Excerpt from Second Wind by Dick Francis, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

With only a six or so miles' journey to go, Caspar Harvey lost no time in saying what he'd maneuvered me into hearing.

"How unstable is your friend Kris?"

I said vaguely, "Um . . ."

Harvey announced, "I don't want him as a son-in-law."

"At the moment," I said, "it doesn't look probable."

"Rubbish! The girl's besotted. A year ago they fought like cats, and I'll tell you, I was glad of it. Not that he's not a brilliant forecaster; he is. So I went on acting on his weather advice and he's saved me thousands, literally thousands."

He paused, finding the question difficult, I guessed, but asking it just the same.

"Can you tell him to leave my daughter alone?"

The short answer was of course no, I couldn't. It didn't seem to me, though, to be the right question.

When I didn't answer at once Harvey said, "A year ago she was spitting mad. She went off and got a job in Spain. Then six weeks ago she came back wanting me to arrange today's lunch and not to tell Kris she'd be here, and I did it for her, God knows why, thinking she'd thoroughly got over him, and I was wrong. She hasn't."

He paused gloomily, his big car purring, eating up the miles. "He asked if he could bring a friend to navigate today and when I saw you . . . and you're obviously sensible-not like him-I thought of getting you to tell him not to upset Bell all over again . . . but I suppose you'll think it was a bad idea. . . ."

I said a shade helplessly, "They'll work it out for themselves."

It wasn't what he wanted to hear, and we finished the six miles in mutually unsatisfied silence.

Oliver Quigley's stableyard, it transpired, was on the far side of the town, where shops and hotels gave way to the essential business of the place, to stalls for polished horses, and to the Heath galloping grounds, where they could practice winning and turn their gloss into procreation.

Quigley the trainer drove his pale blue Volvo into his own domain, and even there he looked ill at ease. The big quadrangle stableyard was alive with grooms fetching hay and water to each horse, and putting the straw floor covering clean and comfortable for the night. The groom in authority-clearly the foreman, the head groom-was doling out scoops of food for each horse. Some of the stalls had open doors, some had interior lights on, some were altogether closed and dark. There was an air of wanting to finish the Sunday afternoon program and get off as soon as possible for more enjoyable pursuits.

Caspar Harvey had stopped his car beside Quigley's and made no more reference to his daughter's feelings for Kris.

There was a notable smartening of body language among the grooms at the sight of the two most powerful men in their lives, Oliver Quigley the trainer (and never mind his self-conscious fluttering, it was he who paid the wages) and Caspar Harvey, owner of four superstars that gave kudos not only to Quigley's stable, but to the whole sport of racing.

The filly who might run on Friday was to be found, it seemed, behind one of the closed doors, not yet put right for the night.

Caspar Harvey with pleased anticipation strode over to a row of six stalls separated from the others on one side by the path leading out from the yard and down towards the Warren Hill gallops, and on the other side by a path giving on to the large house where it seemed Quigley lived.

"This is the filly's stall," he said, beckoning to me to come as he unlatched the bolts of the top half of the split stable door. "She's in here."

And so she was. But she wouldn't race on Friday.

I watched Harvey's face change from pride to horror. I saw his throat constrict as he groped for air. His treasure, the Friday filly, the two-year-old preparing to take the females' crown, the possible over-winter favorite for the following year's 1,000 Guineas and Oaks, the future dam of champions, the golden chestnut with a single small white star on her forehead; this fast and famous athlete was down on her knees and groaning, sweat darkening her flanks.

From Second Wind by Dick Francis. Uused by permission of the publisher - Putnam.