Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

July, 1969

He paced left-and-right down the empty corridor. Plush, green carpet underfoot, gaudy furnishings, an incessant ticking clock—he wrung his hands, picking his nails to the beds. He could hear muffled voices through the thick double-doors, but couldn’t make out the words.

He stood in the grand farmhouse of Dogwood Ranch, a rich and prosperous breeding farm known for producing some of the best racehorses in Kentucky. Inside the room beyond the double-doors, his sister was competing with Dogwood’s owner, Michael Preacher, in the fabled “coin toss.” Months ago, his sister had struck a deal with Michael Preacher to have one of Dogwood’s finest sires bred with two of their own mares, to produce two foals. The winner of the coin toss got first pick of the foals, who had yet to be born. This act, and the foal won, could determine how their farm prospers in the coming years. She could not afford to lose.

The voices stopped, held in suspension. They started again, louder, excited. More muffled words were exchanged. He held his breath. The doors opened.

“Thank you very much again, Mr. Preacher,” his sister said, head turned to the aged man at her side.

Mr. Preacher nodded to her, a wide grin on his face. “Anytime, Miss Bennett. Always a pleasure.”

His sister offered an acknowledging head bob and a small wave, then they parted ways. She approached her brother with a neutral face. “Okay, let’s go.”

“Well? Did we win?” he demanded, pushing himself to her side. When she didn’t immediately answer, his face fell. “Amber? Did we win or not?”

She sighed softly. “No and yes. Let’s get to the car, then we’ll talk.”

Amber Bennett was a fresh-faced girl in her mid-twenties, and different from most in her field. She was quite young to be owning and managing racing horses, and a woman. For those reasons, she was often overlooked and underestimated, especially by men like Michael Preacher. There was more than just a prized foal on the line in the coin toss—it was Amber’s chance to prove herself, and earn respect from her older male peers. As she walked away, her brother jogged eagerly to follow, desperate to know what had happened behind those hallowed double-doors.

The agonizing silence held until they’d climbed into Amber’s car, a black four-doored Ford Falcon. She turned the key and put her hands on the wheel, steering them off Dogwood Ranch property and onto the road home.

“We lost, didn’t we?” he finally said, patient no longer.

“Yes. Mr. Preacher called heads, and the coin turned up heads,” Amber replied. “He got first pick of the foals, and he chose Rosebud’s foal. Which, I expected him to.”

“No!” he cried, kicking the bottom of the glove compartment. Of the two pregnant mares, one of them, named Rosebud, was significantly younger—half the age of the other mare, sixteen-year-old Madame Red. Foals produced by younger mares often turned out healthier, with better stats and chance of winning races. With nothing else to go off of, picking the younger mare’s foal was the obvious choice.

Amber chuckled. “No, Dream, this is good. I wanted Madame Red, and would’ve chosen her even if I’d won the coin toss.”

Dream stilled, and cast her a confused glance. “What? Why?”

It didn’t make sense. Fathered by the same stallion, Dogwood’s prized sire King’s Cross, and mothered by equally-successful broodmares, the two foals should be almost exactly alike. The only difference was the mares’ ages—it was the only factor that could presumably affect the success of the foals, so choosing the older mare was bold, if not downright idiotic.

“Because of her pedigree,” was all Amber said.

She wouldn’t elaborate until they’d parked on their own land, the sprawling acreage owned by their parents, Firebranch Farms. She climbed out of the car, fixed her baby-blue skirt, and gestured for Dream to follow her into the stables. Hesitantly, he did.

Kept side-by-side in their warm, comfy stalls, were the two fat-bellied mares. Amber approached the first—Rosebud, the younger roan mare, her reddish coat speckled with dusty grey. She put her palm softly on the horse’s snout, stroking gently.

“King’s Cross, the Dogwood sire, is a prized piece. A successful racehorse in his day, and sire to many more successful racehorses. He’s the reason I wanted to strike this deal with Mr. Preacher—the foals will have his genes,” Amber explained. “But they’ll have the mare’s genes, too. Rosebud here is the daughter of Earl Grey, a stallion renowned for his speed. Good genes, but King’s Cross has enough speed of his own.”

She let her hand fall and paced slowly toward the other mare, a deep bay horse, and gazed at her. “Madame Red, on the other hand, is the daughter of True Blue, who was known for his endurance rather than his speed. Do you get it now?”

Dream tilted his head. “No?”

She laughed, casting him a silly look. “If you really want to make a name for yourself training racehorses, you’re going to have to be quicker than that.”

Slowly, Amber approached him and placed both hands on his shoulders, staring at him seriously. “If I’m right, this foal will have King’s Cross’s speed and True Blue’s endurance. The perfect blend for a superstar in the racing world.”

It finally clicked. A racehorse needed to be fast, of course, but stamina was just as important, if not more important, than speed. Still, he had his doubts. “And if you’re wrong?”

Amber exhaled heavily, hunching her shoulders. “Then I will have failed at doing Dad’s job, and I’ll probably have to become a housewife. So, let’s hope I’m not wrong.”

Dream shuddered. He could imagine his sister in a myriad of different roles, but housewife was not one of them. He’d seen her drive and passion in recent years, as she’d come into her own and took charge around the farm, and more than anything, he didn’t want to see that taken away from her.

An echoing metallic clang shocked them out of their discussion. They turned to see their younger brother, Nicholas Bennett, giving them a teasing glare, two huge buckets of feed at his feet.

“What are you girls gossiping about?” he snarked, reaching to swing open the door of Rosebud’s stall. As he offered the mare her feed bucket, he halted, then turned sharply. “Oh, yeah. Did we win the coin toss?”

Dream and Amber shared a sly look, a mutual understanding. Dream said, “Yeah. I think we did.”

August, 1969

Dream was shaken awake on a dark summer morning. Groaning, he sat up in bed, covers falling and exposing his chest to the brisk air. As his eyes adjusted, Amber’s face came into view, huge smile and wild eyes. Without her saying anything, he knew what was happening.

Suddenly wide awake, he sprang upright. “She’s in labour?”

“Yes!” Amber squealed. “Hurry, everyone’s already there!”

With that, she took off out of the room. Dream scrambled out of bed, covers tumbling to the floor, and pulled on clothes, nearly falling on his face as he put his legs into pants. Dressed, he ran out of the house and across the field, barefoot, finally stopping to catch his breath next to a small building on the property—a single, albeit large, stall, used for one very special purpose.

Quiet, he tiptoed inside. Madame Red was stretched out on the hay-strewn floor, her rotund belly fluttering with each strong breath she took. Dream’s father was already there, along with Amber and his younger sister Penny, sitting on haybales to watch. Nicholas was at Madame Red’s backside, crouched next to a senior caretaker of the farm. It was to be his first time delivering a foal, and his hands were vibrating with nerves.

Dream quickly moved to sit next to Penny on the haybales. Madame Red’s stomach heaved, and she let out a rough, pained whinny. The senior caretaker mumbled to Nicholas, indicating what to do, and the nervous boy of nineteen gingerly reached between the mare’s hind legs, his face twisting. Dream watched, eyes blown in awe, as a small snout poked its way out of Madame Red, guided by Nicholas’s careful hands. With two more big, wrought heaves, the rest of the foal came tumbling out, a wet heap of long legs in the hay.

After a moment, Nicholas swiftly checked. “It’s a colt,” he announced.

The space came alive with gleeful laughs and exclamations. Everyone stood, high-fiving and hugging each other, while the caretaker tended to the weakened mother. Dream, with a wide smile, looked at the new colt—small, but sturdy-looking, with a black coat and mane. He already knew what he was going to call it.

“Little Shade,” he said. When everyone looked at him quizzically, he added, “The colt’s name. Little Shade.”

His father hummed. “I don’t think you get to decide that. Amber? He’s yours, what will you call him?”

Amber smiled at Dream. “I like Little Shade. It’s fitting. Not an official name, of course, but it’ll do for the time being.”

“Whoa!” Nicholas suddenly exclaimed, jumping back. The colt had abruptly sprung onto its hooves, standing upright, shakily, giving a frightened yet triumphant whinny. It caught everyone off-guard, shocking them all silent. Horses were known to stand quickly after being born, yet a matter of mere seconds was impressive even for them.

Dream’s father chuckled warmly. “Ho-ho! Have you ever seen anything like that before?”

The question was aimed at the senior caretaker, who adjusted his hat and replied, brow lifted, “No, I don’t think I have. Good on ya, Little Shade!”

Dream slowly wandered over to Amber, bumping her shoulder. “I think you were right about this foal after all.”

“We won’t know until we see him run,” she said wistfully, “but yeah. I think so, too. I hope so.”

Madame Red exhaled a hot puff of air through her nostrils and hoisted herself up, standing on shaky legs. Her newborn floundered to her, seeking his first taste of milk. The caretaker nodded to Dream’s father, and he corralled everyone toward the exit.

