DARK HORSE
J. CARSON BLACK
WRITING AS MARGARET FALK
DARK HORSE. Copyright © 1995 by Margaret Falk
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or retransmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Published by Breakaway Media
Tucson, Arizona (USA)
www.breakawaymedia.com
PRINTING HISTORY
First published by Zebra Books, an imprint of Kensington Publishing Corp., mass market edition / 1995
Published in France by J’ai Lu as Le cavalier de l’ombre, mass market edition / 1995
www.jcarsonblack.com
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This Dark Horse Kindle Edition includes the Words and Images Award-winning short story by J. Carson Black, Pony Rides.
PONY RIDES. Copyright © 1986 by Margaret Falk
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or retransmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Published by Breakaway Media
Tucson, Arizona (USA)
www.breakawaymedia.com
PRINTING HISTORY
First published by Tucson Weekly, a publication of Wick Communications, Co., 1986.
This book is dedicated to Vicki Lewis Thompson
Acknowledgments
While I have strived to portray quarter horse racing as accurately as possible, I have bent a few facts for the sake of the story; in particular, the American Quarter Horse Association’s policies on blood-typing. Any inaccuracies concerning quarter horse breeding, training, and racing are due to assumptions on my part and do not reflect on the experts I spoke with, who answered every question I thought to ask. Many thanks to Amy Owens, Lesli Groves, and Dan Fick of the American Quarter Horse Association; Officers John Cheek of the Tucson Police Department, Bob Wagner (retired) of the Chicago Police Department, and James McSwane and Bobbie Miller of the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Department; Pete Siminski of the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum; Bob Lewis of Rillito Racetrack; Maria Bennett of the Santa Cruz County Racetrack; Aleta Walther, James McKnight, Bob Allison, and Norm Amundson of Ruidoso Downs Racetrack; Jann K. Jones, trainer; and Ellen Cockey, race rider. Thanks also to Sinclair Browning, Vicki Lewis Thompson, Glenn McCreedy, Rob Cohen, and Tracy Bernstein. And finally, thanks to Zip Peterson, the racehorse trainer who, for well over a year, answered all my questions with wit, generosity, and grace. May this year bring you another Contessa Cash.
dark horse: n. a superior running horse whose ability is not known to the other entrants [orig.: inspired by a practice in which unscrupulous trainers altered the appearance of a known favorite in order to raise the odds against him; this was done by dyeing the coat dark to cover any recognizable markings]
Be sure to read the Tucson Weekly Words and Images Award-winning short story Pony Rides, the Special Bonus Section at the end of this Kindle Edition of Dark Horse.
PROLOGUE
Sonoita, Arizona
1995
Still simmering from the confrontation at the Steak Out, Coke McAllister forced himself to ease up on the accelerator. That smart-ass deputy might be out looking for drunk drivers tonight. After three Scotch-and-sodas, Coke didn’t want to risk it, even though all he’d had in the last hour was coffee on top of a big steak dinner.
He was extra careful on Arizona Route 83, observing the speed limit exactly. Even so, he breathed a sigh of relief as he reached the turnoff for home.
As the dirt road reeled out before his high beams, Coke cursed himself for shooting off his big mouth. He’d planned to hold off until he was sure, maybe even catch the bastard in the act. As it was right now, he didn’t have any proof. And wasn’t likely to, not after showing his hand like that. Shouldn’t have said anything, but he was so damn mad—
The road curved to the right. As Coke turned the wheel, the pickup shimmied a little. He wished now he’d driven the new truck, even though he would have had to stop for gas. The steering mechanism on this old boat had a lot of play in it, which might make him look drunker than he was. At least he was almost home.
Why couldn’t he have kept his mouth shut? He winced and rubbed his forehead. Think of something else.
Dakota. His mind fixed on the image of his daughter with relief. Tomorrow he’d give her a call. He’d even fly her out here, and he could spend some—what did the shrinks call it . . . quality time?—with his only child. As Coke drove the ranch road, his urgency grew. Suddenly, it was the most important thing in the world that he see Dakota again.
He hoped she wasn’t too busy to come.
Coke glanced at the rearview mirror, and his heart skipped a beat. A dark shape hurtled up behind him. “What the—”
On impulse, his foot punched the accelerator.
Suddenly, headlights flashed on, their reflection in the rearview mirror nearly blinding him. “Damn fool!” he muttered, shoving the mirror sideways. But he could feel the bar lights mounted on top of a truck aimed at the back of his neck. They flooded his cab with white light.
What was the guy doing? He yanked the mirror back into position, squinting against the brightness.
Adrenaline ran through him as he saw the flat board across the front grill, the tire lashed to the board. The truck behind him surged forward. If he came any closer, they’d lock bumpers.
Coke felt a jarring thud as the two vehicles connected. Suddenly he was going much faster, as if his truck were on skis.
As the truck pushed him forward over the unraveling road. Coke was struck by the realization that deep down, he’d been expecting something like this all along.
PART ONE
THE SANTA CRUZ COUNTY FUTURITY
ONE
February
No use putting it off.
