Summer Kisses (127 page)

“Yeah, but we haven’t dared open the door. He’s cranky.” Hope gleamed in Hans’ eyes when he looked at Kurt. “Think you can get close enough for a blood sample?”

Kurt walked to the front of the stall, studying Otto’s horse as he pulled on the gloves. The bay seemed calmer. He still stood by the back wall but at least faced them.

“Pass me the needle, but don’t latch the door,” Kurt said as he slipped into the stall. “I might need to get out pretty quick.”

He waited a moment by the door. The horse raised his head and snorted—wary but curious. Kurt stepped closer, one foot, two, three. When the horse tensed, he stopped. Finally the animal’s shoulder was inches away. He raised his arm. The gelding flinched so he lowered it and waited, repeating the process until he was finally able to stroke the horse’s wet shoulder.

“You’re no rogue, are you,” he murmured, patting the animal’s sticky neck.

Sticky?

He pulled his arm back and stared at the smear on his fingers. “This horse has holes poked through his neck,” he said slowly. “He’s all bloody. Looks like someone stuck him with a pitchfork.”

“Maybe the poor guy he trampled tried to defend himself.” Hans’ voice was dry; he remained a prudent distance from the door.

“Then someone moved the pitchfork, because it wasn’t in the stall this morning,” Kurt said. “Maybe the horse was forced over the victim’s body.”

“So it
is
a homicide.” Hans’ voice lowered, and he passed Kurt a needle.

The gelding swished his tail when Kurt pushed the needle in his neck but didn’t step away, seemingly happy to oblige. Blood slowly filled the vial.

“Need anything else?” Kurt asked.

“Can you scrape some dried blood off each leg?”

“Yeah, but pass me some hay.”

Kurt exchanged the vial for four plastic bags and a flake of sweet-smelling alfalfa. The horse rushed forward and shoved his nose in the hay, delighted to have a meal.

“Forgiving animals, aren’t they,” Kurt stated as he scraped blood from the front legs into a plastic bag.

Hans just grunted but no longer stared at the gelding in raw accusation. He’d even relaxed enough to lean over the stall door.

Kurt moved to the horse’s hindquarters and scraped off two more samples. He pushed the straw away from the animal’s hind feet, inspecting the trail of dried blood. Christ! He rocked back on his heels, startled by the glut of nail holes. Fresh holes, just like the mare. But unlike the mare, this horse had no back shoes.

He rose stiffly, heavy with thought as he gathered the samples and left the stall.

Hans took the vials with a satisfied grunt, oblivious to Kurt’s turmoil. “That’s it then, buddy. Hope this doesn’t compromise your role here. We were given specific instructions to avoid that.” He slotted the vials in a square steel case. “Keep your head up,” he added.

Kurt watched from the doorway as their vehicles crunched away, leaving him with a renewed sense of isolation. And regret. He could no longer ignore the regret. He swallowed, shoving back the sour taste in his throat. Didn’t want to think about why Nick had visited Otto’s horse—not now, not while his emotions bubbled like blisters.

He dropped a chair in front of Cisco’s stall and sat, determined to flatten his feelings, trying to draw from years of practiced control.

Cisco leaned over the door, always non-judgmental, always happy to see him. Kurt gave the horse an absent pat while the App tilted his neck in bliss. A few people wandered past, throwing Otto’s horse dark looks and asking nosy questions, but Kurt’s brusque answers discouraged conversation.

An hour later, Otto finally lumbered down the aisle.

Kurt flicked the piece of straw from his mouth and stepped into the aisle, blocking Otto’s path. “Friendly animal you trucked in last night.”

A variety of expressions darkened Otto’s face, but none looked like remorse. Kurt’s hands clenched.

“Yeah, the race office called. Told me what happened.” Otto sneered. “That idiot had no business fucking with my horse.”

“Did you ask Nick to shoe him?”

“No, he must have gone in there by himself. After I left.”

“Now why would a busy guy like Nick do that?”

“We’ll never know,” Otto said. “I hear he’s dead. Now get the hell out of my way.”

“Not yet.”

Otto’s sneer turned gloating. “Good, because I’ve been waiting to do
this
again.” He stepped forward and drove a fisted slab into Kurt’s stomach.

Kurt twisted but the blow landed hard, hard enough to drive his air out in a whoosh. He staggered and stumbled back.

Otto charged with a maniacal laugh, and Kurt reflexively snapped his leg into Otto’s groin. The man slowed but didn’t stop. Kurt sidestepped, kicked Otto’s face then whirled and chopped a lethal arm across the back of his neck.

