Summer Kisses (134 page)

“Yeah.” Kurt’s mouth tightened. “If only I could figure out how they’re using those horses.”

“Maybe forensics will help. Or maybe Otto or Friedman will cave.”

“Not Friedman,” Kurt said. “He’s a cold bastard, right down to his manicured nails. Bet he’s the one who did Connor. A gun is his style.”

“Will he give us any trouble tomorrow?”

“Not sure,” Kurt said slowly.

“Well,” Archer said with a grunt. “An unmarked car will come by your motel at noon. You should be home by next week. You were quick with this one.”

“Not quick enough.” Frustration clipped Kurt’s words. Both Connor and Nick had found something he couldn’t. And both were dead because of it.

He shoved the phone in his pocket and returned to the barn. Stopped in front of Otto’s boarded-up stall and pushed open the door.

The stall was stripped to the floor, but dark streaks marked the side boards. He swallowed, studying the blood spatter as he reconstructed the events of that grim night.

The track’s security log showed Otto and his new horse had arrived late, shipping in when few people were around. But Nick had been working long hours, dealing with an influx of horses. And obviously Kurt had sparked his curiosity when he’d asked the farrier to check Country Girl’s feet.

Kurt squeezed his eyes shut, fighting his remorse. No doubt about it, he’d set Nick up. The farrier had no idea he was poking around a snake pit. Maybe Nick had asked Otto a question about the gelding’s feet. Or maybe Nick had spotted the diamonds when Otto removed the back shoes.

Otto was violent and hot tempered. He would have panicked. The man was strong enough to have bludgeoned Nick and dragged him into the stall. Otto’s presence would have upset the gelding. A few jabs with a pitchfork, and the terrified horse would have trampled anything in the straw.

Then what? Kurt’s hands tightened around the stall door as he pictured the grim scene.

Otto had a dead man in the stall and a pocketful of stolen rocks. He would have been afraid someone else might wander by. The normal urge would be to dump the evidence and run.

Kurt reached in his pocket, pulled out a pair of latex gloves and stalked to the garbage can by the door. Rifled through it but found no horse shoes, only coffee cups and the ubiquitous baler twine.

He stepped outside and scanned the parking lot. Otto’s trailer was still tucked in the left corner; a metal garbage bin sat a scant thirty feet from the end of the lot. Faded white letters on the front read ‘No Manure.’

He stalked to the bin and raised the cumbersome lid. Hinges squeaked and flies buzzed around his face, followed by an overwhelming stench. He sifted through an assortment of beer cans, tip sheets and pizza boxes but found no horseshoes, no blunt instruments.

Only the end of a black rubber pad.

He yanked it out, studying the pad with narrowed eyes. It was the same thickness as the rubber sheet he’d seen in Otto’s lockbox but with a crucial difference. After another minute of rummaging he discovered a second pad. A bleak smile creased his face.

Nick had been right. Otto’s horses had been wearing pads—thick, black pads with hollowed-out centers. Otto must have placed the jewels in the hollow pad, sandwiched it with another flat rubber and nailed them on the horses. He’d probably chosen animals that kicked, realizing no border inspector would be keen to get close. Or perhaps Otto had roughed up the horses until they did kick.

Once he’d established himself as a legitimate trainer, he would have been able to cross into Canada with barely a nod. And if a vet pulled out his animals for a border check, it would have been cursory.

Julie hadn’t noticed anything odd about the shoes because they’d been normal. But to Nick, thick pads were notable. Especially since Kurt had triggered his interest by asking him to inspect the mare.

Kurt trudged back to his truck with heavy steps. He rummaged in his box for a plastic bag and pressed redial on the phone. “Archer, the smugglers used hollowed-out pads to transport the stones. I found a couple in the garbage bin. Otto always pulled the hind shoes as soon as he arrived. When he hauled in late Wednesday, the victim was working in the barn. Otto probably cracked him with a shovel or something. Used the horse to cover it up.”

“Excellent.” Archer’s voice oozed satisfaction. “Now we have the method. And forensics will have a field day with those pads.”

“Let’s pick Otto up now.”

“No. We can’t spook Friedman. The FBI are moving on the smugglers in Montana. A woman was killed in the last home invasion.” Archer’s voice turned rueful. “And naturally we’re taking heat about our porous borders.”

“But Otto’s too unstable to be running around.” The hair on the back of Kurt’s neck rose, and he gripped the phone. “He could hurt someone else.”

