Bow Wave felt frisky and full of run. He snatched at his bit and danced as much as he jogged, a dark grey baby intent only on having a good time. He wanted to run and let his rider know it in no uncertain terms, but Dixie Toliver held him in without mercy, keeping him to a slow, steady jog on the far outside of the Calder track. His hoofbeats thudded in an unsteady rhythm beneath her: thud-thud-thud, thud-thud-bam, thud-bam-BAM.
Other horses were breezing on the rail, slamming hoofs burning with speed, and Wave clearly couldn’t understand why they were running and he wasn’t. He felt like a loaded cannon beneath her, primed, jumpy, and ready to go off at the first wrong touch. Without warning, he slewed from the rail, a sudden thrust of power beneath her, dark mane flaring into her face. Nope, not gonna bolt today. Dixie rolled with his punch, closed her hands on the reins, pushed him back onto the outer rail with her leg, and kept him jogging.
A dark voice whispered inside her thoughts. If I sort of “accidentally” lost control of the colt, that might be a good thing. But she shook her head against the traitorous thought. The trainer’s instructions had been specific.
“Jog him a mile. Now, be careful; he’s pretty hot. Don’t let him break.” Jake Thompson had eyed her openly, quiet mischief and an even quieter seriousness resting deep within his eyes. The barn’s bustle had faded around them as they’d matched stares. “Just warm the baby up, and maybe you’ll ride him in the Fraternity.”
She’d known the crusty old curmudgeon all her life and had ridden for him most of the summer, picking up other rides whenever she could. But the stable where her father worked as assistant trainer was where she felt most at home. Besides, no matter how experienced or perceptive or even extraterrestrially telepathic Jake was or seemed, he couldn’t possibly know her secret, traitorous thoughts.
Not a chance.
A brown-bay streak sped by on the inner rail, an exercise rider huddled motionless on his back. Wave went into another tizzy. Dixie held the reins still against his dancing and snorting, keeping him under control even though her wrists ached against his pull.
That streak had been Refugee, the overnight favorite for the Fraternity, and the hottest apprentice in Florida, Bob Fuentas, who had flown from Tampa Bay Downs to ride him. Dixie humphed and rose in the stirrups as Bow Wave again settled into a steady jog. Bob Fuentas wasn’t so hot. She’d beaten him in the Day Lily, driving Fantasy Queen to a fantastic victory-by-a-nose over his ride, Roses n’ Hearts. She’d done it once; she could do it again.
Again the dark voice whispered in her head. Or maybe Shane will do it this time, if I don’t drive my horse so hard.
No, she wasn’t in the race to let her boyfriend win. She was in the race to take it if she could, place as highly as possible if she couldn’t, and bring the colt home uninjured regardless. Holding Wave in and letting Shane win, no matter how much he and his father needed the money, would teach the colt not to try his best — the exact opposite of what Jake Thompson was trying to teach him.
She wouldn’t do it.
She slowed Wave to a trot as they approached the gap in the hedge that led to the stables. Jake stood just off the track, a stableboy beside him holding the dark grey colt’s cooler. Dixie guided the colt through the gap and halted him on the other side, clear of the path.
“How’s he feel?” Jake asked as she jumped down.
Her feet thudded into the grass, little tingles shooting up from her soles into her ankles and knees. “Energetic.” With one hand she yanked off her Caliente helmet. Didn’t matter; sweat plastered her short brown hair to her head and the mop didn’t move, whether she wore the helmet or not. “He’s ready for the race.”
Whether I really want him to be or not.
No, that was wrong. She wanted Wave to be ready. She wanted him to run and win.
Jake held Wave’s bridle while the stableboy tossed the light sheet over the grey colt’s back. “You know, girl, I think you’re right. Go ahead with him, Miguel.”
Dixie ran a hand through her hair and watched the colt being led away. Wave still pranced, tugging against Miguel’s firm hand on the lead rein; his workout hadn’t even taken an edge off his energy.
“Yep, I think he’s ready.” Jake turned back to the track. “And so are you, Dixie. You’re on him for the race.”
