Adelaide, the Enchantress

by Kay Hooper

  “His name’s Resolute.”

  Shane started at the sound of Tate Justin’s voice. He realized in an instant that the younger man had simply said the name of the Thoroughbred stallion, supposing Shane to be staring at the horse. But then, as he met those chilly gray eyes, he knew that Justin was fully aware of what had been holding his gaze.

  Justin said nothing to confirm Shane’s speculation. He simply crossed his arms over his chest and went on in his cool, expressionless voice. “At all the tracks they’re starting to call him The Ghost. He just flits around the course and nothing can catch him. You’re out of luck, though; she won’t sell him.”

  “She’s the owner, then. I wondered.” Shane kept his voice casual with an effort he hoped didn’t show.

  The younger man chuckled almost soundlessly. “Resolute races in the names of her sisters, but that’s a technicality. She’s the owner, all right. Because of my father’s stupidity.”

  Shane was again startled, and not a little uncomfortable. Since arriving in Australia nearly a week ago, he had come to regret that he’d met this young man in the States months before and accepted his invitation to come to Australia for a look at racing horseflesh down under. Shane had been inside their house ten minutes when he became aware of tensions between father and son.

  And now he was more or less trapped, unwilling to offend a family that had been cordial to him, showing him the various racetracks and introducing him to other breeders, yet uncomfortable in their home; he would have much preferred a hotel.

  Tate Justin demonstrated a willingness to talk freely and bitterly to him—in spite of Shane’s unwillingness to hear it—about his troubles. So Shane was hardly surprised when the younger man went on to explain his remark without being prompted.

  “We bred that colt,” he said. “The sire and dam were both racers, but neither had ever won, or even placed. When Resolute was foaled, he looked like no racehorse you’ve ever seen. The ugliest—mottled gray-black and awkward as hell. And when he was two months old, he wasn’t any better.”

  Shane dragged his gaze from the girl and focused it on the beautiful, graceful stallion. Quite a change in two or three years, he decided. Justin chuckled again softly, and Shane had the odd feeling that the younger man didn’t want the girl to know he was watching her and talking about her horse.

  “Then the dam broke her leg,” Justin said, “and we had to put her down. Nobody liked the colt; as well as being ugly, he was a surly brute. Every trainer who looked at him swore he’d never be good for anything. My father,” he went on in a sour tone, “didn’t want to spend the money to raise him and find out for sure. Word had gotten around about his temperament so no one wanted to buy him. When my father ordered the colt destroyed, she was there, hanging around the stables as usual. She asked for the colt; my father signed him over to her.”

  And now, Shane thought with an inner sigh, he’s not only a beautiful animal, but a winner. “Tough luck,” he sympathized mildly.

  “Yeah. That’s horseracing—right?” He laughed, but the sound would never be mistaken for humor. He looked at the American. “You want to meet her?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but started walking forward.

  Shane fell into step beside him. The short conversation had given him time to rein in his emotions and he was, in spite of the tension he sensed in Tate, eager to meet this girl with the soft, gentle voice and the fiery hair.

  Justin approached her obliquely, avoiding the young stallion’s hindquarters. Resolute was first to react, turning his head and laying back his ears briefly. The girl, looking faintly surprised, turned her head also, and though her expression did not change, wariness flickered in the large dark eyes.

  “Oh. Tate.”

  “Addie.” Tate smiled rather sardonically. “A guest of ours wants to meet you; he’s an American horse breeder. Adelaide Delaney, Shane Marston.”

  Shane, peculiarly sensitive to undercurrents, saw something flash between them, something genuinely humorous on Tate’s part and somewhat pained on hers. In that fleeting moment they might have been friends, sharing a silent joke. But it was gone quickly, leaving Tate’s manner chilly and hers almost imperceptibly guarded.

  She turned to Shane, looking up at him. In an oddly childlike gesture she brushed her right hand down the side of her jeans before offering it to him. “Mr. Marston.”

