Racetrack Romance BOX SET (Books 1-3) (13 page)

But he had a sour taste in his mouth when he joined Otto in the paddock.

“What took you so fucking long?” Otto yanked the bridle off, rattling the mare's teeth. She flattened her ears at the callous treatment. Her nostrils still flared, but her respiration had steadied, her lungs no longer desperate for air, and she looked to be rallying for another battle.

Kurt quickly buckled the halter, afraid he would have a tiger on his hands if he didn't get the mare away from Otto.

“I’ll take good care of her,” he said, although it was doubtful Otto even cared. He led Country Girl to Sandra, who watched the exchange with open interest. Kurt winked as he passed her the line, but Sandra looked at Otto’s dark face and prudently held her wisecracks.

Kurt trailed Sandra along the walkway to the barn, his smuggling suspicions reinforced by Otto’s anger. Otto could claim a better horse with the money received for Country Girl, so it appeared the mare's value was measured by much more than just racing. At last, it seemed, there was some headway in the case.

Chapter Thirteen

“The walk back was easier than the walk over.” Sandra gave Kurt a saucy grin as she flipped him the mare’s lead line. “Just what you need, a hot woman to spice up your life.” Laughing, she wheeled her horse and trotted back to the paddock.

The mare twisted at Okie's desertion and gave an ear-blasting whinny.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” Kurt said. “New owner, new deal.”

She trembled, reluctant to enter the barn. He waited. She lowered her head, took a tentative step then stopped, her liquid eyes seeming to peer into his soul. Finally she gave a weary shudder and followed him down the aisle.

He led her into the airy box stall next to Cisco where she sniffed at the generous straw, stuck her head out the window then buried her nose in the sweet hay. He lingered by the door, watching her eat, enjoying her contentment but concerned by her appearance.

Her ribs were visible, her neck and hindquarters hollow, and she clearly wasn’t used to regular meals. A few weeks at Adam’s ranch should add some weight. Give her a fresh outlook on life. The mental vacation alone—

The mare wheeled, ears flattened. He jumped back as her rear hooves smashed against the stall door. Christ! She’d almost nailed him. Maybe she
was
beyond help. She looked enraged now, like the horse he’d seen in the paddock, like she was when Otto was near.

Understanding slammed him, and he twisted, leaping sideways as a shovel whipped the air. It missed his shoulder by scant inches. The steel clanged from its lethal impact on the concrete.

Kurt stared at Otto, stunned by the ferocity of his attack. The man's lips curled, exposing a darkened tongue and a ridge of stained fillings. “Teach you to fuck with my stuff!” Otto pulled the shovel over his shoulder, holding it like a baseball bat. His face contorted, and he swung again.

Christ!

Kurt dodged but not quickly enough. Numbing pain shot down his arm. Adrenaline charged him, and he dove under Otto's arms, grabbed the wooden handle and rammed the butt into Otto’s throat.

Woof!
Otto grunted with pain but bulled forward and locked his arms around Kurt’s neck. Kurt buried a flurry of fists in Otto’s stomach but couldn't loosen the chokehold.

They did a macabre waltz around the aisle, slamming into stall fronts, sending horses scrambling. Kurt’s lungs ached for air; he struggled to breathe. Desperate, he head-butted Otto then drove his fist into the man’s jaw. The big hands loosened, and he wrenched free. He kicked Otto’s legs out as gasping breaths stuck in his throat.

Otto rose, grinning and confident in his strength. Lowered his head and charged.

The guy is nuts
. The knowledge fuelled Kurt, sweeping aside his reluctance to fight and perhaps draw a suspension. Fuck it. He wanted to do some damage of his own. He held his ground and rammed his boot into Otto’s face, then jabbed three brutal kicks to his stomach. Otto dropped to his knees, sputtering.

“What the hell is going on?”

Kurt wheeled toward the voice, still in a crouch, still punchy with fight. Nick. The farrier shook his head with disgust and smacked a long metal rasp against his leather apron.

“Shoeing horses is hard enough without grown men leaping like apes. Scaring them.” Nick twirled his rasp with the authority of a nightstick. “I suggest you take your argument off track, or I’ll call security.”

“Sorry.” Kurt straightened, pulling back his control. The last thing he wanted was for Otto to be suspended; he needed the man close. But pain seared his throat, and it was hard to speak. “Everything's fine,” he managed. “A small disagreement but Otto and I are…finished. Right, Otto?”

