Nan Ryan (20 page)

Wished Kurt’s reason for entering the race was not so he could leave.

Helen closed her eyes and bit down on her trembling bottom lip. She made one last wish.

With all her heart and soul, she wished that the powerful Raider would somehow lose the race.

Kurt led the big stallion into the dark tree-bordered lane. They emerged at the other end and turned north. Toward Spanish Fort.

Kurt didn’t mount his horse. He had no intention of riding his thoroughbred the eight miles into town. He would walk alongside Raider, setting a slow, leisurely pace. It mattered little if he himself was worn out come race time. He didn’t want Raider tired.

He and Jolly had talked it over and had carefully laid their plans last night. Jolly was to be waiting for him at the edge of town. At that time, Jolly would take charge of Raider. The town’s livery wouldn’t refuse extending service to Jolly Grubbs; it might turn down Kurt. So Jolly was to be the one who’d see to it the big stallion was stabled, guarded, fed, watered, and well rested by race time.

Helen waited until eight
A.M.

The sun was high in the sky when she went down to the quarters to wake Charlie. Realizing today would probably be the last one Charlie spent on her farm, Helen was resolved to keep her worries to herself, to make it a happy day for them both.

She knocked softly on the door and spoke Charlie’s name. She went inside, tiptoed toward the bed, and smiled when she saw him, sound asleep, lying on his tummy, hugging his pillow.

Her gaze rested on the angelic-looking Charlie for a minute, then shifted to the empty pillow beside him. The white, lace-edged pillow revealed the deep indentation where a head had recently rested. Impulsively, Helen picked up the pillow and lifted it to her face. She pressed it to her nose and caught the clean, unique scent of the man whose dark handsome head had lain on it.

Inhaling, clasping the pillow to her, she looked at the empty side of the soft feather bed and tried to picture Kurt Northway there. Did he sleep on his back or his stomach? Were his arms at his sides or folded beneath his head? Did he sleep as peacefully as his beautiful son? Or did he toss and turn restlessly?

What did he sleep in? Did he wear a knee-length nightshirt similar to Charlie’s? Or nothing but his white linen underwear? Did the darkness of his broad bare chest and trim waist and leanly muscled limbs contrast sharply with the snowy-white sheets beneath him?

A chill skipped up her spine and Helen quickly placed the pillow back on the bed.

“Charlie,” she whispered, and circled to his side of the bed. “Charlie, it’s time for breakfast.” She knelt down beside him.

A small blond head came up off the pillow. Charlie rolled over onto his side, grinned at her, then flopped onto his back and sat up. Weight supported on stiffened arms, he asked, “The captain already gone?” He had been told that his father had important business in Spanish Fort, that he would be gone all day.

Helen nodded. “Left bright and early.”

Charlie swung his short legs around and slid off the bed, stood there facing the kneeling Helen, his back against the mattress, his short fingers twisting on his nightshirt. “You ’member what you promised?”

Helen smiled and lifted her hands to his tiny waist. “I sure do.”

Charlie squirmed free of her hold. “I get to eat breakfast in the house.”

“That’s right. We’ll eat at the kitchen table.”

“And … and … then …” his eyes grew big and round, “we make gingerbread men!”

Helen said, “This afternoon. We bake cookies this afternoon. First we do our chores. Then after dinner we’ll rest a while, maybe take a little nap, and then we’ll bake the gingerbread men. Okay?”

Helen rose to her feet.

“Okay.” Charlie clapped his hands. “Okay!” Charlie immediately frowned and, racing over to the bureau, he asked, “I got to do this first. Will you help?”

“Sure.” She supposed he wanted her help in choosing something to wear.

But Charlie jerked open the bottom drawer and scooped up an armload of his clothes.

“Wait,” Helen said, smiling tolerantly. “You only need one shirt and one—”

Charlie furiously shook his golden head. “No, see … see, the captain told me to … to …”

“To what Charlie? What does the captain want you to do?”

“To have
all
my clothes together when he gets back,” Charlie told her.

The little boy’s statement jolted through Helen like a harsh physical blow. She swayed on weak legs, sat down on the unmade bed, and attempted to sound nonchalant when she asked, “Why? Did the captain tell you why he wanted you to have all your clothes together?” She held her breath.

