Hot Coco
Hot Coco
An Unbridled Adventure
by
Cindy McDonald
Hot Coco
All Rights Reserved © 2012 by Cindy McDonald
Published by Acorn Book Services for E-Publication
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author.
For information call: 304-285-8205
or Email: [email protected]
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Designed by Acorn Book Services
Publication Managed by Acorn Book Services
304-285-8205
ASIN: B0087SUA2K
Printed in the United States of America
For my husband, Bill, thank you for your loving support always.
You are my best friend and the love of my life.
Acknowledgements
There are many people I wish to thank that had a hand in the publishing and pre-publishing process of
Hot Coco
. I wish to thank three women who so enthusiastically encouraged me to move forward with this project, Janet Oellig; Cynthia Schoettker; and, my dear friend, Linda Taylor.
Thanks to my wonderful publishing manager and fellow author Lauren Carr for her constant support and insightful editing; and the creative genius behind this fabulous cover, Todd Aune. Thank you to those at Acorn Book Services that worked behind-the-scenes on my behalf.
Last, but certainly never least; I want to thank my husband Saint Bill, who has always supported me in everything that I have done—the dance school, and now my writing. Your love and understanding knows no bounds. Thank you.
Table of Contents
Part One:
Too Hot to Handle
Chapter 1 through Chapter 5
Part Two:
Feel the Burn
Chapter 6 through Chapter 10
Part Three:
Progress
Chapter 11 through Chapter 14
Part Four:
An Awkward Position
Chapter 15 through Chapter 18
Epilogue:
Forgive and Forget?
“Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.”
-Oscar Wilde
Hot Coco
Part One
Too Hot to Handle
One
The early morning mist cradled Keystone Downs Thoroughbred Racetrack. In the not so far distance the wispy pines snuggled in against the Allegheny Mountains, which rose out of the haze like Christmas trees after a downy white snowfall. The sun’s golden beams glimmered through the ashen vapors to warm the old tin roofs of the long shed rows that housed the horses on the back side of the Thoroughbred racetrack. Pigeons nesting on the roofs warbled. Horse trailers would bang while pulling into the barn area. Exercise riders called out greetings in Spanish to one and other, as the pumped-up Thoroughbred’s hooves
clop, clop, clopped
against the pavement on their way to the track for their morning workouts.
Keystone Downs had awakened to meet a new day.
Punch McMinn toted two buckets to the door of Westwood Stables and emptied them into the roadway. A huge black man, he was the size of a Pittsburgh Steelers linebacker. His physique gave him a daunting appearance, but the simple truth was Punch McMinn was nothing more than a softy. He cared for sick kittens in the barn; he was a sucker for stray dogs; and, of course, he administered TLC to the racehorses with the gentleness of velvet, even though his hands were large and callused.
Punch handled his many hats with a kindhearted finesse. He had been the stable manager for Westwood Thoroughbred Farm for many years. Having grown-up with the younger generation of the West family, he oftentimes was a confidant; a big brother; and, yes, sometimes a therapist.
Humming along with the stable radio, he dumped the contents of the second bucket into the roadway when the sound of hooves pounding fast and furious against the pavement caused him to hesitate and look up into the heavy fog.
Riders called frantically at each other, “Salga del camino
!” Get out of the way.
Suddenly, four Thoroughbreds materialized through the mist to gallop freely through the shed row. Steam burst from their nostrils. Their eyes were wild with excitement and their manes tossed in the air. Sucking himself against the wall, Punch strained to see riders jumping from their mounts to pull them aside while the rouge renegades thundered past.
His tubby tummy bouncing up and down, a fat Mexican stable hand ambled behind the loose horses while calling out in Spanish for the horses to come back.
A tall, reed-thin young man named Scott Carter was also chasing after the escapees. He cleaned stalls and cooled-out horses for Doug O’Conner, one of the trainers. His sapphire eyes were kind and his rugged jaw line was sharp. Unlike most of the track tramps that appeared out of nowhere to work only long enough to collect what little money they could for booze or a fix, Scott was semi-educated and polite.
Bringing up the rear was the crusty old horse trainer, Doug O’Conner. A sour-faced man, he had no use for a kind word or a gentle tone. His personal comfort was at the forefront of his priorities. His track uniform consisted of a pair of pajama pants, an old T-shirt, and beat-up slippers. His dark gray hair was always in need of a stiff combing, and he shaved when he damned well got around to it.
“Need some help, Doug?” Punch called out to the old fart.
“Go to hell, McMinn,” he roughly retorted. He wasn’t joking.
“You’re welcome.” With a shake of his head, Punch retreated back into the barn.
The haze was beginning to dissipate when Mike West pulled his truck into the track parking lot. He yawned into his fist, stretched his back before he turned off the ignition, and slid from the driver’s seat. The truck expelled a deep
beep, beep
, when he pressed the lock button on the key ring.
