The stable is more cluttered than normal, with piles of rope waiting to be wound and gear scattered about the floor. Mr. Crycks fits a headstall over one of the horses. The man knockshis hat back an inch and squints at me, flat mouth working at something. He’s not much for words.
Sweet Potato whickers a hello from her stall, head bobbing up and down, telling me to come closer. She wants a taste of Old Gin’s hat, no doubt, and I give it to her to chew. She drops it onto the floor. Maybe things that come easy are not as good.
Mrs. Payne emerges from a stall a few spaces down. “Jo?” Her thick shawl covers her poplin dress. No hint of yesterday’s emotions remains on her face. She is back to the well-bred lady of the manor I grew up knowing—or not knowing. Perfectly aligned spine, gaze soft but unreadable, hands loosely cupped like magnolia blossoms by her side. “What are you doing here? And where is Old Gin?”
“He is in a bad way after being attacked yesterday on his way home. The doctor has recommended two months of rest.”
Mrs. Payne works at her wedding band. “Oh my Lord. Who attacked him?”
“Billy Riggs.”
“The fixer?”
“Yes.” I wonder if she has any idea of the trouble my father got himself into on her account.
Jed Crycks crosses his arms and spits. “The swine. He should be tarred and feathered.”
I make a noise of agreement, though that would be a waste of good chicken feathers.
“I wanted to discuss the matter of Sweet Potato with you,” I tell Mrs. Payne.
“Sweet Potato?” she asks distractedly.
Jed leads his horse out of the barn with a click of his tongue.
Mrs. Payne gestures at a nest of rope. “Noemi, wind that before someone trips.”
Noemi looks relieved at having something to do. “Certainly, ma’am.” She hunkers down on a milking stool and sets to the task.
I hand Mrs. Payne my gunnysack. “Your hat,” I inform her before she can wonder whether there’s a dead animal inside. “We have paid up through the month of March for Sweet Potato’s stable and board. I will need access to your property so that I may take her for exercise. Do I have your permission?”
She seems taken aback by my businesslike tone. “That sounds reasonable.” Wearily, she watches me through those watery eyes, which today are not lake blue or river gray or any of the colors I’ve seen before, but a murky bog of uneven depth. I no longer care to figure her out. I’ve spent my whole life trying to read those eyes, when all this time, they were a steel fortress intended to keep me out. Perhaps what I’ve been seeing all this time was my own stubborn reflection.
“Was there anything else?”
“Given Old Gin’s condition, he will be unable to race Sweet Potato this Saturday.”
“Of course.” She frowns. “The suffragists will protest. I might need to bring another horse and rider. That, or hire a militia.”
Noemi, who has managed to blend into the scenery, lets her rope go slack. I never told her about Old Gin racing, much less being paired with the suffragists. Her fidgety pupils snap to mine. She makes shoving motions with her hands.
What?
Now she’s pretending to ride a horse, lasso and all. She stops riding and stretches up her fists, and then points at me.
Victory is waiting for us. We have to be bold enough to snatch it.
Sweet Potato puts her nose into my hand. An image of Old Gin weaving her through a throng of moving horses sprints through my mind. Despite Billy’s savage attack on Old Gin, no doubt he will still press us for the three-hundred-dollar debt, and though the chances of me crossing the finish line first are slim to none, at least it is a chance. Plus, I could show those suffragists who’s an American woman. And Mrs. Payne could see for herself what I’m made of, something that goes beyond flesh and blood.
But a nobody like me has no business on the track, let alone in the biggest horse race Atlanta has ever seen. It’s probably illegal.
Old Gin believed he could do it. He would believe in me.
Mrs. Payne has opened the gunnysack and smooths the camel felt with her hand. “Well, please give Old Gin our best—”
“Of course, Sweet Potato will still be racing,” I hear myself say. My heart begins to squirm around in my chest. Noemi grins and holds her hands tightly in prayer.
Mrs. Payne stops fiddling with the hat. The sunlight sifting through the rafters draws lines like prison bars on her face. “Oh? Who will be her jockey?”
