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By the end of July, Triple Crown fever had been replaced by yearling sale excitement.
The rich and famous stood elbow-to-elbow with those barely hanging-on. All of them gambling by bidding on young racing prospects, tossing thousands, even hundreds of thousands of dollars, into the wind on speculation. Buying horses yet to wear a saddle and making decisions based on everything from the educated opinions of successful agents and horsemen, to favorite colors or the number of white stockings a horse had.
Angie checked herself out as she passed the mirrored wall in the hotel lobby. High-end casual. Not a look she was used to, but it worked for her cover as a fledgling reporter looking for a big story—so she could impress the magazine’s owner who happened to be her uncle, sort of.
She grimaced at the amount of leg exposed between the hem of the sundress she’d borrowed from her sister, and the strappy heels. No more skin than anyone would see if she was barefoot in cut-offs, but that was at home. This was different, and the flirtatious display fit her personality about as well as the push-up bra and heavy makeup.
Stepping out of the cab at the sales pavilion, she glanced around. Now this had potential. Similar to hobnobbing at the Derby a few months ago, she could almost smell the money.
Money and bluebloods. A heady combination for the uninitiated, which she wasn’t.
Horses stood like shining statues while catalogue-toting buyers circled them, checking out their legs, feet, the width of a forehead, the set of the eyes. Brass nameplates decorated supple leather halters and lead shanks. Hooves shone with what looked like oil or clear nail polish.
Enormous hopes and dreams were pinned on these youngsters, and the gavel wouldn’t be falling until at least six figures lit the board—she’d done her research. Today would be a game of high stakes and real dollars. Not an arena for the casual gambler.
Million dollar babies would be loaded into vans, bound for a new life, and conditioning with the classic races in mind. Some of the colts could become famous sires one day, commanding huge fees for their services. Others—according to Quinn—would be gelded, unworthy of the breeding shed, though still running hard for small purses until they were too old or too sore to compete.
She picked up a catalogue, squared her shoulders, and worked her way between the barns, stopping now and again to look at a horse being shown or to chat to someone.
Standing beside a woman wearing an ivory-colored suit, Angie said, “Beautiful filly. Such a look in her eye.”
The response was a shrug. Ah, yes. Players wouldn’t want to give away their interest.
Angie strolled along, stepping out of the way as a colt with a number five hanging off his halter was led into the sun. She studied the couple viewing him. They made notes and spoke quietly, as though trying to hide their excitement, but it was there, under the surface.
Angie flipped open her book. Hip number five was the second foal of a stakes-winning mare, by a stallion with earnings over three million dollars. No slouch. She made a note on the page and moved on.
Someone finally approached her with an outstretched hand.
“Dick Franklin,” he said. “I know your face from somewhere. Probably the Turfland Club?”
“Angela,” she said. “I haven’t been to the club in years. Perhaps you’ve met my cousin.”
“Ah. Well, nice to meet you, Angela.” His smile widened to show an array of nicely whitened teeth. “Have you seen anything you like?”
She barely stifled a snort at the tacky double-entendre. “Yes, but I’m not shopping.” She winked. “I’m here to do a piece on the sale. I’m a journalism major working for my uncle’s magazine and tired of being on the bottom rung. You must be an agent. Any juicy tidbits you can share?”
He studied her for a beat or two. “Gossip or horses?”
“Anything story-worthy.”
Sliding a well-manicured hand into his pocket, he said, “I might have something later. Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll call you tomorrow. We could meet for lunch.”
Another snort nearly escaped her. “That was a wedding ring I saw on your hand, wasn’t it?”
His easy smile didn’t make it to his eyes. “I wear it so women don’t hit on me.”
“Nice trick. Why don’t you give me your card, Dick, and maybe I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Leaving the slime-ball behind, she continued, enjoying the smell of clean wood shavings and lemony fly repellant while trying to ignore the dust beginning to coat her exposed toes.
“Well, look what the leprechauns have left me.” His Irish accent had none of the melody she usually found appealing. She ignored him.
“Ah, she’s a shy one.” Thomas Brady matched her steps.
She glanced over as though surprised. “Hello.”
“She speaks. And to me,” he said, placing a hand on his chest.
“And who would you be?” she asked without slowing down.
“The man you’ve been looking for.”
One eyebrow went up. “Get real. You’re twice my age.” And if you are the man I’m looking for, you’re in a bucket-load of trouble.
“Oh dear, I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood my intentions. I simply meant I have a horse you should look at. He’ll go for less than he’s worth as the paper behind him seems light. But he’ll retire a millionaire, guaranteed.”
Angie smirked. “Guaranteed? No such thing in horse racing.”
“As close to it as you can get, barring a plane falling from the sky and landing on him. And—”
“I’m a reporter, not a buyer, but I’m hearing a story. One I can build on as his career unfolds. Show me this remarkable steed.”
