Making Her Mark Read online

  Making Her Mark

  Renée Dahlia

  romance.com.au

  Making Her Mark

  Renée Dahlia

  A brand-new Merindah Park story about second chances and risking it all for love.

  Rachel Bassett

  I left the family horse stud behind at 16 to pursue a career as a jockey. I’ve been killing it in a male-dominated industry, and now all my hard work has paid off-my first group one win, the biggest success of my career. But I’m not celebrating. My girlfriend just dumped me in front of a crowded pub, and now I don’t even have a home to go to. The only saving grace is Allira, who I haven’t seen since school, who has offered me a place to stay. If only her hot-as-hell brother would stop visiting-I’m swearing off relationships, with men and women alike, to focus on my career.

  Jacob Mullagh

  I might be a top AFL player, but what I really want to do when my footy career is over is open up my own law firm. My teammates call me ‘Lawless’, but I’m anything but. I work hard to keep my public image sparkling clean; for the sake of my football career and my long term future. But now my foolish friends, and that woman-that stunning, bold, brash, athletic, beautiful woman staying at my sister’s house-are going to put it all in jeopardy. I can’t risk my reputation for the sake of the ones I love... can I?

  About the author

  RENÉE DAHLIA is an unabashed romance reader who loves feisty women and strong, clever men. Her books reflect this, with a side-note of dark humour. Renée has a science degree in physics. When not distracted by the characters fighting for attention in her brain, she works in the horse racing industry doing data analysis. She writes for two racing publications, churning out feature articles, interviews and advertorials. When she isn’t reading or writing, Renée wrangles a partner, four children, and volunteers on the local cricket club committee.

  reneedahlia.com

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to acknowledge the Wangal people of the Eora Nation, who are the traditional custodians of the land on which this book was written. I would also like to acknowledge the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation, whose language includes the word ‘merindah’. I would also like to acknowledge the Taungurung people of the Kulin Nation, where the farm Merindah Park is fictionally located. I pay my respects to the Elders past and present.

  Thank you to the team at Escape, particularly Kate Cuthbert for continuing to believe in me, Chrysoula Aiello for her edits, and the rest of the team at Harlequin who pulled this novel into a book. Thanks, as always, go to my sister and beta reader, Caro—you are a star.

  Thank you to Uncle Hilton Donovan for his sensitivity read of Jacob’s character (and naming Jacob), to Jack Hockman for his delightfully honest writing about depression (#doingcartwheels) to Jakalene and the rest of the Ashfam crew, and to Annelise Monte’s blog on writing bisexual characters. Also to the Kinsey Scale for helping me figure out a bit more about myself.

  For Billy Smith, Pam O’Neill, and all the people who have worked and still do work to make room for jockeys of all genders to compete.

  Content Notes

  Please be aware that this book contains descriptions of bullying, forced outing of a queer person (not on the page), gambling and pyramid schemes.

  Contents

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Content Notes

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Author Notes

  Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing...

  Chapter 1

  ‘Achievement unlocked. I’m so freaking proud of you.’ Rachel’s twin sister, Serena, squealed down the phone, perfectly summing up the most amazing day in Rachel’s life.

  ‘Life doesn’t get much better than this.’ Her whole body buzzed with adrenaline, satisfaction, and an overwhelming sense of glory. Fuck, if she could bottle this feeling, she’d be a billionaire. Only one thing could make this achievement better—having her dad around to see her do it. Rachel blinked away the rush of heat behind her eyes. Dad would want her to enjoy this, he’d been her strongest encouragement, and now she’d done it.

  ‘I’m surprised you didn’t hear the whole family screaming at the telly.’ Serena giggled, and Rachel grinned ruefully at the notion. Merindah Park, the family farm, was over three hours’ drive from Flemington Racecourse.

  ‘All I could hear was my heart beat in time with Static Alarm’s hoofbeats.’ Rachel breathed in deep, letting satisfaction seep all the way into the marrow of her bones.

  ‘Congratulations from all of us, and I hope you are going to celebrate quietly.’ Serena’s slightly edgy command made Rachel grind her teeth. No, she wouldn’t let her twin’s judgey comment upset her.

