She was fairly certain that the same person who had tried to kill her had murdered Coke. It was doubtful there were two killers running around Sonoita. Tanner had always seemed the best bet—although she didn’t know enough about her father’s past to know if he had any other enemies.
She checked Tyke as they reached a road. A car flashed by. They crossed the blacktop and followed one of two dirt roads through the forest. It was the wrong choice, because it dead-ended at a house and they had to double back.
Riding back, she tried to put the harassment in some kind of order. First came the photocopy of Coke’s truck. Then, the mares’ manes and tails had been mutilated, followed by the warning on the answering machine. After that, someone had tried to poison Shameless. The next morning Dakota had gotten the note with the list of deceased horses, TRY AND TRY AGAIN.
Then Something Wicked was killed.
And Friday night, the whole thing had escalated again, when whoever had been harassing her decide to play for keeps.
Something about the pattern bothered her. The attacks seemed inconsistent, almost random. One minute, he tried to kill Shameless, the next, she was the target. He threatened the broodmares, but never carried through. Yet he had killed Something Wicked without compunction. What did he want? Dakota was so busy trying to work it out, she almost missed the trailer backed into a clearing in the pines.
Tyke didn’t, though. He spooked, his hooves clattering on the hard dirt road.
Dakota’s heart seized. She was immediately transported to the night she drove Lucy home.
It looked like Jerry Tanner’s trailer: the dull silver patchwork of rivets like an airplane fuselage. The strange skirt at the back that flared outward. The trailer looked somehow malevolent in the pine shadows, the sun gleaming off the front window, which was so dirty she couldn’t see in.
Dread crawled over and through her. He was here. Maybe he’d followed her to White Sands. Or he could have known she would be there. All he’d had to do was talk to Lucy.
She stepped down from Tyke and led him over to the trailer, wondering if Jerry was watching her. At any moment, she expected him to confront her.
The trailer sat in the sun, insulated by blank windows and dull aluminum. Dakota thought of a frog, waiting patiently for an unsuspecting fly to buzz by and then—snap! No more fly.
She cupped her hands and peered into the side window. Although the window was nearly opaque with dirt, she could see the stuff piled up against it; a racing bat, a cooler, several cardboard boxes crammed with stuff. Dakota thought she saw white piping and two buckles sewn to canvas—a horse blanket?—in the jumble.
She touched the door handle, looked around. Tugged on it. Locked.
Relief made her legs weak. She really didn’t want to break-and-enter. She stepped back, almost tripping over a large boulder opposite the door. An iron skillet sat on the smoke-blackened rock, silted with grease. He must have cooked his breakfast outside.
He could come back any minute.
She got the hell out of there.
A few days later, Dakota saw Tanner lounging by the rail when she led Shameless onto the track for her gallop.
He stood next to the poplars right near the gap, his eyes seething with hatred. She’d never believed in the evil eye before, but now she wasn’t so sure. Tanner was here, and he hated her more than ever.
Dakota met Clay at the Rio Ruidoso, where he was standing one of his horses in the ice-cold water. “Did you see Tanner?” she asked him.
His eyes darkened. “He’s here?”
Dakota folded her arms over her chest, trying to hug away the chill. “Damn straight he’s here. I saw him at the gap. He’s following me, Clay.”
“Damn!” Clay kicked at the tall grass, startling his horse.
“I don’t know what to do.” Her gaze rested on a man ponying a thoroughbred along the white-railed lane above them. It seemed so peaceful here. Armfuls of bright-yellow sunflowers and groundsel nodded in the breeze, stippling the banks of the creek like a Monet painting. She should enjoy it here, but all she could feel was suffocating fear.
“He could be here to see Lucy,” Clay said.
“You didn’t see the way he looked at me today. He must blame me because he was arrested. He can’t get a license here, can he? After what happened at Prescott Downs?”
“I don’t think so. He must have some kind of guest pass or something to get on the backside. Maybe Lucy got it for him. Obviously, he gets a charge out of scaring you.”
