Heat Wave (Riders Up)

by Adriana Kraft

  During an oppressive Iowa summer of drought and farm foreclosures, widowed Maggie Anderson makes a bold decision: She’ll merge her love of horses and her family’s three hundred and twenty acres into a horse farm and try her hand at nearby Prairie Meadows Race Track, where racing purses have just been augmented by the recently added casino gambling.

  Down on his luck after being falsely accused in a racing scandal and banned from training, former Arlington Race Track trainer Ed Harrington has slunk home to Des Moines to drown his sorrows and wait for the dust to clear. He’s unprepared for the piercing robin’s-egg-blue eyes of pint-sized Maggie Anderson, who finds him at a flophouse and offers him a job. Can he pull himself together and meet the challenge?

  As the two forge a tumultuous working partnership, they soon discover someone is out to get Maggie’s farm and will stop at almost nothing to force her off the land. Can they find and stop the culprit before someone is killed? Can they survive the far greater danger unleashed by the raw passion simmering just beneath the surface of their relationship?

  Riders Up

  Book Two

  Heat Wave

  by

  Adriana Kraft

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Riders Up: Book Two

  Heat Wave

  By

  Adriana Kraft

  ISBN: 978-0-9894693-9-5

  Copyright © 2014 by Adriana Kraft

  B&B Publishing

  1970 N. Leslie St. #560

  Pahrump, NV 89060

  Cover by

  Rebecca Poole

  Dreams2Media.com

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Riders Up

  Book One: Cassie’s Hope

  Chicago, 1996

  Available now

  Book Two: Heat Wave

  Iowa, 2000

  Available now

  Book Three: Willow Smoke

  Chicago, 2002

  Release date: August, 2014

  Book Four: Detour Ahead

  California, 2004

  Release Date: December, 2014

  2000

  PROLOGUE

  Scorching hot. It shouldn’t be this hot in February. Dreamily, she reached out her hand into the hazy air, then heard someone banging on the door and shouting. Strong arms pulled her out of the bed and urged her down the stairs. Horses whinnied frantically in the distance.

  The scene shifted. A tall man staggered towards her, carrying the limp form of another man. Flames shot high from some building in the background. She strained her eyes trying to see better but failed to identify either man. Was he dead?

  The shock woke her. Safe in her own bed, at a perfectly normal temperature, she tried to make sense of what had just happened. Maggie Magee Anderson never had nightmares. Should she be frightened? Somehow, she didn’t think so. In the dream, she’d been rescued. She’d trusted those strong arms—whose arms? Would she ever find out? Maybe, maybe not, but in her bones, she could feel the dream’s message: She’d be safe, even if she had to walk through fire.

  CHAPTER ONE

  From its outside appearance, Maggie Anderson decided the two-story Resting Arms Hotel should have been declared unfit for human habitation ages ago. Its sign hung at a rakish angle. Layers of old paint peeled off the once brown door. She’d never thought such places existed in Des Moines, Iowa.

  Yellowed newspapers fluttered on the sidewalk in the unusually warm March breeze. She stepped out of her car and her nostrils immediately flared at the stench; she didn’t want to try to name what she might be smelling. She gulped deeply in a vain attempt to hold her breath.

  Maggie pulled her jeans jacket tighter, as if it could protect her, and moved away from the security of her car. Carefully, she picked her way around the trash that littered the sidewalk.

  Two shaggy, unkempt men soaked up the early spring sunshine, their wooden chairs tilted back against the brick wall. They hadn’t been in a shower for far too long. She couldn’t keep from wrinkling her nose as she passed them by. Neither man acknowledged her presence.

  Trying to ignore them, Maggie approached the entrance and turned the doorknob. It twisted freely in her hand. She put a shoulder to the door and shoved hard; it reluctantly gave way.

  From the dark entryway, Maggie could see a smallish man behind a paint-chipped counter scowling at her suspiciously. Maybe he thought she was with social services. Thankfully, she was dressed well enough not to be mistaken for a bag lady.

  She clutched her purse to her waist and approached the clerk, trying to appear confident and in control. Clearing her throat, she said, perhaps too loudly, “I’m looking for a Mr. Ed Harrington. I’m told he’s a resident here. Can you tell me where I might find him?”

  “A resident! What kinda business you got with him?”

  Maggie tried not to recoil. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.” She reached into her purse, pulled out a ten-dollar bill and placed it on the desk. “I do, however, realize that you are a businessman. And I’m willing to pay for information.”

  The clerk gave her a slanted grin and pressed his hand on the bill. “Well, in that case, lady, you’re in luck. Harrington is in his outer office holding up the wall—he’s the tall one. You just walked right by him.” He stuffed the money in his shirt pocket. “Appreciate your business.”

  Haltingly, Maggie retraced her steps to the sidewalk. Sure enough, the tall, sandy-haired man was still there, leaning against the wall as if he was responsible for bracing the entire building. His friend was nowhere to be seen.

