Missing By a Heartbeat: A Chandler County Novel

By Lizbeth Selvig

Dr. Tori Sterling knows her way around race horse injuries better than vets with twice her experience, and she’s used to defending her scrupulously honest reputation in a world where rule-bending is often more common than honesty.

Trainer Winn Crosby has finally made it to his dream destination: the venerable Churchill Downs. With a gift for getting the best from his horses, his goal is training a horse for a big stakes race. It’s no easy task, however, when every member of his staff is young and has a record. When a Derby-bound colt is targeted by a saboteur, Winn and his stable of misfits are prime suspects.

When simple sabotage turns into a barn-wide scandal that implicates them both, Winn teams up with Tori to save their reputations. Their partnership quickly blossoms into unexpected passion, but they’re soon racing against time. Someone is desperate to eliminate them and their investigation, and the two have to find out who it is before they lose their careers, their lives or, worse, their chance at love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Webster Publishing
• Release date: Dec 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9780998856421

Lizbeth Selvig

Lizbeth Selvig lives in Minnesota with her best friend (aka her husband), a hyperactive border collie, and a gray Arabian gelding. After working as a newspaper journalist and magazine editor, and raising an equine veterinarian daughter and a talented musician son, she won RWA’s prestigious Golden Heart® Contest in 2010 with her contemporary romance The Rancher and the Rock Star. In her spare time, she loves to hike, quilt, read, horseback ride, and spend time with her new granddaughter. She also has four-legged grandchildren—more than twenty—including a wallaby, two alpacas, a donkey, a pig, a sugar glider, and many dogs, cats, and horses (pics of all appear on her website www.lizbethselvig.com). She loves connecting with readers—contact her any time!

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Missing by a

HEARTBEAT

A Chandler County Novel

Lizbeth Selvig

Table of Contents

MISSING BY A HEARTBEAT

COPYRIGHT

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OTHER BOOKS BY LIZBETH SELVIG

STAY CONNECTED WITH LIZBETH

PREVIEW MISSING BY A HEARTBEAT

CHANDLER COUNTY COLLECTION

Copyright 2017 by Lizbeth Selvig and Webster Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

This book is licensed for your person enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

Editing: Jennifer Van Vranken

Cover Design: Dana Lamothe—Designs by Dana

ISBN: 978-0-9988564-2-1

DEDICATION

To Dr. Jennifer Selvig, who is living her dream (and one of mine) and who handed me seeds for this plot back in the days of her own race track practice. I am so proud of you!

And to Walter Farley, The Black and Black Minx who, more years ago than I want to admit, made me want to write a race horse story.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Jan Selvig—Thank you. You know why every book is as much your accomplishment as mine. You are forever my only real romance hero.

This book would not exist without the incredible help of my smart and beautiful daughter, Jennifer Selvig Van Vranken. Not only is she a talented editor, she’s an equine veterinarian who began her medical practice on the race track. She found me answers to weird questions about how to purposely harm horses, had up-to-date information on race track regulations and trainer ethics, and showed me that, in a sport that’s highly controversial, there are a lot of good people who care deeply and want horseracing to be safe, humane, and fun for humans and animals.

In conjunction, thank you, too, to the Women in Equine Practice forum group who brainstormed and corroborated answers on some of those weird questions mentioned above!

I appreciate the tour guides and resources at Churchill Downs who made visiting the iconic track an adventure and led me to a wealth of information on their website www.churchilldowns.com . For more information on horseracing the following groups are invaluable:

The Jockey Club

The Daily Racing Form

Canterbury Park—Shakopee, Minnesota

The American Association of Equine Practitioners

In the middle of this book is a fun little race day scene starring a mom and daughter who place their bets using silks colors as the determining factor. This is based on a true story shared by one of my favorite readers/friends. Thank you, Julie Oest for allowing me to use your experience! May our warped senses of humor always bind us—whether we admit to it in public or not.