Arms wrapped around a bunch of little faded, frayed shirts, Charlie lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t know.”

Helen smiled, nodded, and said, “I’ll help you. We’ll have everything ready by the time the captain comes home this evening.”

She came to kneel down beside Charlie, her hands trembling slightly as she lifted the worn, carefully folded little-boy clothes out of the drawer. When the drawer was empty, when all Charlie’s clothes were stacked together atop the blue-and-white-checked tablecloth, Helen said anxiously, “Boy, I’m starving, aren’t you? Get dressed and let’s go up to the house and have ourselves some flapjacks and ham.”

Charlie started to yank his nightshirt up over his head, remembered his modesty just in time, and said, “You have to turn your back!”

Helen smiled, “I’ll wait for you outside.” She slipped out the door, grateful to have a few seconds alone to fully compose herself.

In seconds Charlie came bounding out the door. He raced up the path toward the house in front of Helen, frantically calling Dom’s name. The Russian Blue, lazily stretched out on the far side of the water well, heard him but calmly waited until Charlie was even with the well. Then the cat came prancing out from behind the well, meowing a greeting.

Charlie spotted him.

Squealing with uninhibited glee, he tore out after the blue-furred cat. Playful, Dom shot away, but soon stopped and waited for Charlie. Charlie caught up. He squatted down, scooped the big tom up off the ground, and rose to his feet, pressing the cat to his chest, Dom’s four paws dangling against the little boy’s body.

Charlie wagged the remarkably docile Dom toward the house while Helen followed, laughing despite her troubles. The lovable Charlie had won even the heart of the independent Dom.

RACING ENTRIES—SIGN UP HERE

The sign was posted above a temporary plank table just outside the fairground’s oval racing track. Groups of men loitered about under the nearby shade trees. The talk was of nothing but the afternoon’s mile-long race. Bloodlines of the entrants were discussed. Side bets were being placed on long shots.

Most of the men agreed it was a one-horse race. Niles Loveless was, for the first time, racing the costly black he’d purchased last spring in Louisville. The four-year-old thoroughbred had been sired by one of the fastest horses ever bred in Kentucky. While a couple of other speedsters with respectable bloodlines were entered in today’s contest, the black looked to be the clear winner.

At shortly before noon Kurt made his way toward the oval racetrack, purposely skirting the busy fairgrounds. Weaving through the growing clusters of men, he ignored the questioning looks he drew and stepped up to the entry table.

A fleshy, pink-cheeked man with bushy eyebrows and sideburns looked up and frowned. “This is Baldwin County, Alabama, Yankee! We don’t want your kind here at our fair around our women and children.”

Loud conversations dropped to a low hum. Then silence fell as all eyes turned on the tall, dark man standing before the table.

“I’m not at the fair with your women and children,” Kurt said. “I’m at the track and I see only men. I’m here to enter my horse in this afternoon’s race.”

Jeffrey Stark, the overweight, pink-faced man behind the table snorted. “You what?”

“I’m entering my thoroughbred stallion in the horse race.”

Stark grinned nastily up at Kurt. Playing to his audience, he said sarcastically, “You may as well go on back to the farm and take your nag with you. You ain’t runnin’ him in this race.”

“The Spanish Fort newspaper said the race is open to anyone,” Kurt reminded him.

“Anyone but a Yankee,” said Stark, and he looked around and laughed. The watching men nodded and laughed and waited for Kurt to turn and leave.

Kurt stayed where he was. “My name is spelled N-o-r-t-h-w-a-y. Write it on your list. I’m running my stallion in this race.”

Stark stopped laughing. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes, he is.” The voice of quiet command came from beyond the crowd.

Heads turned as Sheriff Brian A. Cooper walked through them, stepped up to the table beside Kurt, and repeated the statement.

“Yes, he is,” the sheriff said softly. “Now add his name to the list and let him draw a starting position.”

Stark’s pink face grew pinker. His bushy eyebrows wiggled. “What the hell are you doing here, Sheriff?” he growled.

“Upholding the law,” said Coop laconically. He hooked his thumbs in his low-riding leather gun holster and slowly turned about to face the crowd of men. “Anybody got any problem with another entrant in the horse race? If so, let’s hear it right now and let it be the end of this discussion.”

