Secretariat Reborn by Susan Klaus Read Free Book Online Page A

exercise.
    Christian made coffee and stepped out onto the balcony. Even at that early hour, Miami was steamy—well into the eighties.
This is great
, he thought as hundreds of horses paraded past. After coffee and a half hour of watching the show, he dressed and went downstairs, eager to get to the stables.
    He drove past the guard and, unlike the quiet of the afternoon before, the morning bustled with activity. Each courtyard contained twenty to thirty horses. The grooms rushed around cleaning stalls, feeding, leading, and washing the animals while trainers and their assistants supervised. The hot-walkers that resembled carousels with live horses were full, the horses walking in a circle to cool down after a workout. Exercise riders twirled their whips, waiting for their next mount as others walked their mounts, warming up in the courtyard. Vehicles filled the parking spaces in front of the barns, and veterinarian and farrier trucks parked along the road. Groups of mounted horses walked down the road, going and coming from the track. At the crosswalks, Christian stopped, allowing several to pass.
    Christian felt privileged to witness this behind-the-scenes circus that occurred daily beyond the grandstands. The betting public was prohibited access, never seeing the effort it took to maintain racehorses, probably the most pampered animals on the planet. As Hunter’s owner, Christian had just been initiated into a private club, its members thinking, breathing, and dreaming Thoroughbreds.
    He parked in front of Ed Price’s barn and strolled to his colt’s stall. “Hey, Hunter,” he said and patted the colt’s neck. Hunter paid him little attention, also entranced with all the doings.
    A tall, middle-aged white man with brown wavy hair and a mustache strolled down the shed row toward Christian. Dressed in a spiffy white sport shirt and trousers, Ed Price looked more like a golfer than a horse trainer and stood out among his employees, who wore jeans and dirty t-shirts. In Spanish, he spoke to several mentaking tack off a horse and called to a rider in the courtyard. His accent was good, but his high-pitched voice was similar to a horse’s whinny.
    Price walked up to Christian. “You must be Mr. Roberts,” he said and offered his hand. “I’m Ed Price, your colt’s trainer.”
    Christian reciprocated and noticed Price’s unsoiled hand and manicured nails. Unlike his father, the guy was obviously not a hands-on trainer.
    “Your colt is a nice animal,” Price said, glancing at Hunter, “but I pulled up his pedigree and the racing stats on his sire. The stallion didn’t earn much and is only stake placed—never won a big race, plus he hasn’t had many starters. You don’t see too many studs by Hold Your Peace.”
    Christian crossed his arms and lifted his chin, taking a slight dislike to this pompous trainer who was critical of his father’s horses. “Meadow Lake is by Hold Your Peace, and he’s produced some great stake horses,” he said. “Chris didn’t breed many mares, but he has an eighty-seven percent win rate from starters. I believe that’s above average.” Christian had absorbed every word when his father discussed Hunter and his old horse, Chris.
    “Yes, that’s a better percentage than most studs. Watch out, Mr. Roberts.” Price motioned Christian to step near the stall so several horses with their grooms could walk past.
    Christian resumed the conversation. “Hunter also breezed a thirty-five and change on a slow dirt track a few days ago. I believe that’s also above average, Mr. Price.”
    “It’s a good time.” Price produced a dry smile and began to backpedal. “Look, Mr. Roberts, I’m not putting down the stud or prejudging your colt. If your colt has talent, he’ll prove it on the track. I pull the pedigree and stats so your horse is entered in the right race. The stud and his other colts ran on dirt and most of his races were six furlongs. But your colt’s mare has some great