Run for the Roses (Chapter 1 and 2)

A girl, a trainer, and a jockey defy all odds to win the Kentucky Derby.

PROLOUGE

Every year, the United States sees the birth of twenty thousand thoroughbred horses. Of this vast number, only about a third manage to reach the racetrack by the time they turn three. Of those, merely a quarter experience the thrill of victory and step into the winner’s circle. And for the few that possess both exceptional talent and a stroke of luck, a prestigious opportunity awaits. For on the first Saturday in May, twenty of these magnificent creatures will converge on Louisville, Kentuckey for the running of the Kentucky Derby

... yet only one will be adorned with the iconic blanket of roses.


CHAPTER ONE

Windshield wipers work overtime, fighting valiantly against the unyielding deluge of rain that pounds mercilessly on a weathered station wagon idling at a red light. The traffic light shifts to green, casting a faint glow through the sheets of rain. Slowly the station wagon inches forward into the intersection, its tires splashing through shallow puddles that ripple outward.

Out of the gloom and fury of the storm, a sudden, earsplitting blare of a horn cuts through the air like a knife. Blinding beams from an eighteen-wheeler's headlights pierce the darkness, emerging from the shadows as if conjured from the void, racing toward the unsuspecting station wagon with terrifying speed. In the blink of an eye, the colossal truck slams into the car, unleashing a devastating impact that reverberates like thunder. Metal crumples and twists violently, sending fragments soaring into the stormy night, plunging the scene into utter pandemonium.

***

Pots and pans clang from the kitchen of an aged mobile home, jolting Shag Brimwell awake from his nightmarish abyss. The dread of the car crash lingers in his mind like a ghost haunting him. A hundred times he has suffered through his torment, and a hundred more will torment him. Unshaven and unkempt, he lies draped across a tattered easy chair in a threadbare robe surrounded by shelves filled with dusty horse racing trophies and faded photographs of past victories amidst empty Budweiser cans and Jack Daniels bottles. A Laurel and Hardy short plays on the TV.

“Shag, breakfast!” Lauren’s voice calls from the kitchen.

Shag quickly shuts his eyes.

Footsteps creak across the wooden floor. The TV switches off with a click.

Shag cranks open an eye to see his perky yet independent-minded brown-haired niece, Lauren Brimwell before him, menacingly holding a spatula in one hand. Her eyes narrow in determination.

“Shag, I got biscuits and gravy in the kitchen, your clothes laid out on the bed, and the auction starts in two hours. Now get your butt cracking.”

Shag lets out a gaping yawn. “Too late. Butt's already cracked.”

Lauren whacks Shag on the stomach with the spatula.

“Dang it, Lauren. That hurt.”

“Next one'll be harder... and lower. Now git movin'.”

As Lauren returns to the kitchen, Shag unfolds his lanky form from the chair. His mismatched socks drag across the floor as he shuffles down the hallway to his bedroom. Pushing the door open, he finds a neatly made bed with clothes carefully laid out on top. Cringes when he spots a red tie lying amongst the other garments like a beacon calling out to him.

“And you're wearing the tie!” Lauren calls out.

****

As the soft Kentucky morning mist gradually dissipates under the warm touch of the rising sun, Shag's aged pickup truck, its paint chipped and faded, rattles and groans as it makes its way down a narrow two-lane highway lined with trees ablaze in a vibrant display of autumn colors. A rusted horse trailer, swaying gently behind, adds to the vehicle's burdened journey. Inside the cab, Lauren cradles a handful of delicate Blue Eyed Mary wildflowers in her lap and glowers at Shag, who sports the red tie wrapped haphazardly around his head like a makeshift bandana.

The pickup slows to a stop at a light. As they wait, Shag’s eyes can’t help but wander across the road to the "Sold to John Henry Johnson Investments" sign. The image of John Henry Johnson, flashing his sharp-toothed grin and donning his pricey black Stetson, reminds him of missed opportunities and unrealized dreams. Perhaps it was time for a change, but that thought, as always, leaves him feeling uneasy and uncertain.

