SeventeenIsabella threw back her head and gazed at the smooth green curve of the racetrack ahead, exulting at the wind in her face and the sway of the horse under her haunches. For the first time in days she had escaped the suffocating confines of the hotel to fill her lungs with fresh air. She was gloriously alone, if you didn’t count Louisiana Race Course grooms and stable hands going about their early morning duties. The stands at the Whiskey Hill track — so named because of the presence of two nearby saloons — were empty at this early hour. All she could hear was an ear-hissing breeze, carrying the clean spicy fragrance of recently planted eucalyptus trees on its dewy moistness.
Her mount, a pretty chestnut mare, seemed as keen as she was to stretch her legs, and as she bent low over
