THE GROOM'S NAME WAS MICK. HE'D BEEN BORN AND BRED IN Virginia and liked to boast that he'd forgotten more about horses than most people ever learned. It might have been true.

Certainly throughout his fifty-odd years as a racetracker he'd tried every aspect of the game. In the early years he'd risen from stableboy to exercise boy. He often boasted of how he'd gotten up on horses for Mr. Cunningham during the man's heyday.

Before he'd hit twenty, he'd still been small and light enough to jockey. Though he'd never moved from apprentice to journeyman, he'd worn the silks. He didn't like people to forget it.

For a short unmemorable time, he'd bluffed his way into the trainer's position at a small farm in Florida.

He'd even owned a gelding for a year-or at least fifteen percent of one. Maybe the horse had never lived up to his potential, proving himself to be nothing more than a Morning Glory who worked out fast and raced slow. But Mick had been an owner, and that was the important thing.

He'd come back to Cunningham's when he'd heard the farm had changed hands. His position as groom satisfied him, particularly since Gabriel Slater had the look of a winner. And always had, in Mick's memory.

He enjoyed the fact that the younger hands often deferred to him. They might have called him Peacock behind his back because he always sported a bright blue cap and tended to strut. But it was done with affection.

His thin, lined face was known at every track from Santa Anita to Pimlico. That was just the way Mick wanted it.

"Track's slow," Boggs commented, and meticulously rolled a cigarette.

Mick nodded. The hard morning rain had tapered off to an incessant drizzle, and that was fine. Slater's Double or Nothing shone on a muddy track.

It was the slow time between workout and post. Mick sat under an overhang watching the rain drip from the eaves and thinking about the ten dollars burning a hole in his pocket. He figured to put it on Double's nose and watch it grow.

He pulled out a crumpled pack of Marlboros to join Boggs in a smoke.

It was quiet. The jockeys would be in their quarters, or taking a steam to sweat off one more pound before post time. The trainers would be poring over the books, and the owners huddled inside, enjoying the dry warmth and coffee. There was little activity around the shedrow, but it would liven up again soon.

"Funny seeing Miss Naomi's girl around," Mick said conversationally. "She rode over to Longshot a couple of weeks ago, rode off again soaking wet."

Boggs nodded, blew out smoke. "Heard."

"She was up on that roan gelding of yours. Handled him fine."

"Rides like her mother. Makes a picture."

They sat, two lifelong bachelors, and smoked in silence.

A full five minutes passed before Mick spoke again. "Somebody else came by the barn that day."

"Yeah?" Boggs wouldn't ask who. It wasn't the way they communicated.

"Haven't seen him around for a while, but I recognized him, all right." He tossed the minute stub of his cigarette into a puddle and watched it sizzle out. "Forgot his connection with the man till I seen them together. Hit me then, all right. I remember when Mr. Slater was working as a stableboy for Mr.

Cunningham."

"Yep. About fifteen years ago. Came over to Three Willows after. Stayed a time."

"Year or two. Hard worker, didn't chew your ear off. Still doesn't say nothing 'less it's supposed to be said. Always was a loner." He chuckled a bit. "Never did think I'd be working for him."

"Made something of himself."

"That he did. Lots wouldn't think he coulda done it, the way he used to hang around and hustle up card games. Just another track rat, they'd figure. But I knew different."

"Always liked the boy myself." Boggs rubbed at a bruise on his forearm where a yearling had nipped him. "Had a look about him. Still does."

"Yeah. I was there the day Lipsky tried to stick him. Didn't say no more than he had to then, either."

Boggs spat on the wet ground, more an assessment of Lipsky than out of necessity. "Man's got no business being drunk and handling a stud."

"That's the truth." Mick fell silent again, thought idly about lighting up another smoke. "Mr. Slater, he's got no use for drunks. I forgot how his father used to slide into the bottle till I saw him 'round the barn that day."

"Rich Slater?" Boggs's interest perked up. "He came around Longshot?"

"That's what I'm telling you. The day Miss Naomi's girl rode off wet. Had himself all polished up like a Bible salesman." To better enjoy the relay of information, Mick decided to indulge in that second smoke.

