Chapter 29
CHAPTER 29
Max gaped at the silver trophy cup as more cheers filled the air, his heart pounding painfully in his chest. He’d seen a cup just like that—twelve-inches high, with two handles, just like a loving cup—five days ago.
In the future.
At the dedication for the new wildlife sanctuary at the Crown of the West.
He’d held a silver trophy cup just like that as Sheriff Larson had explained it belonged to a young woman in the nineteenth century, a young woman named Cally James, who’d been murdered by Prince Hugo, who’d taken the silver cup to Zalgravia when he’d rather hurriedly left Wyoming.
Max had held that damned cup while it was struck by a bolt of lightning, while he’d stood on his damned new bridge before he’d been washed by a damned flood to the past.
His heart stumbled, threatening to stop.
He glanced around, looking for Hugo. And there he was, standing at the back of the race entrants, arrogance on his haughty face.
The urge to beat his ancestor up, to nail him shut in a crate with enough food and water to last the ship’s voyage across the Atlantic to Europe rushed through him. The urge to make Creede arrest him in advance of any future crimes clenched in his hands.
Hugo, here, at the horse race.
Hugo, here, where a silver trophy cup would be awarded.
Cally mustn’t race.
Max searched the viewing area for Bart, but Bart was on his way toward them through the crowd of spectators already. He strode up to his sister, a smile on his face, but Max would bet Bart had seen Hugo every bit as much as Max had, and had come to his sister’s rescue.
Surely Hugo would avoid them, out of any sense of shame, for one thing. Out of a sense of danger for another, Max and Bart clearly protective of the young woman Hugo had tried to harm.
But Max was wrong.
Hugo, his gaze on Cally, strode toward them, full of self-importance in his ridiculous red-sashed uniform that seemed to gain more medals every time he showed up.
“You’re a queen, Miss Calico,” Max whispered as Hugo pushed his way through the other race competitors, Max’s words nearly inaudible, his mouth bent to her ear, her rose scent sweet in his senses. She turned to him in surprise, then caught her breath as she caught a glimpse of Hugo as he neared. “Be as haughty and disdainful in your manner toward him as you can be,” Max told her.
But the Evil Prince, once he stood beside them, put all his attention on Bart. “My stallion staked against yours,” he said, and it didn’t need his nod toward the hitching posts to know he meant Apollo.
Anger vibrated from Cally, Max could feel it, anger and a need to get even with the varmint. Any awkwardness she might be feeling was clearly not present in her face; she blazed at Hugo eye to eye, with an expression that dared—just dared —him to speak to her.
“Who’s riding your horse in the race?” Bart said to Hugo.
“I am,” Hugo said, his voice and face at their haughtiest, as if to impress upon those around him they were duty bound to accede to his wishes.
Bart shook his head. “The deadline for entries was five o’clock yesterday afternoon, and you weren’t on the list.”
“I have rectified that with a promised donation this morning to the mayor of this fine town,” Hugo said. “He was most cooperative.”
Promised, huh? Max turned his anger toward the mayor. Good luck ever getting that money , he said silently to the man.
“I repeat,” Hugo said, “my stallion staked against yours.”
Bart turned to Cally, his face wooden, but Max could tell he was as ready to beat Hugo to a pulp as Max was. “What do you say, Sister?”
“Not a chance,” Cally said, and still, Hugo didn’t look at her. Because he hated to lose, which he’d done two days ago when she’d escaped? “No telling what might happen in a horse race.”
A startled look came to Hugo’s eyes, his eyes shaded by his front-brimmed military hat, the startled look there only for a fraction of a second, but Max saw it. And wondered. Just what was it the Evil Prince had planned, that made him uneasy at Cally’s words?
“Twenty minutes till the race starts,” the mayor called out. “Anyone not at the starting line by then is disqualified.”
The other ten contestants moved toward their horses. Most of them, as Cally had already pointed out to Max, were locals, but three of her young swains from Cheyenne and Denver had entered their own horses in an effort to impress her, and he wondered with a hint of amusement if those young swains had any idea they’d be competing with her in the race.
It was the additional two men striding toward the horses at the hitching rails that turned his blood cold, two men he suspected Cally hadn’t noticed yet, because if she had, she would be sending her ‘kill the varmint’ expression directly at them—Leopold and Zimmer, most recently known for their kidnapping attempt of Jeremiah, and then her.
Cally and Bart turned away from Hugo.
Max took Bart aside as Cally chatted with Stubby. “Don’t look,” Max said, “but those two men in the black outfits with the gold vests are in Hugo’s employ—they’re wearing his racing colors from back in Zalgravia. It looks to me like Hugo entered them into the race, too.”
