Summer Kisses (128 page)

“I’ll be close by,” Kurt said, stepping onto the grass to await Julie. He sucked in a regretful breath when he saw her stiff walk, the way her right shoulder tilted. Goddammit, she was obviously sore, obviously shouldn’t be riding. But her face glowed with such anticipation, his regret slid away. There was no way he could deny her this race.

“Good evening, sir,” she said.

“Ms. West. How are you?” He probed her face, but she shrugged off his concern with an eager smile. She wore his racing silks—MacKinnon stable colors—and his sense of possession sharpened.

“Your horse looks good,” she said, her attention on Ace.

“Martin has him polished. He’s on the muscle. You’re last to load, so he won’t have long in the gate. The seven horse has been acting up. If there’s a rodeo in there, jump off and get the hell out.”

“Sure.” She crossed her arms and grinned.

“I mean it, Julie.” His fear crystallized at her blasé attitude. “And don’t hurry him out of the gate. A couple of these horses might blow the turn. Don’t let them push you wide. Just relax, let him find his stride. Try to avoid traffic trouble and make it fun for him.”

She nodded. Uncrossed her arms and flicked her whip against her boot. Clearly eager to get going. Kurt said nothing else, waited beside her as Ace towed Martin around the ring. The horse’s head was bent to his chest, ears pinned, and he looked as eager as Julie.

“It’s only four furlongs,” Kurt added, unable to remain silent. “Ace isn’t bred for early speed. It’s the experience that’s important, not where he finishes. You’ll probably be running at the back most of the way. Just give him a good run down the lane. I want him passing a horse or two there.”

She nodded, looking so tiny that dread shivered through him. God, he hoped Ace didn’t have a claustrophobic fit in the gate, or blow the turn or stumble or veer in front of another horse.

He squelched his fears and forced a smile. Nodded at someone he didn’t know. “Riders up!” the paddock judge bellowed.

Martin guided Ace over, and Kurt legged Julie into the saddle. She slipped her toes in the irons and knotted the reins while he led the gelding to the group of waiting escort riders. It was a routine he’d followed hundreds of times before with countless horses and riders. But as he handed the pair off to Sandra, he was hit with the weird compulsion to grab Ace and turn him around. Forget the damn race.

Ace needed more training. He wasn’t really ready. Too many new things could scare him: the crowd, the announcer, the other horses. In a second, he would freak.

Ace walked calmly onto the track.

A trumpet salute sounded as the procession of two-year-olds paraded in front of the grandstand. Kurt tore his gaze from the tiny rider perched on Ace’s back. Looked at Martin. The boy’s face was bright with nervous anticipation—the feelings Kurt usually had before a race. But not today. Today his gut corkscrewed with fear.

He gestured at the middle of the grandstand. “Let’s watch from up there.” He scaled the steps two at a time, Martin scampering beside him, and only stopped climbing when he could see across the infield.

There’d be a straight run from the chute before the horses entered the turn and fired for home. Ace looked like a veteran, warming up calmly beside Sandra’s horse. But there was a lot of pressure, and that goofy gray was breaking from Ace’s inside.

“Ace is probably happy to be with Sandra’s horse,” Martin said. “He and Okie are good buddies now that their stalls are close.”

Kurt swiped his clammy forehead and nodded. Ace would be fine. Julie would be fine. But maybe he should have walked over to the starting gate so he could watch them load. So he’d be close by if anything happened.

“Ace looks great,” Martin said.

Kurt nodded again but shifted sideways, wishing Martin would shut up. He stuffed his program in his hip pocket, surprised to see it tightly rolled, like a kid’s telescope. He didn’t usually mutilate his programs. Couldn’t remember ever doing that.

The starter called the horses. Kurt’s fists balled as the group turned for the chute, and Julie’s red helmet approached the gate.

One by one, the horses disappeared. He kept his gaze fixed on the splash of red as Julie circled Ace, waiting their turn to load. There were only two back now, the seven horse and Ace.

The seven horse balked.

Blue silks flickered from within the gate as a horse reared, protesting the delay. Julie had better be ready. The starter wouldn’t make this young bunch stand around long. The doors would open as soon as Ace walked in.

The seven horse was kicking up a commotion, and his panic was spreading. Horses’ heads jostled; colors moved behind the bars.

“Good thing Ace isn’t loaded yet. Some of the horses are really freaking out.” Martin’s sharp eyes were glued to the gate. “Man, did you see that horse go up in the air! Looks like the rider’s off.”

