Jockeys and Jewels

by Bev Pettersen

  “Things are picking up now that you’re training for Old Man Boone.” Dino flashed his irreverent grin. “But somehow I can’t see you kissing ass to keep him.”

  Mark shrugged, unable to banish the image of Lefty’s limp body, although Boone was certainly a more optimistic topic. His mood lightened a notch as he considered Boone’s two talented horses. The filly, Belle, was good but the second horse, Ambling Assets, was even better, and it seemed Mark finally trained a horse good enough to compete in the Breeders’ Cup.

  Success was so close he could taste it.

  A truck engine roared. He jerked sideways as a blue Ford whipped past, crunching gravel, going too fast. Dust clogged his nose as the vehicle cut along the squat row of barns, leaving a spiraling trail of gray.

  “Damn. Doc’s truck,” Dino said. “Pity the sucker.”

  Beep. Mark stilled, then pulled his phone out, his gaze locked in the direction of the speeding vehicle.

  “Better come quick, boss.” The voice on the phone thickened with a heavy accent and barely-concealed panic. “Boone’s filly is colicing. I already called the doc.”

  Mark snapped the phone shut, running even as he jammed it back into his pocket. “Colic, Belle,” he said over his shoulder.

  His stalls were in barn forty-eight, usually a five-minute walk, but he charged through the cloying dust left by Doc’s truck, and was there in less than a minute. A knot of people gathered in the shedrow but they stepped back, forming a grim-faced passageway.

  Mark groaned when he spotted the beautiful filly thrashing in the straw. The signs of shock were obvious: increased respiration, darkened eyes, trembling muscles.

  “Gotta get up, baby,” he said as he joined Carlos at her head. “Hurry up with the Banamine, Doc!” Sweat streaked Belle’s neck, and her eyes rolled with pain as they urged her to her feet.

  The vet injected a shot of pain reliever and pushed a tube up her left nostril so oil could be pumped to her stomach. She was too distressed to argue. Her sleek body trembled, wracked with belly pain.

  “Carlos, grab a blanket. Dino, hook up the trailer.” Mark heard the snap in his words and tried to calm his voice around Belle, but could barely control his dismay. Only an hour ago, the filly had radiated health. She’d worked four furlongs and been prancing when her groom led her away to be bathed and cooled.

  Trish. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the circle of anxious faces. “Where the hell is Belle’s groom?” he asked.

  “Don’t know, boss.” Carlos dipped his head, avoiding Mark’s gaze, as he scuffed his worn boot in the dirt. “Don’t think the filly was cooled out after her work.”

  Mark’s mouth clamped. He’d suspected it had been a mistake to hire Trish, despite her impressive credentials. She was too young, too selfish, too concerned with her own agenda. And admittedly, he’d been swayed by a pretty face.

  Belle groaned, a helpless visceral sound that ripped at his gut, and he shoved aside his regret. He’d deal with Trish later. Right now the stricken horse needed him.

  “She might make it without surgery,” Doc said. “Let’s get her to the clinic and see if she responds to the laxative. But you’ll need to sign some permission forms, just in case.”

  Just in case. Christ. Sometimes a horse came back after colic surgery, but often they were never as good. And sometimes they never made it back.

  He swiped his damp forehead as Dino eased the truck and trailer to the entrance and dropped the ramp with a thud. Belle twisted, biting at her stomach, but Mark tugged her forward. She gamely tried to follow, but her trembling legs splayed.

  “Push her on, Dino,” Mark said, aching at her pain. Some colics were unavoidable but not this one. For some reason Trish had neglected to cool the filly out after her gallop—utter negligence—and his compassion for the filly roiled with his hot anger.

  He tied Belle in the trailer and pressed a kiss against her wet neck. “Come back to me, baby,” he whispered. But his voice hardened when he turned to Dino. “She might need emergency surgery. I’ll meet you at the clinic once I find out when she last ate.”

  He stalked past several barns, searching for Trish, using the walk to cool his anger. Maybe she had an excuse, maybe she was hurt, maybe was even upset about Lefty. Understandable. Best to stay open minded. Give her a chance. Ah, there she was, and she looked fine. He blew out a sigh of relief then jerked to such an abrupt stop his heels trenched the dirt.

