Racetrack Romance BOX SET (Books 1-3) (42 page)

“I can't wait to hear what the cocky sonofabitch has to say,” Sandra said, bristling as Kurt trotted up, fast and full of purpose.

“Hello, Sergeant,” Sandra said. “Still hiding your Stetson?”

Kurt ignored her, filling his senses with Julie. The bruises around her mouth had faded but her face was pale, her eyes shadowed. She'd suffered from Otto's hands but even more from his, and now she looked at him with such expressionless eyes. His chest wrenched. “Julie—”

Sandra abruptly pushed her horse forward, blocking his gaze. “Why don’t you just go home? No need to hang around our cow town now that Julie’s off your Ten Most Wanted.”

Kurt grit his teeth. He liked Sandra, but emotion had rubbed his tolerance razor thin. “Julie, I'd like to talk to you.”

“Well she doesn’t want to talk to you. Not anymore,” Sandra replied. “Not unless you have a subpoena.”

He sighed. The redhead was bothering him and so were the onlookers flocking like vultures to the rail. Julie looked so fragile. He ached to hold her, to comfort her. To explain.

“Excuse me.” He squeezed his legs. Cisco flattened his ears and charged forward. Sandra’s horse immediately shuffled sideways, intimidated by the aggressive App. Kurt hooked his arm around Julie and scooped her from the saddle.

“Look after Julie’s horse, please.” He tossed Skippy's reins to Sandra and trotted off, with Julie flailing in front of him.

“Let me down,” she said.

“Let her down,” Sandra echoed as she cantered Okie after them with a surprised-looking Skippy in tow. “You asshole. Let her go. You…you…you’re not allowed to ride double on the track!”

Kurt tucked Julie's arms beneath his, slightly lightheaded now that he was finally holding her. “Sorry, but you wouldn’t answer your phone.”

Sandra stormed behind him, hollering and attracting everybody’s attention. “This is high-handed, even for a damn cop!” she yelled. “Here comes an outrider now. He’ll fix you.”

Hooves pounded, and a furious outrider galloped up.

Kurt whipped out his badge. “Police business. Murder investigation. Please clear the track of that lady.”

The outrider studied Kurt’s badge then nodded respectfully. “I heard about Nick's killer. Glad you got him.” He motioned at Sandra. “You’ll have to leave the track, Sandra.” But his eyes narrowed on Julie, who was still struggling and clearly an unwilling passenger. “How much time do you need, sir?”

“I'll let you know when I'm finished,” Kurt said. He ignored Sandra's sputters and trotted Cisco off before the watchful outrider could ask any more questions.

Julie pulled a fist loose and rammed it in his stomach. He let her whack a few times, hoping it would shake his mountain of guilt, but she was surprisingly strong, so he tucked her arm back beneath his and simply absorbed her presence. For a moment, he squeezed his eyes shut, overwhelmed with relief. She was okay.

“I see Otto gave you lessons on how to handle women.” Her voice was muffled by his arm.

Oh, God
. He loosened his grip, instantly shamed. She pulled free and slid to the ground. However, Cisco obligingly stopped, and he was able to snag her up again. He lifted her back in the saddle, but his arms felt heavier than her. “Promise you won't jump off,” he pleaded. “Give me five minutes.”

She hesitated.

“Please, Julie,” he said.

Her nod was almost imperceptible but still a nod, so he repositioned her, making sure the saddle horn wouldn't dig in her back.

He sucked in a breath. “I'm sorry you were dragged into this mess. I never dreamed you'd be exposed to danger. You were so damn brave. Otto…”

She averted her head, but he persisted.

“Otto almost raped you. Friedman—” He stopped, unable to continue as he remembered the murderous intent in Friedman's eyes when he leveled the gun. “Just let it out.” He swallowed, could feel her shivering now, and it pulled at his very core. “Your dad said you won’t talk about it, but you can't wish this stuff away.” His voice cracked, and he wet his mouth. “I've tried to do that, honey. It doesn’t work.”

Julie fought the urge to burrow into his chest. The thud of his heart, the calm timbre of his voice, even the steadiness of Cisco's walk made her feel insulated.

His voice rumbled on as he spoke about the first murder he'd witnessed. Spoke about how his misplaced trust in a mob girlfriend named Anne Marie had resulted in a shooting. Spoke of the things he did when undercover, the lies he’d told. Admitted his difficulties dealing with it all and why he’d eventually quit. Told her everything.

And finally her defenses crumbled. Kurt had been in that motel room. He knew the fear, the horror, the sordidness that seemed to cling to her skin.

Emotions ambushed her. The quakes started behind her eyelids and spread through her entire body. When the tears finally spurted, she turned to him. She cried long after his shirt was soaked, cried until she’d rinsed herself of the horror, the helplessness, the terror. Finally only hiccups remained, and she was limp in his arms.

At some point he'd removed her helmet. It dangled from the horn, bumping against Cisco's muscled shoulder. His fingers stroked her head, lulling her with the rhythm. She couldn't guess how many laps Cisco had walked but knew the tough horse would keep going until Kurt told him to stop.

“How could you think I was part of that?” she finally whispered, her voice hoarse.

“You weren’t a suspect for long. Not after my second day here.”

She thought she was drained of emotion, but his words stirred relief. Not after the second day. Some consolation at least. “Was I a suspect when you gave me the mount on Ace?”

He tried to thumb away a tear, but she turned from his touch. He seemed to wince, and Cisco walked another ten yards before he spoke again.

“No, you weren’t a suspect then.” His voice was gruff. “I watched you ride and knew you would suit. It had nothing to do with the case. Not much anyway.”

