PRETTY FRAUDULENT

At 3:00 A.M., heat lightening splintered the dark skies over Maryland’s Laurel Park Racetrack. Inside his stall, Sunny Days paced, apprehensive, receptive to a realm unknown by humans.

A man gripping a short, heavy pipe entered the barn. Horses raised their heads, nostrils flaring at the stranger moving along the stable’s dirt aisle. The intruder shoved his way through a stall gate, pausing to study his victim.

The racehorse snorted. His eyes rimmed white, legs scuttling in a backward dance as he retreated to a corner. The man tightened his grasp on the metal pipe and lunged at Sunny Days.

I entered the Jockey Club at Laurel Park, journeying back to a world grown distant since Ed’s death. I’d pushed through the web of grief that morning, fixing myself up for the first time since my husband’s funeral almost seven months earlier.

Ahead, my friend Kate Perkins lounged at a table, a martini glass at her lips. A man, partially hidden by a vase of blood-red roses, sat nearby. As I moved past a table of bettors poring over the Daily Racing Form and skirted a crowd studying simulcast monitors, I felt the low hum of gamblers’ tension.

A waitress hurried past with a tray. The almost forgotten scents of beer and whiskey, mingling with sliced citrus trailed behind her. I closed my eyes a moment. How Ed and I had loved our before dinner drink. Keep going, Janet.

“Janet Simpson, meet Greg England. He knows everything about horses.” Kate sounded excited, as if she’d just won a prize. Her head, with its tight perm and pink designer glasses, bobbed in bird-like animation.

The man behind the roses came into focus. Immediately, I understood Kate’s enthusiasm. So attractive. Young, maybe thirty-five. Blond, wide-set blue eyes, laugh lines around a full mouth. Something stirred in me, and for a moment the weight gained during the years with Ed bothered me a little. My fingers brushed the knit collar of my gray silk suit, a flattering piece. Why had I worn such sensible shoes?

Greg rose, offering a chair. Kate pushed a racing program across the table, her diamond bangle-bracelets clinking, refracting light like Fourth of July sparklers. “How fortuitous, running into Greg,” Kate said. “You’ve always wanted to own a racehorse, Janet. Greg’s your man. He’s in the loop. Buying horses at the Timonium sale next week. For important clients.”

“I’m an agent,” he said. “I can pick out a good horse for you, arrange for a trainer.” He paused a beat. “Whatever you need.” His direct gaze was friendly, his smile so infectious I surrendered and smiled back. A prominent, aquiline nose lent him character, making the term “pretty boy” not quite fit.

“You should have fun, Janet.” Kate’s head nodded in affirmation of her own opinion. “Buying a young horse will give you a reason to get up in the morning. You need one.”

I took a breath. “I’ve wanted a racehorse since Alysheeba won the Kentucky Derby, but my husband wasn’t interested.”

“He was too tight to spend the dough,” Kate said. “Now it’s your money.”

I stiffened. Kate’s wealth came from the rich husband who’d abandoned her for a younger woman. Even so, I didn’t like her bitterness spilling onto Ed.

Greg caught my tension and rolled his eyes slightly as if saying, “What can you do.” He flagged a waiter, asking what I’d like to drink. “How’d you two girls meet, anyway?”

“We took the same poetry course and wrote terrible poetry about horses.”

“Terrible,” Kate said.

Greg pulled a card from his tweed jacket. “I hear you’ve had a rough time. Probably, you don’t want to make snap decisions. Think about it. Call me. I’d like to help you out.”

I considered Greg’s offer while drinking a ginger ale, picking at a shrimp salad, and watching Kate’s bay mare finish third in the fifth. By the time I left, I’d decided.

* * * *

A groom led the roan filly into the early October sun. A white paper pasted on her hindquarter identified the horse as Number 229 in the Fasig-Tipton sale of Thoroughbred yearlings. She looked pretty, but what did I know about conformation, let alone pedigree? At least a dozen animals had paraded before me. One more word from Greg about the shape of pasterns, line of the shoulder, or set of the hock, and my eyes would glaze over.

