Chapter Eighteen

Bay

There's never been a capall uisce faster than Corr. Or maybe there has. But there's never been another capall uisce ridden by Sean Kendrick, tamed by his hand and charmed by his voice. Sean Kendrick could tame a capall to hell and back and still come through without a scratch. That's why he's the four-time champion of the Scorpio Races. That's why it's every man's dream to beat him in a race. That's why I'm on the cliffs this morning racing Tempest against Thisby's fastest capall uisce. Because I need to know if my empty brag that Tempest is faster than Corr is just that - an empty brag - or if there's any truth to it. I need to know if I've got a chance at winning this race.

Sean agreed to meet me up on the cliffs this morning to race. He'd be training Corr anyway, so I don't feel guilty about taking him out of the Yard. We put our capail uisce through their paces, warming them up, and then we begin to train in earnest. Sprints down the cliff, matching each other stride for stride. Longer, slower races toward the beach path. But neither of us are pushing our mounts as hard as we can. And we both know it.

Tourists watch us curiously on the cliff tops, whispering to each other behind hats and hands. I wonder what they're saying. I wonder what they think of me. A girl. A rookie. Just another Puck Connolly, I imagine them saying. After all, Puck was first. First to put her name on the board. First to declare her intentions to ride. But I was first to know Sean. First to catch a capall for myself. First...what does it matter who's first? The thought suddenly pops into my head. Because, really, what does first do for you anyway?

Give you money, a thought nags me, racing through my head along with the pounding of Tempest's hooves. So you can start that Yard your mother wanted. So you can fix the house, repair the stables, put together some kind of peace. No. That's not really what will happen if I'm first. Because if I'm first, then Sean can't be first and he'll lose Corr. And if I'm first, Puck can't be first and she'll lose...whatever it is she has to lose if she doesn't win. So then how do we race like this? Are we all doomed to lose?

"Bay!" a shout breaks through my thoughts and I look up sharply to realize that I'm awfully close to the edge of the cliff.

I pull on the reins to pull Tempest away. There's a heart-stopping moment where he doesn't turn and I feel the siren song of the sea race through my veins where my leg touches his flank. Then I snap the rein smartly against his neck and whisper in his ear and he's focused on me again. I turn him inward sharply and draw Tempest to a stop safely away from the edge.

Sean trots up to me on Corr, reining in beside me.

"You're distracted," he says. That's dangerous, his frown says.

"Yes," I admit.

He sits quietly, leaning against the pommel of Corr's saddle. Waiting for me to speak.

I take a deep breath. "Sean, what are we really racing for?" I ask.

He stays silent for so long I start to think he isn't going to answer. Then he looks me in the eye and says, quietly. "I'm not sure. I've been asking myself that question a lot lately."

A shiver runs through me because Sean is never not sure, but I feel like I've seen him more 'not sure' in the last few weeks than I've ever seen him in his entire life.

"Are you still racing to win?" I ask him.

"I'm not racing to lose," he says, but it's not really an answer.

"And if you lose?" I ask.

"I don't know." He breathes sharp, fast. I know these questions bother him as much as they do me.

"What if you lose, Bay?" he asks.

"If I lose…" I pause for a long time, thinking about exactly what it will mean if I lose. And then I smile. Sean tilts his head. Because I realize exactly under what circumstances I'll lose. "I'll only lose on one condition," I say.

Sean raises an eyebrow.

"If you or Puck beat me to the finish line."

Sean's eyes widen fractionally, which is his equivalent of absolute surprise and I wonder if he's seen through me to what I've suddenly realized.

I'm not racing for me anymore.

Then he shifts and sits up straight and the moment is gone.

"To the end of the cliff?" he asks.

"For real this time," I say.

He sets his mouth and nods. "For real," he agrees.

And we fly.

Saturday dawns earlier than I expect with the taste of ash in my mouth and dread in my belly. I jolt out of bed and look at the clock on my bedside table. 7am. Still three hours before Dad is supposed to meet Malvern in the hotel. Three hours to convince him not to sell Tempest. I get dressed, grabbing my nice jeans and the button up I wore to the auction. The shirt's a little wrinkled, but it'll do. If Malvern wants to meet Dad in the hotel, I plan on going too. I figure Malvern knows this, so I dress to be seen. I'm not a scrappy island girl who can't hold her own. I'm a wild island queen. Just like my mom. I grab her leather jacket off the bedpost and walk out into the hall.