When he turned toward the barn area, his eyes were drawn to a tall, leggy, blonde bombshell. She was the equal to any
Playboy
centerfold
.
His eyebrow arched and the left side of his mouth curved upward.
With a bucket filled with oats, the lovely woman was coaxing a grey Thoroughbred. Interested in what she had to offer, the horse inched toward her until he came almost within her grasp. The closer the Thoroughbred came, the more her blue eyes brightened and her plump lips curled in anticipation.
Mike couldn’t deny such a beautiful damsel in distress. So, he sauntered toward her and her four-legged friend to assist in any way he could.
The Thoroughbred stretched his nose toward the bucket to sniff the sweet oats smothered in molasses. The blonde’s eyes grew wider. Cautiously, she reached out her hand to grab the horse’s halter.
The ornery equine jerked his head up. His nose caught on the very edge of the bucket, flipped it into the air, and then he bolted in the opposite direction.
The blonde grappled for the spinning bucket and the sticky oats that were flying all around until it landed on Mike’s head. Cupping her hand over her mouth, she gasped.
Staggering around like a poor imitation of a tight rope walker, Mike tried to pull the bucket from his head. The molasses-drenched oats dripped down his neck and over his shoulders.
When she reached for the bucket, her feet became tangled which caused her to tumble into Mike and knock him to the ground. When he finally managed to yank the bucket from his head, Mike found himself nose-to-nose with the beautiful blonde, who was straddling him.
Other than the oats clinging to his hair and clothes, he’d been in worse positions.
“Are you all right?” she asked while gasping for breath.
A bit dazed, he nodded.
Losing all composure, her eyes welled up with tears. “I can’t catch my horse,” she cried, “and my trainer dumped me. I don’t know what to do.” Sobbing uncontrollably, she pulled out a tissue and forcibly blew her red nose into it.
Mike brushed some of the icky oats from his shoulder and gently lifted the overwhelmed beauty from his body. “Calm down. Who’s your trainer?”
She studied his square jaw that accentuated his ruggedly handsome face. His dark shaggy hair was littered with oats and molasses. His blue T-shirt swept over his broad shoulders and clung to his tightly sculpted torso that eased into his lean hips. Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she peeked at him from the top of her wet eyes.
“Doug O’Conner.” She sniffed. “He’s a very mean man. I paid him good money. I’ll just find myself another trainer.” She pitched Mike a coquettish glance and softened her voice. “Do you know any?”
“A few, I’m Mike West, and you are …”
“Coco … Coco Beardmore.” She offered him her hand.
Making a fascinating connection, he shook it.
Beardmore was a well-known name in Pennsylvania. One of the top employers in the Lanzville and Rosemount area, Beardmore Industries made the non-glare screens for all the major computer companies. The Beardmores were one of the wealthiest families in Pennsylvania—Hell, the wealthiest family east of the Mississippi.
Mike went for it. “Beardmore … of Beardmore Industries?”
Her eyes brightened. “Yes, my father owns the company.”
All of a sudden, it was no effort to come up with an available trainer for the lovely Miss Coco Beardmore.
“Hey Mike, we’re ready to go. You coming?” Shane’s voice snapped Mike’s cunning train of thought. His younger brother strolled toward him with a mouthful of doughnut, and grape jelly filling drizzling on his chin.
Coco’s eyes took a quick tour of Shane West’s muscled physique, his sandy hair, square jaw line, and crystal blue eyes. Walking towards her, he was all flash and swagger. He put one thought in mind:
Here comes a player.
Tossing the doughnut into a trash barrel, Shane moved in for a closer look at the blonde.
Wincing, Mike pointed to the jelly on his chin. With a coy shrug, his brother wiped it away. “This is Coco Beardmore. This is Shane.”
She continued to smile while Shane scanned.
Mike told him, “Coco needs a new training stable.”
Immersed in making the hot blonde/big boobs connection, Shane wasn’t making the Beardmore/Beardmore Industries connection. He stepped in closer. “Well, hel-lo, Co-co.”
“Are you a trainer?” she asked in a smooth tone.
“Yep.”
Mike stepped in front of the youngest and most impetuous West. “Uh, he’s an assistant trainer. I’m actually the head trainer.”
“Mmmm, how lucky can I get?”
“We need to retrieve Coco’s horses from Doug O’Conner’s barn,” he told Shane before turning to her. “How many are there?”
“Five.” She hiked up her chin with pride. “Five very well-bred horses.”
“Doug O’Conner?” Shane snorted. “Oh, yeah, this ought to be fun.”
Doug O’Conner’s disposition had become down-right unbearable. The sweat poured from his forehead, and matted his grungy gray hair to his scalp. Swearing under his breath through the large brown wad of snuff that bulged from his lower lip, he wiped down one of the Thoroughbreds that had been among the wild and free earlier that morning.