The wonderful people who were the first to read the rough draft of this book are my heroes and have my undying love and gratitude: Ellen Lindseth, Tami Richie, Robin Selvig, Pete Feuk, and Jennifer Van Vranken—thank you for discovering the truck that couldn’t exist, the illegal NG tube, the too-technical description, and the betting vet that would have made my honest heroine a criminal. Oh, and of course the v- versus a-fib, one of which will kill you.

Finally, but most importantly, to the two amazing women who created Chandler County—Patti Fiala and Stephany Tullis—thank you for inviting me into your world. The opportunity to write in and about this fun and sometimes crazy place is a joy!

CHAPTER ONE

PEOPLE WHO OWNED racehorses could be quirky as circus folk. Nobody knew that better than Tori Sterling, who worked with more horse owners than she could count. In the early morning October mist, she stood at the rail of America’s most famous racetrack beside one such owner, Armand Mahler, a portly older man with a head as bald as a cue ball and a beard as cottony as Santa’s. Behind her, the twin spires of Churchill Downs pointed heavenward into the gray clouds, while charming-but-superstitious Armand ignored the moisture beading on his head and dampening his lucky ensemble. She still got a kick from his ubiquitous plus fours—purple tweed paired with hideous blue, purple and yellow argyle stockings today. Once upon a time everyone had gawped openly at the eccentric owner with his thick German accent and English tweeds. But he’d worn his outlandish garb every visit to the track for the past three years without fail, and nobody so much as raised a brow anymore.

Doc, he will be all right? He begged Tori for the fifth time in twenty minutes. Tell me again my groom is wrong. This isn’t too soon.

Anxiety galloped through Tori’s body as she awaited the appearance of Armand’s semi-famous horse, but long practice allowed her to hide her anxiety. She patted his substantial upper arm and attempted to calm him for the fifth time in twenty minutes.

Armand, she chided. When did your groom go to medical school and not tell you? Sunspot’s leg is healed as fully as it’s ever going to heal. If you want to find out whether he’s still got the speed and the will, you need to do this. Even if you waited another six months you’d worry.

But he won’t break down again?

No vet could ever guarantee a horse wouldn’t break down. Horses could get hurt in padded stalls. But Sunspot’s fractured cannon bone was as healed as modern medicine and half a year of rest and rehab could make it. He’d been brought back slowly by a good trainer, and all that remained was to see if he could handle six furlongs at speed.

I think he’ll be fine, she said. "Remember. I said he could run. I never guaranteed he’d still love to run." She smiled, teasing her father’s old friend despite the pounding of her own heart.

She’d staked her medical reputation on promising to bring this colt back from his career-threatening injury. Sunspot had been the talk of the racing world from day one, when Armand had randomly bred a young, little-raced mare he liked simply for her personality, to the great champion Curlin and produced a stunning blood bay colt. Curly Sunspot seemed to love running as much as he loved breathing. He also happened to be friendly as a clown. The insular world of thoroughbred racing had fallen in love with the baby who held so much personality and high potential. When after wins in two starts as a new two-year-old, Sunspot had developed a lateral condylar fracture to his cannon bone during a workout, everyone had honestly grieved, believing his hopes for a triple crown career were gone. The break in the large front leg bone was the kind that often spiraled down into the fetlock joint right above the hoof, and Sunspot’s had done exactly that. Although such injuries were common, they were expensive to treat, and the chances of bringing even a talented horse back to racing condition were poor.

That’s when Hugh Sterling had called in his daughter Victoria.

Now she stood watching for the result of her grand gamble, acting the part of a supremely confident, Kentucky equine veterinarian. Most of the time she was exactly that, but this morning all she could do was pray her bold treatment of Sunspot over the past half a year had been the right call.

He’ll run great.

Tori startled at the quiet voice behind her and spun from the rail.

Dad? What are you doing here? I thought you and Mom were leaving today.

Hey, kiddo. No way could I go before I found out what happened, once I heard your boy was testing out his new leg.

Her father had spent his career as a lawyer in Louisville, an ethical man dealing in all things horseracing—a world where boundaries between the legal, the ethical, and the questionable were sometimes blurred beyond easy recognition. A world he’d loved navigating.