  Shane held the small hand, instinctively gentle, his nerve endings tingling while a faint shock registered at the back of his mind. Her name…Was it possible? No…half a world away…“A pleasure, Miss Delaney,” he said, releasing her hand when it occurred to him that he had held it too long.

  “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” Tate said, and though there was no particular inflection in his voice, Shane found himself sending the other man a hard look. Tate returned that look briefly, then walked away.

  She gazed after him for a moment, then gave Shane an easy, friendly half smile. “You’re interested in Australian horses, Mr. Marston?”

  Her lilting accent sounded twice as enchanting to him now that he heard her directing words to him. “Shane. And yes, I am.”

  “Breeding stock, or racers?”

  “Primarily breeding stock.” Shane reached out to pass a hand down Resolute’s sloping shoulders. “He’s a fine animal.”

  “Yes, he is.” Her voice gentled even more with the words.

  Shane chuckled suddenly and gestured to the koala asleep with his chin on her shoulder. “And unusual, since he allows the koala to ride him.”

  “Sebastian’s the unusual one.” She reached up to trail a finger along the koala’s foreleg, and a tufted ear twitched sleepily. “He was orphaned young, and instead of climbing trees he took to people and horses. Some people, mind you, and some horses. He’s a bit temperamental—but then, so is Resolute.” She smiled. “I believe American racehorses sometimes choose odd stable companions?”

  “They certainly do,” Shane said with considerable feeling. “We have a ten-year-old at stud, and believe it or not, that horse is absurdly attached to a moth-eaten cockatoo. He flies into a blind panic if he gets separated from it. Since the bird takes more careful handling than the stallion, we’ve run into problems more than once.”

  “I can imagine!”

  Shane looked down at her lustrous flame-red hair and felt his heart turn over. He was conscious of an abrupt sense of urgency, a fiery prodding along his nerve endings. It was fortunate they were interrupted then, because Shane had taken a half step toward her and wasn’t at all certain he could have controlled his impulse to embrace her.

  “Addie!”

  Without noticing Shane’s movement, Addie turned, a silent question lifting her brows.

  A groom, visibly harassed, panted as he turned the corner and came into the hall. He was clearly relieved when he saw her. “Addie, Warlord’s cast his near fore, and he’s in the sixth. Can you—?”

  “Sure. The truck’s just outside.”

  “I’ll get him,” the groom said, his expression still hovering between relief and harassment.

  To Shane, born and bred to the world of horses, the groom’s cryptic words made perfect sense. A horse called Warlord had lost his left front shoe and was due to run in the sixth race of the afternoon. What Shane realized only gradually, however, was that the tiny lady who was now leading her gray horse into a large stall was apparently a blacksmith.

  “You shoe horses?” he managed to ask faintly as she came out of the stall and fastened the bottom half of the Dutch door.

  With an economical movement she shifted the koala from her back to the upright post above the door hinges. Sebastian, his round little bottom firmly on the top of the door, clutched the post and never opened his eyes.

  Addie smiled at Shane as she started toward the hall opening and nodded. “I shoe horses. Just racehorses now, although I’ve specialized only since I got Resolute.”

  “But…” Shane followed her, disturbed.

  Out in the sunlight
she walked a few paces to where a dusty jeep was parked, and let down the tailgate to reveal a jumble of tools, boxes of horseshoes, and a small propane forge. Before Shane could offer to help, she reached in and drew out a sturdy iron tripod, then set a heavy anvil atop it.

  “You’re stronger than you look,” he said in surprise.

  Another flickering smile, unoffended, somewhat wryly amused. “I’ve had years of experience,” she told him. She turned her gaze back to the interior of the jeep and frowned faintly. “His near fore—that’s the narrow one. I’ll have to shape the shoe.”

  He watched her rummage in a box of shoes until she came up with several of slightly varying sizes, all of which she absently hung over the point of the anvil. Then she laid out a selection of tools on the tailgate.

  The sounds of cursing reached them before anything else, cursing and snorting and the thuds of angry hooves. They both turned to watch, and Shane felt his uneasiness return full force when he saw what Addie would have to deal with.