“Alright, kids. Let’s leave momma alone with her baby,” he ordered.

As he was pushed outside, Dream caught his last look at Little Shade, feeling something warm and fuzzy bloom in his chest.

September, 1969

“Ten minutes to post, ladies and gentlemen, we are ten minutes to post.”

Dream paced next to the railing, his footsteps having already carved a circle in the dirt beneath him. The announcer’s voice through the loudspeakers only momentarily derailed his nervous overthinking. His palms had gone dry from him constantly rubbing them together, and his bottom lip was bitten red.

“They are gathering at post, ladies and gentlemen, there they go. As a reminder, we’ve got Jack Downs on Number 1 ‘Golden Gear,’ Howard Rolph on Number 2 ‘Rover,’ Luke Farley on Number 3 ‘Focal Point’ . . .”

His breath hitched. Focal Point was a now four-year-old thoroughbred racehorse, given to Dream to train when he was freshly nineteen, his first charge training horses owned by his father. The horse had yet to win a race, but had placed high once in the past—third. Focal Point’s performance was a direct reflection of both the skill of his jockey, Luke Farley, and Dream’s skill as a trainer.

“Stop pacing, will you? He’s gonna do just fine,” Amber reassured, though it did little to stay his panic. Dream was aware of his father’s cold and unyielding gaze, trained right at him, though he couldn’t look back to meet it.

“If this doesn’t turn out, Dad may not let me train anymore,” he whispered. “I have to prove I can do it. I have to.”

Amber smiled gently. “You’ve proven enough. You put so much effort in, Dad knows that. How it turns out isn’t all on you, either.”

“They are loading into the gates, ladies and gentlemen. We’re seeing a bit of struggle from Focal Point, he’s throwing his head . . .”

Dream’s heartrate spiked. He appreciated Amber’s words, but couldn’t believe them. His father owned Focal Point, and entrusted the horse to Dream’s care. If the horse failed, it would reflect badly on everyone, including his owner. Dream could not let his father down.

He finally stopped pacing, now stunlocked in place, hands gripping so tight they’d gone ghostly white. He watched with shaking eyes as each horse-and-jockey was loaded into the starting gate. The air stilled. He stopped breathing.

“And they’re off!”

The announcement came as suddenly as it always did, making him jump. The gates flung open and eight horses came careening out, lightning-fast, hooves thundering on the dirt track. Dream’s eyes were laser-focused on Number 3, a bright palomino stallion in green-and-white livery, his jockey raised high off the saddle. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t even breathe.

“We’ve got Golden Gear taking up the front, Henchman coming up to challenge. Rover, Jack-O’-Lantern, Tuck, and Parisian keeping sturdy in the middle. Lastly, Undertaker and Focal Point hanging in the rear, neither seems up to push . . .”

Amber silently grabbed hold of Dream’s hand, squeezing it. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. He was watching his worst fears unfolding in front of him—nothing she could say could soften that.

“We are passing the quarter pole and— oh! Focal Point is pushing, he’s challenging Undertaker, will he make it?”

Dream’s glazed eyes watched Focal Point’s jockey furiously whip the horse, driving him forward, but it was too late. The horses crossed the finish line. The race, and possibly Dream’s training career, was over.

“Oh, well . . . At least he didn’t come last!” Amber tried.

“Second-last isn’t better,” Dream mumbled.

He turned around, apologies ready to come tumbling from his lips, but his father was already walking away. Defeated, Dream stood there, feeling the earth open up beneath him.

Amber sighed sadly. “Well. Go rein your jockey.”

She gave him an encouraging pat on his shoulder before she left to follow their father. Dream inhaled deeply to steel himself, then approached the gate, where Focal Point’s jockey came storming out, saddle under one arm.

“Luke—” Dream started, but he barged right past him, stiff in every limb. Helplessly, Dream followed, calling, “Luke! Wait, let’s talk—”

The jockey kept walking until they were halfway to the tack rooms, alone in a long, empty hallway, when he suddenly turned around, reaching out to shove Dream harshly backward.

“You!” he spat.

Dream stumbled, stared, slack-jawed. Luke Farley was an angry red face, blonde hair poking out from his helmet and sticking to his forehead. He forcefully dropped Focal Point’s saddle on the ground, the tack falling to the floor with an echoing bang. Silence stretched for a few, tense moments.

“I know you’re upset—”

“Upset?” Luke yelled. “Upset? That horse couldn’t catch a win if it hit him in the face! I looked like a fool out there! And you—”

He shoved Dream again. “You put me on that green, unruly beast and made me embarrass myself in front of all those people! What the Hell are you thinking? Actually, what the Hell am I thinking, wasting my career running for a kid!”

“I’m twenty-one—”

“You’re a kid. A stupid, naive, milk-drinking kid. You shouldn’t be training horses. Hell, you shouldn’t even be training dogs!” Luke shouted. He huffed once, letting his searing gaze linger, before bending down to pick up the saddle.

“I’m sorry. I’m doing my best.” Dream’s voice was quiet, meek. “We’ll rest him, then train him harder. Next time, he’ll—”

“Do us both a favour,” Luke interjected, “give up the training. You’re not made for it. You should be doing what Nick does, delivering foals and giving fat mares their food. That’s more your speed.”

He turned heel and stalked off down the hall. Dream watched him go, hope draining from his veins and pooling at his feet, red mixing with the water puddled in the cement cracks.

September, 1971

The afternoon sun bored down upon the dry earth, scorching brown grass. Summer was waning, but still held the land in its scalding grip, drawing sweat from Dream’s brow. He was bent over the wooden fence of the paddock, elbows bearing his weight, eyes locked on a young horse that was not black after all, but dark bay, the brown tones of his coat shining under the sun. He was saddled and mounted, trotting circles around the paddock, held in a tight rein.

Footsteps crunched through the grass behind him. “How’s he doing?”

Dream turned to see Amber picking her way over to him, yellow dress and shoes. He snorted. “It’s early days, but . . . not great.”

She watched, and he followed her gaze. The colt started fussing, his rider wrestling with him to cooperate, pulling on the reins and shouting commands.

“I see.” The corners of her pink lips pinched into a frown. Then she shook it off, brightening. “We’re working on names for him, you know.”

“Really?” Dream mused.

“Well, we can’t call him ‘Little Shade’ forever. That won’t fly with the Jockey Club,” she said, rolling her eyes. “They rejected our first set of submitted names. We tried Kingsley, after his sire, Red Rum, after his dam, His Lordship, Yearling, Deacon, Far Winds . . .”

“Jesus.” Dream puffed a laugh. “All those were rejected?”

She nodded, sighing. “Yep. Back to the drawing board, I guess.”

He hummed. “Well, take your time. He’s not going on the race track anytime soon.”

As he said it, Luke let out a frustrated shout and jumped out of the saddle, leaving Little Shade in the middle of the paddock and marching over. “That horse is impossible! I’m taking a break.”

Amber tilted her head, offering Luke a concerned gaze. “He’s uncooperative?”

“‘Uncooperative’ doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Luke huffed. “He’s fast, I’ll give him that, but only when I can actually get him going. He doesn’t listen to commands, I can’t push him . . .”

“You’ve just got to ease him into it,” Dream coaxed. “He’s only two.”

Luke cast him a scathing glare. “Better horses are winning races by two. You better get that beast whipped into shape, and soon. Else your father will tear you up worse than last time.”

“Our father doesn’t own Little Shade. I do,” Amber corrected pointedly, “and as his owner, I oversee his training regimen. Dream is doing his best.”

“Whatever,” Luke snapped. “I’m getting a drink.”

He tore his helmet off and dropped it in the dirt, then stormed off. Dream watched him until he was out of sight, sighing raggedly. “What am I gonna do with him?”

Amber smiled reassuringly. “Give him a break. He’s just torn up since Dad sold Focal Point. He’d never admit it, but he loved that horse. You stay with Little Shade, I’ll go talk to him.”

She went. Dream let out another gruff sigh and turned back to the paddock, where Little Shade stood aimlessly in full tack. Quietly, Dream laughed to himself. At least he wasn’t alone in feeling lost.

Slowly, Little Shade began walking up to the fence, huffing breaths. When he was close enough, Dream reached out and looped two fingers under the strap of his bridle, holding him steady, and stroked the length of his snout. Looking into the colt’s black eyes, he felt he was looking back, lashes fanning with long blinks.

“Yeah. I know,” Dream whispered. “Luke’s an impossible rider. It’s not your fault, Shade. You’re trying.”

Little Shade huffed noisily. Dream laughed. “Yeah! Yeah, I know. Maybe it’s not a good fit.”