Kurt groped in his back pocket. Dammit, he’d forgotten his binoculars.

“The seven horse is scratched,” the announcer said, his voice cutting through the crowd’s grumble.

Good
. Kurt felt too tense to be charitable. Now Julie wouldn’t have that bronco on her inside. The seven horse was led to the far end of the chute, and Julie’s helmet disappeared in the gate.

The last horse was in. Oh, Christ. He stopped breathing.

“They’re off!” the announcer said.

A horse bobbled, one of the runners close to the rail. The horse stayed on his feet, but the jockey was down. There was a collective sigh of relief when the rider picked himself out of the dirt. Kurt started breathing again. The riderless horse galloped after the pack, running in the middle of the track, with flapping reins and a carefree attitude.

Kurt’s attention swung to the horses galloping down the backstretch. Ace ran five wide. Julie’s helmet bobbed along in a maze of churning bodies. Bobbing way too much. Ace was running ragged.
He’ll blow the turn if he goes in like that
. Steady him, Kurt willed.

By the three eighth pole, the horses had strung out. Ace was fifth, four lengths behind the leader, but running awkwardly.

“Boy, that chestnut is really smoking,” said a white-haired man in front of them. “He’ll go gate to wire. Look how easy he’s moving.”

Kurt blocked the comments, his breathing lightening when Ace finally settled into his smooth ground-eating gallop. “Good girl!” he yelled with such intensity the white-haired man turned and raised an eyebrow. Ace’ll run the hook okay now, Kurt thought, as the gelding entered the turn on his left lead.

The crowd moaned as the betting favorite, a blinkered bay running second, drifted across the track and bumped the horse on his outside.

“Did you see that hit?” Martin shouted gleefully. “This is better than a hockey game!”

Kurt couldn’t watch anyone but Julie. His heart pounded with every beat of Ace’s hooves. By elimination, there were only two horses in front of her, and Ace was running the turn beautifully. As the horses straightened down the stretch, the chestnut was still four lengths in front, a white-faced bay was second and Ace strained to catch them both.

The crowd roared, anticipating a big payoff. The chestnut flicked his ears in front of the grandstand, faltering at the unfamiliar wall of noise. Bixton waved his whip, reminding him it was a race. The chestnut dug back in.

But Ace blitzed down the lane, his stride long and effortless. He charged past the bay and swept across the finish line in second place, confident and full of run.

Kurt sagged with relief. Martin cheered and jabbed a jubilant elbow in Kurt’s ribs. Kurt barely felt it; he was too drained. Julie’s riding was aging him faster than any police work.

“Thank God that’s over,” he muttered as the last runner straggled across the finish line, and an outrider nabbed the loose horse. “I’ll go pick him up.” He wiped his brow, trudged down the stairs and stepped over the rail.

Julie looked ecstatic as she trotted Ace back. Fine for her, Kurt thought sourly. He felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach.

“Beautiful ride,” he heard himself say. “Just what I wanted.” He groped for something else, but his mind was numb. “How did he feel?” he asked lamely.

“Super!” Her teeth gleamed against her dirty face, her silks were filthy and three sets of muddy goggles draped her neck. She’d never looked more beautiful. “He was wonderful once he settled,” she added. “Ran the turn like a train.”

Kurt just stared, his relief so sharp it was bewildering. He fumbled to unbuckle the girth but his gaze drifted back to her fragile chest, watching as it rose and fell beneath his silks. He’d have to check on the type of protective vest she wore. Some weren’t as good as others. And her saddle looked so worn. One equipment failure, one stumble, and she’d be crushed.

He felt cold. She still jabbered on about Ace and he forced another nod, another inane comment. “You rode him perfectly,” he mumbled.

Ace held his head high, staring imperiously over the crowd as she whipped off her saddle. “He thinks he’s a big racehorse now.” She laughed and gave Ace a grateful pat before turning back to Kurt. “Thanks for giving me the ride, in spite of everything. I really appreciate it.” She clutched the saddle in front of her, her face so earnest. So precious.

“No problem. You two clicked.” I’m the one with a problem here, he realized. His legs felt heavy, and he was reluctant to lead Ace back to the barn, reluctant to let her go. He took a hard swallow. “Are you going to the pub tonight?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. Maybe I’ll see you there?”

