Riding the Storm

By Franci McMahon

Kate Duncan can't remember a time when she felt in control. She can't control her father's drinking or find or erase the dark place in his past that makes him fix horse races. Someday she wants to take over the racehorse training ranch, but that desire dims from the harsh glare of reality. She has averted disaster one too many times. After her Mother leaves, taking Kate's little sister with her, she understands what a heavy weight will rest on her shoulders. At least Chogan is there to share the load.

Chogan Hungry Horse, Blackfoot and two-spirit, is the ranch jockey, and the person who leads Kate gently in opening her eyes. For the first time Kate has someone in her life who hears and sees her. Chogan gives her a language to speak about the pain in her family and opens a place in her heart. Danger grows in the beauty of Montana compelling them to discover the driving force.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Desert Palm Press
• Release date: Apr 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9781954213630

Franci McMahon

Franci McMahon mines her years of riding and breeding horses to write novels of suspense for even those unlucky enough to be born without the horse gene. Rounding out her life as a writer, she has a previous novel, many works in anthologies, stories for children and adults in national magazines, a poetry prize, and an enriching stay at HedgebrookBeyond horses, Franci's life is filled with classical music, cooking, knitting, reading complex novels with a story, dancing close to a warm woman, and sitting in silence, often at Quaker meeting. These are some of her deepest pleasures. She divides her time between Montana and Tucson, Arizona.

Book preview

RIDING THE STORM

By Franci McMahon

©2023 Franci McMahon

ISBN (book) 9781954213630

ISBN (epub) 9781954213647

This is a work of fiction - names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Desert Palm Press

1961 Main St, Suite 220

Watsonville, CA 95076

Editor: Jodi Zeramby

Cover Design: Michelle Brodeur

Cover Art: Regina Winter

CONTENTS

About Riding the Storm

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

About Franci McMahon

About Riding the Storm

Kate Duncan can't remember a time when she felt in control. She can't control her father's drinking or find or erase the dark place in his past that makes him fix horse races. Someday she wants to take over the racehorse training ranch, but that desire dims in the harsh glare of reality. She has averted disaster one too many times. After her mother leaves, taking Kate's little sister with her, she understands what a heavy weight will rest on her shoulders. At least Chogan is there to share the load.

Chogan Hungry Horse, Blackfeet and two-spirit, is the ranch jockey and the person who leads Kate gently in opening her eyes. For the first time Kate has someone in her life who hears and sees her. Chogan gives her a language to speak about the pain in her family and opens a place in her heart. Danger grows in the beauty of Montana, compelling them to discover the driving force behind her father’s ways.

Trigger warning: Riding The Storm contains references to alcohol consumption and family dynamics concerning this issue

Author’s Note

One of my motivations in writing this book was to give insight into the dynamics of a family impacted by alcohol. This was my family and it took me into middle age before I could see some of my behavior with understanding and kindness. I wasn’t crazy, just trying to cope.

I hope this revelation will draw you into the book rather than warn you against it. We need to understand our secrets and break our silences in our quest to be whole.

I would like to thank Regina Winter for the cover art, and her wife, Annalie Metrokos, for the posthumous permission. I will be forever grateful to the Montana Arts Council for guiding me years ago to the indigenous reader who read the manuscript and gave me such valuable feedback.

Without the concise comments from readers, we authors might not take off our rose-colored glasses in order to see our story and the characters within it with clarity. For her clear eye and precise tongue I would like to thank Margaret Burris. I may have resisted, but everything she said was true.

C. A. Hoffman, Sue Shimer, Heidi Vanderbilt, Penelope Starr, Ruth Kibler, Eileen Howell, Caroline Latron, Brenda Brown, Jennifer Wise, and Ninakae Stanton all gave insightful comments. My steadfast writing group companion, Jean Emrick, tried valiantly to tame my wild grammar. Jean supports me in so many ways.

Jazzy Mitchell asked all the right questions and pushed me deeper. Thank you for your editing expertise. And to you, Lee Fitzsimmons, for your enthusiasm and belief in this book, that it might crawl out of the drawer and into the hands of readers.

Dedication

To Brenda Brown and Ninakae Stanton

‘You don't have to burn books to destroy a culture. Just get people to stop reading them.’

(Ray Bradbury)

Chapter One

THE BLUE STARTING GATE shimmered in the heat. Steam rose from the sticky mud of the racetrack. I wiped my forehead with a quick pass of my sleeve, not taking my eyes off the filly that stood, ears up and eyes bright, in the third position. Prairie Rose was the only horse who entered the starting gate quietly. I, Kate Duncan, credited my dad, Boone Duncan, for her good behavior. I was not the only one who believed he was the best racehorse trainer in Montana. A swell of pride brought my shoulders back and tilted my chin until I remembered. The filly wouldn’t win this race. Didn’t have a chance if what I suspected was true.

