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  Voices faded in and out, stirring Jenna to

  consciousness.

  “...admit her?”

  “...waiting for test results...depends on...”

  “Police want to question...”

  “...have to wait.”

  Admit her? Test results? Police? Where was she?

  Were these people talking about her?

  A strong scent of antiseptic stung her nose, bringing

  tears to her eyes. Something tightened on her arm, almost

  painfully so. She struggled to open her eyes. Bright lights

  sent a stabbing pain through her skull.

  “She's waking.”

  The familiar voice soothed her fears. Mr. Heartthrob,

  Rye Cameron. What was he doing here? Where was ‘here’?

  A hand curled around her wrist. “Jenna, this is Dr.

  Haynes. Can you hear me?”

  She groaned, turning her head into the pillow to

  escape the light.

  “You're in the hospital emergency room.”

  Hospital? The memory of the night of her father’s

  heart attack flashed through her mind. “The lights,” she

  whispered. “Please shut off the lights.” She swallowed and

  winced at the raw soreness in her throat.

  Footsteps tapped across the floor. Once the lights

  dimmed, she squinted at the two men standing by the

  bed. “What happened?” she croaked.

  The doctor leaned close and peered into her eyes with

  a pencil-like light. “You don't recall?”

  She shook her head, and then remembered. Her

  stomach tickled her tonsils at the memory of a man

  hanging from the ceiling, his tongue protruding

  grotesquely. Her eyes widened in terror, and she opened

  her mouth to scream.

  “Dead Heat is full of twists and turns with murders

  and suspicions running galore and Ms. Champagne kept

  me on the edge of my seat throughout the book. I surely

  did not see the final twist! Well done Pam!”

  —5 Hearts, Linda Bass, The Romance Studio

  Dead Heat

  by

  Pam Champagne

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and

  incidents are either the product of the author’s

  imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

  to actual persons living or dead, business establishments,

  events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Dead Heat

  COPYRIGHT © 2007 by Pam Champagne

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or

  reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written

  permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in

  the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or

  reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

  The Wild Rose Press

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Crimson Rose Edition, 2007

  Print ISBN 1-60154-125-2

  Previously released by Triskelion, 2006

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my mother for standing behind me no matter which

  path I choose to follow, and special thanks for her

  support during my racetrack days.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Jenna tightened her grip on the binoculars as Rising

  Sun barreled down the homestretch. Two furlongs to go.

  Just thirteen hundred feet. The adrenaline rushed

  through her blood straight to her head.

  “Way to go, Miguel!” she screamed and punched her

  stopwatch. “Great ride.”

  Miguel stood in the stirrups to slow the thousand

  pounds of muscle beneath him and gave her a thumbs-up

  as he galloped by.

  Pride threatened to burst the buttons on Jenna's old

  white blouse. She danced in a circle. “Yes! I knew it, I

  knew it.” Rising Sun would be a new star in the

  thoroughbred world. And he belonged to her!

  If only her father were alive to share her joy. Jenna

  raised her gaze to the blue sky. Dad, I know you’re

  watching. Every racetrack needs an angel or two. You’d be

  perfect for the job. I couldn’t have done it without you.

  “Super horse,” someone drawled from behind. “Faster

  than a speeding bullet.”

  A shiver slid down her spine. She didn't need to turn

  around. Rye Cameron's husky voice oozed sex appeal. The

  Kentucky drawl provided the icing. Women on and off the

  racetrack wove fantasies around him. Jenna was no

  exception. The fact that he was a well-known rogue only

  enhanced the attraction.

  God. Had he seen her dancing around like a wild

  woman? How embarrassing. She turned slowly. This

  morning, the shadow of a beard added extra aura to his

  rugged face. As if he needed any help in the good looks

  department. Windswept black hair curled over the collar

  of his faded denim shirt. He sauntered closer and leaned

  against the fence with a nonchalant grace. He gazed at

  her from beneath long dark lashes. No man should have

  eyelashes like that.

  Rye owned one of the largest racing stables in

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  Pam Champagne

  Kentucky, as well as a successful breeding farm. What

  possible reason could there be for him to seek her out?

  “Thanks.” She finally managed to squeeze out a

  word.

  “Still a maiden?”

  “What?” she squeaked. Christ, Jenna. He’s talking

  about Rising Sun. Heat rushed to her face. “For the

  moment. I’m looking to change that status.”

  “What’s his breeding?”

  “Rising Tide’s his sire. Bet It All, the dam.”

  His brows rose.

  Jenna grinned. “Not very impressive, is it? You’ve

  probably never heard of either one.”

