by Melissa West
“I guess it’s good I have a spare bedroom.”
Emery peeked up. “Is it that bad?”
“Yes . . . if he finds out. He’ll be devastated. But the thing is, honey, it isn’t his life. It’s yours. What does your gut tell you to do?”
She rested against the counter and stared out the large bay window of Annie’s breakfast nook. “He’s working one of our colts, Annie. It feels like destiny or something. I couldn’t even get near another horse without shaking, but with this colt—Craving Wind, they’re calling him—I’m me again. I can stand. I don’t want to lose that, not when I’m this close.”
“Then I think you have your answer,” Annie said, mixing in cranberries to her batter. “But I don’t think you have to tell Beckett. Yet. See how it goes first. Why break his heart when it might not work out anyway?”
“So, you’re saying keep it a secret? Lie to him?”
Annie fixed her gaze on Emery. “I’m saying a little lie for the greater good can’t be all devil. Wait and see.” She slid another tray into the oven. “Still . . . I’ll prep my guest room just in case.”
CHAPTER SIX
Back the wrong horse
Trip sat down on his brother’s couch, his eyes glued to the game on the widescreen in front of him. It felt good to lose himself in the familiar, and hopefully with another beer or two in him, he could get his mind off Emery Carlisle and how easily she’d slipped back into his life.
He thought of her cane again and said a little thanks to God his father hadn’t seen her with it. That cane would have ended Emery’s career with Hamilton Stables faster than she could blink those long lashes of hers. But for Trip, the cane wasn’t so much the issue as her reasons for using it. She was afraid, he could see it in her eyes, and that fear could prove a liability if he actually put her in a race.
“Dude, take this before I drink it myself.”
Trip’s gaze swept from the TV only long enough to take the beer from Alex’s hands, and then he sat back down beside Nick, Alex on the other side.
“I’m not leaving again. Every time I leave, there’s a turnover.”
“Or maybe,” Nick said with a grin, “you coming back is the problem.”
Alex punched his arm. “Screw you, man. This is my house.”
Nick started to argue that the house was in fact Trip’s, which wasn’t a lie exactly, when Trip’s hand shot up. “Shut it, both of you.”
All of their eyes fell on the screen, and then they all jumped up, screaming and high-fiving, glad their team was up for the first time all game. Trip had just reached for another slice of pizza when Alex said, “So are we going to talk about Emery now or later?”
“We aren’t going to talk about her at all.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Alex said. “There’s something there. A past or something. Did you know her before?”
Trip eyed Nick, curious if his middle brother would call him out, but Nick said nothing. Hesitating, he considered lying to Alex, sure Nick wouldn’t disagree, but honestly, it didn’t matter if Alex knew. It was years ago. So why did he feel the need to protect his past, to protect her?
Alex’s gaze went to Nick, then back to Trip. He pointed between them. “He knows but I can’t? How fair is that?”
“He knows because he was there.”
“Where?”
Trip set down his beer, the alcohol in his veins making it all that much harder to ignore his feelings. “When I came home from Carlisle Farms. Nick was here.”
Realization crossed Alex’s face. “I remember that. You worked at Carlisle Farms under Beckett for a year. But Emery had to have been . . .” He trailed off.
“She was seventeen.”
“Jesus.”
Trip nodded once, because there was nothing to say. She’d been seventeen years old, and yet that couldn’t keep him away from her. He told himself she was nearly eighteen and he had just turned twenty—the age difference wasn’t significant. But then he thought of Mr. Sampson’s face, and a wave of guilt washed over him. Beckett had always had tremendous respect for Trip, but what would he think if knew the truth?
“Well, it doesn’t matter now,” Nick said. “It was in the past. Right?” Both brothers’ eyes fell on Trip, but he couldn’t bring himself to return their look.
“Right . . . the past.”
Trip parked his truck by the main training center and stepped out, enjoying the peaceful morning air. The sun had yet to peek up, the farm still asleep.
