Bloodless Day

In Which Bathorse Saves Gotham

Sun slapped across BD's slick black coat, skittering across rivulets of sweat, and ricocheting into cameras. Photographers groaned as I squinted my eyes, trying to get a feel for where the lead rope would clip on. The stallion tossed his head, and my hand skirted across the hook and grabbed on. "Steady, Bathorse," I said. "Gotham is safe."

Hunched over in the saddle, Jack groaned. "You've got to stop it with the Batman thing. The entire track's going to think we're a joke."

We were not a laughing matter anymore. The fact that we were in the winner's circle (yet again) proved it.

I opened my mouth to respond, but Willifred beat me to it. He'd been speaking with a few reporters, but now he came back to us. "Take that horse back now. Jack, you go straight to your wheelchair, and Anna, you treat that horse nicer than you'd treat your dying mother."

Mouth shut, trying not to wince at the word 'dying', I led BD out of the winners circle. Some of the other horses that had run in the Gotham were still being walked off the track, pumped up with the run, but BD walked as sedately as a king to his throne. By now, he knew the routine. It was the only thing he knew to do after a race.

When we reached the shedrow, I halted BD and concentrated on making him stay still as we waited for his wheelchair. At last it arrived, and he slithered from BD's back and, assisted by a fellow groom, into the wheelchair. I noted his peaked face, gritted jaw, and felt a stab of concern. "You need to rest. That leg's not doing you any favors."

Instead of protesting, the jockey closed his eyes. "It's going to be the death of me."

Mary, the groom, and I exchanged worried glances. It was only when BD stamped a foot and rumbled with impatience did I remember that I had a half ton animal attached to my hand. "Go on," Mary said in a soft southern accent. "I can manage the jockey. You manage the horse."

She was new, only arrived a few weeks after BD's second prep race, but quickly proved herself capable with an expert touch for both horses and people. I trusted her with one of my best friends. "Make sure he gets a good hosing and a special warm mash," I joked half-heartedly, then led the winner of the Gotham away.

BD was having a good time, an easy time. With lots of turn out and trail rides, he was in the perfect shape to campaign, and he knew it. With a sudden flare of silliness, he cocked his tail over his back and erupted into a whinny, announcing his most recent win to the Piperson string. Holiday bellowed back in his familiar deep neigh, and Mira and Magic echoed with nickers. I smiled to myself; every horse's whinny and sound was a tone as unique to them as a human voice was.

I'd scarcely led BD onto the wash rack when a new human voice interrupted my thoughts. "Pardon me, but is this Bloody Murder?"

"Close. Bloodless Day." I concentrated on maneuvering his large body around to face outwards. Once he was cross tied, I looked up. A woman stood in front of us, one hand clutching a notebook and the other a recorder. A pencil was tucked behind her ear and brown bobbed hair, and a frown was tucked onto her face.

"That's odd. I was sent out to interview the jockey of a 'Bloody Murder'. Derby hopeful?"

"That's BD," I muttered, somewhat proudly and somewhat darkly, because we were talking about BD, but to a reporter. "Bloodless Day, Derby hopeful. He just won the Gotham. His jockey is currently unavailable." With that, I turned back to BD and began hosing him down, trying to ignore her. Reporters brought back bad memories, memories I didn't want anymore.

"Goodness." She eyed him dubiously as he studied her with equal suspicion, blowing out to catch a better scent of her. "It's not often my boss makes a mistake like that. Though my notes say Santa Anita, not Gotham, so I might be wrong after all."