The Secret Heiress. Bethany Campbell

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      He loved the sport, but he had serious concerns about it. Serious enough to make him take action. When he’d been asked to run for the presidency of the International Thoroughbred Racing Federation, ITRF, he’d taken it as a great honor. But an even greater responsibility.

      When he spoke of reforms, he meant reforms. Reforms in breeding, equine safety—and the ugly inroads crime had made into the sport. There were people, powerful people, who didn’t like his ideas, especially about cleaning out the criminal element.

      Mick had kept company with him this week to personally introduce Andrew to the racing set in the Northern Territory. He believed passionately in Andrew’s cause and wanted it clear that Andrew had solid connections to Australia—both family and friends.

      Both men knew that Andrew faced a grueling fight against Aussie candidate Jackson Bullock. Australia was the deciding contest. There would be other elections the same day in smaller Pacific countries, but Australia was where the presidency would be won or lost. Bullock was the favorite here, a native son with longtime ties to the racing community.

      Andrew’s dark brows drew together. “Bullock’s going all out to beat me?”

      Mick’s good-natured face clouded. “Right. He didn’t expect you’d get so much support in Europe. He thought he’d win easy, and now he’s pissed off. Here, he means to dominate you. On his airwaves. In his papers. Through all his media connections. He’ll fight hard. And if he has to, he’ll fight dirty.”

      A deep voice called from behind them. “Misters—can I speak with you?”

      Andrew glanced over his shoulder and saw a dark-skinned man dressed in jeans, a bush shirt and cowboy hat. He was a burly fellow and carried a blacksmith’s anvil as if it weighed but a few pounds. Mick stopped, and so did Andrew.

      “Raddy.” Mick grinned, “I didn’t see you.”

      “I was just inside the stable,” the man said with a laugh. “I came to borrow Barney’s small anvil.” He tucked the anvil under one brawny arm.

      “Andrew, this is Conrad Nakumurrah, best blacksmith in the shire. Raddy, this is my Yank friend, Andrew Preston. He’s running for prez for the ITRF.”

      “Pleased to meet,” said Raddy. He shook Andrew’s hand with a grip appropriately like iron. Andrew feared for his finger bones.

      “Same here,” he managed to say.

      “I heard what you said to Bleak,” Raddy told him. “I like what I heard. You have sympathy for horses. That’s good. You going to my boss’s place?”

      “Dead cert,” Mick answered. He started walking again, and the other two men fell in step on either side of him.

      “My pickup’s parked by your Jeep,” Raddy said. He looked up at Andrew shrewdly. “I heard the way you talk about the animals. Some people—” he nodded back toward Bleak’s stable “—they don’t care for the horses. Only the money. Breed ’em for the long legs until the long legs break. And so forth. You are against such things, right?”

      “Right,” Andrew replied with a sideways smile.

      Raddy cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “You know about the Song Lines? The Dreaming Tracks?”

      “Only a little,” said Andrew. “I read a book about it.”

      “Ha! I hear you talk, I suspect you understand. Australia is part of a song the earth sings. Part of the dream the earth dreams.”

      Andrew smiled and nodded. “Yes. So is Kentucky. Where I come from.”

      “Ha!” Raddy exclaimed again. He turned to Mick and pointed at Andrew. “This is a good fellow, yes?”

      “Yes,” Mick agreed. “He is. But tell me, Raddy, how’s your family.”

      “I have a new child. A beautiful boy child. It is odd you ask about my family.”

      “Why?” asked Mick.

      “Because last night, my wife had a feeling that today something special would happen. She made a charm. ‘Someone will need this,’ she said. ‘You’ll know him when you see him,’ she said. Aha!” Again he pointed at Andrew.

      Andrew blinked in surprise. Mick gave Raddy a dubious look. “I can never tell about you. If you believe this stuff or if you’re pulling my leg.”

      “Maybe I’m doing both at once,” said Raddy, flashing a smile. But he reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a wooden charm. It was a beautifully carved bird with a beak painted yellow, its body black and white and red. It hung on a necklace of red string.

      “Here,” Raddy said, handing Andrew the charm. “Wear this. It will bring you something important. My wife knows these things.”

      “It’s—wonderful,” murmured Andrew, touched, yet puzzled. “What is it?”

      “Put it on, put it on. It will bring change to your life. Because you know the earth sings songs, it dreams dreams.”

      Andrew put the string with the charm about his neck, feeling odd. Did he have the right to do this? But Raddy only smiled more broadly. He swung the anvil into the back of the truck, opened the door and got in. “I will see you later?”

      Mick nodded. Raddy grinned. “Catch you then!” He backed up, changed gears, and drove off.

      Andrew and Mick got into the Jeep. Andrew looked skeptically at the carved charm hanging from his neck. “What’s it mean?”

      “I don’t know.” He glanced at Andrew. “Do you believe all that rigmarole? Song lines and charms and stuff?”

      Andrew shrugged. “What do you think of it? You understand it better than I do.”

      “I’m never sure. Sometimes I think the Aborigines see things we don’t see. They know things we don’t know. I’d treat that charm with respect, if I were you.”

      Andrew fingered it uneasily, then dropped it inside his blue shirt. Beneath the painted wood, his heart tingled strangely.

      At that same moment in the Northern Territory, in the city of Darwin, Marie Lafayette had finished her day’s classes at the university and fought the unusually heavy traffic.

      She weaved and darted on her secondhand bike, moving with surprising speed for one so small. She was barely five foot two, hardly more than a hundred pounds, and although she was petite, her body was toned and muscular.

      Legs pumping, she headed for the Royal Darwin Hospital where her mother lay in the critical care unit. A heart attack had felled Colette Lafayette, her third—and worst—attack in as many years.

      Although it was February and still “the Wet,” the rainy season, today the sun shone, and the clouds were distant. But Marie knew better than to trust the Northern Territory’s fickle weather. She had a secondhand rain poncho in her secondhand backpack.

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