.
Laura didn't pump her hands to keep Indian Darling going. There was plenty left in reserve. She could feel it. She knew when a mount was giving way and this wasn't it. Indian Darling had been taking a break when Wish made her profound move to take the lead. Laura let the bay filly straighten out before pushing. Indian Darling zipped up the rail, legs sweeping furiously beneath her with a perfectly timed move. She shocked Wish Upon A Star by taking the lead again by a neck. Maggie grunted at her tricky niece, nudged her filly and now they were battling.
Together, the fillies barreled down the homestretch, again blitzing through fractions that impressed Ripley from her booth. And they were doing it with strength and ease. How? Ripley had no clue. But perhaps they were coming of age finally. Perhaps the fillies had been waiting to make their marks in late three year old season, early four. Ripley wouldn't complain a bit. She clapped her hands enthusiastically when the cruised beneath the wire, well in control and with the same speed they'd begun with. There was no staggerfest to behold today. Wish and Darla pulled up in the middle of the backstretch, ears pricked, mouths moving as though they were looking for more.
She turned then, hands clasped behind her back, and noted the next pair of fillies jogging down the dirt path. Wish Upon A Star, recent winner of her first major victory in the Autumn Cup Grade Three Turf, strode proudly with her elegant ears pricked. She was developing into something. Her future was still shadowy, even to Ripley, but the unspeakable quality was there. It was measured and brilliant and waiting to exploited and molded. Wish so obviously belonged on the track for a long duration. She was a lesson to Ripley that not every single one of her horses was going to be precocious right from the getgo.
A snort-squeal echoed through the air to touch Ripley's ears. She smiled at the sight of the plain Jane bay currently flitting around like a whirling dervish. Native Flame and Strike The Win's Year Eleven baby sure was turning into a spitfire. She tossed her head repeatedly, shaking the reins with verve all the way back to Laura DeComte. The young woman was grinning at the bad behavior of her three year old filly. Indian Darling needed to be more of a minx now and then. Now that she was running in the higher class races the bay filly needed to step up and take command. Indian Darling and Wish Upon A Star and possibly Dirty Diana would be the faces of the older mare division next year.
Maggie patted Wish's neck as the classic bay filly stepped onto the dirt track. Her ears pointed straight into the air and her eyes glittered with absolute pleasure. Wish was becoming more of Maggie's favorite three year old every day. She just had a pleasant and willing aura that was hard to find at Witch Creek. Maggie patted her sleek neck, feeling contentment circulate through her system. It was wonderful being with a steady barn year after year and watching horses grow up. It was so much better than catch riding. She glanced back at Laura, smiled. She'd saved her niece from years of bitter hardships by bringing her to Witch Creek. If only Laura knew. Maggie shrugged, rolled her shoulders and nodded up to where Ripley stood, still and watchful.
Laura aimed a short, sarcastic salute at Ripley. She grinned when the head trainer shook her head. Darla nickered excitedly, black stockinged legs lifting in eagerness. Alright Darla. Think you can handle a mile workout against Wish? The filly tossed her head, eyes pinning. Thought so. The Native Flame filly bolted then, legs sweeping quickly over the ground, and darted around a much slower Wish. Maggie looked up, shook her head in irritation, and allowed Wish to step out into her gloriously perfect gallop stride. The Hall of Fame produced filly confidently tracked the much hotter three year old. Maggie stroked her mane, pleased with her attitude.
Wish drew up to a length behind Indian Darling before Maggie shut off the engine. Wish could coast brilliantly for a mile and a quarter and beyond. Maggie enjoyed the lull that came with this particular filly. She worked so well and knew exactly when to move. It carried over in her races, but now Wish was starting to find the winner's circle. It made a difference in terms of her confidence level. She galloped strongly just outside of Indian Darling, ears pricked forward, swinging side to side with easy confidence.
Indian Darling was freaking intense, thought Laura. She didn't know where the change had come from, but, boy, was it making a difference. She stormed up the backstretch with powerfully fast strides. She was bloody brilliant at the moment. Few horses could show this kind of ability. Darla did well second off of a layoff. She would be running in the Valorizzare Derby next week at The Wire. The Wire had been Indian Darling's home turf throughout the last two years. She did not need to be prepped in any way, shape or form over that quirky track. Darla had been a star on the rise there earlier this season. It was only when she was switched to the races at Green Horse Fields that she had started to lag back a little. Laura patted her muscled neck, nodding along to the rhythm of Darla's strong strides.
The bay fillies were clipping off absolutely solid fractions, fractions that had Ripley raising her eyebrows. Wish still galloped fluidly behind Indian Darling. The Native Flame daughter was absolutely bent on cooking Wish. Ripley crossed her arms, noted the way that Laura was holding the reins, shook her head. The girl had a loaded gun sitting beneath her. Darla's mouth gaped around the bit, lather flinging back over her lean frame. Ripley, noted that the pair had passed through the four furlong marker. Wish was holding her own as Darla clicked off the fractions, but surely she would get a little tired as well. She was only a length off of the vicious pace.
Laura buckled down on Indian Darling, imploring her to give in a little and settle. The filly was absolutely flying without a horse in front of her to slow her down. The girl gritted her teeth, tugged on the reins twice, jerking the bit from Darla's death grip. Finally, the filly lengthened herself out and relaxed. She took a couple big breaths, snorting at various intervals, but, finally, she was back in control. Laura patted the filly's warming neck, praised her for the cooperation.
With three furlongs left, Maggie began to tick off the times. Darla had taken them through very quickly. Not quite at racing times, but strong times nonetheless. Wish was not showing signs of a lot being taken out of her. She willingly picked up a faster pace and moved to run at Indian Darling's barrel. Her ears were still flicking about with ease and her eyes were calm and relaxed. Maggie was sure that Wish would be a potent marathon runner for next year's older horse classics. She just moved with such ease and such verve at the end of her race.
Darla hugged the rail of the turn. Her ears were pinned, her mouth gaping again, but out of fury, not fight. Laura allowed increments of rein to slide through her fingers, noted the quickening of stride. Indian Darling was fast and she could carry her speed. She would be tough to say the least in the Risorgimento Series. Laura grimaced when her stirrups scraped the paint, moved Darla off slightly and pushed Wish further out off the turn. Maggie sent an angry look at her direction, but took the brush with a grain of salt. She set Wish down then, certain her filly would be prepared to make a sustained, swarming run. Wish proved her right when she whipped up to run a head in front of Indian Darling. Her move was tremendous and incredible for having set off fast fractions like that.
Laura didn't pump her hands to keep Indian Darling going. There was plenty left in reserve. She could feel it. She knew when a mount was giving way and this wasn't it. Indian Darling had been taking a break when Wish made her profound move to take the lead. Laura let the bay filly straighten out before pushing. Indian Darling zipped up the rail, legs sweeping furiously beneath her with a perfectly timed move. She shocked Wish Upon A Star by taking the lead again by a neck. Maggie grunted at her tricky niece, nudged her filly and now they were battling.
