Racetrack Romance BOX SET (Books 1-3) (2 page)

“My horse is sensitive,” Bill Chandler called. He seemed unaware his strident voice and quick movements had frightened his own horse. “You girls are always yakking. You need to shut up.”

Julie turned her head and shot Sandra a silent plea for patience. Sandra was outspoken, with little tolerance for fools. Yet Bill had promised Julie she'd be the jockey for his young filly, so it was important to humor the eccentric trainer.

“Young fillies are moody,” Bill said as he began another of his monotonous lectures. “I want you girls to carry peppermints. The white ones, not the pink.” He frowned as though considering an ingredient label. “Pink have more sugar, I think.”

He waggled a long finger in front of Julie’s nose. “Jog Princess half a mile. Then gallop around twice. Stay together. I’m paying Sandra to escort, and I want my money’s worth.”

“Sure thing, Bill.” Julie forced an agreeable nod as he boosted her into the saddle and continued preaching about the parallels between horse and dog training.

Sandra rolled her eyes as she led Julie’s horse onto the track. “I can't believe he has a trainer's license. This filly, Precious Princess, is so spoiled, she’s dangerous.”

“Guess that's why pony girls get the big bucks,” Julie said, keeping a solemn face. Sandra was always broke but would never quit her job for a horseless career.

Sandra snorted. “I make more money than you. And speaking of big bucks, did you see what moved into our barn?”

“Big buck, as in big horse?”

“Nope.” Sandra’s grin was slightly lascivious. “As in big shoulders, long legs and narrow hips.”

“Narrow hips?” Julie pretended to frown. “That's not good. You always said racehorses need hips for power.”

Sandra sighed in exasperation. “All you think about are horses. But this new guy has a gorgeous horse with a huge hind end. Best of all, he's looking for a rider. I gave him your name. Said you're a good exercise rider.”

“Thanks. But you’re supposed to say good jockey. Or at least, good apprentice jockey.”

“If he watches you gallop, he’ll know you can handle them in a race.” Sandra paused a beat, then her voice turned serious. “It’s tough to break into the jock ranks. Your mom did but remember the hours. She was so tired...” Sandra broke off, her voice thick with regret.

Julie averted her head, trying to control her rush of guilt. She still didn’t like to think about it.

“I only mean other things are important,” Sandra said, swiveling in the saddle. “It would be better if you were ugly. Better still, if you were a guy. Trainers can’t see your toughness. But I know how much you want to be a jockey, so don’t quit.”

Julie squared her shoulders. She had no intention of quitting. This was her best week yet, and a trainer, a normal trainer, was giving her a horse to ride. She adjusted her reins, eager to share her news about Skippy but giving Sandra another minute to finish her rant.

Sandra was an old family friend but rather opinionated and believed in sharing those opinions. However, she’d watched out for Julie ever since that scary day six weeks earlier when Julie had walked into G barn with only her saddle and her dreams.

Sandra continued her complaint about trainers and their God-like status but seemed to be winding down, and she glanced at Julie as though making sure she was listening. “Just make sure you charge the new guy. Exercising horses for free is piss-poor business.”

“If I show up for morning gallops there's a better chance the trainer will let me ride in a race.” It was impossible to remain silent any longer, and Julie’s words came in a rush. “Harrison is putting me up on Skipper Jack this Friday.”

“Woohoo!” Sandra jabbed her fist in the air but seconds later turned in the saddle, her forehead creased with concern. “You can’t expect too much from Skippy. He’s long in the tooth. Definitely pushing retirement.”

“He felt pretty good today,” Julie said. “And he’s a smart horse. He knows how to save energy.”

“Maybe.” But doubt filled Sandra’s face. “Anyway you'll have this young filly of Bill’s. And if you gallop his horse, he’ll use you as a jockey. That makes assholes easier to take.”

Julie’s gaze held Sandra's for a poignant moment. Difficult trainers were the ones most willing to take a chance with a green jockey, and Bill Chandler was a prince compared to Otto Laing. Otto was downright creepy. However, five years of part-time university had limited Julie’s riding to the tiny bush circuit, and few successful trainers even knew her name. She had to ride, had to be seen, and if it meant biting her tongue, she’d do it.

Unfortunately time was running out and soon her age would work against her. She forced away the sobering thought and focused on her good news. Friday’s race.