He reached up to unbuckle and remove the colt’s bridle, giving him a break from the bit, and hung the tack over the fence. Little Shade seemed thankful, nickering and smacking his mouth. Dream watched him, studied his strong legs and broad chest, saw the makings of a superstar in the racing world, just as his sister had predicted. He only needed somebody who could bring it out of him.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Dream muttered, “maybe the horse isn’t the problem. Maybe you just need the right jockey.”

Chapter Text

March, 1970

“And that’s our race, ladies and gentlemen, it’s Camelot, Burgundy Wine, and Bowen Arrow. Camelot, Burgundy Wine, and Bowen Arrow. In very last place is Sundancer, and that marks jockey George Davidson’s seventh consecutive loss on Sundancer and eleventh overall . . .”

George tried and failed to block out the announcer’s voice, reminding him of his gruesome track record. It had been a long time since he’d seen the finish line from the front of the pack, so long no one seemed to remember it, not even him. All anyone could talk about was the losses, over and over and over again—how could Kentucky’s most promising young jockey fall so hard? He’d come out the gate with wins under his belt, what happened? Had he outgrown his winning streak? Was it time to hang up the helmet and goggles, take up show jumping instead?

No, George loved the race. He thrived within it, feened for it. The wind on his face, the sheer adrenaline, the thundering of hooves all around. He needed the race like he needed air, and needed to win like he needed food. He was hungry, starving for it, it felt so close he could grasp it—but he’d been given all his second chances, and had run dry.

He’d hoped to make it to the tack room before Sundancer’s owner and trainer caught up to him, but no such luck, as he found himself cornered just out of view of the public. The old man stood with his arms crossed, scowl deepening his wrinkles, suit jacket pulled taut over his shoulders.

The apology came pouring out. “Mr. Preacher, I’m so—”

“I can’t speak to you right now. Hell, I can barely even look at you,” Michael Preacher scorned, eyes narrowed. “You were my star jockey, the babe of the papers. There was talk you might even make the Triple Crown. What the Hell happened to you?”

“It’s just, after Paradigm, I—”

Mr. Preacher scoffed loudly. “Oh! Not that old excuse again! You’re a jockey, got it? You ride any horse given to you, and that’s that. You don’t form attachments, these horses ain’t yours.”

George shut his eyes, trying to stay his rising anger. “I know, and I understand that, Mr. Preacher, but still, what happened to Paradigm was—”

“Ugh. I can’t have this discussion. Will, talk some sense into him before I beat it into him,” Mr. Preacher dismissed, putting up a hand and walking away.

He’d given the order to Sundancer’s trainer, one William Gold, a man George didn’t like to begin with, and had come to vehemently hate. Everything bad about Mr. Preacher existed in William Gold, times ten. He, while not Mr. Preacher’s son, had taken after him in a way only a son could, taking his slippery temperament and unforgiving nature and somehow upping the ante. It didn’t help that he was tall, glowering at George from his position seven feet above, his punchable face—luckily for him—out of reach.

“I know Mr. Preacher said to ‘talk,’” William spat, “but I might beat the sense into you anyway. I’m in that kind of mood.”

“Yeah, whatever. You always are.” George rolled his eyes. As threatening as William Gold was, George had become well used to him by now. “Look, I lost a race. It happens to jockeys all the time. Get over it.”

William shook his head. “Not to you it doesn’t. Mr. Preacher signed you on because you won races like eating cake. You used to be unstoppable out there. Then you came in with us, and started sucking shit. Are you trying to embarrass Mr. Preacher, Dogwood? Is this some master plan of yours?”

“Please. I won you plenty of races,” George tsked, “on Paradigm. Sundancer isn’t the horse for me.”

“Neither was Gilded Green, apparently,” William muttered. “A good jockey can win on any horse. Stop being a princess.”

George gruffed a scathing laugh. “Maybe I’ll stop being a princess when you actually become a decent train—”

He was silenced by a harsh backhand slap to the face, snapping his head sideways and leaving a sting on his cheek. William bent down to George’s level and spoke into his ear: “Fine. I’m benching you. Since you can’t ride Sundancer, I guess you won’t ride at all.”

George’s gaze whipped to sear into William, his lips tightening. “I’m a jockey. I have to ride.”

“No, you’re a princess,” William said, chuckling. He slowly started walking away, in the direction Mr. Preacher had gone. “Princesses stay in the castle, waiting for their princes to come save them.”

George itched to say more, but held his tongue. His mouth had gotten him in enough trouble, and it wouldn’t help to dig the hole deeper. So he let William walk away, knuckles going white around the strap of his helmet.

September, 1971

By the time a year had gone by, George had seriously considered quitting. Being benched was one thing—being benched for over a year was another. He was only allowed to run in nothing, Sunday races on horses no one cared about, and it wasn’t getting his name into the papers. Not that it would anyway, as he still hadn’t managed to score a win. Perhaps, though, the anonymity was a welcome change. At least he wasn’t being blasted a failure on the front pages anymore.

It was a mild Wednesday afternoon when, just maybe, his luck started to change. He was running a basic training drill with Abarillo, a low-grade horse he’d suffered his last three losses on, when Mr. Preacher and William Gold approached the paddock, towing behind them one of their green colts. It was one George had seen around, raised as a racehorse but so far too young to run, reddish coat speckled with dusty grey. Curious, George dismounted Abarillo and led him to the fence, tying his reins.

“What’s this?” he asked evenly.

“This,” Mr. Preacher said, “is the last chance you’re getting.”

George just stared in silence, knowing better than to speak his mind. William tugged the colt closer to the fence.

“This here’s Redstone. At least, until we get a name approved, he’s Redstone,” Mr. Preacher continued. “We won him in a coin toss a couple years back. He was sired by King’s Cross, a legend of the races. This’ll be his first year on the track, and I’m willing to let you break him in.”

Before George could get a word in, Mr. Preacher leaned in close, eyes narrowing. “Fail, and you’re out. I mean it this time.”

The stakes were higher than ever, but George’s fingers itched for a real race. His backside ached for the saddle of a horse that meant something, a horse people would actually talk about. Simply being the son of King’s Cross meant that Redstone would be a hot topic the moment he stepped on the track, before he even ran.

“Okay, I understand,” George said. “I won’t let you down this time.”

Mr. Preacher sniffed, eyebrow twitching. “See that you don’t.”

And off he went, signalling to a nearby stablehand who rushed over to take Abarillo away. William brought Redstone into the paddock, leaving the colt aimless by the fence as he approached to stand, as always, threateningly close to George.

“So here’s the situation,” William began. “He’s saddle-trained, obviously, and we’ve already had him do a few practice runs. You’ll be his first official jockey, so we’ll ease into it, before the real training begins.”

They started small, as they always did when introducing a horse to its jockey: George mounted Redstone and trotted him in circles around the paddock, both to get a feel for the colt and get him warmed up for later runs. Redstone was mild-tempered, but he was eager, always itching to speed into a canter, George wrestling with him to slow down. Otherwise, he didn’t give George very much trouble at all, which should’ve been relieving—Redstone was nothing like Paradigm.

A stablehand arrived, towing with him William’s ranch horse, a speckled grey gelding named Soot. William mounted, then signalled for George to approach. He slowed Redstone to a walk and brought him close to the fence.

“He’s fast,” George commented.

William scoffed. “He was sired by King’s Cross, of course he’s fast. Now come on, let’s go to the track.”

Dogwood’s track was large enough, but not quite the size of an actual standard racing track—still, it achieved what it was meant to, a ring of loose dirt on which to run racehorses until their sides heaved. With how eager Redstone had been, George was nearly vibrating with excitement to finally run him at full speed, feel the wind on his face and the sheer power of a soon-to-be renowned heir.

William stopped his horse by the edge of the track and gestured for George to go on ahead. “Let’s see you run him once. I’ll be timing you.”

George positioned Redstone in the middle of the track, facing eastward. The air was steady, the sun was behind the clouds, the conditions were perfect. He brought his goggles down over his eyes, held the reins tight, sat back with his rear off the saddle, and let out a shaky breath. Eyes narrowing, hands sweating, he dug his heels into Redstone’s flank.

The colt started at a canter, but George quickly worked him into a gallop, sailing down the track and kicking up dirt. It wasn’t even full stride yet, but Redstone was built for this; speed was in his pedigree, and it showed, wind howling in George’s ears as they ate meters and soared around the track. For a moment, it felt like they were flying.

It was over too quick. George pulled the reins and brought him down slowly; canter, trot, walk, stop. He turned Redstone around and approached William, a glow in his chest.

William was glaring at the stopwatch in his hand. Without looking up, he said, “Again.”

“What was our time?” George wondered.

“Not fast enough, that was your time,” William spat.

“Not fast enough?” George puffed incredulously. “We were flying around that track! How could that not be—”

“Hey,” William barked, “who’s the trainer here, you or me? I said again.”

