Racetrack Romance BOX SET (Books 1-3) (115 page)

She fumbled with the directory, fingers over-eager and awkward.

“You look a little flushed, dear,” Martha said wryly.

Becky pressed the phone against her ear and edged away.

“Dino Anders.”

His sudden voice sucked away her oxygen. “Hi,” she managed, ignoring Martha’s knowing smirk.

“Becky? Are the horses okay?”

“Yes, they’re fine. But Stephanie broke her arm this morning. Slim took her to the hospital.”

“Who was she riding?”

“Hank.”

He was silent for so long, she thought he’d hung up. “Hank,” he finally said. The disbelief in his voice spoke volumes.

“We were on a trail ride. Her stirrup leather broke.” A fresh ball of misery lodged in Becky’s throat. If only she hadn’t asked Stephanie to gallop one last time.

“Did she gallop Echo first?”

“Pardon?”

“Did she gallop Echo before your ride?”

Becky’s fingers tightened around the phone, appalled that his biggest concern was whether Echo had been exercised. And he wasn’t only Stephanie’s boss; he’d slept with her. Everyone talked about how expendable workers were, but the reality made her stomach heave.

“Becky? Did Echo gallop today?”

“Yes.” Resentment hardened her voice. “Stephanie did every bit of her work before going on the trail ride.”

“All right,” he said. “I’ll bring a replacement rider when I come tomorrow. Where’s Slim now?”

“Probably driving from the hospital.”

“Okay,” he said. “See you.”

The line disconnected and he was gone.

She closed her phone, unable to look at Martha. “He’ll arrange for a new rider. We didn’t have time to talk about insurance.” She didn’t want to admit he’d hung up, that he’d rushed off to find Stephanie’s replacement. It all seemed too callous.

Slim, at least, was worried. His face had been gray when he’d helped Stephanie into the truck, and when he called from the hospital, his voice had cracked. Obviously Stephanie and Slim were close.

But Stephanie and Dino had shared a bed. Shouldn’t Dino show some concern too? Clearly he’d meant it when he said sex was just sex. Her chest twisted—she’d even considered sleeping with him. With a man who had sex as casually as he shook hands.

Poor Steph.

Well, she at least wasn’t going to desert her new friend. Her troubled gaze drifted to Martha’s jewelry box.

“Horses come first.” Martha gave a smug sniff. “That’s why needy women should avoid trainers.”

“Stephanie’s not needy.”

“She is now,” Martha said. “And I wasn’t talking about her. Go ahead. Take the key and check the files. I hope Malcolm has insurance set up. And while you’re in his study, don’t forget to look for Lyric’s papers.”

Becky pocketed her phone and slowly opened the yawning mahogany box. The vast jewelry collection always amazed her yet Martha knew and treasured each piece.

“Key’s on the right,” Martha said. “Beside the pearls.”

The key was small, almost hidden beneath the necklace and somewhat incongruous against the luxurious contents of the box. Becky glanced over her shoulder, aware Martha probably wanted her company.

“Don’t rush.” Martha fluttered a hand in dismissal. “Stephanie’s my responsibility now, and this needs to be sorted out. Perhaps I haven’t thought about the staff as much as I should. And it’s best you sift through Malcolm’s papers, not Jocelyn or Ted.”

***

Becky’s sneeze cut the silence of the room. She brushed away a spiral of dust and pulled the last file from Malcolm’s drawer, adding it to the stack already piled on the thick carpet. Most of the workers’ names were unfamiliar, and clearly Martha was correct—stable hands didn’t stick around for long. No wonder they were hired as casual labor.

Still, the lack of benefits sucked for Stephanie.

Her mouth tightened when she picked up the contracts for the racing and barn manager. These agreements were vastly different. Dino had negotiated a wide range of health benefits as well as a huge bonus if he achieved a win rate of twenty percent. He really was a clever guy. But his incentive only applied to homebreds; other wins didn’t count.

She shook her head, exasperated that horses like Chippy were discounted, and turned to Slim’s contract. This one was much shorter than Dino’s, only two pages, and the legal paper was stained with brown. Life insurance was the same as Dino’s, but there were no health benefits or bonuses. However, a clause had been scrawled at the bottom in blue ink:
In consideration of Jill Barrett’s jockey services, it is agreed that half ownership of Lyric will be transferred to Jill and Slim Barrett if and when Lyric is retired as a broodmare. Said retirement subject to vet check and Malcolm Conrad’s final stock approval.

