Secretariat Reborn by Susan Klaus

did,” said the big guard. “Broke her leg in the homestretch, but kept running. Still managed to win before the jockey could pull her up. Damn shame.”
    Christian’s jaw dropped. “I saw her. A dark bay lying by the horse trailers. Price trained her?”
    The older guard nodded. “Sometimes it happens, but don’t you worry, son. Your horse will be fine. You come with me to my office. I do the fingerprinting here. By the time we’re done, the state office should be open.”
    Christian paid forty dollars for the fingerprinting and another hundred for a license. The money was adding up. Before leaving the track, he heard the crowd cheering and hotfooted to the rail. He got there in time to see the horses in the first race blow past. As he left the grandstand, a TV monitor said that the trainer of the winning horse was Ed Price.
    It took a half hour to find the sailboat owner. The neighborhood was called Hibiscus Terrace, tired-looking with small lots and faded single-story block homes built in the 1960s. The surrounding chain-link fences were lined with old boats, boxes, and junk. He saw the sailboat a short block away, parked in the grass alongside a potholed driveway.
    He stopped in front of the faded pink house and began inspecting the McGregor.
    A balding, middle-aged man opened the house door and walked out. “You the one that called about the boat?”
    “Yeah,” Christian said, inspecting the hull. He then walked to the stern. “Can I climb aboard?”
    “Go ahead,” said the man. “She’s a beauty and a bargain. My son owned her but doesn’t have time to sail anymore.”
    Christian climbed up the ladder and slipped past the small outboard onto the deck. He looked at the washed-out teak trim and hatch, its varnish half peeled.
    “She’s pretty rough.” Christian pushed up the hatch leading to a hot cabin that contained two bunks in the front hull, a tiny head, and a table with wooden benches.
    “Why was the kitchen gutted?” he called to the man.
    “My son raced her, wanted to make her lighter.”
    “How are the sails and motor?”
    “The main and jib are nearly new, and she has two spinnakers. The ten-horse Johnson runs fine.”
    Before leaving the cabin, Christian tried to turn the crank that lowered the retractable keel, but nothing moved. Back on deck, he looked down at the man. “It’s gonna take a lot to fix this boat.”
    “That’s why she’s only a thousand.” The man grinned.
    Christian hopped down and climbed under the hull, reinspecting the keel. “The keel is warped and it’s stuck up inside. It’ll have to be pulled. That repair alone costs more than the boat is worth.” He ran his hand over his mouth, adding up the money and labor involved to salvage the boat. After examining the old iron trailer, he turned to the man. “Providing the sails are good and the motor runs, I’ll give you six.”
    “Six hundred?” The man frowned. “The sails alone are worth seven.”
    “The sails are the only thing I’m really buying,” Christian said. “Take it or leave it.” There was an old saying: the best days for a boat owner are the day the boat was bought and the day it sold. For this guy, the saying rang true.
    “Fine.” The man grunted. “I’m tired of mowing around it.”
    Christian paid the guy, getting the title and trailer registration. He hooked up the trailer to his SUV and was grateful the brake lights worked. He left Miami as the thunderclouds rolled in.
    •   •   •
    Driving west on Alligator Alley toward a brilliant pink-and-orange sunset, he witnessed the spectacular lightning storms that moved across the vast plain of swaying cattails raked by the wind and laced with narrow waterways. Except for the highway and its traffic, the Everglades was empty, endless, and breathtaking. “This is the way Florida was meant to be,” he mumbled.
    The Glades turned into cypress and pine forests, signaling an end to the hundred-mile journey across the state. At