A breeze off the Atlantic teased through her sodden mop, tossing one stubborn curl down to stick on her forehead. She pushed it aside, but it wrapped around her fingers. Maybe she’d been secretly half-hoping Jake would give the ride to one of the other contract jockeys. The empty feeling in her chest, as if she’d pushed aside her heart instead of her hair, seemed to indicate she’d not really wanted the ride. A pair of Thoroughbreds thundered past the gap, a flash of muscle and speed, exercise riders poised motionless over their withers; a second only, then they were past, and only the drumroll of their hoofbeats lingered.
Jake didn’t glance at her, peering through the gap in the hedge as if waiting for something magical to appear. “You know, your dad’s wanted you to be a jockey since you were born.”
True, that. A rush of affection surged through her. “He used to put me up in front of him when walking a horse back to the stable.” Her father had never ridden in races — he’d grown too tall, his weight more than most horses could carry and still compete at speed. But as Jake’s assistant trainer, he exercised some of the young colts and fillies, feeling their motion and behavior as well as seeing it when someone else rode.
So in a way, this wasn’t only her own dream she worked toward. Her father had planned and schemed and dreamed for seventeen years, all her life. And the thought made her chest ache again with emptiness.
No, she couldn’t disappoint her father. Nor Jake.
“He only did that when I wasn’t looking,” Jake said. “And you did beat Bob Fuentas. That was your fifteenth win, right? The Day Lily?”
By a nose at the wire. Fantasy Queen had wanted to win so badly, she’d stuck her nose out in front of Roses n’ Hearts; the photo finish had shown her head, held almost straight out, the very tip of her lips and nostrils looking as if they kissed the finish line at the moment the photo’d been taken. Funny, how something as unmeasurable as that “want to” factor could be so important.
“That was a close race.” She couldn’t stop the grin. “But we beat him.” Fantasy Queen had done most of the work, so Dixie really couldn’t take all the credit for the win.
“But not Shane Batiste.”
A sick wash of shame rolled over her. So Jake had noticed. She’d raced against Shane three times. He’d always won; she’d done no better than third. Did Jake think she was deliberately pulling the horses he trained, letting Shane win? She’d never do that.
But she’d just been thinking it, while jogging Wave. That was different, though. She’d never actually do it.
“He’s just another apprentice.” Her voice sounded high and strained. She cleared her throat. “I can beat him. I just haven’t yet.”
Jake eyed her sideways. “You’ll get the chance in the Fraternity. Mike Batiste just paid the entry fee for that black colt of theirs.” He rubbed his bristly chin. “Word is, he didn’t pay the feed bill. Scraped up his last pennies.”
Her heart sank further, down toward her toes. That was exactly the sort of thing Mike Batiste would do. He believed in that dark colt, the one he’d named Deguello, and he’d do pretty much anything to give the colt a fighting chance at greatness — including using the feed bill money to pay the Fraternity’s entry fee. And with his Southern charm, he’d even convince the feed store to extend his credit for another month.
“Deguello’s good. Wave’s better.” She sounded more steady, but not confident. Nothing could stop her from swallowing. “We’ll win.”
Jake dipped his head in a single nod. “I don’t doubt it.” He walked after Wave and the stableboy, without a backward glance.
Her pulse thudded in the open space left behind by his absence. You. Lose. You. Lose. You. Lose. Dixie turned in the opposite direction. She’d catch a shower and think the situation through while the water washed her doubts away.
Of course she’d tried to win against Shane. She always tried her best. But in those three races, her horses just hadn’t responded, hadn’t fired, hadn’t run their hearts out for her. Maybe they’d felt some secret desire within her. Maybe — somewhere so deep inside her that she’d never actually touched it — maybe she did have a secret wish to let Shane win.
And maybe she’d not feel so guilty over the haunting possibility if Shane and his father hadn’t needed those wins so desperately. Every win brought them a little further out of bankruptcy. Every loss sank them a little deeper.
