Racetrack Romance BOX SET (Books 1-3) (90 page)

The nine horse balked, and two gate attendants rushed forward and pushed the reluctant colt into his slot.

“The horses are in,” the announcer blared.

Crack!
The gates snapped and ten horses burst out. Five strides and Hunter grabbed the lead. A bay horse joined him at the hip. However, Hunter was clearly in control. Becky blew out a relieved sigh, surprised to realize she’d been holding her breath. Hunter’s jockey kept a tight hold, carefully rationing the colt’s speed as the two horses pounded into the first turn, followed two lengths back by the rest of the pack.

She wanted to jump up and down, but Martha had a death grip on her hand so she forced her feet to remain still. But—oh no. It looked like the bay was catching Hunter. “Go, Hunter!” she yelled, unable to remain silent.

“Our horse is looking good, Betty,” Dino said. “Jock’s just rating him. The first quarter was almost twenty-four seconds, so he should be able to hang on.”

Oh, God. Dino was talking to her again, even though a gorgeous lady clung to his arm. And he’d called Hunter ‘our horse.’ Warmth lapped through her chest, even though it was rather irritating he never remembered her name. They’d met on nine previous occasions, six times at the races and three times at Martha’s house—although of course she hadn’t been counting.

She yanked her head back to the throng of galloping horses. Hunter had opened up a three-length lead and gaily led the group around the far turn and into the stretch. The colorful jockey crouched over Hunter’s bobbing neck, urging him toward the wire. Someone yelled in Becky’s ear, and Martha’s fingers tightened their grip. Oh, wow. He was going to win easily.And then inexplicably, the colt quit. She watched in shock as the bay horse surged past, then another horse in red blinkers, then seven more. Oh God, this was awful.

Hunter had finished last.

The room silenced, so tomblike the only noise was the rattle of ice as the bartender mixed a drink. Becky was reluctant to look at Martha, knew she’d intended this party as a coronation, not a humiliating defeat. And the trainer! She felt Dino’s raw disbelief and wanted to reach over and give his hand a consoling squeeze.

No one moved, except an expressionless waiter who delivered Ted an icy martini.

“Well, that’s racing,” someone finally said with a forced laugh.

“Your horse tried hard, Martha,” another voice said, too hearty to be genuine.

Dino leaned over Martha’s shoulder, so close Becky caught the subtle hint of his aftershave. “Very sorry,” he said gruffly. “Not the result I expected, or the one you deserve. I’ll check on Hunter then ship him back to your stable. Obviously he needs time off.” He kissed Martha’s cheek and strode from the room.

Betting stubs fluttered to the floor as disappointed guests drifted from the railing and rushed to refill their drinks. Everyone had expected a trek to the winner’s circle, followed by indulgence in the ritual champagne. Even Martha’s water glass was empty, except for one lonely cube of melting ice.

Only Ted had the luck to replenish his martini. He’d signaled the waiter just before the race, as though aware they wouldn’t be drinking champagne—which was impossible. The man was a hospital administrator, not a psychic. Her gaze lifted to his face and she froze, stunned by his expression.

She jerked her head away before he caught her watching. But goose bumps shivered a trail down her back because she was an expert at reading emotion, and his expression as he stared at Martha had not been that of a solicitous nephew. In fact, it had been undeniably malicious.

***

Dino rushed through the crowd milling in front of the grandstand, his jaw rigid. He prayed Hunter was okay, although the colt had looked healthy when he galloped past the finish line, merely exhausted. Exhausted and beaten.

An attractive reporter with clacking heels rushed to intercept him. “Dino,” she called, “your horse was favored to win. What do you think contributed to his disappointing finish?”

“No idea.” He glanced over his shoulder, searching the returning runners, worried about Hunter. “I’m on my way to check him now.”

She pressed closer, hungry for details and ignoring his hint. “It’s no secret Malcolm Conrad’s goal was to win this race with a homebred. Considering Hunter’s last-place finish, what do you suppose he’d say if he were alive?”

Dino almost winced, remembering his promise to Malcolm. But he hid his regret behind a rueful smile. He couldn’t recall this reporter’s name but he did remember her paper; they targeted the negative aspects of racing rather than the many positives. And while she was merely trying to pump out a story, her questions still stung.

