Romance Writers of Atlantic Canada, Pixie Chicks and the Ruby Slippered Sisterhood; your encouragement and camaraderie is priceless.
And lastly to my daughter, Brenna who was beside me every inch of the way and knows a good horse when she sees one. Thanks for everything, honey. Those early mornings at the track are cherished.
Color My Horse
By
Bev Pettersen
Copyright 2011 Bev Pettersen
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or a portion thereof, in any form. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people and horses, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover art design by Pat Ryan Graphics
Photo Credit: Horsephotos.com
http://www.bevpettersen.com
Dedication
To my daughter, Brenna, with gratitude and love.
Chapter One
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’s worry escaped in a ragged sigh. Lefty: gruff, single and a confirmed alcoholic. Tragic, but 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 caught up.
Mark gave a wry nod, amazed his race assistant could be so upbeat. Nothing ever worried Dino. “That’s right,” he said. “Horse ran great. Rider said Belle’s never felt better.”
“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, still 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 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 Walker’s truck,” Dino said.
Mark’s phone beeped. He waited a taut moment then pulled his cell out, his gaze locked in the direction of the speeding vet.
“Better come quick, boss,” Carlos said, his voice thick 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 glum-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, joining 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 into 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 scarcely 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 for Belle’s groom. “Where the hell is Trish?”
“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. It 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 left the clinic.
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, hating to see her pain. Some colics were unavoidable, but not this one. For some reason Trish had neglected to cool out the filly after her gallop—utter negligence—and his compassion for the filly churned along with his growing 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 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 or 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 white 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 beneath her. However, the media was hooked.
“So you believe alcohol contributed to his death? There was no foul play?” A man with a red Yankees cap shoved a shiny
microphone 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 hurry and 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 hit him like a sucker punch. “I’m going to be on television today. Even more press was here earlier. Not just the usual Thoroughbred Times or Racing Form reporters either. This is a big New York station.”
Mark’s jaws clenched so tightly they hurt. Unbelievable. She’d neglected her job, abandoned a dependent horse and pumped Lefty’s accident—for a media interview. He couldn’t speak.
“If we hurry, we can watch the news at your place. Where your ‘no sex’ rule doesn’t apply. Just make someone cool out Belle for me.” She trailed a suggestive finger down his arm and gave a pretty pout, oblivious to his turmoil.
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 Belle just coliced. Did you walk her at all? Did she eat anything?”
“All you ever think about are horses.” She brushed her hair over her shoulder with a disdainful sniff. “I’m going now to walk the filly. Maybe later, I’ll go home with you. But maybe not.”
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 yet more disgusted with himself. She’d been a mistake—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 as 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 swelling that ridged 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. She 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 him. Later, if she had enough energy, she’d dust off her ski trophies.
Damn. 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 news of Anton push her into another tailspin.
Minutes later, her grandfather strolled into the library, carrying his briefcase along with a hint of expensive cologne. “Good evening, Jessica. The office said you didn’t come by again today. Have you made any decision yet?”
The words were mild, but his tone carried a definite bite. He’d always pushed her to join the huge Boone enterprise and with her mother no longer alive to run interference, that pressure had escalated. He had a ruthless streak that was often daunting and never approved of anything she did. Still, it was time to take back control of her life even though he wouldn’t like her direction.
“I’ve been looking at the employment section,” she said, placing the paper on the table. “And apartments.” Disapproval darkened her grandfather’s face, but she took a resolute breath and forged on. “I appreciate your job offer and letting me live here until I finished my degree, but I really wouldn’t be happy working at Boone.”
Her grandfather raised a palm. “Now be reasonable. 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 hard work, 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 grab it. “So I see,” he said as he scanned the black glasses and moustaches she’d drawn on Anton’s and Cindy’s beaming faces. He tossed the paper back on the table, his expression 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…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. He was so loving, so non-judgmental, so faithful.
“But I do have a plan,” she said. “I intend to start a dog daycare.” He looked blank, and her words rushed 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. You know I’m happiest when I’m outside. Casey keeps me sane.”
Her grandfather’s mouth tightened to a thin line. He sank into a leather armchair and smoothed an imaginary crease from his tailored gray pants. “It’s clear you haven’t thought seriously about a real career. I told your mother all that skiing was frivolous. At least she did one thing useful and helped me entertain.” He frowned so deeply his bushy eyebrows touched. “But letting you live in Europe—”
“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 picture you scooping poop. Or living 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 gaze. 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 camp photo off the mantle, waving it with renewed vigor. “I know plenty about animals. Remember these ponies? 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 hint of weakness. “My business courses said
no career can be successful unless you really love it. I just need a little startup money. And if I can’t borrow from you,” she gave a little shrug, “I’ll go to my friend’s bank.”
His eyes narrowed. 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 relentless control.
He waited another full minute, staring at her over steepled fingers, but she held his gaze.
“Here’s the deal then,” he finally said, his voice thoughtful. “You’ll work at Belmont racetrack. No credit cards, no money except what you can 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 become interested in racing ten years ago when she’d been sixteen and immersed in the ski circuit. She’d accompanied him once to the races, and the dinner had been delicious, the hats elegant and the attentive 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 her grandfather’s hand to cement the deal, ignoring her twinge of unease at his smug smile.
***
Racetrack Romance BOX SET (Books 1-3) Page 34