Deguello was an exceptional colt, well bred, fast, and powerful. He was only a two-year-old, but he’d won all his races in blistering style, lengths in the lead. Shane said the colt would save his father’s stable; he’d told her that night at the club, after he and Deguello had won the allowance race and she’d trailed in third on Bee Complex. They’d danced that night for hours, then splashed along the beach in the moonlight, Atlantic waves creaming over their bare feet. And in the sand…
Dixie blinked and jolted to a stop. Somewhere between the gap in the hedge and the jockeys’ dressing room, her daydreaming had handed her a wrong turn, unless the track officials had moved the showers to the stables. Before her, a row of finely chiseled Thoroughbred heads, ears pricked in her direction, snaked over a row of red canvas stall guards. Worn red canvas, faded and resewn, one with a burlap feed sack reinforcement showing. It had been visible no matter how many times Mike Batiste had reworked the repair job, one more sign of their precarious finances.
In the middle of the row, a big dark colt pushed his nose out and whuffled. Well, even if she was in the wrong place, she couldn’t ignore such blatant begging. Dixie rubbed Deguello’s soft nose, smiling as his lips twitched, nibbling her palm for the treat he expected to be there.
“Sorry, nothing today,” she said. “Just an unexpected visit.”
“Unexpected, maybe.” Shane’s deep voice, flavored with a hint of Cajun sing-song French, stole softly over her skin, the same way the colt tickled her palm. “Never unwelcome.”
His arms, hard from stable work and handling tough-as-nails Thoroughbreds, slid around her from behind. She leaned against his solid bulk, letting her head sink back, and his cheek then his lips brushed against her ear. Her insides shivered in a delicious frisson. He smelled of alfalfa hay, green and wholesome, and the molasses mustiness of sweet feed.
“Your dad talked the feed store guy into another month’s credit, didn’t he?”
Both the lips nibbling her ear and the ones still pushing into her palm paused. His chest quivered against her back, as if he was determined not to laugh. “And what makes you think that?”
She let go of the horse and turned in Shane’s arms. Golden hazel eyes flashed with mischief beneath dark brown bangs. Their faces shared a level, one no taller than the other. No stretching; just the way she liked it. “You’ve been stacking feed sacks and hay.”
“Nose like a fox.” Steel bands tightened around her. “And the rest of you—”
His face drew closer, his darkening lion’s eyes all she could see. Dixie closed her eyes and let herself vanish into his kiss. So strong, so knee-knockingly awesome, he overwhelmed her just by being Shane. Everything that was Dixie seemed to melt away, leaving only her awareness of him and the volcanic eruption he caused within her.
Too soon he drew back. “Pop did it. He found the money. Deguello’s in the Fraternity.” His teeth flashed, part smile, part feral snarl. “We’ll climb out of this hole yet.”
Dixie stiffened. Not a word about Bow Wave. Nor her. Maybe he didn’t know they were in the race.
If he felt her reaction, he didn’t let on. He turned to Deguello, cupping the colt’s black nose and sliding his hands up the narrow white strip to the rowdy forelock. “Look at him, Dix, look at him. He’s gonna save the stable.” Shane flashed another smile, a quick one, there one moment, gone the next, as mercurial as the rest of him and as fascinating. “See it? The look of eagles.”
He’d said that before, several times, and it always aroused a cold moment of uncertainty within Dixie’s chest. The look of eagles — the expression worn by the best Thoroughbreds in history, the ones so good they knew they were good — well, some trainers and punters liked to say a colt who stared off into the distance, like a king surveying his worshipping subjects, such a colt was bound to be a winner, because he already knew himself to be the best.
But she couldn’t believe it. The look of eagles was rightly worn only by racers who’d proven themselves, who’d set speed records, carried weight over distance, driven home to win in the slop, on the grass, on the dirt, at multiple tracks and against all comers. How could a two-year-old colt, who’d never run against other horses except a few his own age — how could that colt judge himself and his own abilities at all accurately? For that matter, how could anyone else?
Besides, whatever expression Shane saw on Deguello’s elegant face — she’d never seen it.
Maybe she’d missed it. Or maybe Shane wasn’t seeing what he thought he saw. Impossible to tell.
But if she told him that, he’d just get mad. And fighting with Shane always made her miserable. It was better to hold her silence, even if he irritated her. Okay, even when he irritated her.
