Jockeys and Jewels Page 8

  “Hey, guys!” Sandra called. “I’m off to lay my bets. What are Skippy’s chances in the third, Julie?”

  Kurt swallowed his frustration, as Julie turned and gave Sandra a confident thumbs up. “Don't leave Skippy out of your exotics. There’s a chance Country Girl will be in the money too.”

  “Okay. I'll wheel them with the favorites. What a payout that would be!” Sandra's eyes gleamed as she dug in her back pocket and rushed from the barn, waving her crumpled bills.

  “You believe you can get Otto's mare up for a piece?” He turned to Julie, surprised she’d encourage Sandra to waste her precious cash.

  “Of course,” she said simply. “I wouldn't have told Sandra to bet on Country Girl if I didn't.”

  “No,” he said, “I guess you wouldn’t.” Her honesty was refreshing but somewhat disconcerting. He was used to a life of subterfuge. Julie said exactly what she thought, what she felt. Even when she’d introduced him to Bixton, it was clear she’d been reluctant; however, her sense of fair play had prevailed.

  Not that it had even mattered. Bixton's agent had already approached him, and Kurt had told the agent the same thing he’d told Julie—he hadn't decided on Lazer's jockey yet.

  His gaze drifted to Otto's reinforced stall. In a few hours, the mare would be his, and he needed a place where a vet could examine her, far away from Otto’s prying eyes. He looked back at Julie. “Is there room at your ranch to board a horse for a couple weeks?”

  She blinked with dismay. “You want to move Lazer? Or Ace?”

  “No, a mare.”

  “Oh,” she said, clearly relieved Ace and Lazer were staying at the track. Understandable, since she was trying hard to earn the jockey mounts on both his horses.

  “This filly's paddock is empty now.” She gestured over her shoulder at her father’s horse. “We could put your mare in her spot. It has a run-in with some grass. Where’s she now?”

  “Grass would be nice,” he said, avoiding Julie’s question. “I’ll talk to your dad, and if it’s okay with him, haul her out tomorrow. Want to grab something to eat?”

  “No, thanks.” She checked her watch and edged toward the door. “I never eat before a race. Besides, it's time to report in, and I still need to study the program.”

  Of course. Naturally she wouldn’t want to eat. Even if she met her riding weight, there was too much risk of an accident, and surgery required an empty stomach. He was rather impulsive where she was concerned. But there was a good chance she knew something about Connor’s visit, and she certainly knew a lot about Otto. It was important to get her talking.

  She waved as she slipped out the door, but it was clear her focus had already switched to the upcoming race card. It was also clear she intended to avoid being alone with him. Sandra had been correct.

  He blew out a reluctant sigh, knowing he was going to have to push. He needed time with her, time for a private conversation that lasted a little longer than two minutes.

  Of course, he’d enjoy more than conversation.

  The admission stuck in his mind, refusing to leave. Not that it wasn’t justifiable. He hadn’t been able to coax her into talking about Connor through normal channels, so a different approach was certainly warranted. Effective immediately.

  A rush of anticipation charged through him, a heated buzz not entirely related to hunting down a killer.

  Chapter Eleven

  Horses for the first race circled in the paddock, waiting to be saddled. Kurt flipped open his program and scanned the conditions: four-thousand-dollar claimers going a mile. If the track favored speed, the three horse should win, gate to wire.

  He shoved his program back in his hip pocket. The speed horse was the heavy favorite, so the race probably wasn't worth betting. Besides, it was more important he prepare his claim on Otto’s mare. His gaze prowled the crowd as he angled toward the claim box.

  Otto had no reason to think anyone would drop a claim on his overpriced mare. There were better horses in the race that could be bought for the same tag. Still, Kurt felt uneasy, as though someone watched.

  He signed the form and wryly checked it over. Claiming races were a simple way to keep the competition fair. If you raced a good horse too cheaply, you might win the race but risked losing your horse. He’d claimed many horses before, the first when he was eighteen; from a racing viewpoint, however, this was the worst claim he’d ever made.

  “Buying something tonight?”