  “You got that right. I have to be honest.” Rye turned

  his attention back to the track and Rising Sun. “His

  conformation’s not that great either. I'd say all he’s got

  going for him is speed.”

  Jenna didn’t take offense. She’d heard the same

  thing many times. “That’s the way it looks. Except for one

  important detail. This horse’s heart is huge, and his will

  to run is like no horse I’ve ever seen.”

  Rye shifted his position to face her. “I’m impressed.

  Most horsemen don't have the ability to see an animal’s

  heart.”

  “I knew it the moment we made eye contact,” she

  said, remembering how she'd zeroed in on Rising Sun at

  the yearling sale. “Let’s just say it was love at first sight.”

  Jenna pretended to watch the track while peeking

  out the corner of her eye at the man beside her. The rough

  calluses on his hands proved he wasn't afraid of hard

  work. People said he pitched in and pulled his weight

  around the barn. As an owner, he didn’t have to do that.

  Most owners never lifted a finger. A muscle in his cheek

  twitched slightly. Because he was nervous or just a

  normal trait?

  “I'm sorry about your father, Jenna. I admired him—

  both as a man and a horseman.”

  His condolences came as a surprise. To her

  knowledge, Rye and her father hadn't been that friendly.

  To hear him say he admired her dad stirred emotions. She

  blinked back the tears pricking her eyes. “He’d just

  turned fifty-five. I didn't expect...” Jenna closed her mouth

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  Dead Heat

  before she blubbered.

  In unspoken agreement, they turned their attention

  back to the track as Miguel galloped Rising Sun by them.

  “I’m headed back to the barn,” the jockey told her.

  “Me too. See you there.”

  “You're managing your father’s horses now?”

  Jenna bristled. “What horses?” She flinched at the

  bitterness in her voice and softened her tone. “All the

  owners, except two, took their horses away. The whole

  backside knows that. Did you miss that juicy tidbit?”

  His intense blue eyes remained fixed on her face for

  long moments. “You cut to the chase. I like that. Saves

  valuable time. For your information, I don’t gossip, and I

  don’t listen to it either.”

  Frustration dampened her defensive anger. Saves

  valuable time? What was he talking about? She brushed a

  stray piece of hair out of her eyes and moved away from

  the fence. She
didn't have time to play games. Even

  though I'd love to play games with you, Rye, a wicked little

  voice in her head added.

  No need to mention she had to rush back to the barn

  because she walked her own hots, mucked the stalls, and

  did her own grooming. Little happened in the small, self-

  contained world on the backside that wasn't public

  knowledge. And no matter how much he denied it, she’d

  bet her last dollar Rye knew her entire story.

  Yes, siree. She was a one-woman band playing in a

  hayseed bar. Everyone stood on the sidelines waiting to

  see if she'd sink or swim. Probably even placed bets.

  Jenna smiled. Her father had taught her well. She

  had no intentions of going under.

  With a nod in Rye’s direction, she strode toward the

  barn area, the heels of her well-worn riding boots digging

  into the loose dirt. The sun barely peeked over the trees,

  but a flurry of activity already filled the backstretch at

  Keeneland Race Track.

  A cocky, multi-colored rooster strutted and crowed as

  he herded several hens scratching for their breakfast.

  Jenna laughed at his futile attempts to mount the hens,

  which scattered in all directions to evade him. “Tough

  luck, old man. You're losing your touch.”

  She couldn't imagine a more demanding or

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  Pam Champagne

  backbreaking job than work on the backside, and she

  loved every minute of it. The thought of pursuing another

  career never entered her mind. For almost twenty-eight

  years, the racetrack had been her life. With no mother

  and no siblings, she’d soaked up knowledge of horses and

  racing from her father as soon as she could walk.

  Probably before.

  Friends often asked what it’d been like to grow up

  without a mother. Jenna didn't have an answer for them.

  She’d thrived just fine on the attention her father

  showered on her. From the time she could stand, she’d

  toddled beside him. Her father had ignored warnings that

  his young daughter would get hurt. He’d laughed at their

  concerns.

  Jenna smiled, recalling a story her father often told.

  One morning a groom had found her standing underneath

  a gelding. She wasn't even tall enough to touch the

  underside of his belly. The horse merely peered at her

  between his front legs.

  As a rule, thoroughbreds were cautious and patient

  with any small living thing. Some horses thrived on the

  companionship of a goat or a cat sharing their stall. Jenna

  had never known of a horse deliberately, or accidentally,

  hurting a small creature wandering in its stall, unless

  they felt threatened.