Shane still chattered on. “Winning the Fraternity will put a downpayment toward the Breeders’ Cup Juvenile. And once we win that, then we can pay off all our debts and we’re home free.” He picked her up and whirled her around in the stable aisle, horseheads, planking, shadows all swirling into a surrounding kaleidoscope.
Kind of like her roiling, confused emotions.
Firm ground under her feet. But the world, and her emotions, kept spinning. Even firmer hands, around her waist, tugging her forward, and there was his compact, muscular body, supporting hers as everything stilled once again. Pulse pounding, Dixie clutched his arms.
She had to tell him.
A sudden gentle touch framed her cheeks, guiding her back into his lion’s eyes. “And then I can take you out right and treat you like you deserve.” He kissed her again, a butterfly’s wingstroke across her lips. “Fancy dinners.” Another wingstroke, little more than a breath across her cheek. “Beautiful dresses.” Another, beside her ear. “Nights on the town.” Another, below her ear, and her knees trembling beneath her, her heart thudding, trying to escape. “A box at Churchill Downs next May.”
But she didn’t want dinners or dresses. Dancing was fun, but it couldn’t compete with driving a Thoroughbred home ahead of the pack. She sure didn’t want to watch the Kentucky Derby, sitting on the sidelines and missing the thrill. She wanted to ride in it. And win.
All she had to do was open her mouth and form words, tell him that she’d be riding Bow Wave against him and Deguello, that she’d be doing her best to beat him. A simple action. Not difficult. But her mouth refused to open; the words refused to form. Not with those golden eyes gleaming beneath his slitted lids, sooty bangs falling across his forehead; not while he showered kisses across her cheeks and nose.
Of course he’d understand. He knew she was a jockey, too. It was business, nothing else.
He’d understand.
He would.
Shane leaned back, capturing her in his stare. “And then everybody will see what we see, lady. Everybody will know how great this colt is.” His fingers tightened on her waist. “See? I’ve got it all planned out.”
No. He wouldn’t. The unwanted certainty washed cold fear through her veins, a sudden internal shower that froze her in place. Shane wouldn’t understand. And if she said anything now, she’d start that fight, the one she didn’t want.
Before she could sort through her options, he kissed her again. The stable vanished around her. And she vanished inside. All she could think was one word.
Later. She’d tell him later.
***
Voices surrounded her, an indistinguishable sea of muttering, ebbing and flowing like a tide. A massive crowd pressed against the saddling enclosure railings, the biggest crowd Dixie had ever seen there, pointing, talking, nodding, waving programs and hands in the air. Bow Wave shifted, nervous hoofs beating a sudden tattoo on the packed dirt. Jake held the lead rein and her father tightened the racing girth.
“That is some kind of a crowd,” Jake said. He rubbed Wave’s mottled nose. “Whoa, baby, not much longer now.”
Wave shook off the gently restraining hand and whuffled.
Dad didn’t even glance aside, his chin tilted back and his sharp eyes peering through the bottom of his bifocals at the overgirth and sleeve. “Can you imagine how much money that crowd’s betting?” He stepped forward as Wave pranced, then followed the colt back, his hands firm on the blue elastic, a bright stripe against the yellow saddle cloth that sported a black number four. “If you took all those dollar bills and placed them end to end—”
Florida sunshine poured over them, forming shadows they all stepped on, dripping a rivulet of sweat down her neck and back. But inside she was cold, as if an icebox had crept into her soul.
In the next stall over, Shane had finally turned his back to her. But she could still feel the weight of his glare. It had lasted for a long minute, while Mike Batiste muttered to his son with an expressionless face, big deft hands straightening Deguello’s bridle, settling the saddle, checking the wraps on the colt’s hind legs. Mike had glanced at her once, a tight and unhappy glance from worried eyes, then he’d returned to the colt.
Jake snorted. “I can’t imagine that crowd betting with dollar bills. Whoa, baby, whoa, Wave, steady. Now, fives, tens, or twenties—”
She had no reason to feel guilty. She wasn’t responsible for the Batiste family’s financial hardships. It wasn’t her job to make their dream come true. Even if all it would take was a discreet tug on Wave’s reins, disrupting his stride at the right moment and letting Deguello tear into the lead.
