Racetrack Romance BOX SET (Books 1-3)

by Bev Pettersen

  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 fre
sh bruise on his left cheek. Know anything about it?”

  “Part of an earlier discussion,” Kurt said.

  “Ease up. Your kind of discussion lands us in legal trouble.”

  “You knew what you were getting when you called me.” Resentment hardened Kurt’s voice. Archer was probably taping the call, protecting his ass. “Did you get the horse’s blood results back?”

  “Preliminary. So far, no illegal substances were found, and all the blood came from the victim. By the way, Laing passed the security booth three minutes ago.”

  “Gotta go. I’ll call tomorrow.”

  He stuck the phone in his pocket and sat in front of Cisco’s stall. Didn't wait long. Otto’s horse jammed his flaring nostrils over the door, stared down the aisle then edged back and stood motionless in the darkest corner of his stall.

  Otto swaggered in from the shadows.

  “Why, I wonder, are your horses always happy to see you?” Kurt asked.

  Otto walked past.

  “Gee, you’re quiet.” Kurt rose from the chair. “Tough night at the windows?”

  Otto disappeared in his tack room. Kurt stiffened, then remembered all the shovels and pitchforks were gone and relaxed his fists.

  Otto reappeared. Didn’t look at Kurt, just locked his tack room, trudged down the aisle and out the door.

  “Don’t forget to feed your horse!” Kurt called.

  But the man was gone.

  Kurt sat down, rubbing his jaw. Otto’s restraint was unexpected and creepy. Someone must have cautioned him, someone very persuasive if they had realigned him so quickly. Someone damn dangerous.

  Otto’s horse shuffled back to the front of his stall. His head stretched over the door, and he stared at Kurt with soulful brown eyes. Kurt rose, knowing he couldn’t let the animal starve. He found an extra bucket, gave the horse hay and water and lingered by the door, watching the gelding devour the hay.

  A familiar horse clopped down the aisle.

  “There’s the big trainer,” Sandra called from beside a sweat-streaked Okie. “You should have told me to bet your two-year-old. I missed that one.”

  “I missed it too,” Kurt said. “Didn’t think Ace would get up in such a short race. His pedigree says he can't sprint.”

  “And Appaloosas can’t run. Ace got along well with Julie, just like Cody’s planning to.” Her voice was muffled as she tugged at her cinch.

  “What did you say?”

  Sandra seemed to be having unusual difficulties with her saddle and struggled to loosen her latigo. “Pedigrees don't mean shit,” she said.

  “No, what did you say about Cody?”

  “Oh, that.” She shrugged but didn’t turn around. “I heard that Cody stocked up on bacon and eggs and hopes to have a guest for breakfast tomorrow.”

  “That’s Julie’s business.” Kurt crossed his arms. “And I’m sure she has better taste in men.”

  “Cody’s a good-looking guy.”

  “His looks might be okay. But he almost killed her with his horse,” Kurt snapped. “It's a brain he lacks.”

  “His looks are more than okay. He's also easygoing and has enough of a brain to know the timing is right.” Sandra pulled the heavy saddle off, and Okie grunted with relief. “Julie finally unloaded her guilt and is ready for some fun. And Cody’s more than happy to provide it.”

  Sandra adjusted the saddle against her hip and headed to her tack room, whistling cheerfully.

  Kurt dragged a hand through his hair, knowing a setup when he heard one. He also knew he'd hurt Julie badly. She completely misunderstood his relationship with Tiffany, and he should have tried harder to explain.

  He rose and folded up his chair. “Is everyone going to the same pub as last week? I’ll give you a ride over. Guess I’ll head that way after all.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Kurt held the door open, his anticipation rising as he followed Sandra inside. Champs wasn't as busy as last Saturday night. Conversation flowed but it was relaxed, almost hushed. No country music either. A chalkboard advertised tunes from the sixties and seventies; the mood was a mid-week mellow.

  Julie, Cody and Gary Bixton sat at a large table ringed with empty chairs. Sandra walked over and plunked herself between Cody and a grinning Bixton. Kurt rounded the table and nabbed the chair on the other side of Julie.

  “Hi,” she said. Her face was solemn, but he thought there was some warmth in her voice. “Did Ace come back okay?”

  “Yeah,” Kurt said. “He seems fine. Did you ride any other races tonight?”

  “No, but Red Jollymore is giving me two rides next week.” She smiled then with a mixture of speculation and gratitude. “Do you know Red very well? He’s one of the biggest trainers here and really respects your opinion.”

  “We've talked a bit. He has the nice bay, Sweating Bullet, in Lazer’s race tomorrow.” Kurt glanced over Julie’s head, grateful Sandra had distracted Cody. It was doubtful Cody would check on Julie in the next few minutes, not while Sandra was listening to him with such rapt attention.