Malcolm Conrad would have been devastated at this result, as was his loyal wife. The shock and disappointment on her face had cut him to the core. He’d truly expected to give her a win today. Hunter’s gallops, his works, even his attitude had all pointed to a monster race. Yet the talented colt had run like shit.

Not entirely like shit. He blew out a sigh, reaching for any bright spot. The first part of the race had been beautiful. However, by the eighth pole Hunter had quit running, and the finish line was the only place that mattered.

The reporter waved her notepad, and it was clear she wasn’t going to let him escape without some sort of comment.

“Well, ma’am,” he said, “I think if Mr. Conrad were here, he might say horses are like people. They have good days and bad. That’s what makes them so interesting. And just like us, they have to keep trying.”

She smiled back but clearly wasn’t satisfied. “Still, you must view this loss as a major setback? Especially considering rumors that Mrs. Conrad intends to sell?”

Dino’s chest tightened a painful notch, but he forced a chuckle. “If I listened to every rumor, I wouldn’t have time to train. Now I really must go and check my horse.”

She nodded, pressing a gold-embossed card in his hand. “When you’re not so busy, give me a call. I’d love to hear the whole Conrad story. Any day…or evening,” she added with a throaty laugh.

He subtly checked the name on the card. Danielle Whitlock. A definite looker, but he knew he’d never make that call. Too fancy, too forward and he’d had his fill of aggressive women. He slipped the card in his pocket, his mind already on Hunter, nodded politely and continued past the security guard and onto the track.

And there was his horse. Trotting evenly but with heaving flanks and lowered head. Nothing wrong with his stride. However Hunter looked exhausted as did his dirt-smeared jockey.

“What the hell happened out there?” he asked as Brad leaped off and unbuckled the saddle.

“No idea.” The jockey shrugged, his voice heavy with disappointment. “He just ran out of steam. I pretty much had to carry him home.”

Frowning, Dino wiped Hunter’s flaring nostrils, checking for blood. Found nothing but caked dirt. Still, bleeding in the lungs would make a horse quit and although Hunter had never bled before, the colt seemed oddly distressed.

He passed the reins to Hunter’s solemn groom. “Cool and bathe him. We’ll have the vet run some tests. I gotta figure this out.”

And he had to figure it out quickly. Martha was on the brink of selling, no doubt encouraged by her hovering nephew. Yet her horses were just peaking, and he sincerely believed Hunter was destined for greatness.

One bad race should be forgiven. Horses like Hunter didn’t come along every day…and neither did jobs with established race barns like Conrad’s.

Anxiety churned in his gut as he followed the beaten horse back to the barn. More than ever, he wished Malcolm was still around. He missed the man. Missed watching race video, sharing their analysis, sharing their dreams. And if Martha let the stable dissolve, he’d be out of horses, out of money, out of a job.

Chirp
. He flipped his phone open then wished he’d checked the display when he heard his ex-wife’s smug voice.

“I see the race is over,” Laura said. “So, do you have my money?”

“Nope.” His hand tightened around the phone. “And since you’re watching television, you know the results. Obviously, I’ll need more time.”

“You were supposed to have the down payment this week. I have another buyer so if you don’t want the ranch, let me know.” Spite sharpened her words. “Or maybe you’ll finally admit I was right, and you can’t make money training horses.”

“Gotta go,” he said quietly. “My lawyer will be in touch.” He closed the phone, determined not to let her barbs tank his already-shitty day.

He trudged past another security booth. Waved at the gray-haired guard then followed the horse path onto the backside, where long wooden barns stretched in rows. The horses he trained were stabled in barn sixteen, although some of his operation was conducted at the Conrad facilities. One temperamental filly even shipped in on race mornings. It was an excellent setup—good horses, good facility, good purses—but with Malcolm’s death, the elite operation had suddenly turned fragile.

He sighed, his steps slowing. Martha had to be convinced not to sell. It would be a tragedy to quit and let her husband’s hard work dissolve. At the very least, she should finish the Lone Star meet so she’d receive better prices. Sure, she’d had a heart attack and wasn’t feeling sprightly, but if watching the races was too stressful, she and her disapproving nurse could just stay away.

He’d get the horses winning again. Christ, he’d promised Malcolm. Resolve lengthened his stride, and he brushed aside a prick of guilt. Keeping the horses for another two months was definitely for Martha’s benefit, and he wasn’t being selfish, only sensible.

