Jockeys and Jewels

by Bev Pettersen

  “Yes, maybe we should do that.” Betty tilted her head. “There’s a craft fair at the mall tomorrow. It’s a very busy spot.”

  Kurt nodded in solemn agreement. By tomorrow evening, this place would be crawling with cops, and the jewelry in legal limbo. “I think you should take as much stock as you can,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Kurt tilted his chair against Cisco’s stall and flipped The Racing Form open to the eighth race. A mottled nose reached over his shoulder and snorted against the page.

  “Yeah, Lazer’s not very impressive.” Kurt gave Cisco’s jaw an absent scratch. “He’s the only horse in the race who’s never finished in the money.”

  He studied the form of the other runners. Frostbite and Brenna’s Hitter were the two speed horses, and both would want to be on the front.

  Bixton was riding the favorite, Sweating Bullet, a horse with an explosive closing kick. The unbeaten colt had won all his starts from off the pace. Kurt remembered the horse’s morning gallops, and it was apparent he was training well. Bullet would be the one to beat, and the race would set up well for his running style. Frostbite and Brenna’s Hitter would battle early, but both of them looked incapable of rating—leaving it ripe for a late runner.

  He couldn't discount Brenna’s Hitter though. She was a game little filly and had beaten the boys before. If early fractions weren't too fast, she was capable of wiring it, especially if the track favored speed. She had a win and a third but in her last start had hooked up with another speed horse and faded badly in the stretch.

  Frostbite had one win but appeared to stop cold unless the pace was dawdling. Kurt circled that horse's name. He didn't want Lazer behind Frostbite after the quarter pole.

  TerryJoh was a stalker and always a factor. In his last start he'd finished second to Sweating Bullet and had never run worse than fourth. Aussie Cal was a late runner and would be motoring at the quarter pole. He was coming off a win, but the time was leisurely. Probably a lightweight. Kurt drew a line through Aussie Cal.

  He also crossed out the two remaining horses, Fort Point and Norvik. They were moving up in class and, unless they had great racing luck, would be well back.

  And then there was the enigmatic Lazer.

  Lazer had morning odds of twelve to one, based largely on his breeding and the fact that he'd raced at Woodbine. Kurt doubted the bettors would be as generous as the track handicapper. He added a heavy question mark by Lazer’s name.

  It was possible the colt would run big. He loved the Calgary surface and was adept at the tight bullring turns. Kurt penciled a line through Lazer’s last race. That was in the cold rain, and Lazer had hated the weather. He drew another line through the first race. A horse could be forgiven anything their first start.

  The second race was troubling though and not so easy to excuse. The jockey had checked Lazer to keep from clipping another horse, and the colt had simply stopped trying. The remaining races were just as mystifying. Maybe the colt lacked courage. Or maybe, as Julie believed, the loafing really was related to some sort of focus problem.

  Kurt wasn't certain but it was best to be optimistic, so he drew a heavy black line through the remaining three races. Now Lazer had a clean slate and looked damn good. He’d bet Lazer to win, Sweating Bullet second and the game little filly, Brenna’s Hitter, to hang on for third. Conditions were setting up for a nice payday. It was almost a sure thing.

  Behind him Cisco gave a derisive snort, scattering water spots across the page.

  For the second time that day, a warm mouth woke Julie. She pushed Blue away, stretched in contentment then dropped her arms in horror.

  Shit, shit, shit. She covered her face with her hands as her brain spit out memories, every one of them bad.

  She'd been sick. Had she thrown up in Kurt’s truck? She scrunched her face, trying to remember. No, probably not. She had a vague recollection of sitting in the ditch. The shooters! Just the thought of them made her stomach lurch. She’d guzzled way too many of those silly drinks trying to forget her feelings for Kurt. And she had a huge race tonight.

  Gingerly she lowered her hands and propped herself up. Everything worked. Her stomach and head hurt, but she’d ridden with much worse pain. It wasn’t such a disaster.

  Not such a disaster! Oh, God!

