Chance Meeting (5 page)
As she negotiated the twists and turns of the Medal class jump course that afternoon, she felt a heightened awareness, challenging her to do even better, to ride with flawless form, to make the distances at the jumps just right, effortless. Somewhere on the show grounds, Steve Sheppard was present. Perhaps, out of curiosity, he was watching her even now.
To those who indeed watched her picture perfect round, it came as no surprise to any of them, riders or trainers, that Ty Stannard won the Medal class that afternoon. Nor were they particularly astounded that she made a clean sweep and took home the blue ribbon in the Maclay, too. That afternoon, she was just too good to beat.
All three of the horses Steve Sheppard had ridden in the qualifying class held on Friday made the cut for the Grand Prix event on Sunday afternoon. In the world of professional riding, it wasn’t unusual to see, in a field of forty, a rider enter the event with more than one mount. That Steve Sheppard had succeeded in getting all three horses he’d ridden past the qualifying round and into the most challenging of all the show jumping events, the Grand Prix, confirmed his outstanding skill as a rider. Most riders were happy enough to squeak into the Grand Prix with two horses under their saddles. The success Steve enjoyed had a kind of snowball effect, the result being that owners were approaching him more and more frequently with first-class horses to ride, as the Palmers had with their mare, Jasmine. Another reason for Steve Sheppard’s popularity with owners was that he had the reputation of being a straight arrow, never throwing away a ride for his own personal gain. Each and every time Steve approached the course with a mount, he gave it his all. In theory, the same was true for every top rider, but the owners who brought their horses to Steve counted on his never settling for an easy second if there was a chance to win. Even if it meant beating himself, depriving one of the horses Steve himself owned of a win. If Steve thought the horse was up to the challenge, he’d always try to shave off seconds, outdoing his previous performance. Giving each horse its best shot at the trophy, at the first-place prize money, regardless of who owned the horse. The owners loved him for that.
At twenty-three, Steve had a reputation that was already the stuff of legend on the horse show circuit. Almost everyone knew that he’d been raised in the saddle since birth. Horses were in his blood. His father, Steve Sheppard, Sr., had been a successful jockey in his own day, before retiring his silks and becoming a wellrespected trainer. His son, Steve, had cut his teeth on the backs of hot-blooded thoroughbreds. By the age of thirteen, Steve was already such an accomplished rider that he was hired as an exerciser for some of the fastest horses in the state of Kentucky. So Steve Sheppard knew about speed. Rumor had it that was why Sheppard, or Shepp, as his friends called him, was so damned hard to beat whenever there was a jump-off, when riders pulled out all the stops, trying to make the fastest time. Nobody could get their horses moving like Steve Sheppard—and clear the fences as well. Without a doubt, Steve would have made a great jockey, too, except that at age fourteen, he suddenly shot up half a foot in an alarmingly short period of time. Nobody had expected this kind of a growth spurt from a family whose members barely topped five feet five. His father, though disappointed that his son wouldn’t be following in his footsteps, took his son’s sudden imposing height philosophically. And, fortunately, Steve Sheppard, Sr.’s connections in the equine world were extensive. He sent his young son to a good friend who bred and trained thoroughbreds and Anglo-Arabs as jumpers. “Teach him everything you can, Clyde, Steve’s a quick study. And when you’re done, I’d appreciate it if you’d send him on to someone else.” And so Steve Sheppard, Jr.’s equestrian education had followed a different path from his father’s. Steve quickly became Clyde’s prot?g?, absorbing everything he could learn from Clyde about jumping: distances, angles of approach, lengthening and shortening strides. Two and a half years later, Clyde was sufficiently satisfied.
“You’ve got it down pat when it comes to flying through the air, Shepp. Now go learn how to make your horse move like magic on the ground. I’ve just found you a top-notch dressage instructor.”
“Hey, Pop, it’s me. How’s everything at home?”