A car horn snaps Shag back to reality as a group of young coeds pull alongside in a sleek, top-down, cherry red Corvette convertible. They erupt in laughter at the sight of Shag and his tie. Shag flashes a smile and playfully winks at the girls through the window, his charm radiating with every move. His smile quickly evaporates as he looks over to Lauren who, with one eyebrow raised, glares her disapproval.

“You ever gonna grow up?"


“Tried for ten minutes," Shag chortles. "Ain’t fun.”

The light turns green. The coeds enthusiastically wave as they accelerate away. Up for the chase, Shag punches the accelerator. The pickup lurches forward with a loud roar, then backfires and sputters to a stop as if protesting against the sudden burst of energy.

Shag slams his hand against the steering wheel. “Jesus Luisa!” Glances over to Lauren, her lips slightly puckered.

“Oops! Did I just roll my eyes out loud?” Lauren says with a smirk.

“Funny,” Shag replies as he turns the key and pumps the accelerator. After a few attempts, the engine roars to life. The old pickup truck shutters and lurches forward as it struggles down the highway.

Turning onto the Newtown Pike Road, the pickup rumbles past sprawling ranches that seem to go on forever. Horses dot the landscape, their coats shimmering in the warm rays of the morning sun as they lazily graze in lush fields of Kentucky Bluegrass. Shag smolders with resentment as they pass yet another ranch with a sold to John Henry Investments sign out front. "It ain't right," he mutters to himself, knowing that soon enough, every inch of land in the county would belong to John Henry.

"What?" Lauren says.

"Huh?" Shag looks over at Lauren.

“What’s not right?”

“Nothing...” Shag says, taking note of the Blue-eyed Mary’s. “What's dem flowers for?”

“I'm takin' them to my mama.”

“Today?”

“Yes. Today!”

Shag rolls his eyes.

“Dang it all, Shag! She's my mama. And on top of that...” Lauren whacks Shag with the flowers. “… today’s my fricken’ birthday!”

Shag's face contorts into a pained expression.

Lauren goes wild-eyed. “Oh... My... God... You forgot my birthday... Again!”

Shag opens his mouth to defend himself to which Lauren gives him the hand. “Don’t.”

As they ride in silence, Shag’s forehead furrows and his lips pucker into a tight frown as he mentally scolds himself. Although she tries to mask it, he can see the disappointment etched across Lauren's face, filling him with a pang of guilt and remorse. How could he have forgotten her birthday? Again. Suddenly, his idea light flashes bright. He breaks into song. “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear…”

Lauren scowls at him. “Oh, shut up.”

Shag's stomach churns with unease as he pulls into the parking lot, passing the "FASIG-TIPTON OCTOBER HORSE SALE" sign. He wedges his pickup between a Mercedes and a Tesla, cuts the engine, and hesitates, caught in the comfort of the truck's familiarity. Memories of when he was the star in these circles flood back, yet now he feels like a stranger among the affluent buyers and their cherished horses. It's a bittersweet echo of his former triumphs, clashing with the stark truth of his present situation, leaving him torn between stepping out into the world he once thrived in and staying hidden in his own solitude.

Lauren opens her door. Pauses as she glances back at Shag. “You coming?”

"In a sec," Shag replies, his eyes fixated out the window.

Lauren shuts the door. Waits.

Shag looks over. "Go on now," he says, motioning for her to leave.

"I'll wait.”

"I'm fine. Go on," Shag repeats, his tone more urgent.

Lauren raises an eyebrow as she sizes him up. "I gotta make a phone call, OK?" Shag adds hastily.

With a tight, forced grimace, Lauren grudgingly exits the car and walks off. The moment she vanishes from view, Shag dives down and snatches a flask hidden beneath his seat. Rising back up he greedily takes a swig, then freezes when he finds himself abruptly confronted by Lauren, who has reappeared before the truck like an avenging specter. Arms rigidly crossed, her furious glare cuts into him like a blade, that slowly melts into an expression steeped in disappointment and raw hurt.

Unfazed, Shag casually shrugs his shoulders, takes another long swig from the flask before tucking it back beneath the worn seat. As he exits the truck with a forceful slam of the door, the vehicle shudders slightly, and the alarm erupts into a loud, piercing wail that echoes across the parking lot.