  She dropped her head in her hands, appalled at her behavior. The night before the biggest race of her fledging career, and she had drunk like an idiot, to the extent that the trainer himself had to drive her home. It was surprising he was still letting her ride Lazer.

  She was hazy as to how she'd ended up in his truck. Hopefully she hadn’t begged him for a drive. Embarrassment surged, and her face hammered hot against her hands. Lucky she hadn’t been with Cody; she guessed he wouldn’t have been so mannerly. And Kurt had been a gentleman. He didn't have to ply his women with liquor—quite the opposite.

  She pressed the pillow over her face remembering that in the truck he’d been the one to push her away, literally. No doubt he’d be in one of his frosty moods today. And who could blame him?

  Thump, thump. Blue rested his head on the edge of the bed, his tail knocking the floor, his brown eyes shining with approval. He thought everything she did was perfect. She patted his head, marginally cheered by his devotion.

  Besides, Kurt had been kind this morning. He must like her a little. Maybe with time his feelings would turn into a lot more. She was used to fighting for what she wanted, and it was a long season. She just had to make sure Lazer ran well so Kurt would stick around. And that he’d keep using her as his jockey.

  Energized, she tossed the covers aside and scrambled from the bed. Rushed to the bathroom scales. One hundred and seven pounds. Great, she could use her three-pound saddle and hit her weight. She dashed into the shower, already focused on the race. Lazer had better be ready to run tonight, because she was going to insist he make a big effort.

  Chapter Thirty

  Lazer swung his head, jarring Martin’s arm. The brush ricocheted off the wall and clattered to the floor.

  “I tied him but he won’t stand still,” Martin complained as he bent down and scooped the brush from the straw. “He keeps pawing and jumping around.”

  “He's excited. Knows he’s going to race.” Kurt stepped into the stall and jerked on the rope. “Quit.”

  Lazer stopped his gyrations. He still shimmered with energy, but Martin was able to brush his mane. “How does he know he’s racing?” Martin asked.

  “Mostly from us. He senses our excitement. Plus he was only jogged this morning so there’s been a schedule change. He knows something’s up.”

  Kurt watched as Martin brushed Lazer with proprietary pride. The kid was a good groom but kept such a low profile other trainers didn’t notice. It would be a shame to leave him without a job when he was clearly flourishing in the track environment. “Can you help me in the paddock?” Kurt asked.

  Martin whipped around, eyes incredulous. “You mean tonight? In the race where everyone will be dressed up? Lazer’s race?”

  “Yeah, that one.” Kurt grinned.

  “Oh, man! Wicked! I gotta run home and change. And tell my mom too. She’s even coming to watch.”

  “Think your red-headed friend will be there?”

  Martin pumped his head. “Oh yeah. She’ll be there. Girls sure like horses, don’t they?”

  “They sure do,” Kurt said but his pleasure at Martin’s reaction dimmed as his thoughts jumped to Julie. She might be peeved at how he'd shanghaied her into his truck, and if she really did like Cody he'd scuttled that for her.

  He didn’t want to think about it. Passed a mane comb to Martin, and tried to concentrate on nothing but the best way to tame Lazer’s stubborn mane.

  Julie slipped into the barn. Her pulse pounded, and every sense seemed to have sharpened. She recognized Martin’s voice and Kurt’s deeper timbre. Her stomach kicked, but she squared her shoulders and walked toward Lazer's stall. She had to face him so
metime. It would be much easier now than in the saddling enclosure before the race.

  “Hi, Julie.” Martin careened past, arms and legs pumping, his teeth a line of white. “I’m helping saddle tonight!” he yelled.

  “Super!” she called back. That was quite a coup. She knew more experienced people who would have been delighted to help Kurt. Everyone wanted to be connected with the quality horses. The other runners would all have huge entourages, but Lazer only had the three of them.

  Kurt stepped from Lazer’s stall, his expression inscrutable, and the butterflies in her stomach morphed into giant moths. Was he disgusted with her drinking last night? Maybe he’d even decided to use another jockey.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “Fine.” She spoke in a rush. “Thanks for taking me home. I’m really sorry about drinking like that. And about getting sick.”