Thus began a gruelling pattern—George would run, and William would be unhappy, and George would run again. Again, again, again. With only short water breaks in between each run, the young colt was being pushed to his absolute limit, and it was never enough. After an hour, even George was starting to tire.

“This is abysmal,” William grumbled at the stopwatch. “You’re not pushing him hard enough. Again.”

“No,” George said.

“No?” William echoed, affronted. “The Hell do you mean, ‘No’?”

“I mean no.” George pointedly got out of the saddle, feeling the sting of his inner thighs. “The horse is exhausted. I’m exhausted. I think we’ve trained enough.”

“Oh, you think?” William scathed. “Remind me again, who’s the trainer here?”

George glared up at him. “Do you want this one to end up like Paradigm before he’s run in an actual race? If so, find another jockey to kill this horse. I’m not running him again.”

William put his hands up innocently. “Fine. But you’d better be ready when the time comes for an actual race. If you lose again, you’ll be joining your beloved Paradigm in Hell.”

October, 1971

Everything around him was just noise. The bustling of the crowd, the buzzing of insects, the soft nickers and huffs of horses, metal tack jangling, handlers barking orders. The iron gates groaned closed behind him. His ears were ringing.

“They are loaded into the gates, ladies and gentlemen, we are two minutes out . . .”

The announcer was just another muffled voice adding to the noise all around. George was all geared in his uniform, bright red shirt and white pants, black riding boots, white helmet with a red streak. Redstone had a red mask on his face, a red number 5 on his rump, and a shiny new name: Shylock, officially approved and registered by the Jockey Club.

George had never run a horse in its debut race, so the pressure was on, even without Mr. Preacher’s added threat of letting him go. It was a baby maiden race—every colt running was two years old, and none of them had won races before, so there really weren’t any expectations for the horses. Rather, the expectations laid upon the jockeys, especially George, Kentucky’s ‘finest failure.’ The announcer had already mentioned him by name a couple of times.

He shook his head. It wasn’t the time to get caught up in his thoughts. Any second, those gates were going to open, and his job would be officially on the line. One of the handlers behind him mumbled, “Good luck, boys.”

“And they’re off!”

The gates flew open, and George blacked out. The wind carved into his face, the thundering of hooves drowned out the ringing in his head, the cracking of whips and shouted commands all around. He barely had a chance to catch his focus, could barely register where he was in the lineup. The announcer was just wordless muttering, undetectable over the incredible noise of the race George loved more than anything in the world.

He urged Shylock on, bearing into the railing to try and make up placements. His eyes were trained on the blue shirt of the jockey in first place, narrowed gaze pulling him forward. He needed to win. More than ever before, he needed to prove he wasn’t worthless, he wasn’t a failure.

But it happened again. The memory. A hoof hitting a stone that shouldn’t have been anywhere near the track. A sharp whinny and a tumble of flesh and bone, a crunching impact into the dirt. Pained cries. Rolling out of the saddle, hooves pounding into him from above. The terrible crack of his leg and the shocked and horrified gasps from the audience.

George almost missed the ending of the race, almost forgot to slow Shylock down. When he stopped, he just stood there, chest heaving. He had no idea where he placed.

“And that’s our race, folks, it’s Caldera, Jumpin’ Jack, and Helter Skelter. That’s Caldera, Jumpin’ Jack, and Helter Skelter. This marks Caldera and jockey Alexis Garcia’s break maiden, I sense a great future . . .”

He felt his heart sink into his stomach, and almost couldn’t bear to look at the board. Fifth. He and Shylock had placed fifth.

His body moved on autopilot after that, dismounting and removing Shylock’s saddle. When the handler came to collect the colt, he hesitated, not wanting to let go of the reins of what might be the last horse he ever rode. He watched the handler take Shylock away.

Leaving the track, all it took was one look from Mr. Preacher to know he was in for it. The old man beckoned him with a stiff finger and gruffed, “You come with me.”

George’s feet dragged all the way to the tack room. He couldn’t feel his skin, or the clothes on his body, or the saddle under his arm. He didn’t even realize he was still wearing his goggles and helmet, didn’t notice the discomfort, the sweat in his hair. What he did feel was the harsh slap to his face, waking him from his stupor.

“I gave you one chance, and you blew it! Do you even care anymore?” Mr. Preacher yelled.

“I’m sorry.” It was all he could say.

“You know, I was willing to be nice if you’d at least finish in the money. Fifth? You’re an embarrassment! To Dogwood, to all racing! You’re a disgrace!”

George just hung his head. Nothing he could do would change the man’s mind. He just waited for it to be over, for Mr. Preacher to say the final words and let the torture end.

“I knew you didn’t have it in you,” William snarked. “With how weak you were in practice, you had no chance. You’re finished, aren’t you? You’ve given up. You won’t push horses anymore. Why is that?”

“I—”

“Oh, wait. I know why,” William went on, a smug smile crossing his face. “You’re afraid if you push a horse, you’ll kill it. Right? Just like you killed Paradigm.”

George’s face turned hard. “That was not my fault.”

William bent down to his level, staring into his eyes, his lip curled. “Sure it wasn’t.”

Mr. Preacher waved William aside. “Enough. This conversation is over. You know what happens now, don’t you?”

“I’m fired?” George guessed emptily.

“Yes,” Mr. Preacher quipped, “effective immediately. I want all your stuff off my ranch by tomorrow, or I’m burning it. Now get out of my sight.”

One week later

George sat at his small dining table in his small kitchen in his small apartment. Louisville was a big city, but the mornings were quiet, especially at such an inhuman hour. Despite being unemployed, George couldn’t shake his habit of waking at 5 A.M., which is the time he’d normally start driving to Dogwood. Not anymore.

His hands were wrapped around the cup of coffee he wasn’t drinking, and he was haunted by the newspaper burning a hole in the surface of his table. It was still rolled, fresh off the ink press, but he could hardly bear to look at it. He knew what it would say. He knew what everyone was saying. George Davidson, Kentucky’s finest failure.

Angrily, he tsked and grabbed the newspaper—might as well just rip the band-aid off. For a second, he considered binning it, but his morbid curiosity won. He unrolled it and flipped through the pages. Politics. Comic strips. Celebrities. What’s on TV.

‘George Davidson, jockey of Paradigm, fired after his 19th consecutive loss.’

He sighed. The short blurb briefly covered all the important bits—his winning streak, the accident, his subsequent compounded failures. It concluded with a short comment from Michael Preacher himself: ‘He was a star. Now he’s not.’

George tried to tell himself there were other ranches, other horses and trainers he could run for, but even the thought of it made him want to hurl. He was nothing; a disgraced jockey felled by an unfortunate accident that consumed him. The papers would talk about it until the story got old, and then he’d be forgotten, just another speck of dust in the grand racing world.

His eyes meekly traveled to an advertisement in the corner of the newspaper: ‘HELP WANTED: Bartender - Slim’s Bar.’ Supposedly, it’d be hard to fail at that.

Chapter Text

October, 1971

Mornings at Firebranch were peaceful, and at least for Dream, slow. His parents were always busy running the place, Amber had calls and letters up to her ears, and Nick and Penny would already be halfway done feeding the horses by 6 A.M. Dream, however, would have no obligations until training time in the afternoon. It was a small part of why he’d wanted to become a trainer in the first place.

And so, alone in an empty house, Dream sat at the dining table with his half-drunk coffee and finished breakfast plate, reading the morning newspaper. He wasn’t quite fifty years old, so most of it was uninteresting, but he enjoyed the funny pages and any stories about racing—the winners, the losers, the horses on the rise. He dreamed of the day he’d see Little Shade’s name in bold letters, next to his own.

‘George Davidson, jockey of Paradigm, fired after his 19th consecutive loss.’

Dream’s eyebrow raised. He knew that name, the bug boy who’d shocked everyone with his impressive winning streak a few years back, the predicted Triple Crown winner. He’d been somewhat following the jockey’s sordid tale, how quickly he’d fallen into disgrace—and now, it seemed, he’d been let go by the esteemed Dogwood Ranch. Something tingled in Dream’s gut.

Just below that story was a recap of the same race—the winner, the placement order, the names of all the jockeys and horses. Dream had heard about the race weeks ago, and he’d hoped Little Shade would’ve participated. But the colt was still too unruly, and besides, he didn’t even have a name yet.

Suddenly, Amber came barrelling into the room, a slip of paper held in one hand. She carreened into the dining table, pushing it slightly and spilling Dream’s coffee onto the tablecloth and his newspaper, soiling it.

“Hey, watch it!” he cursed, dropping the newspaper. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Look!” Amber squealed, shoving the paper she held into Dream’s face.

“I can’t read it if you hold it that close,” he said dryly.

