Mark pulled out the desk drawer and flipped through his owner listings. Edward T. Boone. Time to call the man. He hated giving owners bad news, but at least Belle’s prognosis was good, and maybe Boone wouldn’t want many details. Incompetence was something Mark didn’t tolerate, but he couldn’t lie. It was a relief Trish was gone and his female staff were now all steady women—older, committed women.
Boone’s voice, curt and brusque, answered the phone on the second ring. Mark took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. Owners paid the bills; they deserved the unvarnished truth.
“Good morning, Edward. Your filly, Belle, had a bout of colic,” Mark said. “We sent her to the clinic, but she’s okay. Didn’t need surgery. We just received the final clear. They’ll watch her for a few days.” He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for Boone to ask the cause.
“What’s the bottom line?” Boone asked.
“Bottom line?” Mark cracked open his eyelids. “Your horse is fine, but she’ll miss the stakes race next week.” Regret thickened his words. Belle had been training perfectly, almost as well as Boone’s colt, and would have been a key contender.
“But I have the company box reserved.” Boone’s voice hardened with impatience. “Clients flying in to watch. She has to run.”
“Sorry. She can’t.”
Mark sensed the scowl on Boone’s patrician face, could feel his displeasure radiating through the phone, but remained silent. He’d only met Boone eleven months ago, and it was clear the man craved control. However, Belle’s health was Mark’s first priority, and he refused to run a horse that wasn’t ready, no matter how many people Boone had invited for dinner. Unfortunately a trainer also had to please his owners, and Boone’s silence was ominous.
“You don’t want clients watching a poor race. Seeing a subpar result,” Mark added, sensing that angle might sway Boone much more than Belle’s welfare.
“Definitely not.” Boone gave a disgruntled sigh. “Okay. Maybe she shouldn’t run. But I do need a favor.”
“Sure.” Mark swallowed, trying to ignore the distaste souring his mouth. The man hadn’t even asked the cause of Belle’s colic. To Boone, it was always the bottom line, and the hell with the horse. Owners could be strange and ruthless people. Shaking his head, Mark propped his boots on the corner of his desk and tucked the phone against his shoulder, already thinking of Belle and the best feeding program for colic recovery.
“My granddaughter needs a job,” Boone said. “Needs to see what grunt work is all about. She won’t last a week on the backstretch but should learn plenty. And the experience will straighten her out. Force her into a real career.”
A real career. Mark’s hand tightened around the phone at the man’s blatant condescension, but his voice remained level. “And you want me to do the straightening?”
“Yes,” Boone said. “She’ll be safe with you, and she’s experienced with horses. Had lessons at summer camp.”
Mark jerked forward so abruptly his boots slammed the floor. A greenie! Just what his barn needed. “Not a good idea. The backside is a different world. Hard, physical,” he paused as an image of the body bag crossed his mind. “Even dangerous.”
“Oh, I don’t expect her to last longer than a week. Don’t want her to.” But Boone’s chuckle lacked humor, and Mark understood why the man was reputed to be a cutthroat negotiator. “I just want her eyes opened. Want her to see the opportunities she’s passing up. She’ll quit and be working for me long before Breeders’ Cup rolls around.”
The wily bastard. Just the mention of Breeders’ Cup made Mark’s stomach kick. Finally he trained a horse fast enough to compete—Boone’s colt, Ambling Assets, was his big hope. Good enough to run. Good enough to win.
But owners could move their horses to different trainers at any time, and Boone’s reference to Breeders’ Cup wasn’t an accident. It was a threat. A girl for a horse. A no-brainer.
Mark paused but knew what his decision was long before he spoke. “Sure,” he said. “Send her by Monday morning.”
Chapter Two
The security guard refused to let her through the formidable chain link gate. Jessica gestured at her departing cab, but the driver roared away in a backwash of dust and gas fumes.
She sighed and peered through the mesh, studying the activity around the rows of buildings beyond the guardhouse. Several horses circled on contraptions resembling merry-go-rounds, and figures bustled between barns. However, no one bothered to look her way. The backside was much different from the public side. It was foreign, unfriendly and dauntingly big.
