Console would have danced with enjoyment if James had let him. He was running his heart out, not caring if he barely missed a jagged rock in the middle of the track, ready to kill any other horse or jockey who tried to push him out.
James saw Mortimer Hackey’s horse just to his left and whispered to Console, “There he is. Let’s get him.”
Console veered to the left, smashed his big head into the other horse’s neck, sending the horse stumbling away and his jockey flying into a shallow pond of mud, and raced over the finish line with all the joy of a vicar who’s just baptized every sinner in his flock.
Console won two hundred dollars. He tossed his head, not even breathing hard, ready to go again, but James handed his reins to Oslow. “Give him an extra bucket of oats. He smashed Mortimer Hackey’s horse out of the race.”
“I saw him do it. Well done, my fine lad.” Oslow patted the big gray’s neck, and Console neighed loudly.
There were six more quarter-mile races that day until just after three o’clock, when it started raining again—heavy sheets of rain that sent all the spectators scattering.
James also won first place in the fifth race and second in the sixth. Bonny Black, ridden by Jessie, won the sixth race. Tinpin, grumpy and indifferent, managed to pull in third. James was surprised he had done that well.
Oslow and three of the stable lads were covering the horses with blankets and leading them off for the long trek back to Marathon when Mortimer Hackey stomped into view. James grinned at him. “How’s your foot, Hackey?”
“You bloody bastard, you sent your horse right into my horse! My jockey has been knocked crazy in the head, thanks to you. Hoolahan says it’ll be three weeks before he’s fit to ride again.”
James yawned. “You did try to shoot me, Hackey. Did you think I’d turn the other cheek? Besides, that jockey is always too ready to use his riding crop. He deserved a lesson.”
“You take one step closer, and I’ll shoot you again, Mr. Hackey.”
James shut his mouth on another yawn. “Jessie, for God’s sake, Mortimer isn’t up to no-good, at least not today. He’s just a mite miffed because his jockey took a tumble in the third race.”
Mortimer snorted, waved his fist at the two of them, and walked off in a snit. He barely avoided careening into a deep mud puddle.
“I saw it. Well done.”
“Thank you. Console enjoyed himself. He can be a mean bugger when he wants to. How are you feeling, Jessie?”
“Me? Oh, I’m fine. You?”
“I’ll live. Wyndhams are too ornery to croak.”
Jessie just nodded and walked away, with rain running over her in waves. She was bareheaded. He wanted to ask her how her family was treating her, but he didn’t. She seemed just fine. She’d been right when she’d told her father that it was all ridiculous.
It stopped raining as suddenly as it had begun. Of all the perverse things: the sun was brighter than a fireball in the sky. But there was no more racing as more entries had already headed home.
James was whistling as he came to Luther Swann’s famous wagon covered with its white canvas and painted with blue stripes. He went around the corner of the wagon and stopped dead in his tracks. Jessie was pressed smack against the side of the wagon. Luther, as mean as a snake whenever he touched a bottle of whiskey, which was too often, was all over her, kissing her, his hands fondling her breasts, pressing his groin against her.
James roared as he strode forward: “Get off her, you damned, sorry bastard!”
Why the hell wasn’t Jessie fighting him? Why was she just standing there, letting him do whatever he wanted to do?
“Eh? Oh, James, I was just enjoying myself a bit of fluff here. Yep, I always wondered what Jessie Warfield would feel like. Lordie, she’s got breasts, nice ’uns.”
“Get off her, Luther. Now!”
“You want her, do you? Well, that’s the word. You took her last night in the Blanchards’ garden and everyone saw you take her and you didn’t care, just cast her off, you did, and her pa let you. So why can’t I have her, too?”
James grabbed Luther by the scruff of the neck and literally jerked him off her, hurling him to the muddy ground with a thud and a yelp.
He whirled around to see Jessie still pressed against the wagon, pale and silent. “Jessie, for God’s sake, why’d you let him touch you like that?”
It was then that he saw the trickle of blood staining her throat. He touched the small gash. “He held you still with a knife?”
She was even whiter, if that was possible, not moving, not even pretending to pay attention to him. She just stood there, staring at Luther, who was now shaking himself as he rose slowly to his feet. She saw him put the knife away in the pocket of his wet coat.
James turned on his heel, grabbed Luther Swann by his coat lapels, jerked him forward, and sent his fist into his face. He kept hitting him until he fell, then he just hauled him up again, and hit him until he felt hands pulling him away, heard men’s voices telling him to stop it, to control himself.