Jockeys and Jewels

by Bev Pettersen

“I had an excellent jockey.” Lethargy thickened Kurt’s words. He twisted his head against the pillow, using the pain to stay alert. “Surveillance must have been sloppy if Otto made it. Prick was dumber than a codfish.” His stomach wrenched at the memory of Julie's face when Otto manhandled her. “Fucker deserved to be shot,” he muttered.

  Archer leaned forward and clicked off the recorder. “You don’t usually take things personally but considering the situation…” He shrugged and rose. “We got it done and appreciate you stepping in. There will be an internal review, of course, but the girl's account matches yours. I do wonder what she was doing in your room though,” he added with a smile.

  “Just keep wondering,” Kurt said. “God, what a mess for her.”

  “She really was cool, quite the little champ.” Archer moved to the rail of the bed. “And she wasn't hurt.” His perceptive face was much too close.

  “Not hurt? Nearly raped and murdered!” Kurt twisted his head away. “I dragged her into the sewer. She had no idea I was a cop…she saved my life.”

  “Guess it was a good thing she stayed the night,” Archer said.

  Kurt squeezed his eyes shut, fighting his remorse. A trolley rumbled down the hall, and voices tittered from the nursing station. “Friedman told her the truth, not me.” His throat tightened as he recalled her horrified look of betrayal.

  “Deception is necessary for undercover agents,” Archer said. “And you’re one of our best.”

  “Great. That should make her feel better. Pass me my phone. You'll have my report later.” His tongue felt thick and clumsy. “Need to call her.” He fumbled at the metal table, knocking the IV stand. “Where's my damn phone?”

  “You won't be calling today. And don’t beat yourself up so much.”

  Kurt’s eyelids drooped. He forced them open, fighting their weight. Archer leaned over the bed, still talking, but it was Julie's anguished face he saw long after a drug-induced sleep claimed him.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Sandra galloped down the track, stirring up a flurry of dust and waving her arm in excitement. “Still riding? The media’s clamoring to talk to our local hero.”

  Julie blew out a sigh, slowing Skippy along the outside rail.

  “It’s not so bad,” Sandra continued. “They just interviewed me. Martin too. They wrote down everything we said, word for word. One reporter asked if all jockeys were as brave as you. It was so much fun.” She gave a rueful shrug. “Hard to believe Otto's dead, but I never liked him anyway.”

  Julie stared across the track, numb to Sandra’s excitement. Otto was gone, and it was horrible to have seen him die. But it was Kurt’s betrayal that ripped at her gut.

  She didn’t remember walking back to the barn, didn’t remember asking Sandra to drive her home. But the ruthless look on his face as he kicked Friedman was seared in her soul. She didn't know him at all. Little wonder he didn't show his feelings. He had none.

  She'd been calm when the grim-faced Mounties converged with their pens and pads. But she couldn't remember their questions or her stumbling answers. All she remembered was lying on the cold bathroom tiles, shaking and vomiting. Too shattered to even cry.

  She'd been a murder suspect. A key to an investigation. His job. Physical intimacy had been his method to get her talking. And, boy, it had worked.

  She stiffened in the saddle, fresh bile climbing her throat. His questions about Otto, his compliments about her riding, his tender kisses. She’d swallowed every lie. Now she understood why he’d asked her—an unknown apprentice—to ride for him. She was an idiot. Even Liam had it figured.

  She choked back her humiliation and stared down at her white knuckles squeezing the reins, aware that Sandra's glee had faded to silence.

  “Sorry,” Sandra said. “It’s just that you’re so calm. Sometimes I forget what you’ve been through.”

  “He was such a l-liar.” Julie’s voice cracked.

  “Kurt?”

  Julie winced at his name.

  “Oh, yeah. He was a real prick.” Sandra reached over and clumsily patted Julie’s knee. “But one of the other cops said Kurt used to go undercover for months at a time. Elite jobs, scary stuff. Guess you can’t be totally honest in that line of work.”

  “Totally honest! How about totally dishonest! I understand the secrecy about his job, but I thought he liked me. And my riding. He would have put me on his horses if I rode like a monkey. As for the other—” Thinking of it made her stomach heave, but she forced out the tormenting question. “How could he sleep with a murder suspect? How could he even want to?”

