by Sasscer Hill
So that was Little Beard's name. Officer Delmot had taken him aside in the ABC store, questioned him, while I sat in my chair wishing I could have another shot of Wild Turkey. Wishing I could go home to my apartment in Laurel.
"You going to be all right driving back to Colonial Downs?"
I told him I would and picked up my tote bag, glad I'd had my Master Card to purchase the fifth of Wild Turkey nestled in my bag along with the cashless wallet. I didn't want to hear any more about meth addicts.
I eased out of the cruiser, grateful when Delmot watched me until I was safely in my Toyota with the door locked and the engine running. Grateful my worst vice was the occasional one-beer-too-many or a double shot of bourbon.
Memory sliced through me. That burnt out shell, those sores. I yanked the car into drive and headed for Colonial.
Chapter 12
I dug around in the glove box and found a pair of dark-glasses before driving through the Colonial stable gate. Fortunately, the guard was to my left and couldn't see the mess on the right side of my face. The glasses hid the shiner. The Celica's digital clock read 4:30, just about feeding time.
I found Lorna in the dirt-floored feed room studying the sheet I'd pinned to the cork-board, listing which horse got what supplements. She'd already loaded feed into eight buckets and had left a sticky molasses fingerprint on the supplement paper. Without looking at me, she said, "What do you want the Yellow Jacket's horses to have?"
Apparently my nickname had stuck. "Don't let her hear you say that."
"Hey, I'm cool." She gave a little gasp. "What happened to your face?"
I explained about the meth head and found myself studying her reaction, hoping she'd never done speed.
"Bad scene. I saw one of those dudes back when I . . . before I got clean. Gruesome dude, had all those sores, like you said. People I hung with didn't smoke that stuff. Like smoking death."
I nodded, my gaze dropping to the floor.
"Does it hurt real bad?" Her voice filled with concern, her hands grasping a container of the seaweed supplement, Source.
"I'm okay. Let's finish doctoring up these buckets. We'll feed the two new ones straight grain, check them out afterwards. See what we've got."
We hauled the sweet-smelling buckets, making sure each supplement went to the right horse. Lorna grabbed an armload of buckets leaving me with less to do.
I reached Stinger's stall last. He pinned his ears and snapped at me, his "get away from my food" reaction taking over before I had a chance to give it to him. I got a rake and shook it at him. He backed off, and I dumped the feed in his tub and got out of the way. He dove in and smashed the tub against the wall as he ate.
Lorna's eyes darted between me and the horse as he grabbed the bucket edge with his teeth and tried to rip it off the wall.
"Look at him! And you with that rake. Place looks like a loony-bin."
Stinger lunged at the gate. I hopped backwards, landing on my right foot, stifling a cry from the pain that shot through my hip. I could feel Lorna glance at me, sense the question forming. "The meth head kicked me. And no, it's not broken, and I don't want an X-ray."
Lorna closed her mouth, got the hose and started topping off water buckets, wisely deciding to leave Stinger's for later.
Bobby Duvayne appeared around the corner of the barn's pass-through aisle. The bucket Lorna was filling overflowed, sending sheets of water into Imposter's stall. Lorna's gaze never left Bobby as he walked toward us.
"Lorna! The water." I hobbled toward her, but she shut the hose off and took a half step toward Bobby.
"Hey," he said, his voice soft, his attention only for Lorna. "Got some cold beer and a bunch of chicken to grill if you wanna come over to my barn later." He finally noticed me. "You should come – What happened to your face?"
Lorna started to fill him in and I moved away.
"So you want to go over for chicken?" Lorna called to me.
"Yeah. Got some stuff to check on first." I left them and went up to the racing office to see if anyone would let me use a computer to look up Amarilla's horses. I found a parking spot in front of the blue-framed glass door that had a green-and-white "Secretary's Office" sign over it. I dug around in my glove box and found a bottle of ibuprofen inside and shook out three capsules. Slipping them into my pocket, I headed up the short cement walk. I was in luck. The door wasn't locked, and a lone secretary sat at a desk behind the beige counter plastered with red-and-white "no smoking" signs. I knew the woman, Dana. She usually worked in the racing office at Laurel.