Lauren's cheeks flush with embarrassment as she and the rest of the people watch Shag fumble to punch in the code on the key chain, his large hands clumsy and awkward, cursing with every failed attempt. Finally, Lauren can take no more. She snatches the chain from Shag and in a split-second, shuts off the blaring alarm.

“You ever gonna fix that?”

“Someday,” Shag says as he snatches the keys back.

“I still can’t find that day on my calendar,” Lauren calls out as Shag walks off.

Once inside Shag, on his cell phone, stands out like a worn pair of brown shoes among the sea of Stetson-wearing, big-buckled horsemen. All the top players are here, and anyone who isn't deemed a "somebody" is considered irrelevant. "Jock, there's some top-notch horseflesh here," Shag says on his phone, his voice laced with excitement. "Toss me a few bucks, and I'll snag us a winner."

"Us?" Jock replies dryly on the other end.

"You can't expect me to get a horse worth a darn for twenty grand," Shag pleads.

"Used to," Jock answers.

Shag sarcastically mocks Jock’s words.

"You know, getting back on that horse is more than just a figure of speech," Jock chides, "Twenty grand and not a penny more. Now, let me talk to my granddaughter."

Frustrated, Shag scans the bustling arena, spots Lauren across the way, admiring a stunning white horse. "Lauren!"

Lauren looks over.

Shag holds up the phone. “Your grandpa!”

Lauren rushes over and grabs the cell. "Hey, Gramps... Uh-huh... Uh-huh... Birthday present?" She shoots a glare at Shag. "No, he forgot... Again."

Shag shakes his head in frustration, his thoughts a tangled mess of discontent. He mutters incoherently under his breath as he walks off. Pushing his way through the crowd he stumbles upon a bar where a bartender, an older man with a weathered face, acknowledges him with a silent nod and, with practiced ease, slides a crisp napkin across the polished wooden counter.

“Beer me,” Shag says. To which the bartender quickly complies.

As he takes a long sip of his beer, Shag's eyes linger on a wooden plaque behind the bar listing past Kentucky Derby winners. A pang of envy courses through his veins when he comes to the name Haley's Comet, a cruel reminder of an opportunity lost that he knows will never come again.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't Ol' Shag Brimwell.” A hand slaps Shag on the back mid-sip. He has to gulp just to keep it from going everywhere.

Shag turns to come face-to-face with pompous John Henry Johnson along with his posse of cronies, all attired in their expensive black Stetsons and JHJ monogrammed shirts.

“John Henry Johnson”, Shag mutters.

"Thought that was you barking across the hall," John Henry says, slinging an arm around Shag's shoulder. "How's the patron saint of the twenty-five-hundred-dollar claimers?"

With his left hand, John Henry pats Shag down like a cop. "Just checking. Remember, no syringes around the horses.”

Feeling the barb, Shag remains stoic.

"See, boys," John Henry continues. "Old Shag here used to be at the top of the food chain. 'Til he got caught doping a horse." He gives Shag another pat on the chest. "Ain't that right, ol’ buddy?"

“I didn’t dope no—,” Shag starts.

John Henry cuts him off. "Poor thing broke down on the clubhouse turn. Jockey busted her leg so bad she never rode again.” He rubs his chin. “Remind me again, Shag. What was that gal's name? Becker… Amanda Becker, that's it.”

Shag's jaw tightens as he shoots John Henry a heated glare. Memories of the tragic event still weigh heavily on his mind.

Shag chuckles. “Boys, your boss here. Ruined more good horse flesh than I can count on all y'alls fingers and toes together. Run them so hard at two; by the time they were three, you couldn't ah sold them for dog food.” He slaps John Henry on the back with a force that nearly knocks the wind out of him. "Maybe that's why he's never won the Derby."

John Henry stiffens, steps up to Shag, their faces inches apart. "Least I don’t dope my horses," he seethes.

"I didn't dope no horse," Shag says, his eyes narrowing.

"Racing commission thought different. After that, Ol' Shag couldn't land a one-eyed mule to train." He pulls Shag closer, their breaths mingling in the heated exchange. "And don't talk to me about running horses into the ground... Unless you want to talk about Senior Smoke."

Toe to toe, their intense glares hold a silent, prideful competition of power and dominance, each man refusing to back down from the other.