She lifted it away from his face and slapped it down on the table with a flat hand, fingers splayed across it. “It’s a letter, from the Jockey Club. They approved a name for Little Shade! He’s a registered racehorse!”

Dream’s eyes widened. “Really? What’s the name they finally accepted?”

“Deo Volente,” she said mystically, waggling her fingers. “It means ‘God willing.’”

He chuckled. “Yeah, that’s fitting. ‘God willing’ he’ll win a race.”

Amber’s smile faded. “Luke’s still struggling with him, huh?”

“Understatement of the year.” Dream rolled his eyes. “Speaking of, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. I’m really not sure if Luke is the right jockey for Little Shade— I mean, Deo Volente.”

“Why’s that?” Amber asked, slowly sitting down on a chair beside him. “Luke’s the best jockey we have. Other than his sorry streak on Focal Point, he normally rakes in wins. Just last week he won a race on Victorious.”

Dream chewed his lip. “Well, that’s just it. He’s so used to winning that he can’t take a loss. I mean, you saw him after that last race on Focal Point. And he’s terrible with Little— Deo Volente. I get that the horse is difficult, but Luke just isn’t patient enough. He craves winning too much to take it slow.”

“Take it slow? We’re talking about horse racing, here,” Amber cheeked, smirking. “Just give him time. Deo Volente will ease up, and Luke will get his wins, and everyone will be happy. You trust me, don’t you?”

“Of course, and I trust your judgement,” Dream said. “I’m just putting it out there. As Lit— Deo Volente’s trainer, I’m not convinced Luke is the right jockey.”

Amber stood, waving a hand. “Just wait and see. I’m signing Deo Volente up for the next race. If all goes well, we’ll know Luke is the right jockey after all.”

“And if all doesn’t go well?” he queried. “Then will you look for another jockey?”

She sighed heavily. “One loss isn’t a reason to replace a jockey. What, do you have someone else in mind?”

“Well . . .” Dream shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“If you find someone, I might consider it. But Luke’s a good guy, temperament aside,” she said. “Just focus on Deo Volente, get him race-ready. Luke knows what he’s doing.”

Dream hummed. “If you say so . . .”

Keeneland Race Course, Lexington, Kentucky
October, 1971

“Dad’s not coming, is he?”

Amber glanced at him sadly. They were seated in the stands overlooking the track, shouldered by excited kids and rowdy day-drinkers. It was unusually crowded for a no-stakes, Saturday race, and that had Dream’s anxiety through the roof—if Deo Volente failed, he would fail in front of hundreds. Dream wrung the program in his hands as if squeezing out water.

“He’s . . . busy, probably. You know how he is,” she tried.

“That’s not why. You know it, and I know it,” Dream spat. “He’s ashamed of me, doesn’t want to watch me fail again.”

“Oh, Dream, don’t—”

“I’m not even upset for me. I’m upset for you,” he interrupted. “This is your first horse’s first race. Regardless how he feels about me, I thought he’d come to support you.”

Amber shook her head. “It’s okay. It’s not like I need his approval. And anyway, if Deo Volente doesn’t win, I’ll be glad that Dad isn’t here to see it.”

“I hope he wins,” Dream muttered. “If for nothing else, just to rub it in Dad’s face. That your horse won and he wasn’t here to watch.”

“Oh, enough. This rivalry between you has got to stop,” she chastised. “He’s your father. He’s hard on you, but it’s because he loves you. You should try—”

“Shush, it’s starting.”

Amber’s cheeks puffed, annoyed at being silenced, and she whipped her head away. She was nearly ten years older than Dream, but had a tendency to act below her age. He’d long since grown used to her antics, and paid her no mind.

The colts were being loaded into the gates, prepped for their maiden race. Dream briefly glimpsed Luke, dressed in bright blue, and Deo Volente with his shiny number 4. As expected, the green colt threw a fit while the handlers and his jockey urged him into the gate, and Dream had to hide his face in his program. He knew the outcome of the race before the gates even opened.

“And they’re off!”

He could scarcely watch. Deo Volente spooked when the gates opened, rearing up, and was already a furlong behind before he even started running. Dream peeked over the top of his program, watched Luke furiously whip the colt, urging him forward, catching the heels of the horse ahead of him by the halfway point. Slowly, Dream lowered his program.

“Whoa,” Amber breathed, “that horse can run.”

Indeed, Deo Volente could run. Despite his abysmal start, the colt had a long stride and a searingly fast pace, and managed to overtake the two horses ahead of him by the quarter pole. Impressive, sure, but it wasn’t enough. Even with Luke’s constant efforts, he crossed the finish line in sixth place.

“God willing,” Dream muttered sarcastically.

Amber jumped from her seat. “Did you see that! He had to have been, what, five, six lengths behind? He managed to make it up! Do you know how—”

“But he didn’t win,” Dream spat. “Now I have to deal with Luke’s bitching again. You’re coming with me this time, I’m not handling him alone.”

Hesitantly, she followed him down to the railing. Other jockeys were already coming out the gate, the winner meeting showers of praise, while Deo Volente was fussing a distance away, Luke shouting expletives loud enough for children to hear. As the handlers approached to calm the colt, Dream’s eyes widened in alarm as he watched Luke angrily yank on the reins, pulling Deo Volente’s head up and making the bit dig into his mouth.

Amber gasped. “What’s he doing? He’s hurting him!”

“I told you, didn’t I?” Dream snapped. He quickly rushed over, running onto the track. “Luke! What the Hell do you think you’re doing?”

Two handlers approached and stopped him, hands on his chest. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step off the track—”

Dream shoved at them. “Get out of my way, that’s my horse! Luke!”

Chaos ensued as more handlers arrived to contain the situation. Luke jumped off Deo Volente’s back, not even bothering to remove his saddle, instead approaching Dream in threatening strides, preparing to swing a fist—he was stopped by handlers grabbing his shoulder and arm, while three more tended to Deo Volente, untacking and calming him.

“Dream! When I get my hands on you, it is lights out!” Luke swore, thrashing against the handlers’ hold on him. “Aren’t you supposed to be a trainer? That horse may as well be wild!”

Dream pushed against the hands that held him back. “And you think that makes it okay to punish him? You know you’re not supposed to pull on the bit like that, you know what that can do!”

“Boys, stop it!” Amber shouted, running onto the track.

“Ma’am, I need you to step back—”

The whole debacle continued with unintelligible yelling and clamoring, but came to an abrupt end when security began to approach. Dream relented, letting Amber lead him off the track, while Luke stormed away, shouldering Dream as he walked by.

“Oh, that asshole! I could just—”

“Dream, enough. Stop,” Amber urged, both hands on his shoulder.

“You saw what he did,” Dream glowered. “You’re just gonna let him get away with that?”

She shook her head. “No, I’m going to tear him a new one. Later, when we’re not being stared at.”

Dream clicked his tongue. “Still think he’s fit to be Deo Volente’s jockey? After that horseshit?”

“He was just mad. I’m sure he’ll apologize for it later, once he’s cooled off,” Amber said.

He scoffed, tearing himself away from her. “Seriously? You’re gonna defend him?”

She huffed, her hands balling into fists. “No, I just said I’ll tear him a new one. But he’s never done something like this before, it’s not like him. I think something else might be . . . Oh, whatever. Point is, we don’t have a better jockey. It’s Luke or no one.”

“What if I find a better jockey?” Dream protested. “If I find someone else to ride Deo Volente, will you at least give him a chance?”

“I . . .” Amber sighed at length. “Fine, yes, maybe. If you can find someone as good as Luke, I’ll . . . consider it. But all jockey decisions go through me, first, and my word is final. Got it?”

“Sure. Fine.” Dream sniffed. “I’ll wait in the car. You go find Luke. If I have to look at him again, I’ll hit him.”

She shook her head disapprovingly at him, then wordlessly walked away.

November, 1971

Finding jockeys was somehow more difficult than Dream could’ve predicted. It wasn’t normally the trainer’s jurisdiction—trainers dealt with the horses, owners dealt with the people. But Amber, stubborn as she was, remained steadfast that Luke was their best option, despite everything that said otherwise.

There was one name at the forefront of Dream’s mind, of course—George Davidson. Even with his recent string of failures, there was something about him, some kind of hunch that said he would be the right fit. But he was a hard man to pin down. It took Dream two weeks of asking around to get his number, and even then, after a further week of calling and about thirty messages left on his voicemail, he’d gotten no response. Frustrating as it was, with time ticking away, he was forced to look elsewhere.

He’d called numerous jockey agents, arranged several interviews, and conducted each one at various coffee shops around Louisville and Lexington. All of them were promising, talented jockeys with wins under their belts, eager to race and willing to deal with a difficult horse, checking all the boxes—but still, none of them satisfied Dream’s very particular criteria, and it was scratch after scratch. After a month of searching, it was settled. Only one jockey would do, and since calling hadn’t worked, it was time for desperate measures.

