Secretariat Reborn by Susan Klaus Read Free Book Online Page B

milers and European grass horses in her pedigree. She also won two grassstakes and produced several winning grass horses. That leads me to believe your colt could possibly fit into any kind of race.”
    “My father says Hunter should run on dirt.”
    “That’s good. There are more dirt races. Sometimes it takes a month or two to find a maiden grass race with the right distance and purse to fit a horse.”
    Price abruptly said something in Spanish to Jorge, who nodded, put the lead rope on Hunter, and walked him out of the stall.
    “Is he going to the track today?” Christian asked.
    “No, he’ll be walked for a day or two. By the end of the week, I’ll pair him with another horse, and he’ll start on the training track. Once he has some workout times and his gate card, I’ll find a race that suits him.”
    “That sounds like a plan,” Christian said and unfolded his arms. He watched Jorge lead Hunter around the shed row with other horses and their handlers.
    “Do you have his Jockey Club papers and Florida-Bred registration?” Price asked.
    “They’re in my SUV.”
    “I’ll need to put them on file in the track office,” said Price. “While you’re here, you might as well drive over to the grandstand and apply for a racing license in the state office and get finger-printed. They usually open at noon.”
    “Fingerprinted?” Christian frowned.
    “They check your record. Can’t be a felon and race a Thoroughbred.”
    “There’s sure a lot involved in racing.”
    “Everything has to be on the up-and-up. These aren’t hobbyhorses.”
    Christian returned to his cool hotel room, showered, shaved, and packed his bag. From the balcony, he saw the show was over. The track was empty except for a lone tracker grading dirt in preparationfor the afternoon races. If not for needing the license, he would have started the two-hundred-mile drive back to Sarasota.
    Instead of checking out, he rode the elevator up to the top floor restaurant and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast of bacon and sunny-side-up eggs. While eating, he glanced through the
Miami Herald
Sunday classifieds. Since he restored and sold sailboats in his spare time, he was searching for a cheap fixer-upper.
    A twenty-two-foot McGregor with a trailer and ten-H.P. motor caught his attention, and it was only a thousand bucks. On his cell phone, he spoke to the owner and made an afternoon appointment to see the sloop.
    Might as well make this trip profitable
, he thought and made another call.
    Kate answered, “Chris, why are you calling me so early?”
    Christian glanced at his watch. “It’s almost eleven.”
    “I didn’t get home until three.”
    “Guess you had fun at the party. Well, I’ll be back tonight if you want to hook up.”
    “Call later,” she said and hung up.
    He sighed, slightly annoyed.
She never says good-bye, as if good manners might kill her
.
    Through the window, he saw cars filling the grandstand parking lot. He paid the restaurant bill and headed for the racecourse. At the gate, a woman scanned his track card for free admission. He wandered past the covered saddling paddock, the grassy riders-up arena, the jockey room, and entered the quiet grandstand. With the race time still an hour away, spectators were few. He took the elevator to the various levels and checked out the poker rooms, clubhouse restaurant, more snack bars, a gift shop, gaming machines, and the box seats reserved for trainers and their clients.
    He found the state licensing office, but it was still closed. He saw three security guards leaning against a raised table, talking and drinking coffee, so he walked over. “Think the licensing office will open soon?” he asked and glanced at its door.
    The largest of the men set his cup down and said, “You own a horse?”
    “Yeah, first one. My trainer is Ed Price.”
    The oldest guard held his chin. “Price’s horses win a lot, but didn’t he lose a filly yesterday? Second race, I believe.”
    “Sure