The Final Turn (Cajun Cowboys Book 2)
Page 1
THE FINAL TURN
BOOK 2: CAJUN COWBOYS
WELCOME TO THE BROUSSARD RANCH
Just as you can't judge a book by its cover, you can't judge a thoroughbred racehorse by her appearance. Word's out that this crazy little swamp-colored filly, who loves to play ball and shake a rubber chicken, can run a hole in the wind, so stay tuned.
ACE AND PIPER'S STORY: When Piper Harrison offers to exercise Henri Broussards racing quarter horses for free she has one goal in mind—be the jockey to race Ragamuffin, the thoroughbred filly under his training. There's one glitch in her plan. Henri's grandson, Ace, owns of the filly, and he's against any dealings with a Harrison. Still, while a multi-generational feud between the families raises more than hackles between the pair, unwanted passions blossom, and before long Ace sees more in Piper than simply a workout rider for his grandfather's horses. In fact, she might just be the jockey to take Rags into her first stakes race, one that would pit Piper against one of her father's racehorses.
CAJUN COWBOYS SERIES
VIDEO BOOK TRAILER
Book 1: Tall Dark Stranger
Book 2: The Final Turn
Book 3: Flight of Fancy (late 2020)
Book 4: Blind Chance (early 2021)
Book 5: Trouble Ahead (mid 2021)
Book 6: Dangerous Stakes (late 2021)
DANCING MOON RANCH SERIES
VIDEO SERIES TRAILER
Prequel: Justified Deception
Book 1: Righteous Lies
Book 2: Pandora's Box
Book 3: False Pretenses
Book 4: Uncertain Loyalties
Book 5: Becoming Jesse's Father
Book 6: Bittersweet Return
Book 7: Cross Purposes
Book 8: Dancing With Danger
Book 9: Bucking the Odds
Book 10: Forbidden Spirits
Book 11: Imperfect Magic
Book 12: Finding Justice
THE FINAL TURN
Copyright 2020 by Patricia Watters
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Title of Work: The Final Turn / by Patricia Watters
Domiciled in: United States of America
Nation of 1st Publication: United States of America
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or were used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part, by any means, including but not limited to digital, xerography, audio recording, scanning into any information processing, storage or retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by electronic or mechanical or other means, not known or hereafter invented. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law.
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
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LEVEL OF SENSUALITY: If you're looking for steamy romances you'll find instead sexy stories in a non-graphic way. My goal is to create romances that feature courageous, self-assured heroes with endearing flaws and the gutsy women who capture their hearts, women, these unsuspecting cowboys would lay down their lives for
CHAPTER 1
Love does not consist in gazing at each other but in looking together in the same direction. ~ by Antoine de Saint-Exupery
Fair Grounds Race Track – New Orleans, Louisiana
Piper Harrison scanned the paddock where trainers were saddling their horses in preparation for the race. While jockeys stood waiting for a leg up, her focus was on Ragamuffin, her special baby, the thoroughbred filly she'd brought to life by breathing into her nostrils after her dam gave birth to what appeared to be a lifeless foal. And now it was all for naught.
For weeks her father threatened to dispose of Rags if the filly didn't start to show some promise, and time had run out. Within the next half hour Rags would be running in a maiden claiming race where none of the entrants had won a race so they'd all be seeking their first win in the company of culls. And all were up for grabs at a set price. Prior to this day, no amount of pleading could change her father's mind, and their last argument still stung…
"Mick's behind this," she'd cried, referring to their trainer. "He's hated Rags from the start because she doesn't fit the image of a sleek, lean racehorse."
Her father let out a dry huff. "That filly's image is the least of her problems. She's come in last or near last every race she's run."
"She's only two!" Piper fired back. "She could be like the high school klutz who goes on to become an Olympic runner. Besides, I've never agreed with the way Mick handles her. He's big on whipping, and Rags digs in her heels when she's handled harshly."
"A little use of the whip isn't the problem," her father said with resolve. "When a horse shows nothing, it's time to start putting it in claiming races. Besides, I want her off the place. She's an eyesore, which reflects badly on our stable." He walked out of the room, and the following week, the die was cast. He slotted Rags to run in her first claiming race, and he picked the Fair Grounds because it attracted the biggest crowds, which would give him the best chance of getting rid of a filly he viewed as a liability to the Harrison bloodline.
In this particular race, all horses were eligible to be bought out of the race for $5500, and prospective buyers were filling out forms to deposit in the official claim box. The moment the horses would break from the starting gate, ownership changed hands, and if someone in the crowd that had gathered at the paddock slipped a claim form for Rags into the box, she'd be taken away by strangers that same afternoon.
