Tall Dark Stranger (Cajun Cowboys Book 1)

by Patricia Watters

  "Alright then, my mare against the fastest racing quarter horse you can find, and along with the trophy I'll toss in a couple hundred bucks as a winner's pot, which I'll get back when I win."

  Ace's eyes sharpened and she knew she'd presented him with a challenge he was having trouble turning down. To make it tougher, she added, "I'll throw in another hundred bucks. Three-hundred and the trophy. It'll be the first annual Broussard Downs Quarter Horse-Thoroughbred Match Race."

  Ace said nothing, but Piper could almost hear his internal monolog, probably interspersed with a few expletives, because he was trying to figure out what was in this race for her, which she was beginning to wonder. Being hired on as a jockey to race a Broussard thoroughbred was about as farfetched as anything could be, but for now her main concern was being able to exercise Rags with the idea of buying her back as soon as she could save the money. If she managed to break into the back-slapping, two-fisted, male-dominated world of thoroughbred racing as a female jockey in the interim, that would be okay too.

  "So, what would be the weight requirement, if any?" Ace asked, renewing her hopes that he might accept her offer, if only to prove she wasn’t the jockey she was holding herself out to be.

  "A hundred pounds minimum so you Cajuns can't strap on a five-year-old kid and send him down the track with tin cans tied to the horse's tail." Piper saw the muscles in Ace's jaws bunch and knew he was miffed with her dig at Cajuns, who were known for having had pretty down-and-dirty bush track races in the past. Horses hopped up on meds, rocks in beer cans tied to manes, fifty-pound kids as jockeys. Even squawking chickens tied on and flapping their wings were fair game when the only requirement was that the horse carry a live rider.

  Seeming to dismiss her snide comment, Ace said, "Your track or ours?"

  "Yours, so it'll be on your turf."

  Ace got a little bit of a smirk. "So you figure your thoroughbred can beat a fast quarter horse in a quarter-mile run." He let out a snort. "Not likely."

  "Not a quarter mile. We'd level the playing field by making it a half mile, but before the match I'd expect to be able to bring my mare here and run her once, at night."

  After a long pause, Ace said, "Why at night?"

  "Because I'll have to slip the mare out of the stable when no one's around, and the race would have to be run when everyone at my place is away, which is about every weekend now that it's racing season."

  "So you'd be racin' one of your father's horses without his permission."

  "I exercise his horses all the time when he's not around."

  "Not the same thing. And if something happens to you or his horse while you're over here, your father would jump at the chance to relieve us of our ranch and send us all packin' and settle his lawsuit that way. No thanks."

  "I can handle the mare, so nothing's going to happen."

  "I know because this lamebrain idea you're suggesting's off."

  Piper could argue his point by telling him she had insurance, but she just got a better idea, one that would open a wider door, and she wouldn't have to put up with Ace. "Fine then, I'll run it past your grandfather since match races seem to be his baby, and I'll fill in as his exercise rider until his exercise boy's back."

  Ace let out a cynical grunt. "You don't seriously think my grandfather would hire a Harrison?"

  Piper shrugged. "He might if I sweeten the deal."

  "How?"

  "That's for me to know and you to wonder. Meanwhile, tell Anne I'll be seeing her. Ta ta."

  As she turned to leave, Ace called out, "To give you a heads up, my grandfather'd sooner make a deal with the devil than with a Harrison, I don’t care how sweet your deal is."

  Piper waved him off. "We'll see."

  When she left the house, it bothered her that she was attracted to Ace Broussard's rugged good looks. A frumpy-dumpy cowboy with a beer belly, grizzled chin and tobacco-stained teeth would serve the same purpose about now, if only to keep her mind focused on her primary goal, which wasn't to have errant thoughts about a Cajun cowboy with a sinfully-handsome face and a grumpy disposition.

  CHAPTER 3

  Ace awakened abruptly, uncertain why. The beam of a utility light streaming through his bedroom window told him it wasn't yet dawn. He checked the LED dial of the clock by his bed, the time registering 5:04. Glancing out the window he saw lights on in the stable and thought he heard the thrumming of hoofbeats, which puzzled him.

