Page 154 of Dragon Her Heels

THIRTY-SEVEN

“Well, obviously. We kidnapped her son.”

Determined to get through the races with my sanity intact, I dedicated every viable moment to working with Alligator Bait, preparing for our competitions, and living like I might die tomorrow. Death wasn’t on my agenda, but with each passing day, I drew one step closer to the fruition of my goals.

My big girl loved every minute of our time together, which served to remind me I did it for her as much as for me.

Something in my filly had changed as well, and she had made a decision to never again allow another horse to defeat her. She would behave until the instant the gates opened, and then she decided the only place for her was at the front of the pack, a queen among mere colts.

She swept the first qualifier by one furlong. The next, she took by two.

The rest she swept much like her first, showing no mercy to anyone on the field and surging to the wire as though the second place horse nipped at her heels. When the Kentucky Derby rolled around, the odds still claimed women and mares had no place in the Triple Crown, with most betting against us. The wise acknowledged the truths of the past and placed their bets on us.

The Kentucky Derby fell to us with half a furlong to spare.

Alligator Bait treated the Preakness much like she did when she hadn’t been breezed for a few days and wanted nothing more than to run, shaming the other horses and taking it with a lead of a furlong and a half.

On the day of the Belmont Stakes, Alligator Bait strolled to the gate as though she were heading for a walk in some peaceful park, the only horse on the field who wasn’t putting up a fuss in some fashion or another. Luck put us on the outermost gate, sparing us from any risk of being boxed in. She would run the longest race of any of the horses, as the filly had taken to sticking to the outside and securing greater satisfaction for herself when she blew by them. The starter assistant praised Alligator Bait for being a behaved princess of a horse, rubbing her neck. When several of the other horses put up a fuss in the gate, my filly flicked an ear back as though questioning what such undisciplined beasts were doing in a competition with her.

I couldn’t blame her.

I’d worked hard training Alligator Bait to treat the gate with care and caution despite her eagerness to run.

She’d learned the body language of the starter assistants, and when he tensed, she prepared.

The gates opened.

We flew.

Part of me wanted the race to be a contest, a battle of wits and skill, but my cheap horse with big dreams and more heart than she knew what to do with needed the thunder and the wind more than her next breath. Perhaps she knew it might be her last race—perhaps she knew she reached for glory—but from the moment she launched forward, she worked to secure her place as the filly who could, the sole one to dominate a race series believed to be for colts.

As I had since the fateful day following my stroke, I kept my hands low and allowed my horse to run the race as she saw fit, only interfering if I wanted her to move closer to the inside. The rare times I asked anything of her, she listened.

I figured as long as I didn’t ask her to slow down, all would be well in her world.

We thundered by the wire, and I began the tedious process of convincing the filly she needed to come back to Earth and slow down. At first, she fought me, but in what might count as the true miracle of the day, she came to a halt without requiring the help of one of the outriders.

Then, because she did wish to keep running and wanted everyone to know it, she bucked and squealed and complained for the world to see.

As she did similar on the track at home, I rode it out, laughing at her antics.

It was her day, and if she wanted to buck to let me know she was not happy the race was over, she could buck.

“Your spa day begins soon,” I promised. Then my spa evening would begin, where I’d be pampered by an entire flock of demons and devils to prepare for my big day.

Alligator Bait had learned what spa day meant, and she resumed being an angel of a horse. We dealt with the wreath of roses, the bouquets, the congratulations as always, with tested patience, exhaustion, and exuberance in a baffling conflict of emotions. To keep Alligator Bait from eating her wreath, Yuless fed her treats and praised her.

He promised me treats as well, and I snickered at the innuendo, which counted as barely acceptable for public.

The son of the divine we meant to lure to our wedding took in the entirety of the race with wide eyes. Initially, I’d questioned why Hagnar had kidnapped the boy’s dog at the same time, but it hadn’t taken me long to realize the dog served as an emotional support animal, keeping the teen’s emotional state manageable.

Some children of the divine suffered from various mental ailments, and a rather apologetic Caleb confessed he obsessed with everything being in its proper order.

I could understand that.

His father existed to maintain the proper order, and he had no outlets for his tendency, which had infected his offspring.

Lucifer had taken the time to explain that while Gavin proved to be a present parent, Caleb struggled with what it meant to be the child of a divine.