Summer Kisses (108 page)

Kurt leaned on the rail as the three horse trotted off. The limp was slight, barely noticeable, but the horse did favor his left front. With the favorite hurting, the race would be wide open, and a savvy better could make some money.

Unable to resist the farrier’s inside tip, he placed a twenty-dollar win bet then wandered through the mezzanine. It was a motley crowd—ranchers with big hats and dusty boots, downtown oilmen in fancy suits and women sporting bulky purses and hopeful eyes. He tried to pick up the accent of Otto’s late-night visitor in the hubbub but had no luck.

With two minutes to post, he returned to the rail with a cold beer in each hand. Adam was studying the tote board, watching as the changing odds flashed red.

“I can’t believe the two horse is the second favorite. But if he gets an easy lead, he might wire it. Shit, I should have boxed him.” Adam looked distraught at his betting oversight then accepted the beer with a rueful sigh. “Thanks,” he said. “Racing is the only sport I know where being a spectator is such hard work. But damn, it’s great therapy for whatever ails you.”

Kurt nodded in total accord. He swigged his frothy beer, savoring the magic of the track, and hoped Otto wouldn’t appear any time soon. Life didn’t get better than this.

A bell clanged. The horses charged from the gate.

Adam pleaded and hollered, his yells deepening as the runners surged across the finish line. The crowd groaned as the favorite finished fourth and out of the money.

“I think six got it. Then two. Shit, I missed the exacta.” Adam scowled at his betting stub. “But I got the win, thanks to Nick. Where did the slow horse finish?” he asked with a pointed grin.

“Third,” Kurt said. “You were right. It didn’t matter about his times. That horse just ran the race of his life.” He crumpled his ticket. Horseracing was always perplexing, one of the great mysteries of life, and he didn’t expect to figure it out anytime soon. Only recently he’d accepted he liked training better than police work, but both involved a lot of intuition. And luck.

“Are you betting on Julie tonight?” Kurt asked, subtly checking the price on Adam’s stub. Not a big gambler—ten dollars was the man’s total bet.

“Yeah,” Adam said, “but purely on emotion. She’s riding long shots.”

“Has she had a win yet?”

“Not at this track. She doesn’t get the good horses.”

Kurt nodded, wondering if he could risk squeezing in another question. Julie was a beautiful girl. Falls, breaks and much worse were a reality of racing. She’d told him about some of her previous injuries—broken wrist, broken collarbone, broken leg. But in the supplementary files he’d requested, he’d also discovered she’d fractured her tailbone. She hadn’t even mentioned that one, although clearly she’d been damn lucky. It had to be hard on her father.

“Do you get nervous when she rides?” Kurt asked.

Adam snorted. “I have to go for a piss every time she steps in the gate. It’s not so bad when she’s on steady horses, but the stuff that Otto fellow gives her…” He scowled and shook his head. “If I had the money, I’d buy better animals. But she’s like her mother, too proud and committed to ever turn down a horse. Bad as some can be.”

Kurt nodded and lobbed his cup into the garbage bin. Stiffened when he saw Otto barge past, only twenty feet away.

“I’m going to place my bets for the second race,” he said and followed Otto into the building.

Caution wasn’t necessary. Otto was engrossed with his
Racing Form
, head bent as he shouldered a path to the windows. Kurt positioned himself in the next line, where he was able to hear the man’s impatient growl.

“Two hundred to win number six, fifty dollar exacta six and one, twenty dollar trifecta six, one, seven.”

Kurt scribbled the numbers on his program, hastily placed a two-dollar bet and followed Otto back to the rail.

The man was edgy, his interest split between the fluctuating tote board and
The Form.
He ground his tobacco between tight jaws, shifted his weight from boot to boot.

Had Connor stumbled on a betting scheme? Kurt checked the odds of the three horses Otto had backed. They were short, probably too short to be worth the risk, and Otto hadn’t made contact with anyone. None of the jockeys had even looked at him.

Clang!
The horses charged from the gate. Otto leaned over the rail, urging on the six horse as the field thundered around the final turn. But his hollers turned ugly when the number one horse poked his nose in front.

“Damn dog!” Otto dropped his clump of tickets and barreled back to the pari-mutuel window where Kurt heard him place another hefty bet.

In the next race, Otto was close, but again couldn’t pick the winner. He tossed his fluttering stubs in the air and stomped toward the barns.