Scott held and stroked the nervous horse while Doug’s dirty old rag mopped the sweaty lather from its hide.
“I’m telling you, Coco’s bad-luck, boy,” he said. “I’m sick and tired of the headaches and damages her horses cause. Shit, I spend half my day fixing what they’ve tore-up.”
“Maybe you should raise your training fees, and make Coco pay for the damages. Or you could pawn her off on someone else,” Scott suggested.
Doug scowled at him over the horse’s back. “I’ll think on it.” He glanced around the unkempt, old stable until he spotted his homely browbeaten daughter cleaning a nearby stall. “Margie, fetch me a bucket of fresh water,” he bellowed.
Pushing an overloaded wheelbarrow, Margie emerged from the stall. Her dingy brunette hair was pulled back from her gaunt face that was too small for her nose. Her right front tooth folded over the left one. She wore a faded flannel shirt that had belonged to her father over her oversized, stained T-shirt, and dirty jeans.
In contrast to her nose and teeth, her almond-shaped eyes were the color of dark ink, which gave them a lovely exotic appearance.
The subjugated woman dropped the wheelbarrow and made haste for a bucket. Scott beat her to it. While he handed the full bucket to her, he flashed a wide smile that went all the way up to his gorgeous eyes. Always so kind to her and willing to help, Scott seemed to be looking beyond her eyes to read her intimate thoughts.
No way, it’s just my imagination.
When she turned away, Scott noticed a book sticking out of the hip pocket of her jeans. “What are you reading, Margie?”
Her father’s gazed snapped in his daughter’s direction.
Freezing, Margie’s hand slowly made its way to the pocket to feel the curled edges of the book wedged in against her buttock. Her eyes darted like a ping-pong ball from her father to Scott, both of whom were waiting for an answer.
“Margie don’t read,” Doug said.
Scott’s brows furrowed.
Margie tossed the book into the wheelbarrow. “I found it in the shed rows. I was meaning to throw it out. Guess I forgot.”
A slice of sunshine burst into the barn when the rickety door creaked open. Mike, Shane, and Coco stepped into the dark dank stable.
The sight of Mike West strolling down the aisle past the horses made Margie’s world explode.
God, he’s so beautiful.
Her dark eyes were transfixed by his strong, square jaw, the way his dark locks brushed across those sexy hazel eyes. There was something complicated in his eyes, something that gave him a mysterious aura
.
She was so captivated by him that she poured the bucket of water over her father’s old battered slippers.
Doug’s eyes widened and fury spread across his already churlish pout. “Margie, what the hell’s the matter with you?” he shrieked.
She couldn’t hear him. She only heard the sound of her heart thrumping in her breast as her Adonis drew closer.
While Mike tried like hell to ignore Margie’s glazed-over, puppy love stare boring through him, he couldn’t ignore the ornery gleam in his brother’s eye, and the devilish curl forming on his lips. He was like Satan himself. He knew what Shane was capable of and prayed that he’d keep it in check.
Margie wasted no time. “Hi, Mike.”
“Hey, Margie, how are you?” he asked politely.
“I’m doing just fine, what brings you by?”
The evil chuckle that surged from Shane scraped up Mike’s spine and through the top of his head. “He came to see you, Margie.”
Mike glowered at his younger brother. A sinister sated smile swept across Shane’s ornery face. He was thrilled with the agitation he had wielded in his big brother’s direction.
Unanswered prayer.
Delighted by the notion, Margie brushed one of the many stray strands of hair behind her ear. “What did you need to see me for, Mike?”
Doug had enough of this foolishness. He slammed the rag into Scott’s chest, snatched a pitchfork that was leaning against the wall, and spit brown tobacco juice out the side of his craggy lips before shouldering past Mike to a close-by stall.
“He ain’t here to see you, Margie. You weren’t never good enough for the likes of him.” He tossed a pitchfork full of dirty straw into the wheelbarrow. “Now, what’s this about, boys?”
“Coco says you want her horses out of your barn. We’ve come to take care of that for you.” Mike was grateful for the change in topic.
“Well, be my guest, West.” He shook the filthy pitchfork at him. “You ain’t getting no freaking prize. You’ll see.” He stabbed the pitchfork into the dirt floor that was inches from Mike’s feet. “Get ‘em outta here, West, and make it quick.”
Scott stepped forward to hand the grey Thoroughbred’s lead to Mike and pointed to the stalls where Coco’s horses were kept. The Wests each led two horses from the barn. After snapping a lead rope onto the last horse, Doug shoved it at Coco. With a nasty grimace, he made a sharp head gesture toward the barn door. He followed Coco and the horse down the aisle until she came to a stop next to Margie.
She urged a gentle smile at the homely woman. She had tried to make friends with her during her horses’ stay at the O’Conner stable, but Doug simply wasn’t having it. “Good-bye, Margie.”