“Wait right here and I’ll have him brought out.”
He scooted inside, and soon a young man came to the doorway with a dark brown horse and waited while another groom wiped a soft cloth over a hide already gleaming like a fine piece of mahogany. After comb was run through the mane and tail, the bright-eyed beast was led out to the viewing area, followed by Brady.
“Hip number four-twenty-seven. Pick of the litter, so to speak.”
“He’s lovely.” Deep chest, long in the shoulder, neck, and hip. “And going to be huge.”
“Probably mature out to nearly seventeen hands. Sire’s that big.”
“Nice and correct, too.” She made notes on the catalogue page.
His gaze sharpened. “I thought you were a reporter.”
“That’s why I boned up on sales and what to expect. Can’t write a good article if you don’t understand the subject. I could do a piece on him and run it by my boss.”
“Well...”
His hesitation drove her to push the auto button—the one guaranteed to work. “Or, one on you, as a breeder. The highs, the lows, how you deal with unrealistic expectations.”
He opened his mouth as if to take exception to that comment, but she forged on.
“Do you have time now? For a personal interview?”
“Not many buyers here yet,” he said. “I suppose I could spare you a few minutes.”
“Good. Let’s start with your full name and where you’re from.”
“Thomas Michael Brady. From Dublin, originally, but now residing here.”
“In Kentucky?”
“In the Thoroughbred capital of my world.”
Recognizing the side-step he’d made, she changed direction. “What’s the name of your farm? Might as well get a plug in for your business.” She flashed a tepid smile.
He handed her a business card, the same as the one he’d given them on the farm tour.
“You own this operation?”
“No, I was brought in to save it from foreclosure. The owners inherited the place, but had no clue what they were doing. I’ve now turned things around completely.”
“How so?”
“Look at this colt for example. I was the brains behind his pedigree.”
Gotcha in the first lie, jerk.
One of her fortes was numbers, and these didn’t add up. The colt was more than a year old, plus eleven months or so for gestation. When she’d stood in the tour group with Jake in May, Brady had said he’d only been at the farm for a year, so no way in hell could he be responsible for a mating more than two years ago. Well, unless there were more lies to uncover.
“So on behalf of the owners of the farm, you made the decision to breed hip four-twenty-seven’s mother and father?”
“Exactly. I have full control so I can work the place back into a viable business.”
“And have you done the same for other farms?”
“Yes.” He puffed up. “Four of the major players represented at this sale are only still in business because of the work I did to save them. They were ready to fold, all of them. I nursed them back into shape and made them powerful once again.”
“Can you tell me which outfits?”
He named four farms she’d seen listed in the catalogue. Thanks to the concealed microphone she wore, Jake would be doing research as they spoke.
“I’m impressed.” But not for the reasons he was thinking. “Are there any horses you’re particularly proud of?”
“Too many to name.”
“Just give me a couple. It will lend credence to the article. Could even make it go viral.”
Brady blinked once, twice, and backed away, rubbing his palms together ever so slowly. “I’ve obviously made a mistake here. Got caught up—” His gaze dropped to her chest. “I’ve broken a promise, and I’ll have to retract my statements. I signed confidentiality papers with those farms.” He grabbed for her phone.
She switched hands, but he latched onto her arm, fingers digging in painfully. “I’ll erase that part when I get back to my hotel.”
“Do it now.” His grip tightened.
Her voice was low and lethal. “Take your hand off me before I rearrange your anatomy.”
He twisted just enough to take his groin out of the line of fire and his hold loosened slightly, allowing her to jerk free. But as she stepped back, he came forward, and got into her face. “You’ll regret crossing me.”
“Be very, very careful, Mr. Brady, or I won’t feel quite so certain about what parts of the interview you want erased.”
He sneered. “You’ll be dust under my boot if you print names in that article, missy.” His Irish accent was non-existent now.
“Threats don’t sit well with me, Brady.”
“Little girls should be careful who they play with.” He disappeared into the shadowy shedrow.
Never one to miss an opportunity, Angie kept the audio and video running on her phone, and followed him. Recorded him storming down the alley between stalls. Watched when he used a sharp and vicious jab on a horse innocently reaching its nose toward him.
She clamped her jaw and muttered, “Oh, yeah. You’re exactly what I thought you were.” She called the hotel and talked to Jake.
“I’ll have to patch things up with this moron tomorrow, so I need to post an article about him that he’ll love. Can you get someone to work on it for me so he’ll be my new best friend in the morning?”
“Yep. And a message from Quinn, stay away from Brady for the rest of today.”
“No worries, I’ll steer clear. The others on my list are on the far side of the grounds so not much chance of bumping into him again.” She hoped.
“Perfect.”