by Melissa West
Time to ride.
Trip flipped a bottle cap into the air and caught it easily in his hand, his gaze trained on the game on the widescreen in front of him, though he wasn’t even sure who was playing. He couldn’t get Emery out of his mind, his curiosity too intense. Would she accept his offer? Did he want her to?
He flipped the cap again, and Nick swiped it from the air. “Beer for your thoughts?”
Nick slid a fresh bottle toward him, his eyebrow cocked. “You’ve barely said a word since we got here.”
Trip shrugged, unsure of where to begin. Or even if he wanted to. “I’m just taking a gamble, and for the first time in my life, I’m not sure I’ll win.”
Alex’s face broke into a grin. “Now, see, that’s the difference between you and me, bro. Those are my favorite kind. What’s the fun if you already know the outcome? Kind of takes away the excitement when you win.”
Trip liked this sentiment, even if he wasn’t sure he could adopt it. He was a planner. It was part of what made him so successful. He made it his life to win, never allowing himself to grow attached to anyone in the business. Even the horses. He treated them with the respect they deserved, but he had never loved any of his horses. That love would blind him to a true winner, and he couldn’t let that happen. His reputation depended on his name being beside the winner of the race. But this was different. It was cement thick with emotion, sure to harden any second and lock him into something he couldn’t get out of.
A pair of women on the opposite side of the bar flashed them a grin, and Alex’s attention shifted. “Be right back.”
Trip nodded, wishing he could be distracted so easily, as Nick took Alex’s seat.
“This doesn’t have to get complicated.”
“Oh, it’s already complicated.” Trip took a long pull of his beer,
Nick did the same, then, without looking at Trip, asked, “So what actually happened eight years ago? Between you and Emery.”
The evening crowd had set in, chatter all around them, the sounds of glasses hitting wood from shots being taken, balls clinking at the pool table to the far left. People made happy look so damn easy, but it wasn’t easy. Or it hadn’t been easy for Trip in a long time.
He thought of his last days at the Carlisle Farm, and the final moment between him and Emery. Her lips on his, her long black hair all around him, his heart out of control in his chest. And then Mr. Sampson walked in on them, the look on his face very clear. It took less than twenty-four hours for him to come to Trip and order him to leave, else he would tell Beckett everything and ruin Trip’s career before it’d officially started.
So Trip left, telling himself he would come back for Emery when she turned eighteen and could make her own damn decisions. But then his mother died, and suddenly he wasn’t so sure. Days turned into months, then years, and before long, too much time had passed. Their lives went separate ways, and his heart turned harder and harder with each year.
He’d never told anyone what really happened, including Emery. She thought he’d taken another job because his time with them was over, but he didn’t want it to end with her. Now she was back, all woman, able to make her own decisions, and he couldn’t deny a part of him wanted to pick up where they’d left off.
“Trip?”
“What? Oh. What happened? What always happens—we went our separate ways. Can I ask you something?” Trip said, his gaze on Alex over at the end of the bar, talking it up to two women who’d just come in.
Nick adjusted on his stool. “Shoot.”
He hesitated, unsure how to ask what he wanted to know without suggesting things he didn’t want to suggest. Curiosity won out. “Do you think you’ll ever find another one?”
“Another one what?”
“Partner. Wife. Do you think Brit was your one and only chance, or do you think you’ll love again?”
Nick went rigid beside him, and he felt like a jerk for bringing it up. Nick rarely ever talked about his fiancée, the pain clearly too much, but Trip had long since thought he needed to talk about it more. And he was just the selfish asshole to force it.
“Some days I think I shouldn’t want anyone else. I should live my life and just be glad I had the time I had with her. But then . . .” He shook his head. “I think if it were me, if I were the one who was gone, I’d want her to find someone. I wouldn’t want her alone for the rest of her life out of some misplaced loyalty to me.”
“So why haven’t you dated anyone seriously?”
