Microsoft Word - DeadHeat_wrp356.doc

Voices faded in and out, stirring Jenna to

consciousness.

“...admit her?”

“...waiting for test results...depends on...”

“Police want to question...”

“...have to wait.”

Admit her? Test results? Police? Where was she?

Were these people talking about her?

A strong scent of antiseptic stung her nose, bringing

tears to her eyes. Something tightened on her arm, almost

painfully so. She struggled to open her eyes. Bright lights

sent a stabbing pain through her skull.

“She's waking.”

The familiar voice soothed her fears. Mr. Heartthrob,

Rye Cameron. What was he doing here? Where was ‘here’?

A hand curled around her wrist. “Jenna, this is Dr.

Haynes. Can you hear me?”

She groaned, turning her head into the pillow to

escape the light.

“You're in the hospital emergency room.”

Hospital? The memory of the night of her father’s

heart attack flashed through her mind. “The lights,” she

whispered. “Please shut off the lights.” She swallowed and

winced at the raw soreness in her throat.

Footsteps tapped across the floor. Once the lights

dimmed, she squinted at the two men standing by the

bed. “What happened?” she croaked.

The doctor leaned close and peered into her eyes with

a pencil-like light. “You don't recall?”

She shook her head, and then remembered. Her

stomach tickled her tonsils at the memory of a man

hanging from the ceiling, his tongue protruding

grotesquely. Her eyes widened in terror, and she opened

her mouth to scream.

“
Dead Heat
is full of twists and turns with murders

and suspicions running galore and Ms. Champagne kept

me on the edge of my seat throughout the book. I surely

did not see the final twist! Well done Pam!”

—
5 Hearts, Linda Bass, The Romance Studio

Dead Heat

by

Pam Champagne

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and

incidents are either the product of the author’s

imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to actual persons living or dead, business establishments,

events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Dead Heat

COPYRIGHT © 2007 by Pam Champagne

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or

reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written

permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in

the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or

reviews.

Contact Information: [email protected]

Cover Art by
Kim Mendoza

The Wild Rose Press

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Crimson Rose Edition, 2007

Print ISBN 1-60154-125-2

Previously released by Triskelion, 2006

Published in the United States of America

To my mother for standing behind me no matter which

path I choose to follow, and special thanks for her

support during my racetrack days.

Jenna tightened her grip on the binoculars as Rising

Sun barreled down the homestretch. Two furlongs to go.

Just thirteen hundred feet. The adrenaline rushed

through her blood straight to her head.

“Way to go, Miguel!” she screamed and punched her

stopwatch. “Great ride.”

Miguel stood in the stirrups to slow the thousand

pounds of muscle beneath him and gave her a thumbs-up

as he galloped by.

Pride threatened to burst the buttons on Jenna's old

white blouse. She danced in a circle. “Yes! I knew it, I

knew it.” Rising Sun would be a new star in the

thoroughbred world. And he belonged to her!

If only her father were alive to share her joy. Jenna

raised her gaze to the blue sky.
Dad, I know you’re

watching. Every racetrack needs an angel or two. You’d be

perfect for the job. I couldn’t have done it without you.

“Super horse,” someone drawled from behind. “Faster

than a speeding bullet.”

A shiver slid down her spine. She didn't need to turn

around. Rye Cameron's husky voice oozed sex appeal. The

Kentucky drawl provided the icing. Women on and off the

racetrack wove fantasies around him. Jenna was no

exception. The fact that he was a well-known rogue only

enhanced the attraction.

God. Had he seen her dancing around like a wild

woman? How embarrassing. She turned slowly. This

morning, the shadow of a beard added extra aura to his

rugged face. As if he needed any help in the good looks

department. Windswept black hair curled over the collar

of his faded denim shirt. He sauntered closer and leaned

against the fence with a nonchalant grace. He gazed at

her from beneath long dark lashes. No man should have

eyelashes like that.

Rye owned one of the largest racing stables in

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Kentucky, as well as a successful breeding farm. What

possible reason could there be for him to seek her out?

“Thanks.” She finally managed to squeeze out a

word.

“Still a maiden?”

“What?” she squeaked.
Christ, Jenna
.
He’s talking

about Rising Sun
. Heat rushed to her face. “For the

moment. I’m looking to change that status.”

“What’s his breeding?”

“Rising Tide’s his sire. Bet It All, the dam.”

His brows rose.

Jenna grinned. “Not very impressive, is it? You’ve

probably never heard of either one.”

“You got that right. I have to be honest.” Rye turned

his attention back to the track and Rising Sun. “His

conformation’s not that great either. I'd say all he’s got

going for him is speed.”