  Shaking off her memories, she picked up her speed,

  wanting to beat Miguel to the barn. Although many

  trainers drove to and from the track to watch horses work

  in the morning, Jenna enjoyed the walk.

  Ten minutes later, she arrived at her barn just as

  Miguel rode in on Rising Sun. She hustled to grab the

  horse's bridle.

  Miguel dismounted, unbuckled the cinch and

  removed the saddle. “Man-oh-man, Jenna. This horse

  wanta' boogie.” Steam rose from Rising Sun's flanks, the

  smell of horse sweat filling the air. His nostrils flared, and

  his sides heaved. “Had a hard time keeping him under

  wraps. If he'd gone longer than three furlongs, I wouldn'ta

  been able to hold 'im.”

  “Thanks, Miguel. He's almost racing fit. I plan to

  work him six furlongs out of the gate before he runs

  though.” Jenna propped the saddle over the rail and

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  Dead Heat

  grabbed the halter off the hook. “I'm checking the

  condition book for two-year-old maiden races. If I can't

  find one I like, I'll either wait ‘til he's three or run him

  this year with three-year-old maidens.”

  Miguel took the halter from her hands. “I'll hold him

  for ya.”

  Her cheeks burned with embarrassment at Miguel's

  offer, but now was not the time for pride. “Thanks. I'd

  appreciate it.”

  “I'm sure you have other places to be, Miguel.” Jenna

  tensed at the familiar voice. “I'll help the lady.”

  Rye Cameron had followed her? What the hell was he

  up to? She wanted to confront him. Common sense told

  her not to make a scene.

  “Sure thing, Mr. Cameron.” Miguel tossed the halter

  into Rye's outstretched hand. “Catch y'all later. Jenna,

  give a holler when ya need me.” Miguel walked away and

  then looked over his shoulder and winked. “That horse

  rides like a Cadillac. Not like some of those Jeeps I've

  been on recently.”

  Jenna laughed and waved. She controlled her

  curiosity about Rye’s purpose for following her and

  concentrated on work, ignoring the flares of

  embarrassment that scorched her. When she removed the

  bridle, Rye's deft fingers slipped the halter over Rising

  Sun's muzzle. With precision movements, she threaded

  the chain of the shank through the brass eyes of the

  halter and placed the leather end in Rye's outstretched

  hand. The whole process took no more than ten seconds.

  She had to admit they worked well together.

  Soaking the sponge in the pail of warm sudsy water

  she'd prepared before going out to the track, she stood on

  tiptoes, squeezed it over the colt's head and stepped back.

  On cue, Rising Sun shook his head, sending a shower of

  soapsuds in all directions.

  “Very funny.” Rye chuckled, soap dripping down his

  face. “But you won't get rid of me that easily. It takes

  more than soap and water to scare me away.”

  “What do you want?” Jenna worked fast, washing the

  horse, cleaning under his belly and the inside of his legs.

  A few buttons on Rye's shirt were undone. She tried not to

  look at the dark curly hair on his chest.

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  Pam Champagne

  “It can wait until you're done.”

  She tossed the sponge in the empty bucket. Picking

  up the hose with one hand and a large metal scraper with

  the other, she sprayed the dark bay horse, and then

  scraped off the excess water.

  Without another word, she grabbed the shank from

  Rye’s hand and began walking around the shed row for

  the thirty minute cool down. Rye leaned against the rail

  and with each pass, his intense stare burned her back.

  Rye Cameron's reputation for breaking hearts

  followed him from track to track. She’d heard the rumor

  that a well-known trainer had caught Rye messing

  around with his wife and threatened to shoot him. Who

  knew if it were true or not? Jenna couldn’t care less. The

  man’s reputation for getting what he wanted scared her.

  Until she knew the reason for his friendliness, she’d put

  herself on high alert. What if he wanted Rising Sun? That

  might be it. He'd seen the workout this morning. Now he

  wanted the horse. The thought made her sick. No way.

  Jenna would sell herself before she'd sell this horse.

  Thirty minutes later, Rising Sun stood in his stall

  munching hay while she brushed his dappled coat, picked

  his feet and then packed them with cooling mud. She

  knelt and checked for heat in his knees or ankles. Finding

  none, she gave each leg a five-minute rub with alcohol

  and wrapped all four legs with protective bandages.

  By the time she’d hung the feed tub, filled the water

  pail, removed his halter and shut the webbing, she'd

  worked herself into a frenzied state. She was more than

  ready to face Rye Cameron and demand some answers.

  He was gone. Probably for the best, she thought,