“You’re here a half hour early,” a voice called from behind him.
Well, almost everyone was asleep.
Trip turned to see Mama V behind him, a travel mug full of coffee in her hand. Every morning Mrs. Vivian Marshal made breakfast for the staff in the stable house, and then made it her job to find Trip as soon as he arrived to force coffee and breakfast into his hands. Something about losing his mother all those years ago, and her asking Mama V to make sure her boys ate. Trip felt his mother likely meant to watch out for the Hamilton brothers, but Mama V took the job seriously.
He reached out and took the coffee mug with a gracious smile. “Thank you. I didn’t think anybody was up.”
She smiled back. “I’m always up. And I made blueberry muffins.” She held out a perfectly Saran-wrapped muffin. “You look uneasy this morning. Should I have made tea? Your mother used to make you tea when you were little and something was bothering you.”
Trip grinned. “I was eight then. And she would force the stuff in me whether I wanted it or not.”
“Even so . . .” She studied him, and Trip looked away.
The problem was, he didn’t know why he was so uneasy. He’d hired plenty of jockeys over the years. Though Hamilton Stables preferred to work with the same lot, there was always an up-and-coming star, and that star would end up here. Every time. So why did this have to be different?
Because this was Emery, and everything about her was different. From her attitude to that unyielding fire to that face of hers that refused to be ignored. He could still remember the slightly floral scent of her hair, the intensity in her eyes as she watched Craving Wind. The sick feeling in his gut when she drove away.
God, pull yourself together.
He should call her now and take back his offer. Nothing good could come of her being here, beside him day after day.
“Trip?”
His gaze focused in on Mama V. “Sorry, what did you say? I was . . .”
“Distracted?” She offered a small smile and patted his shoulder. “Take the muffin and go on in.” She nodded to the stables. “You’ll feel right as rain.”
Trip hesitated, but then she shot him that grandmotherly look of hers, and he laughed. “All right, old lady, fine.” He reached for the muffin and strode toward the stables, already feeling more at home.
The shedrow at Hamilton Stables held twenty or more Thoroughbreds, depending upon the year and Trip’s eye for a champion. He tried to commit to training only the horses that had the combination of pedigree and conformation to win, but there were always exceptions. A gut feeling. A moment. Just like with Emery.
He tried to tell himself that she’d proven her ability as a rider. Hell, she was well on her way to winning the Kentucky Oaks for the second year in a row until the accident. And he’d been there—watching in horror as her small body hit the dirt, only to stay there, unmoving. It took everything in him not to race down there, but he wasn’t her family, wasn’t even a friend anymore. Six years had passed at that point. What would he say to Beckett? So instead, he’d watched, unable to sit down until he’d heard she made it to the hospital, heard she’d gotten through her surgeries. Looking back, he should have gone anyway. Ignored the uncomfortable feeling in his gut and just gone. Oh, the number of times he’d dialed the hospital, then later her cell phone—programmed in every new phone he ever bought or carried, like he was afraid if he lost her number he would lose her forever—only to hang up before the call could go through.
; The sound of someone already in the stables made him look up, and he nodded to Clark. “Here early, aren’t you?”
Clark grinned. “Now we both know you don’t consider this early.”
It was a hint after five in the morning, and Clark was right. It wasn’t early. It was closing in on late, but he wanted to hear Clark’s response. Trip walked over to the first stall and reached out his hand to stroke the neck of a filly, a closer through and through, but she hadn’t quite figured out the right time to kick it into gear to actually win.
“So what’s the delay?”
“My morning exercise boy is running late. Car accident.”
Trip nodded. “So who’s riding?”
Clark fidgeted. “Marcus.”
