“You coulda made 110.”

“I couldn’t,” Alec said. “I sweated off all I could.”

“Three pounds less would have made a big difference in this race,” the trainer retorted.

“I’m sorry,” the jockey said. “I did the best I could.” Alec didn’t like to be scolded by his old friend but there wasn’t much he could do about it—except to understand the reasons for Henry’s tirade. It wouldn’t have been different with another trainer. Weights were assigned by the track handicapper in an attempt to bring all the horses in a race down to the finish line together. They were an important part of the game and despite a jockey’s ability to ride, a trainer looked elsewhere when a rider could not make the assigned weight for his horse.

Once upon a time, Alec had thought that success was having the money to buy what he wanted, including horses, and the freedom to enjoy them. But it wasn’t. He had learned that to be successful in business called for a lot of self-denial, whether one was talking about personal comfort or self-interest. He had to do what was expected of him.

Henry straightened after making certain the saddle was secure, and turned to Alec. He studied the face of the young man in the black-and-white-checkered racing silks. “You know what to do,” he said. It was not a question and only required Alec’s confirmation of what was expected of him in the race.

“I know,” Alec said quietly. “I’m just afraid she won’t like the track today. Despite the cold it’s soft in spots and she’ll slide.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Henry said. “She’ll do okay. She’s going to be Aqueduct’s horse of the winter.”

“If you say so.”

Henry didn’t like the way Alec said it, or the way he looked. Alec’s face was thin, good-looking, unlined and set off by prominent, even teeth that flashed whenever he smiled, which wasn’t too often these days. The same thing went for his eyes, blue and usually laughing; but lately the skin was stretched drum-tight across his cheekbones, making his eyes seem sunken and piercing. He looked tired, despite his healthy body.

The old trainer smiled suddenly and put his arm around the young man’s shoulders. “I didn’t mean to get sore about your weight,” he said kindly. “Maybe we lost some advantage over the rest of the field, but we can still whip ’em.”

Alec knew Henry wasn’t apologizing but appeasing him, comforting him so he would ride this race as he should and bring the filly home a winner. Winning a big stake race was important to Henry and, of course, to Hopeful Farm. The better their horses raced, the more money their yearlings would bring at the sales, where prices were already setting records.

For Alec, what mattered was not the size or importance of a race or the price yearlings got at auction, but bringing home a winner. His biggest thrill was winning races where he never thought he had a chance. And, contrary to Henry’s expectations of the filly, Alec thought this race might be tough to win. He might not succeed but he’d been beaten before in big races.

Alec raised a leg and Henry boosted him into the saddle. He stroked the filly’s neck, quieting her.

Pam’s Song was tall, already over sixteen hands, and still a little ungainly for her size. She jumped and played a little, enjoying the snow, as Henry led her about the walking ring with the other horses in the field of eight going to the post.

They’d soon find out if Pam’s Song liked to run in bad weather, Alec decided. Today’s race was something of a proving ground for her. A little over three months ago she had been a nonentity in the Hopeful Farm Stable, a good-looking sort of big, lazy filly, one of many at the farm, promising but not proven.