“It’s a lot of information, but I’ve done the homework for you. Picked out some runners.” His fingers slid across my wrist. “You’re a trooper, Janet. You’ve got class. You should have a classy horse.” His smile touched me, warm and lazy. “Let me get some coffee and those oatmeal cookies you like.”

Perched on a white bench in the warming sun, I wished Greg didn’t stir me up so much. I’d called him about a horse. He’d taken me to dinner, a wonderful evening. He’d been so thoughtful, so interested, his attention like a sliver of hot sun piercing a crack in a dusty blind.

Time for a mental head shake. I was uncertain about the horses and wouldn’t mind more input from Kate. We’d talked on the phone earlier, and I’d asked her the obvious question – what’s in it for Greg? Kate explained he received a five percent commission.

“Of course,” she’d continued, “the more expensive the horse, the more money he gets. But his reputation is top-drawer. Let him make the decisions. He’ll find you a winner.”

No problem. I’d been raised to rely on men. I studied the horses, barely a year old, led by grooms in khaki pants and caps. The yearlings glowed with health, their manes silky, coats buffed to a high sheen. Glistening hooves suggested pedicures were much in vogue at horse auctions.

A young woman in jeans and leather boots sat on the end of my bench. She placed a large, leather case on the ground and withdrew a long-lens camera. She clicked buttons, rotated the lens, and waited. When a group rounded the corner of a nearby barn, an agent rushed to meet them. He snapped his fingers, and a groom hustled over with a lead shank.

The camera girl rose, shooting pictures rapidly. She focused on a man, his tall frame stooped and sagging. Gray hair, weathered face, and gnarled fingers spoke of life in the elements. He wore and old jacket and English tweed cap. With him stood a man and two women dressed in designer clothes, their hands glittering with diamonds. A horse appeared for their inspection, and the photographer captured the scene, frame by frame. Satisfied with her pictures, she sat down.

I smiled at her. “Should I know who that is?”

“He’s like a Hall-of-Fame trainer, three Kentucky Derby winners, this year’s Preakness winner. He’s awesome.”

“So he knows how to pick a winner?”

“Major understatement. Major. Got to go. Good luck.” The girl grabbed her bag, trotting after Cushman and his well-heeled entourage.

Greg returned, carrying a cardboard box with coffee and cookies. I grinned. He had my number and didn’t mind playing it. But wasn’t this business. Greg just doing his job? I bit into an oatmeal cookie, thinking about Golden Drawer, the colt Greg touted. The horse was a head turner, his copper coat and brilliant white socks promising riches down the road. Greg insisted Golden Drawer’s pedigree eclipsed most at the sale. Said I could get him for around $40,000. A lot of money. Did the colt carry the potential Greg saw in him?

“What do you think, Janet? I’m leaning toward Golden Drawer. You have a pick?” Greg’s glance brushed my face like a caress.

God help me for thinking it, but if I bought the horse, Greg would stay in contact with paperwork, the selection of a trainer, and…who knew?

“Let’s go for Golden Drawer.” My words brought a rush of excitement. I couldn’t wait to get into that auction pavilion.

“Great?” he said. “You won’t regret it.” His mouth eased into a slow grin. His fingers closed around my wrist, the squeeze brief, but startling. “I’ll meet you in the pavilion, day after tomorrow, when the sale starts.”

He wanted to walk me to my car, but he made me too giddy. “Maybe I’ll look around a little more.”

Greg blinked once, then smiled. “If you see something you like, just let me check it out.”

Nodding, I headed for some different barns, relieved to mosey along at my own paces. Not easy, keeping up with Greg’s youth and forceful energy.

The nearest wooden barn sparkled with fresh paint – gold, red, and white. Bright placards hung outside the stalls, advertising the horses within. Red and gold mums stuffed white planters. The dirt aisles were dampened with water to subdue dust. The scent of wet earth hung in the air. Clearly, the right image attracted money.

A groom paraded a nervous bay colt for two buyers. A cell phone shrilled, causing the colt to rear until almost perpendicular on his hind legs. He twisted, came down, legs churning, ripping the lead from the groom’s hands. A half ton of horse with metal-shod hooves headed straight at me. I scrambled backward.