Rudy brought over a fresh round of beers, giving them a moment to breathe from the intensity of the conversation. “I haven’t met anyone worth the guilt. What about you?”
Trip took a long pull of his beer and set it back down. “I think a part of me hoped the next person I dated seriously would be her.”
“But you know it can’t be.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
Something happened in the game and the bar erupted in applause, giving Trip time to think. “Ask yourself what you would do. If it were Brit and she needed your help. What would you do?”
Nick took a sip of his beer and then slid it away from him. “I’d do whatever she needed me to do.”
“Exactly.”
Alex came over then with three women, likely touring horse country. Hell, they could’ve toured Hamilton Stables for all Trip knew. They ran tours in the afternoons, and he spent his afternoons at the races. “Gentlemen, meet Mandy, Carly, and Amy. They’re sisters.” Alex’s eyes sparkled and Nick groaned. Nick liked to keep his flings private, and Rudy’s was anything but private.
“Hey there,” the blonde said. Mandy maybe? Trip hadn’t paid attention. “Are you Trip? I’ve seen you on TV.”
Trip glared at his brother before finishing his beer and standing. “Nah, that’s a much better-looking guy.” Then he turned to Nick. “Listen, I’m out. Early morning tomorrow.”
His brothers started to argue but then just nodded. They knew when Trip needed his space. Outside, the air was less heavy, a chilly evening with stars dotting the black night. He climbed into his truck and started back toward the farm, just as his phone vibrated against the cup holder. He peered down at the number, not recognizing the area code. He wasn’t in the mood for business talk, but he didn’t want to miss something important either. With trepidation, he hit Accept.
“Hamilton.”
“Trip?”
His chest tightened at the voice, the depth and the warmth. The hint of girl behind the woman. “Did you change your number?”
This seemed to trip her up, and he cursed himself for being so obvious. “Uh, yeah, I did. Right after the accident. The press had gotten hold of the number and wouldn’t leave me alone, so I switched it. How did you know?”
He leaned back in his seat, searching his mind for an answer, but all he found was the truth. “I didn’t recognize the number.”
“You remembered the old one?”
Damn it all to hell. “I had it in my phone.”
“You have the same phone you had eight years ago?”
Christ Almighty, give him a gun now so he could put himself out of this misery. “No . . . I transferred it over.”
“Over how many phones?”
He scrubbed his face with his free hand. “Not many. Just six . . . or so.”
She went silent, and he worried he’d freaked her out. Hell, he was freaking himself out. “You added my number to six different phones? But we haven’t spoken in eight years.”
“I know.”
“So, why . . . ?”
He wasn’t sure if she was talking to herself now or him. “You know why.”
Silence settled between them, and he wondered where she was and what she was doing. If she still twirled her hair around her finger when she was deep in thought. If she still slept in mix-matched pajamas. If her lips still tasted like vanilla and honeysuckle . . .
He needed to bring this back on point and fast. “So, what�
�s the verdict, Ms. Carlisle?”
She laughed, and the sound drew his eyes closed, eager to bask in it. He could listen to her all day and never grow tired. “I think seeing someone naked earns a first-name basis. Don’t you? Besides, you’re my boss now.”
Boss. Trip both loved and hated the sound of that. “Does that mean you accept?”
“On just one condition.”
Trip couldn’t help but grin. She was the only jockey who’d dare ask Trip for something. Most took the job with a handshake and a smile, scared to utter a word lest Trip change his mind. “I’m listening.”
“You keep this between us. No publicity. No one knows. For now.”
“My family already knows, Emery. I can’t keep this from them or the staff.” He heard her fidget on the other end, curious why she’d want this a secret. “Is this about Beckett? What did you tell him?”
“That I was just an exercise rider for Craving Wind. Nothing more. My riding for Carlisle Farms is important to Daddy. This will devastate him. I need to keep it as private as possible . . . for now.”
“But I thought he wouldn’t put you back on a mount?”
“He won’t.”
