“All right,” Julie said, aware Sandra was paid per horse and had more important trainers waiting. Sandra probably wouldn’t even pony for Chandler if Julie hadn’t been the rider.
She lifted a rein and turned toward Bill, but the filly balked, flattening her ears, reluctant to leave the company of Sandra’s horse.
Julie clucked and pushed the filly forward, her thoughts drifting back to Friday's race. She hoped Skippy would draw a good post position. It would be disastrous to be stuck with an outside post, but the rail was bad too. The three or four hole would probably be best considering the forecast. A little rain...
“I told you not to ride Princess alone!” Bill scuttled toward them, yelling and waving his spidery arms. The filly's fragile courage caved. She lunged to the left, smashing Julie’s knee into the rail.
Pain seared. The impact jerked Julie’s leg from the stirrup, followed by a numbing burn that left her unable to feel the saddle. She yanked on the left rein but the horse was now shying from Bill's wife, who’d popped out from a knot of onlookers. The woman’s high-pitched shriek filled the air, and her bulky purse smacked against her hip with each awkward step.
The filly stared, immobilized with fear. Thump, thump. Julie could feel the panicked beat of the horse’s heart, the trembles of her sleek body. Heard Bill’s nylon jacket crackle as he lunged for the reins, his hand a mere inch away…
Behind them, a shrill whistle sliced the air as a horse thundered an imperious challenge.
It was too much commotion for the pampered filly. In an acrobatic fishtail, she tossed Julie sideways and bolted for the safety of the barns. Julie gritted her teeth but managed to grab a chunk of mane. Images blurred like a broken movie: Bill's horrified eyes, the unyielding ground, horsehair slick with sweat. And when the filly leaped over the tip of the sprawling manure pile, Julie tumbled off, amid a tangle of arms, legs and horse dung.
She heard Bill curse, his wife's grating squeal, then pounding feet. Julie lay unmoving, consumed with shame. The manure was fresh, and a warm wetness seeped through her clothes.
“You okay?” The deep voice above her sounded choked, as though the man struggled to hold back laughter.
She propped herself up with an elbow and peered through his long legs, watching as Princess galloped along the row of barns, stirrups flapping, tail streaming like a victory banner. Bill lurched after his filly, trailed by his caterwauling wife. Sandra followed more sedately, waving her purple wrap and yelling something that sounded suspiciously like ‘Tally Ho!’
“You okay?” the voice above her repeated.
Julie squeezed her eyes shut, unable to answer the man's simple question. Was she okay? No, not really. She'd spent a hard month working with that filly, an unpaid month, now wasted. Bill would never hire her as a jockey. Even worse, his comments could affect the other trainers. Harrison might even change his mind about letting her ride Skippy.
Tightness clawed her throat. She glanced at the stranger towering over her. Damn him, he thought it was funny! Wasn’t even trying to hide his grin. Even the haughty horse he led looked amused.
She averted her head, hit with the horrible feeling she might cry, and that sure wouldn't raise her status at the track. If only the man and his horse would keep walking. It was quite apparent she wasn’t hurt.
But he just waited, an unwelcome witness to her humiliation.
“I'm fine, thanks,” she managed, swiping at a piece of straw stuck on her chin and sneaking a quick rub to the corners of her eyes.
“At least you found a soft landing.” His voice was deep and low and assured, a beautiful voice really, except for the amusement. “Manure is always good for that.” He chuckled.
Great, a joker. She shot to her knees. Winced at the stab of pain but unsnapped her helmet with a resentful click. From her vantage point, it was clear his horse was a stallion. Sandra had always said people shouldn’t walk horses close to the gap, especially unruly ones.
“This was partly your fault, you know.” She glanced at the man and sucked in a quick breath. He looked…rather intimidating. Probably why he thought he could get away with laughing.
“Maybe a little my fault but not much.” He spoke with irritating assurance. “You weren't paying enough attention to your horse. Come on, kid, let's get you out of there.”
