Chapter 7

Annie was getting frantic as I slowly walked back to the Hospital entrance.

"Hurry, Lacie! Grandfather is back, and wants to see you!"

I quickened my pace some, but still I didn't run.

Yes, I was sorry that the old man was sick, BUT ... I was still pissed at him. Yet, I was so confused, that I felt a little ill, too. On one hand, I loved the old fart. But on the other hand, he had betrayed me. I simply didn't know how to handle the mix of emotions.

As I arrived at Ben's room, my stomach finally let me down. I rushed into the nearby restroom, and violently threw up. Of course, this upset Jean and Annie a great deal. They both ran to help me. I was very glad that I still kept my hair short. Otherwise, it would have been fouled with vomit.

Once my stomach settled down, I found that my knees were so weak I had to lean on the sink. Since I was there already, I figured that I should rinse my mouth out. Next, I washed my face, and took several deep breaths.

Finally, I went to Ben's bedside. I just looked down on the old man. He had tubes and wires all over him, and I could hardly hear myself think for all of the beeping, buzzing and whatever other sounds that the machines clustered around his bed made.

He looked small, and somehow ... defeated. He was nothing like the man that fought off the restrictions of his stroke, as he would stand by my side on the gallops, teaching me how to be a trainer.

I couldn't help it. I started to cry, with deep shuddering sobs. I knew that the old boy wasn't going to make it, this time.

Ben grabbed my wrist with his good hand. The strength of his grip surprised me so much, that I stopped weeping.

"Stop that, girl! This is not your fault! Jean is right. I've done this to myself. Lacie, I do love you! I hope that you will stay and help Jean and Annie keep the stable alive. It will be hard without my name, but I've had my Solicitor here send out letters to the owners, stating that you are a good trainer and that their horses are in good hands. That letter also states that it is you who has been doing the bulk of the training for the last year! But let's face facts. Some will leave, anyway.

"Some time ago, I put Jean's name on the deed to the yard. Jeremiah tells me that we did it early enough to avoid the death tax.

"Lacie, you told me once that you had dreams for the yard, and for Annie. Please! Stay at Cutter's Way. Make them happen. Jean will need your help, too. As mad as she is with me now, she will soon need your strength..."

"But..."

"Don't interrupt, girl. I don't have much left in me, and I need to get these things out."

"Ok..."

"Now, I know that you don't believe that you are as strong as I believe you to be, but you are, girl. I saw it from the first, and you've proved me right ever since! Look after my girls and the yard for me ... and please, PLEASE, forgive me for my stupidity."

"You're forgiven, Ben," I said as I bent and kissed him on the forehead.

"Oh ... one last thing, Lacie ... Please have your Lawyer contact Jeremiah, here. I think that between them, they can figure a way to protect you all from the dishonest creditors, and the scum that will try to grab a profit at the expense of the three of you. Now, let me talk to Annie, please?"

I gave the old man another kiss, and stepped back out of the way. A tearful Annie took my place at Ben's side. He told her that he loved her, and how proud he was of her, and that he expected her to be the best horse vet in the Kingdom!

The two talked for some time, and then Jean's turn came. The old man apologized profusely for all that he had put her through. He told her of his love for her, and thanked her for being there for him.

The old boy hung on for two more days, before he slipped into a coma. A week later, he died.

During the two days that Ben was lucid, we all talked. We laid out plans that might help the yard survive.

Ben had many visitors that last week, when he was in the coma. Too bad that he didn't know they were there. The funny thing, was that in the whole time Ben was hospitalized, not one Roma showed up. I thought that it was a sad thing that his own people didn't visit, it was so strange.

Once Ben had gone into the coma, we three women set up a rotating schedule, so that we could keep a vigil yet also care for the horses. The schooling continued, and on the day that Ben died, we had a big win from a horse that had never won before. The old woman that owned that horse decided to retire the old girl after that very race.

