Racetrack Romance BOX SET (Books 1-3) (37 page)

Kurt trudged back to his truck with heavy steps. He rummaged in his box for a plastic bag and pressed redial on the phone. “Archer, the smugglers used hollowed-out pads to transport the stones. I found a couple in the garbage bin. Otto always pulled the hind shoes as soon as he arrived. When he hauled in late Wednesday, the victim was working in the barn. Otto probably cracked him with a shovel or something. Used the horse to cover it up.”

“Excellent.” Archer's voice oozed satisfaction. “Now we have the method. And forensics will have a field day with those pads.”

“Let’s pick Otto up now.”

“No. We can’t spook Friedman. The FBI are moving on the smugglers in Montana. A woman was killed in the last home invasion.” Archer’s voice turned rueful. “And naturally we’re taking heat about our porous borders.”

“But Otto’s too unstable to be running around.” The hair on the back of Kurt’s neck rose, and he gripped the phone. “He could hurt someone else.”

“It’s out of my control. See you tomorrow,” Archer said, and the line went dead.

Chapter Thirty-One

Julie chewed her nails and stared at the screen in the common area of the jock room. Ten riders crammed around the monitor, all intent on the first race. Some, like her, only had one mount. Others had five or six.

Gary Bixton was riding in every race.

Right now Gary wasn't thinking about anything except urging his mount down the stretch. She watched him on the screen, arms pumping as he fought to hold off the chestnut filly surging on the outside. Gary’s bay floundered on the rail, and the chestnut gained speed with every stride.

She leaped to her feet as the horses battled across the wire. Around her, voices rose as jockeys argued about the winner.

“Gary got it on the nod,” someone said.

“Nah, no way.”

Numbers flashed—a photo for first. She waited, silent and edgy. If Gary had the win, he'd be generous with information. If he lost a close one, he wouldn’t be very talkative. She exhaled with relief when his number appeared on top, and the race was declared official.

“Man, Bixton’s hot this year,” Allan, a wiry rider in his mid-forties, proclaimed. “He could win on a mule.”

“Helps to get the good horses.” Liam Anderson's voice was spiked with envy. “He’ll take the big race tonight on Sweating Bullet. My horse can’t handle that distance.”

Julie had memorized the horses, the riders, the color of their silks. Liam was on Frostbite, the other gray in her race, the horse Kurt feared would cause a traffic jam.

“Who’s on the Woodbine colt? I heard he’s had some fast fractions.” Liam glanced at Julie. “You’ve been exercising him. Is he any good?”

“She’s riding him, you fool,” a voice sniped behind her.

Julie nodded. “He's talented.”

“You’re riding him? Really? How’d you pull that off?” Liam stared with blatant disbelief.

A flush heated her cheeks. All the guys looked at her now with expressions that ranged from shock to envy. Little wonder. Until Kurt had arrived, she'd only ridden cheap claimers. And not very many of those.

Liam whipped out his program, running his finger down the entries. “Trainer must be going for the weight allowance or something.” His beady eyes narrowed. “How did you get that horse?”

“I jump out of bed early and gallop horses,” she snapped.

Liam sniggered. “More likely you jump into bed.”

“Shut up.” Allan punched Liam’s arm and turned to her. “Ignore the twerp. I talked to MacKinnon about riding. He said he likes the way you handle him.”

Someone chortled at Allan’s choice of words.

Julie crossed her arms and glared at Liam, pissed at his ugly innuendoes. Kurt had given her the mount before they'd ridden in the mountains. There’d been no ulterior motive.

The jockeys from the first race burst in, dirty and disheveled, and attention swung to the returning riders.

“Man, I got stuck on the rail,” someone complained.

Gary swept in several minutes later, wearing a victor’s grin.

“Congratulations, Gary,” Allen called.

“Thanks, boys. That was one of those races!” He raised his hair theatrically with his left hand and walked across the room, still grinning. “What a dog I’m on in the second, Jules. Think I should pack a lunch?”

She forced a smile. He probably guessed she was nervous, probably knew her stomach felt like she’d swallowed a bucket of nails, that it hurt even more as the big race loomed closer. Six races to go. She swallowed, debating about running to the bathroom again.

“Relax.” Gary’s voice lowered, and he stepped closer. “You’re in the catbird seat. If your big gray fires, you’ll win. If not, he’ll be at the back, but that’s where he's been running. Just like you.”

