Racetrack Romance BOX SET (Books 1-3)

by Bev Pettersen

  Jessica nodded, unable to speak.

  “Well, that’s Harry,” she said. “He’d be a real good kid’s horse. He’d be a real good anybody’s horse.” She patted him one more time, turned and walked away.

  The trainer shook Jessica’s hand then passed her the lead line and an envelope thick with papers. “Thank you, Ms. Boone.” He left with hunched shoulders.

  Harry’s hooves echoed as he trustingly followed Jessica up the ramp and onto the trailer.

  She drove off with Harry neighing behind her, a mournful sound that followed her down the familiar road and drummed up that stubborn, homesick feeling. The track sure gets under your skin.

  And just why wouldn’t Mark hire her? Her knuckles whitened around the wheel. She’d established Buddy’s Thoroughbred Retirement Center, owned three fine racehorses and was pulling a trailer with good old Harry neighing in the back. Yet she couldn’t get a job walking hots for Mark.

  She yanked the mirror down, checked her sleek shirt, her newly highlighted hair, her glossy lips. At least she looked better than she had last fall when she’d sported a tired ponytail, dirty jeans and battered face. It was clear if she waited for Mark to call, she’d wait forever. There’d be no grand gestures. He wasn’t the type to put himself out for a woman. Wasn’t the type to show his feelings. She accepted that now.

  But just maybe he’d be glad to see her.

  She turned along the main drive, past the track kitchen, past a young man balancing three cups of coffee on a rickety bike. She twisted, certain it was Lefty’s old bike. Nostalgia slammed her. But she drove on. Only three more barns. She eased into a wide gravel area, pried her clammy fingers from the leather wheel and forced herself to step out.

  She checked on Harry, already calm and happily munching. He looked at her with inquiring eyes, hay protruding from his mouth, as though wondering why they’d stopped.

  “You really are a good boy,” she said, leaving the side door open so he could catch the spring breeze.

  She wiped her damp hands on her jeans and walked along the gravel, along the route where Assets had dragged her. And now he was her horse. She raised her head a notch and walked a little prouder.

  But her feet jerked to a stop when she spotted the shedrow. Damn. She’d waited too long. Loud purple now replaced Mark’s drab stable colors, and geraniums bloomed in a profusion of hanging pots. This couldn’t be his barn. Mark must have moved his operation. Maybe accepted the sheikh’s offer or even followed Cathy to the Emirates.

  Her gaze shot to Kato’s grave, and she blew out a breath of relief. At least that was okay. Whoever had moved into Mark’s barn was tending her beloved cat’s grave, with a bright flowerbed marking his resting spot and a cozy picnic table anchored alongside.

  She edged closer to the barn door and was immediately challenged.

  A man with a gold earring that matched the color of his curly hair stepped from the shedrow. “Sorry. Mark isn’t hiring.” His watchful gaze absorbed her appearance, and he relaxed a notch. “Guess you’re not looking for a job. You came to see the Derby winner?”

  Her mouth turned dry. Mark hadn’t left. “Yes, please,” she managed and followed him into the shedrow, heart jerking into overdrive.

  A bay horse with a white star stuck his head over the stall guard and nuzzled at the man’s chest. So this was Strike A Pose. A Derby winner. My God, Mark was a genius. The horse didn’t look special, just an average animal with a kind disposition. Not at all like Assets, who’d whipped every horse into submission just by glaring at them.

  “He has a beautiful coat,” she said, searching for something nice to say. “I guess a big horse like this gets lots of grooming.”

  The man shrugged and gestured down the aisle. “That’s the boss’s big horse. Arrived from rehab only ten days ago. Gets more attention than any of the others.”

  Three stalls down, a black head with a jagged stripe poked over the stall door, eyes hopeful, ears pricked. He nickered, such a soft familiar sound, and her ribs seemed to crush her heart.

  “Oh, my God!” She gulped, unable to grab air. “Buddy?”