Chapter Two

Becky sorted medication tablets, keeping a careful watch on Martha and Ted. The disappointing race had taken its toll, and the waxy color in Martha’s cheeks was worrisome. The way Ted lingered by her bed, harping about Hunter’s poor race, didn’t help either. It was late and Martha needed sleep, not a reminder of the horse’s lackluster effort.

“It’s clear you should sell this place,” Ted went on, leaning over Martha’s pillow, seemingly in no hurry to leave. “Those horses suck away your health. My friend runs a gated retirement facility. Doctors on site twenty-four seven. They accept only the cream of society.”

“You’re very thoughtful, but good gracious, I’m tired.” Martha yawned, her voice trailing off. Her eyelids flickered twice then closed.

Ted sighed with exasperation. Becky ignored his grating presence, continuing her count of pink and blue pills.

“She always falls asleep when I’m here,” he said. “If
you
were any kind of nurse, you’d talk some sense into her.”

Okay. Obviously he was talking to her now. Becky’s hand tightened around the cap of the prescription bottle, but she lifted her head and met his gaze. “Martha needs her sleep, but I agree that racing isn’t beneficial.”

“Damn right. It almost killed her today. And it was embarrassing watching that nag stumble around the track. The quicker she sells, the better.” His voice lowered. “At least you understand the situation. I’ll have my secretary collect some brochures on Autumn Acres. Please ensure Martha reads them.” He smoothed the collar of his shirt, looking much more satisfied, although his smile didn’t reach his pale eyes.

Ping
. She fumbled a pill in rare clumsiness and stooped to retrieve it, grateful for any excuse to look away. He strode from the room without another word. It took a moment for her hands to steady, and she snapped the top back on the container, irritated he made her feel like a helpless teenager all over again.

She’d been with Martha for three wonderful years, but today was the first time Ted had even deigned to directly address her. Obviously he was taking an increased interest in Conrad affairs, although when Malcolm was alive his visits had been thankfully brief.

She sighed, knowing it was silly to have an aversion to a man simply because of his pale eyes—eyes that reminded her of another time, another place. She rattled the medication jars back onto the shelf and shoved away the memories.

“Is he gone?” Martha whispered. She twisted her head and checked the doorway, her gray hair fanning the pillow.

“For now.” Becky tried to frown at her manipulative patient, but her lips twitched and it was impossible to keep from smiling. “You won’t be able to pull the old sleep trick much longer though. Here, drink this.”

Martha scowled but accepted the glass and swallowed the colorful pills. “Ted’s like my sister. Rather bossy, but at least he cares.”

“Yes, and I’m afraid this time he’s right.” Becky’s voice turned serious. “You shouldn’t watch any more races, at least until you’re stronger.” Regret shadowed Martha’s eyes so Becky quickly added, “We could always drive over to the gallop track and watch the horses here on the property.”

Martha sniffed. “Better than nothing, I suppose. But watching them train at home isn’t nearly as exciting as racing at Lone Star. I simply don’t understand what happened to Hunter. Malcolm bred that horse for endurance. He should be able to get the distance. And Dino is a top-notch trainer. He knows how to condition a three-year-old.” She reached out and grabbed Becky’s hand. “I don’t want to sell the horses, not until Malcolm’s breeding program is vindicated. And I don’t want to look at Ted’s silly brochures. Not yet.”

“Then don’t,” Becky said, alarmed by the odd note of helplessness in Martha’s voice. “Selling is your decision. But you should probably stay away from the track.”

“You’ll have to go for me then.” Martha’s grip tightened around her wrist. “Watch the horses. Keep an eye on things. Malcolm always said absentee owners created problems.”

“But I don’t know enough!” Becky’s voice rose. It wasn’t the horses that scared her but the people, and her pulse kicked at the thought of seeing Dino every day. Having to talk to him. She didn’t like to be around men, any sort of men, but especially not big, confident ones.

“You’ve learned a lot in your time here, and your resume said you went to a riding camp. That’s one of the reasons we hired you. Now I want you to do this one small thing.” Martha softened her grip and gave Becky’s hand a knowing pat. “Don’t worry, dear. Dino won’t bite. He’s a kind man, and his flirting is harmless.”