  Should she just keep on walking? She’d pushed her longtime friend and insurance agent Ben Templeton until he finally came up with this lead, referred to him by sources he trusted. She sighed and tried to remember what Ben had said—this guy may be too much for you to handle. She knew he hadn’t wanted her to go this route. But desperate or cocky, it didn’t matter which, she’d pressed him until he came up with this trainer—banned from racetracks because of some kind of trouble in Chicago, but still respected and highly regarded by Iowa trainers who did business with Templeton. Not only was the man good; Ben had told her that because of the scandal, he’d work for cheap.

  Now, she shivered against the chill of Ben’s prophecy. Maybe he was right. Ed Harrington didn’t look like any horse trainer she’d ever imagined. Could this ghost of a man really help her? Could he walk, let alone ride a horse? Should she just keep right on walking? She owed him nothing, and he didn’t even know she existed.

  - o -

  He knew.

  Ed Harrington had watched the neatly dressed woman pussy-footing around the junk on her way to the flophouse entrance. He spied her when she wanted to grab her nose and blot out the offending odors. Hell, he couldn’t blame her for that; it took some getting used to, even for him. He might still be hung over, but he knew damn well the woman didn’t belong anywhere near the Resting Arms. And he’d heard her asking for him.

  He’d almost run off when Sonny did, but he wasn’t going to let any woman chase him away, no matter how sassy she might be. She dressed sharp, at least for this part of town. Filled out a denim jacket real nice.

  Clearly, he wasn’t what she expected.

  Through narrowed eyes he watched her trying to decide what to do. Would she flee? Or would she stay? He’d bet on her running like a spooked
filly.

  He was wrong.

  “I’m told you’re Ed Harrington,” he heard the tiny blonde say. Her voice held more power than her size suggested.

  “That’s right.” He scowled. “What’s it to you?” Harrington kept his eyelids nearly closed and his back pressed against the wall. It was requiring a lot of work just to stay focused on her words. He saw her bite her lower lip and stand as tall as her small frame would allow.

  “My name is Maggie Anderson.” Her voice did not crack. “I’m told you’re an expert with racehorses. I need your services. And I’m willing to pay modestly for them.”

  Lurching up from his chair, Ed stood unsteadily. He towered over her, taking her measure. Sunshine bounced off her short-cropped straw colored hair, nearly blinding him. He brought a hand to his brow. Why did she want him? Why did she have to reach into the bottom of the barrel for a horse trainer? He liked the way her name, Maggie Anderson, rolled off her lips.

  His head pounded as if a dozen wild horses were galloping around inside his brain looking for an escape route. He closed his eyes trying not to remember earlier times, better times. Times with fast racehorses and faster women. All that was gone now. He wished it wasn’t even a memory. He reopened his eyes and glared at the woman causing him to remember.

  At last, Harrington replied, “You come right to the point, don’t you, lady?”

  “You asked.”

  “What makes you think I want a job? The sun is nice and warm right here.” He slurred his speech, unable to keep dinner and breakfast from clouding his voice. He could see well enough to know the woman was damn pretty. He’d seen many a jockey bigger than her, but none more attractive. He smiled crookedly at his wit, not knowing quite what to say next. She didn’t appear very intimidated. Maybe she was a fool.

  “If you don’t want a job, Mr. Harrington, you are more stupid than I was led to believe.”

  Ed shoved his shaking hands deep into his pockets. Why should it bother him if she saw him quaking like a drunk? He could almost hear the woman’s brain ticking off the pros and cons. Why would she risk coming down to this place to find him? What the hell did she really want?

  She could walk away, for all he cared. He hadn’t invited her to his palatial surroundings.

  He watched her stretch to the top of her toes and let out a deep breath. “Do you have transportation, Mr. Harrington?”

  “Yeah, Mabel’s sitting around the corner.” He jerked his head toward a junk-filled parking lot just visible beyond the hotel and grinned broadly. “She’s more than transportation, lady. She’s a first class workhorse.”

  “Okay, if you’re interested in learning more about a paying job—after you sober up—” she reached into her purse, “follow these directions. I run a farm about forty miles north of here. Here’s thirty bucks for gas, a decent meal, and a shave.”

  She eyed him directly. “I have two kids, Mr. Harrington. If you work for me, you’ll have to leave the bottle behind.”

  He hesitated. Stupid do-gooder. Why did she have to come and disrupt his world? It was too damn hard to concentrate. He scraped a hand through his hair. Her voice was so tempting. He wondered if she sang country western love songs.

  Reaching for the slip of paper and the money, his hand trembled. “This will keep me in good supply for quite a spell.” Harrington stuffed both paper and money into his shirt pocket. “What makes you think I won’t just go out and buy more booze?”

  Harrington glanced away from Maggie Anderson’s penetrating blue eyes. They reminded him of robin’s eggs. He grimaced. He hadn’t seen a robin’s egg since he was a kid. But that wasn’t the reason he’d looked away. The woman was carrying too much pain; he already had more than enough pain for any one human being. He sure didn’t need to borrow any of hers.

  - o -

  Maggie scrutinized the man without flinching. She’d witnessed something that gave her reason to believe in him. Oh, he’d tried to hide behind toughness and bravado. He’d even tried to intimidate her. But he certainly didn’t belong in a flophouse. Harrington still had pride in simple things—like his truck.