All of his snooping and asking around had earned him whispers of what became of the once-great George Davidson, and that information had led him here: On the sidewalk outside of Slim’s Bar, a rinky-dink hole-in-the-wall in some sorry Louisville neighbourhood. Notepad and pencil in hand, he marched inside, the orange glow of the setting sun behind him.

Stepping through the door, he counted about four customers, fifteen lit cigarettes, and two rats—or the same rat, twice. Scratched, graffittied tables and peeling leather booths, low-tempo jazz music playing through muffled speakers. Six stools at the bar, one occupied. One bartender, wiping the countertop. Dream approached.

“George Davidson?” he asked, sitting slowly on a stool and removing his baseball cap, setting it atop the bar.

The bartender didn’t cease his wiping, but stuttered; didn’t look up. “What?”

“Used to being recognized, I gather,” Dream mused. He’d seen his picture once or twice. He had more stubble now. “You were a pretty big name, once.”

“What do you want? An autograph?” George muttered, shaking his head. He still didn’t look up.

He figured he’d just get right to it. “My name is Clay Bennett. I’m a trainer for Firebranch Farms.”

Finally, George looked at him, hand stalling over the cloth. He was a pair of pretty brown eyes in a dirty white t-shirt, hanging off his lean frame. Slowly, he straightened, let go of the cloth.

“Whatever. It’s time for my smoke break anyway,” George said. “Meet me in the alley, if you must.”

He went. Dream stood, replacing his cap, and went out into the back alley. It was there the rats congregated, sheltering underneath a dumpster from the rain that had started to fall. George had situated himself close to the wall, where he was covered by a small overhanging of roof above, and held a lit cigarette in two fingers.

“Far as I know, jockeys aren’t known to smoke,” Dream said.

“I’m not a jockey,” George uttered. Then, after a pause, “Anymore.”

“Why’s that?” Dream asked.

George laughed darkly. “Haven’t you heard? I’m disgraced. Just another sad story of wasted potential.”

Dream swallowed that. “What if it didn’t have to be a waste? What if you could ride again?”

“Ha,” George exhaled, “who would have me?”

“Again, my name is Clay Bennett. Friends call me ‘Dream,’” he said, “I’m a trainer for Firebranch Farms. We might have a horse for you.”

George seemed to look at him properly for the first time, eyes flicking up and down. “‘Dream,’ huh? That’s a stupid nickname.”

“What’s ‘stupid’ is a talented jockey working at a sleazy bar. Did you hear what I said?” he implored, growing impatient.

“Yeah, I heard you. I heard it the first five thousand times.” George rolled his eyes. “I got your voicemails. Obsessive, much?”

Dream bit his lip, staying his embarrassment. “Look, we have a horse, and we need the right jockey. I think you’re a good fit.”

“Tell me something.” George took a long, pointed drag of his cigarette. “Why’s it that you’re here? Usually it’s the horses’ owners who approach me. Well, approached me.”

“It’s a long story. Stop changing the subject,” Dream dismissed.

George’s face darkened, and he sighed quietly. He dropped his cigarette and stamped it out. “Fine. Meat and potatoes, then.”

After a stretching pause, he continued. “Why do you want me? I’m sure you know my track record. Nineteen losses in a row, and that’s not counting the— the accident. I’m sure you heard about that, too.”

“It was in the papers,” Dream said carefully. He imagined it was a touchy subject.

“Yeah,” George whispered. “I killed a horse.”

“That wasn’t your fault,” Dream insisted, “Paradigm took a spill, it happens.”

“Sure.” George profiled, crossing his arms and leaning his back against the wall. “Anyway, all that considered. Why the Hell would you want to hire me?”

“Because—” Dream stuttered, searched for the words. “Because you’re hungry. You know how to take a loss, it doesn’t stop you— At least, it didn’t ‘til now. You’re starving for a win, which makes you determined. There’s a champion in you somewhere, and there’s a champion in our horse. I think you could bring out each other’s champions.”

George seemed to absorb that, chin tilting as he glanced at the sky. Dream saw in his face, in his soft and broken features, that he was considering it, rolling it over in his brain. Then he looked down at his watch, and hummed.

“My break is over,” he said hollowly. He started for the door. “Nice meeting you.”

“Wait,” Dream stopped him, held the door open. George looked back at him blankly, halfway inside. “Just . . . think about it. Come to Firebranch, meet the horse. Will you? Please?”

George’s eyes narrowed. “Let go of the door.”

Dream could only stare desperately, mouth flapping, out of things to say. Reluctantly, he released his hold on the door, and George continued inside, letting it slam in Dream’s face.

Two weeks later

“You spend so much time in here I’m starting to think you’re a horse.”

Nick dropped the feed bucket on the stable floor and cast him a warning glare. Then he made a stupid face and grabbed the front of his pants, teasing, “Yuh-huh, all the ladies think that, too.”

Dream recoiled. “Gross, yuck, yuck, I do not want to think about that!”

“Sorry, buddy, you walked straight into that one.” Nick shrugged innocently. He opened one of the stalls. “Seriously, though, I’m here all the time ‘cause Madame Red ain’t been lookin’ too hot. She needs more intensive care.”

“Oh, shit. She finally kickin’ the bucket?” Dream wondered, glancing at the bay mare, standing and swishing her tail. “She’s not that old yet, is she?”

“Eighteen is old for a horse. And besides, she’s shat out, what, like twelve foals? That’s gotta do a number on ya,” Nick said. “I wouldn’t say she’s dying, but her frolicking years are definitely behind her.”

The corners of Dream’s mouth pinched. “Deo Volente will be sad when she goes.”

Nick made a dubious face, lips shrugging sideways. “Does he even know she’s his mom?”

Dream hummed, unsure. “I dunno. I like to think so. He’s gotta know, right?”

“Maybe.” Nick gave Madame Red her food, stroking her flank gently. “How’s he doing, by the way? Still, how’d you put it? ‘Difficult’?”

“Yep. Still a saddle-sore.” Dream sighed. “I’ve tried telling Amber that Luke isn’t the right jockey. Training for months and still misbehaving? It’s a jockey problem, gotta be. Plus, Luke’s a fucking prick. But Am won’t listen.”

“She’s stubborn. And you know how she feels about Luke,” Nick said. “Always looked after him like her own brother. Did he ever apologize for the Keeneland incident?”

Dream chuckled. “He did, after she tore him a new asshole. Honestly, I’ve never seen him look scared, but he was shitting bricks while talking to her.”

Nick’s eyes widened, hauntingly. “Well, chyeah. Am’s terrifying when she’s mad. Remember that time I ate the last lemon tart?”

Dream shivered. “God. I still get chills.”

Their conversation lulled as the sound of a car pulling up came from outside, rumbling engine and wheels crunching over gravel. Curious, Dream wandered to the stable door, peeking out to see a blue Renault parking by the farmhouse.

“Expecting someone?” Nick asked.

“No. You?” Dream returned.

Nick shook his head. Dream left him to his business and walked out of the stable, approaching the strange car. The driver’s side door groaned open, and out stepped a mop of dark brown hair, blue jeans belted over a white Polo shirt. It was George Davidson, eyes squinted as he surveyed the farm. When he saw Dream, he stopped, apprehension coming off him in waves. Dream half-expected him to jump back in his car and drive away.

“‘65 Renault 10, is that?” Dream called out, stopping a few paces away.

George stuffed his hands into his front pockets. “It was my dad’s.”

Dream nodded approvingly, and a soft smile crossed his face. “You came.”

“I came,” George muttered. “Came to see what all the fuss is about.”

Dream glanced over his shoulder, catching Amber leading Deo Volente and Luke to the paddock. “You’re just in time. Wanna see the horse?”

“I—” George hesitated, hackles raising. “I guess. Fine.”

Dream gestured for him to follow and led him to the paddock, where Luke had already started warming up, trotting in circles. Amber heard their approach, turning and tilting her head quizzically.

“Who’s this?” she asked.

“George Davidson.” Dream gestured between them. “Amber Bennett. She owns the horse, Deo Volente.”

George’s eyebrow raised. “‘God willing’?”

“George Davidson . . . I know that name,” Amber mused. “Weren’t you—?”

“A bigshot? Yeah,” George finished. “Not anymore. Disgraced.”

Dream leaned toward him and whispered, “Not doing a great job of selling yourself, here.”

George muttered back, “I’m not trying to sell myself.”

“Why are you here?” Amber wondered, good-naturedly. She looked at Dream, and her tone became suspicious. “Dream? What’s this about?”

Dream lowered his voice, aware of Luke just meters away. “Deo Volente needs a proper jockey, one who’ll work with him, not mistreat him. I think George is that jockey.”

