benignly in the shadow of that lone tree, ears perked, tail swishing rhythmically. In three years they’d come far. As a two-year-old, Lightning had burned up the track, garnering seven wins to only two losses. He’d come on strong at the prestigious Queensland Stakes, pulling away from the pack and engaging the favorite in a thrilling dash for the finish.
More Than All That had crossed first.
Tyler had been disappointed, but had set his sights on the upcoming Outback Classic—until his trainer had walked into his office the following morning. More Than All That had been disqualified. Steroids had been detected in his blood. Lightning Chaser, who’d run a close second, was named the official winner.
The racing community reeled. Allegations of fraud in the sport, quiet since the mysterious death of another race-horse, resurfaced. Everyone had their own opinion about who’d doped Sam Whittleson’s horse—and why.
Tyler’s name had been on just about every short list.
An ocean away, in America, another branch of the Preston family had been going through an equally nasty scandal.
That’s why his cousin Andrew, one of the Kentucky Prestons, had decided to run for presidency of the International Thoroughbred Racing Federation. To restore dignity to the Preston name—and integrity to the sport of kings.
With a twist to his gut, Tyler glanced down at the bold words scrawled atop the picture of Lightning Chaser. “Unmarked envelope?”
Daniel Whittleson nodded. “Just like the one my father received.”
The two had known each other since they were boys, when Daniel’s father had worked as a trainer at Lochlain. Sam had gone on to travel the world, eventually returning to Australia, where he’d fulfilled his dream of opening his own stables.
Daniel had stayed in America, working for Tyler’s uncle until eight months before, when he’d finally come home after a dispute over water rights had landed his father in the hospital.
“How’s he holding up?” Tyler asked.
“Still drinking more than I would like.” A quietly serious man, Daniel looked off in the distance, where beyond the drought-parched hills, his father’s property lay. “I’m not sure he’s ever going to get over losing the Queensland.”
It had been awkward. Daniel, Sam Whittleson’s own son, had returned to Australia to take over the training of Lightning Chaser. The racing community had had a field day with Daniel’s so-called desertion of his father. And though his friend seemed impervious to the criticism, Tyler knew it burned.
“No one really believes he drugged his own horse,” Tyler said. Sam would have had to have been crazy to do so. Not only was he guaranteed getting caught, but More Than All That had been a favorite. The horse could have won easily without the aid of an illegal substance.
But that was a chance someone hadn’t been willing to take.
“I know that,” Daniel said, squinting against the glare of the sun. Over three weeks had passed since the last rain, and that had only been a few drops. “And rationally he does, too. But…”
The words trailed off. Both men knew. Much like the impact of the drought on the land, the damage had been done. Sam’s name had been smeared. His stables were tainted.
It was a situation Tyler knew well.
“He’ll rebound,” he predicted. That’s what his own father had promised him six years ago. They’d stood just inside Lochlain’s newly completed state-of-the-art barn. But instead of colts and fillies shuffling in their stalls, there’d been only the smell of hay and tack, and the sound of silence. In the parking area beyond the paddock, the banker had been sliding from his dust-covered sedan.
The word foreclosure had stuck in Tyler’s gut.
One mistake, that’s all it had taken. One lapse in judgment. One touch—
Tara.
His mouth flattened. Letting out a rough breath, he focused on Lightning Chaser, standing tall and proud in the hot breeze. But he saw her anyway, as she’d been that very first time, that very first night—the straight, sunshine-blond hair and sparkling blue eyes, the wide, teasing mouth. Smiling, laughing. Lying.
The memory seared.
Shoving it aside, Tyler lowered the brim of his bush hat and turned toward Daniel. “It just takes time.”
And distance.
“I talked him into going on safari,” Daniel said. “Bought the tickets and took him to Sydney last night. His plane left a couple of hours ago, at ten, I think.”
“Well, there you go. That should be—” Tyler stopped, Daniel’s words registering. “A couple of hours?” Glancing at the watch his father had given him on his eighteenth birthday, a watch that had been in the Preston family for generations, he swore softly.
He’d completely lost track of time.
“Late?” Daniel asked.
“Andrew’s campaign manager.” She’d cooked up some big gala fund-raiser at Lochlain for the night after the upcoming Outback Classic. With that date closing in on them, she’d insisted they needed to meet in person to finalize details. Tyler didn’t much care about invitations or napkins, but he did care about his cousin. And horse racing. And if the fund-raiser could help Andrew garner Aussie support, then Tyler would do his part. His cousin had been staying at Lochlain since arriving in Australia, using the stud as his base of operations.
The last thing they needed was the Australian candidate, media mogul Jackson “Jacko” Bullock, winning.
“We were supposed to meet at one.” It was now one-thirty.
“I’ll finish up with Lightning,” Daniel offered.
“Thanks, mate,” Tyler said, glancing toward Midnight Magic, the sleek black horse Daniel had raced out to the back pasture. Taking the reins, he slipped his foot into the stirrup and swung his leg over the horse’s back.
“Wish me luck,” he muttered, then with a gentle nudge to the horse’s sides, put the animal into a lope toward the main complex.
A few white clouds drifted across the western horizon, but Tyler knew they would not bring rain. His pop had taught him that, how to tell which clouds brought rain and which only teased, just as David Preston had taught his son how to run a stud farm. The son of an Irish horseman, David had tried to pass on all that his own father had taught him, but Tyler had needed little teaching. He’d been riding before he’d started running.
It was in the blood, David had decided. His eldest son had received the Preston horse gene. His younger, Shane, had not.
With the blistering sun beating down on him, Tyler urged Midnight Magic toward one of the three barns on the far side of the paddock. A fourth was under construction. The mares and new foals had claim to the largest structure. His two- and three-year-olds occupied the middle building. The third, original structure, was used primarily for Lochlain’s boarding business.
The buzz of activity intensified as he approached. Most of the training was done for the day, had taken place during the cooler hours before sunrise. But there was still work to be done, and like clockwork, young Heidi Hastings stood in the shade of several gum trees, feeding an apple to her little filly, Anthem. Her father didn’t understand her fixation with the animal she’d sweet-talked him into buying, but Tyler suspected Heidi’s frequent presence at Lochlain had as much to do with a certain groom hovering nearby as it did her interest in horses.
“Afternoon,” he called as his three border collies bounded up to greet him. Carbine and Windbag were pushing ten, but they still thought they were as young as the pup, Tulloch.
Heidi glanced up with a smile so bloody sweet, Tyler winced. Her father was a good man, but Tyler didn’t know how any man could raise a kid alone, much less a young girl racing toward womanhood.
“I