“Then why—”
“I know this doesn’t make sense, but I know Daddy, and it’s for the best. I’ll tell him once we know this is going to work out.”
Trip considered what she was saying. He understood. He’d try to protect his family, too, but he wasn’t sure this was a good idea. Stories tended to come out, whether you wanted them to or not. “All right, then. I’ll tell them you’re an exercise rider. You can ride early morning, before most of the staff get here. Sound good?”
She released a breath. “Thank you.”
He opened his mouth to say more, or maybe just to continue the conversation. “Emery . . .”
“Yeah?”
He released a long breath, then put his truck in drive. “See you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow, Mr. Hamilton.”
CHAPTER NINE
Off and running
Fog had set in the next morning, giving the farm an eerie, foreboding vibe. A hint of some disaster to come, perhaps? Or—Stop being so dramatic.
Emery shook out her hands and drew a long breath, but as she stepped out of her Jeep and walked toward the stables, she couldn’t help feeling she’d made a life decision by coming here. This wasn’t small. It was big, big, big. Somehow that realization both gave her pause and filled her with excitement.
She stopped just outside the stables, and with one glance down the long row, her heart picked up and a smile stretched across her face. Wow. Carlisle Farms was beautiful, and her father made it a point to ensure the stables were equally gorgeous, but they were nothing like Hamilton Stables. Nothing so grand. She lost count of how many Thoroughbreds she could see—bay, roan, brown, chestnut, even the occasional pure black. They were beautiful, their coats shiny, their strength and size evident even from here. She knew Trip trained the best, but she had no idea he stabled so many.
“Having a change of heart? Now’s the time to tell me.”
Emery turned, eyes locking with Trip’s. Her skin flushed under his penetrative stare, that crooked grin of his far too sexy for this early in the morning. “Hey there, cowboy.”
He tilted his head down in a hello and tucked his hands into his jeans’ pockets. Emery had to order herself to swallow and breathe, swallow and breathe as her gaze swept down him. Trip wore jeans the way others wore gloves, all fitted to perfection, with just enough wear to show that when he was at the barn, in his element, he intended to work. He had on a red and tan flannel shirt, loose over the jeans and rolled to his elbows. The same cowboy boots she’d seen on him before stuck out from the bottom of his jeans. She bet he never wore another pair. In place of the Stetson, he sported an Atlanta Braves baseball cap that looked like he’d had it since he was a boy. The rim was torn in spots, the A no longer red but burgundy from dirt and wear. Dark chocolate strands curled out from the edge, tickling his neck, and Emery had to fight the urge to reach out—to see if his hair felt as soft as she remembered.
She cleared her throat. Twice.
Forget getting on the damn mount, this man was going to be the death of her. How anyone worked around him, with that soul stare and those broad shoulders and—
Dear God, enough with the descriptions!
She blinked hard to fix her thoughts ot else she was really going to embarrass herself. Trainers weren’t supposed to look like Trip. They were old and whiskered and had more wrinkles than good sense. She knew firsthand; she’d been around her fair share. But Trip had never conformed to the typical trainer stereotype, which might be why he’d so quickly become the best.
He bit his lip, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, and she got the distinct impression he knew just what she was thinking. “He’s not in here,” he said, pointing down the row of stalls. “I had Clark take him to the training ring out back. Would you like to see him?”
Emery’s heart screamed yes while her head screamed no. She wanted to see the colt like she wanted to breathe, but she knew Trip would ask her to ride; then he’d see that she was still a chicken and retract his offer. He’d never said when she had to fulfill his challenge, and Emery hoped she could delay it a little longer.
She needed to get over her nervousness. So what if she was thrown from her horse? It wasn’t the first time it had happened in her life and wouldn’t be the last. But the throwing wasn’t the scary part, nor the trampling, though the memory of the pain would remain with her for the rest of her life. It was—
“Emery . . . ?”
She glanced up and straight into those chocolate eyes. Damn, melted M&M’s had nothing on this man. “Yes?”
