Page 85 of Dragon Her Heels

The third such incident had been verified by an angel as unintentional, but he’d run out of strikes.

One more incident leading to the loss of a horse, either through death or severe injury, and he’d be ejected from the jockey club.

Of least concern was Winston Hall, who battled with his horse in gate seven. With help from his assistant starter, he got the skittish animal settled enough to start the race.

I appreciated the assistant starters; without them, there wouldn’t be any races at all.

As though aware several of the horses were about to lose what was left of their minds, the starter took over, and without fanfare or further ado, opened the gate.

My assistant starter released the beast, and Alligator Bait charged straight to a gallop. I viewed our gate departure as perfect, middle of the pack in speed and as clean as I could hope for. Hall’s horse, a black fading to gray, bounced out of the gate but recovered, and I kept my hands high to keep my mare from blowing out all her energy early.

With only a mile to work with, I needed to balance endurance and speed in the first quarter if I wanted the victory.

I worried my caution would cost us, as none of the other jockeys seemed interested in my strategy, instead vying for the precious inside rail and the shortest—and fastest—times possible.

Within three furlongs, the pack had condensed and kept close, crowding the rail and making it hard for any horse except those on the outside to position. At two horses behind the second to last place horse, Alligator Bait would need to bust her ass to catch up, especially as there were at least six lengths to the three or four horses struggling for first place.

I lowered my hands.

Alligator Bait switched her lead as we approached the turn, gave a single flip of her head, likely to express her irritation there were riders in front of her, and chased after the leading horse. Through the mass of bodies, I assumed Maxwell Firo did what he did best, claiming what he wanted and holding it at almost any cost.

Alex Dryden rode close to the front, which would be problematic if I made the mistake of getting anywhere near the inside rail.

With luck, my tendency to breeze Alligator Bait in preparation for the Belmont Stakes would pay off, giving her the endurance to go full throttle through the last half.

We passed the next horse, far enough on the outside I caught glimpses of the outriders ready to intervene if needed.

They wouldn’t be needed. I clucked my tongue and whistled to my mare, who viewed the sounds as the most offensive noises she had ever heard in her life.

When I clucked and whistled, I indicated she could give me more.

I’d seen her impress even the Devil when she decided she was going to give me all she had.

My equivalent of a verbal jeer did the trick, and with a single furlong left to go, my mare took the lead. By instinct, she wanted to head for the inside rail, but I gave her the lightest of taps with the whip, not even hard enough to make noise but notify her I needed her to hold her course and give any bursts of speed she might have left.

She switched leads, and I focused on the finish line, keeping my hands low, my position on her back stable, and keeping out of her way.

I’d been so intent on the prize I had no idea if we’d pulled off the stunt.

Alligator was the only filly in the competition, as most owners viewed colts as the only way to win.

I went to work slowing my filly, and she decided to go tough on me, as she wanted to finish her run. In her world, we’d ended the fun a half mile early. As I struggled with my big animal, one of the outriders, on a pretty as a picture buckskin quarter horse, came over and seized Alligator Bait’s bridle, helping to convince her it was time to behave.

I twisted to view the scoreboard screen across the track. The race had taken 1:35:07, and Alligator Bait had crossed the wire a full second before Alex Dryden’s horse. Maxwell Firo claimed third place a split second thereafter.

I patted my horse’s neck, promised her I’d breeze her properly at home, and turned her towards the winner’s circle, where we’d have to deal with a slew of photographs. As owner, trainer, and jockey, I’d be spared from some of the fuss, as I was the only human required for the shoot. Alligator Bait would posture as she did, and with a little luck, I’d get her to prick her ears forward rather than keep them pinned back.

She wanted to get back to running, and a mile had only served to whet her appetite.

My filly behaved, and I even convinced her to prick her ears forward, promising her favorite treats for having been a good girl. Because someone in the field couldn’t believe a woman could ride a filly at such a prestigious race and win, they filed a request for angelic verification I had not cheated in any fashion.

I laughed at that, and I decided to be a dick about it, informing the race’s validator to go over every single rule in the jockey club, owner’s association, and trainer’s association to confirm I had won fair and square.

The validator stared at the three rule books, which were tomes by their own right.

The angel’s wings twitched at my demand.

I smiled my sweetest smile from my perch on Alligator Bait’s back. “I have all day, ladies and gentlemen. Unless the jockey, owner, or trainer who registered the complaint has a verifiable reason supported by video evidence, I have the right to do mass verification I followed the rules. I would like to remind everyone that within Rules Series 8000 is a section that penalizes owners, trainers, and jockeys should they errantly file complaints against other owners, trainers, and jockeys. Which rule have I been accused of violating?”