No. She wouldn’t do it. Never.
A weight settled onto her shoulders. She didn’t need to look: Shane was glaring at her again. Well, he could just glare at her back for a while. Even if it spread that freezing numbness from her chest down her arms to her hands, down her abdomen to her knees. She’d freeze to death in the Florida heat before she’d deliberately pull a horse.
“Fifties, even.” Jake quit trying to hold Wave still and eased back, letting the lead rein dangle between them. “Hundreds. Now, if you placed them end to end—”
Dad snorted. “—then it might be worth our while to go find that line of bills.”
Wave whickered and surged forward. The grey colt danced, then snaked his nose around—
—and pressed it into her belly.
Astonished, Dixie wrapped her arm around Wave’s big chiseled face, holding him close and rubbing the velvety hair beneath his chin, the grey nylon noseband chafing the back of her fingers. His mesh hood crinkled against her powder blue silks, one blinker cup pushing against her cheek. Those big liquid eyes stared into hers, then they closed and he sighed, leaning against her as if handing her all his problems, as if he trusted her to take care of everything. Moist breath warmed her waist, thawing that horrible numb coldness, leaving behind a shattered remnant of her.
Trust. The colt trusted her to take care of him. To see he came to no harm. To bring him home the winner.
Dixie closed her eyes and leaned against Wave’s head, her heart full and breaking.
***
The bell clanged and the starting gate doors flew open. Wave plunged onto the dirt track, reaching for his stride. What remained of Dixie’s heart leaped into her throat at the sudden power rolling beneath her, surrounding her, thundering everywhere. Hoofbeats shattered the air, louder and more insistent than any garage band, and the crowd roared.
The announcer’s voice spoke above it all. “And it’s Whip Stall and Anything Once taking the early lead, a neck back to Starfighter, Deguello and Bow Wave another length back, and Refugee in sixth…”
Dixie’s mind ticked over the race like a machine. Four furlongs: a half mile, stretching before them down the straightaway. No turns, no need to fold over to the rail. But the early leaders, two bay colts, folded over anyway, and suddenly Wave checked as churning hindquarters filled the space before them. Clods of dirt flew into their faces; dust boiled. The crowd’s screams roared louder.
She had roughly forty-eight seconds, at the speed those lead colts were driving. Easy-peasy for Wave; he could rip past them without working at it. But it left no time for interference. She’d take Wave to the outside. She gathered the colt with the reins — and paused.
The dark colt, Deguello, raced beside her, matching Wave stride for thundering stride. Shane, wearing the green Batiste silks, rode with ease, moving in the stirrups and rocking on his knees. If she started her move now, she’d leave him behind; there was nowhere else for Deguello to go. He’d have to follow Wave’s hoofprints to the outside, and only then could he run his race.
Was she ready to leave Deguello, and Shane, behind?
Dixie too rocked with her horse’s strides, balancing over the colt’s center of gravity. Half the race gone, and she hadn’t yet tapped his reserves. The crowd roared; the announcer’s voice traipsed through the last few horses, those running behind the pack, then returned to the front runners. “Whip Stall has opened a half-length lead over Anything Once, who’s moving to the outside—”
And quick as a cat, Shane surged on Deguello’s shoulders, green silks dancing, his riding whip flashing. Whipped twice, the dark colt drove between the leading bays. One stride, two, before Dixie woke from the surprise and booted Wave, opening her right rein and taking her colt outside the tiring Anything Once. Hoofbeats pounded, one unidentified set tracking her on the right, a distinct cadence through the screaming voices. Wave skimmed over the bay colt’s heels. The flying clods of dirt fell away, nothing but open track in front of them, only Deguello flying past the leader and barely a saddle cloth’s width ahead.
Why was it fine for Shane to leave her behind, if she couldn’t leave him?
