The Heart's Victory by Nora Roberts

pace for five hundred miles?”
    â€œTo win,” Foxy said simply.
    The afternoon wore on. The noise never abated. The heat in the pits was layered with the smell of fuel, oil, and sweat. Out of a field of thirty, ten cars were already out of the running due to mechanical failure or minor crashes. A broken gearbox, a failed clutch, a split-second error in judgment brought the curtain down on hope. Pam had discarded her blazer, rolled up the sleeves of her white lawn blouse, and now stalked the pit area with her tape recorder. Trickles of dampness worked their way down Foxy’s back. Her shirt clung to her skin, and her hair curled damply around her face. But there was another tickle between her shoulder blades, one that had her stiffening and turning away from the track. Lance stood directly behind her. He spoke first but looked beyond her. The track was a valley cupped inside the mountains of the grandstands.
    â€œHe’s going into lap 85.” He had a cold drink in his hand and held it out to her without shifting his gaze. Foxy took it and drank, though his thoughtfulness confused her. “Yes, I know. He’s got nearly a full lap on Johnston. Have you timed his average speed?”
    â€œJust over 190.”
    Foxy watched Kirk maneuver through a tight cluster of cars. She held her breath as he passed a racer in the short chute between turns three and four. She stared down into floating chunks of ice, then drank again. “You’ve set up a tremendous pit crew. I timed the last fuel stop at under twelve seconds. They’ve given Kirk an edge. And it’s obvious the car’s fast and handles magnificently.”
    Slowly Lance lowered his eyes and looked down at her. “We both know racing is a matter of teamwork.”
    â€œAll but this part,” Foxy countered. “Out there it’s really up to Kirk, isn’t it?”
    â€œYou’ve been standing a long time.” The softness of Lance’s voice brought Foxy’s attention back to him. “Why don’t you sit down for a while.” He could nearly see the headache that was drumming inside her skull. Surprising them both, he lifted a hand to her cheek in a rare gesture of tenderness. “You look tired.” He dropped his hand, then stuck it in his pocket.
    â€œNo, no, I can’t.” Foxy turned away, oddly moved by the lingering warmth on her cheek. “Not until it’s over. You’re going to lose that scotch, you know.”
    â€œI’m counting on it.” He swore suddenly, causing her to turn back to him. “I don’t like the way number 15 handles turn one. He gets closer to the wall every time.”
    â€œFifteen?” Foxy narrowed her eyes as she searched the streaking stream of cars. “That’s one of the rookies, isn’t it? The kid from Long Beach.”
    â€œThe
kid’
s a year older than you are,” Lance muttered. “But he hasn’t the experience to go that high in the groove. He’s going to lose it.”
    Seconds later, number 15 approached turn one again, only to challenge the unforgiving wall too closely. Sparks flew as the rear wheels slammed into the solid force, then were sheared off and tossed into the air as the car began to spin out of control. Pieces of fiberglass began to spray the air as three cars swerved, maneuvering like snakes around the wounded racer. One nearly lost control, its wheels skidding wildly before gripping the asphalt. The yellow flag came down as number 15 flipped into the infield and lay still. Instantly it was surrounded by emergency crews and fire extinguishers.
    As always when she witnessed a crash, a frozen calm descended over Foxy. She did not think or feel. From the instant the car connected with the wall, she had lifted her camera and recorded each step of the crash. Dispassionately she focused, set speed and depth of field. One of her shots would be a classic study of a car in distress. She felt