She glanced up, shocked by the odd sheen in his eyes. They could turn so many shades of gray, but right now he looked like he was in pain. Maybe she shouldn't have hit him so hard. After all, his jaw was badly bruised, and there was a square bandage on his neck.

“They told me you were okay,” she said. “But that you had to spend a couple days in the hospital?”

“Yeah, it was just a scratch. I wanted to call and…thank you, but I fell asleep.”

He was grateful
. She ducked her head, shriveling with despair. His hand splayed around her hip, the lighter hairs stark against his tanned skin. So casual, so composed. She wished he felt a fraction of what she did, wished she could shake the feelings from him, wished she could ask if he’d lied in that motel room

Instead she muttered, “Consider me thanked.”

His arms stiffened. “I couldn't tell you what I was doing. We were after a cop killer. The man you met, Connor, he was my partner, my friend.”

“I understand the secrecy. And I'm very sorry about Connor. But you shouldn't have had sex with me. It's not right to use people like that.” Her voice tailed off to a miserable squeak.

“It wasn’t just sex.”

His words marginally unclogged her throat, and she was able to swallow. She looked at the sky, watched as a fluffy cloud was pushed along by the Chinook breeze. “So many lies. Like buying land. What else did you lie about?”

“I never lied about my feelings for you,” he said. “Never.”

A lightness unfurled in her chest, and her breathing seemed a tad easier. She struggled to square her concept of honesty with the moral ambiguity of his job. He was just so inscrutable, always hiding his feelings, saying whatever was necessary at the time.

Cisco kept walking.

“How did you feel when you lied?” she finally asked.

“Hated it.” His voice was unusually rough and she glanced up, but he was staring straight ahead. She couldn’t see his eyes.

“Guess it doesn't matter anyway. I hear you're leaving.” She toyed with a strand of Cisco's thin mane and fought a rush of despair.

“But it does matter.” His voice thickened. “You matter. And I’m not leaving until you feel the same way.”

“And then you leave?” She forced a laugh. “After I care.”

“No.” His arms tightened as though frustrated. “We can work something out. It’d be tough if you rode here when I’m training halfway across the country. Most of my horses are at Woodbine or Belmont. A few are still in Florida. But none would fit here.”

What was he saying? Her heart thumped so loud she feared even the intrepid Cisco might shy at the noise.

“We can try moving them around though,” he said quickly. “I'll talk to the owners, see what works.”

“How many horses do you have?”

“Lots. Most, I train for others. Some are real quality horses. You could do real well on them.” His throat convulsed. “I don’t want to rush you, Julie. You’re young. You might not feel like I do yet but with time—”

He sucked in a breath, closed his eyes and dipped his head over hers. “God, I love you.”

She couldn't speak, stunned by what he was saying, what he was showing. He wasn't hiding anything now, not his tormented eyes, not his raw feelings, not his heart. Joy blazed through her, leaving her so dizzy she gripped his arm.

He thought she needed more time? “Actually,” she said, “I’ve had plenty of time.”

He jerked his eyes open. She smiled up at him, her lower lip tremulous with emotion. “Julie.” He breathed her name, groaned and covered her mouth in a searing kiss. Both were oblivious to the crowd, the cameras and the grinning redhead who whistled an old Bobby Sherman tune.

Cisco noticed. His ears flicked but he continued his resolute trudge around the track, perhaps sensing they didn't want to stop, not quite yet.

* * *

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Early readers: Jan Pettersen, Becky Mason, Elaine Pettersen, Barb Snarby and Anne MacFarlane. Your faith and support inspired at a critical time.

Farrier Leon Hebb who knows all about feet and helped plot the best place to hide stones.

Former RCMP officers Martina Thornton and Archie Mason who gave invaluable expertise and patiently answered all questions about guns and procedures. Any mistakes are mine.

Ron Carlyon, who taught me to love racing, back when a two-thousand dollar claimer was a pretty fast horse.

My son, Hans, who was content with frozen dinners when I was too busy to cook.

Authors Julianne MacLean, Judith James, and Pamela Callow who give so generously of their time and knowledge, even when immersed in their own deadlines.

Dr. Homer Noble for assigning numerous five thousand word essays at Liverpool Regional High School; he made writing fun.

Lucinda Campbell who formatted so efficiently and cheerfully, over and over again.

Fabulous editors Pat Thomas and Rhonda Helms for their insight and suggestions. They made this book much better.

Romance Writers of Atlantic Canada, Pixie Chicks and the Ruby Slippered Sisterhood; your encouragement and camaraderie is priceless.

And lastly to my daughter, Brenna who was beside me every inch of the way and knows a good horse when she sees one. Thanks for everything, honey. Those early mornings at the track are cherished.

Color My Horse

By

Bev Pettersen

Copyright 2011 Bev Pettersen

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or a portion thereof, in any form. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people and horses, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover art design by Pat Ryan Graphics

Photo Credit: Horsephotos.com

http://www.bevpettersen.com

Dedication

To my daughter, Brenna, with gratitude and love.

Chapter One

The racetrack’s scenic infield was usually deserted, but today the police cars and body bag had drawn a hushed crowd. Mark sucked in a deep breath and stared over the heads of solemn onlookers.

“Who’d they pull from the pond?” Dino asked in a voice a shade too loud. “Heard old Lefty didn’t show for work.”

No one answered. Attention was riveted on the grim-faced officials clustered around a pitiful corpse. A police officer with a long stick waded into the murky water and snagged a dripping hat. Lefty’s hat.

Mark’s worry escaped in a ragged sigh. Lefty: gruff, single and a confirmed alcoholic. Tragic, but at least it wasn’t a child who had drowned. The Belmont track had two infield ponds, and the backstretch kids sometimes snuck over the rail, lured by the quacking ducks.