She rolled her eyes and gave a choke of laughter. “Are you trying to make me feel better or worse?”

“My point is, nobody will blame a loss on you. But Sweating Bullet is the favorite. If he loses, it will be my fault.”

He looked so disgusted, some of her tension eased. “You sure have it tough,” she said. “Always stuck riding the favorites.”

“Don’t get saucy, darling. Just remember to stay away from Liam the Lump. When Frostbite stops, it’s like someone pulled the emergency brake. Have to run, gotta switch silks. Oh, and Jules, avoid the rail if you can.”

He gave her shoulder a squeeze and turned, pulling off his shirt as he rushed away. The door to the male quarters slammed. She felt oddly bereft. She scanned the remaining jockeys, checking to see who else was sitting out. Allan had a mount but Liam was still there, his thin upper lip curved in a perpetual sneer.

Liam the Lump. She hadn't heard that nickname before, but it was perfect. Liam was a rough rider with a bad seat, but it was his constant petulance that repelled her the most.

“Must be nice,” he said as he wound a black tensor wrap around his wrist. “I've been riding here for five years, and guys like Bixton still ignore me.”

“Try smiling,” she said, adjusting the headphones of her iPod, careful not to tangle them with her new necklace.

“Yeah,” he said, “and maybe if I was female, I could try spreading my legs too.”

She flipped him a finger then turned her music up and fingered the lucky pendant. It felt warm, seemed to pulse with Kurt’s confident vibes. Feeling inexplicably fierce, she narrowed her eyes, holding Liam’s glare.

He was the first to look away.

Lazer snorted with indignation as Kurt rinsed his mouth. Water globules splattered the stall, dotting Martin’s chest.

“Shit!” Martin leaped away from the spray of water. “This is my good shirt.”

“At least the water’s not green,” Kurt said. “Pass me the bridle.” He slipped the bit in Lazer’s mouth.

The track announcer called, “They’re off!”

Lazer trembled in eagerness, his ears flicking as he tracked the sounds of the seventh race.

“Keep a tight hold in the paddock, Martin. Don’t let him get too close to the others. Especially the filly.”

“I won’t let go, no matter what.”

“I know,” Kurt said. “The odds are juicy, so I placed a couple bets. I’ll have to cash in for you, but you can hold the tickets for luck.”

Martin’s eyes widened when he saw the betting tickets Kurt passed him. “Fifty dollars to win and a ten dollar triactor.” He turned and earnestly patted Lazer’s neck. “Please, fellow. You run hard, and I promise to take you for grass every morning.”

“Let’s go.”

At Kurt’s command, the three exited the barn and headed over to the paddock for the eighth and feature race.

The grounds pulsed with energy. Spectators rimmed the paddock, eager to see the local racing sensation, Sweating Bullet, an Alberta-bred and the crowd favorite. Kurt led Lazer into the walking ring and joined three horses already parading in a circle. Lazer sidestepped, swishing his tail and staring suspiciously at the crowd.

The stocky bay ahead of them kicked out, smashing his hind legs against the rail, and the crowd folded then surged forward again. Their murmurs swelled when Sweating Bullet stalked into the enclosure. The blood bay’s arrogant gaze swept the other horses; his figure eight noseband only enhanced his regal bearing. The horse simply bristled with confidence.

Lazer raised his head and snorted a challenge.

At least, Kurt hoped it was a challenge. With Lazer, it might have been a friendly hello. He saw Julie’s valet waiting beside Martin and led Lazer into the saddling enclosure.

Martin held the horse, jiggling with the bit as Kurt laid the pad and saddlecloth over Lazer’s back. The valet passed Kurt the saddle but as he reached around to buckle the overgirth, Lazer’s muscles bunched. The horse plunged forward, almost striking Martin with his foreleg.

Martin held on and backed Lazer up, mouth set in a determined line.

“Well done.” Kurt nodded with approval and they were able to finish saddling. “Now lead him around while I wait for Julie.”

Martin guided Lazer around the walking ring. The kid’s mother beamed from the rail as her capable son led the prancing horse. He’ll be all right, Kurt thought, with a flare of satisfaction. Martin was at least a decade younger than anyone else in the paddock, but he acted like a veteran, and his cool poise was helping Lazer.

