Dartmoor Extras: Future (Violet)

You know how I've been sharing random future Dartmoor tidbits on Facebook? Unfortunately, this one has a whole multi-part story attached. 

 

The gate closed with a loud clang behind them, and Rally settled with a quiet snort; ready, but calm, like the good boy he was. Violet stroked his neck and readjusted her position in the saddle; reached down to set her toes more firmly in the stirrups.

Her silks clung to her body, already slick with anxious sweat, but her hands were dry and steady as she retook her reins and wound strands of Rally’s short mane around her bare fingers. She carried a whip, but didn’t plan on using it; a few looks at it on the backstretch and the big bay would switch leads and change gears. He was a distance horse, and didn’t really hit his stride until the home turn.

The horse to their right, Tempo, with Jorge Alvarez aboard, didn’t want to load. He reared, and Vi could hear the scuffle and curses of the gate attendants who jumped down to haul and push him in. He bolted in, slamming his nose against the front gate, jigging and tossing his head, already in a lather, eyes rolling.

Alvarez chuckled. “Señorita Walsh! Take a good look, no? Because you won’t see me all the way from the back of the pack once we start.” He flashed bright white teeth at her beneath his goggles, and his horse continued to fling his head. The attendant perched on the divider attempted to take hold of Tempo’s bridle and got nipped for it.

“Try controlling your horse, Alvarez,” she shot back. “He won’t make it past the first furlong at this rate.”

He laughed, unbothered, as the horse on his other side loaded. Its jockey, Hector Gutierrez, said, “Didn’t your madre teach you any respect for ladies?”

“Ha! Walsh isn’t a lady, she’s a–” Whatever else he was about to say turned into a grunt of effort as Tempo reared.

“Get the rest of these fuckers loaded!” someone shouted. “Before number five tears the whole fucking gate apart!”

The rest of the horses went in calmly. Vi sang “God Save the Queen” quietly under her breath, an old, self-soothing habit she’d picked up from Dad years ago. Rally twitched and chewed at his bit, eighteen-hundred pounds of coiled muscle between her ankles.

“What’s that song?” Alvarez asked beside her.

She ignored him, just as she ignored his horse’s angry squeals, and the way he pawed at the dirt.

Almost time. Almost…almost…

The bell shrilled. The gates clanged open.

Aaaaand, they’re off, an announcer was saying, somewhere up in his booth, his voice lost to her in the bang of metal and the thunder of sixteen horses throwing themselves headlong out of the gate.

As much as she loved racing, she hated this part. That first crash. The jostling. 

Rally grunted and stumbled as Tempo bumped into them on the right. She put pressure on the outside rein, trying to steady her mount, and shot a glare over at Alvarez, who grinned back.

Ass.

Rally regrouped, and settled into his early stride, that long, easy gallop that he liked best. Much to her chagrin, they were at the back of the pack. She angled him to the outside, though, content to wait it out. The two front-runners were competing to see who could burn out the fastest.

The horse in front of them started to flag at the first marker, and she was able to ease Rally inside of him, and into a better spot, just off Dream Machine’s flank. He was the other distance horse in this race, one she’d studied for days in the lead-up. This wasn’t an important race, wasn’t even going to be televised outside the track grounds, but there was still some buzz, given how few female jockeys there still were. Given that her favorite uncles and cousin had come down to watch. Abbie had given her a good-luck hug hours ago, grinning broadly. “Kick all their asses, huh?”

By the time they hit the backstretch, Vi and Rally had moved up another four slots. She loosened her reins a notch, leaned low, and prepared for the lead change. Almost. They were almost…

She’d fallen often enough in life to know what was happening when time seemed to slow. It was always slo-mo, those ugly tumbles. One second she was looking at a slot opening up near the rail, just large enough to squeeze Rally’s wide frame through – and then, like something from a horror movie, a sweat-drenched chestnut jerked hard to the side, head tossing, jockey fighting for control.

Alvarez. Of course it was Alvarez.

