Page 76 of One in a Million
Sam was experienced enough to know how a professional hit usually worked. Divino wouldn’t make the hit himself. He would make the arrangements, probably with someone whose identity Madeleine would never know. Divino would take his cut of the money off the top and forward a down payment, usually half the agreed-upon fee, to the hit man. When the hit had been made, and the target proven dead, the hit man would collect the balance.
Sam knew of at least a dozen hits in Chicago that Divino had probably set up. But the mobster was smart. He’d made sure that none were traceable to him.
He took time to study the documents that had been sent to him, setting dates and times in his mind, looking for patterns and connections. He could only do this once. He had to do it right.
* * *
Roper finished the stallion’s third routine of the morning and checked the stopwatch. Perfect execution, but even with urging, no faster than before. One in a Million had done his best. But his best wasn’t enough to win.
The great horse was getting tired. His coat was flecked with foam from sweating in the heat. Roper walked him around the arena at an easy pace to cool him down before his shower. Where was the line between improving his performance and putting the horse at risk? The stallion hadn’t competed in five years. What if the pressure proved to be too much for him, physically and mentally?
One in a Million was a horse who would give his all for his rider. But he had never competed with anyone but Frank on his back. Would he perform for Roper? What if the stallion were to give his all, to the last ounce of strength, and it broke him in body and spirit?
How badly did they need this competition? Roper asked himself. How badly did Lila need it? Was she out to prove that she could step into Frank’s place and continue the winning tradition of the Culhane Stables? Was he so set on breaking into the big time as a trainer and rider that he would push a horse past its limits?
There was no chance of winning the Run for a Million on an aging horse. But there would be other events and other years.
There would be time to choose other promising colts to train for greatness and buy new bloodlines to breed with Culhane mares.
As he turned the stallion over to the waiting groom, Roper could hear the distant sound of the backhoe digging Baby’s grave. Was entering the great stallion in an unwinnable contest worth inviting more heartache?
He needed to talk with Lila.
After a word with the staff, he left the stable and set out for the pasture below the cemetery hill. By then, the digging had stopped. The grooms who’d trailered the mare’s body to the grave site would use the sling to lower her into the earth. Lila would be mourning. But would she be vulnerable to suggestion or would grief make her more determined than ever?
He reached the graveside as the four-wheeler was pulling away with the empty trailer. Lila stood looking down into the grave. As Roper approached, she tossed a small bouquet of wildflowers into the opening, then turned away.
Her head came up as she saw him. The expression on her face was unreadable.
“I’m sorry,” Roper said, “I meant to be here.”
“Never mind, it’s done.” She walked at his side as the backhoe started up behind her. “How is One in a Million doing?”
“The same,” Roper said. “Flawless execution, but not up to speed. I don’t think he’s going to be ready.”
“But he’s got to be. I’ve seen you work him. He’s beautiful. All he needs is a push.”
“He’s an old horse, Boss. I can only push him so hard before he injures a leg or, worse, goes down in the arena. I can go with Topper or Sly. They’re young, but I can drill them hard over the next few days and go with the one that performs best.”
“They won’t win. I know what Frank would do. He would gamble with One in a Million. He would go for the win.”
Roper could sense an impasse coming up. He didn’t like it. “It would be reckless to risk him. He’s too valuable as a stud and too much a part of the ranch. We just put one horse in the ground. Why take a chance on another one?”
“Are you saying you won’t ride him in the shootout?”
The line had been drawn. He chose to step over it. “That’s right. I don’t give a damn what Frank would have done. I won’t push that stallion past what he can do. I’ll quit first. And there’s no one else on this ranch with the pro card and the record to qualify for the competition. You’ll have to drop out.”
She turned to face him, her coppery eyes blazing. “I care about the stallion, too. But I also care about the ranch’s reputation for showing the best. It’s your choice. We go with One in a Million, and we go for the win, or you’re fired.”
* * *
With the Glock covered by his denim jacket, Sam climbed the steps of the bungalow, crossed the covered porch, and rang the doorbell. From the hall on the other side came the sound of footsteps. Madeleine opened the door.
“Come in, Sam.” She was dressed in an aqua silk caftan, her hair hanging loose around her shoulders. Her breath smelled faintly of bourbon. “Won’t you have a seat? I can pour you a drink if you like.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass on the drink.” Sam took a seat on the edge of the sofa. “I’m afraid this isn’t a social call.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.” She joined him, the caftan floating around her as she sat. “I was hoping you’d come to ask for my daughter’s hand in marriage. I was primed to say yes and welcome you into the family. Do you mind if I smoke?”