Kentucky Flame

  Kentucky Flame

  By Jan Scarbrough

  Resplendence Publishing, LLC

  http://www.resplendencepublishing.com

  Resplendence Publishing, LLC

  P.O. Box 992

  Edgewater, Florida, 32132

  Kentucky Flame

  Copyright © 2009, Jan Scarbrough

  Edited by Courtney Hoffman

  Cover art by Rika Singh

  Electronic format ISBN: 978-1-60735-036-1

  Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Electronic release: June, 2009

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, or occurrences, is purely coincidental.

  For Bonnie, Cindy, Sharon, Katie and Sarah, who taught me how to ride American Saddlebreds. The loving came naturally.

  And for the horses I have owned: Mr. Too Little, Royal Tierra, and in memory of Starhart’s Heritage

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Royalty Farm

  Near Simpsonville, Kentucky

  Saturday afternoon

  A cold, black dread gripped Melody O’Shea’s heart. Hands tight on the steering wheel, she scarcely breathed. In the distance, a thin plume of smoke floated from a window of Royalty Farm’s main show barn.

  Fire was a horseman’s worst nightmare.

  Her Jeep Cherokee rolled to a complete stop in the parking lot, and Mel flung open the door, sprinting toward the barn. “Fire!”

  A wiry groom poked his head out of the tack room, bridle in hand, surprise in his eyes. “Mel, is that you?”

  “Fire!” she shouted over sounds of panicked horses. “Dave, call 911!”

  Lifting the water hose off a nearby rack, Mel raised the pump handle and hoisted rolls of it on her shoulder. The hose was used for filling water troughs, not for fighting fires. Jerking the clumsy hose down the hazy aisle of the training barn, Mel settled her intent gaze on the end stall where flames traced their liquid fingers along the sides of the wall.

  Trapped horses snorted and circled in their stalls, rearing to get out of the smoke only to stick their heads into the thickest part of it. She heard the sharp complaint of a hoof striking a wooden wall and another high scream, echoing her own fear.

  Already her nostrils stung from the acrid smoke. What if she couldn’t put out the fire? She had to. There was too much at stake.

  “Okay. Easy, easy,” Mel said to the horses, knowing it wasn’t okay.

  Her words were as worthless as the thin stream of water she shot at the flames. The heat was intense—a noxious, gut-wrenching heat radiated from a fire she couldn’t control. Mel’s arms throbbed. Her eyes burned. This was unreal. It wasn’t happening. It happened on television or in books where heroic cowboys rescued horses from flaming barns. Other barns burned. Not Royalty Farm’s prime training barn.

  “Mel, we can’t save it.”

  “No!”

  The old groom’s fingers were steel on her arm. “C’mon, there’s not much time. We’ve got to get the horses out!”

  God help them. Dave was right. “Okay!”

  Dave thrust a lead into her hand and Mel threw down the hose. Coughing, her eyes tearing from the smoke, she took the stall nearest the flames. Dreamcatcher. Pop had pegged the stallion his next World’s Grand Champion.

  Fortunately the horse wore a halter. Mel snapped the lead on it. Then she stripped off her cotton polo shirt and tied it around Dreamcatcher’s eyes. Grasping the lead with sweaty palms, she pulled and coaxed the frightened horse from the stall, down the long aisle into the waiting daylight and fresh air. Outside, she led the stallion to an empty paddock, where she stripped the shirt from his head, let him go and firmly shut the gate.

  Gulping in fresh air, her lungs hurting, Mel turned back to the barn. Others had joined the struggle—dark, silent forms silhouetted against the blazing inferno. Flying brands making a curious sparkler affect in the cloudless sky.

  “Oh, my God,” she gasped in horror.

  Strange black shapes ran in and out of the barn, calling out in panic, their strident voices heard above the death screams of the horses.

  “Don’t just stand there. Move your sorry ass!” A vaguely familiar voice barked at Mel from behind.

