Jockeys and Jewels

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

The sun nudged over the eastern ridge with a promise to ease the morning chill. Kurt parked his truck beside the barn. He yawned as he entered, then gathered feed from his tack room and dumped it into his animals’ stalls.

Happy horses gobbling grain always left him content, and he strolled down the aisle, enjoying the sounds. Bleary-eyed grooms carried buckets and pushed wheelbarrows, but there was no sign of Otto or Julie—only grooms immersed in their chores.

A stable hand would be useful, would free up more time for investigative work, and no doubt Sandra could recommend someone. But at this hour his priority was coffee.

The distinct smell of frying bacon drew him to a weather-beaten building close to the oval. A bulletin board by the entrance was crammed with faded race notices, sale announcements and a sign-up sheet for a ping pong tournament.

He pushed open the door and entered a room pulsing with energy, conversation, and kitchen smells. A harried cook wearing a stained apron sold him a coffee, and he snagged a chair at the last vacant table.

The mug warmed his hand, and he took a moment to inhale the steam. Hot and strong. The smell alone prodded him awake. He settled back, content. Undercover work was largely a matter of patience: watching, asking questions and, if needed, prodding. He stretched his legs and observed.

The track community churned around him—exercise riders grabbing breakfast, anxious-eyed trainers planning their horses' schedules and owners chatting in their impractical Italian loafers. It was easy to spot the most successful trainers. They were the ones swarmed with deferential nods, phone calls and clients.

“Okay if we sit here?”

Kurt looked up, nodding at the two middle-aged men standing beside him. The shorter man pulled off his Stetson, exposing a tanned forehead rimmed with white. He dropped into the chair beside Kurt, shoved aside a sticky container of pancake syrup and laid his hat, crown down, on the vinyl table. There was hardly a break in their conversation, a vigorous discussion that centered on Friday's race card.

“So damn wet this spring, that inside post is the kiss of death. I'm betting Bixton’s horse will bounce. Going with Julie.” Stetson Man slammed his mug on the table, emphasizing his opinion.

“Nah, best to go with Bixton,” the second man said. “Jock’s hot. If the horse has four legs and a heart beat, the post won’t matter.”

Kurt focused on Stetson Man. Faded jeans, denim shirt, oversized belt buckle. Probably a rancher. “I met a Julie yesterday,” Kurt said, leaning forward. “Julie West. She’s galloping for me today. Good rider, is she?”

“The best.” Stetson Man spoke emphatically but chuckled when his companion elbowed him in the ribs. “Actually, Julie's my daughter,” he added, “so some folks might think I'm biased. Which I’m not.” His smile faded but his eyes twinkled. “You new here?”

“Yeah. Kurt MacKinnon.”

“Adam West.”

Kurt shook Adam’s hand. Clearly Julie’s mother was the looker. All Julie seemed to have inherited from her father were the man’s astute green eyes, although Adam’s were much shrewder, even cynical.

Best to be careful around this man.

Adam seemed sincere when he spoke. “Julie can ride anything. She has a good feel for horses, especially young ones. Learned a lot on the bush. Lots of Quarter Horses, lots of speed.” His eyes narrowed as he studied Kurt's arms, still tanned from racing in Florida. “You don’t live around here?”