The Bourbon Kings
Page 23

After a chuffing reply from the thoroughbred, Edward kept going. The breeding season had gone very well, and he had ninety percent of his twenty-three mares in foal. If all went as planned, their babies would be born the following January, critical for ensuring start-of-the-year birth dates: For racing, the clock began ticking by the calendar, not the actual drop date—so if you wanted the future three-year-old you’d run in the Derby to be as mature and strong as possible? You better get those mares foaling no later than March for their nearly year-long pregnancies.
Most racing people operated in a stratified system where the breeders were separate from the yearling breakers, who were different from the track trainers. But he had enough money and time on his hands so that he not only bred, but ushered his horses through elementary school here on his farm, to middle school at a center he’d bought last year, to the booking blocks of stalls at Steeplehill Downs in Charlemont and Garland Downs in neighboring Arlington, Kentucky.
The money required for his breeding and racing operation was astronomical, and any return on investment was a hypothetical—which was why syndicates of investors were typically formed to spread the financial exposure and risk. He, on the other hand, didn’t do syndicates. Co-investors. Partners.
He hadn’t lost anything yet. In fact, he was almost making money. His operation, in the last year and a half, had produced remarkable results—all thanks to Nebekanzer, his stallion, who happened to be the biggest, meanest sonofabitch anyone had ever come across. That nasty bastard bred fast sons and daughters, though—something he had discovered when he’d moved here to the Red & Black’s caretaker’s cottage and bought the four-hooved spawn of the devil and three of Neb’s two-year progeny at auction. The following year? All three descendants had won more than two hundred grand apiece by April, and one of them had been second in the Derby, third in the Preakness, and first in the Belmont.
And that had been his farm off to the races, as they say. This year, he was slated to do even better. He had two horses in the Derby.
Both from Neb’s loins.
He couldn’t say that his heart was in the business, but it certainly was better than sitting around and ruminating on everything he had lost.
Just like all those racehorses, he had been bred, born, and trained for a given future: to take over the Bradford Bourbon Company. But like a thoroughbred who had broken his leg, that was no longer his future.
“Buenas noches, jefe.”
Edward nodded at one of his eleven stable hands. “Hasta mañana.”
He resumed his sweeping, ducking his head—
“Jefe, hay algo aquí.”
“Who?”
“No sé.”
Edward frowned and used the broom as a cane, limping down to the open bay. Outside, on the circular drive, a two-acre-long black limousine was rolling to a halt over in front of Barn A.
Moe Brown, the stable manager, walked out to the monstrosity, the man’s long strides eating up the distance. Moe was sixty, lanky as a fence rail, and smart as a mathematician. He also had “the eye”: That guy could pretty much tell a horse’s future from the moment the animal stood up on its hooves for the first time. It was spooky—and invaluable in the business.
And he was slowly but surely teaching his secrets to Edward.
Edward’s innate knack, on the other hand, was the breeding. He just seemed to know which bloodlines to cross.
As Moe stopped at the limo, a uniformed chauffeur got out and went around to the rear doors—and Edward shook his head when he saw what emerged.
The Pendergasts were sending in the heavy guns.
The forty-ish woman emerging from the vehicle’s backseat was thinner by three times than even Moe, dressed in pink Chanel, and had more hair than what was in Neb’s entire tail. Beauty-queen pretty, pampered as a Pomeranian, and with a will to give those Steel Magnolias a run for their money, Buggy Pendergast was used to getting her way.
For example, about five years ago she’d played her hand and gotten one of the scions of an old oil family to throw out his perfectly good first wife in favor of her. And ever since then she’d been dumping his money into thoroughbreds.
Edward had already told her no three times over the phone.
No syndicates. No co-investors. No partners.
He bred for himself and no one else.
The man who got out after Buggy was not her husband, and given the briefcase he was holding, one had to assume he was an accountant of some kind. Certainly wasn’t a security guard. Too short, and those glasses were a testosterone drain if Edward had ever seen one.
Moe started jawing with them, and Edward could tell it was not going well. Then things went from bad to worse when that briefcase got summarily laid on the hood of the limousine and Buggy opened it with a flourish—like she was lifting up her skirt and expecting everyone to moan with approval.
Edward came out into the late sunshine with his broom-cane and his bad mood. As he approached, Buggy didn’t look over. And when he stopped behind Moe, she gave him nothing but a glare—as if she didn’t appreciate a stable hand playing witness to all this.
“—quarter of a million dollars,” she said, “and I’m leaving with my colt.”
Moe moved the piece of straw he was chewing on to the other side of his mouth. “Don’t think so.”
“I have the money.”
“Y’all need to leave the property—”
“Where is Edward Baldwine! I demand to speak with—”