“Ah…Cody’s coming too. We’re sort of going there together.”

“Sort of?” He thought regret flickered over her face but wasn’t sure. She was finally learning to hide her feelings, and a poignant sadness swept him.

She squared her shoulders, staring at him through the barrier of swirling, suffocating dust, but her enunciation was very clear. “Cody and I are going out tonight.”

“Okay.” He swallowed convulsively—the dust made it impossible to breathe, but he seemed to be the only trainer with a problem. “Some other time then,” he managed.

He turned Ace on his haunches, passing Martin, who was high-fiving a group of raucous teenagers. The red-haired girl stretched so far over the rail it seemed she would topple into Martin’s arms. At least the kid was having some luck.

Kurt led a strutting Ace back to the barn, wishing he could share the horse’s exuberance, wishing he didn’t feel quite so empty.

By the time Martin appeared, he was hosing Ace and weighing alternate plans for the evening. He gave Martin an absent nod as he considered calling Tiffany. They could pick up right where they’d left off. No reason not to call her—except that the idea had zero appeal.

“Still smiling over that cute redhead?” Kurt asked as he pulled his gaze from the water puddling around Ace’s hooves.

“No way.” Martin shook his head, but a telltale flush stained his cheeks. “I’m just happy about how well Ace ran. But I’m going back to the grandstand after I feed. Catch up with my friends. They all want to hear about my job.”

The kid looked happy. Kurt shoved aside his own disappointment. “I’ll do the feeding tonight,” he said. “Just hold Ace while I grab a sweat scraper. Then you can scram.”

Martin’s grin widened, and Kurt was even smiling when he entered the barn. Maybe he’d hang out with the horses tonight. Stick around and clean some tack. He slowed when he saw an open door, a door that was usually locked—Otto’s tack room.

He quickly checked Otto’s horse. The gelding stuck his head over the door and nickered, seeming to consider Kurt an old friend.

Obviously Otto hadn’t been around for a while. The stall was filthy, filled with soiled straw that even a starving horse wouldn’t eat. A cracked water bucket was overturned in the far corner.

“Did he quit feeding you?”

The gelding gave Kurt’s arm a hopeful nudge.

Kurt shook his head and slipped into Otto’s tack room. It didn’t look promising for the hungry horse. The room was empty of hay, empty of grain, empty of almost everything. Even the hobbles were gone, along with Otto’s bits and bridles. The metal box was still there though, its contents a secret.

A murder weapon maybe?

No, Otto wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave anything there. Then again…

Kurt left the tack room, so preoccupied he almost forgot to grab the sweat scraper before rejoining Martin. “Looks like Otto’s horse isn’t getting fed.” He pasted on a bland expression as he scraped the dripping water off Ace’s belly. “Were you here when Otto packed up?”

“Yeah,” Martin said. “He threw a lot of garbage in the dumpster. Loaded the rest in his truck. He was talking on his phone a lot.”

“Maybe arranging for feed?” Kurt forced his voice to remain neutral.

“No. Sounded like he was talking to someone from a bank.” Martin ducked his head, looking sheepish. “I wasn’t trying to listen or anything, but I was brushing Ace. Couldn’t help overhearing.”

“It’s okay,” Kurt said. “People don’t expect privacy if they’re talking in a barn aisle. Maybe he’s selling the horse because of the…accident.”

Martin nodded earnestly. “Otto said he’d come by Saturday afternoon and get his money. He didn’t even swear. Not one word. That’s why I thought he was talking to the bank. My mom’s always polite then too.”

“Probably a good policy,” Kurt said, digging in his pocket. “By the way, I give staff a bonus when my horses finish in the money. You deserve it.”

Martin’s eyes widened as he stared at the bills in Kurt’s outstretched hand. “A hundred bucks! Oh man, thanks. Thanks, man.” He pocketed the money and slanted his Flames cap to a more rakish angle. “You know, I really like this racing business. My girl—I mean, my friend, thought it was pretty cool in the paddock when I stopped Ace from running away.”

“It was cool, Martin. You were a big help. Ace was the best-looking horse in the race. Have fun with your friends.”

He watched Martin saunter toward the grandstand. The boy’s shoulders seemed squarer, and it looked like he’d grown a couple inches. Funny how horses had that effect.

Ace jerked at the lead, insisting on his share of attention, and Kurt led him around another twenty minutes before putting him in his stall. He wrapped the horse’s legs and stepped outside.