The house is quiet, but Dad's been up already. There's a near-full pot of coffee on the stove. I'm about to walk back to knock on his door when something catches my eye out of the kitchen window. I stop and look to see Dad crossing the yard outside. I duck back behind the kitchen curtains to watch. Dad holds a package wrapped in brown paper in one hand and disappears into the stable. I lean over the counter and crack the window so I can hear if Tempest screams. Or Dad.

My stomach knots with curiosity and apprehension. The last time Dad was alone with Tempest, things didn't go so well. So what is he doing now? Is he taking Tempest to Malvern before we agreed so he can do it behind my back?

After a few minutes, Dad comes out of the barn leading Tempest. He has one hand pressed to Tempest's cheek, probably holding some ribbon or iron, and the other wrapped in his halter. My mouth drops open and I can't even remember how to close it. Dad leads Tempest out into the pasture, shutting the gate behind him. Then he pulls the paper package out of his coat pocket and unwraps it. It's a piece of meat. He offers it to Tempest.

Tempest stands curiously for a long moment, then takes the meat out of Dad's hand and eats it. He finishes and stands proudly, ears pricked, looking at Dad. Dad puts out a tentative hand. Tempest stares at him for a long moment, then puts his nose forward until it rests in Dad's palm. I see Dad stiffen, then relax. Slowly, he begins to scratch Tempest's nose. Then his hands move to Tempest's cheeks, rubbing slow circles, then travel down his neck. Tempest arches his neck and looks proud of himself. I can't hear him, but I imagine he's making his contented thrum.

Then Dad leans forward and rests his forehead against Tempest's nose. My eyes go as wide as my mouth. Tempest lowers his head and stands still. I can see Dad's mouth move as he talks to Tempest, but I have no idea what he's saying. And for a moment I see Dad as he must have been years ago - a young mainlander who had a way with horses. I see Dad as Mom must have seen him. I feel tears slip down my cheeks. I hurriedly wipe them away. I need to talk to Dad.

I head outside, quietly. I don't want to break whatever's between Dad and Tempest. I walk up to the pasture fence and lean on it, watching. I can hear Dad's whispers now and they are like Sean's. Nonsense from the sea, the language of the capaill uisce.

"Dad." I break the spell.

Dad and Tempest both look over at me. At first Dad looks surprised, then he scowls like he's angry. He makes a visible effort to settle his features into something more neutral, but he looks guilty and I think we're both confused, so we just stand there, staring at each other, like we've never met before. And in a way, we haven't. This is a side of my father I've never seen.

"Bay," he finally says. Then he stops, opens and closes his mouth a few times, as if he can't decide exactly what he wanted to say. He settles on "Hey."

"Hi," I say like we're perfect strangers.

Dad clears his throat.

"He's beautiful," Dad tilts his head towards Tempest.

I nod.

"Did you catch him by yourself?"

"Sean was with me," I say.

"Of course." There's a note of regret in Dad's voice.

"You should have seen him. When he first came out of the sea. He was dark as thunder and twice as proud."

Dad smiles. "I bet he was," he says. "He's a winner, Bay."

"Not if Malvern gets him," I say bitterly.

Dad looks down at the ground for a long moment. "Come with me, Bay," he says. "To the hotel."

"I was planning on it," I say.

"I know you were. But I'm inviting you."

"So I can watch you sell my horse?" I ask. I want the question to sting.

"No," Dad shakes his head. "So you can watch Malvern's face when I tell him I'm not selling."

Three hours later, I still can't believe what Dad said to me in the Yard this morning. I get to keep my capall uisce! Part of me wants to doubt my father, who's given me more than enough cause over the years. The other part of me wants to throw myself at him and hug him. All of me jangles with nerves as Dad stops the truck in town and we head for the hotel. He gives me a friendly cuff on the shoulder as we walk inside.

"Hey, don't look like you're going to your own funeral," he whispers. "It'll make Malvern happy."

I give him a half-smile in return and we walk up to the counter. There aren't too many locals in the hotel, mostly mainlanders here for the Races, talking quietly amongst themselves. They don't pay us too much attention. I glance up at the clock over the counter. It's 10 am on the nose, but Malvern's not here yet. It's just another of his power moves, making us wait. Dad orders a whiskey at the bar and I get a steaming mug of hot chocolate and we sit and wait in companionable silence.

Dad's whiskey is gone and my hot chocolate is cold when Malvern throws open the door to the hotel and strides in like he owns the place. For all I know, maybe he does.

"Callum!" he calls, waving, like he and Dad are the best of friends.

"Malvern," Dad acknowledges him with a tip of his head as Malvern walks up.

