Heat Wave (Riders Up)

During an oppressive Iowa summer of drought and farm
foreclosures, widowed Maggie Anderson makes a bold decision: She’ll merge her
love of horses and her family’s three hundred and twenty acres into a horse
farm and try her hand at nearby Prairie Meadows Race Track, where racing purses
have just been augmented by the recently added casino gambling.

Down on his luck after being falsely accused in a
racing scandal and banned from training, former Arlington Race Track trainer Ed
Harrington has slunk home to Des Moines to drown his sorrows and wait for the
dust to clear. He’s unprepared for the piercing robin’s-egg-blue eyes of
pint-sized Maggie Anderson, who finds him at a flophouse and offers him a job.
Can he pull himself together and meet the challenge?

As the two forge a tumultuous working partnership,
they soon discover someone is out to get Maggie’s farm and will stop at almost
nothing to force her off the land. Can they find and stop the culprit before
someone is killed? Can they survive the far greater danger unleashed by the raw
passion simmering just beneath the surface of their relationship?

Riders Up

Book Two

Heat Wave

by

Adriana Kraft

This
book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are
products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not
to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual
events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Riders Up: Book Two

Heat Wave

By

Adriana Kraft

ISBN: 978-0-9894693-9-5

Copyright © 2014 by Adriana Kraft

B&B Publishing

1970 N. Leslie St. #560

Pahrump, NV 89060

Cover by

Rebecca Poole

Dreams2Media.com 

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this
book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written
permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
articles and reviews.

Riders Up

Book One: Cassie’s
Hope

Chicago, 1996

Available now

Book Two: Heat Wave

Iowa, 2000

Available now

Book Three: Willow
Smoke

Chicago, 2002

Release date:
August, 2014

Book Four: Detour
Ahead

California, 2004

Release Date:
December, 2014

2000

PROLOGUE

Scorching hot. It
shouldn’t be this hot in February. Dreamily, she reached out her hand into the
hazy air, then heard someone banging on the door and shouting. Strong arms
pulled her out of the bed and urged her down the stairs. Horses whinnied
frantically in the distance.

The scene shifted.
A tall man staggered towards her, carrying the limp form of another man. Flames
shot high from some building in the background. She strained her eyes trying to
see better but failed to identify either man. Was he dead?

The shock woke her.
Safe in her own bed, at a perfectly normal temperature, she tried to make sense
of what had just happened. Maggie Magee Anderson
never
had nightmares.
Should she be frightened? Somehow, she didn’t think so. In the dream, she’d
been rescued. She’d trusted those strong arms—whose arms? Would she ever find
out? Maybe, maybe not, but in her bones, she could feel the dream’s message:
She’d be safe, even if she had to walk through fire.

CHAPTER ONE

From its outside
appearance, Maggie Anderson decided the two-story Resting Arms Hotel should
have been declared unfit for human habitation ages ago. Its sign hung at a rakish
angle. Layers of old paint peeled off the once brown door. She’d never thought
such places existed in Des Moines, Iowa.

Yellowed
newspapers fluttered on the sidewalk in the unusually warm March breeze. She
stepped out of her car and her nostrils immediately flared at the stench; she
didn’t want to try to name what she might be smelling. She gulped deeply in a
vain attempt to hold her breath.

Maggie
pulled her jeans jacket tighter, as if it could protect her, and moved away
from the security of her car. Carefully, she picked her way around the trash
that littered the sidewalk.

Two shaggy, unkempt
men soaked up the early spring sunshine, their wooden chairs tilted back
against the brick wall. They hadn’t been in a shower for far too long. She
couldn’t keep from wrinkling her nose as she passed them by. Neither man
acknowledged her presence.

Trying to ignore
them, Maggie approached the entrance and turned the doorknob. It twisted freely
in her hand. She put a shoulder to the door and shoved hard; it reluctantly
gave way.

From the dark
entryway, Maggie could see a smallish man behind a paint-chipped counter
scowling at her suspiciously. Maybe he thought she was with social services. Thankfully,
she was dressed well enough not to be mistaken for a bag lady.

She clutched her
purse to her waist and approached the clerk, trying to appear confident and in
control. Clearing her throat, she said, perhaps too loudly, “I’m looking for a
Mr. Ed Harrington. I’m told he’s a resident here. Can you tell me where I might
find him?”

“A resident! What
kinda business you got with him?”

Maggie tried not to
recoil. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.” She reached into her
purse, pulled out a ten-dollar bill and placed it on the desk. “I do, however,
realize that you are a businessman. And I’m willing to pay for information.”

The clerk gave her
a slanted grin and pressed his hand on the bill. “Well, in that case, lady, you’re
in luck. Harrington is in his outer office holding up the wall—he’s the tall
one. You just walked right by him.” He stuffed the money in his shirt pocket. “Appreciate
your business.”