Dakota McAllister crossed the scarred, red floor of her father’s study, lifted the videotape from the top of the beat-up television set, and inserted it into the VCR.
Removing a pile of Speedhorse magazines from the couch, she sat down and pressed the remote button. The gears engaged, and her father’s image flickered on the screen.
She had tried to prepare herself, but nothing could ready her for the ache in her heart at the sight of him whole and strong again. Coke McAllister wore one of the flannel shirts he favored, the sleeves rolled up to reveal weathered, work-beveled forearms. He looked much younger than his sixty-seven years. How could such vitality, such overwhelming self-confidence and charisma, be extinguished as if it had never been?
The image blurred. Tears, unshed from the time she learned of his death, pricked at her eyelids.
Dakota looked out the picture window at the hilly, oak-studded pastures of her father’s Arizona ranch, and willed her vision to clear. She rewound the tape to the beginning. If this was Coke’s last chance at life, she needed to give him every millisecond he was entitled to. Even if that life was only an illusion: a few feet of videotape.
Coke leaned back on the sway-backed plaid sofa in the barn office, his arms resting along its top. He could have been in the room with her. “Are we rolling, Norm? All right. This tape is for my only daughter, Dakota McAllister, in the event of my death.” He paused, cleared his throat, and stared straight into the camera. “Dakota, we haven’t seen much of each other lately. I’m sorry about some of the things I said. See? I can admit when I’m wrong. If you want to be an actress, you have my blessing. I still think it’s a crapshoot.”
He couldn’t
help it. Even on this posthumous tape, Coke had to have the last word.
“God knows all I ever wanted was for you to be happy. Of course, your idea of happy and mine are different.” He made it sound endearing. Dakota had to remember the kind of person he was, how he had tried to control everyone around him. A benevolent dictator was still a dictator.
“You already have my will, so you know I’m leaving Black Oak to you. I’m sorry to saddle you with all the debts, but I did leave you a way out of this sorry mess.” He leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees, and interlocked callused fingers. “Listen good, pumpkin. I have a horse in my barn that can make the difference between bankruptcy and putting Black Oak back on track. I know it sounds like I’ve been smoking somethin’, but this filly can save Black Oak.”
Dakota opened her mouth to protest and laughed as she realized it was futile to argue with a videotape.
Coke answered her unspoken argument. “I know you don’t want this white elephant, and the way it is right now, I can’t blame you. But you’re the last of the McAllisters. There’s a responsibility with that. My father built this ranch into the finest quarter horse ranch in Arizona. But you know how it is in this business, princess. One day’s chicken is another day’s feathers. We’re sure gettin’ the feathers now.” His laugh was affable, self-deprecating. The kind of laugh she’d always associated with two men: Coke McAllister and Ronald Reagan.
“I know what people are saying, and it isn’t true. We’ve always worked hard to produce sound horses. If I thought one of my horses would break down, I wouldn’t let him run. No matter what the pressure. I want you to believe that, even if nobody else does. If you ever knew me at all . . .” He paused, passed a hand over his face, and Dakota realized suddenly how old he looked. Old and sad.
She had to look away. Her gaze fixed on the bright-red gas pump, circa 1920, that stood like a sentinel in the front yard.
“I’m as much at a loss as anyone about what’s happening,” Coke was saying. “At first I thought it was bad luck. But I’m beginning to think that someone has it in for me. Now don’t call me paranoid. Bad luck is one thing. But this has been much more than a run of bad luck. Something’s going on with my horses. You know how I feel about that, Dakota. I don’t care if someone picks a fight with me, but if they’d stoop to hurting a dumb animal . . . I’m getting off the subject. Whoever doesn’t want me to prosper won’t have to worry much longer. I’m no spring chicken anymore. Frankly, I’m getting damn tired.”
He rubbed the spot between his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, a motion Dakota had seen many times. She was surprised at the way that simple action tugged at her. “I don’t know what I can say to convince you that Black Oak is where you belong. You’re headstrong, just like your mother. From day one she tried to pit you against me, and maybe she’s succeeded. It’s too bad I won’t be around to find out which side you come down on.
“Dakota, I’m counting on the fact that there’s more McAllister in you than you know. You’re plain folks, like me. I’d bet the farm on it.” He laughed at his own joke. “I am betting the farm on it.”
Coke stood up and walked to the door. On the wall of the office hung a dozen rust-splotched metal signs from bygone eras: Edison Lamp Company, Sinclair Oil, Royal Crown Cola. Coke looked back at the camera a couple of times and motioned for his audience to follow him.
Coke paused beside a stall. A nameplate fastened to the bottom half-door read: SHAMELESS.
A horse poked its dark head over the stall door: a feminine face, tranquil brown eyes, inquisitive muzzle. A crescent moon rode high on her forehead. “This is the one,” Coke said proudly. He rubbed the filly’s neck affectionately and repeated, “This is the one. The horse who’s gonna win the All American. Hold on to her, Dakota. She’ll make you a fortune.” The certainty in his voice sent a shiver up Dakota’s spine.