Dad stands up so that he and Malvern are on the same level. I stand too.

"Brought your daughter with you, I see?" it's a question, but a carefully crafted one.

"That a problem, Malvern?" Dad asks.

"No. Not at all." Malvern smiles, lips stretched too tight over too white teeth. "She can learn how it's done," he says.

I scowl at him.

"Now," Malvern hefts a briefcase onto the bar. "It's all here, Callum," he says, patting the case. "Eight hundred, just like we-"

"No," Dad interrupts.

Malvern stops for a second as if frozen. Like he's a clockwork toy whose key ran down, a false smile plastered on his face. He blinks, then smooths the front of his shirt and leans forward. "I'm sorry. I don't think I heard you right," he says. "I thought you said no."

"I did." Dad crosses his arms, that stance he gets that means he won't back down.

Malvern looks between the two of us and I can't keep the grin off my face. We aren't following his script and he didn't come prepared for this. I don't think I've ever seen the man more flustered in my life. Malvern scowls and it's that dangerous, unamused scowl he gets when he's done bargaining and he's about to lay down the law.

"You'd better explain yourself, Fisher," he says. Not Callum anymore. Fisher.

"Gladly," Dad says. "I think some thanks are in order. You made me remember something important the other day at your Auction, Mr. Malvern." Dad pauses.

Malvern raises an eyebrow.

"You made me remember that blood's thicker than horses and seawater," Dad says. "Even on Thisby. The answer's no. I'm not selling my daughter's capaill uisce."

Malvern's smooth features twist, then settle back into a neutral expression. "And why is that?" he asks, the words clipped, crafted, careful.

"Because my daughter asked me not to."

"Did she now?" Malvern asks, glaring daggers at me. "And you're just going to let her dictate your future that easily?"

"Why shouldn't I?" Dad asks. "After all, she is my future, isn't she?"

"She's a child, Fisher. Her whims aren't going to fix your house or buy you a new truck. She doesn't understand what I'm offering for that capall."

"She's standing right here and she understands every word you're saying," I mutter. Malvern pointedly ignores me.

"Eight hundred, Fisher." Malvern says.

I hear some murmurs from around the room. We've become a show for the tourists now. Curious eyes watch our little drama unfold.

Malvern holds up his briefcase. "I know you need the money, Fisher. Don't deny it. That shack you call a house isn't going to stay standing much longer."

Dad keeps a straight face, but I see his jaw clench. Malvern's trying to get him angry, to make him agree to save face in front of the crowd. I hold my breath as I wait for Dad to answer. Dad takes a long breath.

"Mr. Malvern," Dad says slowly, "I wouldn't sell that horse to you if you were the last man on Thisby and I was starving."

"Then you'd die of your foolishness," Malvern declares.

"After I ate my horse, probably," Dad admits. "But with all due respect, sir, that'd be better than being beholden to you."

I swear fire licks at the edge of Malvern's gaze. "Then don't expect me to offer you any more favors, Fisher."

"Fine by me," Dad says.

"And don't expect my son to stay away from your daughter in the races," Malvern threatens.

"Fine by me," I answer, stepping forward.

Malvern scowls at me, then turns back to Dad. He grits his teeth and grinds out, "Pleasure doing business with you, Fisher." He sticks out his hand. He's only doing this because we're in public and he doesn't want to lose face in front of the mainlanders.

"I'm sorry I can't say the same of you, sir," Dad says politely. He doesn't shake Malvern's hand.

With a snarl, Malvern collects his briefcase and storms out the door.

The hotel is silent for a long moment. Then a mainlander who was sitting at the counter nearby looks over at Dad and says, "Sir, I believe you've got the biggest balls of any man on this island. I've wanted to see that man get his comeuppance since the day I got here. Jolly good show." He raises his glass to Dad like he's toasting him.

Dad nods in return. "It's been a long time coming," he says.

The mainlander laughs and takes a sip of his fancy drink.

Dad looks down at me and smiles. "I bet this didn't feel nearly as good as when you punched Mutt in the face though."

"You heard about that?" I ask, surprised. I can't tell if I should be proud or ashamed.

"Gratton told me about it. Said you've got a nice right hook too."

"I had a pretty good teacher," I say.

Dad grimaces. "A teacher who should have taught you a lot more than how to throw a punch."

"You also taught me to be stubborn and to never give up," I say.

Dad shakes his head. "Some teacher I am," he mutters.

"Well, you certainly schooled Malvern," I say.

Dad throws back his head and laughs. It's the first real laugh I've heard from him in a long time.