Free Secretariat Reborn by Susan Klaus Page B

Price, his father had only been concerned about the horse. What was it with this breed of men with their all-consuming passion for horses? They seemed to have little sensitivity left for a fellow human being, for a son.
    Christian lowered his head, nagged for the hundredth time that he had lacked a father’s love in his formative years. He believed he would eventually outgrow this insecurity, but realized the anxiety would most likely haunt him forever.
    Price’s cell phone sang out. “They’re already here? Okay, okay, tell them I’m on my way.” He flipped the lid shut. “I hate to cut this short, but I need to get back to the barn.”
    With the morning radiance, the cart and barn lights were no longer needed when they sped through the back lot. A white stretch limo was parked on the road in front of the barn. Price whipped the cart into its spot under the tree and hopped out.
    “I’m sorry,” Price said, “but I’ve gotta run. I’ll call if anything comes up about your horse or when I get him in a race.” He made tracks to the limo.
    Christian hung around and watched Jorge give Hunter a bath and a cooling-down walk around the shed row. The colt was placed back into his stall, a foot deep in clean wood shavings. Hunter lay down, rolled a few times, and stood. Starting with twisting his head, the colt’s shaking motion traveled down his body and ended with a flick of his tail, ridding himself of the clinging shavings. Jorge stuffedalfalfa hay into the hanging mess bag in the colt’s stall before he left to tend to other horses.
    Christian stroked the colt’s head while Hunter gobbled up the rich hay and enjoyed the cool breeze of a stall fan. “I hope you like it here, boy,” he whispered. “It’s costing me sixty dollars a day.”
    Leaving the stables, Christian noticed Price across the courtyard. He was deep in conversation with a group of dark-skinned men with black beards, dressed in Arab garb of white kaffiyehs and long robes. So they were the limo’s occupants.
    Christian understood why the trainer had brushed him off earlier. These rich Middle Eastern sheiks were probably the trainer’s bread-and-butter clients, while he was a small-time, one-horse owner, always worried about money and costs.
    He gave Jorge and the exercise kid a modest tip and patted Hunter good-bye. As he walked to his SUV, he noticed that Price and the Arabs watched him. He nodded to Price, and the trainer responded with a thumbs-up grin.
    Since Kate would be out for hours, Christian drove to the employee cafeteria near the training track. He needed coffee. In the restaurant, the crude tables and plastic chairs were occupied by several Hispanic laborers. The hardworking Mexicans seemed to him to be the backbone of the Thoroughbred industry.
    He wandered through the buffet, rejecting the rubbery scrambled eggs and greasy bacon in the heating pans and choosing a bagel and cream cheese to go with his coffee. Last night’s late partying had left him feeling queasy and drained. Maybe some food would help. He headed outside to eat and watch the horses on the smaller training track. Holding his food and drink, he backed against the door to get out and bumped into someone coming in. Coffee flew onto his shirt. “Ah, shit,” he cursed.
    “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
    Christian glanced down at a young blonde woman, whose head reached only to the middle of his chest. “It’s my fault. I should’vewatched where I was going.” The splattered coffee and stained shirt suddenly vanished from his mind.
    Her deep-brown eyes stared up at him, and Christian felt breathless, nervous. Even with no makeup and in a dirty white blouse and worn jeans, she was stunning.
    She shook her ponytail and focused on the stain. “Let me get a towel before your shirt is ruined.” She walked to a cafeteria worker and quickly returned with a damp cloth. As she dabbed away at his shirt, Christian’s chest pounded and his mind went blank. Finally, he mumbled,