Kurt blew out a breath when Otto left, and the tightness in his shoulders eased. At least Otto’s absence would let him enjoy Julie’s race. It was clear the man was a big bettor, but where Otto—a struggling trainer by any definition—found that kind of cash was a key question.

Now though, Kurt wanted to concentrate on Julie and her jockeying skills, or lack thereof.

He staked out a spot at the paddock and studied Skipper Jack as the gelding ambled around the walking ring. The bay was rangier than most sprinters and wore a breast collar. He had a Roman nose and probably was a fighter—the horse did have a stubborn look—but his performance had tanked over the last few years.

Color flashed, and riders filed from the jockeys’ room, vibrant in the owners’ racing silks. Kurt had seen a few jockeys at morning gallops but most were unfamiliar, and he used his program to match names with faces. Julie was one of the last riders to appear, distinctly feminine in fitted nylon pants and green silks.

A chestnut stopped for a tack adjustment, blocking his view. He edged sideways, trying to see Julie receive her riding instructions. She looked tense. So did the bay’s trainer. The solemn man stroked the tips of his moustache, unable to keep his hands still. Only Skippy seemed relaxed. The horse ambled around the walking ring, his nose so low it almost dragged in the dirt.

Kurt checked the board. At sixteen to one, Skippy and Julie weren’t getting much respect, and the crowd had made Bixton’s horse the overwhelming favorite.

“Riders up!” the paddock judge called.

Kurt climbed the grandstand, high enough that he could see over the infield. So far tonight, he liked the way Bixton rode as well as another fellow named Allan. He’d probably use one of those guys, but it would be interesting to see how Julie handled herself under pressure. Putting her on Lazer was fine in theory, but he still had huge reservations about using her in an actual race. Christ, he didn’t want her to get hurt.

She hadn’t even won at a decent track, and he wasn’t going to use a jockey who might endanger other horses and riders, no matter how hard she worked in the morning. His gaze drifted back to the green silks. It seemed her first challenge was to wake up her horse for the post parade.

His mouth twitched at the strange sight. While the other runners danced and pranced, Skippy plodded, not even needing the company of an escort pony. Skippy turned his head once, surveyed the crowd and blinked, as though surprised to see so many people.

“Look at the horse the girl is riding,” a perfumed lady in front of Kurt said. “I think he missed his retirement party.”

Kurt checked his program. Skippy was seven years old but ambled like he was twenty-seven, and pity overrode his amusement. It was hard for a rider to look good on a poor horse. Without a lucky break or benefactor, many talented jockeys floundered in obscurity.

Tired, worn-out horses might be all Julie rode for a few seasons, and by the look of Skippy, she didn’t have much chance despite her comment about finishing on the board. Still, Kurt couldn’t quite shake the image of her jaunty thumbs-up. She had encouraged Sandra to bet on Skippy too, so she must have reason to believe the old horse would finish in the money.

Kurt raised his binoculars, studying Skippy as the horse plodded past. Julie was making no effort to rev him up, but she should know what type of warm-up suited him best—hell, she galloped the old guy every morning. And horses did run for her. He’d witnessed that firsthand with Lazer.

He yanked his program out and rechecked the gelding’s form. Skippy usually broke well. Perhaps the seasoned horse was saving everything for the race. And maybe he was underestimating both Julie and Skippy.

He slid his hand in his pocket and fingered some bills. The old gelding might be worth a show bet. Skippy would pay loyal backers well. No wonder Sandra had rushed from the barn to slap her money down.

The board flashed a warning, two minutes to post. He sighed and stretched back in his seat. Either he’d be shut out at the windows or get the bet down and miss the start of the race. And he had promised Julie he’d watch her ride before choosing a jockey.

A simple promise to watch.

He had to keep it. She might not be able to race worth a damn, but it would be fun to watch her on the old horse, and Kurt suddenly had a good feeling about it all.

He raised his binoculars and fumbled for a second, surprised by his clumsy fingers. Strange to have pre-race jitters. He didn’t even train Skippy. But as the horses mingled around the gate, waves banded in his chest and his breath shortened.

He stared through the glasses, watching the gate crew load the horses. Legs appeared below the bottom bar. Color flickered, and two front feet disappeared. A whirl of motion then the hooves reappeared, and the rearing horse stood square again. The crowd murmured. The horses were in.

