It was race day. The gates would be opening at 3 pm, and Kerry O?Shea had to be there on a horse when they did! Why she was trying on this, of all days, to beard the lion in his den, she didn?t know, other than perhaps a ?feeling?. As her family motto ran, though, ?Go where the luck takes you and never look back?.

It was all of 10 am when the jockey-turned-horse-breeder showed up on the doorstep of the warehouse in the Temple district that contained the main brewery for the Silver Mark label. She had been informed that the Baron of Saint Aldwin, himself, might actually be there this day. She wasn?t sure she believed that, but she just had to try. She had been unable to make an appointment through his secretary that was closer than two months away, probably because Kerry had no doubt sounded like a solicitor or something. He was a busy man, apparently, and she wasn?t of a mind to wait that long. Her need was too great, for it would aid her efforts to keep her stables in the black immensely to have De Muer?s backing. It would mean they could hire a few more hands, letting up a good bit of the pressure on herself and Cobb, her horse trainer and old family friend. It could help him, too, though, because she had made rather a nice little name for herself in her racing these past two years here. Her stables were also acquiring a good name, though that much more slowly, of course. The well-known name of Silver Mark would be splashed on the sports news and that would not be a bad thing for either of them.

Kerry entered the door, for it was unlocked, to find herself in a large, open area, the scent of hops and yeast heavy in the air. The jockey was dressed in a suit, this day, one of few times she might be caught in one. A ?power? suit, her housekeeper had called it. The dark navy jacket and skirt felt like they had a stranglehold on her small, 4?9? frame. It kept her legs down to a small, mincing pattern of steps, the 4? pumps only making it all the harder to move with any grace or speed. She liked how tall they made her feel, though. The added inches were good for her psyche. Her black opal eyes took in the tall brew kettles, the areas for working with the hops and the malt, and the handful of people she saw about the place. Moving forward, she spotted where the office was, tucked into a far corner of the main room of the warehouse.

Her little mincing steps (that were trying to be strides) headed her towards where she presumed the Baron would be, when disaster struck. One of those four inch heels, which she was not used to wearing, caught on a cable or something she could not readily identify, and down she went. The jockey gave a startled feminine squawk as she landed on it, the limb twisted under her rump. A sharp, agonizing pain in her ankle exploded up her leg and down into her foot, fear washing over her for she had to be able-bodied for the afternoon race. The sound of her cry just blended into all the purposeful chaos around her, the laboring people and machinery a cacophony of sound, her screech barely registering in the mess of noise.

This was not how a business woman approached a potential backer. This was not how she, Kerry Mae O?Shea, wished to be seen or remembered. Her lips flattened into a determined line, her hands reached for protrusions on whatever piece of machinery she was next to?she had no idea what to call it?and she lugged herself upwards. Standing there for a few moments, trying to shake it off, she experimented with her foot, trying to turn it. Pain assailed her and she froze.

Okay. Awkward. Impossibly so. Bluegreen eyes darted around trying to see if anyone had seen her fall from grace, as it were. No one seemed to be looking in her direction. There was some guy stirring hops (or was it malt?) in a vast vat not so far from her. The office beyond him didn?t have its lights on. What if she had come today and risked the race this afternoon all for nothing? A very naughty curse word, which meant she was going to have to go to confession again, slipped out to litter the air and meld into all the other sounds around her.

There was a long handled paddle leaning against the machine next to her. Kerry reached out for it and then hauled it in close to her body to use it as a sort of crutch. Gritting her teeth, leaning heavily on the paddle as she moved, she limped along in her treacherous heels, forcing herself to ignore the pain as best she could, until she was close enough for the man at the vat to hear her. ?Excuse me? Excuse me, sir!?? Calling out as loudly as she could in hopes of gaining his attention, ?Can you tell me where the Baron of Saint Aldwin is at the moment??

There she was trying to look as if she was only holding the paddle because--why, because she liked paddles! Or--something like that. As if she didn't need to lean against it at all. Her eyes and face showed only her desire to have a business meeting with the Baron, but her lips gave her away. They were tight and flatly pressed together, a giveaway to her pain. Glancing down, she could see her right ankle puffing up like a blow fish. Oh, hell.

Then she was left blinking in surprise as the man she had called to was suddenly there and helping her to some sort of seating. "Oh. Well, say, that's really great of you. I--no, no, you don't need to do anything like that. Really, I just want to speak to this Baron guy." She was so smooth. Yeah. Fretful in her pain and confusion and embarrassment, she babbled too much. "I need to make a deal with him. If you could just direct me to where he might be today--" How she would get to him she would figure out in a bit. She just needed to--damn, but her ankle hurt!