Despite the satisfying career, he’d retired this past year at a young sixty-four so he and his artist-slash-interior decorator wife, Emma, Tori’s Energizer Bunny of a mother, could start to travel the world. Retirement, however, had not remotely stopped Hugh Sterling from keeping his finger on the racing business’s pulse.

She accepted his hug and kissed his cheek. He’d fully grayed years before, but his face remained broad and distinguished, his eyes perpetually youthful with their blue sparkle. His was the kind of face her girlfriends always told her was handsome. Now that she was in her thirties, she could admit it herself.

Thanks for the support.

A buzz of voices from behind grabbed her attention. She looked to the glass doors behind her, leading from the clubhouse onto Millionaire’s Row at the track’s iconic finish line, where she and Armand stood. Her jaw went slack as one of Armand’s grooms led what amounted to the population of a small country toward the rail. She groaned and glanced helplessly at her father before shooting Armand a scathing frown.

What the heck, Armand? This was supposed to be a quiet, unannounced test.

Her client glanced over his shoulder and then shrugged. Zey are not my people, he said simply, in his Americanized German accent. He turned back to the track.

Tori took a closer look. Sure enough, the new arrivals were journalists who’d smelled potential blood in the water: Will Starkey from the Chandler County Chronicles, Dick Foley from the Louisville Courier-Journal, and Brett Sandler from the Daily Racing Form. They were flanked by several trainers, three jockeys she recognized, and a handful of exercise riders.

Hey, Hugh. Will said. Hi, Tori.

Her father gave the young reporter a friendly shoulder clasp and shook his hand. Will, my boy. What brings you here?

Will adjusted the camera strap over his shoulder. This is big news, Mr. Sterling. A Chandler County colt making a comeback?

You should have waited until you knew he was coming back. Tori scowled. This is only one step in his rehab.

But we’ve all adopted him, Doc. Everyone wants to see this turn out to be a success.

C’mon, man, I thought you were my friend. Tori turned her saddest eyes on the guy, and he flushed.

I am. You know I am.

And if the colt doesn’t perform? If he breaks down? You’ll be right here to report on the humiliation.

Breaks down! Armand swung on her. But you said—

She hushed him once more with a soothing pat. I’m ragging on the press, that’s all, she said. Sunspot is fine.

You’re not worried, then? Will asked.

I know better than to say a single thing to you, William. And you aren’t to print one word of that last exchange.

Sure thing, Tori. He winked, and she didn’t believe his promise for a moment. He’d only been at the paper six months with his fresh journalism degree and big aspirations. Friendly and talented, he was, nonetheless, young, overzealous and a little too eager to find a story for his own good. His colleagues taunted him with the nickname Ringo—because of the Starkey, but she settled most of the time for calling him by his full name. It kept her in the role of a mother or big sister and, so far, had garnered her more respect.

She started to turn toward the track once more when her breath caught with unprofessional abruptness at another figure emerging unexpectedly from the clubhouse.

Winn Crosby?

She frowned as her heart both sank and skipped a beat at the same unpleasant moment. What was he doing here?

He sauntered toward the rail wearing no expression other than one brow quirked in a question, as if he’d come across the gathering by chance. But none of these men had chanced upon this spot. Ninety-nine percent of the time horses entered the track for morning workouts from the back side of the track and trainers and onlookers watched from the far rail. Tori and Armand along with his trainer Fred Gault had chosen to start from the front to see how Sunspot handled all the sights and places he’d see on a race day. He and Blue Moon, the companion horse who’d be pacing him, were the only horses arriving for their workout through the race day tunnel.

Winn Crosby had zero reason to be here.

Unless it was simply to decorate the place.

Which, she had to admit, he did to perfection in his scruffed beard, sapphire-eyed, six-foot-four, insouciant kind of way.

She blew her breath out in frustration. Since Winton Crosby’s arrival in Louisville about six weeks ago, every college-aged woman working as a groom had turned moony-eyed with the longing to work for him. And every female horse owner, no matter how liberated, now joked about switching trainers. Tori considered herself unflappable, but this guy raised the heart rate of every All-American girl with a pulse, and there wasn’t any use denying it. Fortunately, even though he’d been seen on race days sporting a newsboy cap to masculine perfection, he had a reputation of being aloof and silent—a man of few words and fewer smiles whose world consisted of horses and not much more.