“Well, it’s working.” She shuddered as she remembered the odd light in his eyes. He enjoyed the hell out of hating her.
Clay pulled her to him, held her close. He stroked her hair, his mouth drawn in a grim line.
He caught up with Tanner at the Hollywood Bar. Jerry’s rattletrap Chevy was easy to find.
Tanner sat hunched over the bar, already drunk. Clay bought a drink and sat on the stool next to him. “What are you doing in Ruidoso, Jerry? I thought you were in Prescott.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“You got runners here?”
“Fuck off, Pearce.”
Clay picked up Tanner’s beer and poured it in the bar well. “You don’t want to talk, that’s fine,” he said quietly. “But you can listen. I don’t want you bothering Miz McAllister.”
“It’s a free country.”
“Do the stewards know you’re hanging around the Downs?”
“I got a license. I can go anywhere I like. If I want to say hello to an ol’ friend of mine, I got that right.” He motioned for another beer. “What you gonna do, get a restraining order? They’re not worth the paper they’re written on.”
Clay leaned close. “I don’t need a restraining order. If I catch you bothering Dakota, the police won’t even know about it.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Threats,” Clay said, sliding off the stool, “are about as hard to prove as ignoring a restraining order.” He shoved Tanner’s hat down over his face.
But as he walked out into the gathering dusk, Clay knew Tanner was right. There was no way he could legally stop him from harassing Dakota.
The next day, soiled and tired from her work at the track, Dakota sorted through the mail as she walked back to the cabin. Among the bills and circulars was a letter from the AQHA—the results of the blood test on Something Wicked. Mounting the steps, she tore open the envelope.
The blood types matched. The dead horse was indeed Something Wicked. Although it saddened her to know for certain that her top stallion was dead, she breathed a sigh of relief. It was one less worry to take up her time.
The phone rang. Dakota raced into the house, hoping it was Clay. She’d tried to reach him last night, but got no answer. An uncharitable voice inside her head told her he was out go-carting with Rita and Lucy.
The voice on the phone didn’t belong to Clay. It was Derek Blue, returning her call regarding Tanner’s release. “There was nothing we could do,” he told her. “We had insufficient cause. The judge dismissed without prejudice.”
“Without prejudice?”
“It means he can always be charged again, if we find more evidence.”
“But what about the witnesses?”
“It wasn’t enough. The tire’s long gone by now, and there’s no damage to the front of his truck. Those kids could have been mistaken. It was dark, and they couldn’t identify him in a lineup.”
Dakota felt the tears gather at the edges of her eyes. She would not cry. She would not give in to that kind of weakness. But she thought of him standing at the rail, as if he belonged there. Watching her. Telling her with his eyes: “I got away with it. And now I’m going to get you.”
“There’s something else,” Derek Blue said. “He has an alibi.”
“But he was there at the bar that night. That’s common knowledge.”
“That’s right, he was. But he was so drunk there was no way he could get his truck out of the parking lot,
let alone run someone down. Whoever ran your father off the road must’ve been a good driver. Otherwise, he’d’ve wiped out, too.”
“But I don’t understand—”
“His daughter drove him home that night. That’s what clinched it for the county attorney.”
“His daughter.” A lump formed just below her solar plexus.
It wasn’t Jerry Tanner. At least, it wasn’t Jerry Tanner who murdered Coke.
Which meant it was someone else. And that same someone had now tried—and almost succeeded—in killing her.
“I’m sorry,” Derek Blue said. “You want my opinion, he’s guilty as sin—of killing your horse, at least—but I can’t prove it.”
Dakota hardly heard him. She set the phone down. Tanner, at least, had been the devil she knew. She’d never realized before that her conviction that he was the enemy had taken the edge off her fear. It allowed her to get on with training Shameless, despite her worry for her horses. But if what Derek Blue said was true, Jerry couldn’t have killed Coke.
Whoever wanted her dead was still out there, and there was no way of knowing how to stop him.
