Ms. Longshot. Sylvie Kurtz

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      “Dish,” I said, hoping to narrow down my list of suspects.

      She shook the halter in her hand and popped over the fence. “Gotta get my horses in before B. Hind barks at me.”

      “Yeah, me too. Which one’s Cielo Azur?”

      Dawn pointed at a small gray horse—in the farthest paddock, of course. “The dappled filly. She’s a bit hard to catch.”

      I scooped out the handful of feed in my pocket. “I brought a bribe.”

      “Good move.”

      “What about the Hardel horses?” I asked. I’d seen Firewall in photos all decked out in show attire, but at pasture, he was just another red horse.

      Dawn pointed out each one, as well as Waldo. “Waldo’s pretty well behaved. Firewall wants to lead and will drag you if you give him half a chance. Trademark Infringement bites and Bay Bridge Bandit kicks.”

      “Hey, thanks.”

      “No problem. Katelyn needs an attitude adjustment. She’s not a team player, if you know what I mean.”

      I didn’t, but nodded anyway to show that I was and prove I belonged in this dead-end job. Dawn tossed a salute my way and trotted toward a group of horses. “Catch ya later.”

      This horse business had me way over my head. Renee must be laughing in her tea, I thought, shaking my head as I made my way to Azur.

      At the sight of someone entering her paddock, the mare popped her head up. Staring right at me, she wrung her tail, did a splendid turn on the haunches and took off.

      Just as I reached her, she galloped off again. I almost had her cornered when I slipped and fell on my butt—on a fresh pile of horse apples, of course. I swear the little hussy smiled as she trotted away. This gray matador was enjoying the game a little too much and I was ready to choke her with the lead line, never mind the fact I couldn’t get close enough to her to accomplish the feat.

      I sat there, too tired to move. Azur studied me and looked disappointed that I wasn’t playing anymore. She bent down, chewed off a bit of grass, then made her way closer to me, bite by bite.

      “I know your type,” I said, thinking of high school and the games girls played there. “You like to bully. But you’re picking on the wrong person. Renee expects me to fail, but I’m actually really good at playing games. And I’ve been doing it a lot longer than you have.”

      Azur’s ears flicked back and forth. Watching her nimble lips parcel out a juicy section of grass and hack it off with her big teeth, I chewed the inside of my cheek. This four-legged, four-year-old with a smaller brain than mine controlled the situation. How was that for irony?

      Horses, being herd animals, have a strong sense of pecking order. Which, come to think of it, wasn’t so different from high school cliques. All I had to do was let her know who was the boss.

      The horse-care book Alan had given me explained about the zones of influence. At first I wondered if I’d gotten my boss-horse signals crossed because Azur didn’t respond, except to walk away, swishing her tail. Then a burst of pleasure exploded inside me as she stopped, then lowered her head, chewing in a sign of submission. By the time I slipped the halter over her receptive head, we both knew I was lead mare and I felt much better about my chances of success as a groom.

      The feeling of elation lasted only until I reached the stable. I clipped Azur to the cross ties in a grooming stall and was attempting to lift one of her feet so I could pick it out when a voice came up behind me.

      “I’ve been watching you.”

      Peering over my shoulder, I looked into a pair of deep brown eyes that were slicing and dicing me as finely as any Cuisinart blade. This couldn’t be good.

      “Excuse me?” I straightened and dumped the hoof pick in the brush caddy.

      He wore old leather boots on his wide feet, brown breeches that had seen better days and a beige polo shirt smeared with horse slobber on the shoulder. Physically, he didn’t look much older than thirty. But something in his eyes seemed to carry the scars of a hard life and shouted, “You can’t touch me.”

      Grant Montney, the trainer. I recognized him from the background file Alan had given me. He had a reputation for being champion of the underdog. He lived in a trailer behind the barn and worked at this center because Patrick Dunhill indulged him in his obsession to fix the broken horses he rescued with free room and board for both horses and man.

      “Who are you?” His voice was as sharp as his confrontational attitude.

      “Ally Cross. I’m the new groom.” To prove my point, I picked up a rubber currycomb and attacked the mud caked on Azur’s coat.

      “Where did you work before?”

      I shot him a look packed with attitude. “Why the third-degree?”

      Azur turned her head as if she found the conversation fascinating.

      “I like to know who works with my horses.”

      “I worked at Applewood Farm for Belinda Carmichael.” Belinda was another of Renee’s agents. I suspected she would have this assignment if she weren’t seven months pregnant. If Hind, or anyone else, called to check up on my references, Belinda would back up what was on the résumé.

      “I know Belinda,” he said with a nod. “Nice girl. What’d you do for her?”

      “Took care of her show horses.”

      “Why’d you leave?”

      “Belinda’s pregnant and decided not to show this year.”

      He eyed me as if I was horseflesh at auction and he’d found a major conformation fault. I prided myself on holding my squirming to a minimum and continued to lift clouds of dust from Azur’s coat.

      “So you’ve prepped horses for the show ring.” Not a question, I noticed, but a fact that if I agreed to I’d probably have to prove.

      “Yes.” Gulp.

      “Braid Azur’s mane for her lesson.”

      Crap. “Braid?”

      He jerked his chin at Azur’s neck. “Give me a dressage braid.”

      Dressage braid. Double gulp. I hadn’t gotten to that part of the manual yet. I’d always paid someone to do the tedious work of braiding for me and I had no idea how to do those button beauties. But I wasn’t a quitter. The last time I’d shown Persephone, she’d worn a running braid. I’d done something similar to my hair often enough to bluff my way through it. No braid was going to lose me this assignment.

      I dropped the brush into the caddy, reached for a mane comb and attacked Azur’s silver mane. His stare was so rimy that my fingers felt as if they were encased in ice.

      “You had a good showing in Florida,” I said, hoping conversation would throw off the pinch of his concentrated stare.

      “I СКАЧАТЬ