Otto dropped like a sack of sand.

Get up. Get up
. Kurt circled the man on the floor, fists clenched, his breath escaping in furious gasps.

“That won’t help.” Sandra’s voice was distant, blurred by the roaring in Kurt’s ears. He looked up. She kept talking, her mouth was moving, but he couldn’t make sense of her words.

He turned back to Otto, sprawled on the floor, and edged closer, wanting to hurt him some more—needing to hurt him.

“That won’t help Nick,” Sandra said.

Kurt opened and closed his hands, battling for control. The thunder in his ears hurt, and he shook his head, trying to deaden the sound. Trying to deaden his feelings.

Slowly he backed away.

Otto struggled to his knees, staring at Kurt, bleary-eyed but belligerent.

“Get out of here, you asshole!” Sandra hissed, stepping between the two men. “And take that crazy horse with you.”

Otto lurched to his feet, raking them both with a virulent glare. Sandra edged closer to Kurt as Otto shoved past her and out the door.

“I don’t think it’s wise to antagonize him,” Kurt said, his ragged breathing loud in the tomblike barn.

“What were you doing? And I’m not a total idiot. I only talk tough when you’re around.” She shook her head. “Otto doesn’t care about Nick at all, does he?”

“He definitely has sociopathic tendencies,” Kurt said.

“Well, be careful. Fighting gets people suspended, and we like you around here. And it’s not just because of your nice horses.” She shrugged as though embarrassed by her admission. “How about I pony Lazer and Ace for free today? Believe me, that’s a rare offer.”

“Guess it’s a good thing you came along then, free ponying and all.” Kurt forced a smile, but his voice turned serious. “Thank you, Sandra,” he said. “I was rather…annoyed. You didn’t leave Julie alone, did you?”

“No. She’s fine. Gary’s with her.”

Kurt acknowledged a slight twinge of jealousy. “Okay. And I accept your ponying offer. But just jog Ace one lap. He’s racing tonight.”

“Oh, right. Ace’s first lifetime start,” Sandra said. “That could be exciting.”

“Could be,” Kurt said.

“Horse looks sharp, Martin.” Kurt patted Ace’s neck, admiring how the light reflected off the gelding’s washed and polished coat. Martin’s mouth inched upward in a wan smile. “You sure you want to be here?” Kurt asked gently. “You might want to take some time off. I gave your mom some numbers for people you can talk to about Nick’s accident.”

Martin looked down, scuffing the toe of his worn boot in the straw. “Psychiatrists.” He snorted. “No way. I’m not emo.”

“Actually they’re psychologists,” Kurt said, “and they can help. They’ve helped me.”

“You?” Martin’s eyes widened.

Kurt examined Lazer’s feet, feeling Martin’s avid eyes. “Everyone has stuff happen in their life. It doesn’t help to bottle things up. Doesn’t mean you’re not tough.” He ran his fingers over the shoes, checking their tightness, surprised he was even talking about this with a kid.

Martin stopped scuffing the floor. “I never thought someone like you would need help. Not like me, you know…” Martin’s voice trailed off. “Maybe I’ll get Mom to call.” His voice strengthened. “But not tonight. Tonight is Ace’s first race. And I’m definitely going to be there.”

“You sure have Ace looking like he can run,” Kurt said, relieved by Martin’s show of excitement. “Pass me the syringe, and I’ll wash his mouth.”

Kurt squirted water into the horse’s mouth, standing back so the green hay slime didn’t splatter on his boots. “Now the Vicks.”

“I didn’t see any snot.” Martin’s eyes darkened with concern as he opened the blue jar and pressed it in Kurt’s hand.

“This stuff clears breathing passages, blocks distracting smells. And washing his mouth gets rid of food particles. Everyone has a pre-race ritual. This is mine. I’ve done it this way since I was your age, helping my dad. Until it stops working, I’m afraid to change.”

“You? Afraid? You’re not superstitious, are you?”

Kurt just smiled as he flipped through his assortment of bandages. He didn’t consider himself superstitious. Not really. But much of racing depended on luck, and there was no way he’d risk incurring bad karma, not if it could be avoided. “The track is a bit cuppy,” he said, “so I’ll wrap his front legs for support. This red looks good on a dark horse, don’t you think?”

“I’m not that good with colors.” Martin shoved his hands in his pockets and stepped back, clearly uncomfortable with anything resembling fashion. “Sandra always uses purple,” he added helpfully.

