Racetrack Romance BOX SET (Books 1-3) (15 page)

She was also intoxicated and shouldn’t be driving. It took her three attempts to spear the last fry, but she chased it around the plate with single-minded determination.

“I can drive you home tonight,” he said, watching her fork with concern. “I just have to pick my truck up at the barn.”

“Thanks, but there’s no need. I’m staying at Sandra’s.”

His disappointment rocked him. And he needed to get back on focus. This was about Connor, not about his own interest in an attractive woman, a woman who regrettably was more interested in horses than men.

“I talked to your dad about hauling Otto's mare tomorrow,” he said. “He thought it'd be a nice day to ride in the mountains. Can you show me where your place is? Maybe guide me around after? I can bring Cisco.”

“Sure.” She wiped her mouth and absently pushed her empty plate toward the lurking waiter. “A trail ride would be fun.” Her eyes narrowed as she tried to peer over his shoulder. “I wonder where everyone is? I haven’t seen Sandra all night.”

He shrugged but wasn’t surprised. His arm draped the back of her chair, his hip moored her stool and the hardy souls who had ventured in her direction had been deterred by his flat stare. Even the cowboy had moved on. He lifted his hand and traced a path across her smooth cheek. “You have a bit of ketchup, right there.” He wiped the fictitious spot, watched her eyes and the way she looked at him. Could feel her slight shiver.

“It’s late.” Sandra’s voice was sudden and authoritative. “We gotta go.”

Julie jerked back. He lowered his hand, smoothing his expression before turning toward Sandra, surprised he hadn’t noticed her approach. “It’s not that late,” he said.

“Close to midnight, and we peasants have to get up early.” Sandra crossed her arms, looking at them both with an amused expression. “Do you still want your two-year-old ponied tomorrow?”

“Please,” he said. “I’m hauling the new mare after Julie gallops Lazer.” He picked up the bill, stilling Julie’s hand as she reached for her purse. “I’m paying,” he said softly. “It was just a dinner meeting.”

She let him take care of the bill, and he figured it was a major accomplishment. “Do you need a drive?” he added.

“No,” Sandra interrupted, her voice loud as she gestured in an indeterminate direction. “We’re walking. It’s only a couple blocks west. Gary’s staying at my place too.”

Kurt digested that news as they walked toward the door. He wanted to see Julie home. Conversation was beginning to flow, and it was painfully difficult to talk to her at the track.

He pulled open the door, holding it open for both ladies, then followed them outside. A lithe shadow unfolded from the wall. Bixton.

“Congratulations,” Kurt said, remembering Bixton had ridden three winners earlier that evening, a laudable feat at any track.

“Thanks, but Julie is the real star,” Bixton said. “She didn't have much horsepower but got both her mounts up for a piece of the money.” He looped his arm around Julie, his teeth gleaming wolfishly under the streetlight. “You rode smart, Jules. But a couple things need improving. We can discuss riding strategy at Sandra’s.”

Julie turned toward Kurt, calling out a goodbye even as Gary propelled her down the sidewalk. Their conversation shifted to talk of whips, the best time to switch hands and then Kurt could no longer hear their actual words, only her low laugh.

His jaw clamped as he watched her walk away.

“Jocks always rehash each race.” Sandra blew out a sigh. “And it’s
your
fault they didn’t have a chance to talk earlier. Now they’ll keep me up all night.”

She pointed in the opposite direction. “That's the fastest way to your motel. Two blocks, then cut through the first alley. No one in his right mind would try to mug you. Especially the way you're scowling.” She grinned but not unkindly. “See you tomorrow, dark and early.”

She hurried off in the direction of her friends, leaving him unclenching his jaw and feeling like someone had just claimed his favorite horse. This sucked. He’d noticed Bixton flirting happily with almost every girl in the bar, yet somehow the nimble jockey had snagged Julie right off his arm.

Obviously Julie and Bixton had some sort of relationship, albeit a loose one. He could just imagine the type of riding strategy they’d be discussing. A steamy image of Bixton with Julie made his chest kick.

He rammed his hands in his pockets, wheeled and headed toward his motel, searching for a positive note. He’d turned up goose eggs tonight, but at least when he’d mentioned Connor, she hadn’t been evasive. And though she professed not to date, she clearly had some time for men. Understandably, she avoided demanding relationships, didn't want anything to interfere with her career.

