Clint checked out of the hotel, got Eclipse from the livery stable, and mounted him. Canby had sent him directions on how to get to his farm from Louisville. Kentucky was amazingly green and he rode at a leisurely pace, in no particular hurry. He thought a bit about Jesse, and the night they’d spent together. It had been odd, the way she’d approached him. Very directly. He’d been approached by women before, but this seemed . . . contrived. Although he had enjoyed the night, he felt sure she’d been put up to it. Maybe somebody had been trying to find out who he was—although all they had to do was check the hotel register. In any case, that was why he had only given her his first name.
When the farm came into view, he was impressed. There were many corrals and outbuildings, and a large, two-story main house. There was also a track that Canby used to train his horses.
Clint rode up to the main house while several men stopped what they were doing to look and see who he was. Since none of them knew him, they simply went back to work.
He dismounted in front of the house, and one of the men came over to him.
“Help ya?” the middle-aged man asked. He was short, bow-legged, had the hands of a man who had worked around horses his whole life.
“I’m looking for Ben Canby.”
“The boss is around,” the man said. “I’ll find him. Who should I tell him—”
“Clint Adams,” he said. “Tell him it’s Clint Adams.”
“Ah,” the man said, “the boss said you’d be coming. I’m Ed Donnelly.”
“Foreman?” Clint asked, shaking the man’s hand.
“Manager,” Donnelly said. “Come on. I think the boss is in the barn with Whirlwind.”
“Whirlwind?”
“Our Derby horse.”
“Oh, well, lead the way, then. I’ve been anxious to meet Whirlwind.”
Donnelly led Clint to the large barn. Inside there were many stalls, some of them inhabited. In the back was the largest stall in the structure, more of a small corral, complete with a door. Inside a man was fussing over a horse’s legs.
“That’s a three-year-old colt, Ben,” Clint said, “not a woman.”
Ben Canby looked up and smiled when he saw Clint.
“Clint Adams! By God!”
He came to the edge of the stall and shook hands with his friend.
“So this is the horse, eh?” Clint asked. “Whirlwind?”
“This is him,” Canby said. He was a tall, slender man in his fifties who had been working with horses for years. “This the finest animal I’ve ever trained, Clint. And he’s gonna win.”
“Really?” Clint asked. “Since I got here, I’ve had tips on five or six other horses.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Canby said. “My horse is gonna win.”
“Is that a tip?”
“No,” Canby said, “it’s a fact. Eddie, will you finish with his legs?”
“Sure, boss.”
“Come on, Clint,” Canby said. “Let’s go up to the house and have a drink.”
“My horse.”
“Of course,” Canby said, “that beautiful Darley. Too bad he’s not three. Eddie?”
“I’ll see to him, boss.”
“Come on, Clint,” Canby said. “I’ll also show you your room.”