  It was a big bay horse, a stallion with wild eyes and a clearly evil temper. He was apparently engaged in a game of crack the whip with his hapless groom, who was grimly hanging on to the lead rope, acting as the tail of the whip. The small groom was off his feet more often than on, constantly forced to dodge hooves and teeth.

  “He’ll kill you!” Shane said in horror, far too aware of just what an enraged stallion could do.

  “No. Horses like me,” she said simply, and went to meet them.

  Shane didn’t hear what she said over the other sounds, but the horse clearly heard her voice. And in a flashing instant a four-legged demon became a model of gentle affection. He stopped swinging his head like an angry bull; his ears shot forward; his hooves stopped their rat-a-tat of fury. Addie took the lead rope from the panting groom and, turning, led the stallion over to her jeep.

  She was speaking to him casually, and patted his shoulder as she let the lead rope drop to the ground. Except for turning his head to watch her every movement, the horse stood perfectly still.

  Shane had drawn off to the side, watching in amazement, and the groom joined him there. Wiping a sweating brow, the middle-aged man grinned.

  “Addie’s worth twice her weight in gold around these hellions,” he said admiringly. “She’s like magic, she is. Old Warlord there, he hates being shod. Until Addie came along, we had to get the vet over to sedate him. And she’s like that with all horses. They’ll run for her too. I reckon they’d bust a gut for her.”

  “Run for her?” Shane felt suddenly cold, dread tightening his heart. “You don’t mean she’s a jockey?”

  Happily unaware of having dealt a blow, the groom nodded, watching his temperamental charge hold his front leg up sweetly for Addie to work on. “That she is. She’s ridden off and on for a while now. Just turned pro a few weeks ago. Most days she rides in every race.”

  “And today?” Shane was amazed at the calm sound of his own voice.

  “The third and the fifth, I think.” He glanced at his watch, frowning briefly. “She’ll have to shake a leg.”

  The sun was quite warm on Shane’s head, but he felt cold. He watched while Addie expertly fitted a shoe to the stallion’s hoof and nailed it in place. He was vaguely aware of the sounds all around him: the distant rhythm of hoofbeats as horses were exercised; the muted shouts of grooms and trainers.

  But the image in his mind was of a laughing blond young man of eighteen as he’d been before his last race. It was chased by another image, one that had haunted Shane for years, of a nightmare tangle of horses and jockeys, of Thoroughbred hooves armed with sharp racing shoes scrambling for footing on the sand…of a small, brightly colored figure left lying on the track, his crash helmet split open and blood staining blond hair red….

  “Finished, Pat.” Addie straightened and held out the lead rope to the groom. Warlord snapped at the groom and began to prance as he was led away, but Addie didn’t seem to notice the change in the horse once he was turned over to someone else.

  She put away her tools, again lifting the heavy anvil easily into the jeep and closing the tailgate. When she reached Shane’s side, she frowned a little and touched his arm in a seemingly instinctive gesture. “Are you all right?”

  He looked down at her, feeling her touch clear through to his bones. “Yes. I suppose I haven’t recovered from jet lag yet, that’s all.”

  The dark eyes searched his briefly, but she nodded and dropped her hand. “It was nice meeting you—” she began.

  Shane smiled broadly. “Oh, I’ll be around for a while,” he said. “In Australia—and on the tracks. You’re riding this afternoon?”

  Addie nodded. “Yes, and tomorrow.” She didn’t seem surprised that he knew she rode. “Then up to Sydney with Resolute for the weekend races.”

  Shane bit back what he wanted to say. “I see. Well, I believe I’ll watch you ride today.” He grinned. “Should I bet on you?”

  Seriously, she said, “I intend to win.”

  “Then I’ll bet my kingdom.”

  She laughed a little, the sound once again running along Shane’s nerve endings like a haunting song, then waved casually and walked away. He stood stock still for several minutes, gazing after her. Suddenly aware of the increasing noise that heralded the beginning of the afternoon races, he headed toward the track.