Haltingly, Maggie
retraced her steps to the sidewalk. Sure enough, the tall, sandy-haired man was
still there, leaning against the wall as if he was responsible for bracing the
entire building. His friend was nowhere to be seen.

Should she just
keep on walking? She’d pushed her longtime friend and insurance agent Ben
Templeton until he finally came up with this lead, referred to him by sources
he trusted. She sighed and tried to remember what Ben had said—
this guy may
be too much for you to handle.
She knew he hadn’t wanted her to go this
route. But desperate or cocky, it didn’t matter which, she’d pressed him until
he came up with this trainer—banned from racetracks because of some kind of
trouble in Chicago, but still respected and highly regarded by Iowa trainers
who did business with Templeton. Not only was the man good; Ben had told her
that because of the scandal, he’d work for cheap.

Now, she shivered
against the chill of Ben’s prophecy. Maybe he was right. Ed Harrington didn’t
look like any horse trainer she’d ever imagined. Could this ghost of a man
really help her? Could he walk, let alone ride a horse? Should she just keep
right on walking? She owed him nothing, and he didn’t even know she existed.

- o -

He knew.

Ed Harrington had
watched the neatly dressed woman pussy-footing around the junk on her way to
the flophouse entrance. He spied her when she wanted to grab her nose and blot
out the offending odors. Hell, he couldn’t blame her for that; it took some
getting used to, even for him. He might still be hung over, but he knew damn
well the woman didn’t belong anywhere near the Resting Arms. And he’d heard her
asking for him.

He’d almost run off
when Sonny did, but he wasn’t going to let any woman chase him away, no matter
how sassy she might be. She dressed sharp, at least for this part of town. Filled
out a denim jacket real nice.

Clearly, he wasn’t
what she expected.

Through narrowed
eyes he watched her trying to decide what to do. Would she flee? Or would she
stay? He’d bet on her running like a spooked filly.

He was wrong.

“I’m told you’re Ed
Harrington,” he heard the tiny blonde say. Her voice held more power than her
size suggested.

“That’s right.” He
scowled. “What’s it to you?” Harrington kept his eyelids nearly closed and his
back pressed against the wall. It was requiring a lot of work just to stay
focused on her words. He saw her bite her lower lip and stand as tall as her
small frame would allow.

“My name is Maggie
Anderson.” Her voice did not crack. “I’m told you’re an expert with racehorses.
I need your services. And I’m willing to pay modestly for them.”

Lurching up from
his chair, Ed stood unsteadily. He towered over her, taking her measure. Sunshine
bounced off her short-cropped straw colored hair, nearly blinding him. He
brought a hand to his brow. Why did she want him? Why did she have to reach
into the bottom of the barrel for a horse trainer? He liked the way her name,
Maggie Anderson, rolled off her lips.

His head pounded as
if a dozen wild horses were galloping around inside his brain looking for an
escape route. He closed his eyes trying not to remember earlier times, better
times. Times with fast racehorses and faster women. All that was gone now. He
wished it wasn’t even a memory. He reopened his eyes and glared at the woman
causing him to remember.

At last, Harrington
replied, “You come right to the point, don’t you, lady?”

“You asked.”

“What makes you
think I want a job? The sun is nice and warm right here.” He slurred his
speech, unable to keep dinner and breakfast from clouding his voice. He could
see well enough to know the woman was damn pretty. He’d seen many a jockey
bigger than her, but none more attractive. He smiled crookedly at his wit, not
knowing quite what to say next. She didn’t appear very intimidated. Maybe she
was a fool.

 “If you don’t want
a job, Mr. Harrington, you are more stupid than I was led to believe.”

Ed shoved his
shaking hands deep into his pockets. Why should it bother him if she saw him
quaking like a drunk? He could almost hear the woman’s brain ticking off the
pros and cons. Why would she risk coming down to this place to find him? What
the hell did she really want?

She could walk
away, for all he cared. He hadn’t invited her to his palatial surroundings.

He watched her
stretch to the top of her toes and let out a deep breath. “Do you have
transportation, Mr. Harrington?”

“Yeah, Mabel’s
sitting around the corner.” He jerked his head toward a junk-filled parking lot
just visible beyond the hotel and grinned broadly. “She’s more than
transportation, lady. She’s a first class workhorse.”

“Okay, if you’re
interested in learning more about a paying job—after you sober up—” she reached
into her purse, “follow these directions. I run a farm about forty miles north
of here. Here’s thirty bucks for gas, a decent meal, and a shave.”

She eyed him
directly. “I have two kids, Mr. Harrington. If you work for me, you’ll have to
leave the bottle behind.”

