Wicked Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) by Shirl Henke Page A

incredible endurance. The rain had been an added bonus, slowing the track. Sumac galloped at a steady, ground-eating pace, churning through the mud with surefooted ease. Alex held him back, letting the jockey on the gray keep the lead. Chamberlain's jockey, too, seemed to be pacing his chestnut for the home stretch.
           Several of the riders whipped their steeds—and competitors—mercilessly. More than once Alex was forced to raise an arm to ward off blows. His heavy buckskin clothing absorbed the cutting sting of the whip far better than the wool and linen of the jockeys. When one leaned over to strike at him in an attempt to force Sumac aside, Alex slid effortlessly to the opposite side of Sumac, gripping the horse's flying mane as he clung to his seat by little more than one heel. The jockey lost his balance when his whip cut through empty air. Before he could correct his balance on the flimsy racing saddle, his mount stumbled and he went flying into the mud, narrowly missing being trampled by the other riders.
           Alex quickly righted himself on Sumac's back, urging the roan to greater speed. The cool wind stung his cheeks, whipping his hair about his face when it pulled loose from the leather thong at his nape. Sumac pounded the soft earth and he could feel each beat of his mount's hooves as if they were one entity. He murmured low in the stallion's ear, his blood hammering as a wild exhilaration sang in his veins.
           He could hear the roar of the crowd when they crested the last hill. By this time two of the other horses had fallen behind on the slow track, the pull of the heavy mud sapping their strength. The finish line was visible at the end of a gradual uphill stretch. It was time to let Sumac have his head. "Let's go, boy," he whispered in Muskogee and the big red horse sprang forward, pulling ahead of the remain ing field, except for Pegasus. The two powerful horses now ran neck and neck.
           Joss watched the contest narrow to Sumac and Pegasus, yelling with most unladylike exuberance for Alex. How wild and splendid he looked with his golden hair flying behind him as he moved with effortless grace in perfect rhythm with the great stallion. Two barbarously beautiful males. Joss felt the heat sting her cheeks. She quashed the thought and returned to cheering while Poc barked excitedly as the red and chestnut horses neared the finish line, still neck and neck.
           When Alex urged Sumac ahead of Pegasus, she let out a shrill cry of triumph worthy of a savage red Indian. But her unladylike behavior went unremarked among the other bystanders, who were all caught up in the excitement of the close race. Money still changed hands as the two horses streaked nose to nose toward the finish line. Then in one final burst of speed, the roan lunged ahead by half a length, crossing the finish line ahead of Chamberlain's horse.
           Mud flew everywhere as Alex slowed Sumac, then turned him in a wide circle and finally reined him to a stop. Many of the spectators were liberally speckled with the gooey brown substance, Joss included, but she did not mind. Cybill Chamberlain did. When several drops of mud spattered against the slim skirt of her yellow gown, she squealed in dismay, losing her hold on her little lapdog, which jumped to the ground, yipping furiously and scampering through the crowd.
           "Bonbon, come back here! Naughty girl!"
           Poc caught a fresh whiff of the Maltese, who was in heat—and now on the ground, where she was fair game. Unable to resist this call of nature, he lunged against the restraint of the leash just as Joss was turning to approach the cluster of people surrounding the victorious Alex. The six-foot length of rope quickly slid through her fingers before she realized what was happening. When it drew taut, the end securely looped around her wrist, she was given an unexpected and very hard jolt, unsettling her balance on the