"Shag... Shag," Lauren’s excited cry echoes through the arena as she breathlessly bounds up. "I found one. I found me a horse."

The standoff diffuses as all eyes turn to Lauren.

“Hey there, Sugarplum,” John Henry pats Lauren on the head.

Lauren rolls her eyes in mock annoyance. “Hey there, butt breath.”

John Henry’s smile quickly evaporates, “Just like her mom.”

"Yeah... She hated you too,” Shag adds.

“Look,” Lauren thrusts a brochure into Shag's hand. Her eyes shining with excitement, she points eagerly, "Right there. Hip 1018."

Shag studies the brochure. “Jock don’t like no fillies.”

"Makes no difference what Gramps likes,” Lauren says, crossing her arms.

"He pays the bills... 'member.” Shag counters.

Undetermined, Lauren digs into her back pocket and pulls out a crumpled sheet of manila paper which she hands to Shag.

"What's this?” Shag says

"It's a contract,” Lauren replies. “You and Gramps signed it. Says when I turn thirteen, I get to pick the horse.”

Shag scoffs. “It's in crayon for Pete’s sake.”

"Makes no never mind,” Lauren insists. “It’s a contract.”

“Looks like she's got you there.” John Henry chuckles along with his cronies.

“Shut up!” Shag and Lauren respond in unison.

Shag hands Lauren back the paper. “This don’t mean nothin’.”

Lauren takes the paper. Smoothing out the wrinkles, she counters. “Does so. It's dated and signed, making it a legally binding contract by all parties hereto with.”

"Hereto what?” Shag says with a puzzled expression. “Where'd you learn that fancy lawyer talk?”

"On the internet. One of them lawyer sites.”

Shag scratches his head. “Internet?”

"Yeah. You know you can use it for more than looking at women's boobies.” Lauren retorts sarcastically.

Shag goes big-eyed. “Jesus Louisa.” Rushes off as John Henry and his cronies fall out in laughter.

Lauren looks back at them. “What are y'all laughing at? Y'all know y'all do it too.”

The men shuffle their feet in the dirt and avert their eyes from Lauren’s stern gaze.

With a huff, Lauren scampers off after Shag.

With a bag of sunflower seeds clutched in her hand, Lauren steps into the charged and electric atmosphere of the auction arena. The entire space pulses with energy as a sleek and muscular chestnut colt stands tall, its glossy coat shimmering beneath the bright lights. The scent of hay and anticipation fills the air as an auctioneer's voice booms through the room, skillfully enticing bidders to raise their paddles for the prized horse. Runners move swiftly up and down the aisles, confirming each new bid with a nod or a wave of the hand.

"Yo!" A runner cries out as Lauren watches him race across the room to where John Henry and his cronies sit. The auctioneer points his gavel their way. “I have three-fifty. Do I hear three seventy-five… three seventy-five.”

As the bidding continues, Lauren’s eyes search the arena. Spotting Shag sitting alone in a secluded corner of the arena across the way, she spits a seed and joins him.

“Want some?” Lauren offers up the bag of seeds.

Shag holds out his hand. Lauren pours him a handful of seeds as they watch the auction. For her, living with Shag for the past five years has been a wild rollercoaster ride. Yet through all the ups and downs, there has always been one constant - their love for auctions.

“Sold! The auctioneer slams his gavel. “To Mr. John Henry Johnson for five hundred fifty thousand. Thank you, John Henry.”

John Henry tips his Stetson to a smattering of applause.

“Man’s gotta have a money-making machine,” Shag mutters.

“You know we’re nillionaires?” Lauren says.

Shag warily looks over.

“You know, Shag. Nillionaires,” Lauren spits a seed. “People with no money.”

Shag chuckles. Looks out over the arena, then back at Lauren. “Say. How come you call me Shag and not Uncle Shag? You call Jock, Gramps. You call my sister Aunt Kaye.”

“Maybe when you start acting like an uncle... You know,” Lauren spits a seed. “Like remembering my birthday.”

Shag looks away and shakes his head.

Lauren jumps to her feet as the white horse is led into the ring, dumping the seeds everywhere. “There she is, Shag. There she is! Isn't she beautiful?”