Piper also knew the prospect for a thoroughbred that didn't prove itself in this business. Some would be sold by the pound for slaughter to foreign markets, others mistreated and forced to run under inhumane conditions, destined to breakdown on the track and be euthanized or ultimately sold to kill buyers when they failed to perform. Her father and his trainer never abused the horses at their stable, but selling a low prospect runner in a claiming race was their ethical means of getting rid of it. If not for a rule excluding owners, trainers or their relatives from buying, she would've put in her own claim and figured out a place to stable Rags, but that wasn't an option. But buying Rags back from a new owner would be, if she could raise the money. Paying for jockey school had wiped out her savings.
Her only hope now was that no one would want to claim a mouse-brown filly with mule ears and a mane and tail that resembled tattered Rags, the basis for her name. At least that's the way everyone viewed Rags. But what she saw was an awkward youngster with a proud, spirited and very stubborn nature, a filly with a potential that remained untapped. She knew because she'd been exercising Rags for the past year, always under instructions from a man whose skill as a trainer she questioned because after every workout Rags showed a notable lack of sweating, a clear sign that she viewed galloping around a track as a boring pastime that didn't warrant putting out effort.
Even now, Rags stood quiet and unruffled while the other horses danced about on their leads, eyes wi
de with uncertainty, tossing their heads as if ready to bolt. But Rags wasn't simply standing calmly by. She was uncharacteristically alert for a young horse with so much activity around it. Which in Piper's estimation was a dead giveaway to those who knew horses that she was a filly of superior intelligence who was taking everything in, the horses, the people, the sounds, even the smells, as her raised muzzle and gently flaring nostrils revealed.
Feeling increasingly unsettled with the prospect of someone in this gathering also seeing her potential and playing the claim game, Piper scanned the faces of those standing at the saddling paddock, wondering who, in the crowd of unfamiliar faces, might claim Rags and take her away.
A shot of adrenaline had her gaze shifting back to a group of men, the sight of which sent her blood pumping. Nudging her sister, Georgia, who was standing beside her, she pointed in the direction of the men, all members of the Cajun family that owned the property bordering theirs, and said, "Why in heaven's name would the Broussards be here?"
"Probably to claim a horse," Georgia replied. "Anne heard them talking about buying a thoroughbred. It was Ace Broussard's idea, but Anne didn't think that bunch of roughneck cowboys would go through with it, given their snide comments in the past that raising thoroughbreds was pointless since they can't cut cattle, spin on a dime, or move herds through marshes."
Piper was aware of the Broussard's shoddy remarks over the years, not only about raising thoroughbreds, but relating to their showy antebellum home on the Vermilion Bayou and the highbrow teas the women hosted on the lawn. The fact that their sister married one of them didn't seem to curtail the remarks, although in all fairness, their father's frequent reference to the coonasses next door continued to stir the bad blood between the families.
Piper focused on Henri Broussard, patriarch of the family, whose eyes were fixed on Rags and not in a dismissive way. He saw her potential. Which had her stomach churning. The last people she'd want Rags to go to would be that bunch of Cajuns, or before long they'd have her running in two-bit match races against every quarter horse in the parish. "If the Broussards are here to claim a horse it better not be Rags."
Georgia laughed. "Are you kidding? Those guys don't even give us the time of day when we go over to see Anne. They sure wouldn't claim a Harrison horse."
Piper could not dismiss the knot of dread twisting in her stomach. "Then why is Henri Broussard staring at Rags the way he is?"
"Probably because he saw in the racing form she belongs to Daddy and he's trying to figure out how it happened. Ramblin' Man's one of Louisiana's leading sires and his little progeny isn't exactly a beauty queen, so relax. They won't be leaving with Rags. Besides, right now they're eyeballing that big chestnut colt like he's the horse they're after. So, look on the bright side. If someone does claim Rags you could approach them about galloping her in her morning workouts since you've been working her from the start, and once they see how well you handle her it could be your entry into jockeying."
Piper noted that while the Broussard brothers were indeed sizing up the chestnut colt, Henri Broussard's gaze remained fixed on Rags. "Maybe it would be a way to get into jockeying through the back door, but only if she's claimed by anyone but the Broussards. Those guys are such sexists there's no way they'd hire a female jockey."
That, she knew for a fact. Ace's reaction on learning she was a jockey, two months before, said it all. She'd completed the steps to getting her license, including attending jockey school, but she hadn't yet ventured onto the backstretch, that sacred area at racetracks available only to those directly involved with the horses stabled or scheduled to race there.
Over the years she'd gazed across the infield at the long covered shed row with its line of stables, and although she'd never been there, she knew the building housed a cafeteria, dormitories where some of the workers lived, and offices for the trainers to register horses for upcoming races. She'd also heard Mick's reference to the backstretch family, which turned out to be a consortium of trainers, grooms, farriers, jockeys and their agents, all of whom knew everything about everyone there… except about her.
She'd entered the cafeteria, excited that day. After all, here she was, a licensed jockey, one of the selected few allowed behind the scenes, but when she introduced herself she was met with cold stares, one of them coming from Ace Broussard, whose grandfather trained racing quarter horses. Ace would have been welcomed into the backstretch family since many top jockeys in the country were Cajuns. What none of those jockeys were was female, and the bunch in the cafeteria that day let her know with their icy reception that a female jockey wasn't welcome in their male-dominated world.
