Adult Fiction with HORSE subjects!

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Horsewoman Annie Grebauer is determined to succeed in the world of thoroughbred racing and manage the men who are equally determined to complicate her life--Sam Cumberland and Phil Angelo

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When the horses of a former schoolmate become the target of sabotage and a polo player is murdered, veterinarian Andi Pauling turns detective to solve the crimes.

"She's pure gold," raves The Philadelphia Inquirer about redheaded Carolina journalist and inspired snoop Natalie Gold--"spunky, quirky, and lots of fun." Now Nattie's mixing it up with a crazy passel of filthy rich Southerners, a horse-whispering beauty, and one grisly murder . . . In Colt Blood. When Nattie's boss at the Charlotte Commercial Appeal orders her to find a local horse whisperer to interview, she knows just the person: yellow-haired New Age belle Sarah Jane Lowell, one of the gifted few who claims to have a psychic connection to horses. She not only talks to them, she hears what they answer. Unfortunately, before Nattie can set up a meeting, Sarah Jane vanishes along with her newfound friend: Nattie's eccentric father. Disturbingly, their sudden disappearance coincides with the brutal murder of Fuzzy McMahon, whose bludgeoned body was found at the very stable where Nattie was supposed to meet Sarah Jane. True, Fuzzy was less than popular, but who would stoop to such a bloody act of violence? Although suspicion has fallen on dark-horse candidate Sarah Jane, Nattie's splitting her money between two other front-runners: blacksmith Bobby McMahon, Fuzzy's redneck of a husband, and his tiresome cousin, Jason Sukon, who can only gain by her death--specifically millions of dollars. A sophisticated tale of reckless romance and irretrievable violence, In Cold Blood goes beyond murder to explore the mysteries of fear, love, lust, and hate. And as always, when it comes to the manners and morals of the New South, mystery author Jody Jaffe gets it right every time.

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From the polo grounds of Palm Beach to the lavish horse farms of Connecticut to Chicago's wealthiest suburbs and Kentucky's thoroughbred stables, bestselling author Ken Englade takes a riveting look at the most horrifying, fascinating and electrifying case ever to rock the ritzy horse world--the disappearance of candy heiress Helen Brach. Photo insert. Martin's Press.