  While his cousin, Corky, was recovering from his injury, his grandfather had been exercising the racing quarter horses on the horse walker, but not until daylight. But there was definitely action taking place at the workout track behind the stable.

  After shoving his legs into jeans and pulling on his boots, he scurried down the stairs while snapping his shirt, dashed through the living room, and hurried out the front door then made a beeline to the stable, hoping the rider on the horse wasn't the person he least wanted out there. He couldn't imagine his grandfather hiring Piper Harrison for the job, no matter how sweet the prize she'd dangle in front of him, so he had to conclude that Pépère found a temporary exercise rider until Corky would be back.

  Skirting the barn, he found his grandfather standing at the railing gazing into the distance to where a lone rider galloped toward the far turn, the pair moving between shadow and light as they made their way around a track rimmed by utility lights that corresponded to the furlong poles of a five-eighth mile training track. Walking over to stand beside his grandfather, he said, "I hope to hell that's not Piper Harrison out there."

  Pépère's eyes moved with the horse and rider. "It is."

  Ace let out a huff of aggravation. "I suppose you jumped for her match race proposition."

  "Sure. We can use the money."

  "The money will be irrelevant if something happens to Piper or her father's horse during the match, or to Piper while she's workin' your horses because Charles Harrison will have us in court so fast we might as well kiss this ranch goodbye and hand him the title."

  "The girl's workin' as an independent contractor and she's got insurance."

  "How do you know? Did you ask?"

  "'Course I asked. I didn't just fall off a turnip truck. This family's been feudin' with the Harrisons since long before you was born."

  "What kind of deal did she make? A match with a purse of $300 and a trophy?"

  "That, and she's workin' my horses till Corky's up and goin' again."

  "There's a loophole right there," Ace said. "As soon as you pay her for exercisin' she's no longer an independent contractor, she's your employee, which makes you liable if she gets hurt."

  "No money's changin' hands," Pépère replied. "She's workin' for free."

  Ace eyed his grandfather with skepticism. "What's in it for her?"

  "Don't know and don’t care because I need a workout rider and she's what we got, and so far she's doin' okay. She's strong and she's got a good clock in her head."

  "Umm," Ace grumbled. It bugged the hell out of him that Piper managed to pull off the match race for whatever her dubious reason, and he was more than a little suspicious as to why she'd work his grandfather's horses for free, especially since her family bred and trained racehorses and she had access to any of them for workouts. He was also miffed with his grandfather for being suckered into whatever Piper was plotting.

  Eyes focused on the horse and rider galloping toward them from the far end of the straightaway, he was even more annoyed when he saw how skillfully Piper handled the horse, her body perfectly balanced, her figure in a classic jockey crouch high over the horse's withers. He also noted she was riding Jetstream.

  Sired by Jet Black Patriot, one of Louisiana's leading quarter horse sires, Jetstream was owned by a rice grower who was dabbling in racehorses, and the headstrong, obstinate colt was developing into a promising contender under Pépère's skilled guidance. He held no prospect of changing his grandfather's mind about this whole match-race scheme of Pipers, but he'd at least express his misgivin
g. "You think that's a good idea, putting Piper on Jetstream? Not only can he be pretty unmanageable, but he's not your horse and you know nothing about how Piper can handle a horse."

  "I watched her at the Tournoi. She knows more about what she's doin' than Corky ever did."

  Piper directed the horse to where they stood and drew it to a halt. On raising her goggles, she gave Ace a caustic look, like she was peeved he was there, then ignoring him, she dismounted and said to his grandfather, "You told me to let him go at his own pace and I did. He moves well, has a flowing stride, and covers a lot of ground without much effort."

  Henri eyed the colt with appreciation. "He comes from good racin' stock so runnin's in his blood. No one's seen the best of him yet but they will. He's the colt you'll be racin' against in you match race."

  Piper's face showed surprise, and a touch of uncertainty. "You mentioned before I started working him that he's not your horse, so I assume whoever owns him has a jockey."

  "They do for this race," Henri said. "Edgar Robichau."