  She posed outside the track kitchen, flashing gay teeth and flirtatious eyes, flanked by three reporters. A white panel van with red WFAN lettering perched on the edge of the rutted grass, and thick snakelike cables coiled around her feet.

  “Yes, I knew Lefty well,” she said, her melodious voice carrying through the still air. “Last night was my turn for barn watch. He rode his bike across the infield, probably on the way to the liquor store. I was the last one to see him alive.” Her voice tapered to a sigh, and she gave her eyes an exaggerated swipe.

  Not a bad performance, Mark thought, crossing his arms. Almost as good as when she’d pleaded for a groom’s job. Sounded like she and Lefty were the best of friends when in reality Trish considered hot walkers far beneath her. However, the media was hooked.

  “So you believe alcohol contributed to his death? That there was no foul play?” A man with a red Yankees cap shoved a gleaming mike closer to her face.

  “Well, drugs and liquor are a huge problem. Some of the trainers ignore it—” she broke off as though sensing Mark’s hard stare. “I have to go cool out a horse, but we can talk later. Just drop by barn forty-eight. Don’t forget my last name. C-H-A-N-D-L-E-R.”

  She sashayed over to Mark while two reporters openly ogled her ass.

  “Hi, boss,” she said, and her satisfied smile made his gut curdle. “I’m going to be on television today. There was even more press earlier. Not the usual Thoroughbred Times or Racing Form reporters. This is a big New York station.”

  Mark’s jaws clenched so tight they hurt. Unbelievable. She’d neglected her job, abandoned a poor horse and pumped Lefty’s accident—all for a media interview.

  “If we hurry we can watch the news at your place.” She trailed a suggestive finger down his arm. “Where your ‘no sex’ rule doesn’t apply. Just make someone cool Belle out for me.”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw as he fought his self-loathing. Twice he’d taken Trish home. Simple pleasure, no commitment, but Belle had paid a huge price for his weakness.

  Trish’s voice trilled on, her fingers tightening over his forearm. “This is so exciting. Lefty never had this much attention when he was alive. He’s probably digging it.”

  Mark jerked away from her clinging hand, unable to hide his aversion, and her smile turned to a pout. “What’s eating you?”

  “Lefty’s dead. He’s not digging it.” The words ground out between gritted teeth. “And you had a job. Did you walk Belle at all? Did she eat anything?”

  “All you ever think about are horses.” She flicked her hair over her shoulder in a familiar, provocative move. “I’m going now to walk the filly. Maybe later, I’ll go home with you.”

  She still didn’t get it. Expected to get by with a wiggle and a smile, but he was finished thinking with his dick. “You’re not going anywhere near Belle,” he said wearily. “She’s fighting for her life, and you’re fired. I’ll give you three months’ pay. Dino will have your check ready by the end of the day.”

  “You’re firing me? Me?” She tapped her shapely chest in disbelief. “I can get a job with almost any of the top trainers.”

  “Good. Go get one.” He spun away, disgusted with her, but even more disgusted with himself. She’d been a mistake, but one he wouldn’t repeat.

  Frivolous girls always upset the dynamics of a race stable. They’d certainly messed up his father’s. Best to stick to his usual hiring policy. From now on, the only type of female allowed in his shedrow would be fat, forty and flatulent.

  Tears blurred Jessica’s vision a
s she absorbed the numbing headline. Olympic Hopeful Engaged to Team Trainer. A cry choked in her throat, and the paper slid from her stiff fingers. Anton, her ex-boyfriend, and Cindy, her best friend—engaged! She hadn’t even received a courtesy call.

  Last year she’d been the team darling. Last year she’d been the woman on Anton’s arm. Last year a knee injury had knocked her off the ski team. Her friends and sponsors had dumped her so quickly, her head spun. And now this.

  People were pricks.

  She leaned forward, automatically rubbing the ridge of swelling that extended along her right knee. The best doctors her grandfather could find hadn’t helped. Sure, she could walk, even ski, but never again would she race.