  Adam West’s voice. He tucked the slip in his pocket before turning to face Julie’s father. “Yeah, an interesting mare,” Kurt said. “I spoke to Julie about boarding her at your place for a few weeks. If that’s okay, I’d like to trailer her out tomorrow.”

  “Sure, we have some room.” But Adam frowned and raised a bushy eyebrow. “Earlier you said you wanted to rent my trailer. Is yours fixed already?”

  “Yeah, repairs went faster than expected,” Kurt said but gave himself a silent reprimand for the mistake. Little lies often caused more problems than the big ones. “I’ll get some directions from Julie,” he added, “and bring the mare out in the morning.”

  “All right,” Adam said. “It’s supposed to be nice weather. While you’re out our way, you should ask her to take you for a trail ride. Be a good chance to check out the area you're looking at buying.”

  Kurt nodded, leery of Adam’s watchful eyes. This man was sharp and had a troublesome memory. However, the story about buying land did have its advantages since it would be child’s play to grill Julie on a trail ride. “That’s a good idea,” he said.

  “Hey, Nick!” Adam abruptly hollered, and a barrel-chested man detached himself from the crowd, approaching with a bowlegged walk and an amiable grin. A zippered scar notched his jawbone, and he moved with a slight limp. “Nick,” Adam repeated. “Can you shoe my filly tomorrow? She's at the track now, G barn.”

  “Sorry.” Nick shook his head. “Been busy as hell, and I’m roping tomorrow. Can’t fit her in until next week.”

  “At least do her front,” Adam said. “She lost a shoe so Julie can’t get her out to gallop.” He jabbed his thumb as though in afterthought. “This is Kurt MacKinnon. In from Woodbine. He’s got some horses in G barn too.”

  Kurt shook Nick’s callused hand. Half the farrier's index finger was missing, but it didn't weaken the man’s grip.

  “Good to meet you,” Kurt said. “I've heard your name.”

  “Really. What’cha hear?” Nick’s voice rumbled with confident curiosity.

  “That you’re the best farrier around,” Kurt said. “Better than a vet at figuring out leg problems.”

  “Hell.” Nick chuckled. “Folks just say that because they like free advice. And advice is something I love to dish out. Here's something you boys can tuck in your wallet.” His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “This race is easy money if you throw out the three horse. He was sore as hell from a stone bruise when I shod him yesterday.”

  “The three horse, you say?” Adam flipped open his Racing Form.

  Nick nodded, pressed a big finger to his lips then turned and resumed his jaunt to the betting windows.

  “Well, that makes it easier,” Adam said as he studied the page. “Maybe I’ll bet the trifecta. Think the number one horse can get up for third?”

  “Not a chance,” Kurt said, scanning the past performances and noting the slow times. “That horse would need the race of his life just to keep the others in sight. His speed figures are way too low.”

  Adam shrugged with genial disagreement. “Time only matters in jail. I think the one horse will do fine. And if I can throw out the three horse, I'm smelling money.”

  Kurt chuckled, watching as Adam jotted down his bets. The man had a stubborn set to his jaw that reminded him of Julie. Probably had her temper too. He wasn’t surprised that he liked the man. People streamed around them, rushing to the wickets, but Kurt remained beside Adam for the post parade, enjoying his company and local insight.

&nb
sp; Sandra was in the parade of horses and ponied the favorite, number three, a flashy bay going off at odds of two to one. The horse Nick said had a stone bruise.

  “Number three’s a lunch bucket horse,” Adam said. “Doesn't know the word quit. On a normal day he’d be five lengths ahead of this bunch. But if Nick is right and he’s sore, number six will win, eight will be second, and the one horse will come third. In spite of his slow times.” He smiled a good-natured challenge, hiked up his jeans and headed to the betting window.

  Kurt leaned on the rail as the three horse trotted off. The limp was slight, barely noticeable, but the horse did favor his left front. With the favorite hurting, the race would be wide open, and a savvy better could make some money.

  Unable to resist the farrier’s inside tip, he placed a twenty-dollar win bet then wandered through the mezzanine. It was a motley crowd—ranchers with big hats and dusty boots, downtown oilmen in fancy suits and women sporting bulky purses and hopeful eyes. He tried to pick up the accent of Otto’s late-night visitor in the hubbub but had no luck.