“Hey, I just came to see. I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” George said, backing away. “Besides, it looks to me like ‘God Willing’ already has a rider.”

“Well . . . he does, technically. But I don’t think it’s a good match,” Dream explained.

“So you lied to me,” George deadpanned. “You said you have a horse for me, not that you’re intending to kick the horse’s jockey out of the saddle.”

“Yeah, Dream,” Amber added, putting her hands on her hips, “and I am the one who gets the final say. You didn’t tell him that either, did you?”

George narrowed his eyes. “Must’ve forgot to mention it.”

Dream felt the panic rising, tried to withhold it. “Look, Am. Luke is a good jockey, but he’s not good with Deo Volente. He doesn’t know how to handle him and he doesn’t have the patience. Besides, Luke has other horses he can ride. George is working at Slim’s Bar.”

“What’s wrong with that?” George challenged, defensive.

“What’s wrong with that is you’re not a bartender, George! You’re a damned good jockey! You should be racing!” Dream insisted.

George clicked his tongue. “Correction: I was a damned good jockey. Did you forget my nineteen straight losses?”

“Nineteen losses? Dream,” Amber turned to him, cross. “I told you I’d consider it if you found me someone better than Luke. I don’t think—”

“What are you kooks talking about?”

Luke suddenly approached, leading Deo Volente behind him. He stared at Amber, then at Dream, then at George, when his eyes widened.

“George Davidson?” Luke breathed. “What the Hell is Kentucky’s finest failure doing here?”

“Thanks for that,” George grumbled. Then, under his breath, “Douchebag.”

Amber got an awkward look about her, fumbling for words. “Oh, uh, um, well, see, George here was just—”

“Interviewing to be Deo Volente’s new jockey. I want you off him,” Dream stated bluntly, cutting her off. He caught Amber putting a palm to her forehead.

“What?” Luke exploded, vaulting the fence and approaching in angry strides. “You’re trying to replace me? With him? He’s a disgrace, an embarrassment to the racing world! Is this some kind of joke?”

“Thanks, again, for that,” George said.

Dream put his hands up, showing his palms. “Luke, your temper is out of control. You don’t have the patience to work with a horse like Deo Volente. You can still ride for Firebranch, but not on him.”

“Excuse me, I make that decision, not you!” Amber jutted in.

“Excuse me, I haven’t even said if I want to ride for you,” George added.

Luke laughed darkly. “Oh, this is hilarious. You’ve really outdone yourself, Dream. Going against the owner, picking a disgraced jockey, tryn’a take my horse from under my nose. You keep surprising me, buddy. Never a dull moment.”

“Luke, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into him,” Amber apologized. “You’re not off Deo Volente, not until—”

“No, no, it’s okay,” Luke said, smiling venomously, “I’ll make the decision real easy for you. I quit. I’d much rather run Victorious, a horse that actually wins races, with an owner and trainer who know what they’re fucking doing. Have fun eating dust with the finest failure.”

He stalked off. Amber’s gaze followed him, bewildered, before her face snapped to Dream, turning red. She paced toward him and grabbed his collar, yanking him down to her eye level.

“You happy now? You proud of yourself?” she hissed. “We just lost our best jockey! Now we’re stuck with Mr. Nineteen-Losses. I hope you—”

“No, you’re actually not.” George had his hands up, backing off. “I did not want to get in the middle of this. Sorry about . . . all that, but, I’m out.”

He turned and started speed-walking to his car. Amber threw her arms up and shouted, “Oh! Just perfect!”

“Am, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Dream fawned, ducking his head. “I’ll just— George, wait!”

He jogged to catch George before he could get into his car. “George, wait. Please, we really need you now. At least try riding Deo Volente?”

George chuckled hoarsely. “No. I’m not cleaning up your messes for you. I only came ‘cause I was curious what this place was like, but I told you, I’m not a jockey anymore. Thanks for the offer, but no thanks. And, well . . . Good luck.”

He got in the driver’s seat and slammed the door, leaving Dream gobsmacked and devastated on the gravel. The engine rumbled to life, and the car pulled out, turning down the driveway and on the road to Louisville.

Chapter Text

November 12, 1971

There were only two locations where George truly felt at home: the race track on a well-weather day, and his bedroom at night, filled with cigarette smoke and laboured breathing and humid air. Lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, sweat making his chest shine, a lit dart passed between him and the man to his right.

Laurie Burnham. A caretaker back at Dogwood Ranch, he and George had met on George’s first day as Paradigm’s jockey, three years ago. A tepid friendship at first, turned relationship when Laurie carefully guessed George’s preferences. Though, the term ‘relationship’ was used loosely—it was always strictly physical, due to the ring on Laurie’s finger.

“I miss you,” Laurie said quietly. “Dogwood just ain’t the same without you there.”

George chuckled dryly. “You just miss the stable sex.”

It punched a laugh from Laurie’s chest. “Yeah, well. That too.”

It was quiet, for a moment. George took his last drag of their shared cigarette and snuffed it out in the ashtray at his bedside. Friday night in Louisville was alive with traffic sounds, ambulance sirens, and bustling pedestrians going to and from the clubs. The bedroom was George’s own little pocket world, just outside the fray, hidden from eyes that would narrow with scorn if they knew.

“They’ve already replaced you, yanno. Some new guy’s on Shylock,” Laurie said.

“Uh-huh,” George mumbled, disinterested. “It’s not like I expected them to hold a space for me in mourning.”

“Did you hear who it is?” Laurie wondered. “It was in the papers.”

George sighed. “I don’t read the papers.”

Laurie hummed. “Alexis Garcia. He’s the jockey who won the race that you—”

“I know who he is,” George cut him off.

“Right. ‘Course.” Laurie paused. “I heard they had to offer him some pret-ty stiff wages to coax him off of, what was his other horse? Caldera?”

“It’s Dogwood. They can afford it,” George quipped. “Especially now that I’m no longer losing them money.”

Laurie finally seemed to sense George’s mood, sitting up and looking at him pityingly. “Oh, sorry. You pro’lly didn’t want to hear all that, right?”

“It’s fine,” George said. Then he glanced up, narrowed eyes. “Don’t you have a wife to be getting home to?”

“Shit, yeah.” Laurie squinted at the clock. “Kids gotta be in bed by now. I’ll get goin’.”

George watched him boredly, balancing on his elbows. Laurie stood and quickly pulled his clothes back on, strewn all over the floor—boxers hanging off the footboard, pants by the door, shirt out in the hallway.

“Hey, know what?” Laurie let out a hefty breath, belting his jeans. “Alexis Garcia’ll be running Shylock at Miles Park, on the fourteenth.”

George cocked a brow. “Isn’t it a bit late in the year?”

Laurie shrugged. “A few courses are still open, late-season. Somethin’ about there being more new horses than usual. Think you’ll go?”

George snorted. “Go? To what?”

“Miles Park. See Shylock run.”

He puffed a laugh. “Hell no. I’ve suffered enough humiliation, thank you.”

“Huh. You’re not curious? If it were me, I’d wanna see what the new guy’s got,” Laurie said slyly, as he leaned down toward George, one hand on the bed.

“I know what he’s got, I saw it first-hand.” George extended a palm. “Don’t kiss me.”

Laurie chuckled. “Still won’t let me, eh?”

“You’re married,” George deadpanned.

“What, so you’ll jump on my cock, but a kiss is too far?” Laurie snarked.

George sighed roughly. “Just go home.”

“Alright, alright.” Laurie waved a hand, turning to the door. “Be seein’ you.”

His footsteps receded down the hall, followed by the soft click of the door closing. George turned to his side, facing the colourful night sky outside his window, and let the sirens lull him to sleep.

Miles Park, Louisville, Kentucky
November 14, 1971

The plan was not to watch the race. The plan was to get as far away from it as he could, even so far as considering paying for a night in a Lexington motel, anything to distance himself from his failures. He’d spent the morning lying fetal position under his bedcovers, hiding from everything—but something had dragged him out of bed, put his clothes on, got him into his car, and brought him to Miles Park. Perhaps there was some sick part of him that craved the attention, even when negative.

Still, he’d had enough sense to wear sunglasses and a cap, a small effort to avoid being recognized. The tabloids would have a field day if they got his picture, seated in the stands, watching his replacement get loaded into the starting gate. He hid the bottom-half of his face in his program.

“Riding number 2, Shylock, is young jockey Alexis Garcia. Garcia is a rising star, with already three more wins under his belt since his break maiden last month . . .”

George scoffed. He briefly recalled the time when similar words were spoken about him—in fact, Alexis Garcia’s tale scarily mimicked his own. George had scored his break maiden on Tidal Wave, and proceeded to win five more before being picked up by Dogwood, to ride Paradigm. His heart always tore two directions at the memory. Those races on Paradigm were the best days of his life.

