Legends Lake Read online

  Escape to the enchanting world of JOANN ROSS

  HOMEPLACE

  FAR HARBOR

  FAIR HEAVEN

  Available from Pocket Books

  And her next tale to treasure

  BLUE BAYOU

  Coming soon from Pocket Books

  “I’ll walk along with you.”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Kate responded quickly. Too quickly, she realized as his flinty, unnerving eyes narrowed. If she weren’t so bloody nervous, she might have laughed at the way her imagination was running rampant: comparing the man to wild animals and warrior Scots, for heaven’s sake. Alec MacKenna, she reminded herself, was just a man. The same as any other.

  “It’ll give us a chance to discuss Legends Lake,” he said. “I’ll bring you up to speed on his problem.”

  “Oh, there wouldn’t be time enough for that on such a brief stroll,” she said in a blithe, airy way she was far from feeling. “Go along with the others, Mr. MacKenna. Truth be told, I’ll be needing a bit of time to gather my thoughts after my little altercation with Brian.”

  “You didn’t really …”

  She realized he was on the verge of asking her if she’d actually committed an act of magic. Then he shook his head with obvious disbelief. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

  While he stood there for a moment longer, looking at her hard and deep, Kate, who definitely didn’t want to get into an argument, managed to resist informing him that protecting the tree might not be important to him, but was gravely important to the faeries. As well as everyone who would have had to drive along that cursed roadway.

  “Well.” He seemed momentarily transfixed, almost, Kate considered, as if he were under a spell. One she certainly hadn’t put upon him. “I’ll meet you at your farm, then.”

  Accolades for JoAnn Ross and

  FAIR HAVEN

  “Not only does JoAnn Ross provide her usual impressive blend of tender warmth and fascinating characters, but she also adds a colorful dash of the supernatural. The talent for great storytelling is obviously embedded deep in Ms. Ross’ bones.”

  —Romantic Times

  “With writing as fresh as the heady scent of the first daffodils of spring, JoAnn Ross takes readers to a place close to heaven on earth…. Ross produces one delightful page after another, one unforgettable story after another. You’ll tuck Michael, Erin, and Shea in the place in your heart where hopes and dreams are safely kept—alongside the belief in all things magical.”

  —CompuServe Romance Reviews

  “In Fair Haven, JoAnn Ross returns to Ireland she knows so well that readers will feel a sweet mist on their faces as their hearts are warmed by the lyrical sound of the Irish brogue. Fair Haven will touch readers’ souls like no other book this year. Have the tissues handy, you will bounce between tears and laughter…. Put this on your to buy list now, because this book will sell out fast.”

  —Romancing the Celtic Soul

  “As magical as Ireland itself…. A masterpiece of writing from the heart…. Storytelling at its all-time best.”

  —The Belles and Beaux of Romance

  “This follow-up to Ms. Ross’ highly popular books Far Harbor and Homeplace is sure to please readers immensely…. Another wonderful story from this talented author!”

  —The Old Book Barn Gazette

  FAR HARBOR

  “An enchanting and warmhearted sequel to Homeplace. The lives of these special people are played out beautifully on the pages of this touching and exceptional novel.”

  —Romantic Times

  “A powerfully moving story of intense emotional depth, satisfying on every level. You won’t want to leave this family.”

  —CompuServe Romance Reviews

  “This story is a wonderful relationship drama in which JoAnn Ross splendidly describes love the second time around.”

  —Barnesandnoble.com

  Books by JoAnn Ross

  Homeplace

  Fair Haven

  Far Harbor

  Legends Lake

  Published by POCKET BOOKS

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  York, NY 10020-1586.

  For information on how individual consumers can place

  orders, please write to Mail Order Department, Simon &

  Schuster, Inc., 100 Front Street, Riverside, NJ 08075.

  JOANN ROSS

  LEGENDS LAKE

  POCKET BOOKS

  New York London Toronto Sydney Singapore

  The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed.” Neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of this “stripped book.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 2001 by THE ROSS FAMILY TRUST created

  10/23/97

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce

  this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue

  of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  ISBN: 0-671-78617-2

  eISBN: 978-1-416-54065-6

  First Pocket Books printing August 2001

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of

  Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Cover art by Gregg Gulbronson

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  To Jay,

  as always,

  with all my love

  LEGENDS LAKE

  1

  ALEC MACKENNA was a gambler by nature and by choice. On any given day, a Thoroughbred trainer could stand at the pinnacle of success in the morning, only to plummet to the depths of despair by sundown. Alec had always found that risk part of the appeal. Yet, when he rolled out of bed before dawn on that fateful morning, falling from grace was the furthest thing from his mind.

  The sky outside his hotel room window was the color of spilt ink; rain streaked down the glass, blurring the city lights in the same soft-focus way Hollywood cameras photographed aging movie stars. Born and reared deep in the embrace of the hazy green Appalachian mountains, Alec didn’t like Florida.