  “How’s your dad doing?” Kurt lowered his voice. “I gather he and Nick were good friends.”

  “He’s upset. Can’t believe Nick was trampled by a horse. Wishes Otto would leave and take that crazy gelding with him.”

  “I think Otto will be gone soon,” Kurt said. “Until then, you and Sandra need to stay away from him.”

  She shrugged. “We try not to be alone when he’s around. He didn't even ask me to gallop. Maybe he’s using someone else.” The wistfulness in her voice was unmistakable, and it was clear she had no intention of avoiding Otto. Was eager for any ride—whatever the cost.

  “Stay away from him.” Kurt’s voice hardened. “He’s unpredictable. Please,” he added.

  She hesitated but must have noticed something in his expression. “Okay,” she finally said. “I'll stay away.”

  He nodded, but Cody shot him a suspicious look so he studied the wall, pretending interest in the race pictures. Cody’s attention swung back to Sandra.

  Julie scraped at the label of her beer bottle and Kurt reached over, stilling her hand. “I’d still like to have dinner with you,” he whispered. “Whenever you’re free. Just let me know…maybe tomorrow?”

  She searched his face, her gaze steady. “I assumed you’d be meeting someone tonight. Tiffany, maybe?”

  “No.” He shook his head, emphatic.

  “Okay then,” she said. “Dinner after Lazer’s race tomorrow. That would be great.”

  Her acceptance stirred a bittersweet mix of relief and frustration. Too bad she wouldn’t dump Cody right now. Obviously she was only with that asshole because of their earlier misunderstanding.

  “Dinner tomorrow,” Kurt said. “And if you’re not riding on Sunday, let's head back to that mountain. Did you ever tell anyone about the grizzly?”

  “Just the warden so he could post a warning. Certainly not Dad—he'd have been horrified with me—surprising a sow like that.”

  More likely he’d be horrified with me, Kurt thought, sucking in a regretful breath. “Listen, Julie.” He wet his mouth. “I really need to talk to you.”

  But already her attention had shifted; she’d turned to Cody, her official date for the evening.

  He considered his next move then leaned forward, deciding Lazer was his best hook. “Are you looking forward to the race tomorrow?”

  She glanced back at him, face alight. “Oh, yes,” she breathed. “Dreaming about it. Lazer and I win, but that's the best thing about dreams. The ending is always perfect.”

  His own uncertainties about Lazer mushroomed, and he regretted not shipping out a more reliable horse. He had so many good ones. It would have been easy to give Julie her first win. She’d been working hard. Deserved a break.

  “Don’t be disappointed if Lazer doesn't fire,” Kurt said. “He should run okay with that group but winning is probably out—”

  Kurt stopped talking as Cody stretched a possessive arm a
long the back of Julie’s chair. “How you doing, beautiful?” Cody asked. “Need another beer?” He leaned closer and whispered something in her ear.

  Kurt leaned back, amused by how hard the man was trying. Fawning over a woman never worked, and it certainly wouldn’t impress someone as smart as Julie. But whatever Cody whispered made her laugh, a spontaneous sound that flattened Kurt’s smile—that fucking guy was such an asshole.

  No one else seemed to mind the jerk. Bixton just grinned and sipped his drink; Sandra picked up the laminated menu and complained about a price increase on the Caesar salad.

  Cody’s head moved closer, almost touching Julie’s now. More low laughter. The guy was all over her, monopolizing her attention, pouring her beer, making her dimples flash. Kurt rubbed his knuckles. He glanced away, then back. Wondered if she’d had supper. Since it was a race day, she probably hadn’t eaten much.

  He touched her shoulder, somewhat mollified when she quickly turned from Cody. “You hungry?” Kurt asked. “I’m going up to order a hamburger. Want one?”

  “Oh, yes. I'm starving.” She smiled hopefully. “Fries too?”

  “Of course. Fries too. Be right back.” He held Cody’s resentful glare with a challenging stare of his own, rose and walked to the bar.

  Screw etiquette. Cody was a lousy date, not worth worrying about. Certainly not worth stepping aside for. Kurt didn’t usually compete for women—there was always another perched at the next bar stool—but Julie was different.

  “Kurt!” Tiffany’s delighted voice echoed through the sleepy room. She rat-tat-tatted across the floor in her sexy heels and wrapped her arms around him in an intimate hug.

  He glanced over the top of her head. Everyone at the bar seemed to be watching. Sandra scowled, Bixton appeared envious and Julie looked…stricken.

  “Hi, Tiffany.” He quickly disentangled himself and stepped back. “Let me buy you a drink before I return to my table.”

  She stuck out her lower lip and pouted. “I just wanted to say congratulations. Your young horse ran well tonight. Oh, by the way, this is Nate.” She grabbed a man in red suspenders and a tailored suit, tugging him to her side.