  “Honey,” Sandra said, “Kurt’s just a man, God love 'em. They have a brain and a penis but unfortunately can only use one at a time.”

  Julie choked, torn between a giggle and a sob. “He said he loved me when he thought we might die.” Her voice trailed off. She hated its hint of wistfulness.

  “Probably so you'd try harder to save his ass.” Sandra grinned. “But meeting him wasn’t all bad. You did get your first win.”

  “Yes. He does have nice horses.” Julie reached down and smoothed Skippy’s mane. “Does Skippy’s mane look better to the left or right?”

  “The left,” Sandra said.

  Julie flipped the mane. They walked their horses side by side, analyzing the weather, tomorrow's race entries and Martin’s new girlfriend.

  Sandra said nothing more about ‘The Horseshoe Homicides,’ as one radio station had dubbed it. Julie knew Sandra craved more details, but she didn't want to talk about Otto and Friedman. Couldn’t. She'd shoved that nightmare into a dark corner of her mind and didn’t want to let it out...ever.

  “There is good news,” Sandra said as they approached the gap. “One paper ran a story about how badly Otto treated his horses. The police confiscated his gelding as he was being loaded onto the meat truck. Now there's a bunch of people lined up to adopt him.”

  “Great,” Julie said. “Maybe the media will leave now.” The prospect of facing their pointed questions made her stomach churn. “I don’t want to talk to anyone. Not yet. Think I’ll stay out here for a while. Will you let me know when they're gone?”

  “Sure. They can't get to you here. Oh no…” Sandra scowled, staring past Julie. “The infamous cowboy cop is finally making an appearance.”

  The morning sun silhouetted a horse and rider as they trotted onto the track. Their imposing outline was unmistakable—Kurt and Cisco.

  Julie’s heart wrenched, even as her brain scrabbled for escape. Turn Skippy and gallop in the opposite direction? But then Kurt would guess how devastated she was, and unfortunately that damn Cisco was quick enough to run them down.

  “I can't wait to hear what the cocky sonofabitch has to say,” Sandra said, bristling as Kurt trotted up, fast and full of purpose.

  “Hello, Sergeant,” Sandra said. “Still hiding your Stetson?”

  Kurt ignored her, filling his senses with Julie. The bruises around her mouth had faded but her face was pale, her eyes shadowed. She'd suffered from Otto's hands but even more from his, and now she looked at him with such expressionless eyes. His chest wrenched. “Julie—”

  Sandra abruptly pushed her horse forward, blocking his gaze. “Why don’t you just go home? No need to hang around our cow town now that Julie’s off your Ten Most Wanted.”

  Kurt grit his teeth. He liked Sandra, but emotion had rubbed his tolerance razor thin. “Julie, I'd like to talk to you.”

  “Well she doesn’t want to talk to you. Not anymore,” Sandra replied. “Not unless you have a subpoena.”

  He sighed. The redhead was bothering him and so were the onlookers flocking like vultures to the rail. Julie looked so fragile. He ached to hold her, to comfort her. To explain.

  “Excuse me.” He squeezed his legs. Cisco flattened his ears and charged forward. Sandra’s horse immediately shuffled sideways, intimidated by the aggressive App. Kurt hooked his arm around Julie and scooped her from the saddle.

  “Look afte
r Julie’s horse, please.” He tossed Skippy's reins to Sandra and trotted off, with Julie flailing in front of him.

  “Let me down,” she said.

  “Let her down,” Sandra echoed as she cantered Okie after them with a surprised-looking Skippy in tow. “You asshole. Let her go. You…you…you’re not allowed to ride double on the track!”

  Kurt tucked Julie's arms beneath his, slightly lightheaded now that he was finally holding her. “Sorry, but you wouldn’t answer your phone.”

  Sandra stormed behind him, hollering and attracting everybody’s attention. “This is high-handed, even for a damn cop!” she yelled. “Here comes an outrider now. He’ll fix you.”

  Hooves pounded, and a furious outrider galloped up.

  Kurt whipped out his badge. “Police business. Murder investigation. Please clear the track of that lady.”

