World Championships of Show Jumping, Normandy, France.
VIRGINIA NELISSEN GALLOPED out of the stadium having compiled four faults in a lightning-fast round that had the Dutch team sitting in first place with only the last American rider to go.
“Boo,” said Alejandro to his eighteen-month-old daughter, Zara Rose, sitting on his lap with a front row seat to the action. “We don’t like her. She was mean to Mama.”
“Boo,” said Zara, imitating his scowl.
“Excelente,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Now,” he whispered as Cecily cantered into the ring, “you have to cheer for team Hargrove-Salazar. Because this is going to make history.”
“Salazar-Hargrove,” Adriana corrected tartly. “And I really don’t like how nervous Cecily is. She was wrapping enough fences in the warm up to bring the whole course down.”
Because this was his wife’s dream. Because ever since her return to riding she’d been anchoring the American team on Socrates and been brilliant while doing it.
If there was pressure here today, it was on the woman riding into the ring, hair caught up in a sleek chignon beneath her velvet helmet, navy coat and crisp white shirt perfectly pressed. But if there was anything he knew about his wife by now, it was that she was a fighter. A survivor. She would leave it all in the ring today.
Cecily brought Socrates to a halt in front of the judges and took off her hat in a salute. The applause and buzz of the crowd died down until you could hear a pin drop in the stadium. And then there was only the sound of Socrates’s hooves pounding the sand as Cecily pushed him into an easy canter with a touch of her heels to his sides.
His smooth, glorious stride ate up the ground as Cecily guided him to the first jump, a high, complicated juxtaposition of poles Socrates eyed as unfamiliar then proceeded to rap hard as he cleared it.
Not an auspicious start. Adriana was right—both rider and horse were nervous.
An easy turn to the next jump and Socrates was taking off too late, clearing the jump by the skin of his teeth, then roaring toward the next, where Cecily placed him at the jump too early, forcing him to exert a superhuman effort to make it to the other side unscathed.
“Lord have mercy,” said his grandmother, covering her eyes. “I can’t watch.”
A nice long gallop to the next oxer, he watched Cecily visibly collect herself and her horse. Good. They cleared the wide, imposing jump with perfect form. Then it was a quick turn to the triple combination that had felled every single rider thus far including Virginia, the jumps trickily placed off-stride to test the riders.
Cecily attacked it with military precision, placing Socrates perfectly for the first jump, then sailing over the next two with shortened strides that efficiently addressed the challenge.
His wife glanced at the clock with four jumps to go. She was close to time faults. She needed to avoid them and go clear for the American team to win. His stomach dropped as Cecily whipped Socrates around at a near suicidal angle and galloped toward the next combination at a speed that made Adriana gasp.
“Dear God,” she said. “That’s a bad call—that’s—”
Socrates whipped over the first jump, galloped flat out toward the second and annihilated it too.
“—brilliant,” said his grandmother.
She’s retiring, thought Alejandro.
A sharp turn to the right and his wife was thundering toward the last jump. The crowd was on its feet now, caught up in the gutsy ride, its home team already out of it.
One more jump, Alejandro whispered. One more jump, angel, you can do it.
And then she did.
* * *
Cecily rode into the collecting ring where the media was assembled for the post competition interviews.
She had nothing left for them. Had gone through every facet of the emotional spectrum out there on that course, her mother’s riding pin attached to her chest. When she caught sight of Alejandro waiting for her, Zara in his arms, a sob rose to her throat.
Her husband set Zara down. Cecily kicked her feet out of the stirrups and slid off Socrates’s back and into his arms—the man who had never failed to catch her each and every time she’d stumbled over the past year: as she’d become a new mother, as she’d resumed her career, as she’d walked the tenuous road of balancing both.
Alejandro cupped her jaw and kissed her. “No tears, meu carinho. You were magnificent. Your mother would be so proud.”
The tears came then in a great big flood. For the things she’d lost. For the things she’d gained. For what was still ahead.
A reporter from an American sports network descended on them, noting Adriana’s legendary presence. “Perfect. Can I have an interview with the complete team Hargrove-Salazar then?”
“Team Salazar-Hargrove,” Adriana corrected. “And yes you may.”
* * * * *