“Look what you’ve done, Davidson,” William had said to him, “you’ve killed our best horse.”

He shook the thought away. Perhaps it was only fair his career had ended the way it did. He’d killed the best horse he ever rode, and what followed was just his dues, his karma. Now there was a different jockey, a different horse, standing where he and Paradigm should’ve stood—at the starting gate, staring down the long dirt track ahead.

“And they’re off! Shylock surges out of the gate, securing a great position at the front of the pack, Long Island just behind him, coming up to challenge . . .”

George’s eyes circled the track, following the great red steed in a black-and-white checkered mask, his rider perched sturdily atop his back. Alexis Garcia might’ve been new to the scene, but he was no stranger to the race—he urged Shylock along at just the right cues, keeping him close to the rail and a neck ahead of the colt behind him. Most of George’s last race had been a blur, but he remembered one thing: The sheer adrenaline, the blood pounding in his ears, the air like a wall in his face as Shylock sliced through it. The colt was impressively fast, and by the quarter pole, he’d gained at least two lengths of distance between himself and his closest challenger. At the race’s end, Shylock emerged victorious, solidifying the awful truth—the problem was George all along.

“And that’s our race, ladies and gentlemen, it’s Shylock, Long Island, and Wellerman. Shylock, Long Island, and Wellerman. This is Shylock’s break maiden, after his rocky debut at Latonia Race Course . . .”

He absentmindedly ground his teeth watching Shylock’s victory trot along the track, his jockey raising his helmet to thunderous applause. While handlers came to take the colt, Alexis removed the saddle and walked off the course, shaking the hands of reporters and audience members and receiving a pat on the back from Michael Preacher. George watched the jockey exchange words with William, a huge smile on the trainer’s face, a smile kind enough to fool the unknowing. Alexis accepted his trophy with a toothy grin, then posed for pictures with Mr. Preacher, the man holding the jockey’s shoulder like a proud father. George, his face wrinkled with a frown, wondered again why he’d come.

Then his eyes wandered, and he felt all the blood in his body freeze. William was turned his way, hand raised to shield his eyes from the sun. George tried to hide behind his program, but it was too late—William’s face twisted into a devilish smile, and then he was walking over.

“My, my. Look who we have here,” William tutted, seating himself next to George in the stands. “You’ve got balls, showing your face. Why the Hell’ve you come?”

“Wouldn’t you?” George grumbled.

“No. I have a sense of shame.” William arranged himself comfortably, crossing his long legs. “Tell me. What do you think of your replacement? Quite the improvement, wouldn’t you say?”

All he could do was grin and bear it. “He’s alright.”

William huffed a laugh. “Better than alright. He’s actually a winner.”

“Yeah, so was I,” George muttered. “We’ll see if he keeps it up.”

His haughty replacement finally pried himself away from the reporters, picking his way across the yard toward the tack rooms. William spotted him, stood, and waved a hand, calling, “Garcia! C’mere a sec!”

Of course, just a little bit of humiliation was never enough. Alexis made his way up the stands, saddle under one arm and helmet under the other, giddy smile still plastered to his lips. Up close, he was just a scrawny kid, shaggy black hair and hooded, dewey eyes, easily a handful of years younger than George.

“Yeah, boss?” Alexis asked sunnily.

William reached over and snatched George’s sunglasses off his face, presenting him. “This is George Davidson, the one who so graciously stepped down to offer you your job.”

Alexis looked confused. “Stepped down? But you said he—”

“Embarrassed me, Mr. Preacher, Dogwood, and all of racing? Yeah. I was just putting it nicely,” William said scornfully.

The young jockey’s eyes trailed over to observe George, studying him closely. “You used to ride Paradigm, right? I heard you were a pretty big deal, once.”

George didn’t answer that, just stared blankly, lips taut in a straight line. Alexis went on, “Everyone says that accident destroyed you. Just couldn’t pick yourself back up after it. Shame. But it worked out for me, didn’t it?”

“Happy for you,” George said emptily.

“He’s a sore sport.” William chuckled. “You being here, doing what he can’t, it just tears him up inside. Doesn’t it, Davidson?”

“Can I have my sunglasses back?” George demanded, standing and putting out a hand. “I’m going home.”

William relented, placing the glasses in George’s open palm. He put them on and nudged his way past the two of them, heading back down the stands.

“I hope you’ll get back into racing,” Alexis called after him, “I’d like the chance to bury you even deeper than you’re already buried.”

George said nothing to that, just put up his middle finger over his shoulder. He heard the two of them snickering like a pair of schoolgirls.

“Look what you’ve done, Davidson.”

November 17, 1971

Slim’s Bar wasn’t usually a busy place, but Wednesdays were even slower than most. The middle of the week left everyone too tired to consider a drink with friends, and even if they did go out, they wouldn’t come to Slim’s. It was only the regulars, the truly dedicated alcoholics, who’d bother spending their evenings in a shithole bar in nowhere Louisville.

George had gotten to know their regulars rather well. One was an old man who’d never married nor had kids, and he’d mention it as his biggest regret every chance he got. Another, seated at the bar, was a middle-aged divorcee who’d have a new story about his ‘bitch ex-wife’ every night—custody battles, his kids’ stepdad, how she was making more money than him—and George would have no choice but to listen to him prattle on. Lastly, a pot-bellied man who came every night after work, still clad in his hard hat and reflective vest. That one was, thankfully, mostly quiet.

The door bell jingled, and George raised his eyes to regard their newest regular—a young man with a large stature, curly russet hair, and green eyes, who’d come in every night for the past week. He wore dirty, torn jeans, a red flannel jacket, and a dusty white shirt, red Oklahoma Sooners cap on his head. George sighed heavily, flinging his washcloth over his shoulder and crossing his arms as the man approached.

“The usual,” Dream said evenly, tapping the bar.

George wordlessly prepared his ‘usual’: Two shots of dark rum, Coca-Cola, and a dash of lemon. He placed the drink in front of him, then stared, watching him sip gingerly through the straw.

“Sooners, huh?” George muttered, reaching out to flick the brim of his cap. “Aren’t you from Kentucky?”

“Florida,” Dream said, “but we moved here when I was four.”

“That doesn’t explain the obsession with Oklahoma football.”

Dream shrugged. “I just like them. What about you? You’re English, right? What are you doing in Kentucky?”

“We lived in London ‘til I was ten. Then we moved to New York,” George explained. “I always loved racing. I’d watch the Stakes at Belmont Park with my dad every year. Then at eighteen, I moved to Louisville to become a jockey myself.”

“So racing is your whole life. I thought so,” Dream said. “Tell me again why you’re bartending right now?”

George wiped a palm over his face haggardly. “I’ve told you. Racing was my whole life. Now, I’m . . . moving on.”

Dream placed both hands on the countertop, gazing at him pleadingly. “You don’t have to move on. Come to Firebranch, run Deo Volente. It could—”

“You come in to ask me this every night. I’m pretty sure this counts as harassment,” George muttered. “My answer is still no. I am not a jockey anymore.”

“Wait’uh minute!” One of the regulars, the divorcee seated at the bar, raised his head suddenly, lifting his pint and pointing. “Are you George Davidson?”

George chewed his lip. “Um, yes. I am.”

The divorcee laughed hoarsely. “Ho-ho! My kid loved you! He’d make me bring ‘im to all your races, make me bet on ya every time. Won a lotta money, doin’ that. ‘Ey, yanno, the li’l tyke wants to become a jockey because’uh you!”

George’s mouth hung open, struck. It had been a long time since he’d heard anything complimentary about his racing career—the past couple years, it was always disappointment, pity, and shame. He’d forgotten what it felt like.

“Th-Thank you,” he mumbled, cheeks burning. “T-Tell your kid I say ‘Hi.’”

“Huh! If I ever get to see ‘im again!” the divorcee spat. “Goddamn Maria won’t let me in the house no more, that witch . . .”

He went on mumbling into his pint, so George slowly turned away from him. Dream was gazing, his green eyes warm, a soft smile on his lips. It was unfortunate that George’s tormenter had such an arresting face—sweet, kind, and devilishly handsome, he was a difficult man to say no to. When sticking to his guns, George couldn’t look Dream straight in the eye.

“You miss it. I know you do,” Dream whispered. “There are people that love you, that want to see you back out there. Take a chance.”

George shut his eyes gently. “What’s it gonna take for you to stop asking me?”

Dream grinned. “You saying ‘Yes.’”

“Fat chance,” George dismissed. “I’m calling the cops, next time.”

Dream stood, his drink mostly untouched, and he paid with a crisp twenty, like always—eighteen dollars more than the drink actually cost. Backing towards the door, he teased, “No you won’t.”

The door jingled again, and he was gone. George tried to block it out, but galloping hooves thundered in his brain, like a siren call. He poured himself a shot of vodka and downed it.