  It was too flat, too warm, and too damn bright. Day after day, the sun blazed unrelentingly down from the wide endless sky, tanning locals to the color and texture of beef jerky while exposing the sad seediness lurking just beneath the pastel Art Deco seaside landscape.

  Five days ago, a tropical storm blew in from the Caribbean, colliding with a cold front swooping down from Tennessee’s Great Smoky mountains.

  Clouds gathered on that first day, a few at a time—like crows flocking on a telephone wire—just as blue-haired snowbirds were settling poolside for their afternoon canasta games and gossip sessions.

  As the afternoon sky grew darker, worried mothers called their children indoors. Golfers in checked pants and cleated shoes hurried off rolling greens, knowing that standing out on a golf course while holding a metal clu
b could turn a man into a human lightning rod.

  On the second day, the steely Atlantic surf swelled; seabirds were reported to have been seen flying backward and migrating whales began riding the breakers inland to beach themselves on the glistening pearly sand.

  Then the storm stalled, closing down over the south coast like a heavy iron manhole cover. Nerves jangled, tempers flared, yet still, despite the thickening mud at Gulfstream Park racetrack, Thoroughbreds pounded the turf, as they’d been doing each winter for more than sixty years.

  As he walked across the paddock, Alec frowned at the turf, which, after four days of nonstop rain, was a quagmire.

  “We’re moving the Orchid Handicap to the main track,” the race steward informed him when he checked in.

  The filly Alec had trained to run in today’s prestigious Orchid Handicap hated racing in mud. The fact that the track appeared nearly as bad as the turf did little to ease Alec’s mind as he entered the shedrow. Usually the rich, familiar aromas of hay and horse would lift his spirits. Not today.

  Lady Justice had left hay in the net from the night before, a sign she was nervous. The last time she’d run in mud, she’d barely avoided what could have been a fatal accident when a horse stumbled in front of her in the stretch.

  Since fear served as a prime emotion in prey animals, motivating them to flee from predators, Alec was concerned that the incident had been programmed in the filly’s memory, encouraging her to relate today’s rain with that other near disaster. Rather than breeze her as he would have done on any other race day, he settled for having her walked around the shedrow. Her nerves were palpable, sparking in the thick moist air like downed electrical wires.

  Making his decision, he headed over to the sleek orchid and white-painted grandstand clubhouse complex, finding the filly’s owner in the Turf Club.

  “Surely you’re not suggesting we scratch?” Douglas Wellesley shot Alec a sharp look over the salted crystal rim of his Bloody Mary glass.

  A senior partner in a silk-stocking New York law firm whose grandfather had once been elected governor of Connecticut, Wellesley had entered the horse business with the same intent with which he entered a courtroom: to win. That need, which went all the way to the bone, was something Alec and the attorney shared. The difference was that while Alec was driven to win, he wasn’t willing to achieve victory at any cost.

  Knowing Wellesley wouldn’t appreciate the premonition prickling at the back of his neck, Alec stuck to facts. “She seems to be favoring her right hoof.”

  She’d suffered a hoof bruise two weeks ago. From what Alec had been able to tell, she was fully recovered, but if there was an outside chance she wasn’t back to one hundred percent, he damn well didn’t want to race her. Racetracks were unpredictable at best; running a horse that was less than sound was definitely stacking the odds against you.

  “Of course you called the track vet.”

  “Of course.” Calling for a consult had been the racing equivalent of a Hail Mary pass.

  “So? What did he say?”

  “She couldn’t find any outward sign of injury, but—”

  “Then we’re not scratching.”

  “Lady Justice hates mud in her face.”

  “Instruct the jockey to have her break out in front and stay there. Then she won’t have to deal with mud.”

  The filly had never been a horse to break for a lead and hold it. She liked to bide her time, watching for an opening, then slipping through the crowded pack at just the right moment.

  “This horse is talented. She has the best gift for spotting an opening than any I’ve ever worked with. On the right day and the right track, she can run with the best of them. And win. But her kick is only good for an eighth of a mile. There’s no way she can hold a lead for a grueling twelve furlongs. Asking her to do it in mud is flat out impossible.”

  “I didn’t hire you to make excuses.” The older man’s voice turned as hard as his marble gray eyes. “I hired you to win races.”

  “I believe I’ve done that.” Alec left unsaid the little fact that under his training, Lady Justice had gone undefeated as a two-year-old, winning the Eclipse award as America’s top juvenile filly.

  “The Orchid Handicap is the most prestigious distaff race in the Florida racing season. I intend to be standing in the winner’s circle when it’s over.”

  He’d certainly dressed for the occasion, trading in his usual pinstriped suit for charcoal slacks, a custom-tailored brushed wool blazer and silk Hermès tie. Alec gave the attorney reluctant points for somehow managing to still appear patrician in the orchid purple jacket.

  “You’re being extremely well paid to stick to the original battle plan: today’s Orchid, the Burbonette Breeders Cup at Turfway, the Apple Blossom at Oak-lawn, finishing up with the Kentucky Oaks. Then the horse can rest on her laurels all she wants when I set her to breeding champions.”

