Racetrack Romance BOX SET (Books 1-3)

by Bev Pettersen

  “So how long did he walk the shedrow this morning?” she asked again.

  “Twenty minutes, and I put him on the hot walker for another thirty.” Maria shrugged. “I didn’t have much time. This place was nuts. Dino was running around, giving orders, enjoying being the boss. And I think Mark was with a woman. He’s in a really good mood. Was anyone with him when he picked you up at the station?”

  “No, just him.” Jessica ducked over Buddy’s leg and checked his wraps. She’d pretended she hadn’t been released from the police station until a few hours ago, and the deception weighed heavy. But Maria had a rigid view of the hierarchy, slotting owners and trainers in distinct categories. She didn’t tolerate mixing. Jessica’s forehead broke into a cold sweat at the prospect of losing her only real friend.

  “I think I saw that kid today,” Maria said. “The one who got you in all the trouble.”

  “Where?” Jessica asked, scratching Buddy on his muscled shoulder. There were bags of peppermints in Mark’s office, and she intended to snag a few, to compensate Buddy for her absence.

  “He was hanging around the kitchen dumpster. Now that Mark told security to keep an eye out, they should catch him quick enough.”

  “There must be something we can do.” Something ached in Jessica’s chest. “Couldn’t Anna House help him?”

  “No, that’s a daycare for track families. Your kid’s a runner.” Maria yawned and buttoned her jacket. “I’m going home. Pedro and I were out late last night. Oh, and we got real security guards now. The day one is old and grumpy, but the night one is real nice.” Maria turned and bustled down the aisle, calling out a greeting as she passed a guard in a spotless khaki uniform. Must be the friendly one, Jessica decided, feeling rather melancholy as Maria rushed out the door to join Pedro.

  There was no sign of Mark. She could wander around and see if his car was still in the lot but, like Maria, he had things to do. People to see. Afternoons were his preference for socializing, not nights when he tended to work. She certainly couldn’t stalk him. But after her long sleep, she wasn’t at all tired, and the approaching darkness only magnified her loneliness.

  Loneliness and a slightly used feeling. Which was totally ridiculous, she told herself quickly. She squared her shoulders, determined not to feel sorry for herself. The guard might be good company and if she went to the kitchen for supper, the walk would fill up some of the solitary evening. There were also some issues of the Tattler and Thoroughbred Times to read, although Mark grew irritated when she cut out the pictures. Plus, the betting tickets needed to be sorted. Yes, there was plenty of stuff to keep her busy.

  She strode down the aisle with renewed purpose. “Hi,” she said to the guard. “I’m going to the kitchen. Want a coffee or anything?”

  He swiveled, stared for a moment, then straightened from the doorway with pleasing enthusiasm. “No thanks,” he said. “I have a coffee thermos right here. Be glad to share though.”

  Maria was right. The guy was nice with a cute smile, and it was reassuring to have someone around at night. “Maybe I’ll join you later.”

  “Hope so,” he said, and she felt his gaze as she exited the shedrow.

  His open admiration made her feel less alone. More appreciated. This was the type of man she knew how to handle. Unlike Mark, who didn’t care about anything but horses. He’d dumped her as soon as they returned to the track, was probably out eating and laughing with other owners, other trainers, other jockeys. Wouldn’t give her a thought until tomorrow afternoon, when he wanted her in his bed.

  She glanced over her shoulder as she walked down the road, and the security guard gave an enthusiastic wave. He didn’t know she was broke, inexperienced and had no real friends. Noise drifted from a row of apartments. She kicked at a rock, feeling more isolated as laughter and music blended in the distance.

  She didn’t meet anyone on her walk to the kitchen. Inside it was quiet, almost sleepy. She ordered the evening special, three dollars and ninety-nine cents, carefully counting her precious change. A few people were scattered in chairs reading tote sheets and stable notes, but their muted conversations were in Spanish. On earlier occasions when she’d tried to chat, they had either looked at her blankly or just nodded and edged away. It was better when she was with Maria, but so far she hadn’t been able to join their fraternity.