He offered a big hand along with a crooked smile, and her resentment spiked. How did he know her attention had wandered? Much of it had been pure bad luck: Bill flailing around, his wife's cracking purse, the aggressive horse so close to the gap. And she was damn tired of being called babe and kid.
“Was it your colt who called to my filly?” She spoke through gritted teeth.
“Yeah, this is Lazer.” The man’s voice rippled with lazy affection as he shrugged and gestured at his horse. “He always has quite an effect on the ladies.”
She pulled her gaze off the man’s chiseled jaw, didn’t want to admit he’d also produced a similar effect. The track was already overflowing with spit and swagger. As though a smile and a shrug could fix this. The manure pile. By noon, everybody on the grounds would be snickering. Her fingers curled so tightly her nails bit into her palms.
“I don’t need any help.” She ignored his hand and rose to her feet, regal as she could be with straw on her cheek. “But there are some good trainers around who might help you with that horse’s manners.”
The stranger’s arm lowered. His smile remained, but there was no humor left in his cool gray eyes. And no wonder. She had deliberately insulted his training ability.
She had a fleeting impression of a mask dropping and something not so handsome, something dangerous. He gave her no time to analyze, just politely inclined his head and walked away.
Regret swept her. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing it were possible to pluck back her hasty words. Frustration with trainers like Bill Chandler and Otto Laing was no excuse. Besides, the man was absolutely right—she hadn't been paying attention to the filly. Even Bill had warned her about staying with the escort pony. Now she had blown her chance with Bill, as well as insulted the only person who’d tried to help.
Heavy with shame, she limped after him, determined to apologize. Her knee throbbed, but she forced herself to speed up. The stranger had a very fast walk. So did his horse.
And what a nice horse. She stopped composing her apology, distracted by a horse-lover’s appreciation for a good-looking animal. The gray was magnificent, straight-legged and well muscled, striding out with huge swinging hips.
Oh, shit. Despair dragged her to a stop, and her shoulders slumped, as deflated as her jockey prospects. This must be the new guy Sandra had been excited about—the trainer with two nice horses, the trainer who needed a rider, the trainer she’d just criticized.
Her apology fizzled to a groan. She’d lost much more than Bill’s filly. She’d just blown any shot of riding one of the nicest-looking horses she’d ever seen. And the gray’s flinty-eyed trainer didn’t look the type to give second chances.
Chapter Three
Dust clogged Kurt's nose as he bedded down the last stall. The itch grew until he sneezed three times, a staccato of noise that made his spotted horse turn and stare. He tossed a flake of straw against the back wall and retreated to his tack room. His tiny tack room.
He hung his pitchfork on two crude nails and blew out a resigned sigh. This backwater track was definitely a change from his usual setup. No air purifier, no desk, no coffee. Barely enough space to cram in some tack and a cot. At least his stay here would be brief—two weeks, three at the most. If he solved this case, it would happen quickly.
Archer had given him a license plate and two names—Julie West and Otto Laing. And the trailer Connor had called in, only hours before his murder, was still parked on the lot. Kurt had noted Otto’s plate when he took Lazer on an exploratory walk.
Tonight, when the grounds were quiet, he’d take a closer look. Maybe the trailer had a false floor. Something had aroused Connor’s suspi
cions, enough that he’d run the license plate and followed Otto to the track.
A horse clopped down the concrete alley, the sound resonating through the thin door of Kurt’s tack room. “Come on, Okie,” a female voice said.
He recognized the voice of the friendly pony rider he’d met earlier, so he opened the door and stepped into the aisle. “Hi, Sandra,” he said. “How's that loose horse I saw you chasing?”
“Fine. Quite a commotion though. The trainer was hysterical.” She shrugged with the nonchalance of someone who’d seen everything. “How you settling in? Find everything you need?”
“So far. But I have to rent a trailer while mine has some bodywork. Would the owner of the blue Sundowner consider renting?”
“No way.” Her scowl was so fierce, her eyebrows almost touched. “That belongs to Otto Laing. You don’t want that wreck anyway.” She brightened. “But Julie West—that's the rider I was telling you about—her dad, Adam, has a nice three-horse trailer he sometimes rents.”
