Racetrack Romance BOX SET (Books 1-3) (9 page)

“Joe’s horse is stubborn as a mule,” the filly’s rider said, trotting beside her on the way back to the chute. “Damn horse didn't want to go in. Now he won’t leave. Trainer should have done more work with him.” He shook his head at the blazed chestnut still propped in the gate.

The young horse had obviously refused to run when the doors opened and still stood rooted in the gate, with Joe vainly trying to urge him out.

The filly’s rider gestured with his stick. “Look at that nut. He must have a death wish walking by an open gate.”

Julie stiffened as Otto lumbered in front of the frightened colt, waving his arms and hollering. She could see the whites of the horse's eyes, how his head raised in panic as Otto loomed closer.

The colt abruptly catapulted from the gate, smashing Otto with his shoulder and driving him into the dirt.

Julie pulled Ace to a halt, staring in horror. A bird trilled from the infield, its cheery song discordant with a man prone on the ground. A loud fly buzzed around her ear. No one spoke.

Otto raised his head and her breath escaped in a whoosh. His arm moved, then both legs. He slowly picked himself out of the dirt. A communal sigh of relief was replaced by a groundswell of mutters.

“Teach him not to stand in front of a loaded gate,” someone said.

Two men at the rail nodded, followed by more grumbles.

The starter gestured with his thumb. Julie had never seen the stony official show so much emotion, his expression a mixture of relief and anger.

“Leave the area now,” he snapped. “I won’t tolerate interference like that!” He turned toward the horses. “Riders! Bring them back in.”

She couldn’t tell if Otto was disoriented or merely stubborn, but he ignored the starter's command and glared at Joe, who had trotted back on the reluctant chestnut.

“Man, I’m sorry,” Joe said, his voice squeaky with relief. “No way to avoid you. My horse was scared when you cornered him and busted out on his own. Nothing I could do.”

Otto’s hands fisted, and Julie’s breath hitched. Surely he wouldn’t be stupid enough to drag Joe off his horse, not in front of the officials. Otto stalked closer, his eyes narrowed on Joe.

He’s going to be kicked off the track
. Julie’s relief was tempered with dismay. Otto gave her the creeps, but he was also one of the few trainers she jockeyed for. His mare was scheduled to race that evening, and if he was kicked out now, the mare wouldn’t be allowed to run. What bad timing.

“Excuse me, sir.” Kurt’s calm voice sounded from behind the rail. “I’d like to check my horse before he goes back in the gate. He might have cut himself when he stumbled.”

The starter turned his attention to Kurt. “Make it quick,” he said, still edgy after the incident.

Otto seemed to regain control. He shot Joe a dark glower, shoved his hands in his pockets and stalked away.

Julie pulled her gaze from Joe and Otto. Ace seemed to be fine, but it was fortunate Kurt’s request had distracted the starter and given Otto a chance to cool down. She leaned over Ace’s shoulder as Kurt approached. “We had a sloppy break,” she said, scanning his face for signs of displeasure. “I’m sorry. The next one will be better.”

“Not your fault. You did a good job keeping him on his feet.” He crouched down and ran a hand over Ace’s legs.

“Ace won’t be so tight next time,” she said, forestalling any lecture. “There was a lot of excitement. I'm glad Otto's okay. Thought he’d finally be banned.”

“Not banned yet.” Kurt rose, his hooded gaze following Otto, and she blew out a relieved sigh as it truly seemed he wasn’t obsessing about the break. Chandler would have lectured endlessly.

She followed Kurt’s gaze, watching as Otto trudged along the walkway. A hoof print marked the back of his shirt, but he walked evenly and showed no other sign he'd just been trampled by a horse.

“He's tough as an oak tree,” Kurt said, so quietly it seemed he was talking to himself.

“Come on. Let’s get those horses in.” The starter gestured impatiently at Julie. “You first.”

“Keep his head up,” Kurt said softly. “You did fine.” He wiped some dirt off Ace’s muzzle then squeezed her boot. Turned and stepped back over the rail.

She tightened her lips, listening as the trainer of Joe’s horse shouted loud instructions about using the whip to make the colt listen. She was glad she was riding for Kurt.

“I want your horses coming out together or we’ll be doing this another day. We’re already pushing regs,” the starter warned as a handler grabbed Ace and led him into the gate. The two other runners entered the slots. Julie grabbed a chunk of mane, steadied her breathing and waited.