  “What?”

  “Help, for God’s sake. The whole thing’s going up!”

  Anger held her immobile for a split second as she glared at the back of the nasty-tongued man who disappeared into the barn. She took a gulp of air, determination steeling in her heart. The barn was going fast.

  Mel ran back into the nightmare, heat and smoke rushing to meet her. She smelled the odor of burning wood and electric wires. At the far end, the barn was now engulfed. Fierce flames licked the aisle. She ran to the first occupied stall, ducking low, trying to avoid the heavy smoke overhead.

  A big gelding flailed wildly in his stall, the whites of his eyes rolling. Mortally afraid, he screamed as she approached. Mel grabbed the bolt on the door, threw it back, and shoved it open.

  “Easy. Easy, boy.”

  The horse wore no halter. With no other choice, Mel shooed him out of the stall, running after him toward the nearby wide-open door. The horse turned on her and tried to return to what he perceived as the safety of his stall. Mel raised her arms, waving the lead line and her shirt. She shouted until her throat hurt. The gelding veered and bolted through the opening.

  In the next stall, another horse stomped and trumpeted, his chestnut head thrown high in fright, his delicate nostrils flaring. The animal refused to come out. Mel dodged his flying hooves to chase him out of the stall. Once in the aisle, she smacked his rump, hoping he’d make it to the door.

  Then she turned toward the tunnel of fire that threatened to swallow the old wooden structure. She moved in a trance. Overhead, the rafters raged. Only minutes more and the whole barn would be engulfed by yellow fire.

  “Get the hell out!” The stranger jogged past leading two horses.

  Not yet. No. Mel ground her teeth together. Pop had worked too hard for this place. She had to try to save one more.

  Stooping low, she staggered across the smoke-clogged aisle to the stall where Royalty’s Dreamer stood.

  “Royalty!”

  The black mare snorted at the sound of her name.

  Thank God, she wore a halter. Mel buckled on the lead and draped the shirt over the mare’s face. Clutching the leather, she hauled the horse from the stall. Royalty tossed her head, wrenching Mel’s shoulder and pulling the lead through her hands. She grabbed it and held on.

  “No! You can’t go back to the stall,” Mel cried out. Tears blurred her eyes. Her lungs complained against the dense smoke. The open end of the barn seemed so far away.

  “Give me that damn horse and get out.” The stranger grabbed the lead from her hand and shoved her toward th
e door. Mel blinked and stumbled. He caught her elbow and steadied her.

  Jake? Something about the way his fingers grasped her bare flesh, the way her body fit by his side, made her think of the man she would have married.

  They made it to the door just as the hayloft collapsed behind them.

  “I’ll take the mare.” Her father’s calm, familiar voice was welcome haven.

  “Here you go, Pop.” The stranger thrust the lead into Pop’s outstretched hands and turned back to the barn.

  Mel stared after him, unable to see his face. Then wracked by a cough, she bent double, and grasping her knees with aching hands, forced clean air into her lungs.

  “You okay, darlin’?”

  “You shouldn’t be here, Pop,” she said between gasps.

  “Ain’t in my grave yet.”

  Still doubled over, Mel lifted her head in time to see her father guide the spooked mare away. His words were brave, but she knew the old trainer’s heart must be breaking. Forty years of work at Royalty Farm was going up in flames. It may have been Bert Noble’s farm, but Pop’s knowledge and ability had built it into the greatest American Saddlebred show stable in the country. What a waste. What heartache. She fought a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  Long moments later, Mel stood up and reluctantly turned to look at the chaos around the burning barn. As she watched, flames blasted from the walls like a blowtorch. Oh, God! She shivered. She was cold, colder than she had ever been in her life. Overhead, a blistering summer sun glinted like a horrible specter. Her heart faltered at the smell of smoke and death. In the distance, a fire siren screamed.

