Free Seven Sisters by Earlene Fowler Page A

horse is one that, after it’s shown exceptional talent by winning races and clocking some fast times, can run at the big money. Stakes horses are the best of the best.” Cappy stroked the nose of a muscular bay with friendly “people” eyes.
    “This business sounds about as predictable and profitable as cattle ranching,” I said, stroking the neck of a young mahogany-colored horse who had finished his carrot and was tossing his head for more. “Young man, that’s all you get tonight.” I held out my empty hand. “See, all gone.”
    “That’s Churn Dash, a two-year-old we’re planning on running in a few races this year. He foaled out late so we’ve waited on entering him. His mama was Seven Sisters Dash. She wasn’t a great runner herself, but she sure can produce them.”
    “He’s beautiful,” I said, rubbing my fingers along the star and stripe on his face. “What a great name. Did you know it’s a quilt pattern?”
    “Actually, I did,” Cappy said. “In my office I have a quilt made by Mother in that pattern. We named him in honor of her.”
    “I never got to know Great-Grandma Rose that well,” Bliss said, coming over and running her hand down Churn Dash’s neck, scratching his withers. “I wish Susa hadn’t moved us away when we were so little.” Her tone was slightly bitter.
    “Your mother always was one who had trouble taking the bit,” Cappy said. “Guess she wanted her own life.”
    “Your great-grandma is certainly a famous person in this county,” I said to Bliss. “They practically have a shrine to her down in General Hospital’s children’s wing.”
    “She raised most of the money that built that wing,” Cappy said. “And she started both the candy striper volunteer group and the home nurse program. Health care in this county, especially for children, owes a lot to Mother.”
    We went into the tack room and working office, and I couldn’t help but admire the rich assortment of shiny, well-cared-for tack. As Cappy listened to her answering machine messages, I walked past the long row of photos of winning horses on the panelled wall. In the center was a large, expensively framed photograph of Seven B winning a race by a length. A photo underneath showed a younger Cappy and a bunch of other people posing in the winner’s circle with the horse and his trainer, a strong-looking blond man with a thick, reddish mustache. Everyone wore wide smiles.
    “That was taken fifteen years ago,” Bliss said. “When Seven B won the All-American Futurity. That’s the biggest quarter horse competition in the world. It’s a million-dollar purse.”
    “How exciting that must have been,” I commented.
    Cappy came and stood next to us. “Yes, but like anything else this competitive, you’re only as good as your last win. Seven B hasn’t even produced a stakes winner in a few years. We’re hoping that will change soon. Believe me, when you aren’t winning at the track, only the feed man knows your name.” She checked her watch. “We’d better get back and see to our guests. They’re probably ready for dessert about now.” At the Jeep Bliss hung back.
    “I think I’ll walk,” she said. “I need the exercise.”
    Cappy, her face aggravated, started to say something, but I broke in.
    “Want some company? I could use a walk, too, after that fabulous spread.”
    Bliss shrugged. “I don’t mind.”
    “Okay,” Cappy said. “I’ll see you two in a few minutes.” She reached into the glove compartment of the Jeep and took out a small flashlight. “Take this. There’s lots of holes in the road.”
    “Oh, Grandma ...” Bliss started.
    “Don’t you, ‘Oh, Grandma’ me,” Cappy countered. “I’m only—”
    “Thanks,” I said, breaking into her sentence and taking the flashlight. “We’ll be careful.”
    “She’s already driving me nuts,” Bliss complained as we watched her grandmother drive up the road, a small cloud of dust trailing after her. “She’s the