Trip’s hand went still on the filly. Marcus. Even the name made Trip’s spine tighten. Marcus was an experienced jockey, his performance unmatched, but with the sort of arrogance that grated on Trip’s nerves. His father had contracted him to ride for them this year on Hot Lightning, the best colt at Hamilton Stables, already favored in the Derby, but Trip had yet to trust the man. Had yet to even have a conversation with him that didn’t end with Trip walking away angry. He’d almost fired him twice but had forced his temper into check. After all, Trip was the head trainer here. Marcus would obey or he wouldn’t ride. End of story.
“Sorry, boss, no choice.”
Before Trip could respond, he heard the telltale heavy sound of Marcus’s boots and turned.
“Early morning for you, isn’t it, Mr. Hamilton?”
Trip arrived at the stables at five thirty every morning, like clockwork. Which Marcus knew as well as everyone else on the farm. He didn’t respond, instead walking over, his six-two height towering over the small jockey, who stood at five-three, one hundred twenty pounds at best. Marcus grinned, enjoying Trip’s response. “I hear you hired Emery Carlisle.”
Trip straightened, peering over his shoulder at Clark, who merely lifted his hands as though to say I didn’t do it. “I’ve extended her an offer, yes. I fail to see how this involves you.”
“Doesn’t it? I’m your top rider.”
“You are a contract employee, and you are replaceable. Never forget that fact.”
“So you’ve been saying, yet I’m still here. Something tells me I’m not as replaceable as you would have me believe. Besides, we both know I’m the favorite for the Derby.”
Trip laughed. “Lightning is the favorite. People don’t bet on jockeys. They bet on horses. I can put someone else on that mount, someone who’d appreciate it, and no one would be the wiser or care.” Trip grinned to push away his annoyance. Patience. He reminded himself that part of the business side of training was dealing with less than ideal people. Marcus was number one on that list. He cared about his share of the purse and nothing more. Not the horse. Not this farm. Only the money. Little did he know that someone with heart, real heart, would beat him every time. Heart beat monetary drive. Trip had seen it happen more times than he could count.
“Someone like Emery?”
Trip’s back tightened, and he had to draw a breath to keep from lashing out at the man. “You worry about earning your paycheck and let me worry about new hires. How does that sound, slick?” Trip patted him on the head condescendingly, then shot Clark another look. “I want him working for the next hour. If I see him leaning against a fence, it’s both of your jobs. Understand?”
Clark nodded, and Trip strutted out of the stables, needing air. Marcus mentioning Emery’s name had rattled him. But why? Hadn’t he offered her a job? Wasn’t she just another jockey on his payroll?
Only he knew it wasn’t the case. He’d made an emotional decision with Emery, and in this business, emotions could lead to heartbreak. He needed to get his head on straight, focus on the job at hand—prepping these horses for the races.
Clark ordered several of his stable boys to help start the morning workouts, and Trip tried to lose himself in the morning training—galloping, gate schooling, short speed works, eventually getting up to 5/8th of a mile. But despite his best efforts, he spent the rest of the morning thinking about Emery Carlisle, and whether she would meet his challenge. A large part of him wanted her to do it, wanted to see her rally back. But another part of him knew he was playing with fire, and something told him the second time around he was bound to get burned.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Under the wire
“Last batch, baby, don’t die on me now,” Annie-Jean said to her double oven, her hand gently rubbing the side like she was talking to a dog. Or a man.
Emery laughed. “You know, the oven’s not going to keep you warm in the middle of the night.”
Annie-Jean spun around, her eyes filled with mischievousness. “I disagree. This thing gets me hotter than any lover I’ve ever had. You should give it a go. See for yourself.”
Emery laughed again. “Thanks, but I prefer my lovers in human form.”
Annie-Jean smirked. “Is that right? I’m pretty sure you hung your heart on a horse as soon as you could walk and never looked back.” She went on packaging another perfect box of oatmeal and cranberry cookies.
“That’s not the same thing. I’m about more than just horses.”
Annie-Jean’s eyebrows went up.
“What?”