  “Let’s take a look at Lazer’s race,” he said.

  She followed him toward the tack room, her emotions jumbled. He always kept his emotions walled, but apparently she was still riding his horse. She gave him a grateful smile. He opened the door and smiled back—such a deep smile her toes curled.

  Relief loosened her chest, weakening her legs and she sank down on the squeaky cot.

  “What do you know about these horses?” He flipped open The Racing Form and sat down beside her.

  She pointed to Brenna’s Hitter, determined to act professional, despite the blast of heat that radiated from him. “This filly is fast but hard to rate.” She moistened her lips. “She and the one horse, Frostbite, will probably set the pace. But if she gets an easy lead and relaxes, she could be tough.”

  “What about Bixton’s mount?”

  “So far the horse is unbeaten, but his regular rider from Seattle broke his leg. This will be Gary’s first time up. But Gary dropped Brenna’s Hitter for Sweating Bullet, so he must think Bullet’s the best.”

  The sagging cot made it impossible to keep any distance between them. She didn’t want to scoot away and look like a prude, but heat pulsated from his leg, making her skin tingle, and there didn’t seem to be nearly enough oxygen in the tiny room.

  “I don’t think the jockey change is going to hurt the horse,” she added, her voice breathless. “Gary’s very good.”

  Kurt nodded, but his attention was on The Form. “You’re coming out of the two hole,” he said thoughtfully, “so there'll be a wait. Lazer is never quick leaving the gate, so you’ll be shuffled back. A lot of dirt will fly. I’m running him in full cup blinkers. They might keep him focused and at least will cut down on the dirt. Don’t be afraid to go around traffic. He’s plenty fit and can handle the turns. And don’t get stuck behind that Frostbite horse. He’ll run out of gas and when he shuts down, he'll be taking horses with him.”

  She nodded—her stomach churning not only from Kurt’s proximity but also from the looming race. Tonight she’d be matching wits with top riders, competing against quality horses. Lazer lacked early speed, had focus issues and habitually gave up when dirt smacked him. But she was finally riding in a huge race. Her mother would be proud.

  She wiped her warm forehead then clutched her hands. At least having other horses in front would let her see how the race was setting up. She wished she were better prepared, wished she’d spent more time watching Lazer’s replays. Usually she was very diligent, but her totally unprofessional feelings for the man sitting beside her had been too distracting.

  She stared out the tiny window, watching as a fly struggled to free itself from a web. Warm fingers on her neck made her jump.

  “Relax,” he said. “It’s just a race.”

  She opened her mouth to argue. It wasn’t just a race. Not to her. But his hands felt incredibly good, so she closed her mouth and let him knead her stiff neck.

  “You’re so tight, I should give you a full body massage,” he said.

  “Yes.” She sighed. “That’d be nice.”

  He tilted her chin, studying her intently. “I do give good massages,” he said.

  “I’m sure you do.” She remembered how good his hands could feel. Her cheeks warmed, but he kept holding her chin, studying her face as though searching for something.

  “Then you’re not upset about last night?” He blew out a breath, and the angles of his jaw softened. “Thank God,” he said.

  She blinked, puzzled, but he’d already stretched out on the cot and pulled her down beside him, covering her mouth with a deep kiss, and it was apparent he still wanted her—physically at least. His tongue stroked her mouth, making her senses hum, and his big hands trailed along her back, molding her against him.

  When he finally raised his head an inch, his breath was ragged. “Let’s go directly to that massage and forget the damn race.” He nuzzled her neck, his mouth warm and insistent.

  His body crackled with so much sexual energy, she suspected he was serious. “We have a few minutes before I have to weigh in,” she jerked upright, “but I'm not missing this race. Lazer and Martin don’t want to miss it either.”

  His hot gaze lingered on her mouth. “If we continue like this, sweetie, you won’t make the weigh-in.”

  She scrambled to her feet, afraid he spoke the truth. A little kissing and she tingled all over, and when he looked at her with those hot eyes, she just wanted to slide her hands beneath his shirt and explore that hard body.