Nobody did.

But Niles Loveless, arriving just after the incident, was far from happy with this turn of events. Niles stood on the fringes of the growing crowd, surrounded by his minions, frowning with displeasure.

Later, he shot Kurt a look as Kurt passed by him.

Kurt paused, extended his hand, and said, “I believe we’ve met. Loveless, isn’t it?”

Niles reluctantly shook Kurt’s hand. “So you’re going to run that sorrel in today’s race?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Who’s going to ride him?”

Kurt shrugged. “I am.”

Niles chuckled. His hangers-on laughed uproariously. “You’re a little large for a jockey, aren’t you?”

“Raider doesn’t think so.”

“Sell me the sorrel, Northway. Do it now before the race. Before my black beats him so badly I’ll no longer want to own him.”

“Raider’s not for sale, either before or after the race.” Kurt started to walk away. He stopped, turned back, and said, “By the way, Loveless, you have the time?”

Without thinking, Niles reached into his vest pocket for the watch that was not there. He looked up and caught the knowing grin on Kurt’s dark face and his own flushed angrily.

Kurt turned and walked away, chuckling softly to himself.

Teeth gritted, Niles Loveless said under his breath, “Damn that insolent Yankee son of a bitch!”

Chapter Twenty-three

H
elen sat across the kitchen table from Charlie for the second time that day. She listened distractedly to his excited, rambling little-boy talk. And all the while she was wondering where Charlie’s father was this noon hour. Had he found a place that would serve him food? Or would he be forced to go hungry all day? And what did she care if he starved to death?

“Finish your milk,” she interrupted Charlie.

When Charlie had cleaned his plate, he tore away the linen napkin tucked under his chin, and said, “Is it time yet?”

Helen laughed and shook her head. All morning he’d been asking if it was time to bake the gingerbread men. Once again she reminded him of the chores they had to complete before any baking was begun.

“After while,” she told him for the umpteenth time. “Won’t be long now.”

Helen knew how Charlie felt. Much as she savored these final hours together, she couldn’t help wanting the time to pass, the hours to hurry by. But for a different reason than Charlie’s.

She wouldn’t know, until day’s end, whose thoroughbred had won the race. The waiting was enough to drive her crazy. The last thing she wanted was for Northway to collect the prize money, yet she vacillated on wanting Raider to win and wanting him to get beat.

One minute she couldn’t help but consider what a sweet, rewarding victory it would be. In her mind’s eye she could see the mighty stallion flying around the oval track, leaving all the others far, far behind, streaking across the finish line in a blaze of glory.

And Niles Loveless standing there brokenhearted!

The very next minute she would change her mind. Much as she’d like to see Niles Loveless’s thoroughbred get soundly beaten, she would catch herself hoping—praying—that Raider wouldn’t win. If the big sorrel won the race and Northway collected the prize money, he and Charlie would go back home to Maryland. Taking with them any hopes she’d had of holding on to her farm.

Helen grew increasingly tense as the day progressed. She jumped each time the tall cased clock in the foyer struck the hour or half hour.

Twelve noon had come and gone. Helen and Charlie did the dishes. Twelve-thirty. This was pure torture. One o’clock. Helen wished she had gone to the fair. One-thirty. What, she wondered miserably, was happening in town this very minute?

Two o’clock.

The clock in the tall spire of the Methodist church struck two o’clock.

Kurt Northway lounged lazily in a chair tipped back against the wall outside the Red Rose Saloon. The saloon was closed. The town was deserted. Everyone was at the fair. Kurt was alone on Spanish Fort’s silent Main Street.

Full from the big meal he’d shared with Sheriff Cooper and Em Ellicott, he sat in the sun and dozed, totally relaxed, confident that the upcoming race belonged solely to Raider. The prize money was his.

And he knew just what he would do with it.

The day’s warmth and the silence lulling him, Kurt fell asleep with his fingers laced together across his stomach and his long legs stretched out before him.

A carriage rolled slowly down the empty street. A lady was inside. She spotted the lone man on the wooden sidewalk and recognized him. She tapped the top of the coach and ordered her driver to pull over.

Catnapping, Kurt sensed a presence. His eyes slitted cautiously open. Shimmering rose silk filled the entire scope of his vision.