  A dog barked an amiable greeting, and Jessica glanced through the window as Casey, the caretaker’s black Lab, crossed the manicured lawn to greet a sleek Audi. Finally Gramps was home from one of his countless business trips. Maybe he’d join her when she took Casey for a walk. The dog was eleven, fat and arthritic; she could keep pace with Casey. Later, if she had enough energy, she’d dust off her ski trophies.

  Shit. She gave her head a weary shake. Whiners had always irritated her, and it seemed she was turning into one. She reached down and retrieved the newspaper, hating how she’d let Anton push her into another tailspin.

  Minutes later, her grandfather strolled into the library carrying his briefcase along with the whiff of expensive cologne. “Good evening, Jessica. The office said you didn’t come by again today.”

  The words were mild, but his tone carried a bite. He’d always pushed for her to join the huge Boone enterprise and with her mother no longer alive to run interference, that pressure had escalated. Her grandfather had a ruthless streak that was often daunting. Still, Jessica usually could handle men, and it was time to regain control of her floundering life.

  “I’ve been looking at the employment section,” she said. “And apartments.” Disapproval darkened his face, but she took a deep breath and forged on. “I appreciate your job offer and that I could live here until I finished my degree, but I wouldn’t be happy working at Boone.”

  Her grandfather raised a palm. “Now be reasonable,” he said. “There’s no need to leave. But it is time to stop playing on a mountain. Time to forget that life, forget those friends, move on.”

  Her chest twisted at his casual dismissal of years of dedication, but she kept her voice level. “All my so-called friends are training in Europe,” she said. “And I have moved on.”

  His briefcase thumped on the floor and he picked up the newspaper, evading her hasty attempt to snatch it. “So I see,” he said as he scanned the black glasses and moustache she’d drawn on Anton and Cindy’s beaming faces.

  He tossed the paper on the table, his face inscrutable. “It’s lonely since your mom died, so naturally I prefer you live with me on the estate. And that you work at Boone. But maybe you have another plan? An idea for a business…maybe something that could support you?”

  He was a wily negotiator accustomed to control, and his caustic tone filled her with despair. She hardly had enough energy to function, let alone fight Gramps. It seemed over the past year, her customary grit had fizzled. The only time she felt alive was when she was outside with Casey. Dogs were so loving, so non-judgmental, so faithful.

  Impulsively she leaped to her feet and faced her grandfather. “But I do have a plan. I intend to start a dog day care.”

  He looked blank, and her words tumbled out. “That’s a place where people take their dogs so they’re not cooped up all day. I’d brush them, walk them, play with them. I’m happiest when I’m outside. Casey keeps me sane.”

  Her grandfather’s mouth tightened to a thin line. He sank into a dark leather armchair and smoothed a crease from his tailored gray pants. “It’s clear you haven’t thought one minute about a real career,” he said slowly. “I told your mother, many times, all that skiing was a mistake. At least she did something useful and helped me entertain.” He frowned so deeply his bushy eyebrows touched. “But she was crazy to let you live in Europe. She—”

  “Please, Gramps.” Jessica hated her grandfather’s disparaging tone and rushed to deflect the inevitable criticism of her mother. “I don’t want to work for Boone. And if Mom were alive, she’d encourage me to start my own business. Don’t you see, the dog idea is perfect. Perfect for me.”

  He snorted. “I can’t see you scooping poop. Or able to live on a pauper’s income.”

  “Money isn’t everything,” she said. “And I’ve never been extravagant. Or lazy.”

  His piercing gaze made her squirm, and she averted her eyes. Lately, she had been sleeping a lot. Couldn’t seem to shake her odd lethargy. “I never used to be lazy,” she choked, struggling with her own doubts.

  “You don’t know anything about looking after a bunch of animals. What makes you think you can run a kennel?”

  “Of course I can run a kennel.” She grabbed a framed photo off the mantle, waving it with renewed vigor. “I know tons about animals. Remember the ponies at camp? I fed them hay and cleaned their stalls. Every day. And working outside is way better than being cooped up in an office.”

