Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 84982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“Have you studied the other horses and the jockeys you’ll be up against on Saturday?” he asked.
My head shot up, and I nodded. “Yes. Several times. Nightly,” I admitted.
Winning this race was vital. I wanted to ride for the Shephards, but I knew losing a race that their horse was favored to win would be bad. I’d be tossed aside quickly, and they’d move on to someone else.
“Taze is a threat,” he said, his dark eyes still on me.
I wished he’d turn on a television or something and stop looking at me. I might be able to relax a little.
“Yes, but Bloodline is better. McGuire is riding Taze in this race. He has gained a few pounds since his last win, and he drinks the night before the race for his nerves. In an early race, it affects his performance.”
Thatcher raised an eyebrow slightly as he studied me. “That’s thorough.”
I shrugged. “It’s best to know your opponent’s weaknesses. McGuire was a last-minute exchange too. He’s not been working with Taze. The jockey who had been scheduled to ride him was newer but hungry. She would have been more of a competition. But she had a fall two weeks ago and broke her ankle.”
I was still nervous. Even with all this knowledge and the fact that I was riding the best horse there, I feared I would make a mistake. I’d trained, worked on my upper and lower body strength, eaten clean, stayed off alcohol, but that didn’t make me foolproof. Nothing did.
“When did you shift from barrel racing to thoroughbreds?” he asked me.
Surprised, I stared at him for a moment. He remembered. Or he heard that I’d once barrel raced. I shouldn’t read into that. It was more likely the latter. His family had probably done a complete background check on me before offering me the job.
“Uh, I made the switch about seven years ago. Slowly at first. I had to train and work to get my jockey license. But my interest came when I was given the chance to go to a race. Watching the track, seeing the jockeys, the energy of the place. It was something I’d never known existed. I wanted it.”
He leaned forward and set his empty glass down. “Tim Markson is a smart man. He knew potential when he saw it.”
How did he know about Tim Markson? How thorough was the background check they had done on me?
Tim Markson wasn’t from around here. I’d met him at a rodeo in Nashville. He’d approached me after a race and mentioned that he thought I’d be a good jockey. Then, he invited me to his stables and had his trainer take me out on a thoroughbred. Two weeks later, he took me to my first race. I had fallen in love with the world of thoroughbred racing that day.
“What do you know about Tim?” I asked.
Thatcher smirked. “He might not be on our level of success in the racing world, but he’s consistent. It takes wealth to truly have a winner. He makes ends meet, and with what he has, he can produce some impressive horses. But they’ll never make it to the winner’s circle,” he finished.
That wasn’t what I’d been asking. “How did you know about my connection to him?”
Thatcher looked amused. I didn’t see how this was funny, but I waited. “We don’t let a jockey ride for us unless we know their history.”
I was right. Background check. Thatcher didn’t remember our past. Or me.
I nodded. “That makes sense.”
His gaze dropped to his phone as the pilot came over the intercom and informed us we were ready for takeoff. I looked for a seat belt, but couldn’t find one. It seemed unsafe to take off without a seat belt. I heard a low chuckle from Thatcher and glanced up at him. He stood and stepped over the table between us, then leaned down close to me. I stopped breathing. He’d never gotten this close to me before.
“There,” he said, his mouth near my ear.
I dropped my eyes to see he had pushed a button I hadn’t noticed because it blended into the leather seat. The metal tip of the seat belt had slid out. He stood back up, and I finally took a deep breath.
Keeping my focus on buckling myself, I didn’t look at him as he moved away. But his scent lingered, and I regretted not inhaling while he’d been so close to me. He smelled like cigarette smoke, which I normally didn’t care for, but mixed with spice and a woodsy scent, it was delicious.
The plane began to speed up, and I gripped the armrests. Taking off wasn’t my favorite. Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I relaxed my shoulders and focused on my lap.
“You’re not afraid of flying, are you?” Thatcher asked.