Backstretch Baby (10 page)

“But I owe Stinger an apology…as well as a suitable bridle.”

She looked at him with narrowed eyes. Then her mouth lifted in a reluctant smile. “You’re messing with me. It’s not really chafing, is it?”

He just smiled, relieved she wasn’t the type to sulk. He could handle stubborn, but didn’t deal well with moodiness.

“You’re right,” she added, blowing out a sigh. “The horses deserve to race in a proper bridle. I’ll call my boss again.”

“I’m sure he’d be mortified if his stable raced without proper equipment.”

“One would think,” she said, “because Jackson’s worked hard to establish his race business. But he has a new wife and his biggest concern is keeping her happy. I’ll look around and see if someone has a secondhand bridle for sale. I don’t want to embarrass any owners…or kind volunteers.”

She bestowed him with such a grateful smile it made his chest swell, and it was obvious if she looked at other men like that, she’d have no shortage of guys clamoring to help. In fact, if her barn hadn’t been so isolated, she probably could have borrowed a truckload of tack. He yanked his gaze from her mouth.

“How did you end up in a barn so far from the other shedrows?” he asked, his voice gruff. They’d finally reached the track, but even with Stinger’s eagerness, it had been a fifteen-minute walk.

“They were the only stalls available,” she said.

She pointed at the gap in the rail. “You can let me go there. No need to wait once you’ve seen enough. I’ll walk back alone. Stinger’s always better behaved after his exercise.”

Rick had no idea how long she’d be on the track but he certainly intended to walk back with her. And he was curious to see her ride. Scott said she’d been a well-regarded jockey before too many accidents forced her to the sidelines.

He unfastened the lead shank and stepped back. Stinger bucked twice, seemingly out of sheer excitement, then settled into a high-stepping trot, hugging the rail and heading clockwise.

Several trainers lingered around the gap, lead shanks draped over their shoulders. On Rick’s right, two men with coffee and binoculars stood on a wooden viewing stand. Everyone seemed engrossed with the horses. Certainly no one waved a sign advertising stolen bridles for sale.

He walked up to a gray-haired man who was mouthing a thick wad of tobacco. “Is there a tack store on the grounds?” he asked.

“Yeah, white trailer by barn two.” The man gestured with a stained thumb. “But he doesn’t have much. You might have to go down the road.”

Rick nodded and checked on Eve. Stinger’s colorful bridle made her easy to spot. The horse was moving nicely, still trotting, seemingly not inclined to give any more trouble. It looked like the beginning of her warm-up considering that the faster moving horses were on the inner rail and galloping in the opposite direction.

He turned toward the tack trailer, accepting that his groom’s work was on hold for a bit. And now was a good time to do some sleuthing.

Rick stepped into a compact trailer stuffed with horse liniments, shampoos and a wall filled with a selection of farrier supplies. The rectangular sign above the door said: Woody’s Tack.

“Need any help?” a wiry man called. He was missing two front teeth, his nose was misshapen and it looked like he’d been on the losing side of more than one argument with a horse.

“Looking for some bridles,” Rick said.

“Got a few over here.” The man led him around a rack of horse dewormers and an assortment of fly sprays. “Cheapest is sixty dollars. I don’t carry many now that the big box store opened up. Have lots of grooming supplies and shoes though.”

Rick fingered the bridles, all standard size. Nothing that would fit Stinger’s coarse head.

“Do you have a used section?” he asked. “Can people sell on consignment?”

The owner shook his head. “Nothing like that. Too tight on space. But you can check the board.” He jabbed over his shoulder at a bulletin board crammed with notices, colored thumbtacks and one black riding glove.

Rick scanned the board. It was unlikely the thieves were rash enough to post stolen bridles at the track, but sometimes people were complete boneheads. However, most of these notices were legitimate: retired Thoroughbreds needing a good home, a hotwalker looking for work, and a signup sheet for a caps tournament.

“What’s a caps tournament?” he asked.

“A drinking game that involves a lot of skill. It’s way more challenging than beer pong. You get a point for knocking the cap off a beer bottle.” The owner pointed at two huge trophies proudly displayed behind the counter. “We won that tournament the last couple years.”

