Racetrack Romance BOX SET (Books 1-3) (31 page)

The starter called the horses. Kurt’s fists balled as the group turned for the chute, and Julie’s red helmet approached the gate.

One by one, the horses disappeared. He kept his gaze fixed on the splash of red as Julie circled Ace, waiting their turn to load. There were only two back now, the seven horse and Ace.

The seven horse balked.

Blue silks flickered from within the gate as a horse reared, protesting the delay. Julie had better be ready. The starter wouldn’t make this young bunch stand around long. The doors would open as soon as Ace walked in.

The seven horse was kicking up a commotion, and his panic was spreading. Horses’ heads jostled; colors moved behind the bars.

“Good thing Ace isn’t loaded yet. Some of the horses are really freaking out.” Martin's sharp eyes were glued to the gate. “Man, did you see that horse go up in the air! Looks like the rider’s off.”

Kurt groped in his back pocket. Dammit, he’d forgotten his binoculars.

“The seven horse is scratched,” the announcer said, his voice cutting through the crowd’s grumble.

Good
. Kurt felt too tense to be charitable. Now Julie wouldn’t have that bronco on her inside. The seven horse was led to the far end of the chute, and Julie’s helmet disappeared in the gate.

The last horse was in. Oh, Christ. He stopped breathing.

“They’re off!” the announcer said.

A horse bobbled, one of the runners close to the rail. The horse stayed on his feet, but the jockey was down. There was a collective sigh of relief when the rider picked himself out of the dirt. Kurt started breathing again. The riderless horse galloped after the pack, running in the middle of the track, with flapping reins and a carefree attitude.

Kurt’s attention swung to the horses galloping down the backstretch. Ace ran five wide. Julie’s helmet bobbed along in a maze of churning bodies. Bobbing way too much. Ace was running ragged.
He’ll blow the turn if he goes in like that
. Steady him, Kurt willed.

By the three eighth pole, the horses had strung out. Ace was fifth, four lengths behind the leader, but running awkwardly.

“Boy, that chestnut is really smoking,” said a white-haired man in front of them. “He’ll go gate to wire. Look how easy he's moving.”

Kurt blocked the comments, his breathing lightening when Ace finally settled into his smooth ground-eating gallop. “Good girl!” he yelled with such intensity the white-haired man turned and raised an eyebrow. Ace’ll run the hook okay now, Kurt thought, as the gelding entered the turn on his left lead.

The crowd moaned as the betting favorite, a blinkered bay running second, drifted across the track and bumped the horse on his outside.

“Did you see that hit?” Martin shouted gleefully. “This is better than a hockey game!”

Kurt couldn’t watch anyone but Julie. His heart pounded with every beat of Ace’s hooves. By elimination, there were only two horses in front of her, and Ace was running the turn beautifully. As the horses straightened down the stretch, the chestnut was still four lengths in front, a white-faced bay was second and Ace strained to catch them both.

The crowd roared, anticipating a big payoff. The chestnut flicked his ears in front of the grandstand, faltering at the unfamiliar wall of noise. Bixton waved his whip, reminding him it was a race. The chestnut dug back in.

But Ace blitzed down the lane, his stride long and effortless. He charged past the bay and swept across the finish line in second place, confident and full of run.

Kurt sagged with relief. Martin cheered and jabbed a jubilant elbow in Kurt’s ribs. Kurt barely felt it; he was too drained. Julie's riding was aging him faster than any police work.

“Thank God that’s over,” he muttered as the last runner straggled across the finish line, and an outrider nabbed the loose horse. “I’ll go pick him up.” He wiped his brow, trudged down the stairs and stepped over the rail.

Julie looked ecstatic as she trotted Ace back. Fine for her, Kurt thought sourly. He felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach.

“Beautiful ride,” he heard himself say. “Just what I wanted.” He groped for something else, but his mind was numb. “How did he feel?” he asked lamely.

“Super!” Her teeth gleamed against her dirty face, her silks were filthy and three sets of muddy goggles draped her neck. She’d never looked more beautiful. “He was wonderful once he settled,” she added. “Ran the turn like a train.”

Kurt just stared, his relief so sharp it was bewildering. He fumbled to unbuckle the girth but his gaze drifted back to her fragile chest, watching as it rose and fell beneath his silks. He’d have to check on the type of protective vest she wore. Some weren’t as good as others. And her saddle looked so worn. One equipment failure, one stumble, and she'd be crushed.