  After placing her order, she ducked into the women’s bathroom. The public bathrooms by Mark’s barn were sporadically maintained, so she always slipped some toilet paper into her jacket pocket in case of a dreaded paper shortage.

  When she emerged, the gentle-eyed cook passed her an overflowing plate wrapped in foil. He didn’t speak much but always served extra, and she guessed he either felt sorry or else appreciated her awkward attempts at Spanish. She hadn’t deviated from the evening special ever since one of her comprehension blunders had resulted in an odd supper of melted cheese and onions. She no longer had money to cover food mistakes.

  Maria had said the night cook was saving money for a scooter. Well, Jessica was saving for a horse, and she knew what it was like to try to fill a can. Her coins clinked in the tip jar, earning the cook’s grateful smile and no doubt some extra food on her next order. She picked up a free copy of the Tattler and walked out the door with her hands loaded.

  The night was black, the sky dark with low-lying clouds, so she avoided her usual short cut and followed the street lamps along the roadway, determined not to check over her shoulder, determined not to think of men with knives or how she and the boy had been forced to flee from a homicidal maniac.

  But her stride quickened until she was almost jogging. She did check behind her once, prompted by the sensation that someone watched, not a really spooky feeling though, not like outside the security booth when she’d sensed the man’s evil presence. No, this time the shadows had a different feel. On a hunch, she pivoted and waved her food. “Hey kid. Come on out.”

  No one appeared, but she sensed someone was there, and Maria said the boy had been spotted by the kitchen dumpster. She cut around to the back of barn forty-seven and sat beneath a big gnarled tree, out of the light but accessible. Peeled back the crinkling foil and sniffed.

  Yum. The powerful smell of fish and chips filled the crisp air. Already her mouth watered, and she wasn’t starving. She chewed slowly, biting off small pieces of fish, taking her time, watching the shadows. A flutter of movement, and the boy was there, crouching beside her like an old friend. She smiled. He smiled back.

  She gripped the paper plate, fighting her urge to wrap him in a relieved hug. He was safe. The security guards, the police, even Mark, might think she’d exaggerated, but both she and the boy knew the knife man was evil.

  She controlled her wave of emotion and handed the boy a big piece of fish. He wolfed it down with a heart-wrenching lack of chewing then crossed his thin arms over his T-shirt and shivered, all the while staring hopefully at the food.

  Seconds earlier she’d been hungry but seeing the solemn-eyed boy smothered her appetite. He was cold, ravenous and needed help.

  Waving the plate, she motioned for him to follow then circled to the front of the shedrow. The guard remained propped by the door, so she eased around the back and slipped into her room, the boy dogging her heels. She gestured for him to sit, passed over the plate of food and ran to the tack room, afraid he might vanish if she dawdled.

  She hurried back with two horse blankets and a large jacket. It was doubtful anyone would miss the blankets—Mark won so many coolers the barn bulged—but the jacket was a beautiful soft leather with AQHA World Champion on the back. She had no idea what the initials meant, but the symbol showed a cowboy on a horse, and it was the warmest item in the tack room.

  The kid’s face still pressed against the plate as his grimy fingers rammed the remaining food into his mouth. But his pace had slowed. And he definitely needed a bath. She tried not to curl her nose, didn’t want to remember how Mark had endured a similar stench from her. But there
was no way the boy’s clothes could stay in this tiny room. The air was already too stale.

  He finished the food and shifted to the blanket, where he sat cross-legged, wary but with no obvious inclination to bolt. She passed him the jacket. When he pulled it on over those awful clothes, she gave a silent apology to its owner.

  “I’m Jessica.” She thumped her chest. “Do you speak Spanish?” It was clear he didn’t speak English. Maybe Maria could talk to him in the morning, find out his name and where he lived. She hoped it wasn’t with that horrible man. Little wonder the boy had run away.

  The kid nodded, but she sensed he didn’t understand. Judging from his eager expression, he was conditioned to please. “How about French?” she asked, switching languages. They’d taught French at her boarding school in Switzerland, but it was Anton who’d helped perfect her street lingo, and she was very fluent.

  He smiled and nodded.