FORTY-ONE
Although Shameless had come out of her injury sound, Dakota sensed the filly was not quite there yet. She needed conditioning. Long gallops built stamina, but stamina alone didn’t make a racehorse.
Dakota had blown out the filly a few times and worked her seriously once. She didn’t dare do more. Shameless’s punishing stride might undo all the good. If there was even a tiny weakness in that hind leg, Shameless’s jackhammer style of running might stress it too much—and she could break down.
Although she was sound, Shameless wasn’t the same horse who ran in the Rainbow Futurity. And in this kind of company, a horse had to be at his best—and then have the luck of the devil.
If Dakota didn’t have enough troubles, Tanner continued to come to the gap and watch her horse gallop. She knew he was waiting for her, and she had to prepare herself for the sight of him. He stood in the same place each time, looking toward the stables until she arrived, turning his head slowly as his eyes followed her. She knew he enjoyed the effect he was having on her.
It was a subtle kind of harassment that went unnoticed in a venue where double entendres and meaningful (and sometimes downright lascivious) glances ruled the day. She wished she could complain to the racetrack officials, but knew that would only brand her as a troublemaker. She’d thought he wouldn’t be able to stick around the backside very long without a license, but he was there every day.
One morning he stood at the gap and waved something at her as she rode by. His grin was friendly.
It took her a moment to realize what it was: a branch of oleander.
Goddamn him to hell! She had had enough of this harassment.
When she’d finished with Shameless, she marched over to Jack Dougherty’s stable. “Is Lucy around?” she asked Eddie Dejarlais, one of Jack’s bug boys.
Eddie jumped down from the horse he’d been exercising, the strap on his crash helmet swinging. He sighted down his racing bat as if it were a paper airplane and tossed it onto one of the tack room chairs. “Not today. She’s moving.”
“Moving?”
“Yeah.” She felt his lascivious gaze travel down to her chest, then back to her face. “She’s going to live with one of the owners.” As she walked away, he called after her, “Hey! You doin’ anything later?”
Dakota caught up with Lucy unloading boxes in the parking lot of Rita’s place, the Champions Run condominiums.
“Hi, Dakota, what’s up?”
“Lucy, I want you to give your father a message.”
The girl set down the box she’d been carrying. “Sure.”
“If he comes near me again, I’m going to slap him with a restraining order, and if he comes near me after that, I’ll see he never races any horse at any track in the country. I’ll make it my career to see he can’t even run ‘em in the bushes!”
Lucy stared at her, mouth open. “Okay. Sure.”
Dakota left her standing there, squelching the urge to tell her to shut her mouth before a bug flew in.
Ernesto moved into Dakota’s cabin, and she moved out, into the trailer next to Shameless’s stall. More often than not,Clay spent the night with her. Two people in such a small space might get on each other’s nerves, but the close quarters merely gave them an excuse to brush enticingly against each other in the tiny hallway or fall into a rapturous tangle on the dinette cushions. They were on an extended camping trip. Everything would be wonderful if it weren’t for Tanner.
Dakota hadn’t slept very well since Tanner waved the oleander branch at her. Often, she would awaken from vague, frightening dreams to Clay’s concerned scowl and strong arms.
But her resolve didn’t crumble. If Tanner tried anything with her filly, she would be ready.
She knew her show of temper with Lucy wouldn’t have much impact. What could she really threaten him with? As Clay pointed out, a restraining order was a joke. The idea of Tanner flaunting his power enraged her. If he touched a hair on Shameless . . . the visceral part of her wanted to shoot him. For the first time in her life, she understood how people killed one another without compunction. Someone cut you off in traffic? Riddle their car with bullets. Some son of a bitch threaten to kill your horse? Blow his head off.
It was not like her.
It scared her.