Horse Heaven By Jane Smiley Random House Audio Copyright © 2000 Jane Smiley All right reserved. ISBN: 9780375415753 november 1 / JACK RUSSELL On the second Sunday morning in November, the day after the Breeders' Cup at Hollywood Park (which he did not get to this year, because the trek to the West Coast seemed a long one from Westchester County and he didn't have a runner, had never had a runner, how could this possibly be his fault, hadn't he spent millions breeding, training, and running horses? Wasn't it time he had a runner in the Breeders' Cup or got out of the game altogether, one or the other?), Alexander P. Maybrick arose from his marriage bed at 6:00 a.m., put on his robe and slippers, and exited the master suite he shared with his wife, Rosalind. On the way to the kitchen, he passed the library, his office that adjoined the library, the weight room, the guest bathroom, the living room, and the dining room. In every room his wife had laid a Persian carpet of exceptional quality--his wife had an eye for quality in all things--and it seemed like every Persian carpet in every room every morning was adorned with tiny dark, dense turds deposited there by Eileen, the Jack Russell terrier. Eileen herself was nestled up in bed with his wife, apparently sleeping, since she didn't raise even her head when Mr. Maybrick arose, but Mr. Maybrick knew she was faking. No Jack Russell sleeps though movement of any kind except as a ruse. Mr. Maybrick had discussed this issue with Rosalind on many levels. It was not as though he didn't know what a Jack Russell was all about when Rosalind brought the dog home. A Jack Russell was about making noise, killing small animals and dragging their carcasses into the house, attacking much larger dogs, refusing to be house-trained, and in all other ways living a primitive life. Rosalind had promised to start the puppy off properly, with a kennel and a trainer and a strict routine and a book about Jack Russells, and every other thing that worked with golden retrievers and great Danes and mastiffs, and dogs in general. But Eileen wasn't a dog, she was a beast, and the trainer had been able to do only one thing with her, which was stop her from barking. And thank God for that, because if the trainer had not stopped Eileen from barking Mr. Maybrick would have had to strangle her. Rosalind, who sent her underwear to the cleaners and had the windows washed every two weeks and kept the oven spotless enough to sterilize surgical instruments, tried to take the position that the turds were small and harmless, and that the carpets could handle them, but really she just thought the dog was cute, even after Eileen learned to jump from the floor to the kitchen counters, and then walked around on them with her primevally dirty feet, click click click, right in front of Mr. Maybrick, even after Eileen began to sleep under the covers, pushing her wiry, unsoft coat right into Mr. Maybrick's nose in the middle of the night. "Do you know where this dog has been?" Mr. Maybrick would say to Rosalind, and Rosalind would reply, "I don't want to think about that." Mr. Maybrick was a wealthy and powerful man, and in the end, that was what stopped him. He knew that, in the larger scheme of things, he had been so successful, and, in many ways, so unpleasant about it all (he was a screamer and a bully, tough on everyone), that Eileen had come into his life as a corrective. She weighed one-twentieth of what he did. He could crush her between his two fists. He could also get rid of her, either by yelling at his wife or by sending her off to the SPCA on his own, but he dared not. There was some abyss of megalomania that Eileen guarded the edge of for Mr. Maybrick, and in the mornings, when he walked to the kitchen to get his coffee, he tried to remember that. The first thing Mr. Maybrick did after he poured his coffee was to call his horse-trainer. When the trainer answered with his usual "Hey, there!," Mr. Maybrick said, "Dick!," and then Dick said, "Oh. Al." He always said it just like that, as if he were expecting something good to happen, and Mr. Maybrick had happened instead. Mr. Maybrick ignored this and sipped his coffee while Dick punched up his response. "Can I do something for you, Al?" "Yeah. You can put that Laurita filly in the allowance race on Thursday." "You've got a condition book, then." "Oh, sure. I want to know what races are being run. You trainers keep everything so dark--" "Well, sure. Al, listen--" "Dick, Frank Henderson thinks it's the perfect race for her. A little step up in class, but not too much competi--" "I'll see." "I want to do it. Henderson said--" "Mr. Henderson--" "Frank Henderson knows horses and racing, right? His filly won the Kentucky Oaks last year, right? He would have had that other horse in the sprint yesterday if it hadn't broken down. Listen to me, Dick. I shouldn't have to beg you." This was more or less a threat, and as he said it, not having actually intended to, Mr. Maybrick reflected upon how true it was. He was the owner. Dick Winterson was the trainer. The relationship was a simple one. Henderson was always telling him not to be intimidated by trainers. "We'll see." "You always say that. Look, I don't want to watch the Breeders' Cup on TV again next year. Henderson thinks this filly's got class." "She does, but I want to go slow with her. We have to see how the filly--" Mr. Maybrick hung up. He didn't slam down the phone--he no longer did that--he simply hung up. If Dick had known him as long as Mr. Maybrick had known himself, he would have realized what a good thing it was, simply hanging up. And here was another thing he could use with his wife. He could say that if he didn't have to pass all those turds in the morning he could start off calmer and his capacity for accepting frustration would last a little longer. It was scientific. When they didn't have the dog, he had gotten practically to the fourth phone call without offending anyone. Now he got maybe to the second. He took another sip of his coffee, and called his broker, then his partner, then his general manager, then his other partner, then his secretary, then his broker again, then his AA sponsor (who was still in bed). This guy's name was Harold W., and he was a proctologist as well as an alcoholic. Mr. Maybrick had chosen him because he was a man of infinite patience and because he knew everything there was to know about prostate glands. "I want a drink," said Mr. Maybrick. "There's turds all over the house. I bet you can understand that one." "Good morning, Al. What's really up? You haven't had a drink in two years." "But I'm always on the verge. It's a real struggle with me." "Say your serenity prayer." "God--" "God--" They said the serenity prayer together. "Look," said Al, "I got this pain in my groin--" "No freebies. That's the rule. My partner will be happy to--" "It's like water trickling out of a hose. I can't--" "You need to be working on your fourth step." "What's that one again?" "Taking a fearless inventory of your character defects." "Oh, yeah." "Trying to get something for nothing is one of your character defects." "I never pay retail." "Then you need to work on your third step, Al." "What's that one?" "Turning your life over to your higher power." Mr. Maybrick cleared his throat, as he always did when someone said those higher-power words. Those words always made an image of Ralph Peters come into his head, the guy who used to be head of the Mercantile Exchange in Chicago, and who foiled the Hunt brothers when they tried to corner the silver market back in '80. Peters was an Austrian guy. He had "higher power" written all over him, and he was the last guy Mr. Maybrick had ever feared. He would never turn his life over to Peters. Harold went on, "Let's think a little more about the last day. What about rage? Have you been raging?" "Well, sure. A guy in my posi--" "Should be filled with gratitude. Your position is a gratitude position. Thank you, God, for every frustration, every bad deal, every monetary loss, every balk and obstacle and resistance." Harold often teased him in this way. Mr. Maybrick felt better for it, because it made him think Harold W. liked him after all, and it reminded him, too, of when his old man had been in a good mood. Joshing him. "Every non-cooperator, every son of a bitch, every idiot who gets in my way, every slow driver, every--" "Okay." "I've got to go to the hospital." "But I-- There's wine in the liquor cabinet." "Throw it out. I've got to go. The assholes are accumulating." Mr. Maybrick laughed. Harold W. laughed, too. Harold W. wasn't a saint, by any means. He had been in AA for thirty-two years, at a meeting almost every day. Mr. Maybrick didn't know whether to respect that or have contempt for it, but he knew for a fact that Harold W. was a force to be reckoned with, and he thanked him politely, ragelessly, and hung up the phone. Now Eileen trotted into the room. It was clear to Mr. Maybrick that the dog was intentionally ignoring him. She clicked over to her bowl and checked it, took a drink from the water dish, circumnavigated the cooking island, and then, casually, leapt onto the granite counter and trotted toward the sink. "Get down, Eileen," said Mr. Maybrick. It was as if he hadn't spoken. Eileen cocked her little tan head and peered into the garbage disposal, noting that the stopper was in place. Her little stump of a tail flicked a couple of times, and she seemed to squat down. She stretched her paw toward the stopper, but her legs were too short; she couldn't reach it. She surveyed the situation for a moment, then went behind the sink, picked up a pinecone that had been hidden there, and jumped down. Only now did she look at Mr. Maybrick. She dropped the pinecone at his slippered feet and backed up three steps, her snapping black gaze boring into his. "I don't want to do that, Eileen," he said. Her strategy was to take little steps backward and forward and then spin in a tight circle, gesturing at the pinecone with her nose. But she never made a sound. "You're not a retriever, Eileen, you're a terrier. Go outside and kill something." Indeed, Eileen was a terrier, and with terrier determination, she resolved that Mr. Maybrick would ultimately throw the pinecone. She continued dancing, every few seconds picking up the pinecone and dropping it again. She was getting cuter and cuter. That was her weapon. Mr. Maybrick considered her a very manipulative animal. He looked away from her and took another sip of his (third) cup of coffee. Now she barked once, and when he looked at her, she went up on her hind legs. She had thighs like a wrestler--she seemed to float. Mr. Maybrick had often thought that a horse as athletic as this worthless dog would get into the Kentucky Derby, then the Breeders' Cup, win him ten million dollars on the track, and earn him five million a year in the breeding shed for, say, twenty years. That was $110 million; it had happened to others. He had been racing and breeding horses for eleven years, and it had never happened to him. This was just the sort of thing that made you a little resentful, and rightfully so, whatever Harold W. had to say about gratitude. He closed his eyes when he felt himself sliding that way, beginning to count up the millions he had spent running horses and thinking about deserving. With his eyes closed, Al could hear her drop the pinecone rhythmically on the tile, chock chock chock chock, the bass, her little toenails clicking a tune around it. Didn't he deserve a really big horse? Didn't he? And then, while his eyes were still closed, dog and pinecone arrived suddenly in his lap, a hard, dense little weight but live, electric. With the shock, he nearly dropped his coffee cup, and as it was, spilled on the counter. "God damn it!" he shouted. Eileen jumped down and trotted away. "Hey! Come here, Eileen," he said. "Eileen!" Eileen sheared off into the living room, and he realized that he had forgotten to let her out. Mr. Maybrick put his arms up on the counter and laid his head upon them. From the Trade Paperback edition. Continues... Excerpted from Horse Heaven by Jane Smiley Copyright © 2000 by Jane Smiley. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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This steamy book blows the lid off international show jumping, a sport where the brave horses are almost human, and the humans behave like animals.