  “You speak English too?” she asked.

  When he nodded again, she sank onto the cot. The kid was smart. She remembered his look of approval when she threw the glass, but he certainly didn’t know English or French, and it would be tough to wash his clothes if she couldn’t explain why she wanted him to strip.

  She blew out a sigh, burdened by the unusual weight of responsibility. She could call Mark and hand the boy over, but his solution would be to call Child Services. And if the man with the knife was his relative, there was a horrible chance the boy could end up with a slit throat.

  A scratch at the door made them both jump.

  “Probably my cat.” She rose and cracked open the door. Kato ran in and jerked to a stop, back arching when he spotted the stranger. The boy just laughed and flicked his fingers. Kato pounced and soon was alternately purring and biting at his feet.

  They were both young, full of energy, and their playful antics knocked over her bag of stubs. She reached down and rescued the bag, but a few tickets escaped through a claw hole and drifted to the floor. The boy picked up the tickets, passed them back, and an idea blossomed.

  Maybe he could sort tickets. It would keep him busy and give her time to scrounge around for some clean clothes. Plus the thought of sifting through the bag for winners, all by herself, was somewhat daunting. It would be lovely to have help.

  She ripped up some sheets of paper and made eleven different headings with ‘Race’ and ‘Race Number’ on the top. The last pile was more complicated. She didn’t know how to sort the daily double or combinations so just made a happy face for that bunch. The boy watched as she picked up a ticket, pointed at the words ‘Race Three’ and placed it in the third pile. He caught on after the fifth ticket, nodding and sorting so eagerly his hands hopscotched over the piles.

  Perfect.

  She rose, flushed with relief, thrilled she wouldn’t have to sort through the staggering amount of discards by herself. It wasn’t really work, just something to keep him occupied so he wouldn’t run away. And it would give her time to figure out a way to clean him up.

  When she gestured she was leaving, he barely glanced up. She pulled the door shut and rushed down the aisle, expertly dodging Assets’ obligatory nip, slowing only to give Buddy a quick pat.

  The guard turned with a welcoming grin. “Coffee time?” he asked.

  “Not for a while. I have to take a shower first.” She tugged at her lip, studying the lighted bathrooms across the road. From the guard’s vantage point, he could easily see the door, and if the boy protested, the guard would check in a flash. She wasn’t ready to turn the kid in though—not yet. At least not until Maria talked with him.

  She turned back to the guard with a conspiratorial smile. “My boyfriend is staying with me, a jockey. He likes loud music when he showers. That won’t bother you, will it?”

  “Not a bit.” The skin around the guard’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “You two can make all the noise you want. By the way, my name’s Terry.”

  “I’m Jessica.”

  “Oh, Mr. Russell dropped by when you were out. He had to go to a meeting but left something for you.” He reached down and passed her a white plastic bag.

  She slowly opened the bag and peered inside. Her heart thumped. A giant Mars Bar. The biggest, thickest one she’d ever seen. A lump clogged her throat as she clutched the bag to her chest, grinning foolishly. He hadn’t forgotten her after all.

  The guard was staring so she bounced toward the bathrooms, swinging the bag, unable to stop grinning.

  She pushed open the bathroom door, turning cautious. The building was deserted, silent except for a dripping shower and the rhythmic plunking of water on the worn tiles. A navy blue sock and a shrunken bar of soap blocked the drain. She checked the men’s side for any abandoned clothing, but the smell of urine made her gag, and she backed out of the doorway in disgust. But one sock wouldn’t clothe a kid, and Dick’s apartment was too far away to recruit his help.

  She turned, uttering a quick prayer for forgiveness, and headed toward the apartment complex behind the bathroom. The wind was up, a good drying night, and the clotheslines were full.

  It was eerie, sneaking beneath the flapping clothes. Squares of light shone from the tiny apartments, but no one seemed to be watching. She grabbed a pair of jeans, the smallest ones she could find, along with a brown sweatshirt, and clipped her last ten dollars on the clothesline, hiding the money beneath a pair of ratty socks with a hole in one heel.

