My Last Dance
The cool spring breeze blew over the stables and around the empty practice track as a luxurious horse van came slowly down the drive of Whitebrook Farm. A middle-aged woman came down the front steps of the colonial-styled farmhouse, an eager bounce in her booted step. As she stopped at the main barn's yard, a young man exited its wide doors, a dark blue lead line in hand. He stopped not far from her and looked expectantly toward the coming van. Shifting in his stance, he noticed his waiting employer smile beside him.
"I can't believe it's finally time," she suddenly whispered, almost, it seemed to the stable hand, to herself.
He was unsure if she was speaking to him or not and simply glanced with curiosity at her. He'd only recently been hired on at Whitebrook; at other racing barns he'd worked for the owners certainly didn't address him unless it was to speak about leading out a horse or bringing it in from the paddocks. Softly, Mrs. Reese – sometimes he couldn't believe that she was the famous jockey and racehorse owner – laughed.
"It's all right, Charles, you can reply. I was talking to you; who else is here but us?" She looked around the yard for emphasis. It was a holiday, and most of the hands had gone off to spend time with family or to sleep after tending to the horses. They'd be back at noon and in the evening, but for now, the stables were relatively silent. "You'll find we do things a bit differently around here." She grinned easily at him, and he returned it somewhat hesitantly.
"Well then, Mrs. Reese, most people call me Charlie." He gave a quick dip of his head as he spoke, and then abruptly froze. How stupid could he be? The renowned trainer Mr. Burke had once lived and worked here; most of his close friends had called the trainer Charlie. He'd probably just offended Mrs. Reese by speaking so carelessly about his nickname.
But then she spoke, "It's been a long time since I've known a Charlie. It'll be good to hear the name around Whitebrook again." She gave a gentle nod in concurrence with her statement, hazel eyes focusing fully on the van as it rumbled up in front of them.
"Who's the guest?" Charlie finally bucked up the courage to ask after a long silence. He'd heard about important race or event horses resided temporarily at Whitebrook Farm sometimes, and supposed this to be another.
"A long awaited resident," came the smooth corrective reply. Mrs. Reese moved forward and Charlie hurried over to aid the hand who'd jumped down from the passenger seat of the van in opening the doors and dropping the ramp for the horse within. As he entered the interior, lead line in hand, he studied the horse while clipping on the lead. As he stood there, the man he'd helped entered too. Before, when the horse had been slightly jumpy, it quieted. The man grinned brightly as he placed a light hand on the horse's neck and then removed it.
"She is beautiful, no?" A slightly foreign accent peppered the older man's voice, and the filly's delicate ears focused in on the sound of it, head lowering a fraction so her dished forehead could now be viewed perfectly.
"A fine thoroughbred," Charlie answered, reaching up and brushing his hand over her supple neck. Her coat was soft under his fingertips, and he knew she had been lovingly cared for.
"She is two years old; now she shall be raced. Her owner has waited years for a Triple Crown winner; she, this horse, is such a one." With care, almost a sort of reverence, the man reached out and placed his palm over the nearly perfect diamond of white on the filly's forehead.
Charlie frowned slightly. "Why are you so sure about that? There are good horses here too; this filly can't be the only one."
Again the man smiled, almost knowingly.
"But this filly is out of many great horses. On her dam's side are Man 'o War, Desert Sheik, and Dawn Runner. On her sire's is Ashleigh's Wonder." He took the lead line from Charlie with fluid motions while the younger man stood there, surprise written across his features. Quickly, the groom shook his head and hurried to catch up with the man and horse as they descended the ramp from the van.
"Why only that racehorse on her sire's side?" he asked curiously. The older groom paused on the ramp, the horse beside him lightly nudging his plaid flannel shirt.
"Because to your employer Wonder's bloodline is all that matters," he answered. The man turned and continued down the ramp, leaving Charlie to fetch the blankets and leg wraps he'd removed from the filly.
From within the van, Charlie listened as his employer exclaimed quietly over the young mare. There was a fond tone to her voice. After a moment he decided to see what the animal looked like in the morning sunlight. As he descended the ramp and saw the horse, her lithe, gleaming body almost seeming to shine with an ebony brilliance in the sun, he understood.
This was the final foal Wonder's Champion had sired before being put down from a crippling laminitis. He'd heard of the filly, and couldn't believe the hoped-for wonder horse was now standing in Whitebrook's stables. She had Wonder's Pride as one of her grandsire's and Battlecry as another. She had been bred with the strict purpose of winning any race put before her, though she hadn't been entered yet as so many had desired. Was his employer going to be the one to enter her? He realized that she must be.
Silently he took in the four even stockings and black body, his eyes suddenly falling on Mrs. Reese. Instantly, he noticed she was crying and not attempting to hide it. The man she had been speaking to carefully put some manila folders in her hands, nodding and placing his fedora back on his head, smiling just a bit and saying something Charlie couldn't hear. Mrs. Reese answered inaudibly and accepted the documents while giving a watery smile.
Charlie watched as she scanned the filly's lineage slowly, at times mouthing a name or two. He strained forward a bit when she spoke softly, her voice wavering as she began. "My Last Dance, I hope you have your sire's heart and stamina. May you have your granddam's beautiful spirit."
In that moment, Charlie knew. This would be the final racer of the direct Wonder bloodline. He thought back to the terrible circumstances of the other famous racers, and smiled at this filly in front of him as she bobbed her head slightly, taking in her surroundings. There would be no others like her.
Softly, the filly nickered. In the morning hush it echoed like a noble call from the great horses that had come before her.
My Last Dance's ears pricked as she heard a distant answering neigh. She embodied all Ashleigh Reese had loved and lost to the sorrowful parting of death. She would be the last to dance across the racetracks in the great wake of Wonder's shining career.
A/N:
I've never read the rest of the Thoroughbred series; I stopped at Cindy because I really didn't like the direction they were going. This is a one-shot set far into the future, at some date I don't know. I always loved Ashleigh and Wonder; Samantha McLean was stretching it for me. This is sorta a tribute to Ashleigh, Wonder, and Charlie Burke, whom I loved and who got me more interested in horses. It's been a long time since I read stuff about horses, but today in my closet as I was cleaning, the first Thoroughbred book fell on my head, and I began reading.
My Last Dance is a tribute to a time in my life when all that mattered were the silks and the idea of racing a thoroughbred across the smooth turf. It's an idea, and only a fanciful dream, but it was beautiful, and I cherish it deeply. My Disclaimer: I own nothing, not even the cover art.
Happy reading,
WH