  ‘I promise not to be too wild.’ She didn’t have to ride again until Tuesday, having a rare Sunday off tomorrow, and she planned to use the free time well. Serena didn’t understand her wilder side, content to be a small-town good girl. Rachel breathed out—she wasn’t being fair to her sister. Just because they didn’t understand each other, that didn’t make Serena’s choices wrong either.

  ‘You know I didn’t mean it like that, Rachel. You deserved this win. I’m super proud of you.’ Serena’s heart was in the right place, the problem with their lack of twin perfection was Rachel.

  ‘Thanks. I’d better go. I’m meeting the owners for a drink.’

  ‘Congratulations, and let’s chat later.’ Serena hung up. Rachel strode into the pub next to the racecourse with a spring in her step, and not just because it was early September. Spring, and the Spring Racing Carnival, was her favourite time of year and she’d just won a spring Group One race. The absolute pinnacle of her career. This was why she got up before dawn every day to ride racehorses in the cold and the dark. Every fall, every disappointment: it was all worth it because of today. Today she’d won the Memsie Stakes, her first Group One win, albeit on a rank outsider. She wasn’t going to let the odds take any of the gloss off the achievement. No one could take this win off her. Her name would forever be in the record book as a Group-One-winning rider. The trainer hadn’t expected Static Alarm to win, and neither had the punters; the filly was only in the field as a lightweight pacemaker for the more favoured stablemate, Darnation. Rachel had done as she was told, and led out the field with a strong pace, only to find the tough filly kept on going, kept finding more in the tank and she’d sped away from the others to win easily.

  Since the moment she’d passed the finishing post, Rachel’s grin had been permanently tattooed on her face, like the tattoo she planned to get on her shoulder blade with Static Alarm’s name. Her first major win. Finally, after eight years of race riding and hundreds of minor winners, she had the ultimate prize. Her career would thrive now—the first Group One was surely the hardest to get. Static Alarm’s owners had been celebrating all afternoon, while she’d ridden in the last three races on the card. Fifth, eighth and an unlucky fourth in the last, but those middling results couldn’t take the shine off Static Alarm’s victory. Rachel knew she’d spend all night watching and re-watching the replay, grinning maniacally at the screen like a benevolent version of the Joker. The racecourse had kicked the owners out of the public stands at the end of the day, and they’d invited her to continue the celebration at the
pub over the road.

  The pub buzzed with several groups of people, their voices loud above the background music. A typical Melbourne corner pub, with a TAB in one corner, and the greasy smells of the kitchen wafting from the other side of the room. It probably had a beer garden out the back with crappy wooden trestle tables, and saggy umbrellas. Rachel looked around at the bar stools and old tables with peeling Formica tops. This pub hadn’t been gentrified like so many others. It had missed the wild upgrades more common in the central city with the latest fad coffees, and upscale hipster menus. This pub kept its suburban charms—if that was the right word for the generally rundown state—and it reminded her of the grubby corner pub in Tranquil Waters, the small town near the farm she’d grown up on; except, this pub was doing a roaring trade with plenty of people creating a loud happy noise for a Saturday night. Another reason to relax and enjoy the day’s achievements.

  Rachel walked towards the bar, reading the drinks list to find something to celebrate with. Champagne, that’s what she wanted. She didn’t normally drink, not because she was pious, but because of the calorific content, but damn it, today she had every reason to celebrate. She was fortunate to be a natural lightweight, and watching her intake and weight was a normal part of her job as a jockey. She needed to keep her weight to under 51 kg, lighter than most jockeys because the extra couple of kilograms less gave her more riding opportunities. Consistency in her diet and exercise regime helped keep her weight stable, assisted by her small stature at just a tick over five feet tall. Her phone buzzed in her pocket and she pulled it out.

  Lisa: Where are you?

  Rachel: At the pub. The owners invited me to celebrate with them.

  Lisa: Which pub? Celebrate what?