  She stashed the borrowed clothes behind the door of the women’s bathroom and headed back to collect the boy. No sense in alerting him to his bath. It was doubtful he’d be enthusiastic.

  She eased open the door to her room but he barely looked up, his gaunt face set in concentration. He’d definitely made good progress with the ticket stub sorting. Race eight was the biggest so far, and clearly the little guy was saving her a ton of work.

  She slipped a bottle of shampoo behind the waistband of her jeans then tapped him on the shoulder, motioning for him to follow. He rose so quickly, she was humbled by his trust. However, his steps turned reluctant when they neared the bathroom, and he abruptly balked and tried to slink away.

  “It’s okay.” She grabbed him by his arm and propelled him into the building.

  When she slammed the outer door, his protest rose into a sharp torrent. She held her finger against her lips but he ignored her, flapping his arms and yelling words she didn’t understand. Yelling so loudly the guard would surely hear. She backed against the door, folded her arms and began belting out every raunchy locker song she could remember.

  After a few minutes, he stopped yelling, sullen but blessedly silent. She stopped singing, pulled out the shampoo and borrowed clothes, and tossed them at his feet. Pointed at the shower.

  He shook his head.

  She pointed again but he only crossed his arms, shook his head and stuck out a stubborn jaw. There wasn’t really much else she could do. No way would she manhandle the poor boy.

  She jammed her hands in her pockets, frustrated and defeated. Felt the thick Mars Bar. Ah, an ace in the hole. She pulled it out, brandishing it triumphantly, watching as his eyes lit up. When he reached for it, she pointed to the shower and the clean clothes.

  He gave a resigned shrug and stepped behind the curtain. Chocolate. Always effective.

  He was quick, emerging from the shower in minutes, his gaze fixed on the bar. The new jeans were too long so she rolled them at the ankles then stuffed his old clothes in a plastic bag. He needed a belt, but there was always lots of baler twine around. She’d improvise. When she rewarded him with the Mars Bar, he ripped the paper off with his teeth, devouring it with much lip-smacking.

  She felt a slight pang as the bar disappeared— her first present from Mark—but corrected herself. ‘First present’ implied longevity, something Mark didn’t want…and neither did she, of course. However, she couldn’t resist picking up the torn wrapper and tucking it into her back pocket. Nothing wrong with a little keepsake.

  The boy was sweet and tr
actable again, ready to follow her back to the barn. His hair gleamed, his face clean except for a ridge of chocolate staining his lips and teeth. She could see Terry by the door of the shedrow, craning to see the bathrooms, so they detoured round to the back and slipped into her room unseen.

  Kato had curled on the cot, scattering two piles of betting tickets in the process. The boy groaned. She grinned, resisting another urge to wrap him in a hug. He was such a cute kid. Not bad company either, but she had a few trust issues that needed to be resolved.

  She grabbed a piece of paper and drew a picture of her cell phone and a question mark. Held it up. He ducked his head and looked scared, so she put it away. Obviously he was the fleet-footed kid who’d swiped her phone, so maybe the man by the paddock was the same man with the knife. The same creep who’d followed her to Dick’s. A chill skittered down her spine.

  It was possible the man had credentials and lived on the backside. She no longer had a workable bike, and the idea that their assailant lurked around the barns made her gut clench. Especially if he were looking for the boy.

  She wheeled and bolted the door, glad Mark had ordered such a heavy-duty lock. Glad the new guard, Terry, was around during these solitary nights.

  The boy had already curled up under the blankets, his face relaxed in sleep. She eased a purring Kato off the tickets and checked the piles. The kid had done excellent work and if she could keep him another night, he might finish the sorting. It wouldn’t hurt to wait one more day before telling Mark. Get a few meals into his stomach. Find him some better-fitting clothes.

  But her chest banded with panic, and she gave a hard gulp. After being robbed, she was penniless. She’d already blown next week’s pay, and her options were limited. Mark didn’t want her stooping, and clearly betting wasn’t as simple as she’d originally thought.

  She tried to stack tickets, but her fingers were clumsy. Buddy and now the boy—both needed her. And never before in her insulated life had money been so important yet so very, very scarce.