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With that, the lad gave his knees a light squeeze, and he and Hannibal set off. Wilson at his side, Rake strode across close-clipped, spring-green grass to the small platform that offered a view of the entire course.
Energy snapped through the air as the grooms and stable lads gathered around the fence along with a few of the village women, imbuing the atmosphere with festivity.
How would Hannibal respond to the attention? Rake harbored doubts, viewing it as another test of the colt. Truly, the only person who believed in Hannibal whole-heartedly was Gem.
And yet… It was Gem’s complete faith that had Rake joining in.
Strange, that.
Over the years, he’d seen plenty of horses like Hannibal. Horses gifted with the bloodline. Horses gifted with the physicality.
But horses not gifted with the extra something that made them a winner.
Horses he’d had to give up on.
Horses that had ripped his heart in two.
Gem urged Hannibal into a canter. The crowd gathered around the fence had doubled in the last five minutes. Word must’ve been spreading around Somerton, and all wanted to see how Hannibal went. It might amount to nothing. Or…
It could be something.
It could be the beginning of a championship season.
And Hannibal… A nervy energy radiated off him.
He wanted to run.
Gem had been correct on that score.
And Gem… Rake didn’t know what the lad was saying to the horse, but he hadn’t stopped talking to him the entire ride so far.
“His action is looking free,” observed Wilson, a tinge of excitement in his voice.
This was what they needed to know about Hannibal in order to proceed with his training. If his action was cramped or round or extravagant, the colt would be better put to stud than on a racecourse, because he wouldn’t be winning any races.
Except that didn’t appear to be the case with Hannibal. He had a good length of stride at walk, trot, and canter, which boded well for his gallop.
“Alright, here we go,” said Wilson, crossing his arms over his chest, his gaze intensely focused on Hannibal.
As Gem and the colt entered the fourth furlong of the second lap, the lad angled forward and lifted slightly, making himself lighter in the saddle, and anticipation took wing inside Rake, soaring through him as his jaw tightened and his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
They crossed the line into the fifth furlong, and they were off. Beside Rake, Wilson kept a running commentary on Hannibal—his smooth, easy action; his low, swinging stride; the powerfulthrust of his hind quarters; the free, forward lift of his shoulders. Rake heard all this and nodded in agreement.
Hannibal was a right goer. With him, they would be winning the Two Thousand Guineas in a few weeks, and more races too. Rake felt it down to his marrow.
He found himself watching Gem. The way he rode Hannibal without crop or spur, but with utter skill and joy.Abandon.Gem possessed the ability to let go and fly. Grit and determination showed in the firm set of the lad’s mouth, as did the shadow of a smile. One couldn’t help but be infected by the exhilaration coming off the lad as he stretched Hannibal out and urged the best out of the colt.
The action was there.
The power and speed were there.
Yet…something about Gem worried at Rake. The lad rode like a demon. Entirely without fear. So…how was it the lad hadn’t already started making a name for himself at Newmarket or Epsom?
Well, he would in a few weeks’ time. That was certain. The Ring wouldn’t know what hit it when Hannibal and Gem took the turf, and every owner in England would try to poach the lad. And yet…
He was such an unlikely lad—possessed of hardly any physical substance. How such a slight lad could control the likes of Hannibal was beyond Rake. But he knew this—that was exactly what a talented jockey could do—and Rake was the sort of owner who knew not to question it. It was part of their magic.
And that was what Gem had with horses. More than any other jockey Rake had ever happened across.