"She sure is white,” Shag says, brushing the seeds off his pants.

"She's like an angel,” Lauren beams.

The auctioneer's gavel pounds against the wooden podium, the sharp sound echoing through the arena. “Now up, Hip 1018. A two-year-old filly by T-Bear out of the filly Muv. We will start the bidding at five thousand.”

A white-haired man who closely resembles Colonel Sanders raises his paddle.

“Five thousand,” the auctioneer announces, scanning the crowd for further bids. "Do I hear six?" A painted woman in her sixties, trying desperately to look thirty and failing miserably, raises her paddle.

"We have six," the auctioneer continues. "Do I hear..." Before he can finish, Colonel Sanders raises his paddle confidently. "Seven," the auctioneer announces. "We now have seven. Do I hear eight? Eight thousand? Eight thousand?"

As the bidding continues, Lauren glances over to Shag and nudges him with her elbow, "What are you waiting for? Bid."

Shag doesn’t budge.

"Shag, come on. Bid!"

Unmoving, Shag stares straight ahead.

“Shag, bid!” Lauren pleads, her tone tinged with frustration and desperation.

Shag shakes his head and looks away.

“Shag... Shag!” Lauren's voice rises in exasperation.

Shag throws his hands in the air. “Dang it, Lauren. The horse is buck-kneed.”

“You're buck-kneed. Now bid!” Lauren's tone is sharp and demanding, her patience wearing thin.

Shag hesitates. "Jock 'll kill me if I buy that--” he starts.

Without warning, Lauren snatches the bidding paddle from his hand and thrusts it into the air.

The bidding stops as a hush falls over the arena. All heads turn to Shag and Lauren.

"I'm sorry, sir. Are you bidding?" the auctioneer asks with a hint of amusement in his voice.

The crowd chuckles as a beat-red, pinch-lipped Shag nods.

“We have twelve thousand,” The auctioneer goes on. “Do I hear thirteen? Thirteen anyone.”

Shag grabs the paddle back from Lauren.

Across the way, John Henry's sharp eyes scan the scene with a playful glint. With a sly grin, he nudges one of his cronies. "Betcha ol’ Jock's got him on a tight rein. What say we have a little fun with my old buddy Shag.” John Henry raises his paddle.

"We have thirteen,” the auctioneer calls out. “Do I hear fourteen?”

John Henry smirks at Shag, who lets out a defeated groan.

"What?” Lauren leans in to ask.

"Nothin'," Shag mutters dejectedly, weakly waving his paddle in resignation.

“Fourteen. Fourteen.” The auctioneer points at Shag, igniting a heated bidding war between him and John Henry until the latter boldly bids twenty-one thousand dollars.

"I have twenty-one,” the auctioneer announces, turning to Shag expectantly. “Do I hear twenty-two?"

Shag says nothing.

“Shag?” Lauren says.

Shags cheeks bulge.

“Shag... Come on. Bid.” Lauren urges, reaching for the paddle

Shag jerks the paddle away.

“What are you doing?” Lauren asks in disbelief.

“I have twenty-one going once.” the auctioneer calls out.

“Shag. Bid!” Lauren begs.

“Twenty-one going twice.” The auctioneer raises his gavel.

“Shag, Shag,” Lauren screams." Uncle!”

“The heck with it.” Shag thrust his paddle in the air.

"Twenty-two. We have twenty-two.” the auctioneer says.

"There's the noose. Now let's give him a little more rope to hang himself.” John Henry nonchalantly raises his paddle, and the bidding war enters round two until Shag bids thirty-two thousand. "That ought to do it.’ John Henry smirks.

"Going once, going twice,” the Auctioneer slams his gavel. "Sold! For thirty-two thousand dollars to Mr. Shug Brumhall.”

Lauren screams as she rushes off to see her horse.

Shag calls out. “That’s Shag Brim… oh never mind.”

With a smirk, John Henry tips his Stetson Shag’s way.

“I'm so dead,” Shag mutters to himself.



CHAPTER TWO


As the sun dips below the horizon, casting long, shifting shadows across the highway, Shag’s pickup, with the white horse and trailer in tow, motors past fields of vibrant bluegrass and rolling hills that glisten in the fading light. In the distance, a lone horse grazes lazily beneath a sprawling tree, its mahogany coat shimmering in the last rays of sunlight.