Together, the fillies barreled down the homestretch, again blitzing through fractions that impressed Ripley from her booth. And they were doing it with strength and ease. How? Ripley had no clue. But perhaps they were coming of age finally. Perhaps the fillies had been waiting to make their marks in late three year old season, early four. Ripley wouldn't complain a bit. She clapped her hands enthusiastically when the cruised beneath the wire, well in control and with the same speed they'd begun with. There was no staggerfest to behold today. Wish and Darla pulled up in the middle of the backstretch, ears pricked, mouths moving as though they were looking for more.
frightening touch
Courtesy of Event of the Year Photos.
Brown eyes were locked in a fierce battle of heated concentration. They burned with fury, anger, loathing, irritation. There was passion raging beneath all that molten brown, surrounded by thick layers of lashes. It was the look of a soul who knew what it meant to be beaten, but to keep battling and finding more until you came out with a victory. It was the look of a Thoroughbred racehorse. And it was found in Witch Creek Stable's main racehorse barn. In every single one of the horses standing or sleeping in the bedding covered stalls.
How long do you think they will keep staring each other down like that? Lane mumbled as she tightened the chin strap to her riding helmet. Her eyes were playful and full of light, but she knew the signs of two mares about to erupt into full out war. She glanced at Ripley Marsh, uneasy, but relaxing when she saw that her boss wasn't worried. Ripley was one of the finest horsewomen she'd ever met, a true blue expert in the silent language of the horse.
Ripley rubbed conditioner into her boots, green eyes trailing up from the detailed job to the two mares giving one another the stink eye. Forever. Until Fie's had enough. Ripley snickered when Fie pawed furiously at the ground. Or now. Stop it Fie! The Touch Up mare sent a furious look in Ripley's direction, pinning her ears and switching her tail. She would have turned tail if possible, but the cross-ties kept her from doing so. She just glowered at Ripley, casting snake eyes in Midnight Thriller's direction. The jet black mare was not phased in the least. She lifted her head, glaring imperiously at Fie, unimpressed.
Lane undid the cross-ties, gathering the leather reins into her gloves. Midtee let out a begrudging sigh when she turned her to head out of the barn. Her ears were locked back to analyze Fiery Touch's every movement. Still tied, Fie could only paw and glare at Ripley for release. Don't give me those looks ma'am. You've got some splainin' to do. Both of you. Last place finishes. Not a way to go into the Breeders Cup, Lady Jane. Fie rolled her eyes, half-rearing as if insulted. She wasn't. She was just being an overly excited racemare. Ripley unclipped her, led her after Midnight Thriller. She was kidding with Fiery Touch, but both of their placings had been baffling. Fie hadn't even made an attempt to run in the El Sol del Mar Memorial Stakes. It wasn't that she was in over her head either. Paradise Island had finished fourth ahead of them. So something was up with the country's best handicapping mares.
Lane stroked the satin neck belonging to her prized mare. Midnight Thriller was the only horse in the older division at Witch Creek that was not retiring at the end of the season. Her Highness had plenty of years left and it would not surprise Lane if Ripley kept her in training until six years old. When the mare was as incredible and easy to deal with, anyone with a brain would keep her around. Lane turned when Ripley trotted up to her aboard Fiery Touch. The blaze marked mare bared her teeth in Midtee's direction as she swaggered by. And that's why you're retiring Fie!
Ripley shot Lane a questionable look. Lane grimaced, realizing she'd spoken aloud. Just ignore me. Ripley shook her head, faced front. Al's daughter had more spirit than three people put together. It was why she wasn't allowed to speak to the press quite yet. Not that Lane knew that. She was always rushed off to the jocks room by a coaching Brooks. The blonde man had taken it upon himself to school Lane in the ways of jockeying and minding your manners off the track. On them, Lane was just as tough as a boy and that was what had attracted Ripley to her in the first place.
The lean mares picked up a canter-gallop the second they set hoof on the track. Ripley's bay mare moved casually over the dirt, mane and tail flying back behind her in a look of graceful aggression. Her eyes glinted with anger and fury. Fie was mentally and physically on the top of her game. Her loss in her last start would be taken with a grain of salt. Today was a new day. Midnight Thriller was a new competitor. She was an uprising competitor as well. Ripley nodded over to Lane as the pair of mares cruised into the first turn.
Lane nodded back, released Midtee's bit. The black filly stretched right out, legs reaching for the ground just beyond her flint-like hooves. And yes, Midnight Thriller was on the rise. Lane could feel it boiling beneath the raven-wing hide of her mount. The power was there. Her thrill in racing and winning was rising. Her dished nose lifted to the air, nostrils swelling in and out, taking it all in. Her eyes glowed brilliantly as she raced at Fiery Touch's throatlatch. Many doubted her because she was not Eternal Phantom. One twin was always considered lesser... But, perhaps, Lane thought, Midnight Thriller would grow at a different time period. She would not be a Horse of the Year, but she could grow into a champion of her own kind. Lane would join in on her journey and go as far as Midtee would take her.
Ripley patted Fie's neck as the feisty mare sped up through the backstretch. Her teeth were wrapped solidly around the bit, her ears were pinned back in all of that black mane. It was all in an effort to intimidate Midnight Thriller. But the daughter of Night Stalker was not so easily intimidated. And the daughter of Touch Up was not so easily swayed from her purpose of making Midtee's time out on the track a living Hell. The light bay mare swung in and out, pushing Midtee around at her will. Anytime Fiery Touch was worked, her partner and herself were always wrapped up in bandages. The light colored polos reflected the egg blue sky, glinting on the athletic legs of speed demons.
The wind whipped the mares as they soared into the final turn, chests widening with each nourishing, life giving breath. Fiery Touch remained in front, pushing Midnight Thriller's lighter body out two paths. The black mare squealed, pinned her ears back at the head honcho, ducking out another path to escape the assault. Fie snorted, satisfied when the Night Stalker mare backed off. She dashed back to the rail, skimming it with furious strides. Ripley leaned close, nearly grinning, but knowing it would irritate Lane. Fie was a saucy mare. She gave it to you for all you were worth.
The black mare drew herself up the moment she straightened into the stretch. Lane could only equal the movement to that of a black cobra preparing to strike. Her eyes were hard with hatred, her tail flying high over her rump, as she took in Fiery Touch with an elegant disdain. Lane grinned then, eyeing the light bay herself. Fie was only two lengths in front, well within Midtee's striking range. She would have to put up a fight if she wanted to win. And Midtee loved a fight.
The reins soared through Lane's gloved fingers and it was then that Midtee released her full fury. The black demoness stormed forward, legs streaking beneath her as she ran hell-bent for leather after Fiery Touch. The bay's ears flicked backward then, her nostrils flared briefly. Ripley let her own squeal loose, girlish and high-pitched, and egged Fie on with gasping excited breaths. Midtee was coming and coming quickly. Lane was buried in the flying, whipping mane of the black horse beneath her. She'd read all of Walter Farley's Black Stallion novels. And while his words rang true, words underestimated the full power of a Thoroughbred's punch.