“Steve! Good to hear your voice, son.” His father’s own scratchy voice was hearty with recognition. “
Everything’s fine around here. Your mother and sisters are just washing up. Had your favorite tonight, burgoo, and Maggie made a chocolate pie good enough to put her in the record books. Kerry took one look at it and almost fainted from happiness. She ran two races earlier today, young fillies. A show and a place. Claimed that justified eating three slices: two for the fillies, one for her.”
“Kerry always was lousy at math.”
“I wish I’d thought of it. I only got two slices. Still, I guess that’s okay. We all made Maggie promise to bake another one after next week’s race. How’s everything going up north?”
“Did real well today, Pop. I took third and seventh with Palomar and Soir?e in the Grand Prix. And you remember that new mare I’ve been riding, Jasmine, the one I told you about? We won the Open Jumper outright and came in second in the Grand Prix. What an amazing horse.”
“Sounds like a good day’s ride. You blow your earnings yet?”
Steve laughed. “No, I haven’t had enough time. Just got back to the motel, dying for a cold shower. It’s been hotter than Hades around here. No, apart from the cut I have to share with the Palmers, Jasmine’s owners, I’ve got a little money to burn. That’s what I was calling about. Can you keep an ear to the ground, let me know about any youngsters for sale back home?”
“How much you looking to spend?”
“Well, I think with this year’s earnings, I can afford a young prospect going for about ten, fifteen thou. The rest is going into the bank and mortgage payments.”
“Sounds like a good plan. Take it from me, son, and make sure you think ahead, figure out where you need to be in ten, twenty years. We’re in one of the toughest businesses around. Working with horses is a passion that enriches the soul. But if you’re not careful, you’ll starve trying to keep your mounts in feed.”
“I know, Pop. I’d put all the money back into the place I bought, except I need to have good horses of my own, to bring along from the ground up. That’s security, too, not being entirely dependent on other owners.”
“I suppose so. Well, I’ll keep my ears open for you. You might call Clyde, too, and see what his young crop’s like.”
“Yeah, I thought I’d give him a ring. I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to squeeze in a visit sometime in the next few weeks.”
“Your ma will be thrilled to hear it,” his father replied. “She’s been complaining that since you bought that itsy-bitsy piece of land in the Hamptons, you never come home anymore. You know, she still pesters me to get you into business down here. Actually, we all think that’s a fine idea.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “Thirty-eight acres here isn’t that small, Pop. True, it’s nothing compared to the places back home, but I don’t want a huge operation. And for the horse show world, New York is a prime location. In any case, it’s Kerry who’s the jockey in the family. Talk her into coming aboard.”
Steve’s father laughed. “Don’t think I haven’t tried! But Kerry’s as stubborn as you and still feeling her oats. Too much like her brother in that respect as well. Up to now, she refuses to commit. And don’t give me any of that ‘I’m not a jockey’ baloney. When a person’s as talented a horseman as yourself, size is not an issue.”
“Maybe, Pop, but I love this racket, show jumping. It’s intense. Countless things coming at you that you have to calculate in a split second. Every day I’m learning something new. Racing’s your and Kerry’s world, Pop, has been ever since I grew past five foot seven.”
“Remember how your mother carried on that morning you came downstairs looking like Jack’s magic beanstalk?” His father’s throaty chuckle came over the line. “You must have grown two inches overnight.”
“I’m just glad Ma’s over it. Black’s not a good color on her.”
“Well, you’re making a name for yourself in your field, and we’re all proud of you, son, even if we do miss your ugly face around here. By the way, you realize Kerry’s headed your way? She’s spending a few weeks in Saratoga next month.”
“Make sure she has my number. I’d love to see her ride. I might even take her out to dinner if she wins me some money.”
I
t wasn’t until mid-July that Steve made it back for a lightning trip to his parents’ house. After leaving the airport terminal, it had taken less than the four minutes’ walk to his father’s white Cadillac parked in the outdoor lot for his shirt to soak through. With nearly onehundred-percent humidity, it was the kind of weather that made you feel as if the whole world were one gigantic, steaming shower, and you were bundled in clothes more appropriate for the arctic circle. Real uncomfortable. Even the flies were feeling lazy, buzzing only intermittently, half-heartedly.