  “I’m not missing this race,” she said. “Don’t even joke about it.” She crossed her arms and backed further from the cot. “And don’t look at me like that,” she added.

  He still eyed her through narrowed lids so she stayed out of reach, waiting until they were a safer gray, not that dark color they turned when he was thinking of sex. My God, he was gorgeous, sprawled on the cot, all big surly male, looking as disappointed as Dude when a mare was led past the breeding pen.

  His dark hair was slightly rumpled, his collar crooked. She caught a glimpse of chest hair, knew there was a scar about an inch to the right, close to the spot where his chest muscles bunched. Her eyes drifted lower, lingering on the bulge in his jeans. Maybe there was enough time, maybe—

  “We have twenty-five minutes before you need to report in.” He sat up and checked his watch. “Are you going to be overweight? Lazer’s only assigned a hundred and fifteen pounds, and with your apprentice bug, we can shave it down to a hundred and ten.”

  She made a non-committal sound deep in her throat, hiding her disappointment at the abrupt subject change. Nothing mattered to him very long. Certainly not her. He was all trainer now, composed and businesslike, while she couldn’t quite pull her thoughts off his body and masterful kissing.

  “So? What do you weigh?” he asked.

  “One hundred and seven pounds,” she said. “I’ll use my light saddle and hit the weight dead on.”

  “Don’t use that word. That’s bad luck.”

  “What word? What’s bad luck?” She took a curious step forward. He really looked worried, had even winced.

  “That phrase, the one you just said.”

  “Dead on? Are you superstitious?”

  “Not a bit.” But he spoke way too quickly.

  She stared at him, such a big, tough hunk of a man—cool, composed, always in control. It didn’t seem possible he’d be ruled by a superstition. A giggle slipped out, then another until she was outright laughing.

  It seemed she laughed for minutes and when she finally sobered, all her emotions had drained, and she felt more relaxed than she had in weeks.

  The room was ominously quiet though. Firming her mouth, she wiped her wet eyes and peeked at Kurt. He'd lain back on the cot, muscled arms looped beneath his head as he stared at the ceiling.

  Oh, no. He had that reserved expression he often wore. Of course, all guys hated to be laughed at. But this was totally unexpected.

  She tried to be solemn but her words carried a little bounce that was impossible to hide. “Sorry, but you’re the last person I’d ever expect to be superstiti
ous.” Her dad called it super-stupid, but she definitely wouldn’t mention that. “It’s just that I’m nervous about the race and everything. I think I have a touch of the giggles.”

  “No problem. Laugh away,” he said. “But tell me when ten minutes is up. I have to keep my arms crossed, in total silence, so that any bad karma is blocked. Or there's no way I can run Lazer tonight. It’d be much too risky. That’s not a superstition either,” he added, his voice flat, “but an absolute rule.”

  Her mouth dropped, and she stared in disbelief. This was no longer funny. He would actually scratch his horse because his jockey had used an unfortunate phrase? She’d suspected Kurt was too good to be true, guessed he must have a flaw. Well, she’d just found it.

  God, it must get complicated, especially at a track where racing luck was so critical. Her empathy welled, and she walked over and sat beside him on the cot, holding his hand and squeezing it in understanding but she remained silent—just as he’d requested. She definitely didn’t want him to scratch Lazer, and if it meant shutting up for ten minutes, she could do that too. She’d also remember to never say ‘dead on.’

  A radio blared from the aisle. Someone dropped a shovel, but it was quiet in his tack room, quiet except for his ragged breathing. Ragged? Puzzled, she looked down, scanning his expression.

  His lips twitched. A chuckle burst out of him, and he tugged her into his chest.

  She stared in disbelief as he laughed—laughed at her.

  “You’re not superstitious.” She knocked his arm in exasperation. My God, would she ever understand him? “You’re just a jerk,” she said.

  “Sometimes I am.” He sobered then slipped his hand around the back of her neck. “But this jerk adores you.”