All fine with him. He only needed a little chunk of time anyway, just enough to chat her up. And tomorrow they would be alone—no distractions, no interruptions, no Bixton.

Equanimity restored, he cut across the gravel to his motel. Reached in his pocket, searching for his room card but paused, hit with a familiar sense of danger. Something was different.

He stilled, staring at the unit window. The curtains had been closed when he left, but now a two-inch gap loomed. And the room was dark. He’d left the desk lamp on.

A horn blasted from the street and he jerked, his reaction intensified by his rushing adrenaline. From the adjoining room, a television droned. Its whitish light cast surreal shadows. He flexed his hands, focusing on his own room.

It was silent. But maybe not empty.

He eased onto the shadowed walkway that fronted the motel, his mind scrambling. It was unlikely the cleaning staff had made a second visit today. But someone had been in his room. Otto? Or perhaps the person who’d shot Connor? He doubted it was Otto who had pulled the trigger. Otto was the type to use his fists; Connor hadn’t had a mark on him other than the bullet holes.

Kurt lingered in the shadows, questioning his instincts, trying to soothe his innate wariness. So far, he’d played everything low key. A few questions to Julie, but nothing that would connect him to Connor. Unless someone had burned him.

The air was crisp, but sweat beaded on his forehead as he remembered another job, another surprise. Of course, that debacle had been his fault. A little pillow talk with Anne Marie, and his identity had been blown.

But there was no gang and no Anne Marie. Archer and his assistant were his only contacts, and Archer didn’t make mistakes.

Kurt’s heart thudded more evenly. His breathing steadied. Besides, whoever was in there was sloppy.

He edged to the door, watching the folds of the curtains. Nothing moved.

The door to the motel office slammed. Someone laughed. Steps jolted along the walkway. He grabbed the diversion, eased back then tramped forward and rapped on his own door.

“Pizza’s here!” he called.

No response.
Knock, knock
. Nothing.

He fingered the doorknob. It skewed uselessly in his hand, the deep grooves rough beneath his fingers. Clearly not an ambush. He shoved the door open with his foot, reached in and switched on the light.

Goddammit! The room was a shambles of clothing, plastic and glass. He stepped over the television cord, covered with shiny shards of glass, and checked the room—bathroom, closet, beneath the bed.

Empty.

He scooped up a leather sleeve, torn from his jacket. A pair of jeans was intact but his suitcase had been split, the hinges broken. He tossed the clothing aside and moved into the bathroom.

Glass, remnants of the mirror above the sink, crunched beneath his boots. His toothbrush and container of allergy tablets floated in the toilet. A wad of tobacco left a streaky trail and clumped on the tiles, a calling card left to taunt.

Damn. Otto was one crazy fucker.

Kurt gritted his teeth as he bent over and scraped the tobacco into a plastic bag. An intrusion always felt personal, but at least the damage was minimal.

Obviously the mare was the trigger, and Otto was unraveling. Besides, he told himself, no real harm had been done. His gun and briefcase were locked in the room safe, and his laptop was in the truck. He had nothing else of value.

Oh, Christ. He jerked upright. The horses! His innocent, unprotected horses.

He sprinted to the motel office and reported the break-in, fielding the clerk’s questions with brusque replies. No, he had no idea who'd trashed his room. No, nothing was stolen. The flustered night clerk passed him a blue garbage bag and called the police.

Kurt rushed back to his room, scooped up some clothes and the gooey tobacco evidence. Stuffed them in the bag, tossed it over his shoulder and ran toward the track.

“Gathering trash?” the guard in the security booth asked with a snide snicker.

Kurt didn’t answer. Wasn’t in the mood for jokes and didn’t like the man’s attitude. This guard wasn't the pale-faced skinny kid, but a paunchy guy with a tired uniform and the bored expression of someone who didn’t like his job.

Kurt flipped his pass out, hurrying, yet trying to control his dread. The horses were fine. Just fine.

“So many people chugging back and forth. Don’t understand how those overpriced animals get any sleep. What'cha doing here so late anyway?” The guard tilted back in his chair and fiddled with Kurt's credentials.

“Let’s hurry it up,” Kurt said softly.

The guard started to protest but saw something in Kurt’s expression and pressed his mouth shut. He shoved the ID through the grill and started writing, suddenly occupied with paperwork. “Go on,” he muttered.