"They talked for a little bit. Couldn't hear what Mr. Slater had to say. No reading that boy's face either.

Gambler's eyes he's got." He chuffed out smoke, then inhaled deeply, secure in his old friend's interest.

"You could hear the old man, though, a-laughing and a-jawing about how he was in the money and he'd just come by to see how his boy was doing."

"Come by to soak him, more likely."

"Gotta figure it. Didn't like the way he was looking 'round the place, like he was adding up figures on a computer. Polly had a yearling on the longe. Inside Straight, Mr. Slater named him. That Polly's got fine hands, she does."

"She does," Boggs agreed, seeing nothing odd about Mick's circuitous story. He nodded a greeting to one of the track grooms as the man passed. "A good yearling manager. Might be Moses is grooming Miss Kelsey for that at Three Willows. Old Chip's talking about retiring again."

"Always is. Just blowing smoke. So"-Mick rounded back to his point "Mr. Slater, he goes on up to the house. Old Rich, he hangs around, sipping outta his flask. Silver one, shiny. He corners Jamison for a while. Pumping him, I figure. Then Mr. Slater, he comes back, gives the old man a check, and boots him out. Subtle-like, but he gave him the boot for all that."

"Never had much use for Rich Slater."

"Me neither. Some say the apple it don't fall far from the tree. But with these two I figure it took a long roll. He's got class, Mr. Slater does. And he listens when you tell him something. Asks me the other day what I might think about that puncture in Three Aces' foreleg."

"That's a good horse."

"He is that. So I tell Mr. Slater it don't look like no accident to me. He just looks, and he thanks me, real polite-like." He rose, bones creaking. "I'm gonna take me a look at Double."

"I think I'll get me some coffee."

They parted, Mick wandering into the gloom of the stables. The rain drummed on the roof, muffling the sounds of horses shifting in their boxes. Another groom was adjusting a blanket on a filly. Mick stopped a moment, studying the lines.

A little wide-fronted, he decided. The filly would probably paddle. No problem like that with Double.

He was an even sixteen hands high, pure black with well-sloped shoulders and a short, strong body that had plenty of heart room.

Most of all, Double had courage.

Mick sauntered back toward the box. He liked to give Double a little pep talk before a race. And to look into the colt's eyes and see if it was a day to put a bet down.

"Well now, boy, we called out some rain just for you." Mick opened the box door, and scowled. "What the hell you doing in here, Lipsky? You got no business around Mr. Slater's horse."

Lipsky remained crouched, and eyed Mick as he ran a hand up and down Double's leg. "Just taking a look. Thought I might lay down a bet."

"You go ahead and do that, but you clear out."

"I'm going. I'm going." Lipsky angled his body away, but Mick's eyes were keen.

"What the hell you doing with that?" In one fierce move, Mick clamped a hand on Lipsky's arm. The knife glinted, thin-bladed and bright in the dim light. "You bastard. Going to cut him, were you?"

"I wasn't going to hurt him." Wary, Lipsky shifted his eyes over the door of the box. There wasn't much time. "I was just going to fix it so he wouldn't race today." Or ever, he thought, once he'd severed a tendon. "Slater's got it coming."

"You got what you had coming," Mick corrected. "And nobody messes with my horses. You lowlife, you did Three Aces, too."

"Don't know what you're talking about. Look, it was a bad idea. No harm done, though. You can see for yourself I never touched him."

"I'll take a look, all right. Now we'll go see what Mr. Slater wants done about this."

Lipsky jerked back, furious that the scrawny old man had such an iron grip. "You ain't turning me in."

"The hell I ain't. I'm turning you in, and you put a mark on this colt, I'll spit on your grave if Mr. Slater decides to kill you."

"I ain't touched his fucking horse." Desperate, Lipsky struck out. As the two men began to grapple, Double danced nervously to the side.

The knife sliced through the air, and deflected by Mick's forearm, the point nipped across the colt's flank. Shocked by the pain, Double reared. Mick cursed and drew in the breath to shout. Then there was no air at all as the blade plunged in, just above his belt.