Tori respected the horse part. However, she’d been born into a people-loving state of extroversion she couldn’t alter, and it grated on her very soul to meet humans who couldn’t be bothered to act friendly. Winn Crosby might bring out the worst in her pulse rate, but he didn’t interest her beyond his role as window dressing.

What’s he doing here? she whispered to her father.

I assume watching his horse. Her dad shrugged.

"His horse?"

He’s got a gelding about to run his maiden race, and when Blue Moon came up sick, Winn offered to lend—

Blue Moon’s sick? Frustration balled in Tori’s stomach. She was the dang veterinarian in charge of this spectacle today, and suddenly she knew absolutely nothing.

A case of colic last night. He’s all right this morning, but they didn’t want to run him after that.

Tori fought a further rise of irritation. She only worked half time at the track, so she had no say-so over most of the horses or the procedures used on them. But even though she wasn’t Blue Moon’s vet, she knew his trainer well and should have gotten a heads up.

You’re telling me some horse of Crosby’s is sprinting with Sunspot this morning?

That’s my understanding. Her father peered at her. Is that a problem?

She took a calming breath and shored up her flagging professionalism. I hope not. I chose Blue Moon because he’s evenly matched with Sun, and they’d have paced each other well. I don’t want Sun pushed; I want his rider to maintain his speed, and I want the horses to switch off leading and chasing. Fred had it all choreographed.

I guess Armand’s jockey, Derry, rides this horse of Crosby’s, too, and thinks it’ll be a good pairing. That’s all I know.

She sneaked a look at Crosby, now standing against the rail about ten feet away. As if he sensed her gaze, he turned and met her eyes. She managed a cool nod before catching a flash of copper to her left. Sunspot danced onto the track.

An excited murmur rose from the assembled group, now five times larger than anything Tori had anticipated. Her stomach tied itself into a solid knot, and she wanted nothing more than to sink into a private cave where nobody could watch her and vice versa. The stunning colt’s comeback was news enough that it had raised eyebrows and interest even within the veterinary community. Based on the extent of Sunspot’s fracture, several much more experienced track vets had counseled Tori seriously not to raise hopes with a long rehab, and even if the surgery and healing looked like a success not to encourage Armand to let the colt race again. Save his high potential genes for breeding, they’d told her. Why chance his survival?

She’d staked her young reputation on defying their wisdom. Horses came back from this fairly common fracture of the cannon bone, but relatively few regained their pre-injury performance. Deep down, Tori did have confidence in her decision, but she knew if something went wrong, she’d never work on the track again.

Her father whistled softly through his teeth. Lord he’s a good-looking animal. You did a great thing bringing him back.

Tori nodded. "He’s one of the rare ones. Looks and ability. That injury was severe, but I had a gut feeling. He was trained perfectly; his bones are dense and strong. I think we made the right choice."

The hairs at her nape prickled and she glanced right. Winn Crosby studied her curiously.

You’re one of the vets? His voice was deep and melodic as a jazz bass.

"Yes, the vet, she repeated and held out a hand. Tori Sterling. I like to think I’m the only person who counts. She allowed a quick smile when he scowled over the perceived conceit. It’s not true, but my job would be easier if it were."

Narrowed eyes met hers. She swore he tried to mask a hint of amusement, but its flash vanished so quickly she couldn’t prove it had been there. Straightening, she faced him fully and leaned hip first against the rail.

I understand your horse is running with ours this morning. I wish I’d have known so we could have set some guidelines.

Crosby pointed, and Tori turned to watch a rangy, steel-gray gelding jig sideways onto the track. He moved with much less calm than Sunspot did, but was handled expertly by his rider.

Fallon, Crosby said. I have high hopes for him.

But I hear he’s never raced, she added.

He nodded. If this goes well today, he’ll run his maiden Saturday.