  Had she imagined a flicker of hope in his clouded features? Maggie recognized grief when she saw it, and Ed Harrington was wallowing in grief and self-loathing. Maybe she and he had some things in common. Her offer of a job could help both of them. Did he have enough courage to move beyond grief, or would he continue self-medicating his pain with booze?

  “I don’t know what you’re likely to do,” she finally said, folding her arms and squaring her shoulders, her voice strained. “It’s your choice, Mr. Harrington. I can’t make it for you. This is your lucky day. You’ve been thrown a lifeline. Use it, or drown yourself in gallons of cheap booze. Either way, it’s your lucky day.”

  Disgusted with herself for needing his help, Maggie spun around and quickly retraced her steps to her car. When she opened the car door, she heard him holler from down the block.

  “It’s my choice!”

  Her heart leapt. Maybe it wasn’t too late.

  In a matter of minutes, as she pulled out of the parking space and witnessed him wobbling unsteadily down the sidewalk, her heart sank again. He was probably heading for the nearest watering hole with her money clutched in his fist.

  “Oh well, I can’t save the world,” she muttered, spinning her car tires. She was back to square one, but she would never give up.

  She’d trusted the wisdom of her bones telling her to seek him out, and he’d turned out to be a bust. Maybe her friends had been right after all. Maybe all that bones stuff was just her imagination.

  Yet, she usually could discern changes in the weather. She’d known her husband was dying before the doctor diagnosed him with pancreatic cancer. Her dad had said she carried that important Scottish Magee bone gene, capable of peering into the future.

  She grimaced. The story of the bone gene was simply that—a story told by a loving father to a very impressionable child.

  Still, she’d relied on that bone gene before. And it had seldom let her down.

  Three weeks later, the singsong warbling of the auctioneer numbed Maggie’s senses. She jerked herself alert; even though the day was nearly over, she had a job to do. Maggie pulled the bill of the soiled John Deere cap down lower over her eyes. Still, she could see the steady fingering and assessing of objects on the flat wagon by strangers and neighbors. They were like turkey vultures searching for the best road kill. The items on display were those of a working farm: skill saws, hammers, socket sets, de-horners, ropes. Some were old; all were well used.

  Men and a few women huddled under heavy coats to keep the sharp wind from penetrating as they searched for bargains. She didn’t see much concern for the Ames family, even though they’d been longtime members of the Beaverhill community.

  Maggie turned her head slightly and watched Sara Ames scurry between sale items, avoiding eye contact with her neighbors while whispering words to the auctioneer. The woman was determined to make the best out of a bad situation. Her husband, Ted, hadn’t come back for the auction. He’d already taken a job working on an assembly line producing generators in Cincinnati. Sara would take the children and join him as soon as she could finish disposing of the farm machinery and their other non-essential possessions.

  Maggie chewed on her lower lip. Ted had probably used his job as an excuse for not witnessing the end of their dream. An old Allis-Chalmers tractor, a couple John Deeres, an International combine, plows, planters, hay rakes and mowers, and an assortment of covered and uncovered wagons stood like tombstones between the barn and the house. Sara had drawn the short straw on this day.

  The bidding on a skill saw had stalled at a ridiculous five dollars. Maggie nodded at the auctioneer, who had sought her out of the crowd. She raised the bid, as she had done throughout the afternoon in an attempt to boost the price. So far she’d only bought a corn planter she didn’t need, but she could use it for trade with the local implement dealer.

  She
pulled her coat collar tighter around her neck. The corn planter notwithstanding, she was satisfied. She’d been able to increase the prices on a lot of items for the Ames family. They deserved that; they’d been good neighbors.

  Maggie shivered against the chill, never wanting to find herself in the position of Sara Ames. She’d sacrifice everything but her children to avoid having her neighbors come and grimly pick over her things. Auctions had the feel of funerals, and she didn’t like going to either.

  She let the skill saw go for fifteen dollars and moved toward the canteen tent sponsored by the community church Women’s Society. She badly needed a cup of coffee to warm up her insides. Maggie hadn’t taken a half dozen steps before Ben Templeton fell in step beside her.

  “You locate Harrington yet?”

  Without breaking stride, Maggie nodded.

  “Was he sober?”

  “He could still talk. Thanks for giving me a bead on him.” Maggie stuffed her gloved hands inside the large pockets of her coat. “Don’t know if he’ll dry out enough to help or not. It’ll take some time, I guess. It’s already been three weeks.”

  Ben nodded, smiling benevolently. “And you don’t like to wait any more than your dad did. Colt Magee was often in a rush. Reckless, some would say.”

  Maggie didn’t see any need to respond to the obvious. Many folks thought she was too much like her father. That was their problem, not hers.

  As they neared the canteen, Ben reached out and pulled her to a halt. Maggie saw that mixture of admiration, love and concern she often recognized in the old man’s eyes. She told herself to be patient. Ben meant well, and he could still help her in a lot of ways.