  The stretch of silence that followed led Ace to believe a little of the wind had been knocked out of Piper's sails, and rightly so. Edgar Robichau, the son of one of Pépère's friends, was among the nation's top thoroughbred jockeys. As did many Cajuns who'd made it to the top, Edgar rode horses in big-stake races like the Kentucky Derby, the Preakness and the Belmont Stakes, and like the other Cajun jockeys, he too had cut his racing teeth while riding quarter horses in backwoods match races when he was growing up.

  Piper's brows drawn in bafflement, she said, "Why would Edgar Robichau ride in a two-bit match race? What's in it for him?"

  Henri shrugged. "A good run I suppose. He's home visitin' family, and since he grew up match racin' quarter horses in these parts he's up for the challenge. He's set to race you next Sunday after eleven o'clock mass, at your father's track."

  Piper's eyes sharpened with alarm. Whatever her original motivation was for this match race, it was slowly unraveling, which gave Ace an enormous sense of satisfaction.

  "Why my father's track?" she asked.

  "Because it's harrowed several times a day. Edgar's okay with this as a working track but you'll be runnin' flat out and he's worried a horse could break down."

  "Then it’ll be only the two of us, no spectators?" Piper asked, her tone hopeful.

  Henri eyed the big stallion, and smiled. "There'll be spectators alright, you can bet on that, yeah. And you've got a good startin' gate over there."

  After another long pause, Piper said, "We won't have starters to load the horses into the gate."

  Henri stroked the big horse's neck. "We've got a gate crew."

  Ace studied Piper, who stared at the colt with concern. He suspected she'd boxed herself into a corner, one that now included a world-class jockey and the makings of a world class racehorse. She'd also lost some of her earlier spitfire, which surprised him. At the tournament she'd been all show and bluster.

  Curious to test his hunch that she was feeling intimidated with this turn of events, he said, "You issued a challenge for the fastest quarter horse in the parish and that's what you got, yet you act like you're having second thoughts. Have you lost faith in your horse? Or maybe it's your ability as a jock you're questioning now that you're fixin' to face off with Edgar Robichau."

  "I'm not worried about the race," Piper snapped, "but holding it at my folk's place changes things. Unregulated racing isn't illegal. It's the gambling the law frowns on so there can't be any betting on the premises. So you'd better make sure that everyone coming understands."

  Ace eyed his grandfather, who shrugged and said to Piper, "There'll be no bettin' at your place. What happens before and after the race is their business."

  Piper pressed her lips as if holding back a retort, then said, "And we can't have cars blocking the driveway, so all spectators have to park here and cross the cane field on one of the access roads and watch from this side of the track. And as soon as the race is over they'll have to leave."

  Henri took the reins from her. "They'll leave since there'll be food and dancin' here."

  Once Pépère disappeared into the stable, Ace said, "I'm surprised you're still goin' through with this match now that it'll be at your place. When you approached me the race was to be run here after dark, presumably so your father wouldn't know what's goin' on."

  "He still won't know because he and the rest of the barn crew, along with my mother and grandmother, will all be at the Fair Grounds in New Orleans and won't be home till later."

  Ace wondered again what the real motive was behind Piper's determination to have this race. Deciding to probe a little deeper, he said, "Word of a match between one of your father's horses and the son of Jet Black Patriot with Edgar Robichau up will draw considerably more than a few spectators, a couple hundred I imagine, so you'll eventually face your father's wrath when he finds out what the mouse was doing while the cats were away."

  Piper gave a little shrug of indifference. "Possibly, but I've faced my father's wrath before and survived."

  Eyeing her with mounting perplexity, he said, "You can't win this race, you know. Jetstream's a force to reckon with when he shoots out of the starting gate, and Robichau's a pro."

  "I'm not sweating it," Piper clipped. "Jetstream's good for a quarter mile, but he'll start losing steam after that no matter who's on him. A quarter horse always does. In two of the most famous quarter horse-thoroughbred match races ever run, the race between Miss Fancy Patch and Little Miss Leader, and the one between Valiant Pete and Griswold, the thoroughbreds won both times because the quarter horses couldn't hold out for the longer stretch."