She plunked her leather bag on the ground, reached in her pocket and pulled out the creased paper with her grandfather’s brief instructions: Mark Russell, barn forty-eight. The numbers on these barns were in the twenties. There must be another entrance.
She gave the guard a scornful eye roll before turning away to follow the walkway edging the outer wall. Too high to climb and even if she managed, the six strands of spiked wire along the top looked effective. These people were anal about security.
Her right knee throbbed after five minutes of walking but she trudged beside the wall, ignoring the honks of passing traffic, determined to find another gate. Gramps wanted her to fail, expected her to, but there was no way she’d be coerced into joining Boone. Barn work would be a cinch compared to working for her grandfather. She wouldn’t let him control her life like he had her parents. She tightened her grip on the bag and continued walking, her steps as forceful as her thoughts.
A wiry man on an ancient bike vanished into a service entrance, and she squared her shoulders and followed. Maybe they weren’t as vigilant at this gate. But the slit-eyed guard glanced up from his inspection of a car’s trunk, dashing her hopes with his gesture to stop.
She didn’t have a phone number for this Russell fellow. Probably a deliberate oversight by her grandfather, hoping she might give up and slink home. Gramps was sneaky mean about getting his own way.
A man wearing a dark cowboy hat strolled past with an easy smile and an officious pass clipped to his jeans. He nodded at both the guard and Jessica as he sauntered through the gate. She slotted his type instantly—relaxed, friendly and receptive to women. “There you are!” she called, dashing forward. “A bit late.” Pouting, she placed her hand on his elbow. “I’ve been waiting forever.”
He hesitated but only for a second. “So sorry, darling.” With a mischievous grin, he looped his arm around her waist and tugged her close. “She’s with me, Jake,” he called as he escorted her past the guard and onto the grounds.
“Thank you,” she said after walking a safe distance. “You can let go of me now.”
His hand had already drifted along her hip, but he immediately lowered his arm and winked. “Shucks. I knew this was too good to last. Who you looking for, sweetheart?”
“Mark Russell.”
“Dammit, he always gets the gorgeous brunettes.” He grinned, his eyes sweeping her with such blatant appreciation, she smiled back. “I’m Dino, Mark’s assistant.” He sobered as his gaze drifted to her bulky bag. “But I’m sorry to say he won’t hire you.”
“Bet he will.”
“You’re on.” He stuck out his hand. “Beer and pizza. Loser buys.”
Dino was clearly a ladies’ man, but his easy charm was a salve to her soul. And he’d just made a sucker bet. She shook his hand without an ounce of guilt. Her grandfather had insisted she turn over all her credit cards so a free dinner would come in handy.
“It’s a bet,” she said. “Where’s Mark?”
Dino gestured over his shoulder. “He’s that big ugly guy watching us from the shedrow. The one who’s scowling.”
She adjusted her sunglasses and stared in the direction of Dino’s grin. The hard-muscled man framed in the doorway wasn’t scowling, but he didn’t look very welcoming either. And he definitely wasn’t ugly. His faded shirt and chinos fit his body flawlessly. She gulped and tried not to stare.
It wasn�
��t his powerful body or rugged face that was so compelling, but his distinct air of confidence. His very stillness as he watched made her fingers tighten around the handle of her bag. He didn’t look…easy.
She tossed her bag over her shoulder and sauntered toward him, hiding behind a composure she didn’t feel. “Hello, I’m Jessica Boone. Here to work.”
Only his gaze moved, his deep blue eyes studying her with calm objectivity. “Good morning,” he finally said.
His voice was slow and deep and sexy, and she stared at his chiseled mouth, trying to pin down his accent. He extended his hand and she automatically shook it, still absorbing his slight drawl, then realized her fingers clung much too long and dropped her arm in embarrassment.
He glanced over her head, apparently used to clinging females. “Thanks for showing her the way, Dino.”
“You’re hiring her?” Dino’s eyes widened. “But what about the Three-F rule?”
“Temporarily suspended,” Mark said with a humorless smile she didn’t understand. “Come with me, Jessica.”