Sandra loosened the lead. The filly bucked as they increased their speed, but Julie barely noticed. She was too busy analyzing Skippy's competition.

The speedy sprinter from Seattle was entered and of course, any horse Gary Bixton rode would be the favorite. Rightly so. Bixton was the best jockey around. Still, the race would be great exposure for her as long as Skippy ran well.

It wouldn't earn her any mounts if they finished last.

She shook her head. Negative thoughts wouldn’t help. It was always best to think positive. So she imagined Skippy powering down the stretch with the crowd cheering as they crossed the wire, alone and in front.

By the time they reached the backstretch she’d ridden Friday's race twice in her mind, winning both times, and had to force herself back to reality. The filly was moving surprisingly well, perhaps inspired by Julie’s daydreams, and didn’t resist when pulled down to a trot.

Sandra frowned at Princess, making no effort to hide her disappointment. “That filly was no fun today. I like watching them try to buck you off. Ah shit, look.” Her face darkened as she gestured at Okie's front bandage. The fluorescent purple wrap was torn, split by the filly's errant hooves, and one end dragged on the ground, ripped and caked with mud.

Sandra pulled off her lead line and freed Princess.

“Wait.” Julie stiffened. “Bill told us to stay together.”

“Yeah, but I’m not wrecking Okie’s wraps, not for Bill and his measly ten bucks.” Sandra dismounted once they passed through the gap in the rail. “What can happen anyway? Bill's over there by the rail.”

“All right,” Julie said, aware Sandra was paid per horse and had more important trainers waiting. Sandra probably wouldn’t even pony for Chandler if Julie hadn’t been the rider.

She lifted a rein and turned toward Bill, but the filly balked, flattening her ears, reluctant to leave the company of Sandra’s horse.

Julie clucked and pushed the filly forward, her thoughts drifting back to Friday's race. She hoped Skippy would draw a good post position. It would be disastrous to be stuck with an outside post, but the rail was bad too. The three or four hole would probably be best considering the forecast. A little rain...

“I told you not to ride Princess alone!” Bill scuttled toward them, yelling and waving his spidery arms. The filly's fragile courage caved. She lunged to the left, smashing Julie’s knee into the rail.

Pain seared. The impact jerked Julie’s leg from the stirrup, followed by a numbing burn that left her unable to feel the saddle. She yanked on the left rein but the horse was now shying from Bill's wife, who’d popped out from a knot of onlookers. The woman’s high-pitched shriek filled the air, and her bulky purse smacked against her hip with each awkward step.

The filly stared, immobilized with fear.
Thump, thump
. Julie could feel the panicked beat of the horse’s heart, the trembles of her sleek body. Heard Bill’s nylon jacket crackle as he lunged for the reins, his hand a mere inch away…

Behind them, a shrill whistle sliced the air as a horse thundered an imperious challenge.

It was too much commotion for the pampered filly. In an acrobatic fishtail, she tossed Julie sideways and bolted for the safety of the barns. Julie gritted her teeth but managed to grab a chunk of mane. Images blurred like a broken movie: Bill's horrified eyes, the unyielding ground, horsehair slick with sweat. And when the filly leaped over the tip of the sprawling manure pile, Julie tumbled off, amid a tangle of arms, legs and horse dung.

She heard Bill curse, his wife's grating squeal, then pounding feet. Julie lay unmoving, consumed with shame. The manure was fresh, and a warm wetness seeped through her clothes.

“You okay?” The deep voice above her sounded choked, as though the man struggled to hold back laughter.

She propped herself up with an elbow and peered through his long legs, watching as Princess galloped along the row of barns, stirrups flapping, tail streaming like a victory banner. Bill lurched after his filly, trailed by his caterwauling wife. Sandra followed more sedately, waving her purple wrap and yelling something that sounded suspiciously like ‘Tally Ho!’

“You okay?” the voice above her repeated.

Julie squeezed her eyes shut, unable to answer the man's simple question. Was she okay? No, not really. She'd spent a hard month working with that filly, an unpaid month, now wasted. Bill would never hire her as a jockey. Even worse, his comments could affect the other trainers. Harrison might even change his mind about letting her ride Skippy.