  The outrider studied Kurt’s badge then nodded respectfully. “I heard about Nick's killer. Glad you got him.” He motioned at Sandra. “You’ll have to leave the track, Sandra.” But his eyes narrowed on Julie, who was still struggling and clearly an unwilling passenger. “How much time do you need, sir?”

  “I'll let you know when I'm finished,” Kurt said. He ignored Sandra's sputters and trotted Cisco off before the watchful outrider could ask any more questions.

  Julie pulled a fist loose and rammed it in his stomach. He let her whack a few times, hoping it would shake his mountain of guilt, but she was surprisingly strong, so he tucked her arm back beneath his and simply absorbed her presence. For a moment, he squeezed his eyes shut, overwhelmed with relief. She was okay.

  “I see Otto gave you lessons on how to handle women.” Her voice was muffled by his arm.

  Oh, God. He loosened his grip, instantly shamed. She pulled free and slid to the ground. However, Cisco obligingly stopped, and he was able to snag her up again. He lifted her back in the saddle, but his arms felt heavier than her. “Promise you won't jump off,” he pleaded. “Give me five minutes.”

  She hesitated.

  “Please, Julie,” he said.

  Her nod was almost imperceptible but still a nod, so he repositioned her, making sure the saddle horn wouldn't dig in her back.

  He sucked in a breath. “I'm sorry you were dragged into this mess. I never dreamed you'd be exposed to danger. You were so damn brave. Otto…”

  She averted her head, but he persisted.

  “Otto almost raped you. Friedman—” He stopped, unable to continue as he remembered the murderous intent in Friedman's eyes when he leveled the gun. “Just let it out.” He swallowed, could feel her shivering now, and it pulled at his very core. “Your dad said you won’t talk about it, but you can't wish this stuff away.” His voice cracked, and he wet his mouth. “I've tried to do that, honey. It doesn’t work.”

  Julie fought the urge to burrow into his chest. The thud of his heart, the calm timbre of his voice, even the steadiness of Cisco's walk made her feel insulated.

  His voice rumbled on as he spoke about the first murder he'd witnessed. Spoke about how his misplaced trust in a mob girlfriend named Anne Marie had resulted in a shooting. Spoke of the things he did when undercover, the lies he’d told. Admitted his difficulties dealing with it all and why he’d eventually quit. Told her everything.

  And finally her defenses crumbled. Kurt had been in that motel room. He knew the fear, the horror, the sordidness that seemed to cling to her skin.

  Emotions ambushed her. The quakes started behind her eyelids and spread through her entire body. When the tears finally spurted, she turned to him. She cried long after his shirt was soaked, cried until she’d rinsed herself of the horror, the helplessness, the terror. Finally only hiccups remained, and she was limp in his arms.

  At some point he'd removed her helmet. It dangled from the horn, bumping against Cisco's muscled shoulder. His fingers stroked her head, lulling her with the rhythm. She couldn't guess how many laps Cisco had walked but knew the tough horse would keep going until Kurt told him to stop.

  “How could you think I was part of that?” she finally whispered, her voice hoarse.

  “You weren’t a suspect for long. Not after my second day here.”

  She thought she was drained of emotion, but his words stirred relief. Not after the second day. Some consolation at least. “Was I a suspect when you gave me the mount on Ace?”

  He tried to thumb away a tear, but she turned from his touch. He seemed to wince, and Cisco walked another ten yards before he spoke again.

  “No, you weren’t a suspect then.” His voice was gruff. “I watched you ride and knew you would suit. It had nothing to do with the case. Not much anyway.”

  She glanced up, shocked by the odd sheen in his eyes. They could turn so many shades of gray, but right now he looked like he was in pain. Maybe she shouldn't have hit him so hard. After all, his jaw was badly bruised, and there was a square bandage on his neck.

  “They told me you were okay,” she said. “But that you had to spend a couple days in the hospital?”

  “Yeah, it was just a scratch. I wanted to call and…thank you, but I fell asleep.”

  He was grateful. She ducked her head, shriveling with despair. His hand splayed around her hip, the lighter hairs stark against his tanned skin. So casual, so composed. She wished he felt a fraction of what she did, wished she could shake the feelings from him, wished she could ask if he’d lied in that motel room

  Instead she muttered, “Consider me thanked.”