“It’s out of my control. See you tomorrow,” Archer said, and the line went dead.

Julie chewed her nails and stared at the screen in the common area of the jock room. Ten riders crammed around the monitor, all intent on the first race. Some, like her, only had one mount. Others had five or six.

Gary Bixton was riding in every race.

Right now Gary wasn’t thinking about anything except urging his mount down the stretch. She watched him on the screen, arms pumping as he fought to hold off the chestnut filly surging on the outside. Gary’s bay floundered on the rail, and the chestnut gained speed with every stride.

She leaped to her feet as the horses battled across the wire. Around her, voices rose as jockeys argued about the winner.

“Gary got it on the nod,” someone said.

“Nah, no way.”

Numbers flashed—a photo for first. She waited, silent and edgy. If Gary had the win, he’d be generous with information. If he lost a close one, he wouldn’t be very talkative. She exhaled with relief when his number appeared on top, and the race was declared official.

“Man, Bixton’s hot this year,” Allan, a wiry rider in his mid-forties, proclaimed. “He could win on a mule.”

“Helps to get the good horses.” Liam Anderson’s voice was spiked with envy. “He’ll take the big race tonight on Sweating Bullet. My horse can’t handle that distance.”

Julie had memorized the horses, the riders, the color of their silks. Liam was on Frostbite, the other gray in her race, the horse Kurt feared would cause a traffic jam.

“Who’s on the Woodbine colt? I heard he’s had some fast fractions.” Liam glanced at Julie. “You’ve been exercising him. Is he any good?”

“She’s riding him, you fool,” a voice sniped behind her.

Julie nodded. “He’s talented.”

“You’re riding him? Really? How’d you pull that off?” Liam stared with blatant disbelief.

A flush heated her cheeks. All the guys looked at her now with expressions that ranged from shock to envy. Little wonder. Until Kurt had arrived, she’d only ridden cheap claimers. And not very many of those.

Liam whipped out his program, running his finger down the entries. “Trainer must be going for the weight allowance or something.” His beady eyes narrowed. “How did you get that horse?”

“I jump out of bed early and gallop horses,” she snapped.

Liam sniggered. “More likely you jump into bed.”

“Shut up.” Allan punched Liam’s arm and turned to her. “Ignore the twerp. I talked to MacKinnon about riding. He said he likes the way you handle him.”

Someone chortled at Allan’s choice of words.

Julie crossed her arms and glared at Liam, pissed at his ugly innuendoes. Kurt had given her the mount before they’d ridden in the mountains. There’d been no ulterior motive.

The jockeys from the first race burst in, dirty and disheveled, and attention swung to the returning riders.

“Man, I got stuck on the rail,” someone complained.

Gary swept in several minutes later, wearing a victor’s grin.

“Congratulations, Gary,” Allen called.

“Thanks, boys. That was one of those races!” He raised his hair theatrically with his left hand and walked across the room, still grinning. “What a dog I’m on in the second, Jules. Think I should pack a lunch?”

She forced a smile. He probably guessed she was nervous, probably knew her stomach felt like she’d swallowed a bucket of nails, that it hurt even more as the big race loomed closer. Six races to go. She swallowed, debating about running to the bathroom again.

“Relax.” Gary’s voice lowered, and he stepped closer. “You’re in the catbird seat. If your big gray fires, you’ll win. If not, he’ll be at the back, but that’s where he’s been running. Just like you.”

She rolled her eyes and gave a choke of laughter. “Are you trying to make me feel better or worse?”

“My point is, nobody will blame a loss on you. But Sweating Bullet is the favorite. If he loses, it will be my fault.”

He looked so disgusted, some of her tension eased. “You sure have it tough,” she said. “Always stuck riding the favorites.”

“Don’t get saucy, darling. Just remember to stay away from Liam the Lump. When Frostbite stops, it’s like someone pulled the emergency brake. Have to run, gotta switch silks. Oh, and Jules, avoid the rail if you can.”

He gave her shoulder a squeeze and turned, pulling off his shirt as he rushed away. The door to the male quarters slammed. She felt oddly bereft. She scanned the remaining jockeys, checking to see who else was sitting out. Allan had a mount but Liam was still there, his thin upper lip curved in a perpetual sneer.

