I let the lunge line play out and the 2-year-old colt went with it eagerly, kicking up his heels as he broke into a rolling canter.
Long-legged, clean-limbed, he was a brute of a colt standing 17hh high and built like a Mack truck. A bright bay, he had one white foot and a small star. Out of a mediocre mare and a claiming horse, he had caught my eye in the sale ring.
I’d had to argue with Matt to buy him, until I’d shown him my Google search on his pedigree. He was out of a lesser known daughter of Honest Pleasure and a great-granddaughter of Mahuba, Man O’ War’s dam. A cross that had never been done before. In fact, his particular bloodlines had disappeared in a barn fire back in the 60s when the racing stables had burned to the ground. With all 60 animals inside. Ending some of the most royal bloodlines in Thoroughbred history.
Technically, we weren’t a racing stable per se‒ more of a lay-up barn. Situated in a small hidden valley in South Dakota near the Badlands, we took in injured and retired race horses, showjumpers and dressage horses worth upwards of 50,000 to over millions of dollars.
The ranch was called the Double D and had once been a cattle ranch operating up until the 1920s. Legend had it that the place was named after the hugely endowed Madame that had taken it in exchange for her ‘favors’. Abandoned after the 20s, it had been purchased by Jason Levinger under an off-shore LLC for me and my friends. Matt and Jake or whoever helped me and needed a place to hide. We’d only found out about it later when we’d run from the Feds and the cops that my grandfather had sicced on us.
The house was a rock masterpiece created out of local stone and set in a collapsed lava tube that was in the middle of a vast salt playa. It opened up into a valley of green grass, pinon pines and clear springs that trickled out of cracks in the rocks. A paradise of over six hundred acres with access to a thousand more of BLM land that the place had for a five-hundred-year lease. All hidden inside some of the most desolate land in the fifty states. We even had fruit trees growing in the valley.
An old timber barn had been torn down and replaced with a stone barn, new metal roof that reflected the sky and the surrounding cliffs. Made of a special composite, it was radar and heat resistant so no FLIR or drones could spot it. Inside were twenty 12x12 stalls with individual waterers that were gravity fed.
We were 125 miles from the nearest town, called Kadoka. 75 miles from electricity and services but we had our own power source‒ solar and wind driven. We lacked nothing‒ satellite phone, TV, wi-fi, hot water and refrigeration. All provided for by green energy solutions. In the event that we did not have either wind or sun, there was a back-up generator with a thousand-gallon fuel tank buried near-by.
A large garden produced vegetables that were canned, frozen or stored in a root cellar. Same for the excess fruit our trees produced. There was an abundance of game available and fish in the two creeks that flowed through the pastures. On those rare occasions that we needed outside help, Matt flew his small plane into the nearest airport, Rapid City Regional or drove into town, a three-hour trip one way.
Our clients never came out to the ranch, their expensive animals were shipped to Kadoka. There, Matt met the shippers with the ranch truck and trailer after hauling the newest horse to the vet where it was given a clean bill of health which included a hi-tech scanning to rule out a GPS or bug. Even after six years, Matt and Jake were still paranoid about DeAngelis or the Feds finding us.
We had kept on the move, Jake, Matt and I for three years. Hopping from one city to another, from one small town to a smaller one and when the US got too hot, we skipped across Canada and Mexico. We’d traveled through South America, too but I didn’t like it or Mexico even though I knew the language. Too hot, too different and I missed the cool mountains.
We didn’t contact any of our former friends. Not that I had many‒ it was mostly Matt and Jake that had left people behind. Those two never complained about leaving their families in the dark. Mine had only been Mr. Sanderson and Jane. The last thing that we heard about them was that they had married and had three kids. Two boys and a girl. Named Mathew, Jason and Christa. He still did Search and Rescue though he was now a Supervisor and she raised top-notch SAR dogs that brought in tens of thousands in cash.
Occasionally, we would get alerts on our TOR accounts that the FBI were looking for new leads on my case or that the John Doe Trust was hiring PIs to track me down. Yet, Mr. Levinger had hidden our traces well and the people in Kadoka had never seen me. Even if they had, they were a close-mouthed bunch who hated the Feds, the government and cops in that order. They wouldn’t point us out or turn us in. Of course, neither one of us looked the same‒ I was taller, older and darker than I’d ever been. The strong South Dakota sun and wind had turned my skin bronze. At sixteen I had shot up to my father’s 6’3” and could look Matt in the eyes. My hair was dark brown without the gold and red streaks‒ I’d lost that ethereal look of my childhood. Yet, I didn’t look anything like Tempe.
