North Oak 4- To Bottle Lightning

by Ann Hunter

  Contents

  Copyright

  Series Titles

  THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

  DAY 626

  CENTERED

  A BETTER PERSON

  PONY UP

  NEVER ALONE

  ONE DREAM

  BLOOD AND ROSES

  HALF AS GOOD

  GRAVE REALIZATION

  MY TWO MOMS

  THE DEAL

  PAY IT FORWARD

  FORGIVE HER

  KISS ME GOODNIGHT

  POP

  DOLLAR CONSPIRACY

  THE CUP

  JUST FRIENDS

  BOYS ARE DUMB

  DIRTY GOGGLES

  TRACK STAR

  FIFTEEN

  HIS CHANCE

  KATIE DID

  NOBODY ELSE

  ONCE UPON A TIME AT THE BREEDERS CUP

  Fan Ann

  About the Author

  Graphic Designer: Andrew A. Gerschler

  Artwork by Nichole Bryant

  http://chicken-priestess.deviantart.com/

  Published in 2016 by Rebel House Ink/P. Gerschler. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without written permission of the publisher.

  North Oak #1: Born to Run / By Ann Hunter

  North Oak #2: Yearling / By Ann Hunter

  North Oak #3: Morning Glory / By Ann Hunter

  North Oak #4: To Bottle Lightning / by Ann Hunter

  North Oak

  #1: Born to Run

  #2: Yearling

  #3: Morning Glory

  #4: To Bottle Lightning

  #5: Far Turn (Winter 2016)

  #6: Dark Horse (Spring 2017)

  #7: Against the Odds (Summer 2017)

  THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

  Joe Hendricks, North Oak’s head trainer, pressed his lips to the cool aluminum of his beer can and watched fourth of July fireworks go off in the distance. He leaned against the open doorway of the training barn where horses rustled quietly behind him. A country song played on a radio, drowning out the worst of the skybound explosions.

  Dot. He swilled his beer. A soft whicker made him look over his shoulder. Through the bars of a stall, a chocolate colt with a big blaze gazed at him.

  Joe swished the last sips in his can, and crossed to the colt. He put the can opening beneath the colt’s nose and smirked as the colt lipped the tab and nipped the edge of the can. Joe tipped it toward the horse’s mouth, giving him a sip.

  “Whatchya think?”

  The colt held the can in his teeth and bobbed his head. A few drops escaped and splashed on Joe’s shoulder. He reached for the horse, scratching below his ear.

  “She would’ve liked you.” He took his can back from the colt and clinked it against the Promenade nameplate on the stall door. “Cheers.”

  Joe drank the last of it, rattling the last few impossible drops at the bottom of the can. He puckered his lips and swallowed. “I drink to forget. I know it’s no good.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “No one forgets a woman like that.”

  His mind clouded with the first memory of her. It had been right after the war in a dance hall not far from town. The boys liked to go there for a drink and to show off some swagger. The girls probably thought they were idiots, but that didn’t bother Joe. Most of the young men his age were.

  A live band blared beneath a ceiling of spinning fans to keep the heat down. It was a warm Independence Day evening like tonight, with fireworks going off in the distance.

  One turn from the bar, and she was all he saw. A darling girl, barely a woman, with dark blonde ringlets you could put your fist through. He remembered the way her blue dress fit neatly to her hourglass shape. The gin in his mouth burned going down when he swallowed without meaning to.

  She looked right at him.

  There was a jab in his ribs, some nut beside him urging him to go to her. He wanted to, but the smile she gave him pinned him in place. Did he smile back?

  She blushed and her eyes lowered to the small clutch purse she was holding. The band slowed to play the old song “Unforgettable”.

  Joe couldn’t remember how, but everything else around him seemed to fade. The sea of people parted, and he stood before her. “My name’s Joe.”

  She met his eyes with her own; a shade of mahogany he’d never seen before. “Dot.”

  He extended his hand and asked her to dance.