"I always knew that she could do it!" the old woman said.

She patted her horse's neck as they stood in the winner's circle. Both she and her 'old girl' went out on a high, and I took that as a sign that better days for the stable were ahead.

Over the following months Ben's predictions came true. Lord Weaver's two-year-old filly and Geoffrey Woodward's young colt were taken away. Several other owners also moved their horses to other trainers.

For some strange reason, I was not surprised that the people that had brought the business of Ben's arrogance to a head, were the first to leave.

During the same time period crooked creditors descended on us like Locusts, claiming that Cutter's Way owed them money. Most were driven off by our threats that we would call the Police, however, some were more persistent than others insisting that they were owed money and that they were going to get the money or else!

One morning while the horses were up on the gallops a man actually roughed Annie up just as I came around the corner of the first block of stables.

He looked up at me and smiled, ACTUALLY SMILED AT ME and said, " Your next, Missy," as he threw Annie against the wall and reached for me.

I put him in the hospital.

Unfortunately, Annie had to go to the same hospital, as the thug had broken her arm.

I was pissed to say the least. That night I snuck into the thug's room to get some answers. I questioned him ... ah ... quite vigorously. I found out that a dishonest trainer, Harold Bishop, wanted our yard.

More accurately, he wanted Cutter's Way, and us. He wanted us to run the yard for him, so that no one would know that it was his. That would provide him with a curtain of honesty, something that he didn't have.

Bishop was only a small time trainer, and a bully, but he had delusions of grandeur. He thought that he could expand his business by intimidating a bunch of women. He then wanted to pull off some scams under the cover of the good name of Cutter's Way, making money without the risk of the Jockey Club coming down on him.

The next day, in between the work that had to be done to care for and school the horses, I spent time thinking about what needed to be done to protect us. As you already know I'm a direct person and deal with bad people in my own way. That evening I went into town, to the hardware store. I purchased one of those compressed air horns. You know, that thing that looks like a shaving cream can with a trumpet on the top. Those things are really loud!

It was well known that Bishop went for a ride each and every evening regardless of the weather. The next night I dressed all in black. I even put on a balaclava and gloves. I stationed myself in the hedgerow next to an isolated part of the track that Bishop used for his evening ride. I let him go past on the outward part of his ride, figuring that he would be less attentive when returning.

As he came abreast of my hiding place on his return, I stuck the air horn out of the bushes and blew a long blast. The horse, frightened out of its wits, reared up. He threw his rider to the ground, HARD! As the horse ran off I quickly moved out of hiding and went to Bishop. He was badly broken up and moaning in pain. He had landed on his right side smashing his shoulder, hip and knee.

I bent over him and whispered in his ear in my best Irish accent, "If you want to live, leave those people at Cutter's Way alone! They are protected and you are not. Beware!"

The stupid man hissed through his teeth that what he did was his business, and for us to leave him to it. I stood and kicked the man in his injured shoulder and hip, several times, with my steel-toed boot. I was sure that he would never heal properly, now. Once the man stopped screaming, I again bent over him and repeated my warning.

I also said, "If we have to come back, you will not survive the visit!"

I then squeezed his windpipe until he couldn't breathe. He clawed at my hand trying to dislodge my grip but he failed, I'm a lot stronger than I look. I then stood and disappeared into the night as the lads from his stable came looking for him.

Now I know that there are horse people out there saying that one doesn't ride in the dark. Well, let me explain. This particular track was on the trainer's land, and was lighted with those little mushroom lights that are used to mark walkways.

The story got around that Cutter's Way was protected by the IRA, the Irish Mob, and any other number of clandestine organizations. Rumors are easy to start. With those stories flying around, the visits from unscrupulous people stopped.

As things sometimes happen, a couple of years later we bought out that crooked trainer. He had never healed properly from his broken hip and shoulder, and was unable to do his job. His business slowed and then stopped altogether. He didn't have helpful friends, the way Ben had.