Midtee was in full, elegant flight, gliding fluidly down the stretch, pushing her more worldly companion to her fullest. Fiery Touch motored up the rail, pressed between Midtee and the stream-lined metal. She pushed with all her might, all her fight. She was angered, a teapot ready to shrill should one more ounce of heated-aggression touch her. She pushed heartily, knocking the streaking Midtee away from her. Her eyes glittered with fury as she gave one last surge. Lane shook the reins, noting the determined look on Fie's face. This was it, now or never. The gas pedal was pressed to the floor. Midtee soared, running neck and neck with Fiery Touch, daring her to fight more, to be ready for the next race when surely the fight would not be easy to win.
The black and bay mare flew across the wire, so close together that it would be impossible to tell even with the most precise instrument. Hoof beats drifted upward, echoing across Witch Creek land, a warning drum. A storm was coming and bringing with it a frightening edge.
How long do you think they will keep staring each other down like that? Lane mumbled as she tightened the chin strap to her riding helmet. Her eyes were playful and full of light, but she knew the signs of two mares about to erupt into full out war. She glanced at Ripley Marsh, uneasy, but relaxing when she saw that her boss wasn't worried. Ripley was one of the finest horsewomen she'd ever met, a true blue expert in the silent language of the horse.
Ripley rubbed conditioner into her boots, green eyes trailing up from the detailed job to the two mares giving one another the stink eye. Forever. Until Fie's had enough. Ripley snickered when Fie pawed furiously at the ground. Or now. Stop it Fie! The Touch Up mare sent a furious look in Ripley's direction, pinning her ears and switching her tail. She would have turned tail if possible, but the cross-ties kept her from doing so. She just glowered at Ripley, casting snake eyes in Midnight Thriller's direction. The jet black mare was not phased in the least. She lifted her head, glaring imperiously at Fie, unimpressed.
Lane undid the cross-ties, gathering the leather reins into her gloves. Midtee let out a begrudging sigh when she turned her to head out of the barn. Her ears were locked back to analyze Fiery Touch's every movement. Still tied, Fie could only paw and glare at Ripley for release. Don't give me those looks ma'am. You've got some splainin' to do. Both of you. Last place finishes. Not a way to go into the Breeders Cup, Lady Jane. Fie rolled her eyes, half-rearing as if insulted. She wasn't. She was just being an overly excited racemare. Ripley unclipped her, led her after Midnight Thriller. She was kidding with Fiery Touch, but both of their placings had been baffling. Fie hadn't even made an attempt to run in the El Sol del Mar Memorial Stakes. It wasn't that she was in over her head either. Paradise Island had finished fourth ahead of them. So something was up with the country's best handicapping mares.
Lane stroked the satin neck belonging to her prized mare. Midnight Thriller was the only horse in the older division at Witch Creek that was not retiring at the end of the season. Her Highness had plenty of years left and it would not surprise Lane if Ripley kept her in training until six years old. When the mare was as incredible and easy to deal with, anyone with a brain would keep her around. Lane turned when Ripley trotted up to her aboard Fiery Touch. The blaze marked mare bared her teeth in Midtee's direction as she swaggered by. And that's why you're retiring Fie!
Ripley shot Lane a questionable look. Lane grimaced, realizing she'd spoken aloud. Just ignore me. Ripley shook her head, faced front. Al's daughter had more spirit than three people put together. It was why she wasn't allowed to speak to the press quite yet. Not that Lane knew that. She was always rushed off to the jocks room by a coaching Brooks. The blonde man had taken it upon himself to school Lane in the ways of jockeying and minding your manners off the track. On them, Lane was just as tough as a boy and that was what had attracted Ripley to her in the first place.
The lean mares picked up a canter-gallop the second they set hoof on the track. Ripley's bay mare moved casually over the dirt, mane and tail flying back behind her in a look of graceful aggression. Her eyes glinted with anger and fury. Fie was mentally and physically on the top of her game. Her loss in her last start would be taken with a grain of salt. Today was a new day. Midnight Thriller was a new competitor. She was an uprising competitor as well. Ripley nodded over to Lane as the pair of mares cruised into the first turn.
Lane nodded back, released Midtee's bit. The black filly stretched right out, legs reaching for the ground just beyond her flint-like hooves. And yes, Midnight Thriller was on the rise. Lane could feel it boiling beneath the raven-wing hide of her mount. The power was there. Her thrill in racing and winning was rising. Her dished nose lifted to the air, nostrils swelling in and out, taking it all in. Her eyes glowed brilliantly as she raced at Fiery Touch's throatlatch. Many doubted her because she was not Eternal Phantom. One twin was always considered lesser... But, perhaps, Lane thought, Midnight Thriller would grow at a different time period. She would not be a Horse of the Year, but she could grow into a champion of her own kind. Lane would join in on her journey and go as far as Midtee would take her.
Ripley patted Fie's neck as the feisty mare sped up through the backstretch. Her teeth were wrapped solidly around the bit, her ears were pinned back in all of that black mane. It was all in an effort to intimidate Midnight Thriller. But the daughter of Night Stalker was not so easily intimidated. And the daughter of Touch Up was not so easily swayed from her purpose of making Midtee's time out on the track a living Hell. The light bay mare swung in and out, pushing Midtee around at her will. Anytime Fiery Touch was worked, her partner and herself were always wrapped up in bandages. The light colored polos reflected the egg blue sky, glinting on the athletic legs of speed demons.
The wind whipped the mares as they soared into the final turn, chests widening with each nourishing, life giving breath. Fiery Touch remained in front, pushing Midnight Thriller's lighter body out two paths. The black mare squealed, pinned her ears back at the head honcho, ducking out another path to escape the assault. Fie snorted, satisfied when the Night Stalker mare backed off. She dashed back to the rail, skimming it with furious strides. Ripley leaned close, nearly grinning, but knowing it would irritate Lane. Fie was a saucy mare. She gave it to you for all you were worth.
The black mare drew herself up the moment she straightened into the stretch. Lane could only equal the movement to that of a black cobra preparing to strike. Her eyes were hard with hatred, her tail flying high over her rump, as she took in Fiery Touch with an elegant disdain. Lane grinned then, eyeing the light bay herself. Fie was only two lengths in front, well within Midtee's striking range. She would have to put up a fight if she wanted to win. And Midtee loved a fight.
The reins soared through Lane's gloved fingers and it was then that Midtee released her full fury. The black demoness stormed forward, legs streaking beneath her as she ran hell-bent for leather after Fiery Touch. The bay's ears flicked backward then, her nostrils flared briefly. Ripley let her own squeal loose, girlish and high-pitched, and egged Fie on with gasping excited breaths. Midtee was coming and coming quickly. Lane was buried in the flying, whipping mane of the black horse beneath her. She'd read all of Walter Farley's Black Stallion novels. And while his words rang true, words underestimated the full power of a Thoroughbred's punch.
Midtee was in full, elegant flight, gliding fluidly down the stretch, pushing her more worldly companion to her fullest. Fiery Touch motored up the rail, pressed between Midtee and the stream-lined metal. She pushed with all her might, all her fight. She was angered, a teapot ready to shrill should one more ounce of heated-aggression touch her. She pushed heartily, knocking the streaking Midtee away from her. Her eyes glittered with fury as she gave one last surge. Lane shook the reins, noting the determined look on Fie's face. This was it, now or never. The gas pedal was pressed to the floor. Midtee soared, running neck and neck with Fiery Touch, daring her to fight more, to be ready for the next race when surely the fight would not be easy to win.