A hand grabbed my arm and jerked me to the side as the horse flashed past, a blur of warm air. Off balance, I fell against the man who’d helped me. Unmoving strength. The hand on my arm steadied me and pushed me upright.

I turned and saw the weathered face of the trainer who’d so impressed the camera girl. A twitch lifted the corner of his mouth.

“Thanks,” I said. “I usually try not to fall on strangers.”

“Better you fall on me than under that young hellion.” He stuck his hand out. “Leonard Cushman.”

I told him my name, feeling the same hard strength in his hand. Figured him for at least 70, yet his eyes were clear, his voice gruff, but strong.

“You all right?” When I nodded, he said, “Shopping or selling?”

“Oh buying. I think.”

The fractious colt, now bug-eyed, charged past us with the frazzled groom struggling to hold the lead shank.

“I don’t want one like that.”

“He’s not happy,” Cushman said. “They gotta be happy.”

“Happy? I thought you need pedigree and conformation.”

Cushman snorted. “These people take their X-rays, shove scopes down wind pipes, stare at legs till they’re cross-eyed, and never even look for the horse’s heart.”

“You mean they should X-ray his heart?”

Cushman threw me a pitying glance. “How long you been in this business?”

“Would you believe a week? I think I need help.” Instinctively, I liked this guy. At tough old bird, his face reflected humor and kindness.

“You do need help. Not usually one to hand out free advice, but you…” His voice faltered a mini-second. “You remind me of a gal I used to know. You got spunk like her.”

His eyes appraised me. “I can see you’ve got pedigree and good legs and all, but you didn’t spit the bit when that colt tried to run you down just now. Showed me heart. You need that in a horse.”

He paused a beat. “Course, I look for pedigree, straight legs, clean airways, and all. But it ain’t much without heart.”

Somehow Cushman imparted more knowledge in two minutes than I’d gotten from Greg in two weeks. “Mr. Cushman…”

“I ain’t that old and you ain’t that young. Call me Leonard.”

“Sure. If I do get a horse, would you…train it?” Where had that come from?

“Depends on the horse. What are you looking to buy?”

I opened my catalog to Golden Drawer’s Hip Number 322. Leonard stooped over further, squinting at the page.

“You don’t want that horse.”

“I don’t?” Disappointment flooded me. I’d been so sure the dam’s expensive pedigree would impress.

“His sire, Gold Ring,” he pointed a knobby finger at the printed information on Golden Drawer’s father. “Fast as hell. He liked to break on the lead and stay to the wire. But things had to go Ring’s way. He got boxed in down on the rail or bumped hard, he’d spit the bit. Most of his foals inherit the speed and the chicken heart.”

I grew quiet. My lack of experience in this business overwhelmed me. Leonard’s mind reached beyond the printed page, poking into past performances and family characteristics; searching for the elusive quality he called “heart.”

“What do I want?”

Leonard pulled a pen from his tweed jacket, took my catalog, and paged into it. He studied a moment, then wrote down hip numbers on the inside cover.

“Look at these horses. See one you like, go ahead and get it. They’ve got my number in the Laurel Racing office. Call me. Nice meeting you, Janet.”

As the afternoon shifted toward evening, the activity around the barns slowed. The air cooled, and I shrugged into the black sweater I’d stuffed in my tote. Leonard’s four hip numbers were different from Greg’s picks, the agents’ names unfamiliar. Time to check them out.

The first two were attractive bay colts, but uninspiring. Did I need inspiration? The third horse, a gray gelding, pinned his ears and tried to bite me when I got too close. Not him either. Maybe I should stick with Greg.

Dusk settled on the barns. The scent of summer grass and sweet molasses rode the evening air as grooms replenished hay and scooped grain into feed tubs. They shut wooden doors over the wire stall gates. In the remaining open stalls, yearlings hid in the back, avoiding appraising eyes. I peeked through some gates, surprised to see a wrinkled exhaustion about the yearlings’ eyes. I headed to see Leonard’s last pick.

The barn has a single light shining from an office at the far end. Hurrying along, I took a bad step, stumbled, and dropped my program. I leaned over, grabbed it, and straightened. A chestnut head with a white blaze materialized over the stall door beside me.