  His arms stiffened. “I couldn't tell you what I was doing. We were after a cop killer. The man you met, Connor, he was my partner, my friend.”

  “I understand the secrecy. And I'm very sorry about Connor. But you shouldn't have had sex with me. It's not right to use people like that.” Her voice tailed off to a miserable squeak.

  “It wasn’t just sex.”

  His words marginally unclogged her throat, and she was able to swallow. She looked at the sky, watched as a fluffy cloud was pushed along by the Chinook breeze. “So many lies. Like buying land. What else did you lie about?”

  “I never lied about my feelings for you,” he said. “Never.”

  A lightness unfurled in her chest, and her breathing seemed a tad easier. She struggled to square her concept of honesty with the moral ambiguity of his job. He was just so inscrutable, always hiding his feelings, saying whatever was necessary at the time.

  Cisco kept walking.

  “How did you feel when you lied?” she finally asked.

  “Hated it.” His voice was unusually rough and she glanced up, but he was staring straight ahead. She couldn’t see his eyes.

  “Guess it doesn't matter anyway. I hear you're leaving.” She toyed with a strand of Cisco's thin mane and fought a rush of despair.

  “But it does matter.” His voice thickened. “You matter. And I’m not leaving until you feel the same way.”

  “And then you leave?” She forced a laugh. “After I care.”

  “No.” His arms tightened as though frustrated. “We can work something out. It’d be tough if you rode here when I’m training halfway across the country. Most of my horses are at Woodbine or Belmont. A few are still in Florida. But none would fit here.”

  What was he saying? Her heart thumped so loud she feared even the intrepid Cisco might shy at the noise.

  “We can try moving them around though,” he said quickly. “I'll talk to the owners, see what works.”

  “How many horses do you have?”

  “Lots. Most, I train for others. Some are real quality horses. You could do real well on them.” His throat convulsed. “I don’t want to rush you, Julie. You’re young. You might not feel like I do yet but with time—”

  He sucked in a breath, closed his eyes and dipped his head over hers. “God, I love you.”

  She couldn't speak, stunned by what he was saying, what he was showing. He wasn't hiding anything now, not his tormented eyes, not his raw feelings, not his heart. Joy blazed through her, lea
ving her so dizzy she gripped his arm.

  He thought she needed more time? “Actually,” she said, “I’ve had plenty of time.”

  He jerked his eyes open. She smiled up at him, her lower lip tremulous with emotion. “Julie.” He breathed her name, groaned and covered her mouth in a searing kiss. Both were oblivious to the crowd, the cameras and the grinning redhead who whistled an old Bobby Sherman tune.

  Cisco noticed. His ears flicked but he continued his resolute trudge around the track, perhaps sensing they didn't want to stop, not quite yet.

  * * *

  Read Chapter One of BEV PETTERSEN’s next novel.

  COLOR MY HORSE

  The racetrack’s scenic infield was usually deserted, but today the police cars and body bag had drawn a hushed crowd. Mark sucked in a deep breath and stared over the heads of solemn onlookers.

  “Who’d they pull from the pond?” Dino asked, in a voice a shade too loud. “Heard old Lefty didn’t show for work.”

  No one answered. Attention was riveted on the grim-faced officials clustered around a pitiful corpse. A police officer with a long stick waded into the murky water and snagged a dripping hat. Lefty’s hat.

  Mark blew out a ragged sigh. Lefty: gruff, single and a confirmed alcoholic. At least it wasn’t a child who had drowned. The Belmont track had two infield ponds, and the backstretch kids sometimes snuck over the rail, lured by the quacking ducks.

  He dragged a regretful hand over his jaw then tilted his head, signaling to Dino. Nothing they could do to help, and gawking seemed disrespectful and rude. He trudged away from the ring of watchers and followed the flattened path back to the barns. Later the dirt would be harrowed, groomed for fragile Thoroughbred legs, but it was difficult to worry about horses when a man was dead.

  “Heard Boone’s filly was impressive this morning,” Dino called, his voice muffled by the thud of his boots as he rushed to catch up.

  Mark gave a wry nod, amazed his race assistant could be so upbeat. Nothing ever worried Dino. “That’s right,” Mark said. “Horse ran great. Rider said Belle’s never felt better.”