The black and bay mare flew across the wire, so close together that it would be impossible to tell even with the most precise instrument. Hoof beats drifted upward, echoing across Witch Creek land, a warning drum. A storm was coming and bringing with it a frightening edge.
canjun nonsense
Courtesy of Event of the Year Photos.
I hate catch riding, Justin. Honestly, that's what messed me up with Frenchie here. It just doesn't work like knowing the horse does. Lane's voice bounced off the walls, her high pitched northern accent practically split Justin's eardrums when she was excited. He cocked a brow her way when he stood from wrapping Hokum's rear left leg. The muscled bay horse was also watching Lane. Justin was surprised and impressed to see that the monstrosity of a horse was looking at Lane with a glimpse of wariness and respect. Perhaps he did not understand the kind of person Lane Thompson was. If you did not know what your enemy was made of, you were more likely to respect and be wary of them.
Justin stepped to the 18 hand colt's front and watched the wariness transform into irritation. That look came from knowing your enemy too well. He patted Hokum's slick hide and once again glanced Lane's way. Only this time his gaze was drawn to the feisty stallion dancing the Irish jig between his crossties. Canjun Moon had come in with the latest batch of horses that Ripley had found. His body was lean and mean. He looked tough with scars lacing his chest and legs. At least until you looked into his eyes. The Dancing In The Moonlight stud had a look of absolute trickiness to him. He was playful and intriguing. He was also a horse in need of a good workout. His race in the Burst Stakes had been one of a energetic horse finally breaking out of a stall.
I don't know if he's going to get any better for you here. I think he's the type you need to learn how to handle. A flash of white flew at his head and Justin barely ducked out of the way. His brown eyes flared with anger when he spotted the brush that Lane had heaved his way. What do you mean he won't get better for me? Just cuz you've got testicles doesn't mean you can ride him any better!? Justin snorted, anger deflating with her words. Keep that up and Ripley's gonna toss you from riding anything. Hot-head.
Lane stuck her tongue out at the dark skinned boy and swiftly undid the cross-ties. She would prove him. Just because they'd finished fourth in their first ride together hadn't meant anything. She could ride with the best of them. Hadn't she just won three races in a row aboard Midnight Thriller in August alone? She scoffed, mentally of course, and lead Frenchie right on by the pompous boy and his even more pompous mount. Frenchie pinned his ears and squealed at Hokum, but preceded right along when Hokum cocked a dish-sized hoof in warning. Smart boy, aren't you Frenchie? The horse snorted, rubbing his head enthusiastically against Lane's polo covered chest. Her eyes softened at the stallion's antics. He was a good boy for a horse who'd known so many homes.
Hokum had only known two and this one was good enough. He flexed his muscles as he paraded down the path with his human sitting quietly on his back. Here was a confident horse with talent and enough muscle to back it up. He move quietly on those dish-sized hooves of his. Scary and unnerving were his movements. Canjun Moon danced anxiously ahead of them, head twisting and turning on his perfect neck to eye the Kore VS colt who danced behind him. And Frenchie was a full-grown stallion at that. Hokum was a very threatening specimen. He did not pretend to be a gentle giant. He was exactly what he looked like. Tough, strong and quite capable of beating your head in. It was a good human that knew who to dodge his hooves and teeth.
The pair strode out onto the track, hides glinting with the fall sunlight. Both of them were in good health. Hokum would always look more impressive. He maintained condition whether he was racing or on break as he was now. He would likely come back with a vengeance and continue to mount his war on racing's elite. Justin slapped the colt's neck, excited for what Year Fourteen would bring for Hokum. Or what Hokum would bring for himself. The giant horse was not one to rest on his laurels. Not at all.
Frenchie picked up a confident gallop going into the first turn. His eyes were bright and eager, his mouth played enthusiastically with the bit. Canjun Moon was a perfect combination of pedigrees and it showed in the way he moved. He bowed his neck, stretched out the strong muscles in his back, and packed a powerful punch. Lane simply perched on him, watching everything that went on before her stallion. He was a stick of dynamite with a lit fuse. She could hear the countdown ticking down to explosion. She couldn't wait. This time she knew what she would be getting when the horse stretched out into his frightening run.
Hokum's ears were locked on Frenchie as they marched into the backstretch. His eyes were filled with disdain and displeasure. Frenchie did not look like much. Hokum wanted to pummel him just the same. He tossed his mighty head, flicked his overly thick tail and continued his war march. Justin felt more powerful than he had felt before he'd met Hokum. The horse just knew how to pass confidence to a rider. Justin leaned close as the colt lengthened himself out to run with Canjun Moon. His strides were infinitely longer than the stallion's to his inside. He was overestimating the horse running beside him. Justin knew it, knew he was doing so as well. He shrugged though. Hokum could handle anything. If Canjun Moon was a stick of dynamite, Hokum was a nuclear bomb.
Not one to be headed, even by a nuclear bomb, Frenchie maintained a perfect neck length advantage. He worked a little harder to keep Hokum at bay, had to because the larger horse needed to put in less effort. Lane's hands were buried in all of his trimmed black mane, her sharp eyes flickering over the dirt before her. She guided Frenchie in and out, changing paths, pushing Hokum sometimes and noting that Frenchie did not mind being aggressive. Lane scratched the bridge of the stallion's neck, impressed to say the least. She liked this horse all right. He had a good mindset for such an energizer bunny.
The speed picked up the moment the horses hit mid-backstretch. A six furlong work was what Ripley wanted. And she would get it, good and proper. Hokum immediately took over the lead, stretching out and setting Frenchie back in his place. The bay stud tossed his head, but seemed to agree that he belonged behind Hokum. The other horse bounded away to lead by two, unpressured and content to set his own pace. He rolled along, steady and fluid in his movement. Justin simply bided his time. Hokum knew how to work himself out. He was his own worst enemy.
Canjun Moon settled like a dream into Lane's hands. His ears played haphazardly over his excellently shaped head, his eyes were calm though they were always watching Hokum for movement. The woman dipped low on his neck, moving with him as he tracked Hokum through the first four furlongs of the workout. Nice and easy, Frenchie. Nice and easy. The son of Dancing In the Moonlight cruised over the dirt course, tracking perfectly even as Hokum sped it up on the front end. Lane patted his neck, praising him. Time would only make them better together.
Justin was experiencing a similar revelation aboard Hokum. The towering son of Kore VS was moving as powerfully as ever. He was still lightly raced and had been given the time to grow into his bones. His ears flopped on top of his head, his eyes glowing with the ferocity of the run. He roared into the turn, stride shortening briefly. The colt was braced to power away once the straightaway hit. Justin glanced under his arm and gasped. The straightaway couldn't come soon enough.
Canjun Moon might as well have been picking off invisible runners one by one with the way he was moving. The horse was no near as muscled as Hokum. While Hokum moved with effortlessness, Frenchie was agile as a rabbit. He surged low over the ground, nearly melding his body with silver rail up his inside. He streaked over the earth, dawn chasing away the night. Lane was sitting chilly, egging the stallion on with thoughts alone. She'd taken the son of a gun out of his element last race. She should have known better. The horse could close from the clouds and be opening up at the end.