She sank down on the carpet, absorbing the words. It seemed odd yet straightforward and a fabulous deal for Slim and Jill. No wonder Slim had compromised on his contract. Part ownership of a horse like Lyric was better than any race bonus.

She reread the handwritten clause.
If and when Lyric is retired as a broodmare
. But Lyric hadn’t been bred. She was retired, but her stall was in the race barn. So who owned Lyric? And did that mean Slim had life insurance but nothing else?

She scrambled to her feet. Malcolm’s copier whirred as she made duplicates of Slim’s file. She carefully folded the copies then dumped out the contents of a bulging brown envelope labeled ‘Lyric’s Gamble.’ A disc, legal correspondence, a memo from Malcolm and finally Lyric’s wayward papers. The certificate appeared to be the unaltered original issued by The Jockey Club, the central registry for Thoroughbreds. Conrad Racing Stable was listed as the sole owner.

Malcolm’s memo was attached to the papers. She unfolded it and flattened the sheet against her knee. The witnessed statement was short, concise and irreversible.
The mare Lyric’s Gamble, No. 9926160, is deemed unsuitable for breeding because of the offset in her right ankle and ensuing propensity to stumble
.

Becky stared at the memo, her fingers reflexively creasing the paper. Clearly Slim and his daughter had gambled on Lyric—gambled and lost—although Jill had lost much more than a share in a stakes horse. Her life was shattered that fateful day at the track.

The disc was innocuously labeled ‘Lyric, Race Seven.’ She tried to remember what she’d heard about Lyric’s last start. Someone had said the accident wasn’t the mare’s fault, but why had the other jockeys refused to ride her? It seemed only Jill had piloted Lyric—Jill, who had a vested interest in her success.

She didn’t want to linger in Malcolm’s bleak office, but it was better to watch the race here rather than force Martha to endure a potentially upsetting replay. She slipped the disc in the machine and clicked on the huge wall screen TV.

Lone Star Park. The landscaped paddock set against the distinctive Spanish-style clubhouse was unmistakable. A sunny-afternoon crowd clustered around the rail while grooms led their horses around the spacious walking ring. A familiar gray horse filled the screen—–Lyric—darker but with the same elegant head. Her ears were pricked, head arched, sleek muscles fit and toned.

She’d always thought Lyric beautiful, certainly not fat, but there was a world of difference in this conditioned racehorse and the mare she now rode. Lyric’s muscles rippled when she walked and her belly was tucked—the screen abruptly switched from Lyric to the next horse.

Becky kept her gaze pinned to the screen, searching for familiar faces in the confusion of onlookers. The announcers seemed to be talking but she couldn’t get any sound, even after jabbing buttons on the remote. And now the horses filed onto the track. She caught another glimpse of Lyric with a jaunty jockey perched on her back, wearing Conrad’s yellow silks with the black diamond.

‘Jockey Jill Barrett,’ the caption on the television said. Jill flicked her whip, flashing a white smile as she saluted someone at the rail. And there was Slim, looking proud as his daughter guided the beautiful gray mare, number three, onto the track.

Becky pressed her damp palms against her jeans as the horses paraded across the screen. Nine fillies and mares, seven furlongs, two hundred thousand dollars in purse money. A big day at Lone Star.

She wanted to snap the television off—leave now—but stayed rooted, caught in a weird mixture of fascination and fear. A bugler’s cheeks swelled when he blew a shiny horn. Spectators smiled and cheered when the line of vibrant horses paraded past the grandstand.

Still no sound.

A commercial break. She swallowed and set the remote on the table. Trucks and a beer commercial. She shivered and rubbed her prickling arms.

And then the horses reappeared, almost at the starting gate now, and Lyric’s colors shone brightest of all. A summary of the horses lit the bottom of the screen, flashed their betting odds. Jill, still smiling. Lyric’s odds five to two.

An assistant starter reached up and led Lyric toward the gate.
Don’t go in
. But of course she walked in. Lyric, poised and professional, Jill’s face now set with concentration.

The remaining horses disappeared, one by one into the gate. Doors slammed behind their muscled haunches. No way out except forward. One horse left to load. The blazed chestnut in the nine hole balked, and a flurry of attendants surrounded the horse, pushing until the door closed. All in now.