The gate rattled. Someone cursed. But she stared through Ace’s flattened ears, determined not to let her distractions filter down to Ace. Her mother had been a big fan of visualization, and Julie pictured Ace coming out straight and fast.

Crack!
The doors opened and the three horses broke as one—running hard, running straight.

Two straining heads bobbed on her right, and whoops and whistles cut the air. She was vaguely conscious of her own yells as she urged Ace down the lane. He galloped strongly, even passing the other two horses. She rose in the stirrups, pumped with excitement as she eased him up before the turn.

Gate work was an important step in a young horse’s career. Races could be won or lost at the start, and fear of the gate often launched many bad habits. She stroked his neck, absorbing the new bounce in his trot. The two horses beside her also seemed more confident as they headed back to their waiting trainers. Even the chestnut pranced, strutting now that he’d overcome the scary gate.

Kurt snagged Ace's reins and led him through the gap, where Julie dismounted.

“Good job,” he said, nodding with approval. “Starter said he’s ready to race.”

“Ace is a nice horse,” she said. Her voice bubbled with adrenaline. “He gallops straight, businesslike. And the bit worked perfectly too. I've never seen a snaffle so low.”

“Me neither,” Kurt said. “Surprised it worked.”

She jerked back, shocked by his admission. She’d trusted him; yet, he’d put her out on a green two-year-old, not knowing if she’d have any control? The side of his mouth twitched, and she realized he was teasing.

She punched his arm, then dropped her hand, appalled. Good grief. What was she doing? Hitting trainers now? She turned and unbuckled her mother’s old saddle, her fingers fumbling at the buckle.

“Good thing you didn’t fall off.” Kurt didn’t seem to notice her embarrassment. His deep voice rippled with amusement. “You might have been banged up. And I’m sure you wouldn't forgive me if you missed tonight's race.”

She nodded, grateful for the diversion. She hadn’t been thinking. Had been way too comfortable. She wouldn’t do that again. Besides, his arm had felt like bedrock. She suppressed a wimpy urge to rub her knuckles.

“I actually have two races tonight,” she said, pulling off her saddle and edging back a step. “Otto's mare and a classy old sprinter.” It was the first time she’d ever had two rides in one night, so she definitely wouldn’t have welcomed a training spill. Not today, not when she was so close. Just the thought of a fall made her throat tighten.

His eyes narrowed. “Why aren’t you riding Ace back to the barn?”

“If you don’t mind, I have some horses to gallop at this end.” She paused, hoping he was still considering her as a jockey, even though Ace’s first break from the gate had been far from stellar. “You’ll watch me tonight?” She moistened her lips. “Watch me ride?”

“Definitely.” His eyes darkened. “We can meet after the races. Go for a drink.”

Her palms felt moist as she gripped her saddle like a shield. Part of her wanted to see him, but it could cause all sorts of complications. And though she liked being around him, knew she could learn a lot, she felt much safer when she was mounted. He jumbled her emotions, and she didn’t like it. Didn’t like it one bit.

“We’ll talk about Lazer,” he added, his face expressionless.

She swallowed. Then nodded slowly. “All right.” She forced her most businesslike tone, the one she always used when trainers turned too familiar. “We'll meet…have a meeting, later.”

But her formal attempt only seemed to amuse him because his mouth twitched, and the glint in his eyes didn’t look at all businesslike.

Chapter Ten

Kurt rubbed his jaw and stared absently through the motel window, imagining Archer’s reaction to his e-mail. A recommendation to claim a racehorse was certain to raise objections; plus, he also wanted a border alert placed on Otto.

Experience had taught him to make requests in pairs, one as a throwaway so there was room to negotiate what he really wanted. But he needed both these things, and he needed them now.

His attention drifted over the stained curtain—three cigarette burns and another mark that resembled blood—and he dragged his chair sideways, suddenly resentful of the grungy room. It would be a relief when this sordid chapter of his life was over. One last job. A few more lies.

Halfway houses and cheap motel rooms had been tolerable with a partner—a partner kept you sane and helped preserve your honest side. Connor had been one of the best, a guy who would go to the wall for you. Kurt had never worried when Connor was behind him.

Connor
.