He surged up the rail to knock heads with the immovable Hokum. The burly beast pinned his ears the moment Frenchie drew level with his eye. Justin could feel Hokum waiting, could feel him deliberating over what to do. Not used to stopping mid-run, Canjun Moon kept right on going. His swift legs carried him to a length and a half lead over the deliberately uncertain Hokum. Lane hooted at the feel of Frenchie's speed. Now this was a sprinting stud. She clung to his neck when she heard the roar of hoofbeats down the middle of the track. Canjun Moon was about to be beaten to the ground if he didn't flash some heart.
Justin had only moved his fingers and Hokum had set sail after the suddenly quick Canjun Moon. He barreled up the stallion's outside, teeth bared, eyes full of fire. He wanted nothing less than full surrender. He wanted the white flag waving above his opponent's head. But Frenchie was not faint of heart. He battled mightily with Justin's big colt down the entire length of the stretch. He maintained a straight path, never fouling Hokum up, but never giving in. Justin ground his teeth in frustration when Canjun Moon finished a neck in front of his well-seasoned mount. Hokum tossed his head furiously, threatening savagery if Canjun Moon put a hoof more out of place.
Can't learn to ride him my ass! Lane shouted above the melee. She flashed a devastating smile from beneath all of the stone dust and dirt covering her face. Justin grinned back this time. Even fools could be brave sometimes.
Justin stepped to the 18 hand colt's front and watched the wariness transform into irritation. That look came from knowing your enemy too well. He patted Hokum's slick hide and once again glanced Lane's way. Only this time his gaze was drawn to the feisty stallion dancing the Irish jig between his crossties. Canjun Moon had come in with the latest batch of horses that Ripley had found. His body was lean and mean. He looked tough with scars lacing his chest and legs. At least until you looked into his eyes. The Dancing In The Moonlight stud had a look of absolute trickiness to him. He was playful and intriguing. He was also a horse in need of a good workout. His race in the Burst Stakes had been one of a energetic horse finally breaking out of a stall.
I don't know if he's going to get any better for you here. I think he's the type you need to learn how to handle. A flash of white flew at his head and Justin barely ducked out of the way. His brown eyes flared with anger when he spotted the brush that Lane had heaved his way. What do you mean he won't get better for me? Just cuz you've got testicles doesn't mean you can ride him any better!? Justin snorted, anger deflating with her words. Keep that up and Ripley's gonna toss you from riding anything. Hot-head.
Lane stuck her tongue out at the dark skinned boy and swiftly undid the cross-ties. She would prove him. Just because they'd finished fourth in their first ride together hadn't meant anything. She could ride with the best of them. Hadn't she just won three races in a row aboard Midnight Thriller in August alone? She scoffed, mentally of course, and lead Frenchie right on by the pompous boy and his even more pompous mount. Frenchie pinned his ears and squealed at Hokum, but preceded right along when Hokum cocked a dish-sized hoof in warning. Smart boy, aren't you Frenchie? The horse snorted, rubbing his head enthusiastically against Lane's polo covered chest. Her eyes softened at the stallion's antics. He was a good boy for a horse who'd known so many homes.
Hokum had only known two and this one was good enough. He flexed his muscles as he paraded down the path with his human sitting quietly on his back. Here was a confident horse with talent and enough muscle to back it up. He move quietly on those dish-sized hooves of his. Scary and unnerving were his movements. Canjun Moon danced anxiously ahead of them, head twisting and turning on his perfect neck to eye the Kore VS colt who danced behind him. And Frenchie was a full-grown stallion at that. Hokum was a very threatening specimen. He did not pretend to be a gentle giant. He was exactly what he looked like. Tough, strong and quite capable of beating your head in. It was a good human that knew who to dodge his hooves and teeth.
The pair strode out onto the track, hides glinting with the fall sunlight. Both of them were in good health. Hokum would always look more impressive. He maintained condition whether he was racing or on break as he was now. He would likely come back with a vengeance and continue to mount his war on racing's elite. Justin slapped the colt's neck, excited for what Year Fourteen would bring for Hokum. Or what Hokum would bring for himself. The giant horse was not one to rest on his laurels. Not at all.
Frenchie picked up a confident gallop going into the first turn. His eyes were bright and eager, his mouth played enthusiastically with the bit. Canjun Moon was a perfect combination of pedigrees and it showed in the way he moved. He bowed his neck, stretched out the strong muscles in his back, and packed a powerful punch. Lane simply perched on him, watching everything that went on before her stallion. He was a stick of dynamite with a lit fuse. She could hear the countdown ticking down to explosion. She couldn't wait. This time she knew what she would be getting when the horse stretched out into his frightening run.
Hokum's ears were locked on Frenchie as they marched into the backstretch. His eyes were filled with disdain and displeasure. Frenchie did not look like much. Hokum wanted to pummel him just the same. He tossed his mighty head, flicked his overly thick tail and continued his war march. Justin felt more powerful than he had felt before he'd met Hokum. The horse just knew how to pass confidence to a rider. Justin leaned close as the colt lengthened himself out to run with Canjun Moon. His strides were infinitely longer than the stallion's to his inside. He was overestimating the horse running beside him. Justin knew it, knew he was doing so as well. He shrugged though. Hokum could handle anything. If Canjun Moon was a stick of dynamite, Hokum was a nuclear bomb.
Not one to be headed, even by a nuclear bomb, Frenchie maintained a perfect neck length advantage. He worked a little harder to keep Hokum at bay, had to because the larger horse needed to put in less effort. Lane's hands were buried in all of his trimmed black mane, her sharp eyes flickering over the dirt before her. She guided Frenchie in and out, changing paths, pushing Hokum sometimes and noting that Frenchie did not mind being aggressive. Lane scratched the bridge of the stallion's neck, impressed to say the least. She liked this horse all right. He had a good mindset for such an energizer bunny.
The speed picked up the moment the horses hit mid-backstretch. A six furlong work was what Ripley wanted. And she would get it, good and proper. Hokum immediately took over the lead, stretching out and setting Frenchie back in his place. The bay stud tossed his head, but seemed to agree that he belonged behind Hokum. The other horse bounded away to lead by two, unpressured and content to set his own pace. He rolled along, steady and fluid in his movement. Justin simply bided his time. Hokum knew how to work himself out. He was his own worst enemy.
Canjun Moon settled like a dream into Lane's hands. His ears played haphazardly over his excellently shaped head, his eyes were calm though they were always watching Hokum for movement. The woman dipped low on his neck, moving with him as he tracked Hokum through the first four furlongs of the workout. Nice and easy, Frenchie. Nice and easy. The son of Dancing In the Moonlight cruised over the dirt course, tracking perfectly even as Hokum sped it up on the front end. Lane patted his neck, praising him. Time would only make them better together.
Justin was experiencing a similar revelation aboard Hokum. The towering son of Kore VS was moving as powerfully as ever. He was still lightly raced and had been given the time to grow into his bones. His ears flopped on top of his head, his eyes glowing with the ferocity of the run. He roared into the turn, stride shortening briefly. The colt was braced to power away once the straightaway hit. Justin glanced under his arm and gasped. The straightaway couldn't come soon enough.