Kurt remained on the grass, savoring the intoxicating moments before a race, the shared hopes of the other trainers and nervous excitement of the owners. There were no losers yet, just a race full of possibilities.

Color caught his eye as riders filed from the jockeys’ room, their faces a study in contrast as they coped with the pressure. Some grinned, although the smiles were usually tight and forced. Others were solemn, like Gary Bixton. Even thirty feet away Kurt could see Bixton wore his game face—sober, focused, confident.

Kurt finally spotted Julie, and his forehead broke into a cold sweat. Not good. She looked scared, mouth pinched, walking like a robot. And there wasn't much time to loosen her up.

“Hi, Julie,” he said as she approached. “How about a kiss for luck?”

“No jokes.” She frowned and glanced at the scowling jockey behind her as though afraid he were listening. “Rider instructions only.”

It was a relief to see some animation return to her face, even if it was only a frown. “All right, riding instructions only,” Kurt said. “Turn left. Go fast. And ride him like you’re on the best horse in the race because…with the bridle adjustment, he is.”

“You actually put the magnet on him?”

“I did,” he said.

She smiled then, a beautiful smile that connected to something in his chest. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and never let go. But he jammed his hands in his pockets and watched Lazer.

The colt strutted beside Martin and the kid walked just as cocky, as though certain he was leading the best horse in the paddock. If confidence won a race, this one was in the bag. Kurt turned to Julie. “Your horse is ready to run.”

But there was no longer any need to pump her up. Intensity radiated from her; she was in her own zone now, focused on her mount, focused on her job.

“Riders up!” the paddock judge hollered. Kurt stepped sideways and legged her into the saddle. She placed her booted toes in the irons and knotted her reins. He took Lazer from Martin and led her to the walkway where Sandra waited.

Julie tipped her stick at Kurt, and she and Sandra joined the column of horses filing onto the track. He swallowed away the dryness in his throat and turned away. Nothing more he could do. It was all up to her now. And luck—ever-fickle racing luck.

Julie stared over Lazer’s arched neck as they stepped onto the track. The colt felt so ready. He coiled beneath her, alert and aggressive, and her confidence soared as she absorbed his boldness.

Spectators crammed against the rail, making comments, yelling encouragement. She recognized her dad’s holler but blocked most of the clamor, only vaguely aware of the trumpet call. Her senses focused on Lazer as he arched his neck and strutted past the crowd.

“That horse is such a showoff,” Sandra said as she and Okie escorted Lazer in front of the buzzing grandstand. Her voice lowered, and she studied the top of Lazer's bridle. “Is he wearing it?”

Julie nodded. They both grinned and galloped toward the backside.

When the starter called them, Lazer’s neck was warm but not washy. Not like Frostbite. The other gray was coated with white foam, creamy even between his hind legs. Liam’s horse definitely won’t make the distance today, Julie thought, before turning and scanning the other riders. They all looked serious; even Gary was—

Oh shit, what am I doing?
Panicky, she tried to redirect her thoughts. She didn't want to lose her focus, not now, not at the worst possible moment. And then the assistant starter was beside them, reaching up to take Lazer’s line. The colt tried to jerk away but was guided toward the gate.

He rammed in, crooked, slamming her knee against the metal bar. She cursed at the searing pain. He charged forward, bumping his nose against the grill, but the gate clanged shut behind them, and now there was no way out but straight ahead.

She pulled her goggles down, drawing in even breaths as she tried to reconnect with her edgy horse. On the right, bars rattled. A rider yelled. She glanced sideways as an attendant struggled to untwist the three horse. Please get him straight, she thought. That horse might broadside us, standing crooked like that. He’s right next to us—

“Stop it,” she muttered to herself. Lazer’s right ear flicked.

“Two to load,” a voice hollered.

Oh, Christ. She grabbed a piece of mane and adjusted her reins, lengthening them so she wouldn't jerk her horse on that first leap.

“One back!”

That would be Brenna’s Hitter. The speedy filly was in the outside hole and would be charging over, trying to grab the rail before the first turn. A lot of dirt would be thrown up as the frontrunners pulled clear. She’d be pushed back and could take Lazer a little to the outside. Keep him clear of the kickback and see what’s happening. She stared through the grilled door. Ready.

“No, no. Not yet!” someone called.