It hadn’t cooled off appreciably during the night, either. Steve lay on his bed, the sheets twisted into thick ropes under and around his naked body, longing for the cool sea breeze that blew in through his bedroom windows in his house on Long Island.
He flopped onto his back, the weight of his body making the wooden bed frame creak in protest. Linking his hands behind his head, he gazed up at the ceiling and watched the shadows from the pine tree outside his window flicker across it, doing his best to ignore the heat. After all, he’d be back on Long Island in two short days. Even this short amount of time was more than he could really spare, but Steve was filled with a growing anticipation, a premonition of sorts, that someday very soon he was going to come across that special horse. He was hoping it would be here, in Kentucky, where he’d been raised to love horses. Now it was cool enough to blow back the little wisps of steam rising from the paper cup filled with black coffee that Steve held in his hands. Of course, the sun was barely over the horizon. In an hour or so, the temperature would be back up to sweltering.
Steve took a cautious sip. He’d only just rolled out of bed, pulling on jeans and a T-shirt, skipping lightly down the stairs in his socks, his boots in his right hand, so he could accompany his father and watch the earlymorning workout of three of his father’s horses. It was always fun for Steve to go back to the track, the memories of his youth washing over him. His sister, Kerry, had met them at the track, having volunteered to do a coffee run at the local twenty-four-hour deli. Passing out identical cups of coffee, she’d jiggled a bag of glazed doughnuts in front of Steve and jauntily challenged both men to a race, claiming they needed to settle the question once and for all of who was really the fastest Sheppard in the family.
“Whoever wins gets the doughnuts.”
Both father and brother laughingly declined. Then, unable to resist ribbing his little sister, Steve said,
“Come on, Kerry, you know I wouldn’t want to shake your selfconfidence just before you go off to Belmont. I was planning on betting a few bucks on you. If I go and beat you this morning, you’d be so ashamed, it’d be like kissing my money away.”
“What, a big oaf like you beating me? I’d have to be racing on a three-legged nag to worry about the likes of you.”
“Now, kids, no fighting, no biting. We’ve got work to do. I want to see Blue Moon and Coincidence run before night falls, if you don’t mind. And don’t forget, Steve, Clyde’s expecting us in a little while. To listen to the pair of you,” their father admonished, “one would think you’re still twelve and ten years old.”
“Well, Pop, that’s ‘cause Kerry will always be a brat, and a puny one at that.” He grinned down at his sister, who tried unsuccessfully to glare back at him without breaking into an answering grin. The sky light enough now to read the mischief in her eyes.
Steve Sr. looked on as his daughter faked a rabbit punch and then pretended to wince as her fist connected with Steve’s rock-hard stomach. He hid a smile, proud as the devil of his children. Despite the fact that Steve towered over Kerry by a foot, the two of them were very much alike, temperamentally as well as physically. Kerry’s hair was the exact same hue as her brother’s; she even had the same dimple when she smiled. But it was their ambition that truly united them. Both wanted to be the best in their profession, and both were blessed with the talent and drive to get there. Kerry’s short hair, styled casually in a careless mop of blond and gold, flew back and forth as she shook her head. “All right, Godzilla, you just sit here and watch how a real rider earns a living. There better be some doughnuts left when I get back.” Leaving them standing by the half-mile track, she walked away, a cocky bounce to her stride.
Clyde Farrell’s stable was located about fifteen miles outside Lexington, not far from the state’s famous Horse Park, one of the most impressive showcases constructed for the greater glory of equine jewels. In this region, a true mecca for horses and horse lovers, Clyde Farrell was one of the most sought after breeders of Anglo-Arabs and thoroughbred sport horses, in part because of the extraordinary quality of both Arab and thoroughbred bloodlines found in this area but also because of Clyde’s uncanny ability to judge bloodlines, traits, and temperaments.