This horse was so perky! Big, wide-set eyes with lashes like a girl. The yearling leaned toward me, eyes curious and bright with intelligence. Nostrils snuffled me. I stood there with a pink velvet nose pressed into my shoulder and fell in love.

“You wan me bring her out?” A slim Latino male had appeared and waited for my answer.

Her. Of course. Eyes like that could only belong to a female. I hadn’t come to look at this horse. With something like heartbreak, I said, “Actually, I’m looking for Hip Number 77.”

“You want the filly, papa is Platinum, mama is Pearl Drop?”

When I nodded, he said, “Is this one.”

“Really? Bring her out.”

The filly pretty much led the groom from the stall, looking around with great interest, as if she had places to go and things to do. I found her bold and beautiful. Thought maybe I’d name her Platinum Pearl. Knew she was the one.

* * * *

The next day, I sat opposite Kate in a red leather booth. Behind her pink lenses, tears spilled from her eyes. Her words reduced the noisy Laurel restaurant to a background murmur.

“I don’t know how he could have injured himself so horribly. His fractured leg was so severe the vet had to put him down. Greg told me this morning.” Kate’s tight perm dipped as she dug into her purse for a tissue.

She’d bought the horse recently, never had a chance to see him run. Now he was dead. I closed my eyes. Hard to escape death.

Something bothered me. “So your trainer didn’t tell you?”

“No Greg handles everything for me, so of course, he’s the one that made the call.”

“Anybody know what happened?”

“Greg didn’t say. But, bless him, he made sure I had an insurance policy.” Her voice caught. “I don’t care about the $70,000. I just want Sunny Days back.

Our waiter rushed at us, plunking down the whiskey and vodka we’d ordered. Beer mugs for another table dripped white foam onto his tray. Around us, ice rattled in glasses, silverware played on china, and the chorus of conversation swelled.

I hadn’t tasted my vodka yet. It would be my first drink since Ed’s death. I’d been so afraid of becoming one of those sad widows who rely on a bottle, I’d avoided the stuff. Unconcerned by such thoughts, Kate reached for her whiskey and took a long sip.

“I saw Sunny Days two days ago, fed him peppermints and carrots. This is really hard.” The pain in Kate’s voice was palpable.

Our waiter reappeared. Kate asked for another drink saying she wasn’t hungry. I ordered a salad, wondering if Kate drank too much. Relied too heavily on Greg.

“So did you and Greg buy Sunny Days at a sale?”

“Greg purchased him privately. Had him vetted for me, took care of the insurance.”

“He makes it very convenient, doesn’t he?” I wanted more involvement. There’d been too many years where first my father, then Ed, made the decisions for me. Why shouldn’t I research the horses? Reach my own conclusions?

“I don’t know what I would have done without Greg,” Kate went on. “So concerned about me, and sweet.”

I wasn’t the only one succumbing to Greg’s good looks and flattering ways. “Kate, was Sunny Days a good horse? Did he win many races?”

“He was still a maiden.”

I might not know much, but five seemed old to have never won a race. “A five-year-old maiden?”

Uncertainty clouded her face.

“Kate, if you want to get back on the horse, so to speak, there’s a couple I might bid on tomorrow. Maybe we could go in on one together?”

Kate swallowed some whiskey. “I like the idea. But I’d still want to hear what Greg thinks.”

* * * *

The next morning, I stood beside the sandwich counter in the back of the sales pavilion while waiting for Kate. A concrete floor with theater-style seating sloped down to a small, dirt-filled sales ring. During the two-day sale, the yearlings would be led inside, one at a time, and sold to the highest bidder. A tall, wooden stand for the auctioneers rose behind the ring.

Close by, a full bar dwarfed the sandwich counter. No doubt the sales company favored customers with money to burn and a fondness for alcohol. I envisioned Kate raising her glass, raising her hand. Maybe I should do the bidding.

Greg emerged through a side door near the bar. No denying my physical rush of excitement. That blond hair, the narrow waist, those long legs.

His face lit with pleasure. “Morning, dear. Ready to bid on Golden Drawer tomorrow?”