Bart’s jaw tightened. “You think that’s why he tried to get Cally to stake her horse against his? He’s got something planned with them to interfere with her?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Max said. “Nor am I surprised he intends to cheat. I can’t think of any other reason for his wanting to bet his horse against Cally’s, nor any reason for those two thugs to be added to the entrants.” A foreboding deeper than any he’d had so far struck him hard. “Bart, she mustn’t race.”
Bart shook his head. “Short of hog-tying her, the only person who’s ever been able to stop her from doing something she has her heart set on was Pa.”
“Bart,” Max said, “look at that damned trophy.”
Startled, Bart turned toward the stage.
Guarded by Deputy Wilmo, the silver cup sat onstage atop a small round table, next to the leather pouch with the gold coins, the damned cup still glinting in the sunlight like a beacon of death.
Bart’s brow furrowed for a long moment, then comprehension struck, and though he couldn’t know the full significance of that cup to Max, he guessed enough, because a harsh expression came to his face. He turned back to Max, his fist clenching. “Are you telling me?—?”
“Fifteen minutes,” the mayor shouted from over by the starting line on the racetrack itself, the line marked in the dirt with chalk.
Max clenched his own fists, remembering Creede’s words about changing time based on advanced knowledge, and he didn’t know what to do. Stop Cally, and give Hugo another chance in the future to come after her?
Stop Hugo, and risk changing the future in some other terrible way?
Damn it. His eyes narrowed on the Evil Prince. “We need to stop the race.”
“How?” Bart said, scanning the rest of the entrants fast. “Tell the officials you’ve traveled through time because you were holding a silver trophy cup like the one up on the stage, a trophy cup that might somehow put Cally in danger?”
“ Then she can’t race ,” Max said, watching her walk with Stubby toward the horses. “Hugo and those other two are up to no good.” He glanced around, looking for Creede, realizing he’d have to battle Hugo on the racetrack to keep her safe, realizing that he would have no qualms in getting in Hugo’s way. “Anyone else in this race you trust to help, Bart?”
Bart nodded and strode fast to where Finn was mounting his buckskin horse.
Max ran toward Creede, who was over by the spectators with Roy, their badges sparking in the sunlight that filtered through the trees. Quickly, he pointed out to the lawmen the two liveried henchmen of Hugo’s, explaining they were the ones who’d tried to grab Jeremiah.
The henchmen were fools to come here today. Or perhaps Hugo had promised them safety, assuring them they were under his protection.
Max ran to his horse as Creede and Roy headed for Hugo’s two employees.
Cally watched Max ride up to her side on the racetrack, his handsome face mighty grim. Too grim, for a simple horse race. “What’s in your thoughts there, prince?” she said as he stopped on her left on the straight of the track, behind the chalk starting line.
“Just stay on this side of me, okay?” he said in a low tone, his voice unexpectedly urgent. The other horses in the race were sidling as they lined up to Cally’s right, prancing and nervous at the noise of the nearby spectators. “Stay away from Hugo.”
Hugo? Feeling her insides go hot with fury, she stilled her hands on the reins. It wouldn’t do to agitate Apollo none. He ran his best when he was happy. “That varmint doesn’t belong here,” she said in a quiet but heated voice. “He ain’t entered fair and square like other folks.”
“You just focus on winning the race. I’ll focus on keeping the varmint out of your way.”
Cally had already planned to win. Now, she planned to leave the entire field, the Evil Prince included, behind in the dust. She grinned. “You reckon he wore all them medals in the hopes of dazzling the other horses?”
“I reckon so.”
She grinned even broader, Max’s Zalgravian accent around the Western words something to behold. Then she realized he’d cut off the Evil Prince, putting himself between her and his horrible ancestor who, scowling something fierce, was bringing his gray stallion—the one he’d tried to bet against Apollo—up along the inner rail.
Her gaze went back to Max, her brow furrowing, the furrows going deeper as a commotion came all of a sudden from the hitching rails, where the last of the race entrants were gathering their horses. Sheriff Sam and Roy were there, along with Bart, the three of them yelling and tussling with two men in black clothes and gold vests, a tussle Prince Hugo was objecting mightily to from atop his horse, and she realized with a gasp who the two men were.
Her eyes narrowed on the commotion, then on Prince Hugo.
“Howdy, Cally,” Finn said, riding up on her right side, his buckskin horse Jonathan looking real fit.
“Howdy, Finn,” she said. “You and Jonathan have a mighty fine race, there.”