Dino looked stunned and she shot him a teasing wink before following Mark into the barn, into the primal smell of leather, liniment and horses. She breathed through her mouth, needing a moment to adjust. Not exactly a distasteful smell, just overwhelmingly strong. Horses loomed everywhere, presenting an orderly row of heads as they stretched over stall guards.
Mark stopped so abruptly she almost bumped into him. He gestured into an airless room where a narrow cot occupied a third of the rough planked floor. “These are your sleeping quarters. The girl before you did some night watch and rubbed three.” His gaze flickered over her spotless boots and crisp jeans. “We’ll see how this works out. You might be better walking hots.”
He seemed to be speaking a different language, but she kept her mouth shut and tried to hide her jerk of dismay. Sleeping quarters was a euphemism. Her bedroom was just a stall converted from horse use to human, and she didn’t want to look too closely at the dark splotches staining the floor.
“Accommodations okay?” He reached over her head and lazily brushed a cobweb off the ceiling. They both watched as the transparent threads drifted through the air and landed on the middle of the cot.
“Perfect.” She forced brightness into her voice hoping he didn’t hear its quaver.
He gave a bland smile and stepped from the room. “Carlos,” he called, and a grim-faced man appeared like a well-trained butler. “This is Jessica. Have another groom, maybe Maria, show her around. See if she can do Trish’s job, but you’ll probably have to shuffle horses. Maybe put her on hots.”
Someone groaned and muttered ‘newbie’, and heat rushed to her face. Even the horses stared with fresh disdain.
Carlos gestured, and a dark-haired woman in a frayed jacket stepped forward. Carlos spoke in Spanish, a rapid fire of words that exposed a chipped front tooth, then turned and rushed after Mark.
“Come on, kid,” Maria said. “There’s one horse left to walk. Buddy, stall eight.” She passed Jessica a leather lead with a chain and clip on one end.
Jessica cautiously approached the imposing horse. Buddy had a jagged white stripe down the center of his black face and held his head so high she could barely attach the lead to his leather halter.
The woman shook her head and pushed forward. “I see you don’t know anything. You never want a horse to get loose so always run the chain through the left ring, over the nose, then on the right. The colts get the chain under the lip. Then you walk the horse until he’s cool. Be careful they don’t bite. Comprendo?”
Jessica gulped, noting that half of Maria’s right index finger was missing. “Where should I walk?” she asked humbly.
“The tow ring.” Maria pointed at the sand oval between the barns, where a stocky woman in a shapeless shirt led a gray horse.
“Let’s go, Buddy,” Jessica said. The horse just stared, ears pricked, eyes bright with interest. She tugged on the lead, but he refused to move. “Please,” she said, and Buddy lowered his head and followed.
Her confidence returned as the big animal followed her around the oval. It seemed easy work, and the September sun was pleasantly warm. Her knee ached a bit from the deep sawdust, but it wasn’t a hard job walking the obliging horse, and she relaxed enough to check out her surroundings.
Mark’s barn was neat and orderly with the initials MR on the side. Not much color though. The brown and white on the saddle pads was boringly bland, although freshly washed bandages draped the wall, providing accents of blue and green. A man in faded jeans dumped manure in a concrete pit behind the barn.
Someone raked the aisle while a short rider in a dented helmet and fringed chaps cleaned leather. Similar activities took place in the adjoining barns, and her worries eased. This didn’t seem very hard.
“Eight weeks of this. It’ll be a cinch,” she murmured, reaching back and feeling Buddy’s chest. She didn’t know a horse’s normal respiration rate but was an expert on cooling down human athletes and guessed animals involved the same general principles. Already she could see from Buddy’s flanks that his breathing had steadied.
Maria motioned her toward an assortment of wash sponges. “You have to hold him for his bath. Since Trish left, Buddy doesn’t have a groom, so I’ve been stuck with the extra work.” She gave a long-suffering sigh, but Jessica sensed Maria was really a helpful soul.
“Thanks for showing me around,” Jessica said. “Buddy’s a nice horse.” She scratched him on the shoulder while Maria sloshed soapy water over his chest, saturating the air with the smell of sweat, horsehair and lavender.
“Yeah, he’s a dream compared to the others.” Maria’s eyes narrowed in speculation. “Boss is sure starting you out easy.”