“Absolutely. Unless I buy Number 77 today.”

His charm faltered. “I don’t remember us looking at 77. Have you got the right number?”

“Yes. An adorable filly I found late the other day.” A vague reluctance kept me from mentioning Leonard Cushman.

“Janet, your enthusiasm is admirable, but ‘adorable’ won’t cut it.” His voice was tight and sharp.

I took a half-step back, staring at him.

He softened, placing warm fingers on my arm. “Janet, this is a tough business. I just want to guide you.” His voice caressed, and an electric response jolted me. I felt…young.

I took a breath. “I’m still interested in Golden Drawer. Who’s to say I can’t buy two horses?”

He paused and looked away for a moment, turned back, his blue eyes warm and amused. “I know better than to get in the way of a beautiful woman and what she wants.”

My face felt warm. Get a grip. Surely he wasn’t interested in me that way.

“Let me take a look at her for you. I can help with the bidding.”

“Great,” I said. But I’d found her, not Greg. Almost wished he’d butt out. My heart had responded to this filly, and bidding wounded exciting. I remembered Ed’s enthusiasm for buying real estate, closing a deal. I wanted to experience that high, yet I knew Greg expected me to yield on this. I forced a smile, told him I’d wait for Kate, and watched him leave to examine the Platinum filly.

Customers wandered into the pavilion, reading posted ads, snapping up handouts strewn on metal tables, greeting acquaintances. I found a quiet corner and pulled out my cell, punching in Leonard’s number. His rough voice reached my ear, and I told him I liked Number 77.

“You looked at them all? She’s your first pick?”

“Yes, I kind of fell for her.”

He paused a beat. “So did I. She’s special. You saw it, too.”

“I’m going to bid on her.” When had I decided that? “You’ll train her?”

“Yes, ma’am. You ever bid before?”

“No.”

“Shysters out there’ll bid a horse higher than it’s worth. Pick your price, stick to it. Keep a poker face.”

“What would you pay?”

“I wouldn’t go more than $30,000, but I think you can get her for less.”

I felt keyed up. “I want that filly.” Enthusiasm sharpened my tone.

“You stay calm. Don’t let that auctioneer push you. No reason you can’t slow the bidding. Ask a spotter if the numbers get confusing.”

“Spotter?”

A pained silence. “The guys on the floor that take bids. Don’t be afraid to ask if the bid on the floor is yours or somebody else’s. Otherwise, you might bid against yourself.”

“Oh.”

“Let me know how you make out.” He disconnected.

Kate waved from the bar. Her pink fur vest matched the ruff on her short boots. As she joined me, I tried not to gawk at the enormous pink diamond on her right hand. I almost felt sorry for her ex.

I waded in. “Greg’s looking at that filly I told you about, by Platinum. Do we really need his approval to buy her?”

She frowned and pursed her lips, so I explained about Leonard. She remained dubious.

I shrugged. “Greg loves this colt named Golden Drawer.”

“That’s the one. I’ll go in on him.”

Greg returned with a frown on his face. “I didn’t like the filly, Janet. I know this business. That is not a horse you’ll do well with. Trust me. There are better horses here.”

Kate sidled up to him, drawing him into conversation.

I eased away, my disappointment evolving into annoyance. I surprised myself and marched into the sales office where I arranged for credit. I felt defiant and liked it.

Leaving the office with lighter steps, I moved outside the pavilion, stopping abruptly. Greg stood in the parking lot in conversation with a man. The guy was thin, wore a ponytail and black cowboy boots. His hand gestures were sharp.

Greg’s usually generous mouth was compressed, his eyes dark and narrow. Their voices were too low to make out the words, but their tension came through loud and clear.

Greg spotted me and looked away. The other man stared, his face gaunt and unhealthy. He spun his pointed boots and moved off between some cars. When Greg turned back, his “pretty” face was in place.

* * * *

Hanging in the back of the sales pavilion, I tried to keep a low profile and concentrate on the auction. Another yearling skittered into the sales ring, staring in apparent terror at the bright lights and mob of humans. The microphone blared, the colt whinnied frantically, his groom working hard to keep him moving in a controlled circle.

