Page 115 of One Wild Chance

We’re a mid-sized operation compared to some of the big horse farms at the event. Several of these places have staff who do nothing but prep yearlings for sale. We’re not that big, at least not yet. But we could be someday.

“Are you okay?” Summer asks, looking over as we pass through the barn, trying to track down Earl.

“What do you mean?”

“You just look a little distracted, that’s all,” she says.

I take a deep breath. “It’s overwhelming. The horses, the crowds, being the new guy.”

Even when I played hockey, I hated being the one who didn’t know what came next.

“Jaxon.” She stops and turns to face me. “You’re not the new guy. Lucky Chance has been coming to this sale for decades. You’re just the new proprietor.” She lays a hand on my arm. “There’s a difference. Own it.”

I wish I could believe that as easily as she does. I feel like such a fraud in my dad’s boots.

Earl and Colton are already with the consignor’s crew, and the yearlings have been groomed by the time we find them. Summer checks each of them over carefully, while I stop at the last stall where Gent’s colt is.

He’s standing quietly, the leg that got caught in the fence still showing the faded wound. It’s visible enough that it could affect the outcome, but I’ve been trying not to think about it. What’s done is done.

I turn around just as Hank Branford, wearing his trademark black hat, comes down the aisle with two men I don’t recognize. Hank stops to look at Gent's colt.

“Jaxon, good to see you here.” He nods. “I heard about that horse getting stuck in your fence.” He shakes his head. “Bad luck, huh?”

“He’s healed up fine,” I say. “Dr. Holcomb cleared him.”

Hank kneels to look at the leg. “Buyers see something like that, they start asking questions.” He rises. “Might hurt you in the ring. But I hope not.” He gives me a look that says he’s not too sorry. “There’s always next year.”

He moves on down the aisle with the two other men.

There’s always next year. He probably hopes there won’t be another year for us, so he can scavenge any part of Lucky Chance he can get his dirty hands on.

Summer appears at my shoulder, eyes narrowed as she watches Hank leave. “Don’t let him get in your head.”

But the truth is, that man’s always in my head, along with the debt, my father’s legacy, and whether I can live up to all the pressure.

She turns, studying my face. “He’s trying to make you feel like you don’t belong here. But I believe in you, Jaxon Chance, and so does Earl. If he didn’t, he’d have quit on you long before now.”

“He’s probably considered it,” I say around a laugh.

“Maybe. But Earl told me something once,” Summer says, folding her arms, “before I really knew you, when I still thought you were here to claim the money and run. He said, 'Give that boy some time. He might surprise you.’”

I look across the barn at the old man, talking to a group of farm managers half his age. “Earl said that?”

“Yep.” She straightens the brim of my hat, just slightly. “I’ll make you a bet.”

“What kind of bet?”

“If we clear our total number today, you owe me dinner.” Her face tilts toward mine. “And if we don’t, I pay.”

“It’s been a while since we’ve competed over anything.”

“Sure has,” she says with a hint of a smile. “But I know you well, Jaxon. You need something to win.” She pats my chest once. “So let’s go win.”

On our first sale day at Keeneland, the first three yearlings sell well, better than the conservative reserves we’d agreed on. When the third yearling sells, I begin to hope that our luck will continue so we can make that loan payment.

But our second day doesn’t go as well. When the Dakota Lightning colt goes through the ring, the bidding starts strong, but then wanes before the number gets anywhere near what we’d hoped. People remember what Dakota Lightning’s yearlings brought here last September. The bidding stalls forty percent below reserve, and the yearling leaves the ring unsold. Summer writes down RNA next to the yearling’s number: Reserve Not Attained.

I look across the pavilion at all these people, feeling like I’m standing in a room where everyone else knows what I don’t—the language, bloodlines, insider knowledge, and which sires produce winners.