Jenna didn’t take offense. She’d heard the same

thing many times. “That’s the way it looks. Except for one

important detail. This horse’s heart is huge, and his will

to run is like no horse I’ve ever seen.”

Rye shifted his position to face her. “I’m impressed.

Most horsemen don't have the ability to see an animal’s

heart.”

“I knew it the moment we made eye contact,” she

said, remembering how she'd zeroed in on Rising Sun at

the yearling sale. “Let’s just say it was love at first sight.”

Jenna pretended to watch the track while peeking

out the corner of her eye at the man beside her. The rough

calluses on his hands proved he wasn't afraid of hard

work. People said he pitched in and pulled his weight

around the barn. As an owner, he didn’t have to do that.

Most owners never lifted a finger. A muscle in his cheek

twitched slightly. Because he was nervous or just a

normal trait?

“I'm sorry about your father, Jenna. I admired him—

both as a man and a horseman.”

His condolences came as a surprise. To her

knowledge, Rye and her father hadn't been that friendly.

To hear him say he admired her dad stirred emotions. She

blinked back the tears pricking her eyes. “He’d just

turned fifty-five. I didn't expect...” Jenna closed her mouth

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before she blubbered.

In unspoken agreement, they turned their attention

back to the track as Miguel galloped Rising Sun by them.

“I’m headed back to the barn,” the jockey told her.

“Me too. See you there.”

“You're managing your father’s horses now?”

Jenna bristled. “What horses?” She flinched at the

bitterness in her voice and softened her tone. “All the

owners, except two, took their horses away. The whole

backside knows that. Did you miss that juicy tidbit?”

His intense blue eyes remained fixed on her face for

long moments. “You cut to the chase. I like that. Saves

valuable time. For your information, I don’t gossip, and I

don’t listen to it either.”

Frustration dampened her defensive anger. Saves

valuable time? What was he talking about? She brushed a

stray piece of hair out of her eyes and moved away from

the fence. She didn't have time to play games.
Even

though I'd love to play games with you, Rye,
a wicked little

voice in her head added.

No need to mention she had to rush back to the barn

because she walked her own hots, mucked the stalls, and

did her own grooming. Little happened in the small, self-

contained world on the backside that wasn't public

knowledge. And no matter how much he denied it, she’d

bet her last dollar Rye knew her entire story.

Yes, siree. She was a one-woman band playing in a

hayseed bar. Everyone stood on the sidelines waiting to

see if she'd sink or swim. Probably even placed bets.

Jenna smiled. Her father had taught her well. She

had no intentions of going under.

With a nod in Rye’s direction, she strode toward the

barn area, the heels of her well-worn riding boots digging

into the loose dirt. The sun barely peeked over the trees,

but a flurry of activity already filled the backstretch at

Keeneland Race Track.

A cocky, multi-colored rooster strutted and crowed as

he herded several hens scratching for their breakfast.

Jenna laughed at his futile attempts to mount the hens,

which scattered in all directions to evade him. “Tough

luck, old man. You're losing your touch.”

She couldn't imagine a more demanding or

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backbreaking job than work on the backside, and she

loved every minute of it. The thought of pursuing another

career never entered her mind. For almost twenty-eight

years, the racetrack had been her life. With no mother

and no siblings, she’d soaked up knowledge of horses and

racing from her father as soon as she could walk.

Probably before.

Friends often asked what it’d been like to grow up

without a mother. Jenna didn't have an answer for them.

She’d thrived just fine on the attention her father

showered on her. From the time she could stand, she’d

toddled beside him. Her father had ignored warnings that

his young daughter would get hurt. He’d laughed at their

concerns.

Jenna smiled, recalling a story her father often told.

One morning a groom had found her standing underneath

a gelding. She wasn't even tall enough to touch the

underside of his belly. The horse merely peered at her

between his front legs.

As a rule, thoroughbreds were cautious and patient

with any small living thing. Some horses thrived on the

companionship of a goat or a cat sharing their stall. Jenna

had never known of a horse deliberately, or accidentally,

hurting a small creature wandering in its stall, unless

they felt threatened.

Shaking off her memories, she picked up her speed,

wanting to beat Miguel to the barn. Although many

trainers drove to and from the track to watch horses work

in the morning, Jenna enjoyed the walk.

Ten minutes later, she arrived at her barn just as

Miguel rode in on Rising Sun. She hustled to grab the

horse's bridle.

Miguel dismounted, unbuckled the cinch and

removed the saddle. “Man-oh-man, Jenna. This horse

wanta' boogie.” Steam rose from Rising Sun's flanks, the

smell of horse sweat filling the air. His nostrils flared, and