Lauren looks over to Shag, his eyes lost deep in thought, “What’s up with you?”

“Huh"?” Shag replies.

"You ain’t said a word since we left the auction. Plus, you drove right past that barbeque place we always stop at."

“Did not,” Shag insists.

"Did so. We passed it about two miles back.”

“Dang it for all.” Shag rubs the bridge of his nose. “I’m trying to figure out what I’m gonna do with that horse of yours back there.”

“Abie.” Lauren quickly corrects him.

“Huh?”

“That horse. I named her Abie”.

“Abie?”

“Abie Angel, to be exact. After my mama.”

"Well, if I don’t come up with a way to explain buying Abie Angel to your grandpa, my name’s gonna be mud," Shag laments, giving Lauren a sideways glance.

Lauren looks back out her window, "Well if you’re waiting for me to give a crap, you better pack a lunch ‘cause it’s going to be a while.”

Shag eases his foot off the gas pedal as he steers the pickup onto a dirt road. The truck jolts and bounces along, kicking up clouds of dust until it comes to a stop before a rusty metal gate. Above, a sign reads “Staton Cemetery”; beyond that, a narrow path winds up a hill.

Shag kills the engine and sits, his eyes staring straight ahead.

Lauren looks over. “You coming?”

Shag shakes his head. His expression, hard and unreadable.

“Shag,” Lauren starts. “It’s been almost six…” She falls silent as Shag's intense glare cuts her off mid-sentence.

Lauren hesitates as she slides out of the pickup, her grip tightening around the fragile Blue-Eyed Marys. The gate's creak echoes in the stillness as she pushes it open, a reminder of the years that have passed. She glances back at Shag, whose empty gaze seems lost in the horizon. A part of her yearns for him to join her, yet she knows the emotional burden would be too overwhelming for him. Torn between wanting his presence and understanding his silence, she starts up the path. With a heavy heart, she casts one last, lingering look over her shoulder at Shag before vanishing from his view.

Perched atop one of the highest points in Fayette County, the Staton Cemetery offers a breathtaking view of the surrounding landscape. Below, a meandering creek winds its way through a hollow ablaze with a spectrum of autumn hues. A quaint, white picket fence encircles the grounds, guarding the resting place of generations past. Weather-worn tombstones, some dating back to the Civil War, mark the final resting places of those who have long departed this world.

The wind gently blows Lauren’s brown locks as she stands before a newer headstone, which reads, "Abigal “Abie” Brimwell" followed by "All That I Am or Ever Hope to Be I Owe to My Angel Mother.”

“I brought you some Blue-Eyed Marys, mama,” Lauren says as she carefully arranges the flowers before the headstone. “You always told me they reminded you of your mama. Now they remind me of you. I got me a horse today, mama. The most beautifulist horse you ever did see. She reminds me of an angel. So, I named her after you. Abie Angel.” Her voice breaks as she goes on, "I wish you could see her, Mama. I wish you could see Abie Angel."

Lauren glances back down the hill at Shag’s pickup with a heavy heart. “He won't come, mama. I know he still blames himself, and it tears me up inside. He tries so hard, mama. He really, really tries. Maybe one day. Maybe one day he'll come.”

Rising from her knees, a single tear carves a path down Lauren's cheek as she embraces the headstone as if holding onto a lost lifeline. “I miss you so much, mama. It's my birthday, and all I know is I miss my mama.” Tears fill her eyes as she backs away. With each step feeling heavier than the last she starts down the hill, taking solace in knowing her mother's spirit will always be with her.

As she approaches the gate, Lauren’s heart skips a beat when she doesn’t see Shag in the truck. Panic rising in her chest, she rushes over and flings open the door. The empty flask clatters to the ground before her. Inside, Shag slumps against the seat, his head lolling to one side as he snores loudly. The all too familiar stench of his breath mixed with whiskey fills the small space, causing Lauren's worry to quickly turn to anger and disappointment.