“Name the last man you dated who wasn’t affiliated in some way with farms or horses or racing.”
Emery’s mouth opened and snapped back shut. Huh. Had she really restricted herself to the racing industry and nothing more? “I . . . well, what about you? You speak of having one great love, but he disappointed you. What did he do?”
Annie set down the package in her hand and turned around, her expression distant. “I was sixteen when I first met him. He’d just moved to town, and the moment he walked into the cafeteria, I knew there was something there. Some strange spark, though I’d yet to even speak to him.” She smiled a little.
“So what did you do?” Emery leaned in, eager to hear another of Annie’s stories.
Annie pushed up onto her counter and crossed her legs. “I did nothing for about a week, and then, finally, I couldn’t take it any longer. He came into the cafeteria, same as every day. Got his lunch and went outside to eat in the sun, and I stormed out after him. I told him he was to ask my name that very second or else.” She laughed.
“You didn’t!”
“I did.”
“What did he say?”
She smiled up at the ceiling, her eyes so full of happiness that Emery wondered why she didn’t speak of the boy more often. “He shot me a grin and told me he already knew my name. Then he patted the space beside him, and I swear, I would never have gotten up again unless forced. We talked about music and poetry and his dreams of law school. And then he asked me on a date. It took an evening of fine dining and then parking out at Old Key Point for him to kiss me, but good Lord, what a kiss.”
“But Annie, I don’t understand. What happened? Why didn’t you stay with him?”
Her face turned sad, and then she wiped it away and pushed off the countertop, busying herself with a pack of semisweet chocolate. “He went to Notre Dame and I stayed here. We were together for a whole year before we both realized it wouldn’t work out. That was the hardest decision I’ve ever made.”
“You ended it?” Emery couldn’t imagine ever walking away from someone she loved, rational decision or not.
“I think I walked away before he could. My ego couldn’t take the blow of him leaving me. So I left him.”
Emery closed her eyes. “God, Annie, I’m so sorry.”
She brushed off the sentiment. “It was years ago.”
“I don’t think a thousand years is enough to get over our first loves.”
“You might be right. But then, what is love? Longing for someone who doesn’t want you back? That’s not love. Love is an everyday commitment to each other—a determination to make it work through the thick stuff, because there’s no one else you’d rather fight with. Find
someone who makes your heart race when you’re arguing and you know you’ve found the love of your life.”
Emery laughed. “You know, you’re the only person on the planet who’d tie love to arguing.”
“I speak the truth, child. Whether you choose to listen is another story.”
“So whatever happened to your great love?”
Annie sighed, then went back to her work. “He found a greater love.”
The words hit Emery square in the chest, refusing to let go. Had Trip found a greater love? Was she even on his list of loves? They’d never said the word, never truly spoken about the future or where their relationship would go. They’d already known it couldn’t continue, and somehow that knowing made it easy to tuck away those three little words. Saying them out loud would make it all that much harder to watch him go. At least that was what she’d told herself. But then she watched him leave, never once saying the words, and for months she wished she had. She ran over moments in the fields, secret dates, and hidden kisses—a thousand opportunities to tell him just how much he meant to her. But she was seventeen. What did she know of love?
“Oh, no.”
Emery’s gaze snapped over to Annie. “What? Did you burn something?”
Annie’s eyebrows scrunched up. “Are you insane? I’m a baker. I don’t burn things. I’m oh-noing you and that pathetic look on your face. You felt it, didn’t you? Eight years have passed, but not a minute for your heart. Which is why you shouldn’t go work for him. Your heart’s too in it.”
“Wait, you said earlier that I should. And I’m not talking about dating him. I—”
“Right, you talked about Hamilton’s reputation and the colt. For about thirty seconds. Then you spent the last two hours telling me about his dark hair and brown eyes and the way he wore his Stetson. You just need to make sure your reasons for seeking Trip out are strictly professional and have nothing to do with wishful thinking.”
