Gargantuan_ A Ruby Murphy Mystery - Maggie Estep [30]
“Attila,” Violet said, looking at me over the top of her spectacles. “What exactly happened on the track this morning?”
My stomach knotted. I wondered if she’d heard rumors about me and suspected this morning’s mayhem had had something to do with me. I hoped not. I respected and was fond of both Henry and Violet and would never do anything to interfere with one of their horses.
“Damnedest thing I ever saw,” I said.
“You keep out of harm’s way, all right, young man?” Violet’s blue eyes had grown wide. She was so guileless. It made me feel soiled in contrast.
I nodded.
“You’re going to do right by Muley tomorrow, yes?” Violet asked.
Oat Bran Blues was known as Muley around the barn. His right ear was stunted and flopped to one side like a mule’s—a result of having explored a bees’ nest as a foal. He’d been stung mercilessly and the ear had given up on growing. At seventeen hands, Muley was a big horse, but the tiny flopping ear gave him a clownish appearance that he always seemed to be compensating for by being spooky and difficult under tack.
“I’ll try to keep out of Muley’s way, ma’am,” I told Violet.
She laughed at this. Women love the way I always defer to the horse, though it isn’t something I do to curry favor. Early on in my career I’d been taught well by an old claimer named Justa Bob. Nothing fazed Justa Bob. He was just a racehorse. Just a claimer. But wise. All I had to do was lightly hold his mouth in my hands as he methodically took care of business. He would stand quietly in the gate, break perfectly, then settle in a few horses wide, calculating exactly how much effort was required to pick off the horses in front of him. He would switch leads without being asked, giving himself an extra gear and, with less than a furlong to go, he’d bring himself up to the leading horse’s shoulder. Two strides shy of the wire, he would surge just enough to get his nose in front. The plain, brown gelding showed me how races were won.
They weren’t all like that though. You had your first-time starters and your crazies who were wound so tightly they’d become uncoordinated and fall on their faces if you didn’t tell them how to put one hoof in front of the other. The ones I loved best though let me know what they wanted and I gladly obliged.
“Don’t ma’am me, Attila, I don’t want to feel like I’m eighty please.”
“Sorry, Violet.” I grinned at her, feeling a wave of fondness for this eccentric and gentle woman.
She then went on to show me, with much disgust, the Racing Form handicappers’ notes on Oat Bran Blues. The comments weren’t favorable. About the horse or his rider. It angered me.
“Don’t look like that, dear,” Violet said. “I wouldn’t let Henry continue to put you on our horses if I didn’t believe in you.”
I felt myself flushing.
“Did you need Henry for something?” Violet asked. “He’s at the racing secretary’s office, probably back in a half hour.”
“Just wanted to go over any special instructions for Muley’s race.”
“You know Muley He means well but he’s spooky. We’ll have a shadow roll on him this time, ought to help. Just keep him out of traffic and let him do his thing.”
I thought back to the first time I’d seen a shadow roll. Someone had had to explain its function. How you put it on the noseband of the bridle and its fuzzy bulk prevents the horse from seeing shadows on his own nose—which might frighten him.
I nodded at Violet, then told her I was going to go have a little chat with Muley.
“Good.” Violet smiled, pleased.
I walked down the aisle, stopping to greet Ballistic, running a hand down his white blaze. The horse doesn’t have the best barn manners though; he pinned his ears and showed me his teeth.
“Yeah yeah,” I told him, “you’re the boss.”
I went down to Muley’s stall and let myself in. He was truffling at his empty hay net but he put his ears forward and lifted his head to look at me. “Hey you,” I greeted the horse as I went to stand next to him. He bumped his nose against my forehead and nuzzled at my hair.
“Easy, it ain’t hay,” I told him. He obligingly