Canjun Moon might as well have been picking off invisible runners one by one with the way he was moving. The horse was no near as muscled as Hokum. While Hokum moved with effortlessness, Frenchie was agile as a rabbit. He surged low over the ground, nearly melding his body with silver rail up his inside. He streaked over the earth, dawn chasing away the night. Lane was sitting chilly, egging the stallion on with thoughts alone. She'd taken the son of a gun out of his element last race. She should have known better. The horse could close from the clouds and be opening up at the end.
He surged up the rail to knock heads with the immovable Hokum. The burly beast pinned his ears the moment Frenchie drew level with his eye. Justin could feel Hokum waiting, could feel him deliberating over what to do. Not used to stopping mid-run, Canjun Moon kept right on going. His swift legs carried him to a length and a half lead over the deliberately uncertain Hokum. Lane hooted at the feel of Frenchie's speed. Now this was a sprinting stud. She clung to his neck when she heard the roar of hoofbeats down the middle of the track. Canjun Moon was about to be beaten to the ground if he didn't flash some heart.
Justin had only moved his fingers and Hokum had set sail after the suddenly quick Canjun Moon. He barreled up the stallion's outside, teeth bared, eyes full of fire. He wanted nothing less than full surrender. He wanted the white flag waving above his opponent's head. But Frenchie was not faint of heart. He battled mightily with Justin's big colt down the entire length of the stretch. He maintained a straight path, never fouling Hokum up, but never giving in. Justin ground his teeth in frustration when Canjun Moon finished a neck in front of his well-seasoned mount. Hokum tossed his head furiously, threatening savagery if Canjun Moon put a hoof more out of place.
Can't learn to ride him my ass! Lane shouted above the melee. She flashed a devastating smile from beneath all of the stone dust and dirt covering her face. Justin grinned back this time. Even fools could be brave sometimes.
dancing diana
Courtesy of Event of the Year Photos.
Laura Decomte swaggered into the barn, half-chaps clapped firmly to her lower leg, baseball cap perched over her long red pony-tail. Her sharp eyes flickered down the center aisle, locked on the blonde man currently tacking Van Guard. The gentle giant of a horse nickered her way, recognizing her riding uniform and routine. He was ready to go and run. He needed to go and run. It would be his first workout back on the Witch Creek dirt. He'd been galloping on it since returning from New Flight, but today was the big day. Today, he would test the newest member of the Witch Creek racing roster.
Sorry I'm late Brooks. Malcolm had me go over lunging again with Max. Brooks spat into the hay, shoulders tense and eyes gleaming with irritation. Well that's just fine and dandy. Let's not put Malcolm off a little. It's not like we have actual racehorses that need their own training first. Laura stood hip-shot, hands on her hips and stared at the assistant trainer. Something crawl up your butt Brooks? Because I sure as heck didn't. She was not afraid of this particular dude. No way. He had a bunch of bark and no bite. Brooks shrugged, checked Van's girth and looked up as shoed hooves slapped against the concrete in the barn. Laura followed his gaze, noted that Canjun Moon looked awfully proud of himself and that Hokum seemed less than pleased. It meant Ripley had accomplished her goal for the morning.
Both of them look great. Bed Frenchie down. I want to keep an eye on those scratches he dug out of himself last race. Hokum can go right out to his pasture, Justin. Just watch that he doesn't run himself into a fence. Justin nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips. Hokum's ears pricked up when Justin led him back out of the barn, front feet lifting off the ground briefly in a half-hearted rear. The colt was loaded with energy. Frenchie whuffled his lips over Laura's extended hand and followed Lane right into his stall. A few moments later the stallion was chewing up the rest of his morning and lunch hay. Lane shut the stall door, eyed Brooks and Laura. You know Max and the rest will be under your care next year. You might want to consider it when you're going off on the rest of us. Laura winced, watched Lane leave with some admiration glinting in her eyes. Lane was controlled, but she knew how to speak her mind. She was what Laura hoped to be people-wise in the future.
Brooks grunted. Maggie's got her mount all tacked up by the dirt track. Take him and get outta here Laura. I've got work to do. He left, shutting his office door smartly, but not slamming it. He would never stoop to scaring the horses. Laura sighed, petted Van's soft nose and led the Native Flame gelding out of the barn. Let's go handsome horse.
Lane was in love with a girl. Not just any girl, but a sweet, charming, overly friendly female. And this female was so unique she happened to have four legs and a tail. Lane giggled when Dirty Diana shoved her curious nose all over Lane's body. The dark grey filly nickered and snorted at the different scents clinging to her jockey. Dirty Diana would not be a catch ride like Canjun Moon had been. She was particularly special. She had only ran once, like Frenchie, early in the season and then she'd been stopped on. Somewhere along the lines maybe in her late two year old, early three year old season Di had cracked herself a condylar fracture. One that had required one pin and a whole lot of rest time. Di would have to be eased into running again like a child testing out the waters with his toe first. Lane loved a good solid project, especially a sweet like apple pie project.
Maggie grinned as she vaulted Lane aboard the back of the All For Glory daughter. She'll be a spitfire out there. Lane grinned. I'm hoping so. First workout back is always the most exciting. Dirty Diana danced beneath Lane, eyes flickering with the excitement belonging to a very young horse. She knew what it was to run, had won a couple races as a two year old, but very early. She was with Witch Creek now and a major problem had been fixed. Di was going to remember what it meant to fly today with a little help from Van Guard. The ashen colored filly stared at Van Guard as he approached from the main path. She quivered and sent a shrill whinny in his direction. Ever the pro, Van ignored her and plodded right on by her.
Di reared up, dodged Maggie's hands, and bolted after the burly gelding. Her body language was of one demanding for outright attention. She was a spoiled girl and Lane understood where all of the cutesy stuff was coming from. Lane tugged the reins, knocking the bit out from Di's teeth and set the filly right on her hind-end. She squealed in fury and frustration, mouth agape and lather flying. Lane circled her in tight, tight circles, not letting her break after Van Guard. Had she thought this filly was going to be a sweet as apple pie project?
The gray filly slammed on her breaks then, ears hanging to the sides, facing the main barn. Her eyes flashed with fury and injustice. Lane barely had time to grab the long dark mane before the whipping buck came. She wrapped her arms around the filly's neck, laughing out of fear and giddiness. Di bolted then, but was swiftly planted on her rear again thanks to Lane's quick responses. No way pony girl. You've got to behave just like the rest of them. Those are my rules. Di sighed, backed up the required steps and then stood. Only this time there was no outright defiance glittering in her gaze. Just extreme dislike.
Lane made the filly sit five minutes while Van Guard cantered the stretch before her. When she was satisfied, Lane nudged the filly into a controlled gallop. Her strides were quick and fleeting. This one was as full of herself as they came, but she had talent burning beneath all that spoiled spunk. Di's chin nearly touched her chest as she galloped up to Van Guard who broke to run on the swift filly's outside. He was a great immoving wall. She eyed him with caution, but soon was acting as if he were just a yearling out for playtime. Lane repeatedly called the filly out on her swerving, forcing her to stay on a straight line down the rail. Laura knew better than to laugh, but she'd hidden her chuckles well.