Vi hauled Rally’s head to the outside – but it was too late. They bumped shoulders with another horse, and then there was an awful shudder and lurch as Rally ran up on Tempo’s heels.

No, Vi thought. And then the dirt was rushing toward her face.

And then nothing.

 

~*~

 

Awareness came in dreamlike snatches. Impressions of color and sound.

An awful wail that could have been a siren, could have been the apocalypse.

Bright lights beaming down on her, stabbing at her eyes.

A familiar voice, always so steady and low, touched with concern: “I’m her uncle. My I.D.?”

Another voice, rougher, angrier: “The fuck? We’re her bloody uncles, you shit. You want our I.D.s? Fine, have ‘em.”

“Sir, you can’t–”

“Go. Babe, go with her. I’ll sort this shit.”

Blue scrubs and paper masks, and the pain, oh God, the pain. “She’s coming out of it.”

Dark. The sense of rolling, over and over. Weight crushing her.

Panic.

Mom had cautioned her about this, years ago. Had tried to get her to ride dressage, like Abbie. To stick with flat work, or even jumping. Emmie was going to be furious that she’d screwed up so royally. That’s she’d gotten herself killed. She was dead, wasn’t she? She wouldn’t feel like this otherwise.

 

~*~

 

She opened crusty eyes properly to a wash of warm, Florida sunshine, pouring in through a gap in unfamiliar curtains. She was greeted by the low beep of monitors, and, when she shifted, the scratch of rough sheets and the tug of an IV in the back of her hand.

The hospital, then.

She felt like she’d been run over – probably because she had. Turning her head left her sweating with effort, her whole skull throbbing, but it offered her a glimpse of a familiar lean figure stretched out in a chair beside her bed.

Tenny looked like he’d been dozing, tattooed arms folded over his chest, cut and jacket hanging over the back of his chair. But as she stirred, his eyes slitted open, the same eerie blue as her own, washed nearly colorless by the sunlight. He perked up when he saw she was awake, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees.

“Hey.”

She had to swallow a few times, throat dry, before she could say, “Hey,” in return.

He unfolded himself and went to the bedside table; came back with a cup of water and a straw. “Here.” He fitted the straw to her lips, and she was mortified she needed that sort of help, but powerless to hold it on her own.

When she pulled back, gasping, she was ashamed to feel heat and wetness gathering in her eyes. “Rally?” she asked.

He shook his head, grim-faced.

“Oh my God. Oh God, my first time riding him, and–”

“Hey. Hey, hey.” He leaned down, hand braced on her pillow, and thrust his face into her own. She’d grown up knowing that face. Had seen it hovering above her after her nastier spills, in her pony club days, and when she’d first started riding full-sized horses. Her parents worried, but Tenny always picked her up, dusted her off, and told her to get back on. He looked at her like that now, with his calm, everything’s-okay demeanor. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Yeah? You rode a clean race. It’s not your fault that other dick couldn’t control his mount.”

It still hurt, though, worse than the physical pain. The knowledge that she’d failed. That a horse had lost his life.

She closed her eyes, and Tenny smoothed her hair back off her forehead. “It’s alright. You did good.”

The door clicked open, and she tried to sit up, panic slicing through her – only to be replaced with a dozen bright sparks of pain that left her gasping.

“Shh.” Tenny put a hand on her shoulder and pinned her back.

“Oh,” Reese said from the doorway. “She’s awake.”

“She is?” That was Abbie’s voice, frantic and excited. “Let me–”

When Vi blinked her vision clear, it was to the sight of Tenny shaking his head slightly, expression one of those silent communications he and Reese often shared.

“Abbie,” Reese said. “Let’s go to the cafeteria.”

“But we were just at the cafeteria…”

The door closed, though, and it was quiet again.

Tenny sighed. “Fox owes me big-time for watching his kid all weekend. What a fucking brat.”

Despite everything, Violet felt a smile threaten. “She’s your favorite, though.”

He turned to look at her, expression softening a fraction, and then winked. “Nah. That’s you.”