He felt cold. She still jabbered on about Ace and he forced another nod, another inane comment. “You rode him perfectly,” he mumbled.

Ace held his head high, staring imperiously over the crowd as she whipped off her saddle. “He thinks he’s a big racehorse now.” She laughed and gave Ace a grateful pat before turning back to Kurt. “Thanks for giving me the ride, in spite of everything. I really appreciate it.” She clutched the saddle in front of her, her face so earnest. So precious.

“No problem. You two clicked.” I’m the one with a problem here, he realized. His legs felt heavy, and he was reluctant to lead Ace back to the barn, reluctant to let her go. He took a hard swallow. “Are you going to the pub tonight?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. Maybe I’ll see you there?”

“Ah…Cody’s coming too. We’re sort of going there together.”

“Sort of?” He thought regret flickered over her face but wasn't sure. She was finally learning to hide her feelings, and a poignant sadness swept him.

She squared her shoulders, staring at him through the barrier of swirling, suffocating dust, but her enunciation was very clear. “Cody and I are going out tonight.”

“Okay.” He swallowed convulsively—the dust made it impossible to breathe, but he seemed to be the only trainer with a problem. “Some other time then,” he managed.

He turned Ace on his haunches, passing Martin, who was high-fiving a group of raucous teenagers. The red-haired girl stretched so far over the rail it seemed she would topple into Martin’s arms. At least the kid was having some luck.

Kurt led a strutting Ace back to the barn, wishing he could share the horse’s exuberance, wishing he didn't feel quite so empty.

By the time Martin appeared, he was hosing Ace and weighing alternate plans for the evening. He gave Martin an absent nod as he considered calling Tiffany. They could pick up right where they’d left off. No reason not to call her—except that the idea had zero appeal.

“Still smiling over that cute redhead?” Kurt asked as he pulled his gaze from the water puddling around Ace’s hooves.

“No way.” Martin shook his head, but a telltale flush stained his cheeks. “I'm just happy about how well Ace ran. But I’m going back to the grandstand after I feed. Catch up with my friends. They all want to hear about my job.”

The kid looked happy. Kurt shoved aside his own disappointment. “I'll do the feeding tonight,” he said. “Just hold Ace while I grab a sweat scraper. Then you can scram.”

Martin’s grin widened, and Kurt was even smiling when he entered the barn. Maybe he’d hang out with the horses tonight. Stick around and clean some tack. He slowed when he saw an open door, a door that was usually locked—Otto’s tack room.

He quickly checked Otto’s horse. The gelding stuck his head over the door and nickered, seeming to consider Kurt an old friend.

Obviously Otto hadn't been around for a while. The stall was filthy, filled with soiled straw that even a starving horse wouldn’t eat. A cracked water bucket was overturned in the far corner.

“Did he quit feeding you?”

The gelding gave Kurt’s arm a hopeful nudge.

Kurt shook his head and slipped into Otto’s tack room. It didn't look promising for the hungry horse. The room was empty of hay, empty of grain, empty of almost everything. Even the hobbles were gone, along with Otto’s bits and bridles. The metal box was still there though, its contents a secret.

A murder weapon maybe?

No, Otto wouldn't be stupid enough to leave anything there. Then again…

Kurt left the tack room, so preoccupied he almost forgot to grab the sweat scraper before rejoining Martin. “Looks like Otto’s horse isn’t getting fed.” He pasted on a bland expression as he scraped the dripping water off Ace’s belly. “Were you here when Otto packed up?”

“Yeah,” Martin said. “He threw a lot of garbage in the dumpster. Loaded the rest in his truck. He was talking on his phone a lot.”

“Maybe arranging for feed?” Kurt forced his voice to remain neutral.

“No. Sounded like he was talking to someone from a bank.” Martin ducked his head, looking sheepish. “I wasn’t trying to listen or anything, but I was brushing Ace. Couldn’t help overhearing.”

“It’s okay,” Kurt said. “People don’t expect privacy if they’re talking in a barn aisle. Maybe he’s selling the horse because of the…accident.”

Martin nodded earnestly. “Otto said he’d come by Saturday afternoon and get his money. He didn’t even swear. Not one word. That’s why I thought he was talking to the bank. My mom’s always polite then too.”