Van chugged along like a good old fashioned racehorse. He wasn't wary of the little spitfire filly. Rather he was interested. She was something he hadn't come across at Witch Creek. A misbehaving minx. He eyed her often, puzzling her out and seeming to not find an answer as he rumbled into the backstretch. Laura patted the gelding's neck, eyes glinting with affection. He was a good horse this one. One with talent and personality. Di was more the hothead that Witch Creek was used to. Van was perfect for the jaunt, perfect for this job. Laura could see him out here for years to come, babysitting the new guys as they took their first steps to championship careers. He had a career himself and it was just on the rise. She hoped it never ended. Van was incredible. He was her partner.
The pace was rhythmical and solid thanks to Dirty Diana's eager strides. She hadn't been able to run like this for a while. Her small ears were darting all over the place out of curiosity and spookiness. She bolted about, fragile body becoming a whirling dervish. Lane found herself liking the challenge of maintaining her seat. At least that's what she told herself. Van kept Di penned in as best he could, speeding up when she sped up, slowing down when she did that as well. He never bolted outward when she pushed on him rather abruptly. Lane reached over and stroked his shoulder as they motored down the homestretch for the first time.
Di became more focused with every punchy stride she took. Her eyes were bright as she crossed beneath the wire, ears pricked. She remembered this game. Everything was coming back to her. She shook her head as if shaking off the rust. Lane patted her shoulder as she fluttered through the first turn again. Ripley wanted a five furlong breeze ending half-way up the homestretch with a solid gallop out. She would get it if Lane had anything to say about it. She glanced to her right, received the go nod from Laura and then released her elf of a mare.
It was as if a bunch of mini explosions had all been set off at the same time in Dirty Diana's body. She bolted forward, legs going every which way, ears flicking as if they had been laced with pop rock candy. Lane held on for dear life, not scared of what Di was capable of doing, but what she would accidentally do. The cinder colored filly dashed right into Van's heavily muscle shoulder, knocked her back a step and then there was calm. Lane let out a sigh of relief when the well-bred filly straightened out and settled to run two lengths behind Van Guard. Her stride was smooth and very efficient for a filly who seemed to love giving away energy just because she could.
Laura let out a hoot of laughter when Di finally calmed the heck down. Van snorted openly and leveled out into his strong running stride. It was time to move on, he said. Laura latched herself to his withers like a burr. Her hands twined with his curling mane as he whipped up on the course, demanding and expelling all of his frustrations from the little filly out here. He was tough, but gentle when it most counted. Racing was where he lived and thrived. Laura felt the same way more often than not. Her sharp eyes kept watch on the furlong poles as they flew by. Van was setting a tough, tough pace for a newcomer to keep up with.
Two furlongs into the workout and Laura shut the big gelding down briefly. He could not runaway and beat Dirty Diana to a pulp. She glanced under her arm when the gelding settled, reluctantly, into his cruising stalking stride. Di was closer than Laura had expected, her tongue bobbing with every quick step she took. There was a look of determination on her brow that not had existed before. Laura gave Lane the thumbs up, shook Van up a little and let him step it up a notch just a tad. He was a length and a half in front of Dirty Diana.
Now she was motoring along like a champ. Here was the reason Lane loved projects. Dirty Diana was a tough cookie, but she was also a diamond in the rough. She floated unhampered over the course. Everything was easy about Di while she ran at this pace. Lane only had to flick the rein left or right and the gray filly would go left or right. She would pick up the pace on command, back off with a little fight, but that was to be expected. The only push button monster that existed at Witch Creek was Mastermind. Lane praised the filly with voice, having noted that she responded most to that while exercising.
Van rolled into the far turn, agilely handling what Hokum had not. Laura had not budged an inch on her ready-to-rock-n-roll gelding. He was waiting for Diana. He knew it was his job to keep an eye on her as much as he hated it. One furlong left and it was time to release her budding star. She released the reins and set the wild fire to full force.
Dirty Diana streaked after Van Guard as he powered up the homestretch. Her gray legs blurred beneath her as she soared after him, a dervish drawing all attention to her. Lane tucked herself in and held on tight as the gray filly floored it. Here was a joyous speed. Dirty Diana, who had known only stall rest and controlled gallops, relished in the pure exhilaration that was sprinting full out. She made up the ground on Van Guard with such a bounce in her step that Lane could feel her human giddiness rising in response.
Laura nodded when Dirty Diana came up to Van Guard's barrel just as they passed through the stretch the final time. The cinder colored filly bolted by him to surge under the wire three lengths in front. Van just snorted. Laura had shut him down halfway up the stretch. He would pretend for the little filly's sake that she had beaten him. Laura stroked his neck, praising the horse for being one of the best dance partners ever. Di, chippy as ever, trotted back, looking none the worse for where and ready to take on the world.
Sorry I'm late Brooks. Malcolm had me go over lunging again with Max. Brooks spat into the hay, shoulders tense and eyes gleaming with irritation. Well that's just fine and dandy. Let's not put Malcolm off a little. It's not like we have actual racehorses that need their own training first. Laura stood hip-shot, hands on her hips and stared at the assistant trainer. Something crawl up your butt Brooks? Because I sure as heck didn't. She was not afraid of this particular dude. No way. He had a bunch of bark and no bite. Brooks shrugged, checked Van's girth and looked up as shoed hooves slapped against the concrete in the barn. Laura followed his gaze, noted that Canjun Moon looked awfully proud of himself and that Hokum seemed less than pleased. It meant Ripley had accomplished her goal for the morning.
Both of them look great. Bed Frenchie down. I want to keep an eye on those scratches he dug out of himself last race. Hokum can go right out to his pasture, Justin. Just watch that he doesn't run himself into a fence. Justin nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips. Hokum's ears pricked up when Justin led him back out of the barn, front feet lifting off the ground briefly in a half-hearted rear. The colt was loaded with energy. Frenchie whuffled his lips over Laura's extended hand and followed Lane right into his stall. A few moments later the stallion was chewing up the rest of his morning and lunch hay. Lane shut the stall door, eyed Brooks and Laura. You know Max and the rest will be under your care next year. You might want to consider it when you're going off on the rest of us. Laura winced, watched Lane leave with some admiration glinting in her eyes. Lane was controlled, but she knew how to speak her mind. She was what Laura hoped to be people-wise in the future.
Brooks grunted. Maggie's got her mount all tacked up by the dirt track. Take him and get outta here Laura. I've got work to do. He left, shutting his office door smartly, but not slamming it. He would never stoop to scaring the horses. Laura sighed, petted Van's soft nose and led the Native Flame gelding out of the barn. Let's go handsome horse.
Lane was in love with a girl. Not just any girl, but a sweet, charming, overly friendly female. And this female was so unique she happened to have four legs and a tail. Lane giggled when Dirty Diana shoved her curious nose all over Lane's body. The dark grey filly nickered and snorted at the different scents clinging to her jockey. Dirty Diana would not be a catch ride like Canjun Moon had been. She was particularly special. She had only ran once, like Frenchie, early in the season and then she'd been stopped on. Somewhere along the lines maybe in her late two year old, early three year old season Di had cracked herself a condylar fracture. One that had required one pin and a whole lot of rest time. Di would have to be eased into running again like a child testing out the waters with his toe first. Lane loved a good solid project, especially a sweet like apple pie project.