The auctioneer’s voice cracked like a whip, driving the bidding to a frenzied pace. Hard enough to follow the rising dollar amounts. The rest of the man’s chant sounded like gibberish. Without warning, his rhythm slowed.

“I have twenty-four, five. Do I hear twenty-five thousand?” He looked around the room. The spotters gave their bidders a last hard stare. The hammer dropped. “Twenty-four, five.”

The horse moved out, and the auctioneer began touting the next entry, Number 75. How had that happened so fast? My filly was practically next. I felt the touch of someone’s stare. There, down near the sales ring, Greg’s eyes. On me. I pretended I hadn’t seen him. Wished he hadn’t walked in.

“Hip Number 76 is out,” the auctioneer said. “Hip Number 77 is the chestnut filly by Platinum, out of Pearl Drop. Who’ll give me $2,500?”

Oh, my God. With a rush of adrenalin, my heart hammered to the auctioneer’s rising song. Tentatively, I raised my hand. A spotter caught the movement, and his eyes locked onto me like heat-seeking missiles. My bid whirled away into the vortex, and the price shot up to $15,500, then hesitated. I raised my hand for $16,000. The bidding flew to $18,000 and stalled again. The next call sounded final. I nodded at the spotter. Seconds later, the hammer dropped, and the auctioneer said, “$18,500, to the lady in the back.”

* * * *

I handed Kate a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and sank gratefully into the Lincoln Town Car’s heated leather. The early morning carried a damp chill, making the scent of fresh coffee and warm fried pastry irresistible. As Kate organized napkins and cups, my thoughts slid to the previous afternoon.

I’d arranged for the filly’s transportation to a training farm, then struggled through a “wish-I-could-tell-Ed” reflex. Mostly, I hadn’t been able to shake this weird feeling about Greg. A half-formed idea had uncoiled in my head and I hoped it was way off base.

I glanced at Kate. “Why does Greg push so hard for his picks? If he’d bid on the Platinum filly, he’d still have gotten five percent. Right?

Kate swallowed some coffee. “Yes.”

“Then why didn’t he? Feels like there’s something extra attached to his picks, like he’s got a side deal going.”

“No. Your imagination’s working overtime.” Kate’s finger’s tightened around her Styrofoam cup, popping the lid off. Coffee splashed over the edge.

Outside the fogged-over windshield, the morning traffic clogged York Road. Beyond the snarl of cars a chain-link fence rose, the pavilion looming behind. Barns in the distance stirred as yearlings appeared for inspection by early-bird shoppers.

I turned back to Kate. “Greg’s so determined to sell us his Golden Drawer. Something feels off.”

“He doesn’t have some kind of deal going. It would be unethical.”

I let that hang in the air a beat. “I saw Greg in the parking lot with a man who looked like a thug. A real creep. Why would Greg do business with a guy like that?”

Behind her thick lenses, Kate’s magnified eyes widened. “Greg might not even know the man. It’s probably one of those unsavory characters that ask for money. A drug addict or something.”

Maybe she was right. Yet… “Don’t you ever feel Greg’s a little too smooth and glib?”

Kate’s gaze slid away from me. “What do you mean?”

“He’s almost like a con artist, Kate. I’m going to tell him I don’t want Golden Drawer.”

“Oh.” Kate still fooled with her napkin. “I don’t want to buy without a partner. Could you tell him I’m out, too?” The frayed paper fell in pieces from her hand.

* * * *

We found Greg in the Pavilion near the Fasig-Tipton sales office. Kate hung back a few steps as I moved toward Greg. His face brightened with that lovely smile. “How are my girls this morning?”

“Fine.” Nerves tightened my throat. “Greg, we’ve decided not to buy Golden Drawer.”

A frown shadowed his face, replaced by a tight smile. “We’ve come so far together.” He stepped closer, and smiled at Kate. “Don’t get cold feet now. You’re missing a fabulous opportunity.” He placed a hand on her shoulder, and she all but fluttered.

I needed to get her away from him before she caved. Her eyes had that hungry baby-bird look.