  The horse nickered again, stretching his neck further over the stall guard. And then she was standing beside him and could feel his breath on her face, his soft muzzle as he sniffed her pockets. “Oh, Buddy.” Her voice, her entire chest convulsed, the words coming out in a ragged gasp. “B-Buddy.”

  “Careful. He’s headshy.”

  The groom stopped talking when Buddy pressed his head against her chest, remained silent as tears streamed down Jessica’s cheeks. “I can’t believe he’s alive.” She choked the words out.

  “He broke his leg last fall and was supposed to be euthanized, but Dino said the boss made a deal with Buddy’s new owner. Sent him to a fancy hospital. There’s a screw in his ankle, but he’s okay now. Even trots sound.”

  “May I go in?” She slipped into the stall before the man could refuse. Touched Buddy everywhere. But when she spotted three purple braids at the top of his gleaming mane, her hands tangled in disbelief.

  “Boss puts those braids in,” the groom said with a shrug. “I don’t dare ask why. He should be finished in the office soon, so you better get out of the stall.”

  Mark was in the office.

  She sprinted down the aisle, ignoring the man’s shouted protest, raced across the tow ring, up the two steps and flung open the office door.

  A concrete arm slammed her against the wall. Her stunned eyes found Mark’s even as a vise tightened around her throat.

  “She’s okay!” Mark yelled, his face ashen as he leaped halfway across his desk.

  A man with a gray beard and watchful black eyes, wearing white robes and a headpiece, spoke softly from a corner chair.

  The hand lifted from her throat. Oh God, she could breathe again. Her feet kicked when she hit the floor and she stumbled, would have fallen if the bodyguard hadn’t twisted her arm.

  Mark poised over his desk, tendons corded in his neck, as he glared at someone behind her. The man in the chair spoke again, and she was released.

  “Sorry,” she sputtered, clasping her burning throat as she stared at Mark. “Guess I shouldn’t have rushed in like that.”

  His expression turned enigmatic, and he sank back in his chair. “Wait for me, Jess.”

  “Oh, I will,” she said. “Long as you want. I’ll be in the barn. With Buddy.”

  She was so happy she nodded at the man who’d almost strangled her. The same guy who had manhandled her in the hospital. “Nice seeing you again,” she said, still nodding, still deliriously happy.

  She backed out. Skipped across the dirt to the shedrow and bounced down the aisle and into Buddy’s stall. He was still there. Still chewing hay. Still alive.

  “Oh, my God.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and let his satiny hair absorb her tears.

  Moments later she sensed Mark’s presence. She turned to face him, suddenly shy. “Hi,” she said. He just stood there, looking at her, his blue eyes unreadable. “This is one of the happiest days of my life,” she added, keeping a hand on Buddy’s shoulder.

  “Heard you started an adoption facility,” he said. “Thought you might have a stall for him.”

  “Yes, thanks. I sure do.” Her voice sounded strange. “And congratulations to you on the Derby. And the sheikh. How’s your shoulder by the way?”

  “Better.” His face was impassive. “Were you here that day?”

  She shook her head, wishing her tongue didn’t feel so awkward. “I watched on TV. Came by the hospital, but your visitors were restricted.”

  “That was seven months ago. I assumed you were off skiing and didn’t know. Wrong assumption.”

  The bleakness in his voice chilled her and she stiffened, stunned with the knowledge that she’d hurt him. She stared at his chest, stalling, gathering her courage. But he’d never said he loved her, professed to only want a casual relationship and if she admitted her true feelings, he might shut her down.
Once you said those words they were out there, hanging like a weapon, and they could never, ever be pulled back. If he could just make this a little easier…

  But already he’d withdrawn. Crossed his arms and turned toward the blond man gawking in the aisle. “Rake the other end, Jim,” he said.

  She watched as Jim rushed away. “Your new man,” she sucked in a fortifying breath, “he said you made a deal to get Buddy. So that was with Radcliff? I can’t imagine what you offered.”

  A muscle ticked in Mark’s jaw, and it was then she guessed. “No!” she groaned. “Not Assets!”

