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“Dustin,” Trenton said quietly, “that corner is known to be brutal. Surely—”
“Something is bloody wrong,” Dustin ground out. Shoving past his family, he barely heard Sullivan’s grunt of agreement. Threading his way through the crowds, he could think of but one thing: getting to Nicole. Whatever the hell was happening, it was out of her control.
Nicole was thinking much the same thing.
As Tattenham Corner bore down on her, Nicole frantically examined her options. She was still ahead—but not by much. Her wide lead had been cut down to about several lengths, she’d guess, and that promised to diminish further with her saddle impeding her speed. It was sliding freely now, the girth slipping beneath Dagger’s body, the straps holding the left side of the girth in place growing more and more slack.
They were going to give out entirely. And, if they did, her saddle would launch out, probably injuring another horse, definitely impeding the other jockeys and getting her disqualified from the race.
Those prospects were intolerable.
Hugging Dagger’s flanks, she eased around Tattenham Corner, then, as the other mounts slowed into the curve, she took advantage of her slim lead by maneuvering as quickly as she could to the far right, as close to the outside rail as possible.
Baker shot past on her left, breaking into the straightaway at a dead run just as her billet straps gave a telltale snap.
Don’t be distracted by the other riders, Nickie, her father would say. Do what you have to do. You’ll regain speed later.
Glancing quickly around to ensure no one was beside or behind her, Nickie eased her weight, letting the saddle and girth fly free. They whirled off to her right, striking the outside railing and hitting the ground fifteen feet to the right of any rider.
Beneath her, Dagger tensed, swerving away from the rail, losing his momentum as he struggled to steady himself.
Vaguely, she heard the startled shouts erupting from the crowds in the grandstand: “It’s the saddle!” “Baker’s ahead by four lengths!” “Not a hope of Stoddard recovering!”
Disregarding the uproar, Nicole gripped Dagger’s reins more securely, molding herself to his back as she fought to both reassure him and to regain control. “Easy, Dagger,” she murmured. “It’s over. We’re fine. Now let’s go for that post.”
Instantly, Dagger responded, recovering his balance and, a split second later, his speed.
A roar went up from the grandstand as Nicole and Dagger burst forward, leaving the rapidly approaching third-place jockey far behind and breaking into the straightaway.
Shutting out the commotion, Nicole had but one thought: catching up to Baker, then beating him.
Eyes narrowed with purpose, she leaned forward and squeezed Dagger’s sides, commanding the extra speed she needed.
The stallion blasted onward, galloping at a breakneck pace, reaching his competitor sixty yards shy of the winning post.
For the next few seconds she and Baker raced at a dead heat.
“I know, Papa,” Nicole muttered, a spark lighting her eyes. “That telltale burst of speed fifty yards from the winning post. Right … now.”
In a heartbeat, she and Dagger shot ahead, edging by Demon and flying by the winning post—victorious by a neck.
By the time she slowed down enough to bring Dagger around, the crowd was on its feet and a substantial argument—as she’d anticipated—was under way at the judges’ box, a mere ten yards away.
As Dagger’s owner, Dustin was right in the middle of it.
As Demon’s owner, so was Lanston.
Fleetingly, Dustin’s gaze darted to Nicole’s, his expression fierce with anger and worry.
“I’m fine.” She mouthed the words with a shaky grin, touching the brim of her cap to salute their victory—acknowledged or not.
His relief transmitted itself to her as clearly as if he were standing right beside her. With a solemn salute, he mouthed back, “You’re a hell of a lot better than fine.”
Then he returned to the battle at hand.
“How does it feel to be a Derby winner?” Dustin asked, entwining Nicole’s fingers in his.
She settled against the cottage settee, totally spent from the past few hours of grueling questions, hearty congratulations, and, upon her arrival at Tyreham, frenzied worry and furious outbursts from her father—followed, finally, by a warm bath and change of clothes. “I still can’t believe I won,” she murmured, grateful beyond words for Dustin’s intentional efforts to relax her. “How does it feel? Wonderful. Better than wonderful. Even better than the bath I soaked in.”