"Jesus." As stunned as his opponent, Lipsky yanked the blade free and stared at the spreading blood.

"Jesus Christ, Mick. I didn't mean to stick you."

"Bastard," Mick managed. He stumbled forward just as the colt, aroused and terrified by the scent of blood, reared. A hoof caught Mick at the base of the skull. After one bright flash of pain, he felt nothing, even when he fell face forward and the colt's thrashing hooves trampled him.

Panic nearly had Lipsky racing from the box, but he held on, cowering in the corner. It wasn't his fault, he told himself. Hell, he wasn't no murderer. He'd never have pulled a knife on Old Mick, especially seeing as he was stone-cold sober. If Mick had just listened, it wouldn't have happened. Wiping his fist across his sweaty mouth, he backed toward the door. He eased the bloody knife into his boot before slipping silently out of the box. Back hunched, he hurried out into the rain.

He needed a drink.

"This is great." Channing stood in the wet grandstands, eating a hot dog. "I mean," he said through a mouthful, "who'd have thought there was so much to it? It's been like watching rehearsals for some hot Broadway play."

Charmed by him, Naomi smiled. If she could have handpicked a sibling for her daughter, it would have been Channing Osborne. "I'm sorry we couldn't provide better weather."

"Hey, it just adds to the drama. Horses thundering through the rain, colors flying, mud spewing." He grinned and washed down the hot dog with Coke. "I can't wait."

"Well, it won't be long now," Kelsey assured him. "In fact, they must be about ready to prep the horses for the post parade. You want to go take a look?"

"Sure. It's really nice of you to let me hang out, Naomi."

"I'm just glad you chose us over sun, sand, and bikinis."

"This is better." In a gesture she found charming, he offered her his arm. "When I get back next week, I can brag to all my sunburned, hungover pals how I juggled two gorgeous women."

"What about the vegetarian?" Kelsey asked him.

"Who, Victoria?" His grin was quick and careless. "She dumped me when she realized I was an unconvertible carnivore."

"Very shortsighted of her," Naomi decided.

"That's what I said. I'm a prize, right, Kels?" He glanced down at his stepsister and saw that her attention was focused elsewhere. Well, well, he thought, studying Gabe. He hadn't seen that look in Kelsey's eyes for a long, long time. "Somebody you know?"

"Hmmm? Oh." Distracted, she reached up to adjust the brim of her cap. "Just a neighbor."

Gabe broke off his conversation with Jamison and turned to watch them approach. Damn, the woman looked good wet. He shifted his gaze from her to the man with his arm around her shoulder.

Too young to be competition, he decided. He doubted if the guy was old enough to buy beer. But there was a territorial sense in the drape of the arm and a look in the eyes that was a combination of curiosity and warning.

The stepbrother, Gabe concluded, and he stepped forward to meet them.

"Haven't you dried off yet?" he said to Kelsey, and watched the vague annoyance flit over her face.

"It's a new day, Slater. This is Channing Osborne, Gabriel Slater."

"It's nice you could pay your sister a visit."

"I thought so."

It amused Gabe that Channing increased his grip several unnecessary degrees for the handshake.

"How's the mare, Naomi? I've been meaning to come by and take a look myself."

"She's definitely in foal. And healthy. I heard about Three Aces when Matt stopped by yesterday. Is he healing well?"

Gabe's thoughts darkened, but his eyes remained placid. "Yeah. He'll be back in top form in a few weeks."

"You've got Double or Nothing running today, don't you?"

Gabe looked back at Kelsey. Because he wanted to touch her, and to irritate her, he skimmed a knuckle down her cheek. "Keeping track of the competition, darling?"

"You could say that. Your colt's running head to head with ours."

"Want another side bet? You still owe me ten."

"Fine. In the spirit of things, we'll say ... double or nothing."

"You're on. Want to take a look at the winner?"

"I've already seen Virginia's Pride, thanks."

He grinned, took her hand. "Come on."

As he tugged her away, Channing frowned. "Has that been going on long?"