“Afraid we’ve decided, Greg. You’ve been so generous with your time. It’s much appreciated. We’ll be back in the future.” Felt like I was babbling. Maybe because his stare had turned so cold.

I tugged at Kate’s hand, encouraging her to leave with me. Outside the auction pavilion, some friends waylaid her, and Greg emerged, walking past me without a glance. Apparently, I’d become invisible.

I took a breath. I’d go see my filly once more before she shipped to the farm. Maybe her happy nature would lighten my mood. Kate’s too. After her friends drifted into the pavilion, we headed for Pearl’s barn. I spotted the white blaze. As we drew closer, her ears ricked toward us, nostrils widening.

Someone stood near her head, and it wasn’t her groom, Juan.

“That’s the guy who was with Greg.” Drawing closer, I could see his arms were stained with reptilian tattoos. Was he wearing a rubber glove? Holding a hypodermic syringe? I surged forward, Kate on my heels.

“Hey,” I called. “What are you doing?” I broke into a jog. The guy glanced at me, annoyed, like maybe I was a gnat. His thumb moved to the syringe’s plunger, his other hand snaking to the filly’s halter.

“Don’t touch her,” I yelled.

“God. What’s he…” Kate’s voice wavered behind me.

A man burst around the far corner of the barn. Greg. He sprinted toward the tattoo guy. “Dean. What the hell you doing?”

The guy jerked toward Greg. “You said these women was buying into it. I was getting the money. These women don’t want your golden horse.”

Greg’s cheeks spotted red. He edged closer to Dean. “Shut up.”

“Shouldn’t have cut me out of that other deal. I took care of that Sunny horse for $500 and you get $70,000? That’s bullshit.”

Kate’s breath sucked in. “Seventy thousand?” She clutched my arm. “That’s what Sunny Days was insured for.”

Dean howled with laughter. “Think you’re gonna see a penny of that, lady? Shoulda read that policy Marty here got for you. Have you met Marty Gregerson?” He gestured at Greg. “Also known as England Gregwin. When this boy leaves town, he’s gone for good.” Dean appeared high on something, out of control. “Man, you find the dumb ones, Marty.”

“I said shut up!” Greg grabbed for the syringe.

Dean snapped it back toward Pearl. “Got your prints all over,” he said, waving the hypo at Greg. “You’re going down, asshole.” A sick smile distorted his lips. He turned, grasped Pearl’s halter, and swung the needle at her neck.

I threw myself at Dean as Greg kicked him in the side of one knee. Dean and his snake tattoos went down, the syringe flying into the dirt. I ended up on my hands and knees and scooted sideways to get away from Dean. Juan appeared, shouting in Spanish, and two more grooms ran toward us. Dean lurched to his feet, his expression suddenly wary. He took off running.

I wanted to know what was in that syringe. I reached for it, but Greg beat me to it. He grabbed it, bent the needle in half in the heel of his shoe and made the syringe disappear into his pocket.

Platinum Pearl spun in her stall, a small tornado. Juan slid inside, crooning and soothing. Kate helped me to my feet.

I turned on Greg. “You’re scum. What? You kill horses for insurance money?”

Anger twisted his face to an ugly mask and I backed away. He darted forward and caught my wrist. It hurt.

“Listen, bitch. Think I like sucking up to you old women?”

Rage boiled in my stomach. My free hand swung back, flew forward, and slapped his face. I’d never done that before. It stung. Greg dropped my wrist and pressed his hand to his cheek. He looked more shocked than angry.

Next to me, Kate’s voice broke. “You used me…took my money.”

My jaw felt tight enough to crack. “How much money have you ripped off? How many dead horses…”

“You can’t prove anything.”

“I bet the insurance company can.”

Greg’s bravado ebbed, the color draining from his face. He eased away, disappearing around the corner of the barn. I couldn’t hold him till the cavalry arrived and I wasn’t an avenging angel type. Kate could file a police report. Let the insurance companies and legal system have a go at him.

I exhaled a long breath. Heard Kate crying. Pictured Sunny dead.

Greg would shed his name again and set up shop somewhere else. Kill more horses. Leave other women feeling old, foolish, and discarded.

No. I’d find a way to stop him.

I never did like a pretty boy.