Devon Richmond's main passion is breeding and training thoroughbred horses, until the raven-haired beauty meets and marries John Alexander, but tragedy soon strikes, and Devon spends the next years of her life battling misfortune. A first novel.

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Lysander Hawkley combined breathtaking good looks with the kindest of hearts. He couldn't pass a stray dog, an ill-treated horse, or a neglected wife without rushing to the rescue. And with neglected wives the rescue invariably led to ecstatic bonking, which didn't please their erring husbands one bit. Lysander's mid-life crisis had begun at twenty-two. Reeling from the death of his beautiful mother, he was out of work, drinking too much, and desperately in debt. The solution came from Ferdie, his fat friend: if Lysander was so good at making husbands jealous, why shouldn't he get paid for it? Let loose among the neglected wives of the ritzy county of Rutshire, Lysander causes absolute havoc. But it is only when he meets Rannaldini, Rutshire's King Rat and a temperamental, fiendishly promiscuous international conductor, that the trouble really starts. The only unglamorous woman around Rannaldini was Kitty. Soom Lysander was convinced that Kitty must be rescued from Rannaldini at all costs, even if it means enlisting the help of the old blue-eyed havoc maker; Rupert Campbell-Black. This new Rutshire chronicle continues the high jinks of the rich and famous that have so lavishly entertained the countless readers of RIDERS and POLO.