Matt was dark, too his eyes still the brightest blue I had ever seen. Almost the same as the Dakota sky before the sun dropped. His hair had lightened almost to blonde, he’d grown a moustache like the old-time westerners. I liked to give him grief over it, especially when he threatened to wax the ends.
Jake was…Jake. He was older but still the same. Tanned almost to saddle leather and made a decent living on his own designing websites for small business owners. He split his time between Elder Creek and the Double D as he had a girlfriend there in town.
Of course, we didn’t use our real names. We had IDs. Good ones that would pass any checks. Even had Social Security numbers. All that came from Mr. Levinger in a package after he’d been murdered. Along with passports and the passwords and account numbers to my trust fund. He had managed to transfer all but a few thousand before he had been killed. The other lawyers only found out after.
My grandfather was livid. He had thought that he would have me and access to all 150 million only to find that I had disappeared with all the money. Except for $666.
The colt leaped out of the circle nearly jerking me off my feet. I hollered at him, paying more attention finally to him rather than my memories I was still stuck in. Slowly, I bought him back in to me, easing him down to a walk before I asked him to whoa. Once he stopped, I clipped a stud chain over his nose, dropped the lunge line and brought him back to the barn.
In the crossties, I brushed the sweat off his bright bay coat, picked out his feet and checked him for any puffiness or heat in his legs. Once satisfied that he was in good shape, I led him back to his stall. He had fresh water, alfalfa hay and oats waiting for him.
Closing the stall door, I watched as he shook, rolled, peed and went to eating. I could feel it as Matt approached behind me and stood, a connection that was as strong as life itself.
“He’s a big one,” he said. “Moves like a king and he knows it.”
“I bet he’s fast, too. I expect he can beat American Pharaoh’s time in the Derby,” I said.
“We could race him on the small tracks but if he hits the big time, he’ll bring lots of attention to the owners. The whole world will know who he is, where he came from and who owns him. Are you ready for that kind of media coverage?”
“We don’t have to race him under our names. There’s a trainer who’ll take him, I read about him on the Internet. It’s a thousand a month plus the entrance fees, etc. I said no claiming races and he agreed. He was intrigued when I told him the bloodlines.”
“Ballycor’s?”
“It’s in there somewhere,” I said.
“How did you know to pick him at the sale?” He was curious. Out of a thousand foals, I’d chosen him.
“Crispin told me.”
“Huh. What did you pay for him?”
As a yearling, I had spent $550 dollars for the leggy colt. On a whim and Crispin’s nudge. I didn’t see him often just when something of great import was in the works. And it was more of a feeling than an actual sighting.
“I suppose you’ve already made arrangements to send the colt to this trainer, Cris?” he asked me.
“No, Dad. I wanted to tell you first,” I admitted. “He has to be hauled to Virginia.”
“Virginia?” That worried him. “You’re heading back into the devil’s den, Cris! Too many cops and Feds live there to risk going back!”
“No one knows what I look like now, Dad,” I said calmly. “I don’t look like my mom or Tempe. Even my grandfather wouldn’t recognize me like this. It would be safe enough to drive out, drop off the colt and leave before anyone’s the wiser.”
“Don’t you have to sign contracts, check out the stable yard and apply for Jockey Club Membership?”
“All done on-line,” I answered waving the papers at him.
“Uh-huh. And his registered name?”
“Tempus Fugit. I tried for Time after Time but that was already taken.”
He shook his head and walked off, leaving me to follow him into the house. I left the colt and met him in the kitchen where he had made supper. A salad of fresh garden greens and a big bowl of spaghetti with homemade sauce. Only had two places set, Jake was out of town with his girlfriend. We had no hired help, just Matt, Jake and I to do the chores. Not that I had too many, cleaning up the dishes after dinner was one of the easiest. The worst ones were making hay through the summer months. Round bales weren’t so bad, but squares were a pain. Hot, itchy and heavy work in 90° heat. Especially when we put up 10,000 square bales every season. Sold what we didn’t use to local ranchers for their beefers. Although, I didn’t really have much to complain about, Matt cooked, and I did the clean up. He wasn’t a messy cook, nor had he been a stern taskmaster. He made sure that I ate balanced meals, bathed, learned my school work, played hard and was healthy even during those three years that we were on the run.
He had taken care of me better than my own father, sometimes doing without for my sake. I couldn’t love him more than if I had been born his son in this lifetime. Nor were his feelings any less deep than my own.