  “Your grandfather had already decided to move his horses.” Mark shrugged. “I just made sure Radcliff was their trainer. Look, I have an important meeting, but drop by again. Dino and Carlos would like to see you.”

  He backed up a step, preparing to leave. Words jammed in her throat, but she couldn’t talk, didn’t know what to say. Even her legs trembled.

  As though sensing her desperation, Buddy nudged her, exposing the neat braids at the top of his neck. She sucked in a big breath. Mark hated braids. They had to mean something. She grabbed Buddy’s mane, borrowing his courage but felt she was leaping into unknown depths.

  “Mark, I love you.” Her hands and voice trembled. She lifted her head, no longer trying to hide her feelings. His face blurred, but she forged on. “It hurt s-so much that you didn’t want me. I needed to go away and accomplish something, to feel worthy—”

  She didn’t hear the stall guard open, but somehow his arms wrapped around her. “Not want you? Jesus. I said I’d wait. I’m wearing your colors.” His voice rose. “Hell, I went purple.”

  “All that’s nice. The braids too.” His touch was intoxicating, but she resisted the urge to bury her face against his soft shirt. “Still, you wouldn’t hire me when I needed a job.” She couldn’t quite keep the hurt from her voice.

  “I didn’t want a slumming heiress. Someone who only wanted food and a Jacuzzi. I wanted you to have options. Oh, sweetheart.” He cradled her face between his big hands, staring with such tenderness her heart thumped.

  “So you don’t mind,” she gulped, “that I love you?”

  “Mind?” His eyes blazed and he kissed her then, so thoroughly, so convincingly, her legs turned boneless.

  Minutes later, he lifted his mouth. “I knew I wanted you when your grandfather told me to fire you,” he said, his voice gruff. “I couldn’t do it. And it’s been no fun without you. Even that damn Derby horse was boring.”

  “Gramps told you to fire me? And you didn’t? That’s why he moved Assets?” She stiffened in horror, shocked by the enormity of his sacrifice. “I’m s-sorry.” Her voice broke. “You should have done what he wanted. You worked so hard for that colt.”

  “It wasn’t even a tough choice.” He stroked her cheek, letting her see the emotion glittering in his eyes. “I love you, Jessica Boone.”

  My God. He loved her, and he could say it. In his barn too, quite loudly. Definitely loud enough to reach Jim, who ostensibly swept the end of the spotless aisle but now craned his neck trying to see. “Good,” was all she could manage.

  “If that’s all you needed to know,” he said, “I’d have taken out an ad in The Racing Form. Please don’t run away again.”

  “Never.” Her voice bubbled and she gripped his shoulders, so lightheaded she thought she might float into the aisle. “And you won’t have to choose again either. My devious grandfather gave me Assets. Belle and Rocky too.”

  “Really? No tricks?” His eyes narrowed. “You got their papers? It’s all legal?”

  “Definitely legal. I own them.” She smiled. “But that only means you’ll have to be extra nice to me.”

  “Promise.” His smile turned rueful. “But first I have to finish my meeting with my second favorite owner. Then we’ll go to my place, and tomorrow I want to see your famous horse farm. Maria too, who you lured away with such an outrageous salary.” However, his eyes twinkled with approval. “The lawyer says Abdul’s adoption won’t be a problem now.You really are something—” He dipped his head, muffling his words with a deep kiss, a hungry kiss, taut with longing and love.

  “The sheikh saw you,” he murmured, lifting his mouth, his breathing ragged. “So he’ll understand why I have to rush the meeting. But I can’t make him wait any longer. It’s just not done.”

  “Hurry then, so we can go home.” She trembled with wanting, unable to resist pressing into his warm chest, then stepped back, groaning. Somehow his mouth, his hands, his mere presence pushed away coherent thought. “Oh, no. I can’t stay tonight. Harry’s with me.”

  “Harry?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Harry from barn seventy-two. Recently retired.”

  “No problem.” He grinned and tugged her closer, tenderly dragging his mouth over her forehead. “Old Harry can have a sleepover in my barn. Tomorrow we’ll take Buddy and Harry to your place. Then bring Assets back. Work out some kind of commute.” He sobered, cupping her head in his hands. “I know you’re busy, but I do need to see Assets’ owner. Every day if possible. Is that okay?”

