Free Puss 'N Cahoots by Rita Mae Brown

chestnut, a gorgeous color, wouldn’t be competing this week.
    â€œYou’ve got blood all over you. Are you all right?” Frances opened her purse for a handkerchief, which she handed to Fair.
    Frances’s purse contained a host of ameliorative pills, handkerchiefs, plus a small bottle of her perfume.
    â€œThank you, Mrs. Hamilton. Eddie Falco’s gelding sliced a deep ‘V’ right in front of his hoof. He somehow managed this feat between the practice ring and the barn.” Fair half-smiled.
    Paul folded his arms across his chest. “You never know, do you?”
    â€œNot with horses.” Fair put his arm around his wife.
    â€œNot with people.” Joan laughed.
    â€œWell, let’s hope someone finds Renata’s horse so we can have some peace.” Frances popped a mint in her mouth. “And that the horse is safe.”
    â€œI’m surprised she hasn’t received a ransom note,” Harry said.
    The others stared at her, then Paul spoke. “That’s an interesting thought.”
    No one said much after that, for the class held everyone’s attention.
    One by one the contestants trotted through the in-gate and circled the ring at a flashy trot. The class was filled except for one contestant, Renata DeCarlo. Out of the corner of her eye, Joan saw Larry on one side, Manuel on the other, running alongside Renata, who wore her new Le Cheval navy coat. She sat on Shortro for the three-year-old three-gaited stake. The stake was three hundred dollars, but the real incentive was for a young horse to show well.
    When the two entered the ring, a roar rose that shook the roof of the grandstand. Shortro thought it was for him and gave the performance of his young life.
    Frances, enthralled by the crowd’s enthusiasm as well as the drama, clasped her hands together. She turned for an instant to study Joan. “Where’s Grandmother’s lucky pin? You usually wear it for this class.”
    Joan flinched. Another roar from the crowd distracted her mother.
    A rumble distracted them for a moment, too.
    Every trainer on the rail with a client in this class turned westward. Neither Charly nor Booty had a rider up, but Ward did—a nervous rider, too.
    Pewter wailed,
“I hate thunderstorms.”
    â€œWeenie.”
Mrs. Murphy watched the horses fly by—chestnuts of all hues, seal browns, patent-leather blacks, one paint, gray Shortro with Renata aboard—their tails flowing, their manes and forelocks unfurling.
    A flash of lightning caused Paul to twist around and glance upward. “Won’t be long.”
    Fortunately, the judge didn’t want to be struck by lightning, either, so he began pinning the class. Two horses remained. The red ribbon fluttered in the hand of the judge’s assistant.
    When the announcer called out the second-place horse, the judge then signified Renata for first, and the crowd exploded. Shortro trotted to the judge, and the sponsor of the class held up an impressive silver plate. Manuel hustled into the ring to collect the plate as the sponsor then pinned the ribbon on Shortro’s bridle. He stood still for it, rare in itself.
    Then the muscular fellow gave a victory lap in which his happiness exceeded Renata’s. He’d won at Shelbyville.
    As they exited the arena, a tremendous thunderclap sent horses and humans scurrying. Shortro held it together, calmly walking into Barn Five. Harry noticed Shortro’s unflappable attitude and thought to herself, “He has the mind for hunting.”
    Renata slid off and hugged her steady gelding, tears running down her face as photographers snapped away.
    The party was just beginning. Manuel took Shortro back to his stall. Renata followed. The second his bridle was off, she gave him the little sweet carrots he adored.
    After answering questions, including ones from yet another TV reporter, lights in her eyes, Renata left the stall. She figured Shortro deserved to