Molly Ballard was desperate. It wasn't easy caring for two brothers and two sisters, and keeping a roof over their heads. She needed money more than ever. Yet in a fit of anger she quit her job as a groom at the posh Wyland Farm in Kentucky's rich turf--and then stole out of the tack room with $5,000 in FBI cash. So when Agent Will Lyman catches her in a lie, she agrees to cooperate in a sting. She'll do anything to protect her family, to shield the secrets of her past, and guard her heart from further hurt. Molly will even spy for Will and let him pose as her lover. But soon the passion they pretend becomes searingly real as they court danger in bluegrass country and cross the path of a killer who will stop at nothing under a Hunter's Moon.

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Samantha Taylor is shattered when her husband leaves her for another woman. She puts her advertising career on hold and seeks refuge at a friend's California ranch, where she loses herself in the daily labor of ranch life. Here, she discovers the healing powers of trusted friends, simple joys, and hard work. She also meets Tate Jordan, the ranch foreman, and a tumultuous relationship ensues. When Tate disappears and a fall from a horse changes Samantha's life forever, she is confined to a wheelchair and must look deep inside herself to finds the courage to begin again. Now, fighting the battles of the handicapped, she finds new challenges, new loves, and even the adopted child she's always longed for.

Living at a Virginia horse farm with the mother she had never known, Kelsey Byden becomes involved with a high-stakes gambler who raises troubling questions about her mother's past

The third in this delightful mystery series starring an equestrienne on a quest for criminals written by an accomplished critic and mystery writer finds Robin Vaughan's old Texas friend, Marilee Hart, dead from shots fired.

Joe McGinniss - journalist, investigative reporter, and horse racing obsessive - recounts the heartwarming story of veteran trainer P. G. Johnson who, in sixty years as a leading trainer at all three New York tracks, had never had a "big horse." Then, in his seventies, he bought a mare, bred her, and produced Volponi, who won the Breeder's Cup Classic in 2002.

When Tash French's potty grandmother mistakes a Christmas cracker engagement ring for the genuine article, a wedding of astronomical proportions is planned. Swept away by everyone's enthusiasm, Tash and her partner, Niall, can do little but laugh and go along with it. After all, they had meant to marry all along, hadn't they? As the wedding plans escalate, however, Tash starts to have doubts. Niall, a rising acting star, is always working away from home, forgetting important dates and falling in love with his leading ladies, and her own eyes keep wandering to a roguish fellow event rider. Even if the Best Man wins, Tash looks likely to give away more than her hand in marriage - she may lose her head and heart as well ...

Recuperating from the events of "At Risk," young manager Steve Cline receives a further blow when his estranged father is killed in a car accident and he finds out that he is the result of an affair between his mother and horse trainer Chrstopher J. Kessler.

Determined to leave her unfaithful husband, Judy Van Brunt takes the money she inherited from her mother and flees, taking a job as a groom at a North Carolina horse farm, where she shares an apartment with three extraordinary women.

Ross Wakelin, a talented America rider with a chequered past, has come to England hoping for a fresh start. But soon after he arrives at Oakly Manor yard, he learns that all is not as it seems. Bellboy, a winner of the Hickstead Derby, was recently found in his stable with a cut throat. Ross is drawn into a deadly spiral of threatening events.

When Nan Mooney was seven years old, she sat down in her grandmother May-May's living room to watch her first ever horse race. In that single afternoon, she launched what would become a turbulent romance between a woman and a sport. My Racing Heart is part memoir, part journey into the compelling world of Thoroughbred horse racing. At its heart is Nan's relationship with her grandmother, an adventurer, racing connoisseur, and woman of courage and compassion. May-May fostered in Nan a love of Thoroughbreds and the track, ushering her into a rare corner of the world where risk taking is daily currency. Nan thought her emotional link to the races died with May-May, only to have it roar back to life a decade later at New York's Belmont Park. This renewed relationship culminates in a grown-up appreciation for a universe where expectations are constantly defied, and in the realization of a longtime dream -- a trip to the Kentucky Derby. Far more than just a personal tale, My Racing Heart lets readers in on the wild culture and fabulous creatures that rise up around the racetrack. Nan Mooney probes every aspect of the sport: the horses, jockeys, and trainers, the gambling and corruption, its ages-old history, and its forever offbeat society. She takes readers from the backstretch of a small-town track to the stands at Churchill Downs, from the mind of an intrepid gambler to the soul of a Thoroughbred. She explores how the sport itself, and the men and women who participate in it, flourish upon the principle that there are no sure things. My Racing Heart will speak to every horse lover, to every sports nut, and to everyone who cherishes the thrill of possibility or has ever craved a place to run wild. This unique and exquisite memoir perfectly captures the lure, the glory, and the heartbeat of the track.