There was something in his eyes that pulled her attention from the sharp ache in her ankle. She gave him a little doubletake, studying his face, but she couldn't spot whatever it was. His diction was awfully good for a brewery worker, too, but then again, lots of people started at the ground and worked their way up, educated or not. Impatient with her own flights of fancy, she managed a smile at him. It was appreciative, if a bit bare and wan, for obvious reasons. It was the words "give up" that galvanized her resistance to quitting now.

Giving a firm shake of her head, she firmed up her sagging resolve. "While I am grateful for your assistance, I really can't give up now. You are very kind to offer, but if I can just use this--paddle thing--I can make it to wherever the Baron might be." Her shoe was a wreck, the heel of the pump hanging at a crazy angle. Firmly ignoring that, she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. "If you could please just point him out. That's all I need, is just a chance."

The sound of ticking seconds should have been heavy in the air, as she stared at the man, her hand automatically taking the ice pack. While her jaw dropped and she looked terribly intelligent. Not. Making a mental note to go online and look up the face of the next person she wanted to do business with, Kerry also commanded her mouth to close. Taking a deep breath, she sought for her Irish luck and her American aplomb.

"Right. You are the Baron of Saint Aldwin." Holy heck, and she was sitting here with a broken pump and an ankle that was now more a puffy balloon. Holding onto his paddle. Jeeze Louise. "Uh. Well. Do I have a deal for you!" She produced a bright smile that flashed for a few moments, all she could manage. "I want you to put the name of your beer on my pants." Forgetting for the moment to introduce herself.

She was messing this up left and right! Poor Kerry was all tied in knots over the way things were going. His words reminded her that she had failed to tell him who she was or why he would even consider such a thing. She was not normally such a scatterbrain, but things had gotten off to a bad start. Pulling in a deep breath, she gathered what wits she had left and started over.

"Right. Sorry 'bout that. I am Kerry O'Shea. I am the owner of Apple Hill Stables, where we breed thoroughbred horses. I am a jockey here in Rhydin and I have a lot of rides lined up. I am a pretty good one, and I usually at least show, frequently place, and often win. As you may know, jockeys often use their silks or their pants for advertising purposes. I am here to offer you just such a deal for your Silver Mark label." She paused to let that percolate, trying to calm her thudding heart.

She set about giving out the best reason she had for him to agree to her proposal. "Silver Mark could be the name that is seen as I cross the finish line two or three days a week on the sports channels. As well, you might gain the feminist demographic because I am a female jockey." Trotting out her clincher, because it was hard to get the good will of that particular group of consumers. Watching his face as she spoke, she tried to see if this was going anywhere good.

Kerry smiled at the woman who came up to them, the apparent healer making her blink by the rapid spill of words. "Uh. No. No. And no." Was that all of them? Hopefully she had not missed any. "I don't think so, anyway. It is very nice of you to treat me. Thanks." Her eyes moved to the Baron at his questions.

"I have won the Triple Crown, that was two years back, or just a bit more." She had to think, for her mind was still shaken by her accident and the pain. "I have been featured in the Thoroughbred times as a top ranking jockey three times." Pausing to pull more facts together. "I am a winner of the Breeders Cup World Championship, and I have been the premier jockey at many race meetings all over the Eastern Seaboard of America. Since coming to Rhydin, I have won, placed, or shown in over 30 races. My name is recognized by bookies and other people here." Letting him think on all that, she pulled in a breath as the gentle fingers of the healer brought a fresh twinge of pain. "Ooooh. That isn't good."

The cessation of pain was a welcome relief to the scrap of a girl. Her eyes were intensely bluegreen as she smiled at the healer once more. Alain's--admonishment (she could not call it anything else)-- was fairly received. Man had a right to be concerned about what was done with his money. Nodding, she held very still while her foot was worked on.

"I agree completely with you. Before ever I sought you out, my lord, I test tasted your brew and the others here. You won hands-down over Badsider, Newcastle, and the others I tried. I actually prefer a good Kentucky bourbon to beer, but yours is a mighy fine one, and the best of what I have had here." She had done her research on him already. And as she knew that her own claims would "check out", she gave him a delighted smile.

"I will have Cobb--he is my horse trainer and family retainer--send the proposal over on Monday morning." Here she would normally have stood and shaken his hand; she was left with only the option of offering while sitting down. "Pleasure doing business with you, Baron DeMuer." Not sure if that was the proper way to refer to him, but it would have to do. "Thanks for listening to my idea, especially in the situation." Her fall and her gate-crashing of the brewery. She took his card and tucked it away for safe-keeping.

Then her eyes turned to the healer. "Thank you, miss. If you will let me have your card, as well, I will see that a donation is made to your order or business--or House." Whichever! She wanted to thank the woman in more substantial fashion. With her help, she was going to be able to race in a few hours, and that was huge. Rising up, she stepped gingerly on her foot, and found the ankle to be sound. Relief spilled over her features. "Ah, thank you both. Thank you very much! "

With that, and a few other social amenities, the jockey departed the brewery, her hopes flying high and her smile wide on her face.