  With two minutes to post, he returned to the rail with a cold beer in each hand. Adam was studying the tote board, watching as the changing odds flashed red.

  “I can’t believe the two horse is the second favorite. But if he gets an easy lead, he might wire it. Shit, I should have boxed him.” Adam looked distraught at his betting oversight then accepted the beer with a rueful sigh. “Thanks,” he said. “Racing is the only sport I know where being a spectator is such hard work. But damn, it's great therapy for whatever ails you.”

  Kurt nodded in total accord. He swigged his frothy beer, savoring the magic of the track, and hoped Otto wouldn't appear any time soon. Life didn't get better than this.

  A bell clanged. The horses charged from the gate.

  Adam pleaded and hollered, his yells deepening as the runners surged across the finish line. The crowd groaned as the favorite finished fourth and out of the money.

  “I think six got it. Then two. Shit, I missed the exacta.” Adam scowled at his betting stub. “But I got the win, thanks to Nick. Where did the slow horse finish?” he asked with a pointed grin.

  “Third,” Kurt said. “You were right. It didn’t matter about his times. That horse just ran the race of his life.” He crumpled his ticket. Horseracing was always perplexing, one of the great mysteries of life, and he didn’t expect to figure it out anytime soon. Only recently he’d accepted he liked training better than police work, but both involved a lot of intuition. And luck.

  “Are you betting on Julie tonight?” Kurt asked, subtly checking the price on Adam’s stub. Not a big gambler—ten dollars was the man's total bet.

  “Yeah,” Adam said, “but purely on emotion. She's riding long shots.”

  “Has she had a win yet?”

  “Not at this track. She doesn’t get the good horses.”

  Kurt nodded, wondering if he could risk squeezing in another question. Julie was a beautiful girl. Falls, breaks and much worse were a reality of racing. She’d told him about some of her previous injuries—broken wrist, broken collarbone, broken leg. But in the supplementary files he’d requested, he’d also discovered she’d fractured her tailbone. She hadn’t even mentioned that one, although clearly she’d been damn lucky. It had to be hard on her father.

  “Do you get nervous when she rides?” Kurt asked.

  Adam snorted. “I have to go for a piss every time she steps in the gate. It’s not so bad when she’s on steady horses, but the stuff that Otto fellow gives her…” He scowled and shook his head. “If I had the money, I'd buy better animals. But she’s like her mother, too proud and committed to ever turn down a horse. Bad as some can be.”

  Kurt nodded and lobbed his cup into the garbage bin. Stiffened when he saw Otto barge past, only twenty feet away.

  “I’m going to place my bets for the second race,” he said and followed Otto into the building.

  Caution wasn't necessary. Otto was engrossed with his Racing Form, head bent as he shouldered a path to the windows. Kurt positioned himself in the next line, where he was able to hear the man’s impatient growl.

  “Two hundred to win number six, fifty dollar exacta six and one, twenty dollar trifecta six, one, seven.”

  Kurt scribbled the numbers on his program, hastily placed a two-dollar bet and followed Otto back to the rail.

  The man was edgy, his interest split between the fluctuating tote board and The Form. He ground his tobacco between tight jaws, shifted his weight from boot to boot.

  Had Connor stumbled on a betting scheme? Kurt checked the odds of the three horses Otto had backed. They were short, probably too short to be worth the risk, and Otto hadn't made contact with anyone. None of the jockeys had even looked at him.

  Clang! The horses charged from the gate. Otto leaned over the rail, urging on the six horse as the field thundered around the final turn. But his hollers turned ugly when the number one horse poked his nose in front.

  “Fucking dog!” Otto dropped his clump of tickets and barreled back to the pari-mutuel window where Kurt heard him place another hefty bet.

  In the next race, Otto was close, but again couldn’t pick the winner. He tossed his fluttering stubs in the air and stomped toward the barns.

  Kurt blew out a breath when Otto left, and the tightness in his shoulders eased. At least Otto’s absence would let him enjoy Julie’s race. It was clear the man was a big bettor, but where Otto—a struggling trainer by any definition—found that kind of cash was a key question.