  Slow tears trailed down her cheeks. Mel swiped the back of her gritty hand across her eyes. Shouts from the frantic men obscured the sickening silence of doomed horses. Had they saved them all? How had this happened?

  “Bring that hose over here, Sam!”

  “You can’t go in there, Jake! It’s too late!”

  It was Jake. Jake Hendricks.

  Mel swallowed the knot that rose in her throat. Her breath came unevenly. Dazed and shaken by the knowledge that she’d come home ironically at the same time as Jake, Mel tried to pull herself together.

  She’d fallen off many horses. When that happened, she always gathered her nerve and climbed back on. Now, she fought for the same control, raising her chin and reining in her sudden panic.

  If Jake was at the farm, how long would it be before he learned about Cory?

  * * * *

  An hour later the shell that had once been the training barn smoldered, the stench of scorched wood and charred flesh lingering along with a dreadful silence. Fire fighters remained, turning streams of water on hot spots. Like a wet rag wrung out and tossed in the tub, Mel felt weak from loss of adrenalin.

  “Damn sorry sight to see.” Dave came up from behind her and patted her shoulder.

  She turned to the former jockey who had been Pop’s groom for years. “Horrible.” Her voice rasped from the smoke.

  “Are you okay, Mel?”

  “Sure, but what a fine welcome home.” She shrugged at the sarcasm.

  “Pop wasn’t expecting you home until tonight,” Dave volunteered.

  Mel glanced at him. His face was smudged from the smoke, just as she guessed hers was. With his gray head and crinkled features, he seemed much older than his sixty-some-odd-years. Maybe that was the nature of the job. Caring for horses was hard work and a twenty-four hour responsibility. Losing them was even harder.

  “What’s Jake Hendricks doing here?” She changed the subject and shoved the baseball cap she wore up on her forehead.

  Dave shifted his gaze to the barn. He refused to meet her questioning look. “I suppose Pop didn’t want to tell you.”

  Dave had her full attention. “Tell me what?”

  “Jake is our new trainer.” The ex-jock let his arm drop.

  “Why do we need a new trainer?”

  “Pop’s heart attack.” It was Dave’s turn to shrug. “I told Pop you wouldn’t be happy about it.”

  Mel fought to remove the shock from her face. “Why shouldn’t I be happy?”

  “You two were an item back when he was here last.” Dave shuffled his feet, looking down at the dirt.

  “That was over and done with a long, long time ago,” Mel said, trying to hide the sudden tension she felt. She glanced at the smoking rubble. “So, Jake’s dream has finally come true. He always wanted to train at Royalty Farm. I must congratulate him.”

  “You may get the chance.” Dave nodded at the lone figure walking toward them. “Here he comes.”

  A man had separated himself from the congregating fire fighters and walked across the gravel parking lot holding a leather lead shank in his hands. At thirty-one, Jake looked the same—tall and boyishly good-looking, even though his features were splotched with grime and his clothes were covered with soot and sweat. As his crystal blue gaze raked over her, disturbing her, Mel wished she had a towel to wipe her face, knowing it must be dirty and streaked with tears. She wouldn’t cry in front of this old flame of hers.

  “Damn it, man,” Jake said to Dave, his gaze resting briefly on Mel, “what in the world happened here?”

  The rich timbre of Jake’s voice caused waves of longing to surge through her body. His dimples, one in its proper place beside the right corner of his mouth and the other one placed high on his cheek under his left eye, were a reminder of other days. Once she had kissed those dimples, calling them gifts from angels. Once she had run her fingers through his brown hair. Mel drew a quick breath. God help her. She had thought it all in the past. As he stood in front of her, bigger than life, she was very much aware how mistaken she was.

  Jake Hendricks was an old flame and the attraction hadn’t died.

  “If I had my guess, I’d say spontaneous combustion.” Dave shook his head. “The weather’s been in the nineties for weeks and not a drop of rain.”