  She squared her shoulders and tried to look confident, aware her grandfather would pounce at any sign of weakness. “My business courses said no career can be successful unless you love it. I just need a little startup money. And if I can’t borrow from you,” she gave a deliberately negligent shrug, “I’ll go to my friend’s bank.”

  His eyes narrowed, and he studied her face over steepled fingers. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. She slipped a hand behind her back and crossed her fingers, trying to hide her desperation. She didn’t have a friend at any bank, didn’t have any other options, only knew she had to escape her grandfather’s control.

  He waited another full minute, but she held his penetrating gaze.

  “Here’s the deal then,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “You’ll work at Belmont racetrack. No credit cards, no money except what you earn. If you last until the end of the fall meet, I’ll finance your dog kennel. If you quit or are fired, you’ll live here and work at Boone. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.” She triumphantly thumped the picture of her and a rather nasty gray pony back on the shelf, scrambling to remember everything she knew about Belmont Park.

  The venerable New York track was in Queens, about a two-hour drive. Gramps had started racing ten years ago when she’d been fourteen and immersed in the ski circuit. She’d accompanied him once to the track, and the dinner had been delicious, the hats elegant and the suited men chatty and helpful. She frowned, trying to remember the horse barns, but their table had been high in the clubhouse, behind a spotless sheet of glass.

  Didn’t matter. She’d see the animals soon enough, and at least she’d be working outside. The job shouldn’t be too difficult. All her old magazines had said horses were much easier to handle than ponies.

  She pumped Gramps’ hand to cement the deal, ignoring her twinge of unease at his smug smile.

  Mark pulled out the desk drawer and flipped through his owner listings. Edward T. Boone. Time to call the man. He hated giving owners bad news, but at least Belle’s prognosis was good, and maybe Boone wouldn’t want many details. Incompetence was something Mark didn’t tolerate, but he couldn’t lie. It was a relief Trish was gone and his female staff were now steady women—older, committed women.

  Boone’s voice, crisp and confident, answered the phone on the second ring. Mark squared his shoulders. Owners paid the bills; they deserved the unvarnished truth.

  “Your filly, Belle, had a bout of colic this morning,” Mark said. “We sent her to the clinic, but she’s okay. Didn’t need surgery. We just received the final clear. They’ll watch her for a few days.” He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for Boone to ask the cause.

  “What’s the bottom line?” Boone asked.

  “Bottom line?” Mark cracked open his eyelids. “Your horse is fine, but she’ll miss the sta
kes race next week.” Regret thickened his words. Belle had been training perfectly, almost as well as Boone’s colt, and would have been a key contender.

  “But I have the company box reserved.” Boone’s voice hardened with impatience. “Clients flying in to watch. She has to run.”

  “Sorry. She can’t.”

  Mark sensed the scowl on Boone’s patrician face, could feel the displeasure radiating through his phone, but remained silent. He’d only met Boone eleven months ago, and it was clear the man craved control. However, Belle’s health was Mark’s first priority, and he refused to run a horse that wasn’t ready, no matter how many people Boone had invited for dinner. Unfortunately a trainer also had to please his owners, and Boone’s reaction was ominous.

  “You don’t want clients watching a poor race. Seeing a sub par result,” Mark added, guessing that angle might sway Boone much more than Belle’s welfare.

  “Definitely not.” Boone gave a disgruntled sigh. “Okay. Maybe she shouldn’t run. But I do need a favor.”

  “Sure.” Mark tried to ignore the distaste that soured his mouth. The man hadn’t even asked the cause of Belle’s colic. To Boone, it was always the bottom line and the hell with the horse. Owners could be strange and ruthless people. Shaking his head, Mark propped his boots on the corner of his desk and tucked the phone against his shoulder, his mind already jumping back to Belle and the best feeding program for colic recovery.

  “My granddaughter needs a job,” Boone said. “Needs to see what grunt work is all about. She won’t last a week on the backstretch but should learn plenty. And the experience will straighten her out. Force her into a real career.”

  A real career. Mark’s hand tightened around the phone at the man’s blatant condescension, but his voice remained level. “And you want me to do the straightening?”

  “Yes,” Boone said. “She’ll be safe with you, and she’s experienced with horses. Had lessons at summer camp.”