Fourth and Goal Read Online Free PDF Page A

bound for training camp. She half wished Derek had knocked on her door to say good-bye, but should have known better.
    Downing a cup of coffee, she threw on some clothes, splashed water on her face, and walked out the door. Simon waited on the porch. His tail slapped on the wooden rungs of the railing, his ever-present ball stuffed in his mouth. Sighing, she signaled for him to follow. Pausing halfway to the barn, she turned to regard her temporary home.
    A half hour from downtown Seattle in good traffic, the two-bedroom cottage sat on the edge of the woods, painted white with red shutters, a red front door, and a covered porch complete with a porch swing. For the next few months, it was hers. She'd enjoy every minute of it.
    Rachel headed for the barn. Nothing special, the large red metal building boasted a modest indoor arena and about ten stalls, all of which were empty except for her horse and Derek's old stock horse.
    An envelope with her name on it in his big, sloppy handwriting was tacked on the bulletin board near the feed room. She removed it and found her keys and a brief note inside: Rae, I found these late last night. Sorry about that. I'll be in touch. Call me if you need anything. Dare
    Rachel fingered the note, tracing his name. Dumb, but a warm feeling spread through her from a simple note. Casting a wary glance at Simon, she stuffed the keys in her pocket. The Lab danced around her feet, dropped his ball, and looked up expectantly. His tongue lolled out one side of his mouth, and his eyes burned bright with an obsessive fever.
    She tossed the ball down the aisle, and Simon scrambled after it, momentarily leaving her in peace.
    Rachel fed Derek's big, stocky stock horse named Mac. Returning to the feed room for more grain, she discovered the grain scoop and Simon were both AWOL. She called for him, not expecting a response and not getting one. That damn dog needed an intervention—or rehab. Shaking her head, she rummaged through the cupboard over the feed bins for something to use and found a coffee can.
    Her old, faithful gelding, Moe, waited politely as she dumped a scoop of grain in his feeder. He nuzzled her before burying his head in the bucket. She'd owned the gelding since junior high, shown him in all kinds of events, and couldn't imagine her life without him.
    "Hey, you are still here."
    Rachel turned at the sound of her brother's voice. “Where else would I be? I have no other job."
    "Well, you can blame Ramsey and his asshole cousin for that."
    Rachel sat down on the tack trunk and stared at the wall. “I saw Dad last night."
    Mitch's mouth turned down. His dark eyes filled with concern. “How is he?"
    "The same. Living in squalor and drinking his meals."
    Her big brother worked his jaw. Anger hardened his features. “Damn it. We've gotta make this right."
    "We will. He's the only parent we have left. I won't let him die while he's living.” Determination to right the wrongs overrode her other emotions.
    "Did you get anything out of him?"
    "Nothing. He's closemouthed and stubborn.” Just like his son.
    "What about Ramsey? Did he say anything about Dad?” Mitch pulled a piece of hay from a nearby bail and gnawed on it.
    "Just that he was sorry to hear what happened."
    "Yeah, I bet he is. Dad's covering for one of his players. You know it, and I know it. Ramsey and Harris are his two guys who made the pros. They're the logical ones."
    "I know they are.” Saying the words turned her stomach inside out.
    "You have to be one hundred percent committed or this will never work."
    "I am.” Rachel ground her teeth and resisted the childish urge to kick him in the shins like she had when they were young. “I'll get to the bottom of this. My life is crap because of it as much as Dad's. Yours will be too if you ever try to go beyond a high school coach.” As hard as it might be, she'd see it through to the end.
    "Hell, I'm lucky to have a job. The sins of the father and all that."
    "Our father didn't