Racetrack Romance BOX SET (Books 1-3) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Bev Pettersen
jammed it back in his metal briefcase, next to his gun and holster. No need to carry the Sig. He hadn’t provoked anyone, not yet. He spun the combination lock and placed the case in his room safe.
A few flexes didn’t help the kinks in his shoulders, so he tossed the truck keys back on the desk. The barns were close, and a brisk walk might loosen some tension.
The motel was a dive but conveniently located. He reached the track’s public entrance in seven minutes flat; however, the doors were locked, the clubhouse deserted. He was forced to circle to the side where a squat guardhouse blocked his way.
He paused by the grilled window and flipped open his trainer’s license. The narrow-eyed guard wore a crisp khaki uniform and was so polite Kurt guessed he was new. He scrutinized Kurt's training credentials, carefully matching photo to face before gesturing him through the horsemen’s gate.
Kurt followed the row of dimly lit buildings to G barn and paused outside the door. It was library quiet, devoid of humans, so he walked down the aisle to Cisco’s stall. The horse blinked and charged the door, ever hopeful for food.
“Not breakfast time yet,” Kurt murmured as he scratched the base of Cisco’s shaggy ears. He’d known a lot of horses, but Cisco was his all-time favorite.
Crack!
The abrupt noise made them both jump. Across the aisle a horse kicked with such force the wall boards quivered. Curious, Kurt approached the stall, but mismatched planks had been nailed over the wire mesh, blocking any view of the stall’s unruly occupant.
Something moved above his head—a dark muzzle snuffling between the top board and ceiling. Nostrils flared, revealing a healthy pink lining.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Kurt said, reassured the agitated horse was okay.
The muzzle disappeared and hooves cracked the planks again, so Kurt eased away. Obviously his presence didn’t improve that animal's disposition.
He continued his sweep of the barn, noting the absence of security cams, then slipped out the end door and onto the graveled lot.
Exterior barn lights cast only a feeble glow, and trailers of assorted shapes and sizes loomed in a murky row. He counted as he walked, five rigs over, one row back. And there it was—the slant load with Montana plates that Connor had described in his last call to dispatch.
Otto Laing’s trailer.
He gave the side door a shake but it was warped and welded shut. He circled to the back, eased two bolts out and lowered the ramp. Creak . The grating metal made him cringe and he paused, but the area remained still, silent except for peeping frogs and the rumble of traffic beyond the river.
He edged up the ramp, groping in his pocket for gloves, bag and flashlight.
The beam of his light revealed worn and jagged interior walls. Something fluttered. He jerked back, his heart racing until he saw it was merely a clump of tail hair caught on a wooden sliver. He tugged the hair loose and dropped it in his bag.
The floor mat was heavy and awkward, but he pulled the rubber aside, breathing through his mouth, ignoring the acrid smell of urine. Ants scurried to escape and, within seconds, vanished into a crevice. He propped the flashlight between his knees and scraped at the exposed crack. Insect eggs gleamed as rotten wood crumbled in his hand. Not much of a hiding place, only a home for ants.
He replaced the mat, careful to press it down in the corners before stepping outside.
There wasn’t much clearance under the trailer, but he dropped to the gravel and squeezed beneath the floorboards. Gravel pricked his back, along with a growing sense of urgency. Still, he checked every inch.
Found nothing.
He sprawled on the cold ground, heavy with frustration, stymied by the unremarkable floor. He’d assumed drugs were involved. That was Connor's specialty, his motive for joining the RCMP, but Kurt simply couldn't see what had prompted him to follow this particular trailer.
Gravel crunched, and the
A few flexes didn’t help the kinks in his shoulders, so he tossed the truck keys back on the desk. The barns were close, and a brisk walk might loosen some tension.
The motel was a dive but conveniently located. He reached the track’s public entrance in seven minutes flat; however, the doors were locked, the clubhouse deserted. He was forced to circle to the side where a squat guardhouse blocked his way.
He paused by the grilled window and flipped open his trainer’s license. The narrow-eyed guard wore a crisp khaki uniform and was so polite Kurt guessed he was new. He scrutinized Kurt's training credentials, carefully matching photo to face before gesturing him through the horsemen’s gate.
Kurt followed the row of dimly lit buildings to G barn and paused outside the door. It was library quiet, devoid of humans, so he walked down the aisle to Cisco’s stall. The horse blinked and charged the door, ever hopeful for food.
“Not breakfast time yet,” Kurt murmured as he scratched the base of Cisco’s shaggy ears. He’d known a lot of horses, but Cisco was his all-time favorite.
Crack!
The abrupt noise made them both jump. Across the aisle a horse kicked with such force the wall boards quivered. Curious, Kurt approached the stall, but mismatched planks had been nailed over the wire mesh, blocking any view of the stall’s unruly occupant.
Something moved above his head—a dark muzzle snuffling between the top board and ceiling. Nostrils flared, revealing a healthy pink lining.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Kurt said, reassured the agitated horse was okay.
The muzzle disappeared and hooves cracked the planks again, so Kurt eased away. Obviously his presence didn’t improve that animal's disposition.
He continued his sweep of the barn, noting the absence of security cams, then slipped out the end door and onto the graveled lot.
Exterior barn lights cast only a feeble glow, and trailers of assorted shapes and sizes loomed in a murky row. He counted as he walked, five rigs over, one row back. And there it was—the slant load with Montana plates that Connor had described in his last call to dispatch.
Otto Laing’s trailer.
He gave the side door a shake but it was warped and welded shut. He circled to the back, eased two bolts out and lowered the ramp. Creak . The grating metal made him cringe and he paused, but the area remained still, silent except for peeping frogs and the rumble of traffic beyond the river.
He edged up the ramp, groping in his pocket for gloves, bag and flashlight.
The beam of his light revealed worn and jagged interior walls. Something fluttered. He jerked back, his heart racing until he saw it was merely a clump of tail hair caught on a wooden sliver. He tugged the hair loose and dropped it in his bag.
The floor mat was heavy and awkward, but he pulled the rubber aside, breathing through his mouth, ignoring the acrid smell of urine. Ants scurried to escape and, within seconds, vanished into a crevice. He propped the flashlight between his knees and scraped at the exposed crack. Insect eggs gleamed as rotten wood crumbled in his hand. Not much of a hiding place, only a home for ants.
He replaced the mat, careful to press it down in the corners before stepping outside.
There wasn’t much clearance under the trailer, but he dropped to the gravel and squeezed beneath the floorboards. Gravel pricked his back, along with a growing sense of urgency. Still, he checked every inch.
Found nothing.
He sprawled on the cold ground, heavy with frustration, stymied by the unremarkable floor. He’d assumed drugs were involved. That was Connor's specialty, his motive for joining the RCMP, but Kurt simply couldn't see what had prompted him to follow this particular trailer.
Gravel crunched, and the
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