On the morning of the All American Futurity trials, Clay cooked a breakfast of eggs Benedict on the trailer’s Magic Chef stove. He served it to Dakota on a silver tray (she’d won the tray in a horse show) along with a bud vase bearing a single, red rose. When Clay was done with his horses, he helped bathe Shameless. With a soft cloth, Dakota polished the filly like a fine antique. She sprayed Shameless’s hooves to a shine, rubbed the inside of her nostrils with Mentholatum, bandaged her front legs carefully, pulled her forelock under the bridle headband and smoothed it neatly down the center of her forehead. She stood back and surveyed her work, thinking that Shameless was the most beautiful filly in the world.
But looks wouldn’t win her the race.
As Dakota led Shameless around the saddling paddock before the Futurity trial, her eyes unconsciously scanned the crowd for an Arizona Feeds cap, which Tanner always wore. She didn’t see Tanner, but thought she recognized Jared Ames. He liked to bet on the ponies, and Dakota guessed that Ruidoso was the logical place for a horse vet to take a busman’s holiday.
“Jockeys up,” the paddock judge called.
“See you in the winner’s circle,” Clay said before kissing her on the lips. Ernesto gave her the thumbs-up sign.
Dakota ponied the filly, letting her stretch into an easy lope up the backside. She prayed that Shameless’s lack of conditioning wouldn’t cause her to reinjure the leg.
They loaded the horses into the gate. The colt next to Shameless acted up. He reared and almost flipped over, but Shameless stood calm and focused, all four feet planted firmly on the ground.
Dakota held her breath.
The bell clanged, and the doors sprung open.
Shameless shot out like a cannon.
Dakota closed her eyes and prayed harder.
The horses fanned out over the track in a ragged line of browns, blacks, golden-reds. Shameless took the lead, stretched it to a length.
Hoofs drummed against the biscuit-colored earth. Jockeys hunched over whipping manes, hides glistened and stretched like Mylar over bunching muscles and straining tendons.
The sun was warm on Dakota’s back. It smelled like summer.
Shameless was going to do it again.
And then, halfway up the track, the filly lost ground. Her stride shortened. Her head bobbed with effort. The length of her seemed to telescope; her trademark up-and-down style added to the impression that she was running in place. The jock scrubbed at her with his whip.
A fifteen-to-one longshot named Dreamcatcher caught her at the wire, winning by a nose. Althou
gh it was her first defeat, Shameless’s time was still fast.
But would it be fast enough?
Dakota went out to meet her, feeling like a wrung-out dishrag. Shameless looked as tired as she felt. The filly’s sides quaked and her nostrils flared as she tried to get breath, and sweat poured down her dark coat.
Shameless was the eighth-fastest qualifier—so far. Throughout the day Dakota and Clay listened to the results. A horse in the tenth race came in at a faster time than Shameless. That knocked her down to the ninth fastest qualifier. If two more horses beat her time, she’d be out.
But at the end of the day, Shameless’s time stood. She would be running in the All American Futurity.
By the skin of her teeth.
The Ruidoso News ran the results of the trials and called Shameless, who had been “decisive” in the Rainbow, a “disappointment.” One swallow, they said, did not make a spring.
FORTY-TWO
Tanner popped the tab on another Pabst Blue Ribbon.
Christ, he felt good. Everything had gone as planned. The only fly in the ointment was the fact that the McAllister bitch had a horse in the All American.
He should have trained Shameless. He’d been looking for a horse like that all his life, and just when he found it, they’d cheated him out of the big one. The All American would have made him as a trainer.
Too bad Lucy didn’t poison the filly when she’d had the chance. Not that it mattered now. He had bigger fish to fry.
Still, he’d had his fun. The oleander branch was a stroke of genius, if he did say so himself.
He wiped his lips and stared at the photograph of Lucy he’d put up on the cupboard above the sink. It burned him she’d defied him. A kid should obey her father. He didn’t believe the garbage she fed him about being caught either. He knew the real reason Lucy didn’t poison Shameless. She just didn’t want to do it.
“But I like Dakota,” he mimicked in a high voice.
You had to give the kid points for originality. He didn’t know if he would have been that quick on his feet.
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