  A sharp pressure in his fingers opened Joe’s eyes. In what little light that shone down the barn aisle, his weathered, wrinkled hand showed the indentation of a bite mark. He glared at the colt who raised his head defiantly, poking out his lip.

  Joe left the beer can between the stall bars, muttering as he walked away, “Have it, freak.”

  ***

  Twenty-five years prior…

  Joe twisted the shot glass in his fingers, wondering what he was going to do about the apartment. He’d wasted his last five bucks on a quinella ticket at Monmouth Park, and this tiny glass of liquid courage. He didn’t have the heart to tell Dot how deep in debt they really were. Not with their daughter, Rowan, needing new school supplies and clothes; he’d blown that stash at Monmouth, too.

  It wasn’t that he was an irresponsible guy, he was only desperate to get out from under their tiny, cramped lifestyle. Throwing a few dollars at the ponies always felt like a shot of hope. Anything to change their luck. All they needed was a big win. But when he’d blown it yet again, he’d wind up at this bar, drowning his sorrow. So it was either down with the booze, or down with the money.

  Jobless, penniless, prospectless. The night didn’t get any better. He raised his glass to toast himself and his pathetic luck.

  “Time to pay up, Kansas.”

  Joe let the burning gold slide down his throat, tapped the glass on the counter, and glanced over his shoulder to his addressee.

  A burly, bearded man, with arms that could snap a man in half glared down at him. Joe pushed the glass away from himself and slid from the bar stool, heading toward the door. He only got two steps before the bearded man grabbed his shoulder, spun him around, and sent a colossal fist through his jaw.

  Joe tumbled onto the floor, staring up.

  Beardy towered over him, breathing like a bull. “Bill sends his regards.” He lifted Joe and pummeled his knuckles into him again.

  Joe put up his fists. “Who the hell is Bill?”

  Beardy stepped toward him, leaning into a punch. “Your Bill. Time to pay.”

  Joe swerved out of the way. His bookie had sent the muscle. Time had run out. He jabbed the guy in the ribs as Beardy stumbled from the force of his own missed swing. Joe got in front of him, landing an uppercut. He dashed to the door, hoping to get out of dodge, as Beardy cupped his hands over a bleeding nose.

  Joe barely got around the corner of the building before bleeding Beardy was on him again, pounding him into the cement. This time it was relentless; Joe couldn’t get out from under him, couldn’t even block him. He wasn’t sure where the darkness ended, and the real stars began.

  A man grabbed Beardy just before Joe passed out. “Get offa him! What are you, some kinda animal?”

  Joe woke with his face pressed to a pile of hay. He groaned. One eye swelled shut, and a sense of vertigo beguiled him. Whitewashed boards seemed to wobble in his vision. And eight-legged horse walked past the open door. No, two. Joe squinted, raising his palm. How many fingers was he holding up? He grimaced. Two of them didn’t move. When he looked at the back of his hand, he couldn’t tell if the dried blood on his knuckles was his or Beardy’s. He pinched the ho
llow of his brow gingerly. He didn’t remember drinking that much, but he was definitely still drunk.

  “Ah, you’re awake.”

  Joe glanced to the doorway again, squinting as the sun framed the silhouette of a man. He recognized the voice from the night before, right before passed out.

  He looked as big as Beardy, minus the muscle. Shaven Beardy in a tweed sports jacket. The man crossed to Joe, passing him a mug of steaming, black coffee. Joe wrinkled his nose as he lifted the coffee to his mouth. The stuff smelled like crude oil.

  “My own blend. It’ll help with, well…” the man tilted his head, grinning. “Everything.” He took a seat on a hay bale across from Joe.

  Joe paused. How could he be sure this guy wasn’t out to get him too? For all he knew, this mug of stinking slick could be poison. Nobody just saved strangers from thugs without their own agenda. That would be like one lion taking the kill from another.

  The stranger rolled his own mug between his hands, leaning his elbows against his knees. “I heard him call you Kansas. That where you from?”

  Joe nodded slowly, still not so sure about what was in this drink.