“You, too, Cally.” He turned to speak to Mr. Yardley on his other side.
Cally glanced at Max, then Bart, then back at Finn. A warm feeling, for her family and friends, rushed through her, a comforting feeling, a feeling of being loved. Joy swiftly followed, that they cared that much to protect her.
Settling down in the saddle, she gave Apollo’s neck a soft pat, and set her mind to winning the race.
Max stroked Ares’s silky neck, his mind going through the race to come. Twice around the quarter mile track, he told himself. He could do that. Twice around the track, at top speed and doing whatever he needed to do to keep Hugo away from Apollo.
Adrenaline rushed through Max’s veins at the thought, his gaze going to his ancestor, who was bellowing to Creede from atop his gray stallion to unhand his two men. Beneath Max, Ares stood stolidly, little twitches over his shoulders the only sign he was anticipating as much as Max the upcoming race.
Max hoped Ares could keep up with Cally.
Cally leaned toward him. “You hold on real tight to Ares with your legs,” she told Max in a low tone, “and give him his head. He and Apollo have been good friends for years, and he likes runnin’ with us.” Her gaze flickered for an instant toward Hugo on his other side, and Max realized from her expression she’d figured out Hugo meant to cheat, or worse.
Max nodded at her words. “Thanks for the advice,” he said, holding her gaze for a long moment, his very soul vowing he would keep her safe. “Just stay away from?—”
“Hugo,” she said with a distaste and grimness that wrenched his heart.
Just stay on the damned horse, he told himself as Cally turned away, her grim face turning business like. Max had never raced like this, on a track, surrounded by other horses. If the stakes weren’t so high, he’d be enjoying the experience.
Surely, if he could play polo, he could ride a competitive race.
Too bad he didn’t have a mallet to use to keep Hugo in line. He didn’t trust his ancestor for an instant. Hugo’s primary competition in the race was Cally, which meant Hugo would focus his cheating on her and Apollo—with an extra dose of malice, after what had happened two days ago.
There’d been no gossip in town of the events at the castle, June had told him that morning at breakfast. No one speaking of anything that linked Cally to anything to do with Hugo, which meant Hugo had either paid his local employees to stay quiet, or his local employees were protecting her reputation out of dislike of their employer. But that didn’t mean Hugo didn’t carry a massive grudge, one as big as the Sky Top Mountains, and that was what made Max’s heart beat faster as the last two horses came up to the chalk line.
The man named Danner, who owned the livery and had donated the silver trophy cup, strode up to the outer edge of the track, stopping thirty feet ahead of the chalk. Dressed in a red striped shirt and a pair of sturdy tan canvas trousers like many of the racegoers, he carried in his hand an unfolded blue-and-red Wyoming state flag with a white bison in the center.
The horses at the starting line tossed their head and jittered their legs.
To Max’s left, Hugo stopped bellowing, his body taut and upright in his uniform, his hands hard on the reins.
On the far side of Cally, Finn leaned forward, a determined expression on his young face.
Danner raised the flag in one hand. “On your mark,” he called out in a strong voice, startling the more nervous horses on the track.
Over by the trees, the crowd quieted.
“Get set,” Danner yelled. “Go,” he shouted, dropping the hand with the flag.
Beside Max, Cally took off like a shot.
Max and Ares lunged forward with a great stride.
Already a length ahead of him on his right, Cally, stuck to Apollo like a lovely burr, turned her head and gave Max a big grin.
Following her instructions, he let Ares have his head, and Ares, to Max’s delight, caught up a bit of the distance between them and Apollo.
But so did Hugo. His gray stallion hugged the inside rail, keeping pace with Max, and Max didn’t know if the keeping pace was due to strategy or to the fact the gray horse couldn’t go any faster.
Leaning forward over Ares’s shoulders, Max urged him faster as they took the first turn. Twice around, he told himself, horse hooves hitting the dirt track like cumulative thunder, dust and the smell of horse sweat rising in the hot air. Stay between Hugo and Cally.
At the end of the turn, heading into the straight on the far side of the track, Cally edged forward, putting more distance between her and the other racers. Apollo ran effortlessly, Cally’s lean, womanly body like a featherweight atop the powerful animal, and Max felt a pride in her, pride and desire and?—
A glint of steel sparked in the sunlight as Max followed her down the straight. A glint of steel, off to his right, beyond the track, beyond Cally, out of sight of the spectators on the other side of the course. Instinct sent Max’s eyes searching through a thick grouping of sagebrush.
The glint of steel sparked again. A rifle, his horrified eyes saw as he neared the turn.
A rifle aimed at Cally.
Max’s body went cold.