Bethany Campbell - The Secret Heiress

Dear Reader,

Like many little girls growing up, I loved horses, though I knew I would probably never own one. So my relatives, bless them, gave me horse books!

My beloved Aunt Charlotte gave me a special book on great racehorses.

The story that most haunted me was of Black Gold, a great little horse that won the fiftieth Kentucky Derby. Run for too many years, he finished his last race—but broke a leg. He crossed the finish line on three legs—but he crossed it. And then was put down.

I thought of Black Gold when writing about Andrew, the quiet and serious hero in this book. He is a man who loves horses and is passionately devoted to both keeping the sport fair—and free of tragic endings like those that befell Black Gold, Ruffian, Barbaro and Eight Belles.

We need more like him.

Bethany Campbell

www.millsandboon.co.uk

has written forty-eight novels and novellas of romance and romantic suspense. An eight-time finalist for the RITA ®Award, she has won three, as well as three Reviewers’ Choice Awards, a Maggie Award and a Daphne du Maurier Award.

Under another name, she has published articles, short stories and poetry. Her proudest moments outside of romance were doing a poetry workshop with Maya Angelou, and being presented two poetry awards in one evening by Gwendolyn Brooks.

She won the 2005 Cape Fear Screen Writing Award, and her film script, Three Apples Fall, has just been shot and edited by LCW productions.

Her husband, Dan, has written science fiction, a syndicated humor column and a number of short plays and screenplays. The couple lives in northwest Arkansas with three cats and a garden that’s been out of control for fourteen years. Their favorite pastime is watching movies and videos. They plan, someday, to clean their office.

To the memory of Charlotte and Jesse Hall

and to their children, John and my dear Mary Ann

PART ONE: Australia, the Northern Territory

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

PART TWO: Hunter Valley, New South Wales

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

PART THREE: Australia, The Hunter Valley

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

PART FOUR: Australia, The Hunter Valley

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

PART FIVE: Australia, The Hunter Valley

Epilogue

February

The tall Kentuckian, Andrew Preston, was new to Australia.

And he’d come to the Northern Territory for a practical reason. He’d meant, with the help of his old friend Mick, to test the Territory’s political waters. He needed support in his run for the presidency of the International Thoroughbred Racing Federation.

At the moment, though, the political waters were icy cold.

“Listen, Yank,” the big man, Francis Bleak said. “Australian leadership should come from Oz. Reforms? We don’t need none. We’re doing fine as we are. Now I got work to do.”

The Thoroughbred breeder turned his broad back and walked into the stable. The three men who’d stood by him, listening stony-faced, cast cold glances at Andrew and silently followed Bleak inside.

Andrew looked at Mick and Mick looked at Andrew.

Straight-faced, Andrew said, “This is starting out really well, eh?”

Mick, a breeder himself, ruddy and red-haired, shrugged. “You told me to introduce you to some tough ones. I just did. It could have been worse. He could have shot you.” Mick started toward his Jeep.

“Be quiet,” Andrew cautioned. “We’re not out of range yet. I take it he’ll vote for Bullock.”

“Righto,” Mick said with a nod. “But I warned you about Bleak. Hey, I’ve known him all my life. He may raise horses, but he’s an ass.”

Mick and Andrew, both thirty-five, had once been roommates in grad school in Kentucky. Mick, squarely built and freckled, had returned to Australia, where he now was president of the Northern Territory Thoroughbred Association.

In Kentucky, Andrew had served two terms as executive director of the Thoroughbred Association of the Americas, Southern Region. He was a tall, lean and broad-shouldered man. His dark hair was thick and wavy, his features finely carved. For generations, his family had bred and raced Thoroughbreds, and he moved with an expert horseman’s physical confidence.

He loved the sport, but he had serious concerns about it. Serious enough to make him take action. When he’d been asked to run for the presidency of the International Thoroughbred Racing Federation, ITRF, he’d taken it as a great honor. But an even greater responsibility.

When he spoke of reforms, he meant reforms. Reforms in breeding, equine safety—and the ugly inroads crime had made into the sport. There were people, powerful people, who didn’t like his ideas, especially about cleaning out the criminal element.

Mick had kept company with him this week to personally introduce Andrew to the racing set in the Northern Territory. He believed passionately in Andrew’s cause and wanted it clear that Andrew had solid connections to Australia—both family and friends.

Both men knew that Andrew faced a grueling fight against Aussie candidate Jackson Bullock. Australia was the deciding contest. There would be other elections the same day in smaller Pacific countries, but Australia was where the presidency would be won or lost. Bullock was the favorite here, a native son with longtime ties to the racing community.

Andrew’s dark brows drew together. “Bullock’s going all out to beat me?”

Mick’s good-natured face clouded. “Right. He didn’t expect you’d get so much support in Europe. He thought he’d win easy, and now he’s pissed off. Here, he means to dominate you. On his airwaves. In his papers. Through all his media connections. He’ll fight hard. And if he has to, he’ll fight dirty.”

A deep voice called from behind them. “Misters—can I speak with you?”

Andrew glanced over his shoulder and saw a dark-skinned man dressed in jeans, a bush shirt and cowboy hat. He was a burly fellow and carried a blacksmith’s anvil as if it weighed but a few pounds. Mick stopped, and so did Andrew.

“Raddy.” Mick grinned, “I didn’t see you.”

“I was just inside the stable,” the man said with a laugh. “I came to borrow Barney’s small anvil.” He tucked the anvil under one brawny arm.

“Andrew, this is Conrad Nakumurrah, best blacksmith in the shire. Raddy, this is my Yank friend, Andrew Preston. He’s running for prez for the ITRF.”

“Pleased to meet,” said Raddy. He shook Andrew’s hand with a grip appropriately like iron. Andrew feared for his finger bones.

“Same here,” he managed to say.

“I heard what you said to Bleak,” Raddy told him. “I like what I heard. You have sympathy for horses. That’s good. You going to my boss’s place?”

“Dead cert,” Mick answered. He started walking again, and the other two men fell in step on either side of him.

“My pickup’s parked by your Jeep,” Raddy said. He looked up at Andrew shrewdly. “I heard the way you talk about the animals. Some people—” he nodded back toward Bleak’s stable “—they don’t care for the horses. Only the money. Breed ’em for the long legs until the long legs break. And so forth. You are against such things, right?”