He slammed his fist on the desk, uncoiling with such force the chair shot back and cracked against the wall. He pinched the bridge of his nose, using the pressure to steady his anger. Usually he had no trouble keeping his emotions blanketed, and his unexpected weakness surprised him.

It never helped to brood. Connor was dead.

The only thing left was to catch his killer. Claiming Otto's mare was a key step but authorization for her purchase required diplomatic wrangling, and Kurt didn't have much wiggle room. The mare had to be claimed tonight.

He clicked his laptop shut with a streak of defiance. Sometimes it was easier to ask forgiveness than permission, and this was one of those times. He'd finish the report in his tack room and send it to Archer at the end of the night. After he owned Otto’s horse.

When Kurt strode into the barn, Sandra had commandeered a large section of the aisle and scrubbed at her saddle with a mangled toothbrush. Her purple shirt and silver belt were festive, but her dark scowl dampened the effect.

He couldn’t resist teasing. “A cowgirl happily cleaning tack,” he said. “Such a rare sight.”

“It’s cleaned every year, whether it needs it or not.” She gestured at the extra sponges. “A nice guy would help me out.”

“Then I hope you can find one.”

She gave a rueful shrug. “It was worth a try. I’m a bit lonely.”

He glanced down the aisle. The barn was deserted, and he did need to talk to Sandra, preferably in private. He hooked a bale of hay and straddled it beside her. “Maybe I’ll help this once but don’t confuse me with a nice guy.”

“I don’t think I’d ever do that,” she said.

He checked her expression but she was busy scrubbing a soapy lather on the saddle; he couldn’t see her eyes. “You working all the races tonight?” he asked, picking up a round sponge.

“Most of them.”

“You ponying Otto’s mare in the seventh?”

“Nope. Otto’s too cheap to pay even though his horses are loco. That's why none of the regular jocks will ride for him. They’re exhausted before they even reach the gate.”

“Sounds like Julie will need help,” he said. “Will you pick the mare up at the barn and take her back after the race? Since she’s extra work, I’ll pay double.”

He pulled a fifty-dollar bill from his pocket and anchored it with the shiny tin of saddle soap.

Sandra didn't touch the money, just stared at him with narrowed eyes. “You do know Julie is focused on her career?”

“Yeah. I noticed that.” He jabbed far too much soap on the sponge.

“What I mean is,” Sandra tossed him a stained rag, “she doesn’t date. All the guys try, of course, but they’re wasting their time. She has her reasons.”

He leaned forward, unable to resist a little probing. “Which are?”

“None of your business.”

“And it’s not really any of your business,” he said, “why I want a pony for the seventh. Can you do it? Or should I find someone else?”

“No problem. I’m always glad to make extra money.” She scooped up the bill, fingering it as though checking for counterfeit.

He was disappointed she wasn’t going to talk about Julie, but it was more important to swing the conversation around to Otto. He worked up a white lather on the breastplate, scrubbing the leather as though it were the most important thing on his mind.

It was rather enjoyable. The mindless rubbing and the smell of soapy leather reminded him of a more innocent time in his father’s tack room. His dad had always believed in working one’s way up, and Kurt had spent long hours doing menial chores.

“This looks brand new.” He trailed a finger across the glistening leather but watched Sandra’s face while he spoke. “Maybe we should hire out. Otto’s tack look filthy.”

She made a disgusted sound and shook her head. “I hate cleaning leather. And most of Otto's stuff is so old it belongs in a museum. All that hobble shit. Nobody uses that any more.”

“Does he use it much?”

“Hard to say what he does with it, the way his stall is boarded up. But one night, Julie and I were late. He was fighting with a horse in there. Lots of scuffling.”

“Did he put the boards on that stall or were they already there?”

“Dunno.” Sandra’s forehead wrinkled. “Can’t remember.”

Light steps sounded, steps he immediately recognized. He glanced up, watching as Julie walked gracefully down the aisle. “I don’t believe this.” Her eyes widened. “Sandra? Cleaning tack? Kurt, you're sweet to help.”

Sweet. He almost choked. He’d never heard that before, although he’d been called many other names, usually by someone being hauled away in cuffs. But it didn’t hurt for her to think he was sweet; in fact, he kind of liked it.

“I’m a full-service trainer,” he said lightly. “You ready to ride tonight?”