My white-knuckled hands gripped the damp, peeling paint of the track rail. A little bit tense, I whispered. No kidding.

After a long night of pouring rain, the sun was working hard trying to turn the High Plains into a steam room. Sweat oozed under my bra, and surreptitiously I reached one finger up under my T-shirt to let in air beneath the tight band. My long braid was annoying me, so I flipped it back over my shoulder.

The last horse loaded in the gate. Prairie Rose’s red roan coat glistened in the midday heat. Chogan Hungry Horse, the ranch jockey, crouched on top of the filly like a cougar on a rock.

My fingers closed around the stopwatch hidden deep in my jeans pocket. I placed my thumb on the button and at the shrill ring of the starting bell, pushed it down.

Prairie Rose blasted first out of the gate, her ears flat back, hooves digging deep into the mud, but the other fillies, the popular girls, pulled ahead of Rosie, their backs closing rank as they left her running all alone.

Run, Rosie, I shouted. Catch ’em.

The filly was doing her heartbreaking best. Chogan waved the crop in the air above her hindquarters without using it as Rosie ran down the track, head held low, straining to fight the pull of defeat.

Prairie Rose was one of those horses with an extraordinary will to win. She could push herself too hard. Considering that trait, a loss might break her spirit, or the stress on her bones could cause a fracture. A flush of anger added heat to my scalp. Mostly out of habit, I pushed the button when the filly crossed the finish line last. This filly was high quality. She wasn’t one we had bred. Unfortunately, Lester Cord owned her and was unaware of what he had.

I threaded my way against the flow of the crowd. Most of the spectators lined up to cash in their tickets, buy one for the next race, or ogle the winner. I shook my head as if trying to cast something out of my brain.

Here I was, twenty-three years old and still worried about my future. I skipped college to oversee the ranch, and considering what was happening lately, that might have been a mistake. On top of my dad’s drinking was a new wrinkle. I had strong suspicions about how he managed to fix this race. What the hell? Not much of an inheritance.

Chogan guided the filly off the track with the other outclassed horses. He was easy to spot in Lester Cord’s racing silks, a combination of black and chartreuse, which reminded both of us of lizard puke. Rosie ran so far behind the others, only a few splatters of mud graced Lester’s silks.

Chogan unbuckled his helmet, yanked it off, and tucked it under his elbow. His short black hair sprang out when released. I waved and he rode near, raising his eyebrows.

I tightened my lips, shook my head, and handed him the stopwatch.

When he saw it, he closed his eyes and groaned.

A short, skinny track groom took the filly’s bridle while Chogan jumped down and pulled off the saddle. We watched Rosie in silence while the groom walked her out.

Next race meet, I will sleep in the tack room, Chogan said.

I nodded. You or me, one of us.

Chogan and I knew this race was lost when we saw my dad watering Rosie.

This morning, Dad got up early for a change and took the truck. Chogan and I had to hoof it from the motel. When we arrived at the racetrack barns, we saw my dad with the water hose in Prairie Rose’s bucket. She was sucking water as if she’d come through a drought. I had left that bucket full last night, so somebody must have emptied it.

It was the simplest trick in the world to make a horse lose a race and not have it show up on a drug test. What slowed this filly was a vital ingredient for any racehorse. Water. Water held back until the horse was parched and thirsty. Then right before the race, the horse was allowed to drink her fill.

Chogan’s eyes had narrowed when he saw what my dad was doing, but of course he couldn’t tell his boss he was ruining her chances with a gut full of water.

I wondered who had made her spend all night without water. I could only think of two possible actors in this: Rosie’s owner, Lester Cord, or the filly’s trainer, my dad.

Now was not the time to dwell on Prairie Rose. Chogan was about to ride Jet Pilot in a race, one for which I’d waited two long years. Anticipated it from the first moment I saw the wet, shaky-legged colt in the yellow straw.

No one better mess with this horse.

I dashed back to the barns to check on the colt, Jet Pilot. I ran my hands down his legs feeling for warmth, offered him sips of water, and took his temperature. In the half-light of the stall, his coat glowed, rivaling the brilliant red of fall leaves burning through dark pine and fir.

I threw my arm over his neck and pressed my nose against the warm, musky scent of horse. He nuzzled my frizzy braid to blow alfalfa-perfumed breath across my cheek.

I hate to break up the two of you, Chogan said with a soft laugh, but this horse has a race to get ready for, and so do I. Let’s hurry so I have time to change.

Later, when Dad came to get Jet for his race, he looked pretty good until he lurched into me amid a cloud of whiskey.

Dad, take a breath mint. I shot a glance at Chogan, who quickly looked away.

Where’s your mom? Dad took the lead rope. I raised my eyebrows and shrugged.

Thought she might want to see the colt that she named run his first race.

Mom said she’d meet me at the north end of the stands.

