horses in the field left far behind, the finish line less than a hundred yards
ahead, and the adoring crowds cheering wildly in the grandstand .
In school, she routinely got good grades, not because she was a diligent student
but because learning came easily to her, and she could do well without much
effort. She didn’t really care about school. She was slender, blond, with eyes
the precise shade of a clear summer sky, very pretty, and boys were drawn to
her, but she didn’t spend any more time thinking about boys than she did
worrying about her school work, not yet anyway, although her girlfriends were so
fixated on boys, so consumed by the subject that they sometimes bored Tracy half
to death.
What Tracy cared about—deeply, profoundly, passionately—was horses, racing
thoroughbreds. She had been collecting pictures of horses since she was five and
had been taking riding lessons since she was seven, though for the longest time
her parents had not been able to afford to buy her a horse of her own. During
the past two years, however, her father’s business had prospered, and two months
ago they had moved into a big new house on two acres in Orange Park Acres, which
was a horsey community with plenty of riding trails. At the back end of their
lot was a private stable for six horses, though only one stall was occupied.
Just today—Tuesday, May 25, a day of glory, a day that would live forever in
Tracy Keeshan’s heart, a day that just proved there was a God—she had been given
a horse of her own, the splendid and beautiful and incomparable Goodheart.
So she could not sleep. She went to bed at ten, and by midnight she was more
awake than ever. By one o’clock Wednesday morning, she could not stand it any
longer. She had to go out to the stables and look at Goodheart. Make sure he was
all right. Make sure he was comfortable in his new home. Make sure he was real.
She threw off the sheet and thin blanket and got quietly out of bed. She
was wearing panties and a Santa Anita Racetrack T-shirt, so she just pulled on a
pair of jeans and slipped her bare feet into blue Nike running shoes.
She turned the knob on her door slowly, quietly, and went out into the hail,
letting the door stand open.
The house was dark and quiet. Her parents and her nine-year-old brother Bobby
were asleep.
Tracy went down the hall, through the living room and the dining room, not
turning on lights, relying on the moonlight that penetrated the large windows.
In the kitchen, she silently pulled open the utility drawer on the corner
secretary and withdrew a flashlight. She unlocked the back door and let herself
out onto the rear patio, stealthily easing the door shut behind her, not yet
switching on the flashlight.
The spring night was cool but not chilly. Silvered by moonlight above but with
dark undersides, a few big clouds glided like white-sailed galleons across the
sea of night, and Tracy stared up at them for a while, enjoying the moment. She
wanted to absorb every detail of this special time, letting her anticipation
build. After all, this would be her first moment alone with the proud and noble
Goodheart, just the two of them sharing their dreams of the future.
She crossed the patio, went around the swimming pool, where the reflection of
the moon rippled gently in the chlorinated water, and stepped out onto the
sloping lawn. The dew-damp grass seemed to shimmer in the lambent lunar beams.
Off to the left and right, the property line was defined by white ranch fencing
that appeared vaguely phosphorescent in the moonglow. Beyond the fences were
other properties of at least an acre and some as large as the Keeshan place, and
all across Orange Park Acres the night was still but for a few crickets and
nocturnal frogs.
Tracy walked slowly toward the stables at the end of the yard, thinking about
the triumphs that lay ahead for her and Goodheart. He would not race again. He
had placed in the money at Santa Anita, Del Mar, Hollywood Park, and other