“Sounds like fun,” Rick said, noting how the man’s eyes had lit up. “You probably know everyone around. With this store and tournaments like that…”

“For sure,” the man said. “I know all the regulars anyway. Not the big shots that come from Santa Anita, trying to steal a win. But our horses are tough. And most of the outsiders leave pretty damn quick. They don’t stay long enough to meet anyone, or support the track.”

Rick gave an agreeable nod, still studying the bulletin board. Eve’s boss, Jackson Zeggelaar, was from Santa Anita. And he’d definitely sent his second-string horses here, hoping to find some softer competition. No doubt there was some animosity toward outside trainers. But was it enough that the locals would resort to stealing?

“Thinking of signing up for the tournament?” the owner asked, studying Rick with an assessing eye. “Looks like you could be a top player. It’s good to have some size to help handle the beer. How’s your aim?”

“I generally hit where I’m aiming,” Rick said, realizing he could learn more by chatting up this man than wandering around the barns. And he could still watch Eve and Stinger through the window.

“Here.” The man reached into a jar on the counter and pulled out a shiny beer cap. “Try hitting the top of the blue brush on the second shelf. Use an overhand action, like this.”

He took considerable time to demonstrate the proper technique, holding the cap between his thumb and index finger, and arcing his hand in the air. It took several minutes of enthusiastic demo before he finally handed over the cap, deeming Rick ready to shoot.

“Sounds like a big-league tournament,” Rick said, solemnly fingering the cap.

The man’s head pumped. “Yes, there are plenty of rules. Folks around here take the game seriously. We’re going for the Guinness Book of Records for largest game. Have to beat out the Corkum Road players for that though.”

Rick took aim and shot. The cap landed squarely on the back of the blue brush then ricocheted to the floor.

The man jabbed his fist in the air. “Just like I figured,” he said. “A natural. No one else ever made that shot their first try. And I need a partner for Thursday night. So, what do you say?”

“I’m not really in shape for a big caps tournament,” Rick said, trying to keep a straight face.

“You have a few days to practice. And everyone on the backside will be there. It’s big bragging rights. Along with gift certificates from here, and the tack store down the road.”

Rick stiffened. “What’s the value of the certificates?”

“Two hundred dollars each.” The man’s eyes twinkled. “That’s why it’s important for me to win. So I can keep my gift certificate in the drawer. My name’s Woody. So, are you in?”

Rick reached out and shook the man’s hand. “My name’s Rick,” he said. “But you can call me partner.”

Rick left Woody’s store with a wealth of information on all the barns and trainers, along with strict instructions about how to prepare for the caps tournament. He felt unusually relaxed, had stopped checking over his shoulder, and realized he was looking forward to the day instead of dreading it. Life here was simple. No one worried about last names or your education or what kind of vehicle you drove.

Best of all, there were no children. Just adults and horses. He strode to the rail and checked the track for Eve and Stinger. They were on the far side now, in front of the clubhouse and moving counter-clockwise.

Stinger appeared eager, his head tucked almost to his chest, and for a moment Rick feared she wouldn’t be able to hold him. But then he remembered the special bit her friends had left and its extra stopping power. Stinger wasn’t the type who could be ridden in a halter—unlike Tizzy. But the horse was moving powerfully, and even though Eve made it look easier than it was, Stinger didn’t seem to be fighting her control.

She was a beautiful rider and a pleasure to watch. But galloping in the morning, far from the glamour of the starting gate, was different from race riding. There was no fame, no adoring crowds, no glory of the winner’s circle.

Some people might consider it a step down, much like the changes in his career—from decorated street cop to fighting organized crime to private investigator. Now here he was, at a minor racetrack, reduced to probing a theft that didn’t even reach a paltry grand. On paper, it seemed trivial.

But it wasn’t trivial to Eve. Or to her staff. In fact, it had been a body blow. If not for the generosity of some backstretch ladies, her horses would be stuck in their stalls, instead of powering around the oval in a patchwork bridle.