Tightness clawed her throat. She glanced at the stranger towering over her. Damn him, he thought it was funny! Wasn’t even trying to hide his grin. Even the haughty horse he led looked amused.

She averted her head, hit with the horrible feeling she might cry, and that sure wouldn't raise her status at the track. If only the man and his horse would keep walking. It was quite apparent she wasn’t hurt.

But he just waited, an unwelcome witness to her humiliation.

“I'm fine, thanks,” she managed, swiping at a piece of straw stuck on her chin and sneaking a quick rub to the corners of her eyes.

“At least you found a soft landing.” His voice was deep and low and assured, a beautiful voice really, except for the amusement. “Manure is always good for that.” He chuckled.

Great, a joker. She shot to her knees. Winced at the stab of pain but unsnapped her helmet with a resentful click. From her vantage point, it was clear his horse was a stallion. Sandra had always said people shouldn’t walk horses close to the gap, especially unruly ones.

“This was partly your fault, you know.” She glanced at the man and sucked in a quick breath. He looked…rather intimidating. Probably why he thought he could get away with laughing.

“Maybe a little my fault but not much.” He spoke with irritating assurance. “You weren't paying enough attention to your horse. Come on, kid, let's get you out of there.”

He offered a big hand along with a crooked smile, and her resentment spiked. How did he know her attention had wandered? Much of it had been pure bad luck: Bill flailing around, his wife's cracking purse, the aggressive horse so close to the gap. And she was damn tired of being called babe and kid.

“Was it your colt who called to my filly?” She spoke through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, this is Lazer.” The man’s voice rippled with lazy affection as he shrugged and gestured at his horse. “He always has quite an effect on the ladies.”

She pulled her gaze off the man’s chiseled jaw, didn’t want to admit he’d also produced a similar effect. The track was already overflowing with spit and swagger. As though a smile and a shrug could fix this. The manure pile. By noon, everybody on the grounds would be snickering. Her fingers curled so tightly her nails bit into her palms.

“I don’t need any help.” She ignored his hand and rose to her feet, regal as she could be with straw on her cheek. “But there are some good trainers around who might help
you
with that horse’s manners.”

The stranger’s arm lowered. His smile remained, but there was no humor left in his cool gray eyes. And no wonder. She had deliberately insulted his training ability.

She had a fleeting impression of a mask dropping and something not so handsome, something dangerous. He gave her no time to analyze, just politely inclined his head and walked away.

Regret swept her. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing it were possible to pluck back her hasty words. Frustration with trainers like Bill Chandler and Otto Laing was no excuse. Besides, the man was absolutely right—she hadn't been paying attention to the filly. Even Bill had warned her about staying with the escort pony. Now she had blown her chance with Bill, as well as insulted the only person who’d tried to help.

Heavy with shame, she limped after him, determined to apologize. Her knee throbbed, but she forced herself to speed up. The stranger had a very fast walk. So did his horse.

And what a nice horse. She stopped composing her apology, distracted by a horse-lover’s appreciation for a good-looking animal. The gray was magnificent, straight-legged and well muscled, striding out with huge swinging hips.

Oh, shit. Despair dragged her to a stop, and her shoulders slumped, as deflated as her jockey prospects. This must be the new guy Sandra had been excited about—the trainer with two nice horses, the trainer who needed a rider, the trainer she’d just criticized.

Her apology fizzled to a groan. She’d lost much more than Bill’s filly. She’d just blown any shot of riding one of the nicest-looking horses she’d ever seen. And the gray’s flinty-eyed trainer didn’t look the type to give second chances.

Chapter Three

Dust clogged Kurt's nose as he bedded down the last stall. The itch grew until he sneezed three times, a staccato of noise that made his spotted horse turn and stare. He tossed a flake of straw against the back wall and retreated to his tack room. His tiny tack room.

He hung his pitchfork on two crude nails and blew out a resigned sigh. This backwater track was definitely a change from his usual setup. No air purifier, no desk, no coffee. Barely enough space to cram in some tack and a cot. At least his stay here would be brief—two weeks, three at the most. If he solved this case, it would happen quickly.

Archer had given him a license plate and two names—Julie West and Otto Laing. And the trailer Connor had called in, only hours before his murder, was still parked on the lot. Kurt had noted Otto’s plate when he took Lazer on an exploratory walk.