He hesitated. Stupid
do-gooder. Why did she have to come and disrupt his world? It was too damn hard
to concentrate. He scraped a hand through his hair. Her voice was so tempting. He
wondered if she sang country western love songs.

Reaching for the
slip of paper and the money, his hand trembled. “This will keep me in good
supply for quite a spell.” Harrington stuffed both paper and money into his
shirt pocket. “What makes you think I won’t just go out and buy more booze?”

Harrington glanced
away from Maggie Anderson’s penetrating blue eyes. They reminded him of robin’s
eggs. He grimaced. He hadn’t seen a robin’s egg since he was a kid. But that
wasn’t the reason he’d looked away. The woman was carrying too much pain; he
already had more than enough pain for any one human being. He sure didn’t need
to borrow any of hers.

- o -

Maggie scrutinized
the man without flinching. She’d witnessed something that gave her reason to
believe in him. Oh, he’d tried to hide behind toughness and bravado. He’d even tried
to intimidate her. But he certainly didn’t belong in a flophouse. Harrington
still had pride in simple things—like his truck.

Had she imagined a
flicker of hope in his clouded features? Maggie recognized grief when she saw
it, and Ed Harrington was wallowing in grief and self-loathing. Maybe she and
he had some things in common. Her offer of a job could help both of them. Did
he have enough courage to move beyond grief, or would he continue
self-medicating his pain with booze?

“I don’t know what
you’re likely to do,” she finally said, folding her arms and squaring her
shoulders, her voice strained. “It’s your choice, Mr. Harrington. I can’t make
it for you. This is your lucky day. You’ve been thrown a lifeline. Use it, or
drown yourself in gallons of cheap booze. Either way, it’s your lucky day.”

Disgusted with
herself for needing his help, Maggie spun around and quickly retraced her steps
to her car. When she opened the car door, she heard him holler from down the
block.

“It’s my choice!”

Her heart leapt. Maybe
it wasn’t too late.

In a matter of
minutes, as she pulled out of the parking space and witnessed him wobbling
unsteadily down the sidewalk, her heart sank again. He was probably heading for
the nearest watering hole with her money clutched in his fist.

“Oh well, I can’t
save the world,” she muttered, spinning her car tires. She was back to square
one, but she would never give up.

She’d trusted the
wisdom of her bones telling her to seek him out, and he’d turned out to be a
bust. Maybe her friends had been right after all. Maybe all that
bones
stuff was just her imagination.

Yet, she usually
could discern changes in the weather. She’d known her husband was dying before
the doctor diagnosed him with pancreatic cancer. Her dad had said she carried
that important Scottish Magee
bone
gene, capable of peering into the
future.

She grimaced. The
story of the bone gene was simply that—a story told by a loving father to a
very impressionable child.

Still, she’d relied
on that bone gene before. And it had seldom let her down.

Three weeks later,
the singsong warbling of the auctioneer numbed Maggie’s senses. She jerked
herself alert; even though the day was nearly over, she had a job to do. Maggie
pulled the bill of the soiled John Deere cap down lower over her eyes. Still,
she could see the steady fingering and assessing of objects on the flat wagon
by strangers and neighbors. They were like turkey vultures searching for the
best road kill. The items on display were those of a working farm: skill saws,
hammers, socket sets, de-horners, ropes. Some were old; all were well used.

 Men and a few
women huddled under heavy coats to keep the sharp wind from penetrating as they
searched for bargains. She didn’t see much concern for the Ames family, even though
they’d been longtime members of the Beaverhill community.

Maggie turned her
head slightly and watched Sara Ames scurry between sale items, avoiding eye
contact with her neighbors while whispering words to the auctioneer. The woman
was determined to make the best out of a bad situation. Her husband, Ted, hadn’t
come back for the auction. He’d already taken a job working on an assembly line
producing generators in Cincinnati. Sara would take the children and join him
as soon as she could finish disposing of the farm machinery and their other
non-essential possessions.

Maggie chewed on
her lower lip. Ted had probably used his job as an excuse for not witnessing
the end of their dream. An old Allis-Chalmers tractor, a couple John Deeres, an
International combine, plows, planters, hay rakes and mowers, and an assortment
of covered and uncovered wagons stood like tombstones between the barn and the
house. Sara had drawn the short straw on this day.

The bidding on a
skill saw had stalled at a ridiculous five dollars. Maggie nodded at the auctioneer,
who had sought her out of the crowd. She raised the bid, as she had done
throughout the afternoon in an attempt to boost the price. So far she’d only
bought a corn planter she didn’t need, but she could use it for trade with the
local implement dealer.

She pulled her coat
collar tighter around her neck. The corn planter notwithstanding, she was
satisfied. She’d been able to increase the prices on a lot of items for the
Ames family. They deserved that; they’d been good neighbors.