  “What’s a Kansas kid like you doing up in Jersey like this? You don’t come off as the boardwalk type.”

  Joe finally braved taking a slug of the coffee. It swirled in his mouth and burned going down. He almost choked. He glanced into the cup. What was in this anyway? He coughed, then cleared his throat. “Did you drug me?”

  The man chuckled. “Nossir. But I did have to get you pretty damn drunk to bring you back here.”

  Joe looked around. “Where is here?”

  “Monmouth’s backside. Barn six.”

  “Y’gonna rake me through the coals, too?”

  “Oh, God, no.” The man’s eyes opened wide. “Is that what you thought?”

  “Why save my hide then?” Joe asked.

  The stranger shrugged. “You looked like the sort of fella that could use a break.”

  A darker voice in Joe demanded to know why the universe would choose him for rescuing. He took a deep breath. “I got tired of country life halfway-through Oklahoma, working odd jobs. Made my way east. Joined the army. Thought I could see the world.”

  “Know anything about horses?”

  Joe took another sip of his oily coffee, steadily growing more confident that it was not going to kill him. He saluted the man from his place in the straw. “Calvary division. Been around horses on the farm, but them plow ponies don’t go very fast.”

  “Ever been on a Thoroughbred?”

  Joe squinted at him. Where was this conversation going? “I sat a Quarter Horse or two at Tioga Park before the war. Tried Arabs, Quarters… thought about driving Standardbreds. Dunno why I’d yet to cross paths with a Thoroughbred. Too rich for my taste, I s’pose.”

  “You’re missing out,” the man said. “Quarter Horses are like drag racers. But Thoroughbreds, my friend, are the Ferraris of the racing world.”

  “The only problem with Ferraris, though- they can’t sustain the speed I craved. I liked them stocky ponies for a reason; adrenaline.”

  The stranger rose from the haybale and moved to the door. “Walk with me, Kansas.”

  Joe drained his coffee. They walked in silence to the outside rail of the track where horses exercised over the course.

  The stranger leaned against the rail. “Tell me the one thing every one of these horses and riders is missing.”

  Joe looked at him. Was he serious? “I’m not sure I could tell you.”

  The man glared at him, a steady, unnerving look. “You used to jockey, didn’t you?”

  Joe gulped. “Yessir.”

  “If you were worth your spit, you’d know right away.”

  But Joe really wasn’t sure if he could say without upsetting him further.

  “Give me your brutally honest opinion,” the man insisted. “You don’t seem like the type of man who would go any other way.”

  Joe took up his courage. “Riders today, all of ‘em are wrong. No one rides right anymore. They’re all standing in the stirrups. Where’s the support in that? The horse has to do all the work. It’s supposed to be a partnership. If they got down lower, they’d know what speed was.”

  He was so lost in his answer, he didn’t notice the man turn to the groom that walked up behind him with a dark chestnut filly in tote. Red like clay, she was. The man shoved the reins into Joe’s hands, and passed him a whip. “Show me.”

  Oh, Hell. Did this meeting just take a turn for the bizarre. Joe wasn’t about to question him, as the man still had that steady look in his eye that made Joe want to quake. Joe went to the filly’s side, and the groom gave him a boost into the saddle.

  “Instructions?” Joe asked, adjusting his stirrups. “Anything? No.”

  His eyes met the stranger’s, who merely grinned. “I’m watching you, Kansas.”

  Joe strung a line of curses together under his breath as he pointed the filly down the track. Blind in one eye, could barely see straight out the other, and one helluva hangover. He winced at the pounding in his head. Funny thing though; he’d ridden in worse condition.

  He must’ve been a unique sight however; black and blue, and red. He got down real low, almost on his belly, face tucked behind the filly’s bright mane. The reins were tight in his hands, but his handle was gentle. One stirrup rode higher than the other, so he could shove his boot against her on the corners. He sent her forward into a canter, showing the strange man watching him what he could do; how real jockeys rode. For what reason, he was sure he’d never know. What he did know was never question a crazy man. Or was it don’t look a gift horse in the mouth?