She ignored her racing bat, rode Wave with her body, his pounding rhythm more thrilling, more satisfying than any dance. More speed, more, her rhythm driving his, and Wave flattened his ears, shoved out his nose, ran faster yet, galloping stride for stride beside Deguello in a furious race for the wire. Still plenty of horse beneath her; no need to hit him, just flash the bat past his nose—
But her hand refused to move, refused to swing the bat in the signal that would drive her horse home. Shane cracked his whip down again, yet again, but Deguello ran no faster. Sweat flew from the dark colt’s shoulders; had he nothing left to give? One swing, that was all she needed—
A brown-bay flash on her outside, that set of hoofbeats tracking Wave’s path thundered louder, and Refugee roared past Wave, past Deguello, and took the lead from them both. Without any conscious thought, Dixie’s hand flashed the bat. Wave responded, forging past Deguello, digging into the track, and driving ahead to meet the challenge. Bob Fuentas peeked beneath his left arm, sharp brown eyes glinting in the merciless sunshine. His glance swept over her and he went for the whip, smacking Refugee twice.
But Bow Wave was flying at a speed Dixie’s instincts couldn’t comprehend. Inch by inch he moved up, cutting into Refugee’s half-length lead with every stride he took. Fifty feet from the wire, Wave thrust his nose ahead of Bob Fuentas’ girth; at twenty feet, he surged up beside Refugee’s bridle. Another surge, muscles straining in the crowd’s crescendo, and Wave drew beside Refugee and they plunged beneath the wire side by side.
Dixie rose in the stirrups, releasing Wave from the magical speed spell and easing him to a hand gallop, letting him stretch out around the turn. The bay colt, Refugee, matched their pace, a steady drumroll beside them. Those sharp brown eyes met hers, dancing with mischief, and dirt stained Bob Fuentas’ grinning face.
“Second time.” He eased Refugee to a canter and without thinking, Dixie closed her hands, slowing Wave and staying beside him. “That’s the second time you’ve done that to me. Pushed a race to a photo finish.”
Without thinking, Dixie huffed. “And your point is?”
Bob’s teeth flashed, white against his tan. But rolling hoofbeats cut off his first word, then a big dark colt galloped past them.
She didn’t look. She didn’t need to. Shane’s fury held weight and mass, a physical presence that diminished with distance as he rode Deguello ahead.
No, he didn’t understand, didn’t want to. He wanted her to be his woman, not a competing jockey, and if her reality didn’t meet his desires, he pushed it aside and ignored it. It wouldn’t have mattered if she’d explained her dilemma to him that day in the stable aisle, or if she explained it every time they raced against each other. Shane couldn’t stand for her to compete against him. He couldn’t stand for her to beat him.
And before Dixie had a chance to even ask herself if that was the sort of relationship she wanted — before she could even finish thinking the thought, her own anger rose in her chest and shoved aside the hurt.
Shane could go to—
“Something happening here?”
She’d forgotten Bob’s presence. But their colts still jogged together along the rail, the crowd in the stands applauding as they passed. The tote board lights read photo finish, and the order of finish for first and second places were blank; Shane and Deguello’s number five showed in third.
Dixie paused before answering. It was too embarrassing to sound whiny in front of Bob Fuentas. Especially because she’d almost certainly ride against him again. “Nah, nothing important.”
And as Shane and Deguello vanished from the track, she realized that was true. If he couldn’t compete, then she didn’t need him, even if he left an empty, aching hole in her heart.
“Good,” Bob said. “Does that mean you’ll go out with me tonight?”
She stared at him. But while mischief and something like a dare flickered in his glinting eyes, he wasn’t smiling or laughing.
Dixie closed her hands and drew Wave to a walk. Within the second, Bob slowed Refugee, keeping the two colts together. They sauntered down the backstretch. Wave snorted and tossed his head.
“You want to go out with me? Since when?”
He shrugged, an exaggerated motion, cool and casual. “Oh, since forever,” he said, and something revived, started dancing inside her. “But I didn’t want to cause any problems or—”
Suddenly the crowd roared. Together they whipped around, toward the tote board. The photo finish numbers were up. Dixie didn’t try stopping her victorious yell.
In the ferocious cheering, she couldn’t hear Bob’s words. But she could read his lips. “Second time. Second time you’ve done that to me.”
And his grin matched hers.
-30-