"Nikki, hi . . . My God, what happened?"
I was going to have to put a bag over my head. No makeup made could hide the day's damage. I gave her a brief version and asked about the computer.
"Well, we're not supposed to . . .” She continued to stare at my face, fascinated. "Does it hurt real bad?"
"Yeah, it's pretty bad." I gave her my best forlorn look.
"Come on behind the counter, I'll set you up. What do you need?"
"Brisnet?" I'd used the acronym for Bloodstock Research Information Services.
She brought up the website, and I keyed in Stinger's name on the pedigree page. He was by an obscure stallion, but his dam was by the good Maryland sire, Two Punch, also respected as a sire of mares that produced winners. Other sons and daughters out of Stinger’s dam had some wins and appeared to favor the dirt.
Next I opened the past performances page. Stinger's last 10 races were way too close together, with unnecessary morning speed workouts between each one. No wonder the horse looked wrung out. I'd see how he came through the race before talking to Amarilla. Finally, I pulled an early program to see Stinger's odds and who he was up against.
Amarilla had entered him in a forty-thousand-dollar claiming race, meaning Stinger and the other horses listed in this race could be bought, or "claimed," for that amount. Only a licensed trainer or owner with that much cash in their Colonial racing account could claim a horse. Forty thousand was a lot of money, and with Stinger's past performances, I couldn't imagine anyone taking him.
His odds were pitiful. Thirty-to-one longshot. The program listed several good horses. Stinger might beat them. If they fell down.
My head began to throb so I went over to the water cooler and downed the ibuprofen. The scent of chicken, fries and grease worked its way under the swinging doors from the hallway. The kitchen must be cranking up for the dinner crowd. Since vans, grooms and horses had been arriving steadily over the last few days, the Latino family that ran the kitchen would probably have a full house that evening.
I sank back into the computer chair and looked up Amarilla's filly, Daffodil. Her pedigree and race record astonished me. She was by the excellent turf sire, Theatrical, and out of a mare by the Maryland sire, Smarten, another solid stallion whose progeny loved the turf. When I'd seen her, I noticed her long barrel and legs. A big, tall filly, she had the look of a horse that might prefer to run on the grass.
I pulled her last 10 starts. A three-year-old, the filly had run eight times, no wins, and every single start on the dirt. What were her handlers thinking? An idiot would know to try her on grass.
"What's wrong?" asked Dana.
I must have groaned. "This horse in my barn, she's bred for the turf. You ever heard of this trainer, Marjolsalina?"
"Margo what?"
"Never mind. Look at the pedigree."
She left her desk and inspected the computer screen from behind my shoulder. "I see your point. Does the owner have a problem with the turf?"
I didn't know, but I needed to find out.
#
A worn gas grill sent a thin plume of steamy smoke into the air by the Duvayne shedrow. The scent of chicken and tangy barbeque sauce drew me across the open ground to our neighboring barn. Several well-used plastic lawn chairs, two coolers and a hay bale draped with a clean white saddle cloth were assembled on the red Virginia clay next to Bobby's barn.
Lorna lounged in one of the
chairs drinking a beer. Her jeans encased her legs like a glove, her hooded velour jacket unzipped to reveal a milky curve of breast that swelled from a deep V-neck. Sable sat next to her in a stretchy black tank, despite the cooling temperature. The sun, low in the western sky, cast horizontal rays that reflected off their aluminum beer cans and outlined the muscles beneath the smooth dark skin on Sable's arms.
"Hey lady," said Sable. "Lorna told me you got beat up. You all right?"
"I will be."
Will Marshall, his back to me, faced Bobby who used a long-handled fork to turn the tasty smelling chicken sizzling on the grill. A bowl of red sauce with a brush handle sticking out sat on the ground nearby.
My sharp interest in the food surprised me. Must be a survival thing.
Bobby wore a red apron with black lettering that read, "Riders Do It With Gentle Hands and A Big Stick."
I itched to peek under his apron, a part of me I rarely owned up to.
Will glanced at me without commenting on my face, opened a blue cooler and handed me a beer.