Kurt nodded, filing away every bit of information. Sandra had worked at the track for almost twenty years and would be a useful source. It was already clear she loved to talk.
“I also need an exercise rider,” he said. “This Julie you recommend, is she dependable?”
“Sure. Shows up early every morning, ready to ride.” Sandra slapped her stirrup over the horn and tugged at her cinch. “She’s good too. Not scared of much.”
“Where can I find her?”
Sandra jabbed her head in the direction of the end door. “That’s her coming now.”
He turned to study the approaching figure. Sunlight streamed through the end door, shadowing Julie’s face, but her body was clearly outlined. Petite with a tiny waist and good shoulders, the perfect riding silhouette.
“Sorry I left you alone,” Sandra called to Julie, blasting the words much too close to Kurt's ears. “Bill Chandler wasn’t happy. Says he’s going to quit and go back to training dogs.”
Kurt edged away from Sandra’s hollers but kept his attention on Julie, the last person reported to have seen Connor alive. She was only five stalls away when recognition struck, and he smoothed his flare of distaste.
This was the same kid who’d been dumped in the manure pile. The startling green eyes were unmistakable. Not a kid though. The vest and helmet were gone, freeing shoulder-length blond hair and high cheekbones, a face startling beautiful without the dirt.
Damn curvy too. He gave a hard gulp. She didn't look much like a murderer, and his distaste was joined with a more irritating reaction. He yanked his gaze back to her face, afraid he’d been ogling. Besides, looks were irrelevant. It was already clear she had a quick temper and way too much pride.
Not a coward though. She walked right up to him. Didn’t avoid eye contact, didn’t slow her step, didn’t hide her regret. He heard her soft intake of breath as she squared her shoulders, seemingly resigned to letting him choose the tone of their next encounter.
And his tone was set. She was to be his new best friend, unpleasant though her company would surely be.
“Hello, Julie,” he said. “I'm Kurt MacKinnon. I believe we met earlier.”
“Yes, we did.” She gave a cautious smile, as though surprised by his civility. “I’m very sorry about what I said earlier. Thank you for trying to rescue me from the…mud.”
Her diction was precise, almost formal, but her smile carried a hint of dimples, a whisper of mischief. He almost smiled back but stopped himself, preferring to keep her on edge and observe a little longer. He crossed his arms and used his deadpan expression that always made people twitch.
She waited, not fidgeting, not speaking, just looking at him with a guilelessness that surprised him. Such beautiful eyes, darkened now with a myriad of emotions. Regret, shame, hope—she was young, open, and a cinch to read.
Excellent. Relief softened him, and he finally nodded and smiled back. There’d be no trouble learning what she knew about Connor's death. It might even be possible to wind the case up by week's end and return to his real race business.
A stall door banged shut. “Come see his horses!” Sandra called.
“I already saw the gray,” Julie said to Sandra. “He looked huge but I was flat on the ground.” She turned back to Kurt, and dimples fluttered in her cheeks. “You were right about not paying attention. I was thinking of something else.”
“What was on your mind?” He was careful to display only polite interest.
“Another horse,” she said so ruefully, he grinned. A bit of a surprise since he wasn’t a spontaneous man. Control was a quality he’d learned to value.
“Come on, Julie.” Impatience edged Sandra’s voice and she pointed over the stall door. “That’s Cisco, his track pony.”
The Appaloosa remained at the back of his stall, uninterested in the attention of strangers. He rested a hind leg, and the hair on his fetlocks was so long it curled in the straw. Only his ears moved, flicking back and forth as he appraised his visitors.
Sandra chuckled. “You can always hire me if that lazy horse can’t keep up.”
“Cisco knows his job,” Kurt said, remaining behind them, amused at how quickly Sandra dismissed his Appaloosa. Everyone always underestimated the scruffy gelding. Neither he nor Cisco cared.
Julie gave Cisco a polite appraisal then followed Sandra to the adjoining stall.
