Free A Feather in the Rain by Alex Cord Page B

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24
The Futurity
    T he winner takes home close to a quarter of a million dollars plus the fame, glory, and satisfaction that comes with it. Only sixty of the highest scoring horses out of more than six hundred entries get to compete in the semifinals.
    By Sunday afternoon, Jesse and Buckshot had already won the first two go-rounds and were among the semifinalists. It was the eighth day of competition. Jesse and Abbie behaved like transporters of nitroglycerine, afraid to breathe, one bad move and their world would blow apart. Abbie remained grimly silent as if some wrong word might break the spell. Everyone was talking about Jesse and Buckshot and Dr. Walter Nalls’ stud that sired him. The stallion’s stock had already tripled based on what Buckshot had accomplished so far. Larry Littlefield had already interviewed him for his television show and writers for every horse magazine and local newspaper hounded him with tape recorders and scribble pads.
    Jesse was thirteenth to go in the semifinals. The audience hadadopted him and the blazing sorrel colt as their own. Jesse studied the herd and knew pretty much what he’d like to cut. But often, a herd has a life and mind of its own and your plan goes south.
    When the colt pinned his ears, dropped to his belly in that bigcat crouch in front of the cow and said c’mon, try me, the audience went berserk. The cow leaped to one side attempting to charge by, but Buckshot moved so quickly he was right there in her face as if there were two of him and one had been there waiting.
    And so it went with two more cows until the buzzer sounded. The crowd went wild, right through the announcing of the score. They knew they’d seen the best and the score confirmed it.
    Jesse took Abbie in his arms as she came to them with a face about to explode off its bones. He noticed the tears in her eyes as he loosened the girth and handed her the reins. She walked the horse back to his stall, stripped him and made sure he was happy before she went back to join Jesse watching thirty-two more horses try to beat him.
    None did. He and the copper-colored colt had won the semifinals. They would be among the twenty elite athletes to compete for the championship.
    He was quiet, alone in his hotel room. He thought about calling Holly Marie but no, not until it’s over. He opened his wallet and took out a flattened tinfoil square and unfolded it. He looked at the contents and then slowly picked up a small ribbon-tied lock of pale blond Damien hair and brought it to his nose, then to his lips. Then he put it back, folded the wallet, and put it back in his pocket.

25
The Finals
    H olly Marie had sent him a small gathering of aromatic prairie grasses and wild herbs to bring him luck. They were pressed in a small plastic bag in the left pocket of his shirt.
    He buckled on his spurs, swung his chaps over the colt’s withers, and stepped up into the saddle to walk him toward the warm-up pen.
    Abbie’s thoughts were a ticker-tape checklist on a loop in her brain. She was sure she’d done everything in her power to contribute to the success of Buckshot’s run. This was it. This was what he was bred for. Now all she could do is watch…and pray and jiggle her foot as she stood at the rail separating the judges’ stands from the warm-up area.
    Near the entry to the working area, Jesse sat quietly, Buckshot’s neck extended and relaxed. They were ready to work. Blood raged through a tangle of twisted nerves, a heart pounded like a locked up beast while his mind remained a void enduring the chaos within that was Jesse Burrell. An unconcerned vacancy in his eyes gave the lie tothe turmoil inside. There was one more horse before him, a daunting combination of spectacular breeding and a gifted trainer. He would be the last to go.
    He was watching the finest of his peers, Bill Waterman, a twotime Futurity champion, the man who could dash his dream, ride like