Maggie grinned as she vaulted Lane aboard the back of the All For Glory daughter. She'll be a spitfire out there. Lane grinned. I'm hoping so. First workout back is always the most exciting. Dirty Diana danced beneath Lane, eyes flickering with the excitement belonging to a very young horse. She knew what it was to run, had won a couple races as a two year old, but very early. She was with Witch Creek now and a major problem had been fixed. Di was going to remember what it meant to fly today with a little help from Van Guard. The ashen colored filly stared at Van Guard as he approached from the main path. She quivered and sent a shrill whinny in his direction. Ever the pro, Van ignored her and plodded right on by her.
Di reared up, dodged Maggie's hands, and bolted after the burly gelding. Her body language was of one demanding for outright attention. She was a spoiled girl and Lane understood where all of the cutesy stuff was coming from. Lane tugged the reins, knocking the bit out from Di's teeth and set the filly right on her hind-end. She squealed in fury and frustration, mouth agape and lather flying. Lane circled her in tight, tight circles, not letting her break after Van Guard. Had she thought this filly was going to be a sweet as apple pie project?
The gray filly slammed on her breaks then, ears hanging to the sides, facing the main barn. Her eyes flashed with fury and injustice. Lane barely had time to grab the long dark mane before the whipping buck came. She wrapped her arms around the filly's neck, laughing out of fear and giddiness. Di bolted then, but was swiftly planted on her rear again thanks to Lane's quick responses. No way pony girl. You've got to behave just like the rest of them. Those are my rules. Di sighed, backed up the required steps and then stood. Only this time there was no outright defiance glittering in her gaze. Just extreme dislike.
Lane made the filly sit five minutes while Van Guard cantered the stretch before her. When she was satisfied, Lane nudged the filly into a controlled gallop. Her strides were quick and fleeting. This one was as full of herself as they came, but she had talent burning beneath all that spoiled spunk. Di's chin nearly touched her chest as she galloped up to Van Guard who broke to run on the swift filly's outside. He was a great immoving wall. She eyed him with caution, but soon was acting as if he were just a yearling out for playtime. Lane repeatedly called the filly out on her swerving, forcing her to stay on a straight line down the rail. Laura knew better than to laugh, but she'd hidden her chuckles well.
Van chugged along like a good old fashioned racehorse. He wasn't wary of the little spitfire filly. Rather he was interested. She was something he hadn't come across at Witch Creek. A misbehaving minx. He eyed her often, puzzling her out and seeming to not find an answer as he rumbled into the backstretch. Laura patted the gelding's neck, eyes glinting with affection. He was a good horse this one. One with talent and personality. Di was more the hothead that Witch Creek was used to. Van was perfect for the jaunt, perfect for this job. Laura could see him out here for years to come, babysitting the new guys as they took their first steps to championship careers. He had a career himself and it was just on the rise. She hoped it never ended. Van was incredible. He was her partner.
The pace was rhythmical and solid thanks to Dirty Diana's eager strides. She hadn't been able to run like this for a while. Her small ears were darting all over the place out of curiosity and spookiness. She bolted about, fragile body becoming a whirling dervish. Lane found herself liking the challenge of maintaining her seat. At least that's what she told herself. Van kept Di penned in as best he could, speeding up when she sped up, slowing down when she did that as well. He never bolted outward when she pushed on him rather abruptly. Lane reached over and stroked his shoulder as they motored down the homestretch for the first time.
Di became more focused with every punchy stride she took. Her eyes were bright as she crossed beneath the wire, ears pricked. She remembered this game. Everything was coming back to her. She shook her head as if shaking off the rust. Lane patted her shoulder as she fluttered through the first turn again. Ripley wanted a five furlong breeze ending half-way up the homestretch with a solid gallop out. She would get it if Lane had anything to say about it. She glanced to her right, received the go nod from Laura and then released her elf of a mare.
It was as if a bunch of mini explosions had all been set off at the same time in Dirty Diana's body. She bolted forward, legs going every which way, ears flicking as if they had been laced with pop rock candy. Lane held on for dear life, not scared of what Di was capable of doing, but what she would accidentally do. The cinder colored filly dashed right into Van's heavily muscle shoulder, knocked her back a step and then there was calm. Lane let out a sigh of relief when the well-bred filly straightened out and settled to run two lengths behind Van Guard. Her stride was smooth and very efficient for a filly who seemed to love giving away energy just because she could.
Laura let out a hoot of laughter when Di finally calmed the heck down. Van snorted openly and leveled out into his strong running stride. It was time to move on, he said. Laura latched herself to his withers like a burr. Her hands twined with his curling mane as he whipped up on the course, demanding and expelling all of his frustrations from the little filly out here. He was tough, but gentle when it most counted. Racing was where he lived and thrived. Laura felt the same way more often than not. Her sharp eyes kept watch on the furlong poles as they flew by. Van was setting a tough, tough pace for a newcomer to keep up with.
Two furlongs into the workout and Laura shut the big gelding down briefly. He could not runaway and beat Dirty Diana to a pulp. She glanced under her arm when the gelding settled, reluctantly, into his cruising stalking stride. Di was closer than Laura had expected, her tongue bobbing with every quick step she took. There was a look of determination on her brow that not had existed before. Laura gave Lane the thumbs up, shook Van up a little and let him step it up a notch just a tad. He was a length and a half in front of Dirty Diana.
Now she was motoring along like a champ. Here was the reason Lane loved projects. Dirty Diana was a tough cookie, but she was also a diamond in the rough. She floated unhampered over the course. Everything was easy about Di while she ran at this pace. Lane only had to flick the rein left or right and the gray filly would go left or right. She would pick up the pace on command, back off with a little fight, but that was to be expected. The only push button monster that existed at Witch Creek was Mastermind. Lane praised the filly with voice, having noted that she responded most to that while exercising.
Van rolled into the far turn, agilely handling what Hokum had not. Laura had not budged an inch on her ready-to-rock-n-roll gelding. He was waiting for Diana. He knew it was his job to keep an eye on her as much as he hated it. One furlong left and it was time to release her budding star. She released the reins and set the wild fire to full force.
Dirty Diana streaked after Van Guard as he powered up the homestretch. Her gray legs blurred beneath her as she soared after him, a dervish drawing all attention to her. Lane tucked herself in and held on tight as the gray filly floored it. Here was a joyous speed. Dirty Diana, who had known only stall rest and controlled gallops, relished in the pure exhilaration that was sprinting full out. She made up the ground on Van Guard with such a bounce in her step that Lane could feel her human giddiness rising in response.
Laura nodded when Dirty Diana came up to Van Guard's barrel just as they passed through the stretch the final time. The cinder colored filly bolted by him to surge under the wire three lengths in front. Van just snorted. Laura had shut him down halfway up the stretch. He would pretend for the little filly's sake that she had beaten him. Laura stroked his neck, praising the horse for being one of the best dance partners ever. Di, chippy as ever, trotted back, looking none the worse for where and ready to take on the world.