Liam the Lump. She hadn’t heard that nickname before, but it was perfect. Liam was a rough rider with a bad seat, but it was his constant petulance that repelled her the most.

“Must be nice,” he said as he wound a black tensor wrap around his wrist. “I’ve been riding here for five years, and guys like Bixton still ignore me.”

“Try smiling,” she said, adjusting the headphones of her iPod, careful not to tangle them with her new necklace.

“Yeah,” he said, “and maybe if I was female, I could try spreading my legs too.”

She flipped him a finger then turned her music up and fingered the lucky pendant. It felt warm, seemed to pulse with Kurt’s confident vibes. Feeling inexplicably fierce, she narrowed her eyes, holding Liam’s glare.

He was the first to look away.

Lazer snorted with indignation as Kurt rinsed his mouth. Water globules splattered the stall, dotting Martin’s chest.

Martin leaped away from the spray of water. “This is my good shirt,” he muttered.

“At least the water’s not green,” Kurt said. “Pass me the bridle.” He slipped the bit in Lazer’s mouth.

The track announcer called, “They’re off!”

Lazer trembled in eagerness, his ears flicking as he tracked the sounds of the seventh race.

“Keep a tight hold in the paddock, Martin. Don’t let him get too close to the others. Especially the filly.”

“I won’t let go, no matter what.”

“I know,” Kurt said. “The odds are juicy, so I placed a couple bets. I’ll have to cash in for you, but you can hold the tickets for luck.”

Martin’s eyes widened when he saw the betting tickets Kurt passed him. “Fifty dollars to win and a ten dollar trifecta.” He turned and earnestly patted Lazer’s neck. “Please, fellow. You run hard, and I promise to take you for grass every morning.”

“Let’s go.”

At Kurt’s command, the three exited the barn and headed over to the paddock for the eighth and feature race.

The grounds pulsed with energy. Spectators rimmed the paddock, eager to see the local racing sensation, Sweating Bullet, an Alberta-bred and the crowd favorite. Kurt led Lazer into the walking ring and joined three horses already parading in a circle. Lazer sidestepped, swishing his tail and staring suspiciously at the crowd.

The stocky bay ahead of them kicked out, smashing his hind legs against the rail, and the crowd folded then surged forward again. Their murmurs swelled when Sweating Bullet stalked into the enclosure. The blood bay’s arrogant gaze swept the other horses; his figure eight noseband only enhanced his regal bearing. The horse simply bristled with confidence.

Lazer raised his head and snorted a challenge.

At least, Kurt hoped it was a challenge. With Lazer, it might have been a friendly hello. He saw Julie’s valet waiting beside Martin and led Lazer into the saddling enclosure.

Martin held the horse, jiggling with the bit as Kurt laid the pad and saddlecloth over Lazer’s back. The valet passed Kurt the saddle but as he reached around to buckle the overgirth, Lazer’s muscles bunched. The horse plunged forward, almost striking Martin with his foreleg.

Martin held on and backed Lazer up, mouth set in a determined line.

“Well done.” Kurt nodded with approval and they were able to finish saddling. “Now lead him around while I wait for Julie.”

Martin guided Lazer around the walking ring. The kid’s mother beamed from the rail as her capable son led the prancing horse. He’ll be all right, Kurt thought, with a flare of satisfaction. Martin was at least a decade younger than anyone else in the paddock, but he acted like a veteran, and his cool poise was helping Lazer.

Kurt remained on the grass, savoring the intoxicating moments before a race, the shared hopes of the other trainers and nervous excitement of the owners. There were no losers yet, just a race full of possibilities.

Color caught his eye as riders filed from the jockeys’ room, their faces a study in contrast as they coped with the pressure. Some grinned, although the smiles were usually tight and forced. Others were solemn, like Gary Bixton. Even thirty feet away Kurt could see Bixton wore his game face—sober, focused, confident.

Kurt finally spotted Julie, and his forehead broke into a cold sweat. Not good. She looked scared, mouth pinched, walking like a robot. And there wasn’t much time to loosen her up.

“Hi, Julie,” he said as she approached. “How about a kiss for luck?”

“No jokes.” She frowned and glanced at the scowling jockey behind her as though afraid he were listening. “Rider instructions only.”

It was a relief to see some animation return to her face, even if it was only a frown. “All right, riding instructions only,” Kurt said. “Turn left. Go fast. And ride him like you’re on the best horse in the race because…with the bridle adjustment, he is.”