“This is your two-year-old, right?” Sandra asked, glancing back at Kurt. “Mature-looking guy. You want a maiden race for him?”
Kurt nodded. “Yeah, that’s Ace. Hope to get his first start in the next couple of weeks once he’s gate approved.”
But Sandra had already turned and was tugging on Julie's arm. “This last guy is Lazer Cat, the horse I told you about. You gotta see him.” Her voice rose as she dragged Julie to the third stall. “He's out of a Storm Cat mare.”
“Wow.” Julie spoke in a reverent whisper.
“That’s the colt you saw earlier,” Kurt said, studying Julie and wondering how he’d ever mistaken her for a kid. Of course she’d worn a helmet and vest, and her face had been covered with straw. “Guess you heard him too,” he said, feeling a twinge of regret for leading the colt so close to the gap. Perhaps his horse had played a part in the filly's meltdown. He hadn’t been thinking, had been too intent on scoping out the track and locating Otto’s trailer.
“Yup, we heard him,” Sandra said. “Even if Bill Chandler stays, he won’t ask me to pony again. Or Julie to ride again.” She shot Julie a sideways glance. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have left you alone.”
“No big deal,” Julie said. “It's just one horse.”
But her voice had thickened, and Kurt guessed it was a bigger deal than she pretended. Obviously she didn't have much business which suited him perfectly. He’d already planned to use her for Lazer's morning gallops. It would be a quick way to gain her trust, and she'd be more accessible if she rode for him.
He turned to her, keeping his voice casual as though the idea had just occurred, as though he hadn’t been planning his strategy over the last two days. “Do you want another gallop job? Lazer needs an exercise rider, and he could replace the filly you lost. We can see how you get along tomorrow.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” But she tilted her head and stepped back, studying him with those candid green eyes. “You’re new here,” she added, “so it’s only fair to admit I haven’t been riding here long. And your horse isn't my usual type.”
His mouth twitched, and he hid his amusement with a quick cough. Her honesty surprised him, although it was irrelevant. Archer had already summarized her background, and Kurt knew she was inexperienced. Soon he’d know much more about her.
He gave a dismissive shrug. “Lazer's just an expensive loser. He's had five races, all clunkers. This is his last chance to prove he belongs at a track.” Plus, Lazer was his slowest horse and the only animal he could race in Calgary that wouldn't be a standout. But he couldn’t admit that.
Julie’s
head tilted as though absorbing his offer, but hope brightened her eyes. She was almost hooked, he guessed. She’d obviously had a shower since her fall. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but he could smell a hint of shampoo. He edged a step closer, not sure if it was flowers or something peachy.
“Where did he run?” she asked, staring over the stall door at Lazer.
Kurt jerked his attention off her hair and back to his horse. “Woodbine,” he said. “But that’s a synthetic surface. I shipped here hoping he’d like a dirt track and some easier competition. He’s agile and should be able to handle the tight turns. His mind is a problem, though.” Kurt glanced back at Julie. “It won’t be an easy job,” he went on, gauging her expression, aware jockeys were intensely competitive. “I need an exercise rider who can turn him into a racehorse. Someone dependable. Someone who isn’t afraid of his immaturity.”
The challenge drew her in exactly as he anticipated.
“I’m not afraid,” she said quickly. “I’d love to work with Lazer. And you.”
She smiled with such gratitude, he grinned back like a fool then clamped his mouth shut, annoyed by his reaction. He was too experienced to be softened by an attractive woman. He’d learned that lesson long ago. Besides, she was one of Archer's murder suspects, a person of interest. At the very least, she could be a link to the murderer.
And much as he hated the role he'd been thrust into, Machiavellian behavior had always been his strength. If charming Julie was required, that's exactly what he’d do. And God help her if she had anything to do with Connor’s murder.
Chapter Four
A keyboard clicked, the only sound in the dingy motel room, as Kurt updated his case journal. Contact had been made with the woman on Archer's list, and tonight he’d have a chance to inspect Otto’s trailer.
Jockeys and Jewels Page 2