  Deciding that this wasn’t the time to resume the argument that the filly loved racing too much to be turned into a broodmare at a mere three-years-old, Alec stared at Wellesley, who stared back. Finally, feeling as if he were eight-years-old again, facing down some bully on the playground who’d called his father a drunk, he broke the stare and looked out the window to the sloshy track.

  Alec knew how addictive the exhilaration of watching your horse come in under the wire first could be. To some, winning became like a drug in the blood; they couldn’t get enough of it. He’d long ago accepted that his own reasons for needing to win were more complex.

  “There’ll be other days. Other races.”

  “I don’t give a flying fuck about other races. At this moment, I’m only concerned with the Orchid Stakes.”

  “This isn’t some New York City courtroom where you can manipulate the jury with legal sleight of hand and mental gymnastics. You’ve got to play the cards you’ve been dealt, and if you insist on running that horse in this weather, I’ll quit.”

  It was not a bluff. Alec refused to take into consideration the exclusivity agreement he’d signed with Wellesley last year, which resulted in the only horses currently boarding in his training stables belonging to this man. Even as he admitted to himself that there wasn’t any real reason to keep the filly off the track, and that throwing away what most trainers would consider a dream job working for a man with seemingly bottomless pockets might be considered reckless, Alec couldn’t force Lady Justice to run a race that wasn’t hers.

  Douglas Wellesley’s mouth thinned. “The horse runs as planned.”

  “Guess I’m out of here, then.” Alec turned and strolled out of the restaurant.

  He might not be officially Lady Justice’s trainer, but that didn’t stop him from hanging around long enough to watch the outcome of Wellesley’s arrogance.

  Despite the miserable weather, the mood at Gulf-stream Park remained unrelentingly upbeat. Umbrellas popped up all over the infield grass like mushrooms, conversation in the stands buzzed like a swarm of hornets as tips were traded, odds debated. At the betting windows, business was so fast and furious horseplayers found it difficult to hear over the sound of money being exchanged.

  Rumors of the race being called due to rain swelled from shedrow to the clubhouse to the grandstand. Ten minutes before post time, the downpour lessened to a drizzle, causing the stewards to gather and confer over printouts of satellite weather photos.

  A ten-minute delay was called. Then another. Then, finally, as the crowd who’d come here today expecting pageantry began to grow impatient, the signal was sent to the saddling paddock that the race would take place.

  A voice boomed over the loudspeaker, announcing the beginning of the post parade. Despite his misgivings, the sight of the magnificent four-legged athletes—all gleaming muscle and lithe grace—parading by on their matchstick legs, the colorful silks worn by their jockeys brightening the gloomy day like a rainbow, sent a surge of pure adrenaline through Alec’s bloodstream. The familiar thrill was quickly replaced by an ominous drea
d as Lady Justice passed by the grandstand.

  It was obvious that the filly didn’t want to be here. Rather than her usual joyful prancing, she was plodding through the motions like a workhorse weary of the plow, head down, jet black tail hanging limp, nearly trailing in the mud. She was equally reluctant during her warm-up gallop around the track.

  And then it got worse.

  Displaying a temperament Alec had never witnessed, she refused to enter the starting gate. They tried putting a hood on her, which only made her more anxious.

  Alec rubbed the back of his neck, which felt as prickly as if he’d walked through a spider web as he watched the track officials coax, cajole, then split up, some in back pushing, others in front pulling, literally wrestling the filly into the starting gate. They quickly slammed the back gate behind her. Having seen other Thoroughbreds become violent in such situations, Alec held his breath, then let it out on a long slow whoosh as she appeared to have accepted her fate.

  But still he watched.

  Waited.

  Worried.

  The gates sprang open. “They’re off!”

  Hooves pounded, mud flew, the bright hues of the silks blurred in the mist. Alec cursed when Lady Justice missed the break. The rest of the horses, which had broken in a tight pack, began to spread out. Lady Justice remained dead last.

  “Come on, sweetheart,” Alec murmured encouragingly over the roar of the crowd. “You can do it. Just run your race and you’ll be fine.”

  Johnny Devaroux, the veteran jockey from Louisiana’s bayou country Alec had hired to ride the filly today, knew her well enough to let her relax, keep her off the pace and allow her to close at her own speed.

  She was at the rail, boxed in by three horses in front of her and another on her outside, making Alec wonder how the hell she’d be able to get through the traffic when it did come time to make her move.

  Then, as she made the far turn, Johnny found a sliver of daylight. Eager to escape the mud flying in her face, the filly exploded through it.

  Her closing kick had the crowd on its feet as she accelerated dramatically, pounding her way from the back of the pack, streaking past the other horses, going from last to second place in record time. Her long legs lifted, stretched, pounded. Her head was thrust forward; her tail streamed out behind her like a jet flag as she dueled with the leader, neck and neck.