Dark Horse by Black J. Carson

Author:Black, J. Carson [Black, J. Carson]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Breakaway Media
Published: 2011-01-19T04:30:00+00:00

“He was tall?” asked Derek Blue.

“Real tall,” Lucy said. “Maybe six foot three. And he had broad shoulders.”

“You said he wore jeans. You notice anything else?”

“He was wearing boots.”

“What kind of shirt? Can you remember the color?”

“I think it was blue. Light blue. It was a western shirt, you know, with snap buttons. But I couldn’t swear to that. I think it was blue. Could have been the light, though.” She nodded to the light at the end of the barn. “But I’m sure of the cowboy hat. It was black.”

“Were the jeans new or old?”

‘They looked new. Dark navy, not faded at all. And he had on a belt, with a big silver buckle. Oval. I remember that because it caught the light when he turned around.”

“You have quite a memory.”

Lucy smiled, looking proud of herself.

“Do you know of anyone around the track who looks like that?” Derek Blue asked Dakota.

“The clothes are pretty typical. I guess the only thing that stands out is the height, and I’ve seen a lot of tall men around here.” Even Clay might fit the description, if you fudged the height a little. And Dan Bolin must be six-three at least. He was broad-shouldered. But she couldn’t imagine why he’d want to hurt Shameless. He didn’t even have a license to get on the backside.

“Anything else?” Blue asked Lucy.

She squinted, as if that would help her remember, “His hair could have been dark blond or brown. I only saw him for a second, and the hat hid his face.” She turned to Dakota. “You won’t fire Ernesto, will you? I’m sure he had a good reason for not being here.”

“No, I won’t fire Ernesto.”

“Good. He’s really torn up about it.”

“We all are,” Dakota replied.

“I guess that’s it.” Derek Blue put a foot on the bumper of his Bronco and wrote something on his pad. “I called the gate man. No one of that description has tried to drive out. But anybody could get over the fence around here.” He motioned to the barbed wire that loosely surrounded the racetrack grounds.

“Aren’t you going to dust for fingerprints?” Dakota asked.

“I don’t think it’s necessary. Fingerprints only work when you have someone in custody.”

“Everyone at the track is fingerprinted. Wouldn’t it be worth a shot?”

“I suppose we could take some, but I don’t know that the racing association would let us—”

“I don’t think it’ll work,” Lucy said. “I just remembered. He was wearing gloves.”

“Work gloves?”

“I think so.”

Blue shrugged. “I guess that’s that.”

The filly was back in her clean stall by two thirty in the morning, and Dakota drove out the security gate, feeling as limp as a wrung-out dishrag.

She reached for the car phone, retracted her hand. It was late, and there was really no reason to wake Clay. The crisis was over, and she didn’t want him thinking she had to rely on him for comfort.

As she pulled into the yard at Black Oak, her mind kept returning to Lucy’s description of the intruder. It could have been Dan Bolin, although that didn’t make sense.

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