She returned her attention to Henri Broussard, who continued to study Rags, then she eyed his grandsons, a grouping of tall, muscular, dark-haired men, all sun-bronzed from years of working cattle, each clad in worn western garb.
She pursed her lips in disgust. They might be considered hot as sin by half the women in Vermilion Parish, but the swarthy, five-o'clock shadow look had a ring of untrustworthiness, which for her was a turn-off. But if by some quirk of fate Henri Broussard ended up claiming Rags, she'd figure out a way to gallop the filly during her morning workouts while keeping tabs on how she was being treated. And maybe along the way she'd prove herself as a jockey, and if Rags turned out to be the horse she knew she was, ultimately ride her into the winner's circle.
What poetic justice that would be, riding a Broussard horse across the finish line in front of a pack of thoroughbreds that included one of her father's horses.
***
Ace stood with his grandfather and his brothers, Pike, Hank and Alex, while sizing up the horses in the saddling paddock prior to the post parade. A couple of years back when he suggested he and his brothers go in together to buy a yearling thoroughbred, train it with a view to reselling it as a race-ready two-year-old, they'd all been enthusiastic about the prospect of making a bundle of money in a relatively short period. The problem was, during those two years they'd deviated from the plan, deciding to jump in and buy a horse already racing and hope to hit pay dirt.
After several months researching bloodlines, studying the condition book, and even investigating which colors were the most saleable with thoroughbreds since looks seemed to be as important as conformation at horse auctions, they'd settled on Boonie's Lagnappe who was up for claiming in today's race, and $5500 was well within their budget. Although Boonie's Lagnappe hadn't won a race yet, his performances showed he'd been improving with each race.
To make certain the horse was a good prospect, they brought their grandfather along, having agreed between themselves that if Pépère didn't see the potential in the colt they'd pass. Not only had Pépère been born with an ability to know the minds of horses, he'd trained racing quarter horses for several decades, scaling back when the last of the old match race tracks shut down. But he still trained a few quarter racing horses for selected people in the area, mainly Cajuns who'd run their horses at Louisiana tracks. He'd be training Boonie's Lagnappe too if they claimed him, a challenge Pépère was willing to take on, if only to show the Harrisons that a Broussard could beat them at their own game.
"Man, that's one good-lookin' colt," Pike said, as the big chestnut horse pranced in place at the end of his lead, muscles twitching, flowing mane rippling, his coat glistening like burnished copper beneath the late afternoon sun.
"Yeah, he's that alright." Ace scanned the tote board, where each horse's odds appeared as bets were being made. "He's also the favorite, which means we'll have competition since there'll be others filling in claim forms for him."
Pike glanced at the tote board. "Then we'd better pray the steward pulls our claim slip out of the tie box."
"That's for sure." Ace turned to Henri Broussard. "So, Pépère, what do you think? Is Boonie's Lagnappe a potential winner?"
When Henri didn't respond, Ace followed the direction of his gaze to the only filly in the race, a muddy-colored animal with proportions defying ever
ything they'd studied about thoroughbred conformation, and with a mane and tail looking like the twisted strings of a badly-used mop. Nudging his grandfather to get his attention, he said, "What's your opinion on Boonie's Lagnappe? Do we drop our claiming form in the box? He's well-put together, and his conformation's spot on. "
Henri studied the big chestnut colt but not more than a few seconds. "It don't matter how a horse is put together, you need a horse with heart, one not willin' to back down from competition. Without heart, you got nothin' and that colt don't have heart. He's sweatin' and a horse lathered at the start's nervous and won't run well 'cause his energy's drained before he's outta the gate. That colt's not bein' risked in this race, he's bein' dumped. There's your winner." He pointed to the filly.
"You can't be serious," Ace said, while eyeing a horse the color of swamp water. "That filly looks more like a quarter horse than a thoroughbred, and her ears are so big she could be mistaken for a mule." He scanned the racing form in his hand, searching for the only filly, and after taking a minute to peruse the information on a horse appropriately named Ragamuffin, he saw she was owned by Charles Harrison. It was also obvious why Harrison wanted to get rid of her. She'd been sired by Ramblin' Man, Harrison's top stud, and the filly would be a heads-up to potential breeders that their mares could also throw a misfit. Addressing his grandfather again, he said, "You are aware that the filly belongs to the Harrisons."
"I know whose horse it is," Henri said with irritation. "I've been at this since long before you was born and I know when a horse got what it takes to win. Not only is the filly well-muscled, she has a broad chest and powerful hindquarters, everything she needs to catapult her to the front of the pack out the startin' gate."
"Except the filly hasn't won anything yet," Ace pointed out.
"That's because she don't wanna run. She's got what it takes but she don't wanna play by the rules 'cause she hasn't been handled right."