“Probably a good policy,” Kurt said, digging in his pocket. “By the way, I give staff a bonus when my horses finish in the money. You deserve it.”

Martin’s eyes widened as he stared at the bills in Kurt’s outstretched hand. “A hundred bucks! Oh man, thanks. Thanks, man.” He pocketed the money and slanted his Flames cap to a more rakish angle. “You know, I really like this racing business. My girl—I mean, my friend, thought it was pretty cool in the paddock when I stopped Ace from running away.”

“It was cool, Martin. You were a big help. Ace was the best-looking horse in the race. Have fun with your friends.”

He watched Martin saunter toward the grandstand. The boy's shoulders seemed squarer, and it looked like he’d grown a couple inches. Funny how horses had that effect.

Ace jerked at the lead, insisting on his share of attention, and Kurt led him around another twenty minutes before putting him in his stall. He wrapped the horse’s legs and stepped outside.

The sky was dark, but the walkway that led to the grandstand was well lit. Several horses and their attendants walked toward the track, although none of the shapes were bulky enough to be Otto's.

Kurt walked to his truck and called Archer. “Can you tell me where Otto is?” he asked. “I assume you've got someone on him by now.”

If Acher didn’t like Kurt’s tone, he didn’t show it. “Yes, he’s covered,” Archer said. “What’s happening at your end?”

“It’s quiet. But it would help if I knew Otto’s location. The teenager who works for me overheard a phone conversation. Seems Otto has a payday on Saturday. He might have been talking to Friedman.”

“Or any number of people.”

“No, Friedman seems to be the only one Otto doesn’t curse around.”

“Okay. I’ll see what the phone tap picked up.” Archer cleared his throat. “About the death this morning, the autopsy report will be available in a few weeks. The Calgary Police reported no sign of foul play, but we’re playing everything tight at this point. Wait a minute and I’ll check on Laing.”

Kurt cradled the phone between his head and shoulder, pushed aside an old coffee cup and a collapsible shovel, and hauled a cardboard box out from beneath the seat.

“Kurt.”

At Archer’s voice, he straightened and repositioned the phone.

“Your boy is standing at a betting window,” Archer said. “We have someone in the line next to him.”

“Good. Call me if he heads back to the barn. Has the surveillance guy got a backside pass?”

“The surveillance guy is a female and no, she doesn’t. We’re afraid of leaks from the racing office. But the exits are covered so Otto can’t leave without us picking him up. There’s also a tracking device on his truck.” Archer cleared his throat again. “I’m sorry about the victim. The request for the border check wasn’t circulated in a timely fashion.”

“You mean someone fucked up.”

Archer waited a beat. “Yes,” he finally said.

Kurt balanced the phone against his ear as he rummaged through the box, pushing aside duct tape, plastic, tweezers and a stuffed teddy bear. Finally found his lockset. “Just be sure to call if Otto heads back.”

He closed the phone before Archer could ask any questions, pulled a blanket over the box and walked back to the barn and into Otto’s tack room.

He closed the door behind him, switched on his penlight and crouched beside the metal box. The padlock was a good one. He tried several picks before finding one that fit. A heavy-footed horse clomped by; he stopped, listening, before resuming his delicate probing.

Ah, there it was. A click, and the lock released. He yanked the padlock off and tipped back the lid.

Tightened his mouth in disappointment. Only farrier tools, a motley collection of used horseshoes and two strips of thick black rubber. The shoes clinked as he shoved them aside. A stained paperback,
How to Be Your Own Farrier
, was curled at the bottom.

He shook the book but nothing fell from the pages so he turned his attention to the shoes. Four were aluminum race plates, but the others were traditional steel. Average shoes, average thickness.

He snapped some pictures and replaced the padlock then listened by the door before stepping into the aisle. A few people worked at the far end of the barn, but they were immersed in race buzz. No one looked his way.

He returned to Otto’s stall. The gelding sifted through his manure but nickered and rushed to the door, lipping off a piece of hay that clung to the front of Kurt’s shirt.

“You’re friendly today. Hoping for some food?” He opened the door and rubbed the horse’s neck. The horse obligingly stretched his head, turning sideways so Kurt could scratch all his hard-to-reach places. They both jumped when the phone rang.

Kurt stepped from the stall and flipped open his phone. “Yeah.”

“Your horse pal is heading over to the barn, reportedly in a foul mood. He has a fresh bruise on his left cheek. Know anything about it?”