Malcolm’s office was very still. Tomblike. Not even the chirp of birds passed through the windows. He liked his privacy, Becky remembered as she stared at the TV screen. She felt alone in this wing of the house, alone in this foreign room.

The starting gate burst open, and nine colorful horses spread across the screen.

She’d moved too close to the TV and stepped back, away from the mass of horses charging from the gate, away from their wide eyes and flailing hooves, away from the silent vibration of their bodies that choked her chest.

Lyric’s distinctive color made her easy to spot. Becky watched the familiar gray head as she grabbed position behind the frontrunner. Her nose was shoved in the tail of the number five horse, a little bay with a white bridle, gaily leading the way into the first turn with the pack of remaining horses galloping in hot pursuit.

Jill crouched on Lyric’s back, riding easy, not pushing her horse, keeping her comfortably in second. The chestnut with a blaze moved up on Lyric’s outside, boxing them in against the gleaming white rail.

Becky realized she was rocking on stiff legs but was unable to tear her eyes from the screen. Fear warred with optimism. This might not be
the
race. It looked benign, no need to be tense. Just nine horses galloping around the track, riders and horses doing what they were supposed to be doing.

But dread snaked down her back and she wanted to look away, away from the brave, vibrant girl paired with the talented gray filly.

The horses entered the turn and the chestnut swung wide. Jill grabbed the chance to escape, deftly moving Lyric out from the rail. Now she was at the leader’s hip with nothing blocking her way, and Becky breathed again.

The white-bridled bay seemed to be tiring. Lyric relentlessly closed the gap, her stride strong and even. As the horses entered the homestretch, the two horses were shoulder to shoulder. Lyric appeared to be galloping for fun. Her ears flicked at the crowd but Jill pushed on her neck, seeming to draw out another gear, and they left the bay laboring on the rail.

Two horses surged from the back, but it was clear they couldn’t catch the streaking Lyric. The chestnut was still running second, far on the outside as two closers fought for second and third. Becky blew out a sigh of relief. This wasn’t the race.

Lyric buckled, her hindquarters flipping over her head as a splash of yellow colored the ground.

The two closing horses tried to clear the sudden obstacle. One leaped to the left, caught a front leg on Lyric’s shoulder and somersaulted onto the patch of yellow. The other horse seemed clear, but a thrashing leg hooked her hind end and she stumbled, nose furrowing the ground until both rider and animal joined the melee.

Becky clenched her arms in anguish as a bewildered Lyric scrambled to her feet and slowly cantered after the pack of horses. The second horse thrashed on the ground, struggling to rise. A front leg hung at an odd angle and every time the filly moved, yellow silks gleamed beneath her. The third horse was pinned beneath the inner rail. She tried twice to find her feet, pushing awkwardly on her front legs, then stopped struggling and stared into the crowd with stoic acceptance.

A rider in red silks tried to calm the flailing horse on top of Jill, while the third downed jockey twitched an arm. And then an ambulance charged up, a white screen blocked the view, and the silent scene was replaced with a commercial featuring a lean cowboy, his rugged truck and a blue merle dog.

The commercial switched to a shiny airplane with drinks being served by a beaming attendant.

Becky’s breath came in horrified gasps. She grabbed the remote and snapped off the television. The screen turned black.

No wonder Malcolm had refused to breed Lyric despite her obvious speed. Slim had been there that day. Had seen his daughter in the carnage. And now he’d just driven Stephanie to the hospital. Naturally he was upset.

Sucking in a shaky breath, she left Malcolm’s office and hurried out the side door. No doubt Stephanie’s accident had stirred up horrible memories. Dino wasn’t the type to worry about people but Slim had sounded distraught on the phone—and someone needed to check on him.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Rap, rap
. Becky knocked at Slim’s door while a scruffy gray cat circled her ankles. Probably the same one that had darted out when Ted had visited Slim. Now though, Slim was clearly alone, his truck slanted across the driveway as though parked in a hurry.

She rapped a third time.

The impatient cat mewled, clearly wondering why she didn’t open the door. “Slim,” she called. “It’s Becky. I just want to hear about Steph.”

A grunt. Heavy steps and the door opened. Slim’s face appeared and the cat darted through his legs. “Come in,” he said, not smiling but not frowning either. He thumped into the kitchen. Dropped onto a hard-backed chair and picked up a glass half-filled with amber liquid. “Join me.”