“Five dollars!” Dan’l whistled. “What you gonna do with it, Kitsy?”
“Bet on Joe-bee’s mare.”
“That nag can’t win.”
“Can too, and I’m gonna build my fortune off this race!”
Twenty-five
years later, Kitsy sat in her luxury box, remembering. One foray
through the stables, unsupervised, had ensured her lifelong taste for
winning. The black locust powder had cost a dollar and a handshake with a
man whose accent made him hard to understand.
Most of the horses had lived. She had no regrets.
Twenty-five hours later, Kitsy Malone was found dead, a horseshoe-shaped hole where her heart should’ve been.
No comments:
Post a Comment