  “But how could it happen so fast? Why didn’t anyone see it?” Watching her, but not seeming to recognize her, Jake scraped a hand through his hair.

  “Mel saw it.”

  A slow glow of recollection lit his eyes. “Mel? Is that really you? I can’t believe it!”

  “Hello, Jake.” Mel kept her reply steady.

  “Are you still living in Missouri?”

  His blunt question rubbed Mel raw. When had he ever cared about where she lived? He’d never come looking for her. “I’ve come home.” She lifted her chin and firmed her jaw. “I’m divorced.”

  “You are?” Jake seemed bewildered, his eyes softly unfocused. Then they hardened as he leveled a sharp gaze at her. “Was that you in the barn?”

  “Yes.”

  “You could have gotten yourself killed!”

  “Same for you.” Would he really have cared if she’d been hurt?

  “I had to do what I could do to save the horses,” Jake said and slapped his leg with the leather lead.

  “Those horses are Pop’s life. Do you expect me not to try to get them out?” Mel curled her fingers by her side.

  “No, it’s where I think you’d be, but it still was a damn fool thing to do.” Jake frowned. “The paramedics treated me with oxygen. Did they treat you?”

  “Yes.”

  Dave nodded at Mel. “She hurt her hands. Wouldn’t let the medical guys see them.”

  Mel glared at Dave and then shrugged. “They’re okay. Just rope burns.”

  “Let me see.” Jake tucked the lead line under his arm and reached for her closed fist.

  Mel sucked in a breath. His fingers branded her wrist worse than any rope burn. She stared at the top of his blackened hands and found herself wanting to rub the back of his knuckles like she used to do.

  “C’mon, let me see.”

  “Better get ’em tended to, Mel,” Dave spoke up. “You were never one to complain.”

  Complain. No. Mel O’Shea had never been a complainer. She buckled down, accepted whatever came and made the best of it.
Now she tried to make the best of this awkward situation. Jake, his breathing betraying his own uneasiness, towered over her, but his touch was gentle. Too gentle. These were the same hands that, with the slightest pressure, could guide a thousand pound horse or make love to a woman. Images of Jake and their first and only time together clouded her vision. They had been in the hay loft that April day. They had been young and in love and stupid, but it had been thrilling and beautiful just the same. Mel relaxed. One by one, Jake uncurled her fingers until the palm of her hand lay open for his inspection.

  “You need to have these treated.”

  Unbidden, other memories flashed in her mind. Like the flames that had once raged in the distance, her thoughts blazed clearly as she recalled how comfortable things used to be between them—before the hurt feelings and disappointments. Before he left Kentucky.

  Mel jerked her hand out of his grasp.

  “I’m sorry I yelled at you in there.” Jake stepped back, putting distance between them. “I didn’t recognize you.”

  “That’s okay. I wasn’t expected this early.”

  “Frankly, Pop didn’t tell me you were coming,” Jake said with a shake of his head as if Pop had pulled a fast one. He turned his gaze back to the barn. “I’ve got Sam and some other men rounding up the horses we were lucky enough to turn loose. Dave, how many do you think we got out.”

  “How many did you save, Mel?” Dave asked her.

  “Four.” It didn’t seem enough. Mel’s stomach churned.

  “I got out five and Sam two. What about you, Jake?” Dave ticked off the numbers on his fingers.

  “Five, I think.”

  “Sixteen.” Dave’s voice was grim as he made the final tally.

  “Damn.” Jake shoved his hand through his hair again. “Weren’t twenty-four stalls occupied?”

  Mel threw a sharp glance at Jake.

  “Yeah, sure were,” Dave mumbled as if he didn’t want to say it.

  “We lost eight. Better start figuring out which ones so we can tell Vanessa.” Jake’s tone was bitter. “I sure hate telling my boss this on my second day on the job. And I don’t buy this spontaneous combustion theory. Damn.” He slapped the lead shank hard against his leg again.