Born Of The Bluegrass

The woman had stared back, her hand rising to the bared skin above her breasts. Breasts that promised the taste of life. Her fingers had followed the long edge of her collarbone, lifted to the tender flesh where her jaw and neck met. There they’d rested as if reassuring him she was flesh and blood. Small swallows had rippled her throat as he’d moved toward her. He had put his hand on hers, felt the press of warmth, the flash of need. Fire.

Her name was Danielle DeVries, a debutante up from the Carolinas. She was here for the horses. Everyone was here for the horses. Her knees had swayed at the first touch of his lips to hers.

He was known for his ease with Thoroughbred horses and beautiful women. Many would say this was only one more night of many nights providing pleasure and passion. He would have agreed if he’d also been a curious observer or merely a clever participant. He hadn’t. There’d been no room for wiles. He’d taken her in his arms and was no longer the master of his own fate. He’d been shaken, stunned, and, even now, craving more.

He sat up, fully awake, although his sleep had been little and his drinks had been many. He was content, restless, sated, wanting. Here was the magic they talked about. Who would have thought—a tip of the head, a curve of the neck, a meeting without warning? He would never underestimate life again.

He gathered his clothes, dressed, left the stone and wooden-beam cabin where his great-grandfather used to escape to drink bourbon, smoke cigars and swap stories with friends. The night was also leaving. The moon was a ghost. Still it would be sometime until the sun tinted pink the dew of the world’s richest grass. The tent was standing, but the tables and the pavilion had been cleared of the remains of last night’s party. Beyond rose the big house, white and old South. Reid saw a light in the kitchen, knew the coffee had been put on. But first he would check the horses. Always the horses.

It was quiet inside the stallion barn except for a few snorts, the paw of horseshoes against the straw-covered asphalt. In the distance, Reid heard the night guard’s truck leaving one of the other barns, stop at the next, making rounds. Reid walked down the wide center lane, the memory of the night and the woman still washing over him. He moved toward the far end to a stall on the right, the brass nameplate on the bottom half of its Dutch door inscribed Aztec Treasure. A hot-blooded champion who would have been gelded had his genes not been worth gold. Reid was halfway down the corridor when he heard a low moan. He quickened his steps toward the almost human sound, already murmuring, “Easy, champ. What’s the—”

His calming voice broke off as he met the horse’s eyes, white, wet without tears. His first thought was colic. He went to open the door, frowning when he saw it hadn’t been properly latched. He carefully slid back the solid slab of oak, nicked and deeply indented from the animal’s frequent fits. The horse didn’t rear up to claim his dominance as in the past. He only stared, his flanks heaving, his body trembling. Reid stepped toward the animal, then stopped, seeing the animal’s foreleg held off the ground, dangling at the knee. He stared as if what he saw was not real, only more of the night’s illusion. He felt the sweating horse’s heat, his own heat of shock and fear. Finally he turned. And saw his brother’s crumpled body lying in a bed of softest straw.

Chapter One

Saratoga Race Course

Saratoga Springs, NY

Dani touched a hard shoulder, a broad chest. Her hands were skilled, their touch delicate, her fingertips already knowing what would come. Softness, hardness, heat.

She stared into spiraling depths, dark eyes that drew her…frightened others. Such a complicated creature, this one. All male. Pure passion. Born to win.

She moved, and the eyes followed her. She saw the curve where light and dark met. A roll of white, a confession of what others didn’t see—the colorless vulnerability.

Her lips touched the thin ridge between the watching eyes. A kiss to calm. Her hand caressed. The eyes watched.

“You won’t even let ’em smell your sweat, will you, gorgeous?” The voice could have lulled lightning.

She squatted down, her hands skimming a lean leg. “Tough guy. All day, dreaming only of a fast track, sweet fillies. That’s all you want ’em to see, isn’t it?”

Her hands cupped a twin leg of muscle and power. The proud male head turned. The eyes watched. “Yessir, they like to talk about you. Say you came out of the womb ready to fight, born bad. I say you never stood a chance. They knew who your father was.” She stood, laid her cheek to silk. “Bloodlines.”

She stepped back. “All this time we’ve been together, and still, you’re giving me the show. Acting like you don’t care. Breaking my heart.”

Her hand followed a spine’s curves. “But you’re not fooling me, darlin’. Pretending not to care for nothing except ladies and long shots.” Her hand paused. She leaned in, her voice almost inaudible. “You see I knew another like you.”

She wrapped her arms around the thick neck of her current charge, felt the tremble beneath her cheek, the tremble in her heart. “Don’t worry,” she whispered into the dark softness. “You’ll always be my favorite.”

As she turned to leave, she felt the staying touch at the back of her neck, moving down to her hip. “A gullible girl would think you’re returning the compliment.”

She reached into her front pant pocket for the sought-after peppermint. “I, however, am not so naive.”

She stepped outside the stall, surveying the shedrow. It was the height of August meet, and anyone who was anyone in the Thoroughbred racing world had brought the best of their stables to Saratoga for the month. Twisting the bill of her baseball cap to the back of her head, Dani looked up past the overhang of the unenclosed barn. The dawn mist had burned off to a bright blue that soothed rather than stunned the eyes, the heat comfortable enough to drink a Saratoga Sunrise and not get dizzy.