  Every day. Her heart thumped with joy. It would be easy to rearrange her schedule, but she couldn’t stop smiling because already he was thinking of Assets. No mention of Belle or Rocky.

  Still, once in a while something came along that simply captured your soul. And maybe in a month or two, when she wasn’t so annoyed with her grandfather, she’d thank Gramps for finding her this wonderful man.

  “It’s all absolutely perfect,” she said, snuggling into his chest, home at last.

  And behind her, Buddy lifted his muzzle from the hay and blew warm breath lovingly down the back of her neck.

  ***

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks for your staunch support, interest and enthusiasm—Barb Snarby, Becky Mason, Patricia Thomas, Virginia Janes, Anne MacFarlane, Chelsea Thornton, Julianne MacLean, Judith James, Pamela Callow, Donna Alward, Lauren Tutty and Cathy McDonald. You ladies rock.

  Fillies and Females

  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

  Editors: Pat Thomas & Rhonda Helms

  Photo Credit: Horsephotos.com

  Dedication

  To my son, Hans, who provided computer support and jokes when desperately needed.

  Chapter One

  Becky pushed the empty wheelchair through the crowded owner’s box and wished, once again, she were invisible. She kept her face carefully neutral, trying to hide her discomfort.

  Accompanying her employer to the track wasn’t her usual duty but the weekend nurse was sick, and Martha would have been devastated if she hadn’t been able to attend this long-anticipated horse race. Not that there was anything wrong with horses—Becky quite liked them—but the people who thronged these glamorous affairs made her edgy.

  All the usual society types attended. Few would refuse an invitation to watch the Lone Star Derby from a swanky skybox stocked with an array of food and liquor as well as Martha’s illustrious friends. However, some of them weren’t very friendly. Becky gripped the rubber handles just as a lady with molded cheekbones and an equally molded dress stepped sideways, cutting off her path and forcing the chair to bump the wall.

  “Hurry, Becky. Over here!” Martha Conrad called, her voice shrill with impatience.

  “Do you want to switch chairs?” Becky asked, once she fina
lly maneuvered the wheelchair to Martha’s side.

  “No, I just want my binoculars. You packed them, didn’t you?”

  Becky gave a reassuring nod and unzipped the side pocket on the back of the wheelchair.

  “This is so nerve-wracking.” Martha clutched at her neck, fretfully fingering a striking string of pearls. “I wish Malcolm were here.”

  Her thin chest flailed and Becky edged closer, her own hands tightening with concern. Martha had been devoted to her husband and was reluctant to sell the race stable after his sudden death. But maintaining the operation was stressful, even with excellent staff, and doctors had warned the excitement was dangerous for her weakened heart.

  “There’s our colt now.” Martha’s voice steadied, her words even carrying a familiar hint of sarcasm. “Look, Ted. Hunter’s the horse with number one on the saddle cloth.”

  Martha’s nephew glanced at the string of horses with such indifference, Becky wondered why he’d bothered to come. Maybe like her, Ted was uncomfortable with crowds, although in his case it seemed based on apathy rather than insecurity. His reaction didn’t bother Martha one bit, since scores of enthusiastic guests were already murmuring their admiration.

  Martha’s horse, Code Hunter, seemed to know he was being scrutinized. He arched his neck and strutted like a rock star. Becky edged closer to the balcony, fascinated by the horse—his confidence, his bearing, his legitimate blue blood. Malcolm Conrad had spent twenty years developing Thoroughbreds with both speed and stamina, and Hunter was the result of his breeding program. In four starts the colt was unbeaten and if race odds were any indication, he’d win again today.

  “An impressive animal.” Ted glanced down at Martha. “But he should be, considering the money Uncle Malcolm wasted.”

  Disapproval edged his voice and Becky averted her head, pretending absorption with the post parade. His tone bothered her, but she’d learned it was safer to remain silent.