Lorna drained her can and Bobby moved in, pulling another one from the cooler. He popped it, and handed it to Lorna. Stood close, watched her drink it, his leg touching her thigh. Heat in his eyes.
A train wreck waiting to happen. Will caught my eye and shrugged. It was Lorna's call. Maybe all I could do was pick up the pieces.
A plate of baked beans, salad and four chicken thighs later, I lay back in Bobby's plastic chair with my eyes almost closed, trying to ignore my pain and the heat building between Lorna and Bobby. They'd been lounging side by side, their chairs pushed close together.
Sable had left, and now Will stood up, stretched and threw his second and last beer can into the trash barrel. He'd pulled the skin off his chicken, had about a tablespoon of the sugary beans and a lot of salad. His skin was clear and his eyes shone green like the ocean. Must be that healthy diet.
He paused at my chair. "Get some sleep, Latrelle." He dropped his voice. "Maybe get Lorna out of here too."
This broke my lethargy. I straightened up to respond, but Will was already walking away, leaving me keenly aware that three's a crowd.
"Lorna, we should probably get going." I eased out of the chair, careful to put more weight on my good leg.
"I'll bring her home in a little while." Bobby's long fingers were resting on Lorna's shoulder.
"We have to get up pretty early, you should probably come now."
She rolled her eyes, her mouth tightening slightly. "I won't be long."
Bobby stood up, facing Lorna. "Besides, she needs a ride in the Cobra."
He was still wearing his apron, but now he loosened the ties and pulled it off.
With a quick intake of breath, Lorna's eyes widened. Bobby leaned toward her, pulled her out of the chair. Hands on her shoulders, he turned her so she faced away. He pulled her in so her buttocks pressed against the thick bulge in his jeans I'd glimpsed for an instant.
Lorna trembled. I had to get out of there. Leaned over to grab my tote bag, and when I straightened, Bobby's arms encircled Lorna's waist. He kissed her cheek near her mouth.
I could feel the tease in my own body, the desire to turn the mouth and find his lips. She did, and Bobby placed the fingers of one hand lightly on her chin, pulling her mouth closer, sliding his tongue in.
Abruptly, I turned to leave, but a magnetic pull had me and I made the mistake of looking back. Bobby's knowing eyes were on me as he kissed Lorna. A hot rush of desire hit me, and the son-of-a-bitch knew it.
Amused triumph glittered in his brown eyes.
Chapter 13
I hurried back to my barn, retreating through the middle aisle, relieved at the distance and solid brick walls between me and that sexual quicksand. I leaned against the framed opening to Hellish's stall. As if sensing my poor state she pushed her silky head against my shoulder, and I breathed in that warm, satisfying horse scent. Stroking her velvet muzzle, my fingertips seemed to draw solace from the filly.
How bad could Bobby be? Was I overreacting? Though vulnerable, Lorna was an adult and her sexual adventures were really none of my business. But still . . .
I got a mental grip, telling myself there'd been too much stress that day. Moved down the row of stalls to the two newcomers, Stinger and Daffodil. I clipped a lead shank to Stinger's halter and led him into the aisle way. The other horses perked up, pushing heads over stall gates, curious. Racehorses don't usually come out in the evening, and being creatures of habit, the gang was eager to know what was going on.
"Just checking out your new buddy," I said. Hellish nodded, no doubt a coincidence. But I'd learned never to be certain of anything with these animals.
The heavy, rumbling purr of Bobby's Mustang rippled the evening air. He must be leaving with Lorna. Trying to ignore the sound, I turned back to Stinger.
The horse stood a little over 15 hands high, small for a Thoroughbred. But a lot of great racehorses had lacked height. The gelding's real problem, in my eye, was his previous trainer wearing him down to a nub. His flanks and belly narrowed and drew up to an extreme. No fire in his tired eyes. His coat could have been glossier. If I hadn't seen his past performances earlier, I'd have had one of the vets look at him.
I'd beef up his feed, add weight and muscle building supplements like creatine. This horse would only jog between now and his race three days away. Realistically there wasn't enough time between now and Sunday to accomplish much change in his condition, but going easy with him might save him from further damage.
