Miranda Kenneally - Racing Savannah

Welcome to Cedar Hill Farms of Franklin, Tennessee.

Est. 1854.

John C. Goodwin III, Owner.

Welcome to Hell would be a more appropriate sign, considering Dad just uprooted me from West Virginia and hauled me to Tennessee two days before senior year.

My father couldnt give up this opportunity to work as head groom at a fancy farm that trains horses for the Kentucky Derby and Breeders Cup, and I didnt want to be the evil daughter who stamped her foot and refused to come.

It doesnt totally matter, because home is where my dad is. But it still sucks that I had to leave my part-time job exercising horses. It wouldve become a full-time position when I graduated from high school, and now I have to start all over again.

I punch the code into the alarm box, the heavenly white gates swing open, and I steel myself for the half-mile trek to Hillcrest, the staff quarters. My claustrophobic new home. Hillcrest is attached to the gargantuan white manor house, where a smattering of comfy rocking chairs dot the wraparound porch, waiting for someone to sit down.

Back in West Virginia, it was just me and Dad and She Who Must Not Be Named living in our trailer. Now were sharing quarters with six other staff members and their kids. To escape, I took a walk to downtown Franklin this morning, but Im cash poor at the moment so there wasnt much to do besides loiter, and the last thing I need before school starts is to gain a reputation as that weird girl who loiters.

So here I am, back in hell, gathering my courage to go talk to the lead trainer about getting some work as an exercise rider so I can cease being cash poor. I used to exercise racehorses at the track and casino in Charles Town. But that was at a totally different levelthe horses I rode there were like driving a Ford and here they are like Ferraris. Hell, the Queen of England stables her horses thirty minutes away.

What if the trainer thinks Im unqualified? Or a hack? Ive been riding since I was four, but still. Just go talk to him, Savannah! The worst he can say is noand then I can go back to loitering. I inhale then let out the deep breath Ive been holding and take in the scent of cornbread, fresh laundry, dirt, cedar trees, and of course, horseshit.

I can do this.

I charge down the driveway and suddenly a wailing, high-pitched alarm goes off. My first thought is: Tornado! But the skies are as blue as a robins egg. Seconds later I see a brown and white blur streaking across the grass. A racer. Two guys on ponies are chasing it. He must have escaped!

I sprint toward the horse as he zigzags my way. The horse seems curious. But not curious enough to slow down. He zips past me as I yell Stop! and take off after him. The horse circles back around. I hold a hand up. Whoa, there.

The horse slows to a jog, studying me, his expression both wary and nosy. Then he charges me. I reach out and snatch his bridle. With a firm grip, I thrust him away from me, showing him whos boss. Thats when I discover hes wearing a saddle.

Did you throw your rider? Suddenly he rears up and kicks his feet. When he returns to all fours, I get up in his face again. Whoa! He cowers, bowing his head.

One time a horseman told me I have a way with horses. Dad told me not to listen when men say things like that because theyre just trying to get into my pants. But I do have a way with horses. Dad, however, does not have a way with words.

I confirm the horse is a boy then gently slap his neck, checking the engraving on his bridle. Tennessee Star is his name.

You sure are fast, I tell the young horse, petting his nose. Hes beautifula light brown chestnut with white markings. A Ferrari. I never rode such a well-made colt in Charles Town.

Then, from the fields beyond the manor house, a guy comes riding up on a horse. I dont take my eyes off that rider, even when Tennessee Star tries to yank away.

I havent met the owners son yet, but Ive seen him riding around like hes king of the place. Which is technically his title, I guess. When we arrived two days ago, Mr. Goodwins chief of staff told me the Goodwin family is fiercely private and that non-housekeeping staff arent allowed inside the manor. We were instructed to keep our distance from the Goodwins. Since I dont want Dad to get fired on day three, I havent spoken to the boy.

Still, hes beautiful. I should start a magazine called GQ Cowboy, and he could be the cover model every month. Wavy hair the color of straw curls out from under his cowboy hat. His snowy white button-down shirt is spotless and pressed, tucked into his jeans, the arms rolled up to his elbows. The three coonhounds that always seem to follow him around bound up and sniff my jeans.

Last night a giggling maid told me his name: Jack Goodwin. And hes seventeen, like me. He attends Hundred Oaks High, the school Im starting on Monday.

Star! Jack says, dismounting fluidly. Youre too smart, you know that? he scolds the horse, then grabs the bridle as I let go. Two farmhands jog up on ponies and Jack wordlessly hands Star off to one of them, slapping the horses flank before they lead him away.

If I didnt love that horse so much, Id send him to drag a tourist carriage in New York City, Jack says in a deep Tennessee drawl. Thatd teach him not to buck his rider and run off.

Once he confirms he has a good grasp on his stallions reins, Jack turns to me. His blue eyes widen and a bright smile spreads across his face.

Thanks for catching Star. That was insane how you cornered him with no corner. Ive never seen anything like it.

No problem.

So what can I do you for? He tips his cowboy hat in an exaggerated manner and smiles again, revealing perfectly straight white teeth. Behind closed lips, I run my tongue over my slightly crooked front ones. Youre a bit late for the tour. Theyre at eight a.m. and its nearly noon now.

He thinks Im here for the tour?

No, no, I say, starting to explain, but then he unleashes his megawatt smile. It makes my throat close up and my heart pounds even harder. This guy is hot, but I dont like boys who get whatever they want without trying. I worked damned hard to get my part-time exercise rider job back in Charles Town. Just like Ill work damned hard to get a position here.

Soo Jack says, stroking the stallions mane. Do you want a private tour? You know, to say thanks for catching my horse?

A private tour? Like, me and Jack alone? Dad would kill me for breaking the Goodwins privacy rules. Besides, hanging around people like Jack is not my thing.

Im not here for a tour. I

I didnt know Mom was hosting guests this weekend, Jack says. I hope shes not having another fashion show for charity, because I barely survived the last one.

We havent met.

He thrusts a hand out, grinning. I know. Id have remembered you. Im Jack Goodwin.

I shake his hand quickly. Savannah. What a player. I gotta get up to the house.

I stalk off and Jack hustles after me. Wait! Ill escort you.

Hell escort me? How primitive.

The horse makes clickety-clack sounds on the pavement. Its a young stallionprobably no older than fiveand hes sprinkled with white and black, like Rocky Road. I cant resist touching his nose. Whos this?

This is my bro, Wrigley.

Your bro?

My sister tells me Im an idiot around girls.

Thats the biggest bunch of bull Ive ever heard. I can sense the cocky confidence radiating off his tanned skin.

So why did Star run away? I ask.

Two baby raccoons climbed a fence at the track. One of the hands managed to chase them away, but not before a bunch of the colts and fillies started screaming. I think thats why Star took off.