Otto scowled. A bruise darkened his chin but he opened and closed his fists, clearly less than finished.

The barn turned eerily quiet. Even the horses watched, unmoving, their ears pricked toward the three men. Kurt heard his own breathing, still rough, as he balanced on the balls of his feet. But this time he was ready.

Nick stepped forward and stood beside him, a stalwart force with a big rasp.

Otto jerked back. Cursed and stalked from the barn.

Nick chuckled. “Looks like you licked the red off his candy. Better watch your back though. He’s an odd one.”

“Thanks, Nick,” Kurt said simply.

The farrier nodded, but his expression turned pensive as he eyed the shovel and the fresh groove cut in the floor. “Don‘t expect Otto to play fair. He’s built like a gorilla but not quite as smart.”

Behind them, Country Girl churned in her stall, poking her head over the door, staring, then circling again.

“It's okay, sweetie,” Kurt said. “He can't hurt you anymore.”

“What’s wrong with that horse?” Nick asked as he picked up the shovel and propped it against the wall.

“Don’t know. I just claimed her from Otto, but she gets upset when he's around. Her reaction saved me tonight.”

“You bought a cheap claimer?” Nick shook his head and slipped his rasp in the long side pocket of his apron. “Thought you Woodbine guys were strictly big league.”

“I run all types, and she did come third tonight.” Kurt paused, sensing the farrier was the type who liked to fix things. “Even with messed-up feet,” he added.

“Messed-up feet?”

“Yeah.” Kurt nodded. “And she sure could use an expert.”

Nick rolled his eyes but gestured at Country Girl. “Quit the sweet talk and bring her out. Horse deserves a break if she's been with Otto very long. The man insists on doing his own shoeing. Always fucks it up.”

Kurt led Country Girl into the aisle. Nick ran his hands down her front legs. The mare trembled but lifted her feet, making no objection to Nick’s attention, and Kurt’s opinion of her intelligence rose another notch.

“Not so bad.” Nick crouched, eyeballing her left hoof. “The angles are off, and the toe should be shorter.”

“Check her hind end.”

Nick bent over the mare’s back legs then rose and stared at Kurt with a bleak expression. “Sorry, but you can’t race this mare for a while. Looks like she was the practice horse at Farrier School, and every kid took a turn with the hammer. Let’s see how she moves.”

Kurt led the mare down the aisle. Her hooves clicked as Nick stroked his chin and watched.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Nick said. “Bring her back.”

He slid his hand along her left fetlock and lifted her leg. Lines fanned the edges of his eyes as he stared at her hoof. He spoke slowly, almost to himself. “Looks like she was shod three or four times over the last couple of weeks. Dry feet, couple quarter cracks. The wall is weak, damaged from all the nails. But the aluminum racing plates she wears now aren’t the same shoes she had earlier. Those shoes were heavier and needed bigger nails.”

When he pressed her sole, the mare flinched and tried to pull away, but Nick kept a firm grip on her leg. “I think she had rubber pads on her back feet.” Nick glanced at Kurt. “Her soles are mushy, like they've been covered for a while. Dump some iodine on them. If she ran a third with these kind of feet, she's brave enough. I'll pull these shoes off now. She'll heal faster barefoot.” His voice lowered as he expertly cut the nails and removed all four shoes.

Kurt stepped closer, eager to hear every word this gentle man said.

“Her angles are screwed up,” Nick continued. “I think the other shoes were too thick, and she pulled some ligaments. She moves stiff, like a girl wearing high heels too long. There shouldn't be any permanent damage though. Her tendons aren’t bowed. Damn lucky.” He rose and flipped the old shoes at Kurt. “Those weren’t put on by an expert. Some of the nails were a little high. It's a wonder she let me handle her feet at all.”

Kurt studied the aluminum shoes while he mulled over Nick’s comments. Nothing odd about these. However, it
was
odd to use heavy steel shoes on a racehorse. He felt Nick’s curious gaze and gave a quick shrug. “Thanks for looking at her,” he said. “She's leaving the track tomorrow, but I have two other horses that need shoeing. Think you can do them?”

“Yeah, I’ll pencil them in somewhere. Working nights is a bitch, but it means a new truck by fall.” He headed down the aisle but paused and swung around, his eyes alight with interest. “I’d like to see the shoes on Otto’s next horse. Maybe they have a new trick south of the border. They're always experimenting with ways to make their horses run faster.”