For a moment, she wanted to keep the filly just to please him. The reaction wasn’t foreign to her. As a little girl, she would have done anything to please him.
Back in the office again, Coke wrapped it up. “I wish I could get you to promise me you’ll give this filly her chance. We never were good face-to-face, so I’m having my say where you can’t talk back. Keep her, even if you have to sell every other horse on Black Oak. At least for the summer. That’s all she’ll need to convince you—one million dollars if she wins the All American. See if I’m not right.”
Suddenly, Dakota’s finger found the button again and froze him in the frame. At least for the summer.
He knew he was going to die before the summer.
He knew he was going to die.
Why hadn’t it occurred to her before? Why should a man in good health—even a sixty-seven-year-old man—go to all the trouble of making a videotape for the purpose of telling his daughter to keep one horse?
Coke didn’t have some virulent form of cancer that would rush through his body like a forest fire. He didn’t have heart trouble.
Three weeks ago, on the way home from a Saturday night of dinner and drinks with friends in Sonoita, Coke’s truck had crashed into an oak tree on Washboard Road. He’d been killed instantly. His blood alcohol level was just under the legal limit.
He couldn’t have known he would die.
Stunned, Dakota set the remote down. She’d heard of animals knowing they were about to die and going off to find a quiet place. Had it been the same way with her father?
Had he sensed his impending death?
She was surprised at the bleakness that assaulted her. He had been alone here, fighting an uphill battle, pitied by most of his former cronies in the racing industry, without his family to support him. She shouldn’t feel guilty about it, but she did.
Although Dakota couldn’t imagine her father committing suicide, she wondered if despondency over Black Oak’s downfall had led indirectly to his death.
“I’ll probably never know,” she muttered as she pressed the remote button once more.
“So that’s the story in a nutshell,” Coke said. “You decide. You should know—” Again, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I thought you oughta know how much I . . . care. Care about you.”
Something tightened in her chest. Why couldn’t he just say that he loved her? What was so hard about that?
“One more thing. If you need a hand, ask Clay. He knows me better than anyone else. Despite the trouble you two had, he’ll help you. Well, that’s it. Hold on to her, Dakota. This one’s special.”
The picture turned abruptly snowy.
Dakota hit the STOP button and closed her eyes. She’d wondered how Coke would work Clay Pearce in. There was no doubt he’d do it, just as he had taken a few cheap shots at her mother. That was his style. He had to play with her emotions even after his death.
That was the kind of man Coke McAllister was.
TWO
There was more gossip than usual this morning over ham and eggs at the Cactus Flower Cafe. Everyone was talking about the Black Oak dispersal sale.
They wondered what Coke would say about his daughter selling off all the Black Oak horses so soon after his death. To think people once considered her a local girl. Of course that was a long time ago—almost ten years—and she’d been living in Los Angeles all this time. LA was a long way from Sonoita, and not just in distance.
Sonoita, Arizona, was literally a wide spot in the road. A four-way stop sign regulated traffic at the juncture of State Routes 82 and 83. The hamlet provided the outlying ranches with a post office, the Santa Cruz County Fairgrounds and racetrack, a few restaurants, and a strip shopping center. Surrounding grassland bowed like wheat to the edge of clean, blue mountains. From a distance, the rolling hills could pass for velvet, brushed here and there against the nap to reveal pale gold, fawn, and silver, the grass tops spit-shined to a platinum gleam.
The line between the bright grass and the pulsating sky was sharp, intimidating. The sky took up two-thirds of the landscape. This portion of Santa Cruz County
was a great-hearted, beautiful country that tugged at the heart, whispering promises of the kind of timeless, solitary freedom that will forever elude human grasp.
Today, however, Sonoita’s visitors were of a more practical bent. Megatrucks towing horse trailers cruised up to the crossroads and turned north on Highway 83. The corner store was already doing a land-office business, and the Steak Out looked forward to a big lunch rush.
The entrance to Black Oak was marked by turquoise and silver balloons, Coke McAllister’s stable colors. By nine-thirty, two off-duty deputies in orange vests were directing traffic up the dirt road to Black Oak.
Dakota watched from an upstairs window as the cars pulled into the dirt lot that had been cleared near the barn area. The late-model Mercedes-Benzes, Cadillacs, and one-ton dually trucks made a striking contrast to the dilapidated structures and overgrown fields.
She glanced at her watch. It was almost ten.
Dakota started down the stairs, thinking that at least she was dressed for the occasion in a lightweight, oatmeal linen jacket and skirt. The white, boat-necked silk shell suited her coloring, bringing out the topaz of her eyes and the sheaf of wheat-gold hair that fell to her shoulders. It was a classy outfit, the kind of suit any spoiled Beverly Hills bitch would be proud to model as she sold her father’s beloved ranch before the ink was dry on his death certificate.
Alice, the housekeeper, was dusting the table on the landing. At the sight of Dakota, her lips tightened into a line, and she wielded the duster like a broadsword, sending a flurry of dust motes into the air.
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