  Rachel sighed, trying not to let doubt seep into her joy. Lisa never watched her ride. She squared her shoulders and texted back a curt response about winning a big race and the name of the pub.

  Lisa: What a coincidence. A few other friends are at the same pub. I’m already on the way.

  Rachel stamped down the slight irritation as her girlfriend’s response trampled all over the thrill and joy of her win. Rachel had moved in as Lisa’s flatmate last year, it must be almost a whole year ago. Just one more share house in a stream of share houses since she’d left home at sixteen, or more accurately, since her dad had encouraged her to take up an apprenticeship in the city away from … Well, she wasn’t going to think about that now, she’d spent years fucking away that hurt with a wide variety of bodies across the gender spectrum. She’d moved on, and since moving in with Lisa, they’d fallen into a happy routine, slowly graduating from flatmates into a real relationship over the past six months or so, but lately Lisa had shown signs of clinginess. Lisa often complained that Rachel spent too much time with horses and had no time for her, but when Rachel tried to explain that horses were her job and because she was self-employed, she didn’t get paid unless she rode, Lisa dismissed her comments. Lisa seemed to want Rachel to arrange her life around Lisa’s needs, but more often lately, Lisa hadn’t even bothered to turn up when Rachel asked her to come to stuff. And now Lisa was coming here? Rachel sighed, if Lisa actually arrived, Rachel knew she’d be grateful, and she hated her own neediness to spend time with Lisa. Rachel blinked away the old angst, the would she or wouldn’t she turn up nerves, that made her guts ache.

  One little text message exchange created all this introspection and interrupted the day’s glory. She lifted her chin. None of that old shit would ruin her day. Lisa would always be welcome to join the celebrations. Rachel pushed aside her doubt about Lisa and smiled, a big fake smile. She waved to Bobby Thomas, the syndicate manager, and he called out.

  ‘Rachel Bassett—our fabulous jockey. Come and have some bubbly.’

  Her smile turned into a genuine grin as she joined the group of twenty owners with all their extras crowding around. A diverse group of people, all brought together by one horse. They stood around the bar, staring at someone’s phone screen watching the replay and cheering Static Alarm home again. Bobby slapped his thigh as the mighty filly dug deep and won. Rachel’s body hummed with the same thrill as when she’d reached the last half-furlong and glanced over her shoulder to see the rest of the field still a couple of lengths in arrears. She’d asked Static Alarm for one last effort, and the filly had responded, flying towards the finish line. Shivers raced up her spine. Yes, she’d definitely be watching this race on repeat!

  ‘Yeah, the fat man does cartwheels,’ Bobby yelled, and Rachel giggled at his joy. As she tipped her head, she did a double take. Was that Mr Driscoll lingering at the edge of the group? She shifted deliberately to stand on the other side of Bobby, as far from Driscoll as possible. What was he doing here? He wasn’t one of the owners of Static Alarm. His presence sent a chill across the back of her neck. Fuck, he was such a creep. The first time she’d met him, he’d come to inspect her brother’s horse Tsuyoi Red, and his slimy smile, and the way he’d run his eyes over her made her cringe. Not to mention the way he’d called her and her twin sister Serena ‘girls’. Ick. So much for enjoying herself and her grand victory tonight, now she’d have to waste some energy on keeping away from him. She took the offered glass of champagne from Bobby.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No problem. I had a couple of hundred on her, so I’ve made more than enough for several bottles.’ Bobby laughed and started to introduce her to the rest of the syndicate. She’d met a few of them before at trackwork, and Sunday stable breakfasts. They probably didn’t remember her. Most people didn’t remember the staff when they came to see their horses. Fuck, when did she get so cynical? Today was supposed to be about celebration, not spent bitching to herself about the life she’d chosen. She took a big gulp of her drink, and the bubbles fizzled on her tongue. The little complex irritations of life shouldn’t get in the way of winning, otherwise what the hell was the whole point? She shouldn’t have to force herself to enjoy success when it finally came. Ahh, that was the key to it. Tomorrow, she’d go back to being just another jockey, with all the same old frustrations. She forced herself to try and ignore all that crap and live in the moment.