“We’ll go with red to match my silks,” Kurt said. He wrapped Ace’s front legs and unbuckled the halter. “Pass me the bridle you cleaned.”

Kurt slipped the snaffle into Ace’s mouth. “I’m going to put his tongue tie on here so we won’t have to do it in the paddock. So many young horses, it might get hairy over there.”

He wet the thin cloth that would keep Ace’s tongue in place and looped it around the horse’s lower jaw. “Let’s go,” he said, looking at Martin. “But stay close. I’ll need your help saddling.”

“You want me in the paddock? Cool! I’ve never done that before.” Martin’s exuberant air punch startled Ace, who jumped sideways. “Sorry,” he mumbled sheepishly.

Kurt just yanked the brim of Martin’s ball cap. At least the kid’s haunted look had disappeared, pushed aside by excitement and inevitable race jitters. And some races definitely caused more jitters than others.

His hands had felt awkward when he bandaged, but he didn’t want to acknowledge his own fear. Didn’t want to worry about Julie. Wouldn’t let himself. This was just another race, one of hundreds. He turned to Martin and forced a careless nod. “Let’s go find out how fast our horse can run.”

Spectators were sparse when Kurt led a wide-eyed Ace into the walking ring. The gelding shied at a curly-haired boy who’d climbed onto the rail, making rumbling noises as he pushed a toy tractor. An apologetic mother rushed over and plunked the youngster back in his stroller.

A man in a spotless white cowboy hat passed Martin the bridle number, and Kurt guided Ace into the number eight stall of the saddling enclosure. The official pulled up the gelding’s lip to check his tattoo; Ace resented the familiarity and wrenched his head away. A steel gray colt jigged past, diverting Ace’s attention, and the official quickly made the check and moved on.

Julie’s valet appeared. Kurt placed the pad on Ace’s back, layering it with the numbered saddlecloth and her tiny race saddle. The valet stood on the opposite side as they buckled the two girths. Ace’s muscles bunched, but the gelding was mesmerized by the nervous gray being saddled on the move, and his wide eyes tracked the horse until the gray colt vanished in the slot beside them.

“Hold him tight, Martin, while I stretch his front legs,” Kurt said.

Crack!
Noise boomed, and the thick planks beside them quivered as the protesting gray smashed the wall. Ace flattened his ears and lunged forward, knocking Martin to one knee and dragging him alongside.

“Hang on!” Kurt yelled.

Martin’s heels trenched the dirt, but he didn’t release the panicked horse. By the time Kurt reached them, Martin had regained his feet, his jaw set with determination.

“Good job hanging on,” Kurt said, reaching for Ace’s reins. “It would have been a pain in the ass chasing him back to the barn. I’ll lead him for a bit. Get Ace away from his noisy neighbor.”

Martin nodded, glancing over his shoulder at the seven horse who still pounded the walls, objecting vigorously to every step of the pre-race procedure.

Kurt scanned the rest of the competition as he led Ace around the walking ring. The compact bay in front of them had nice hindquarters and would probably love the short distance. The blinkered colt ahead of the bay was not as well-muscled but had a nice hip and a businesslike attitude.

Of course in a race full of first-time starters anything could happen. His throat was dry, and he squeezed Ace’s reins. Please, keep your rider safe, he thought, just as the spastic gray charged out of the enclosure and reared straight up.

The gray wavered on his hind feet with the handler trying to maneuver him back down, but the colt lost his balance and flipped. His legs waved in the air like a stuck turtle.

Everyone hushed. Seconds later someone shouted and the horse scrambled up, still bouncing. The crowd breathed again.

Ace had watched the commotion too and started to shiver. It began with his shoulder but soon his entire body trembled, burning precious energy. Kurt guided him behind the blinkered horse, hoping the bay’s quiet confidence would reassure Ace.

Martin also needed to lighten up. He still looked pale after Ace’s bolt and studied the quirky gray with obvious apprehension.

“There’s a cute little redhead standing over there.” Kurt stopped Ace in front of Martin. “And I don’t think she’s waving at me.”

Martin flushed but glanced over. He gave the girl a jerky nod then studiously averted his head.

Kurt’s attention was caught by the parade of color filing from the jockeys’ room. “I need to talk to Julie,” he said. “Take Ace. Keep him moving, but don’t let him drag you around. He’ll feel better if you‘re confident.”

Martin sucked in a breath but squared his shoulders and gamely took the horse.