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sorry, honey,” she said to Christian. “That bunch is nothin’ but trouble. Always lookin’ for a fight.”
    Hank eased back into his seat. “Shirley, I’ll pay for damages.”
    “Don’t be silly. The stool and pool stick aren’t worth beans.” She put her hands on her wide hips and gazed approvingly at Christian. “Hank, your boy is one hell of a scrapper. He’s definitely a chip off the old block.”
    Hank’s eyes twinkled as he beamed at Christian.



CHAPTER FIVE
    Saturday morning, Christian woke early, stiff and sore from the bar brawl and groggy from one too many drinks in Shirley’s bar after the fight. He touched his bruised cheek and ran his tongue over his busted lip. “Shit,” he said and awkwardly rose. He wandered through the house and, out a window, saw Juan’s truck parked near the barn. He found his father still in bed, using the oxygen tank.
    “Dad?” he asked softly.
    Hank opened his eyes and his lips curled. “Little too much excitement yesterday, but it was worth it. Can’t remember having so much fun.”
    “Yeah, it was fun, despite being a little sore,” Christian replied. “Look, Juan is waiting to help me hook up the trailer and load the colt. I’d better get going.”
    “Give me a call when you’re back in Sarasota and let me know how things went in Miami. You can leave the trailer at the track.”
    “I’ll be back up in a few weeks.”
    Hank shook his head. “Don’t bother with me. Go to Miami instead and make sure your colt is being treated right, that he’s not losing weight, and he’s coming out of the gate okay. The trainer will see you’re involved, not an owner who just sits in the clubhouse, drinking and paying the bills. Be sure to slip the groom and exercise boys a few bucks. They’ll take better care of your animal. You got his papers, health certificate, and Coggins test? The track won’t let you in the backside without them.” The energy required for Hank’s lecture took several breaths of oxygen.
    “I know, Dad, we’ve gone over all this.”
    His father nodded. “You’ll do all right, son. Just use good common sense.”
    “I will. I really … I really had a good time with you, Dad.” Christian tried to swallow the lump stuck beneath his Adam’s apple. “I’m glad I came up.”
    “Me, too.”
    “We’ll stay in touch.” Christian hustled outside into the dark and felt moisture form in his eyes. After a moment, he sniffled and cleared his throat. He drove to the barn, and Juan helped him hitch up the horse trailer to his SUV. They loaded the colt with little trouble. He thanked Juan for all his help.
    “Your father and I will watch Hunter race on the big TV at OBS,” Juan said. “I plan to bet my whole paycheck. He will make us all some money.”
    Christian recalled the excitement he felt as a kid at the Ocala Breeders’ Sales when buyers, sellers, and hundreds of horses gathered for the yearling, two-year-old, or mix auctions. He climbed into his SUV. “Let’s hope he wins. Dad says he should run in about a month.”
    Christian was soon traveling south in the slow lane on I-75. Although he had hauled plenty of boats, he was anxious with a horse. He could feel the thumps from a stomping hoof and the slight tug on the wheel when the colt shifted his weight or moved from side to side in the old trailer. At the Orlando exit, he turned onto the Florida turnpike that would lead to I-95. He wasn’t looking forward to the congested traffic ahead or old people that barely moved.
    Halfway through the trip, he pulled off at a rest stop to check on the colt and grab a drink, feeling dehydrated from the slight hangover. On the way back from the vending machines, he saw several people standing by his trailer, including a preteen girl.
    “He’s real pretty, mister,” she said. “What kind of a horse is he?”
    “Thoroughbred, a racehorse.”
    “Ohhhhh.” She turned to a woman. “Mom, he’s like Barbaro.”
    Christian started his engine.