He took a step toward her, the move so simple yet full of purpose—no one had ever read Emery the way Trip could read her. The thought warmed her more than it should. “No one’s forcing you to do this, to be here,” he said. “You know that, right? Not your family and certainly not me. Especially if you’re not ready.” His gaze dropped to her cane, and she held her breath, waiting for the pity to come, but it never appeared. Instead, he returned to her eyes, his head slightly cocked. “The show’s yours, lady girl. You gotta decide if you’re ready to perform. Nobody else can take the mount for you.”
Emery licked her lips and leaned into the cane, then put all her weight on her left leg, testing it. There was no pain, but then, she hadn’t felt any pain in months. The cane was a crutch—both literally and figuratively. A crutch she needed to ditch if she hoped to return to her old self. The moment had come.
It reminded her of when she rode for the first time. She’d been around horses her entire life, but she’d secretly always been afraid of them. Every time the horse cantered, she felt her heart hit the dirt, cowering away. She’d stayed up all night the day before her first galloping lesson, sure she would die of fear the moment she sat on her horse. But then something magical happened. She reached the training ring and pushed through the gate and made a decision to leave the fear behind. It was one of the best days of her life.
Here and now, she knew this moment was a repeat of that lesson. She had a choice—put down the cane (and her fear) or resign herself to never riding again. Emery couldn’t do that.
She drew a long breath, thankful that Trip hadn’t said any more. She needed silence right now, needed to feel her way through the moment. Slowly, Emery leaned her cane against a nearby empty stall and balanced her weight on both feet, careful not to cringe or hint at her fear.
Trip waited, watching—forever patient—and she could feel all those old feelings floating up, tempting her to succumb to them. She didn’t blame him for leaving—she was only seventeen—but that didn’t keep her from wishing every day for a year that he’d come back to her.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready.”
They walked around the stables to the training ring out back, Clark already inside with Craving Wind. E
mery’s pulse sped up with each step, beating from her head to her toes, nervousness and excitement fighting it out for control of her emotions. She forced herself not to limp as she walked, not to lean on her good leg, to forget that she’d ever had a bad leg. This was her time.
Trip held open the gate, and her breath caught as his palm gently rested on the small of her back. “After you.”
She glanced up, and then to the horse, relieved to see an exercise rider on his back. Calling all her strength to the surface, she started over, but suddenly each step felt weighted, more difficult than the last. The air outside turned hot, her hands clammy as she recounted article after article about her accident. Speculation if she’d ride again. Crude comments that suggested she’d never be the same even if she did.
“I . . .”
“Emery?”
“This . . . I . . .” She shook her head, unwilling to say the words I’m not ready aloud. Because she was ready. She’d already been through this, said the words, made them real. She couldn’t take them back now. What was she doing?
And then Trip waved his hand in the air. “Bring him around.” The exercise rider rode over, a look of sheer fear on his face. Emery couldn’t help but smile.
“Is that look because of the horse or Mr. Hamilton here?” she asked.
“No, ma’am, I’m fine,” the boy replied, though his hands shook.
She laughed at how surely his face disagreed with his words. A sense of ease washed over her. “I’d say you’re anything but fine. What’s the problem?” Without thinking, she walked over, Trip close behind, and stroked Craving Wind’s mane. “Are you scary? You don’t look so scary.” Emery leaned in and whispered close, “I’m betting it’s Mr. Hamilton. Whatcha think?” She peered around at Trip and cocked her head, her eyes narrowing in scrutiny. “Looks pretty damn frightening to me.”
Clark broke into fits, and Trip shot him a look that made Emery laugh still harder. The sun had burned away the fog, and now the birds crowed, telling the farm to wake up. Workers busied about, feeding horses, saddling them up for their morning workouts, cleaning and brushing. The whole place had a sense of community about it, different than other farms she’d been around—different from her own. Like every person worked hard because he wanted to, not because he was paid.