It was Tori’s turn to narrow her eyes in irritation. What do you think today is for? We aren’t here to train a newbie you know—I need him to do a job.

Dr. Sterling, I know how to rehab a horse. He spoke mildly. "I understand what you’re attempting, and I also know what I’m looking to see in my gelding. If you stick to focusing on what you need, I’m satisfied I’ll get what I need."

His words rolled over her like stones in a rock slide—hard, powerful, unyielding. Of all the arrogance… She put the brakes on her annoyance and took a slow breath.

All right. Tell me about the horse.

I promise you’ll see it all once they start.

What the…? Did the man not know how to answer a question? She crossed her arms slowly across her chest.

Fine. Who’s riding him? A jock or one of your exercise boys?

"Exercise girls. I believe you even know her. A tough little thing named Jocelyn Quinn. She told me she’s ridden at your place."

"Little thing?" Tori glared at him.

Oh c’mon. If you know her then you know ‘tough thing’ is almost a term of endearment. Any kind of feminine designation would sound demeaning in her case, whether it was girl, gal, tomboy... She’s, what, eighteen? Barely speaks to anyone who isn’t a horse. Attitude to spare. Admit it, she’s a tough young thing.

He was right. Jocelyn Quinn was unique, with her nose stud, pierced brow, and tattoos. Although she’d managed to grab exercise rides for a couple of trainers, most didn’t look past the cosmetics that were admittedly out of place at an august site like Churchill Downs.

She’s ridden my personal horses for me, and she’s catches a ride or two now and then. Because of her appearance, most trainers won’t hire her. I’m surprised you did.

I’ve only put her up a few times, but so far she’s done exactly what I’ve told her. I couldn’t give a flying crap about a nose ring as long as she treats the horse well.

Tori looked at him with slightly more interest—and appreciation. Track people were not generally known for being open-minded. They picked their teams warily and resisted change—in jockeys, grooms, veterinarians…

Jocelyn is talented. She’s intuitive. Tori nodded. And she sticks like a burr on any horse I’ve seen her ride. Kudos to you for giving her a chance.

Thank you.

And so... since she obeys orders so well, what did you tell her do this time?

He lifted a brow in mocking amusement. Are you asking as a trainer or a veterinarian? I’ll tailor my answer depending on which.

She took a step toward him, and he leaned back, surprised. "I’m asking because I’m an expert at what I do, and you’re involved, through no choice of mine, in a course of treatment I’ve set out for one of my patients. So, let me ask again. What advice did you give your rider in regards to pacing Sunspot?"

Once more his brows arched. But although he towered over her five-foot-five frame, and his tropical sea blue eyes held hers in a seeming battle of wills, she didn’t flinch. Her arms remained defiantly crossed. At last he allowed a short chuckle and shook his head.

You’re kind of a tough thing, too. But I guess I’d heard that. I told her to hold her horse at Sunspot’s flank for a quarter, then let him out and see if she can catch your boy. If she can, let them battle for an eighth and then pull him back. No real racing. Just let us know what the horse tells her he wants. I talked to Fred, so I know Derry has approximately the same instructions.

Embarrassment rose in her chest and burned there for a long moment. She’d misjudged him. Instead of being no more than an arrogant, self-centered trainer interested in his own cause, he’d described the perfect training scenario. This exercise was simply to see how willing Sunspot was to fight for his lead, not to see how fast he could go. Winn Crosby had claimed he understood, and it seemed he did.

Is that acceptable, Dr. Sterling? he asked. Or is your jockey the one who’s going to screw up my horse?

Had she not been guilty of judging him without cause she might have let his tone boil her blood again, but she could hardly be angry that he’d called her on her own game.

Touché, she said. Sorry. It sounds like everything’s under control.

I try to do my research.

He fixed his attention on the track and Tori did, too, forgetting her mild embarrassment when she saw Armand. He stood beside her, coiled tight as a cowboy’s lariat ready to fly and rope his horse back to safely. Her heart went out to the eccentric owner. He was a little odd, a goofy dresser, but a caring man. He wanted the best for his animals and saw that they got