Not the saddling ring? He wiped the sweat from his face with a large red handkerchief.

No. My attention was on Chogan. I sent him the victory fist jab. He returned a two-fingered wave, eyes dark and intense, and hurried toward the jockey’s changing room to shed Lester’s colors and change into Flying Horse Ranch’s racing silks.

Well, Kate, you can tell her to meet me in the winner’s circle. Dad’s blue eyes were steady, but hid any feelings, reminding me of mirrored sunglasses. He led Jet to the saddling enclosure. I tagged along to watch while he set the saddle and bridle.

Chogan arrived from the jockey’s changing room, and Boone boosted him into the saddle. Chogan spoke softly to Jet. He ran his fingers down the colt’s neck, sending the message, This is me. You know who I am.

Standing on my toes, I scanned the crowd looking for Mom and my seven-year-old sister, Nancy. She was one of those unplanned pregnancies, a little surprise bundle of joy arriving when I was sixteen. When Nan could walk, she shadowed me around, popping up at odd times. Have to admit, though, she’s grown on me.

The pre-race parade down to the starting gate was taking longer than usual. Four of the colts were so unruly that they needed to be ponied by steady, older horses. Their riders led the colts past the noisy stands. Although Jet pranced and arched his neck while snorting a few times, he was manageable, as he always was.

Jet was the only one who walked right into his slot at the gate and stood with all four feet on the ground, saving his energy. Chogan was ready, poised in a tight crouch. Once the bell rang, the gate doors sprang open, and the horses exploded onto the track.

Above the earthen hues of horses, jockey silks formed a bobbing blur, like wildflowers on a windy mountainside. The sound of the crowd rose, a wordless howl of wind through trees. My hands gripped the rolled-up race program while my heart ran with the colt.

Chapter Two

THE HORSES PACKED UP on the turn. Jet was in the middle of the bunch. Beneath the roar of the crowd, the thunder of passing horses pounded inside my chest as the thrum of extra heartbeats. Mud flew, spattering all but the leaders.

My mother and Nancy arrived. We’ve been waiting forever for this. Mom said, as she focused her binoculars on the race. Especially you.

Nancy thumped against me, demanding and cute at the same time. She hopped around, yelling, Lift me up. I can’t see. I did as she bid, boosting her so she could stand on the rail. Nancy leaned into my chest while I watched the race through my sister’s curly red hair.

The horses bunched together on the far side of the track. Can you see what’s happening? I asked my mom, even though I didn’t have a whole lot of faith in her ability to translate what was happening on the track.

The pack’s tight. Jet is fifth, Mom said, tucking stray hair behind her ears.

Is he boxed in? Do those bastards...

Mom lowered the binoculars to stare at me. Kate! What did you say?

I grabbed for the glasses, but at that point I no longer needed them.

Chogan rode Jet Pilot through a hole in the wall of horses. He waved his whip once to signal Jet to put on the speed. Flying Horse Ranch silks glowed sage green and golden yellow. My mother picked the silks for the racing stable from the two colors all around home, sweet green sage and the yellow grass of winter. The big sorrel’s coat flickered, becoming a grass fire racing across the prairie.

Jet Pilot’s free. Look at him run. I pounded the rail with my fist.

Kate, where’s your father? He should be— Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mom scanning the stands.

Mom, right now I just don’t care, I said. The horses ran nose to nose down to the wire, sending the crowd wild. Look. They’re in front. I held up my iPhone to film Jet on the home stretch.

Jet’s nostrils were rounded with the strain. He ran in leaps, his body bunching and lengthening for each stride. Once Jet was clear of the other horses, Chogan gathered himself into the smallest possible shape and rode toward the white pole of the finish line. No one came close to catching them.

Yes, I yelled when I saw the times posted on the results board. I kept jumping, and my long braid slapped my back as though it were congratulating me. His first race and he won, even in heavy mud. Jet’s a rocket.

Nancy slipped on the rail, lurching to the side. I put my arm around her and flashed on the day two years ago when the whole family had trooped down to the foaling stall during the early morning to see the newborn colt.

Mommy, I want to go where they crown the horses. Nancy put her arms out for Mom to lift her down.

My, you’re getting heavy. Glancing around at the shifting crowd, she said, Boone should be here to see this. I hope he isn’t in the bar.

Yeah. Dad said to meet him in the winner’s circle, I said.

The horses were returning slowly toward the stands. Chogan stood in his stirrups, his whip raised high to salute the crowd. Jet Pilot blasted air from his nostrils, cantering at a steady, rolling gait. He arched his neck and gave a little hop. Good spirits, Chogan would say with a laugh.

I snorted when I recalled people who claimed sorrels were dull. Jet’s red-copper coat shone, a newly minted penny in a jar of old coins.

All aglow, Chogan waved when he caught sight of me. My heart gave an extra beat. He was so handsome that