I jogged him up and down the shedrow, watched him move, and detected no unsoundness. The rhythm of his clip-clops in the dirt was smooth and even. I still wanted to get on him in the morning, give my body a chance to read the physical nuances before deciding if he should race, but I'd probably run him, ride him myself. I didn't want some hot jockey abusing the little gelding if he got tired in the stretch.
Daffodil was a whole other animal. She had strength, polish, and fire in her eyes, like Hellish. "We're going to put you on the turf, young lady," I said, staring into her liquid brown eyes.
A deep exhaustion settled over me. I left any more decisions about horses for the morning, and headed for the cottage, where I soaked in a hot bath. Above the bathroom window's café curtains, the quarter moon hung over the darkened tree line, the silver slice of evening-pie a bit wider each night in its slow transformation to a harvest moon.
I used a lot of soap and water but couldn't rinse away the memory of the meth addict. His rotten breath, crazy eyes.
Slippers sat on the bathroom floor fascinated by the drops and splashes of bath water. I climbed from the tub and he pounced on a trickle of water pooling on the floor at my feet. I briskly toweled everything not bruised, slathered on some body lotion and found myself thinking about Bobby. A man as addictive as methamphetamine. Was I jealous?
With that thought I trudged to my bedroom and went to bed with the cat.
#
I woke up after midnight thinking I'd heard something. Slippers lay curled in a tight ball at the end of my bed, snoring. I crept from my room, ears strained for a foreign sound. The cottage was empty. Lorna hadn't come back and the quiet seemed almost relentless. I gathered up Slippers and burrowed back into bed, finally falling into a restless sleep.
The rooster went off at 4:35 a.m. Somebody should adjust that bird's timer. Outside my bedroom, I could see Slippers wedged against the cottage door, as if hoping to squeeze through the crack between the door and the frame. Probably wanted to be with his chicken.
I staggered from bed noticing my aches and pains had lessened with sleep, then stilled as I felt the emptiness. I knew without looking that Lorna had never come back, then told myself as long as she showed up for work on time, I wasn't her keeper.
I arrived at the track before six, the air crisp and chill as the moon lowered in the western sky. No sign of Lorna.
Ramon tottered behind a wheelbarrow piled precariously high with dirty stra
w. "We need help. Too many horses. Lorna not here?"
His barrow hit a bump and a mound of dirty bedding fell to the ground. He muttered something in Spanish. The words were foreign, the meaning clear.
I got the first horse out, a rangy bay mare, put a good gallop in her, cooled her out myself, and rushed to the next horse. Ramon ground through the dirty stalls, stopping to help me tack up a few of the more difficult horses. I rode Stinger out to the track where he balked for a moment at the entrance, but gave in as if he'd accepted resistance was futile.
Something about the horse's hind end felt a bit jammy, but after a quarter mile or so of jogging, he warmed right out of it, the stiffness melting into fluid movement. I kept him at it for a mile, then turned to go in and could almost feel his astonishment at not being pushed to go farther, faster. I took his tack off and cooled him out. Still no sign of Lorna.
I was mad. When the track closed for the half-hour break, I marched across the grass and clover to Bobby's barn. The morning dew left rings of wet on the hems of my jeans. I didn't see the Cobra, but the man who'd argued with Bobby the day before was talking to a track vet whose truck idled nearby. The vet climbed into his truck and left. The man stood watching me as I approached. He appeared close to six feet, was big and beefy, reminding me of a bull. Thick arms and shoulders, and the slightly protruding gut I noticed the day before.
"Hi, I'm Nikki Latrelle. I was looking for Bobby?"
The man hesitated, maybe swallowing a comment about my bruised face. He smiled. "Bobby's not in yet. I'm his dad, John Duvayne."
We shook hands. "What do you want with Bobby?" His voice held a southern drawl with a redneck undertone. His features were coarse. Hard to believe Bobby's refined bones and stunning beauty had sprung from this man.
"He sort of went off with my rider last night, and I need her back."
"Sorry about that, boy's hard to control." Worry appeared in the man's eyes, but his expression suggested resignation. "They should be along soon."