Kurt jogged to G barn. The pathway seemed darker, lonelier. His stomach churned with apprehension. He shouldn't have left the horses alone. Should have done more than switch stalls. Should have guessed Otto was unstable.

He controlled his urge to barge into the barn and paused outside the door. Heard nothing but the benign chewing of hay and a restless horse shuffling in the straw.

He walked down the dim aisle. A few animals poked their heads over their doors, watching with curious eyes. He blew out a sigh of relief when he stepped on some hoof trimmings that dotted the floor. Nick must have been shoeing late. Good old Nick. The horses hadn't been alone for long.

He headed toward Cisco’s stall—his least expensive horse but the most precious— searching for the App’s wide forehead, his intelligent eyes. Couldn’t see him and Kurt’s breath caught. But when he leaned over the door, there was Cisco, lying in the straw, eyes placid and heavy with sleep.

Cisco flicked his ears when he saw Kurt, as if questioning his presence at such a late hour, and debating if he should get up. Kurt edged away, weak with relief, not wanting to disturb him.

He visited each horse. All were fine. Lazer, Ace and Otto’s mare were on their feet but blinking and groggy with sleep. He checked their pulse, listened to the familiar rumbling of their gut. Everything was normal—no colic, stress or injury. Even the mare was content, surprising him with a low nicker.

The tightness in his shoulders eased, replaced with a bone-aching tiredness. He unlocked his tack room and stretched on the cot. The mattress was thin and lumpy, but the horse blanket was soft and warm. Slowly his mind settled.

It hadn’t been such a bad night. With a couple nudges, everything was now rolling. Otto was losing his cool, bound to make a key mistake, and tomorrow Julie might provide insight as to why Connor had followed Otto.

He would have the whole day to work with her, just the two of them. All alone. He hoped they would get along very well.

Chapter Fifteen

Clanging buckets prodded Kurt awake. Someone shouted, and hungry horses nickered and stomped as they called for breakfast. He hauled the blanket over his head, blocked out the noise and went back to sleep.

He didn’t know how much longer he dozed, but persistent knocking jerked him out of a deep sleep.

“Kurt, you in there?”

He muttered, the words unintelligible even to him. Sandra’s voice poked at him from beyond the door. “Want me to pony Lazer too? Julie has a headache.”

He jerked awake, surprised he’d slept through the feeding racket. Rose, yawning, and opened the door. “Morning, Sandra. You finished with Ace already?”

“Yup. Martin got him ready.” Her gaze swept his chest and she gave a saucy wolf whistle. “Yum. Enough muscles to make a girl like me stutter.”

He scooped his shirt from the floor and yanked his arms into the sleeves.

“Don’t worry.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m too tired to jump you. Gary and Julie kept me up way too late. Now please hurry. I want to go home and grab some sleep.”

He fumbled with his shirt, still groggy and feeling slightly out of synch. He was also intensely curious as to Julie and Gary’s relationship. Not technically any of his business, of course, but one never knew when little details might help a case.

He followed her into the aisle, still tucking in his shirt. “Where’s Julie now?” he asked. “She’s supposed to show me the way to her dad’s ranch.”

“Dunno. I banged on their door earlier this morning, but they didn’t get up. They’re probably mainlining coffee in the kitchen now. Neither of them can hold their liquor, not like me.” Her smile was smug. “Come on. Get your horse ready. Or should I ask Martin to do it?”

“No, I’m coming,” he muttered, hoping his dismay over their sleeping arrangements didn’t show. He readied Lazer and led him down the aisle to Sandra. “I put a bridle on him in case he gets strong.”

“Okie and I can handle him,” she said. “You want a mile and a half?”

“Two. And give him a shot down the lane.”

He followed her to the gap, watching as Sandra guided Lazer onto the track. The colt bit at Okie’s neck, but Sandra snapped his nose, and he straightened with an air of resignation. Clearly Lazer was in capable hands.

Kurt turned and walked to the kitchen. He bought a coffee and leaned against the counter, scowling and surly. Spotted the two jockeys nestled in the corner, heads pressed together over a large carafe of coffee.

He weaved through a cluster of people. “Good morning,” he said, addressing them both but looking at Julie. Dark shadows lined her eyes, and he couldn’t resist adding, “Late night, I hear?”