He shook his head. If the locals resented outside horses and were responsible for the thefts, why had the women taken considerable trouble to scavenge pieces of tack? And it appeared congenial out on the oval. No one was trying to cut Eve off or crowd her horse. In fact, there was a definite sense of camaraderie, from the cheerful greetings of riders to the laid-back trainers waiting at the gap, sharing conversation and coffee.

He strode back to the tack trailer and pushed open the door.

“Hey, Woody,” he called. “Do you have much theft here? In your store?”

Woody glanced up from the counter. “Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t even lock up when I step out. People around here are broke but honest. Why?”

“My boss had a bunch of bridles stolen. Just wondered where to look.”

“So that’s why you need the gift certificate.” Woody nodded in total understanding. “Sure hope you don’t find those bridles until after the tournament. You won’t back out on me, will you?”

“No,” Rick said. “I’ll be there.”

He turned and headed back to the rail, wishing he could be as single-minded as his new caps partner.

Eve was walking Stinger about fifty feet from the gap. He pulled the lead shank from his back pocket and stepped out to meet her, feeling like a genuine groom.

“You didn’t have to stay,” she said, slightly breathless. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright with pleasure, and it was apparent she loved the speed work every bit as much as Stinger. “But I imagine you have to make a full report on Scott’s horse?”

“That’s right.” Rick gave a solemn nod. “I do. But it’s also good to hang around the backstretch and meet the people. And it gives us a chance to talk.”

He led Stinger through the gap and along the walkway, waiting until they were thirty feet down the path and safe from prying ears. “Any chance your bridles were taken by someone you know?” he asked. “Maybe someone who wants you gone?”

She shook her head and it was clear she’d already considered that angle. “I don’t know many people here. Neither do Ashley or Miguel. And Victoria is too far away.”

“Who’s Victoria?”

Eve winkled her nose. “My boss’s wife. Lately she’s been making life miserable for Jackson. And Tizzy and Stinger are good horses, but they’re not likely to scare the competition. The horses here are tough.”

“So I hear,” Rick said. “But why did your boss send you to Riverview, if it wasn’t for some easy races?”

“He was short of stalls and they have some nice purses here for California breds. And,” she pulled in a regretful breath, “Victoria is pushing to trim staff, and Jackson wasn’t quite ready.”

“Do Ashley and Miguel know they’re on the chopping block?”

She nodded, her eyes flashing with passion. “But Ashley’s pregnant and Miguel’s old. It’s not right to treat people like that.”

“No,” he said. “It’s not. But maybe they can find jobs with other stables.”

“Maybe, but they’ll need some bonus money to tide them over.”

He understood now why it was so important to get the horses racing. She wasn’t just trying to establish her credentials as a trainer. She was desperate to look after her friends.

It might be possible to have Scott lean on her boss, encourage Jackson to treat his staff a little more ethically. But that could create even more animosity and merely hasten the pink slips. Besides, for some reason she shied away from accepting Scott’s help. She didn’t even want him paying for Stinger’s bridle, a purchase Scott would no doubt be happy to cover. He was already absorbing the cost of an investigator. And Rick’s services didn’t come cheap.

However, Rick wanted to keep her happy. And there was more than one way to bridle a horse. He glanced up at her, his smile slightly wicked.

“I might have a solution for our race bridle,” he said. “But first you need to drive me to the store so we can pick up some beer.”

Eve pulled her hood lever and leaned out the window, trying to watch Rick. He hadn’t looked surprised when she admitted her battery had been stolen and her car wouldn’t go without a push. Had acted as if this type of jumping was the normal way to start cars. And she appreciated that.

He was bending over her engine, tinkering with something. But moments later he strode around to her window. “Looks like only the battery was taken,” he said. “Do you lock your car doors?”

“I do now.”

He nodded, not even chiding her for leaving the car unlocked. “Okay,” he said. “Push the clutch in and let’s go.”

“Should we get Ashley and Miguel to help?”

“Think I can handle it,” he said.

Her gaze shot to the ridged muscles beneath the tattoos. No doubt, he could tuck her car beneath one arm and carry it away. In fact, there didn’t seem much he couldn’t do. He’d helped tack up and cool down five horses that morning. Even mucked out stalls. Best of all, he’d joked with Miguel and Ashley, making them smile and lifting everyone’s spirits.