“Otto was probably trying to save money,” Kurt said quickly.

Nick only shrugged and turned away.

Kurt watched until he faded into the far recesses of the barn, until he could no longer see Nick’s outline, could only hear the solitary tapping of his hammer and the humming of a melancholy tune.

The announcer’s voice crackled over the barn speakers. Two races left. Kurt walked to the front of Otto’s now vacant stall. According to the police report, Connor had stood in this exact same spot. Talking to Julie. Looking for Otto.

But why?

Otto’s frustrated attack confirmed the mare was the link. So far though, all Kurt had discovered was a bad shoeing job.

Shaking his head, he carried the shoes into his tack room and powered up his laptop. The keyboard clicked as he finalized his report to Archer and stressed the need for a border alert. The thought of Otto's heated reception the next time he entered Canada filled Kurt with perverse pleasure.

Laughter and shouts rocked the barn, so he shoved the laptop back into his briefcase and stepped into the aisle.

“Hey! Join the celebration.” A grinning Sandra yanked a can of beer from a dented blue cooler and lobbed it in the air.

“Did someone win a race?” He snagged the beer and snapped open the tab. Beer foamed over the top, and he covered it with his mouth, savoring the taste.

“You don’t have to win to make money,” Sandra’said. “I’m up three hundred and seventy-two dollars from betting, and I ponied every race. So it’s a big payday. Help yourself, Martin.” She shoved the cooler toward Martin with the side of her boot.

“Whoa,” Kurt said. “How old are you, Martin?”

Martin’s hand stalled over the cooler. “Almost fifteen,” he mumbled, averting his eyes.

Sandra’s mouth straightened in displeasure. “Martin can have a drink. There’s no damn cop around. And it’s my beer.”

“And he’s my employee,” Kurt said.

Martin’s shoulders slumped and he lowered his hand. Kurt felt his disappointment; nothing tasted better than a cold beer after a day of dust, dirt and horses, but Jesus, he wasn’t even fifteen. And the kid already had social problems.

Kurt glanced at Sandra who cocked her head and glared, as though they’d just entered into an undeclared power contest.

“You don't look the type to care about a little alcohol,” Sandra said, her eyes narrowing. “Quite the opposite. And there's no reason to worry about Martin. His mother is a close friend of mine. They live walking distance from here.”

Everyone seemed to be a close friend of Sandra’s, and Kurt didn’t like the speculative gleam in her eyes. Didn’t want her natural nosiness turned on him. Sometimes he felt like he had ‘cop’ tattooed on his forehead.

“One beer, Martin,” he said. “But make sure you feed on time in the morning. And I'll drive you home.”

“We’ll walk him home,” Sandra said, clearly unwilling to relinquish her hard-earned status as boss mare. “It’s on the way to the pub. Grab a cold one, Martin.”

Martin needed no second invite. He pulled a beer from the cooler and popped the lid. His throat gurgled as he drained half the can. Kurt had an ugly image of young drivers and car crashes and resolved to make sure the kid got home safely, regardless of what Sandra said.

And maybe he could meet Martin’s mom. He didn’t intend to get involved with the people here—never did when he worked a case, not anymore—but Martin was like a sponge and if he wanted a career at the track, there were a few programs that could be helpful.

Awareness crackled through him seconds before he heard Julie’s voice, and his pulse quickened. He turned toward her but could only gape.

She swept down the aisle, looking vastly different from the rider he saw every morning, hidden behind a helmet and vest. Tonight, jeans hugged her hips—his hands could probably span her waist—and a white shirt scooped over her breasts. Lovely, full breasts. He took a hard gulp.

Her hair swirled loose, freed from the usual ponytail, and it gleamed under the lights. No obvious makeup other than a hint of lipstick, but her skin was flawless and those killer cheekbones were free of dirt. Nothing fancy, just jeans and a shirt, but her feminine curves made him drool. Christ, he had it bad.

He fumbled a greeting, somewhat mollified to see Martin’s eyes had also bugged. The kid even spilled some of his precious beer.

“Julie!” Sandra called, raising her can. “Thanks to you, Okie will get a new pair of wraps. Your dad and I made a chunk of money. Sadly, Kurt wasn’t a believer and missed out.” She spoke with the smug tone of one who’d successfully backed a long shot.

Julie glanced at Kurt, her gaze steady.

“I had faith in you,” he said, “just not enough in your horses. You did a great job tonight.”