  The filly moved fluidly, ears flicking forward and back to listen to Joe. He sat icily, ticking off yards and seconds in his head. At the half-mile pole, he flashed his whip by her eye and puckered his lips in a kissy noise. The filly surged forward, eagerly taking up the single notch of rein he gave her. He continued to support her through the bridle, feeling her out, getting under her skin and into her head. Joe leaned into the turn with her, forgetting there was anyone else on earth except this filly and this track. They blew through two furlongs in a blink.

  He guided her back to her owner, breathlessly, rolling his head to work out the kinks. It had been years since he’d done anything like that. If he wasn’t sore now, he’d be real sore later.

  The stranger looked pleased. At least the unnerving look was gone. He reached for the reins, and rubbed the filly’s shining face. “Think you’ll jockey again, ‘stead of blowin’ through two-bit betting stubs?”

  “Got no interest goin back to riding,” Joe confessed as he dismounted.

  “Ever train a racehorse?”

  “No.”

  “Trained jockeys?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  The stranger rocked back on his heels, his gaze scanning Joe in deep examination. “Come back with me to my farm, and ride like you showed me. I’ll set you up with a paycheck and a place to stay. What do you say?”

  “I got a wife and kid.” All Joe could think about was Dot cramped in that ridiculous apartment, scrubbing dishes til her skin cracked and bloodied.

  “That won’t be a problem.”

  Joe rubbed the filly’s neck, having missed the way a good horse felt beneath his fingertips. “Where’d you say this farm of yours was?”

  “Hamlin, Kentucky.” The man extended his hand. “Stephan Clayton North. Call me Clay.”

  DAY 626

  Present day…

  A faint smell of sulfur and mowed grass hung on the summer air. Carol Daves paused on the Showmans’ stoop as a firework soared over their house, bursting in an array of red and gold against the sunset sky. She wiped a drop of sweat from her brow and knocked on the door, even though she knew almost everyone was at the beach near Boyds Branch for the Fourth of July party.

  Another firework sizzled off. Carol let herself in. “Alex?”

  The glasses in the cu
pboard by the door rattled as a wayward firework burst. Carol shut the door quietly behind her. Other than the noise of the fireworks, the house was still. She called out again, “Alex?”

  She was hoping to find Alex down at the shore with the rest of the North Oak clan, but her gut told her to expect not to. Carol had come right here when she linked her best friend’s absence with the crowd and the noise. She headed up the stairs to Alex’s room and found her in a huddle by her bed, shaking. She had her knees hugged to her chest, and head buried. When another firework hit, she practically jumped out of her skin.

  Carol hurried to her side and sat beside her, sweeping back a drape of black hair from Alex’s face.

  Alex shuddered, dropping her head against Carol’s shoulder.

  “A year, eight months, and seventeen days, and I’m still counting, Carol. I’m still counting.”

  Carol listened, trying to pin point the final piece of the puzzle. The fireworks sounded like gunfire. She understood now. A year and a half had passed since Alex lost Ashley. Carol leaned her head against hers, and hugged Alex tight. “I’m here, and I’ve got you.”

  Now that she had sorted it out, Alex’s absence at the get together made sense. Carol’s heart hurt for her, but a part of her was glad she could be here when Alex needed it most. “You may never get over it, and that’s okay,” Carol murmured. “You’ll be stronger, but never the same. I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

  She let Alex cry until the tears ran dry and Alex fell asleep from the exhaustion. Carol pulled out her cell phone, careful not to shine the light of the screen too brightly on them, and took a picture. She sent it to her mom, along with a text.

  I’m staying here tonight. She needs me.

  ***

  Alex lay quietly in her bed waiting for Carol to wake up. Alex's heart did a little skip when lavender eyes finally peeked from beneath sleepy lids. A smile attacked her at once.

  "Morning."

  Carol smiled back, her voice squeaky with sleep. She closed her eyes in that still kinda tired way. "Hi."

  Carol breathed evenly for a moment then inhaled deeply. "What's that smell?"