  Now though, Kurt wanted to concentrate on Julie and her jockeying skills, or lack thereof.

  He staked out a spot at the paddock and studied Skipper Jack as the gelding ambled around the walking ring. The bay was rangier than most sprinters and wore a breast collar. He had a Roman nose and probably was a fighter—the horse did have a stubborn look—but his performance had tanked over the last few years.

  Color flashed, and riders filed from the jockeys’ room, vibrant in the owners’ racing silks. Kurt had seen a few jockeys at morning gallops but most were unfamiliar, and he used his program to match names with faces. Julie was one of the last riders to appear, distinctly feminine in fitted nylon pants and green silks.

  A chestnut stopped for a tack adjustment, blocking his view. He edged sideways, trying to see Julie receive her riding instructions. She looked tense. So did the bay’s trainer. The solemn man stroked the tips of his moustache, unable to keep his hands still. Only Skippy seemed relaxed. The horse ambled around the walking ring, his nose so low it almost dragged in the dirt.

  Kurt checked the board. At sixteen to one, Skippy and Julie weren't getting much respect, and the crowd had made Bixton’s horse the overwhelming favorite.

  “Riders up!” the paddock judge called.

  Kurt climbed the grandstand, high enough that he could see over the infield. So far tonight, he liked the way Bixton rode as well as another fellow named Allan. He’d probably use one of those guys, but it would be interesting to see how Julie handled herself under pressure. Putting her on Lazer was fine in theory, but he still had huge reservations about using her in an actual race. Christ, he didn’t want her to get hurt.

  She hadn’t even won at a decent track, and he wasn't going to use a jockey who might endanger other horses and riders, no matter how hard she worked in the morning. His gaze drifted back to the green silks. It seemed her first challenge was to wake up her horse for the post parade.

  His mouth twitched at the strange sight. While the other runners danced and pranced, Skippy plodded, not even needing the company of an escort pony. Skippy turned his head once, surveyed the crowd and blinked, as though surprised to see so many people.

  “Look at the horse the girl is riding,” a perfumed lady in front of Kurt said. “I think he missed his retirement party.”

  Kurt checked his program. Skippy was seven years old but ambled like he was twenty-seven, and pity overrode his amusement. It was hard for a rider to
look good on a poor horse. Without a lucky break or benefactor, many talented jockeys floundered in obscurity.

  Tired, worn-out horses might be all Julie rode for a few seasons, and by the look of Skippy, she didn't have much chance despite her comment about finishing on the board. Still, Kurt couldn’t quite shake the image of her jaunty thumbs-up. She had encouraged Sandra to bet on Skippy too, so she must have reason to believe the old horse would finish in the money.

  Kurt raised his binoculars, studying Skippy as the horse plodded past. Julie was making no effort to rev him up, but she should know what type of warm-up suited him best—hell, she galloped the old guy every morning. And horses did run for her. He’d witnessed that firsthand with Lazer.

  He yanked his program out and rechecked the gelding’s form. Skippy usually broke well. Perhaps the seasoned horse was saving everything for the race. And maybe he was underestimating both Julie and Skippy.

  He slid his hand in his pocket and fingered some bills. The old gelding might be worth a show bet. Skippy would pay loyal backers well. No wonder Sandra had rushed from the barn to slap her money down.

  The board flashed a warning, two minutes to post. He sighed and stretched back in his seat. Either he’d be shut out at the windows or get the bet down and miss the start of the race. And he had promised Julie he’d watch her ride before choosing a jockey.

  A simple promise to watch.

  He had to keep it. She might not be able to race worth a damn, but it would be fun to watch her on the old horse, and Kurt suddenly had a good feeling about it all.

  He raised his binoculars and fumbled for a second, surprised by his clumsy fingers. Strange to have pre-race jitters. He didn’t even train Skippy. But as the horses mingled around the gate, waves banded in his chest and his breath shortened.

  He stared through the glasses, watching the gate crew load the horses. Legs appeared below the bottom bar. Color flickered, and two front feet disappeared. A whirl of motion then the hooves reappeared, and the rearing horse stood square again. The crowd murmured. The horses were in.