  ‘Nice ride, Rachel. Thanks.’ One of the owners called out, and she tipped her glass in his direction. Rachel couldn’t help the slight cringe as she waited for someone to call out ‘you can ride me anytime’, because she couldn’t live in the moment, no matter how hard she tried. But the comment she’d heard so often didn’t come, and she blew out a breath over her champagne glass. The air whistled a little, a musical note of relief.

  ‘Ahh, whatever. Girls can’t ride, they aren’t strong enough.’ Driscoll’s voice shouted over everyone’s congratulations. The small victory deflated like a pierced balloon. Thanks a fucking lot, Driscoll, you dickhead. She sipped her bubbles to keep her mouth shut, the taste of happiness turning a little sour on her tongue.

  ‘She did well today.’ Bobby chipped in.

  ‘Nah. She just hung on. A front-running ride, and a surprise at that. There isn’t any skill in staying on.’ Driscoll dug deeper. Rachel clenched her fist around the stem of her glass, surprised it didn’t snap off in her hand, as she glared at him.

  ‘I’m a great judge of pace, thank you very much.’

  ‘Well, actually—’ Bobby spoke over the top of her, and with a ‘well, actually’ to boot. She sighed. This was why she couldn’t enjoy being a Group One winner—even a win came with the usual snide crap that she hadn’t really earned it, that it was luck, not skill, which got her here.

  ‘—to win like that shows an excellent ability to judge pace,’ Bobby said. Rachel tried not to roll her eyes, as she dipped her head to thank him for saying exactly what she’d said only a second before. Bobby would be key to her being able to ride Static Alarm in her next race. There was that flicker of cynicism again. Rachel wouldn’t be surprised if the trainer decided he needed a proper—meaning male—jockey for Static Alarm, now the filly had proven herself. None of them counted on Rachel’s
stubborn streak. No one else was getting her star filly. She’d done all the work, riding her in trackwork every morning, and all her earlier race starts, including a few wins in lower class races.

  ‘Why are you here, Driscoll?’ Rachel yelled over the competing voices of the owners. ‘You don’t seem to be celebrating.’

  Bobby tapped her on the shoulder and whispered, ‘He’s made an offer for Static Alarm.’

  ‘I suppose he thinks he can get her cheaper if he makes the owners think she isn’t that good?’

  Bobby shrugged one shoulder, ‘Something like that.’

  ‘My sister-in-law will make a counter offer. Don’t sell to that slimeball.’

  ‘She will?’

  Fuck. She blamed the thrill of the day, and subsequent killjoys, for her lack of filter between brain and mouth. She hadn’t wanted to involve Toshiko in a bidding war, she’d only wanted to best Driscoll, who didn’t deserve to own Static Alarm. But the sudden hunger in Bobby’s voice made her curse herself. Bobby, like all good syndicators and agents, could smell money.

  ‘She’s been putting together a few broodmares for Merindah Park’s new stallion prospect.’ Rachel could at least bring the conversation back to her family’s horse-breeding business. ‘I’m sure she’ll be interested in a Group-One-winning filly.’

  ‘Hey, Driscoll, you aren’t the only one chasing Static Alarm. And since you aren’t the owner yet, maybe you should leave the real owners to enjoy their win.’ Bobby’s fingers tightened on his beer: the only sign that he didn’t really want to confront the city investor.

  ‘Thanks. It’d be nice to enjoy the win without being slandered in front of the owners.’ Rachel tapped her glass lightly against Bobby’s pint. Bobby’s eyes stayed narrow and calculating.

  ‘You’ll be hearing from me.’ Driscoll bumped Rachel with his shoulder as he walked past on his way out. She stumbled forward, her champagne splashing all down her front, soaking her blouse. She bit back another curse word, this one starting with c, and sidled out of the crowd. Usually this type of pub had napkins near the kitchen. She dabbed at her shirt but no amount of napkins was going to fix the fact that her shirt was soaked all down one breast. Given the light colour of both her shirt and bra, Driscoll’s jolt meant the whole pub could see everything, including her nipple. Fucking Driscoll. What a cockhead!