bay stallion named Leopold’s Legacy. Two months earlier, the handsome brute had won the Derby, followed by a dazzling victory at the Preakness that suggested more wins and high stud fees in his future. He was what every owner and trainer hungered for—a horse that could become a legend.
But Legacy’s ride to the top had been marred. A routine DNA test proved that his sire was not the champion Apollo’s Ice, as originally recorded, and the Prestons, who so recently had stood in the winner’s circle, now found themselves in the middle of a breeding scandal. The reputation and financial future of the entire organization were in danger.
Most mornings for the past month, Quest’s difficulties had been the first thing on Audrey’s mind. She awoke worrying about Brent Preston, Quest’s breeder, and about Carter Phillips, their veterinarian. More than anyone, the two men were coming under suspicion from the Jockey Association. Only Thoroughbreds produced by live cover rather than artificial insemination were accepted for the association’s registration, and both Brent and Carter had witnessed the breeding of Leopold’s Legacy’s dam, Courtin’ Cristy, with Apollo’s Ice at Angelina’s Stud Farm.
Audrey knew the Prestons well and trusted them implicitly. They had been beyond reproach as employers to both her father, who had served as their head farrier for eleven years, and her since she took his place last year. Shoeing Thoroughbreds was the only work she had ever known. Her father had been her hero and best friend, and she’d trailed him like a puppy through the stables while he worked. Treating her like one of the team instead of a youthful nuisance, the Prestons had made it easy for her to follow in her dad’s footsteps.
Feeling impotent in the face of their current troubles, she had readily agreed to help by pulling names up from Quest’s database so the Prestons could contact the owners of their stabled horses. The family wanted to personally break the news that the Jockey Association had recalled Leopold’s Legacy’s Thoroughbred status, which meant the regional racing commissions refused to let him race in North America. Several owners already had withdrawn horses stabled at Quest after the first whiff of scandal, and the Prestons were hoping to stanch further losses by reaching their clients before industry gossip did.
Printing phone lists didn’t feel very proactive, but it was better than sitting on one’s hands, and if it helped Brent and Carter even a little bit, then it was worth it.
Rolling over in bed the morning after she’d danced the night away, Audrey realized this was the first time in weeks that she’d awoken to find her thoughts consumed by her own circumstances as much as by the Prestons’.
Bending an arm above her head, she gazed at the ceiling, recently painted a crisp white, and tried to guess the time without looking at the clock. It was a workday, and she almost always rose before five on a workday, but the brightness and warmth in the room suggested she’d overslept.
Of course, the warmth could be attributed to the big body in bed next to her. A faint disgust had her shaking her head. She’d been exhausted when her head hit the pillow, but she was reasonably certain she’d climbed into bed alone.
“How did you get in here?” she asked without looking over, wrinkling her nose at the answer—a rude snort in her ear.
“Seamus,” she scolded, rolling toward a hundred-and-sixty pounds of lean muscle, wiry steel-gray hair and huge feet. Four of them. “You’re supposed to be sleeping at the big house. Thomas and Jenna bought you that beautiful bed. Don’t be an ingrate.”
The mammoth Irish wolfhound responded by swiping a sleepy tongue over Audrey’s face then yawning. Hugely.
“Morning breath, Seamus.”
Audrey sat up. Her bedroom window, which she’d left open, was once again missing its screen, pried off by the one male on the property that had fallen hopelessly, madly in love with her.
Leaving Seamus where he was—not a morning man, he’d be snoring before her feet hit the floor—Audrey hauled herself out of bed and slogged toward the living area of her small home, one of the employee cottages on the Prestons’ estate.
She’d have liked to have started her day straight off with a mug of painfully strong coffee, but she’d ignored a blinking light on her phone machine the night before. Prioritizing, she padded down her short hallway and pressed “play” on the machine that sat on the maple-topped bar dividing her kitchen and living room.
“Audrey,” the first message began, “Carter here. Melanie spotted a problem with Something to Talk About’s gait a couple of days ago. I haven’t found a cause, but I noticed he’s due for a shoeing, so can you give me a call when you get around to him? Thanks.” Beep.
Making a mental note, Audrey went to the fridge and withdrew a pound bag of ground coffee beans. She grabbed a filter and a measuring spoon so she could start her eight-cup-a-day habit as the next message played. She was so freakishly tired from yesterday, she thought she might up the ante to ten cups.
“Hi, Audrey.” Halting with the measuring spoon in the coffee bag, Audrey turned her head toward the machine. The voice alone made her feel cold all over. “It’s Dr. McFarland. I don’t have the results of your blood tests yet, obviously, but when you left my office today, I got the sense you might not follow up with the surgeon I recommended. So I’m calling because…”
Dr. McFarland paused, and Audrey found herself hoping that the internist had mistakenly hung up or been cut off. No such luck.
“Audrey, I’ve known you a long time, and I understand how difficult it would be if you were sick again, but I—”
Lunging for the phone machine, Audrey pressed “skip.”
Heart beating as if she’d already injected caffeine into a major artery, she set her jaw and breathed deeply through her nose.
No, you don’t understand.
“I’m not sick again.” Breathe in, two-three-four… I am not sick. Breathe out, two-three…
The next message had already begun, and Audrey made herself concentrate on Jenna Preston’s upbeat voice, hoping it would calm the buzzing in her brain.
“… calling to invite you to lunch tomorrow. I hope you can make it. You don’t have to call back, honey. Just come on up to the house at noon. See you tomorrow unless I bump into you before. Bye.”
When the phone machine clicked off, Audrey closed her eyes and stood very still.
A year ago, her dad had died unexpectedly of a heart attack at the age of sixty-four. Henry Griffin had been her only relative, her roommate, her rock. Since his passing, Jenna’s kindness had swelled into a motherly concern that made Audrey feel guilty, because she knew in her heart that it was time for her to leave Quest. The call from Dr. McFarland confirmed the instinct.
She and her dad had moved here from Texas when Audrey was twelve. Certainly it had occurred to her in recent years that a twenty-something ought to experience more of the world than a piece of Kentucky, but until her father’s passing, she had never seriously entertained the idea of leaving. She figured that was why she took so many dang classes—so she could be an armchair adventurer. But now that he was gone, was it enough? She had a little money; she could travel, see places she’d only read about. She was twenty-four, and she’d never been in an airplane.
Opening her eyes and abandoning the coffee, she crossed slowly to the living room, to a recliner that sat just inside the front door. Neatly positioned beside the chair, rested a pair of burgundy-green-and-navy plaid men’s slippers made soft and pliable from lots of wear.
As if the slippers belonged to her, Audrey slid her feet inside. Her stress melted into the faux sheepskin lining. She’d given Henry the loafers as a joke Christmas gift one year—slippers that matched his favorite plaid chair. He’d worn them every night after work, claiming, “My big ol’ feet never looked better.” Memories rose from the shoes’ very soles… The way her dad laughed like a cartoon chipmunk: “Chee-chee-chee-chee.” The Sunday morning going-to-church scent of Aqua Velva aftershave. The soft expression in his eyes when she sometimes