“Boss is Mark?” Jessica asked as she helped rinse the dripping suds from Buddy’s back.
“Of course. I thought you knew him?”
“Just met him this morning,” Jessica said, “but I’m broke and really need the job.”
Maria’s round face filled with empathy. “Yeah, he’s one of the best-paying trainers around, but he doesn’t tolerate mistakes. Strange he’d hire someone so green.”
“You can tell I’m green?”
Maria smiled as she rescued Buddy’s lead shank from the muddy ground. “Everyone can tell. And dangling equipment is dangerous. Boss will skin your ass if he sees that.” She sobered, and worry lines fanned her eyes as she checked over her shoulder. “I think, for job security, you better come with me to the kitchen for a chat.”
Ten minutes later, they were seated in the track kitchen, a dining area vastly different from the elegant clubhouse Jessica remembered. It was merely a clapboard hut stuffed with linoleum tables and air thick with kitchen grease. But the shouts to Maria were warm and welcoming, and the cafeteria line efficient.
Jessica took a cautious bite of the fried egg sandwich Maria recommended. For years, her breakfast had consisted of a protein smoothie, but eggs seemed the popular backside fare and anything that gave her more time with Maria was worth forcing down.
“Listen up, kid.” Maria propped her elbows on the table and leaned closer. “There’s a strict pecking order here, from lowly hot walkers to grooms, exercise riders and jockeys. Way at the top are trainers. Obey them like they’re God. We’re lucky because Mark is one of the decent ones, and he’s getting better runners every month. He’s good to his horses and won’t expect you to sleep with him. In fact, sex and alcohol are prohibited in his barn.”
Jessica coughed, almost choking on her food.
“Don’t worry,” Maria said. “Plenty of girls are fighting to be Trish’s replacement.”
“Who’s Trish?” Jessica wiped her mouth and took another bite of the egg sandwich. It really was delicious, much better than her tedious shakes.
Maria snorted. “The reigning backstretch beauty. Sucks up to all the trainers, only works for the top stables, a real snob.”
Jessica shrugged and glanced around the bustling
room, more interested in the people she could see. “So the little people with whips stuck in their pockets are exercise riders?”
“Yeah. All they do is ride. Some are working toward their jockey licenses, but most are too tall or too heavy.”
“What about the owners? Where do they fit?”
Maria sniffed. “The trainer deals with them. The fancy owners don’t come around unless it’s to meet for dinner. They only think of their horse on race day.”
Jessica hid a finger of guilt. Obviously her grandfather fell in that category. They hadn’t visited the backside on her last visit, and she hadn’t thought about where the horses went before and after the race. She did remember the trainer though, a creaky, white-haired man who thumped his cane and swore at the jockey. Mark was vastly different from that man—so calm, so muscled, so…hunky.
Heat swept her face, and she shoved aside improper thoughts of her new boss. “Thanks for giving me the scoop. So what do we do after breakfast?”
“No races or yard sales today, so we nap.”
“Nap?” Jessica smiled. “I believe I’m going to like it here.”
Mark leaned over his desk as he flipped through the Keeneland auction catalogue. Several yearlings drew his interest, well-bred but not fashionable enough to attract big bidders from the Middle East. Still, they’d be pricey, and unfortunately only one of his owners had expressed any interest in the sale: Edward T. Boone.
Boone and his baggage. Mark sighed, sipping his coffee as he considered the leggy granddaughter. Clearly she knew nothing about horses, and her striking looks were an obvious liability. Even the disciplined Carlos had been sneaking peeks, and accidents always happened when staff was distracted.
Fortunately Maria was looking after Jessica and explaining the rules. Maybe they could keep the girl busy scrubbing buckets and coiling hoses. His main concern was that she didn’t impact the horses. They were sensitive athletes and needed a calm, orderly environment.
A shrill squeal sliced the air. What the hell?
He jerked to his feet, painfully ramming the top of his knee against the edge of the desk. Clearly a horse was in trouble. Please, not Assets, he prayed, thinking about Boone’s other horse.
Racetrack Romance BOX SET (Books 1-3) Page 35