Shag lets out a low grunt as Lauren, with all her might, shoves him over to the passenger side. Reaching behind the seat, she grabs two old and worn telephone books and places them on the seat before sliding behind the wheel. The engine roars to life as she turns the key, and she speeds off down the road, leaving a trail of dust in her wake.

***

Sitting at a rolltop desk inside his spacious ranch-style house, the warm light from a nearby window casting a shadow across his troubled face, Jock Staton furrows his brow and massages his temples as he stares at a foreclosure letter from the bank. Grimacing, he rubs his chest. Taking a small bottle from his pocket, he carefully places a pill under his tongue. As he waits for the pain to subside, a truck honks from outside, startling him. In a rush, he shoves the letter into a cluttered drawer filled with overdue bills and notices and heads out the door.

Jock steps out on his front porch and masks a smile as Shag's pickup rolls up. Lauren leaps out and rushes to him with open arms. "Gramps!”

Behind her, Shag clumsily stumbles out from the passenger side of the truck, nearly tripping over his own feet. Slamming the door shut, the blare of the truck alarm fills the air.

"Dang it for all,” Shag mutters under his breath.

Lauren quickly punches the key chain, silencing the alarm.

“Thought you were going to fix that,” Jock says with a smirk.

"Parts on order,” Shag shrugs.

"You let a twelve-year-old drive,” Jock scowls in disbelief.

Lauren jumps in. "I'm thirteen now, Gramps!"

"It was just from the cemetery,” Shag says.

Lauren mimes a drinking motion with her hand, eliciting a knowing nod from Jock. She eagerly tugs at his arm. "Come see, Gramps. Come see," she urges, before scampering off to the back of the trailer.

"You know, for the life of me, I don't know why my daughter ever named you guardian of my granddaughter,” Jock says.

"Makes two of us,” Shag replies.

"You're just as useless as your no-good, snake-in-the-grass brother of yours.”

"Well, I least I'm here, ain’t I?” Shag counters.

Hands on hips, Lauren glares back from the trailer. “Will you two stop it? Gramps, come see... come see Abie Angel.”

Jock shoots a quick glare Shag's way. “Abie?”

Shag grimaces.

"Oh, for the love of...” Jock rushes to the back of the trailer. Peers underneath Abie then glowers back at Shag. “Fresh my memory Shag. How come I don't like fillies?”

"No stud fees,” Shag says.

"And?"

Shag toes the dirt with his boot. "Fillies don't win the Derby.”

“A couple have,” Lauren pipes in.

"Keyword. Couple.” Jock says.

"Look. No horse cost thirty-two grand is ever gonna win the Kentucky Derby,” Shag argues.

Jock throws up a hand. “Wo ... Wo ...Back up there a sec, buckaroo. What'd you just say?”

"I said no horse that cost thirty-two--" Shag begins before Jock interrupts. "And I said not a penny over twenty,”

Shag nods towards Lauren. “Talk to your granddaughter. She picked her.”

Lauren pulls the crayon contract from her pocket.

"Picked her? You mean to tell me you let a twelve--,” Jock says.

"Thirteen,” Lauren replies as she hands Jock the contract.

Jock unfolds the contract. "What's this?”

"Years back. You and I signed that,” Shag says.

Jock scoffs. "It's in crayon, for Pete's sake.”

"Makes no matter-fact. It's legal. Looked it up on the internet,” Lauren says.

"The internet?" Jock repeats, looking over at Shag.

“Don't even ask.”

Jock rubs his chin as he considers the contract. “Tell you what, we'll talk about this later. Right now, I got cake and ice cream inside--”

"Strawberry?” Lauren’s eyes light up.

"Your favorite. Now go on in while me and yer Uncle Shag discuss who runs things 'round here.”

As they watch Lauren dash off into the house, Jock looks to Shag, “You know. I'm about the last person in this world you want to piss off.”

“It’s been a long day,” Shag says.

As Jock starts to speak, Shag cuts him off. “A really long day.”

They glare at one another for a long moment before Jock plants the contract firmly on Shag's chest. “You better hope that thing can run... 'cause it's your last chance.” As he walks off towards the house, he adds as an afterthought. "And by the way. Legally...Ten-year-olds can't sign contracts.”

Shag looks down at the contract. Scratches his head, “Really?”