The horses had been walked, bathed, rubbed and brushed. Legs had been carefully checked for swelling, cuts or abrasions, then swabbed with poultices of medicated mud or iced and bandaged, if needed. Manes had been combed, feet painted, clover tossed into the straw bed and liquid vitamins poured over the second feeding of oats. Morning workouts were a mere memory.

It was past noon, and the air was shifting, becoming keener, closer, a held breath. The Thoroughbreds felt it. The muscles in their impossibly slender legs twitched. Their muzzles reared up, taking deep draughts of the charged air. Post time was coming.

Her chores done until it was time to fetch the evening feed and prepare the night bedding, Dani surveyed the shedrow, her body always instinctively angled toward the red-and-white striped roofs across the street.

A few other grooms sat outside the cinder block dorms, sipping beers, shooting the breeze, looking, too, without realizing it to the semicircle of the grandstand and the clubhouse, ever aware of the hundreds of dreams sitting beneath those wooden peaks. Dreams that could die in a split second today, only to be resurrected tomorrow.

Behind her, Dani heard a voice feminine and falsely drawling.

“Granddad told me the stink in here would smell sweeter than the South in springtime one day.”

Dani glanced over her shoulder and saw the stable owner’s granddaughter, Cicely Fox, breathe in, swelling her bosom as if serving it on a platter.

“But honey, stink is still stink.” The blonde laughed, tossing back her head. It was the movement of purebreds. The jewels in her ears, the gold at her throat and wrists caught the August light as she strutted down the barn’s dirt lane, steadying herself on the arm of her cousin, Prescott.

“Watch where you step,” Prescott advised as he steered the woman to the right.

“O-o-o-o-oh!” Cicely squealed, sidestepping a trail of fresh horse droppings.

Dani’s gaze immediately went to the animals in their stalls. They’d tense at much less than a woman’s whine. She heard rustling as several pawed the straw. One nickered high. Another snorted. It sounded like a laugh.

“You there. You there, boy.”

It was a moment before Dani realized Prescott was calling to her.

“Clean up that mess. This barn’s not fit to walk through.”

Dani grabbed the shovel leaning against the rail, her fingers curling tight on the handle but her “Yessir” automatic. Once her reply might have been less abiding, but once she’d been young and reckless. No more. She knew her place, knew how dangerous it was to pretend otherwise.

“Goodness,” Cicely drawled as she passed, shaking out several tissues from her purse and holding them to her upturned nose. “Such big ol’ beautiful creatures.” Her laughter was breathy, billowing the white cover. “But such big ol’ nasties.”

Moving toward the pile and out of earshot, Dani muttered, “I suppose yours smell like mint julep.” She heard a low chuckle. Her body stiffened. When was she going to learn to be careful? She lifted her head, saw the man in the trainer’s office door, a ghost of a smile remaining on his face as he met her gaze, sent her a silver wink. Her body flinched, seized by surprise. The face she looked at was as familiar as her own.

Reid Hamilton.

She looked away as if a shadowing bill of a baseball cap would save her. She steadied herself on the shovel, feeling his scrutiny, her incredulity. Don’t let him come closer. If he came closer, touched her shoulder, spoke a familiar name, she would have to turn and look at him, the whites of her eyes signaling surrender.

She kept her head turned. She needed no study of this man. She knew that face too well—the high forehead, the abrupt angle of eyebrows, the overall excess of dark charm.

She heard him come near. She focused on a faraway point, her breathing shallow, soundless, willing her body solid again.

“The man’s blind, darling,” he whispered in that soft Southern singsong. She felt his breath warm on her neck. Her head turned without permission. She saw the dark sheen of his crown as he bent over and picked up a cream-colored square from amid the straw and sprinkles of feed.

He handed her the piece of stationery. “I believe this is yours?”

She stared at the invitation in her hand. Saratoga Under the Stars—A Grand Gala. If he’d read the card, he would’ve known it no more belonged to her than the sun suddenly too hot all around her. Yet hadn’t it been a night such as that five years ago? Didn’t she still hear the men’s sighs, their features soft with the last of boyhood, their hearts not yet hardened by disappointment or disbelief? Couldn’t she still see the women’s answering smiles as they’d watched, waited, wrapped in taffeta or silk, their beauty the very beat of the ball. Even now, she saw a young woman, a fine gentleman meeting, dancing, daring to draw close like undeniable dreams.

Dani closed her eyes, closed her heart. Who would think beyond these lowered lids such dreams were spun? Only she knew too well that desires rarely rely on reality. On the contrary, they seemed to delight in pairing the most unlikely alliances.

She opened her eyes, raised her head and met the man’s silver gaze. She shook her head, held out the invitation to Cicely watching them several stalls over.

Cicely stepped closer to look at the card. She unsnapped her purse and looked inside. “It must’ve fallen out when I got a tissue.” She eyed the invitation. “It was on the ground?”