An expectant hush blanketed the stands. Kurt’s breathing grew shallow as he strained to see. The gates sprung, the horses charged out and Julie’s veteran was right there, holding his own with the youngsters. That old horse had fooled everyone.

They ran in a bunch, a tight knot of bobbing horses identifiable only by the bright silks. But when the pack entered the turn they stretched out. Bixton was third, two wide, but galloping fluidly. Julie had Skippy galloping fifth along the rail; her horse didn’t look at all sleepy now.

They swept around the turn. It was a soft pace, and Bixton easily grabbed the lead. Kurt found Julie’s bobbing green silks, tight on the inside, stalking the leaders, her horse comfortably in hand.

At the half-mile pole, the horses in the back edged up. Julie, snug on the rail, had no place to go. Skippy was passed in a wave, boxed in and pushed back to seventh.

“Let’s see what you do now, sweetie,” Kurt murmured, pressing the binoculars closer to his face.

Off the backstretch, a blinkered horse in front of Julie drifted wide, and she muscled Skippy into the opening. Skippy scudded forward, splitting horses and finding running room.

“Go, baby!” Kurt dropped his binoculars and leaped to his feet, ignoring the curious glance from the woman in front of him.

Now there were only two horses in front of Julie. Bixton still led when they hit the top of the stretch, but he was chased by a fast-closing gray. Skippy loomed two lengths back, gamely battling to catch them both.

Bixton went to his stick, whacking rhythmically, pleading for every drop of energy. But his mount was tired, and the gray edged past. So did Skippy.

What a gallant horse! Kurt watched the old gelding strain for the wire. Julie waved her stick twice but didn’t touch him. No one watching the horse could ever doubt his effort. They swept across the finish line, the gray first, Skippy a length back and Bixton clinging to third.

Kurt cheered with the crowd, his admiration keeping him on his feet. Julie had managed to bring a long shot up for second. Skippy wasn’t the fastest runner in the field or the most talented, but the old horse was ratable and had tons of courage. She’d given him a good trip too, saving ground on the rail and not bullying him down the stretch. Not surprising the horse ran his heart out for her.

Kurt zigzagged down the steps and dodged a slew of muttering people to join Adam who leaned over the rail, cheering as Julie trotted Skippy back.

The horse was filthy. Dirt smeared his head and chest, but there was a bounce in his step, and he preened for the crowd, obviously energized by the attention. Julie pulled her saddle off, gave the smiling trainer an exuberant handshake and bounced to the scales.

“Thanks for cutting me off back there, Jules.”

Bixton’s drawl was unmistakable. Kurt stiffened as the jockey strutted up behind Julie and tapped her on the shoulder with his whip. However, she turned, white teeth shining through her muddy face. They walked away together, seemingly the best of buddies.

“Damn good race,” Adam said. “Did you have any money on it?”

Kurt jerked his gaze off the two jockeys. “Yeah. But nothing I can cash.”

“Too bad.” Adam smugly brandished his own tickets. “Julie will be thrilled with that race. First time she’s ever finished ahead of Bixton.”

“Are they good friends?” Kurt asked, staring at the results illuminated on the giant board, trying to pretend he wasn’t at all interested in Adam’s answer.

“Yeah, real good friends,” Adam said, “but that doesn’t mean Bixton likes to lose. He wants the riding title again this year.”

Kurt waited, hoping for more, but Adam’s head dipped over his
Racing Form
. Real good friends? What did that mean?

He glanced over his shoulder as Julie paused and passed her goggles to a wide-eyed fan. The young girl had braces and a horse photo on her shirt, and she clutched the souvenir in delight, ecstatic with the gift.

Bixton stopped and waited for Julie to precede him into the jockeys’ room. The guy was still smiling, cocky as ever despite riding the beaten favorite. Kurt wondered if they sat together between races or if Julie stayed in the female section. The door closed, and they were gone.

“Have you named a jockey for your big horse yet?” Adam asked.

“Not yet,” Kurt said, turning his attention back to Adam. “But I’ll know by the end of the night.”

“If you don’t use Julie, Bixton is by far the best rider around.” Adam shook his head with grudging respect. “He came up from Montana and was Alberta’s Jockey of the Year. Now, Alberta isn’t the bellybutton of racing, but you can’t win awards like that without a shitload of talent.”