The Eighty-Dollar Champion - Elizabeth Letts [115]
Before the horse even left the ground, he knew that she would not be able to clear the hurdle. He braced himself. Her front feet flew through the barrier, crashing in a tangle of flying poles. On the landing, she stumbled, about to fall; Harry let his body go soft, preferring to get thrown rather than risk staying with a horse who might tumble on top of him. But in a disastrous turn of events, his foot caught in the stirrup.
As the crowd groaned in horror, the Flying Dutchman pounded across the ring, one stride, two, three, dragged by his hooked foot. People watched the disaster in hushed silence—a minute more and he would be flung against the wooden barrier at the side of the ring or, worse yet, kicked in the head. But not a split second too soon, Harry managed to wrench himself free. In a flash, he stood up and patted the dirt from his breeches. Night Arrest, her sides heaving, stood near the arena wall, trumpeting hot breath through her nose, her eyes still flashing white rims of fear. Harry held out his hand, then slowly walked toward her. She snorted twice, then lowered her head to his outstretched hand. Harry reached up with his other hand and grasped the reins. She did not back away. The crowd clapped as the pair left the ring. Probably only Johanna, up in the stands, could see the way he winced when he walked. Harry rarely showed pain.
As if to taunt him, only two horses took their turns before the gate master called out, “Harry de Leyer on Snowman is in the hole.” Time to get on the big gray. Putting his bruises out of his mind, Harry stuck a foot through the stirrup and swung up onto Snowman’s back, settling his seat bones into the saddle. Snowman walked willingly up the ramp, his reins loose, and stood quietly at the in-gate.
The crowd clapped appreciatively as the pair entered the ring, impressed that the young man was back on another horse so soon. He looked confident enough, even though the crowd had watched him being dragged across the dirt just minutes before. To the spectators, his calm seemed preternatural.
As always, Harry gave Snowman a chance to pause and survey the crowd—a gesture that made the crowd clap and stomp in appreciation. Maybe it was the horse’s story that had drawn them in, or maybe it was seeing the young man get up from his dreadful fall, but Harry felt that the crowd was behind him. Excited and nervous for the young Dutchman, they were ready to be swept along with him. Harry forced his mind to go blank as he tuned in to his horse—then there was nothing, no sound, just the feeling of talking to Snowman without words and the sense that he was guiding him around the course with his thoughts alone.
But with just two fences remaining, Harry heard the hollow knock of a hoof hitting the pole. One half fault for a hind touch. Horse and man galloped toward the final fence. If they could clear the last fence with no faults, they’d still be in the running. Snowman sank back, then leapt upward. But Harry sensed rather than felt Snowman’s rear foot knocking the pole from the fence. Two faults.
A good round but not good enough. Adolph Mogavero took home the blue for Oak Ridge with the flashy mare First Chance. For the first time any of the de Leyers could remember, there was no new ribbon to pin up next to Snowman’s stall. After a season of incredible consistency, Harry and Snowman could not seem to hit their form.
Garden magic: unevenly distributed, hard to get ahold of, unpredictable, and sometimes cruel. Year after year, horses brought strings of successes to the Garden, only to fail to be sprinkled with the magic. The Garden had a way of forging new champions under the crucible of its spotlights.