  "Which means nothing," Ace said. "Jetstream's three years old and in his prime, and that mare you'll be racin's got to be five or more."

  "If you're counting on age being a factor you'd better not put any money on it," Piper retorted. "Seabiscuit won the Santa Anita Handicap when he was seven and carrying 130 pounds, clocking the second fastest ten furlongs in American racing history, and he did it after returning from a serious injury, so Phantom Lady's age is irrelevant."

  "So back to my original question. What's in it for you, other than hangin' onto your trophy and money?"

  Piper gave him a cynical half-smile. "An adrenaline rush followed by a mind-boggling high after some pretty exciting equine hot-rodding."

  "That's it? A rush and a high? You'll be around the track in less than a minute, and if you lose you lose three-hundred bucks and your trophy, and in the meantime you're donating your workout services, which tells me you're in this for far more than an adrenaline rush."

  "Okay then, let's say I'm fledging the nest and spreading my wings and this is the first place I've landed."

  "And your first job is exercisin' Broussard horses for free. I'm not buyin' this."

  "Actually, I'm a cut above an exercise rider now that I have my jockey's license. I also carry insurance in case you're worried about my father appropriating this place if I get hurt during workouts. Any further gripes?"

  "Yeah. You still didn't answer my question."

  "Yes I did. Like I said, I'm in it for the sheer power and speed of a living, breathing, equine joyride. It beats bouncing on the back of a bronc for a belt buckle like you rodeo cowboys do, though I might give it a try, just to tick you off a little more."

  "What are you talkin' about? A little more than what?"

  "Than you are right now because I took the trophy at the tournament. But you can look at it this way. With Edgar Robichau jockeying the horse I just worked, I'll concede the odds of my losing the race are a little greater than earlier, but if that happens, the lot of you will have the glory of a Cajun taking the trophy and purse from a Harrison."

  "You've got that right." Ace couldn't help smiling at the prospect. He also knew Piper had been dancing around the real reason she'd set up this match race, but time, and a little patience on his part, which wasn't one of his strong suits, would eventually reveal her motive.
r />   "Meanwhile, I'd like to see Rags."

  "Then you'd better find a comfortable place to sit because she's sleepin' and can't be disturbed." Ace folded his arms and waited.

  "Piper frowned. "What do you mean, sleeping? Isn't she being worked?"

  "She will be when she wakes up, which isn't until mid-mornin'."

  Piper eyed him with uncertainty. "You're making me feel like a total idiot. I don't believe for a minute you'd let a horse decide when to work. If you let her set the rules how will you get her to race if the race is scheduled during her afternoon nap?"

  "She doesn't want to race at all right now and we aim to change that, which starts by lettin' her have her way."

  Piper braced her hands on her hips. "And you call this horse training?"

  Ace scanned the pintsized woman, who couldn't tip the scales much more than a hundred pounds, while thinking she reminded him of a fighting banty cock. Make that a banty hen. She seemed to be curved in all the right places.

  "Why are you looking at me like that?" she snapped.

  Ace realized he'd been assessing more than just her diminutive frame. Reprogramming his thinking process from female curves to the gist of their conversation, he said, "You remind me of the filly. She's bad-tempered when she's made to run early in the mornin'. You should know since you've been workin' her."

  Piper's eyes flashed with annoyance, then softened with awareness. "Okay, maybe she is a little crabby in the morning, but letting her have her way seems like she's running the show."

  "She is, and that's the point, but the next time she heads down the home stretch with a field of horses it'll be on her terms and she'll throw her heart into it because she'll understand the game and want to win."

  "What makes you so sure?"

  "My grandfather. He's been trainin' racin' quarter horses from as far back as I can remember, and if he said it once, he's said it a dozen times, if you've got a young horse that's racin' poorly you probably have a late developer. Take it out of training, put it on pasture so it can run free and get a lot of sunshine, and a once fat, lazy yearling will suddenly have runnin' on its mind." Although he'd repeated his grandfather's words with conviction, he still wasn't convinced the elder horseman was right in this approach with the filly, but time would tell.