  —

  As was her habit, Addie checked on the conditions of her two rides for the afternoon, talking to the grooms and finding that both young stallions were fit and ready.

  Then she went to dress for her first race. Everything was laid out for her in the small room provided for the very few female jockeys, which was divided by a thin partition from the larger room the male jockeys used.

  Addie’s valet, Storm, was there, of course, her blond hair in its usual disarray, but the boots she was polishing carefully were, like the rest of Addie’s things, immaculate. She looked up, her round blue eyes appearing startled as always.

  “They’ve put the heavy weight on Raider again,” she said in her rather deep voice, sounding depressed. “You’ll have to carry lead even with the big saddle.”

  “Yes, I know.” Addie stripped rapidly and began getting into her silks. “I couldn’t afford to gain with the Cup in a few weeks, so don’t say it. Raider doesn’t mind the dead weight, and Resolute runs better when I’m light.”

  “When did you eat today?” Storm demanded, undeterred, as always, by Addie’s faintly irritated glance.

  “This morning.”

  “You did not. I saw you working at dawn by the truck. You’d think,” she added rather coldly, “that the trainers would want to save you for races instead of making you shoe their horses all day.”

  “They don’t make me do anything,” Addie said, sitting on a bench and reaching for her boots. “And I need the money, so shut up.”

  “You can’t spend a penny if you work yourself to death,” Storm reminded her.

  Refusing to respond to that, Addie stamped her small feet into the boots and stood again to pull on her helmet. “Do me a favor, will you, Storm? Check and make sure Bevan keeps an eye on Resolute during the races.”

  “He will without my asking.”

  “I know.” Addie accepted the small racing saddle from her valet, her expression abstracted. “I know he will. But check anyway, will you?”

  “Sure.” As Addie started for the door, Storm called, “Who was that lovely man you were talking to a little while ago?”

  “An American breeder,” Addie answered over her shoulder. “Shane Marston. Tate introduced him.”

  Storm whistled softly. “He’s trying to get round you that way now?”

  “Oh, of course not. Tate knows I won’t sell Resolute.” Addie paused at the door for a moment, thinking that Tate also knew just how desperate for money she was. She shrugged the thought away and waved at Storm, heading out for the weighing area.

  She had weighed in, with lead in the pockets of her saddle for the extra weig
ht her horse was required to carry, and was heading for the saddling paddock when he fell into step beside her.

  “Hello. Should I still bet my kingdom?”

  Addie looked up into green eyes, wishing that her heart didn’t jump so when he spoke to her—at least not when her mind needed to be on the race. “You saw the handicap, I take it?”

  “I’ll say.” Shane whistled softly. “Raider’s carrying more weight than the rest by nearly ten pounds. I noticed he’s still the favorite, though.”

  “He doesn’t mind weight.” Addie paused, keeping her eyes on the long-legged chestnut being led around the paddock by his groom. “And he likes the distance.”

  “Then I’ll bet on you.”

  Addie smiled up at him and went over to her mount, firmly shutting the American from her thoughts and concentrating on the race she was about to run. She listened to the trainer tell her to keep the horse out in front, nodding because they both agreed that Raider liked it in front.

  When the call came, she was tossed up into the saddle, and she tucked her whip under her arm while she fastened her chin strap. Her eyes flitted over the crowd of spectators watching the paddocks, and she felt herself smile when Shane sent her a small salute.

  Then she put him out of her mind. Again.

  The race went pretty much as Addie had expected. Raider was pulling like a train in his eagerness to run, out in front in a flash and determined to stay there. He was challenged twice during the relatively short race, both times pouring on speed to keep himself in the lead. Addie, mindful of the weight her horse carried, took care that they didn’t finish too far ahead of the field: The larger the margin of his win, the more weight the handicappers would assign him for his next race.

  Raider won by half a length.

  The big chestnut pranced happily to the winner’s enclosure, with applause and cheers surrounding him, but stood quietly enough for Addie to get the saddle off him. She weighed out, and the results were quickly official, their time announced to more cheers.