Racing Hearts

by Melissa West

  Guilt punched through her gut and she felt the rising buildup of tears, exhaustion, and worry taking over her happiness. She’d done this all backward.

  Just when she’d decided to drown her sorrows in the hotel’s large whirlpool bath, a glass of wine in hand, she heard a soft knock on her door. Unsure if she wanted to see anyone, she hesitated, but the knocking came again.

  Peeking through the peephole, she snapped back. She pulled open the door, unable to keep the smile from her face. “Hey there.”

  Trip adjusted his weight from one foot to the other, then, seeming to remember he’d brought something, held out a bottle of wine to her. “I thought maybe we could talk.” He peered over at her, his expression guarded, and she realized he was nervous.

  “Sure.” Stepping back, she waved him inside. “It’s a mess. I was a little out of sorts this morning, so yeah, my hotel room received the brunt of it.”

  He laughed, and Emery closed her eyes, enjoying the sound far too much, only to open her eyes and find him watching her.

  He reached for her hand. “Have a drink with me.”

  The room became very warm, the silence noticeable, her heart the only thing she could hear. “Is that a good idea?”

  He walked over to a nearby table and uncorked the wine, then poured them each a glass. “No. But here I am.” He passed over a glass and their fingertips touched lightly. Unable to stop herself, she took a step toward him, needing to feel his closeness, smell the combination of soap and the outdoors that was only Trip. She expected him to back up, but he didn’t. Instead, he set down his glass and took her hand, running his fingers easily through each of hers, his gaze so concentrated on the effort she wondered what he possibly could be thinking as his eyes lifted.

  “You were amazing today. Perfect. Everyone’s talking. There’s mention of the Derby.”

  She smiled at the compliment. It wasn’t every day a trainer like Trip complimented a rider. “Well, it wasn’t me. He’s made for this, craves it. His name fits. He does crave wind.”

  “People were asking for you downstairs at the bar.”

  Emery took a step back, refusing to look at him. “I’m tired.”

  “I don’t doubt it, but that isn’t why. You haven’t told Beckett.”

  “I just . . . I don’t know how. You don’t understand.”

  Trip walked around so he stood in front of her again. “I do. I spent a year working for your father. I saw how much he loved you and how much pride he had in you, even then. He deserves to hear this from you, not some half-written article that doesn’t know or understand the full details. Does he even know you’re riding again?”

  “Not exactly. I told him I was an exercise rider, so he assumes, but he hasn’t seen me ride.”

  “Why are you keeping so much from him? Beckett’s a good man. He isn’t going to yell or disown you.”

  “I think either of those would be better than what he’ll do.”

  “Which is . . . ?”

  Emery walked over to the window and peered down at Saratoga. “I’m not worried about angering him. I can handle the anger. But I can’t handle the disappointment. You may think he’ll be pleased that I’m riding again, but he won’t see it that way. He’ll think I betrayed him, and the truth is . . . he’s right. I’m surprised only one reporter brought it up.”

  “What do you mean? Brought what up?”

  Emery sat down at the small table and took a sip of the wine. She needed liquid courage for what she was going to do. “In the winner’s circle. That one blonde reporter? She asked how I felt riding for you instead of Daddy. Was he hurt when he heard the news? And you should have seen her face when she realized he didn’t know. It was horrible.”

  Releasing a long breath, Trip slumped into the other chair, taking the glass of wine and drinking it down. “That’s my fault.”

  “What?”

  “That journalist has been questioning me for weeks about you and me and our relationship. I planned to talk to you about it after the race. She’s claiming we’re together.”

  “What?” Emery jumped from her chair and started pacing around. “When will the article go live?”

  “With social media so prevalent, it might already be online.”

  Oh, no! She quickly reached for her phone and Googled her name, but there was nothing that linked her and Trip. Yet. Grabbing her carry-on, she stuffed all the clothes strewn around the room in the bag, then was starting for the bathroom for her toiletries when Trip stopped her.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m leaving. What does it look like? Her article isn’t out yet. I can get to him before he hears anything. I can—”

  Trip took her hands. “You can’t. There’s no way you’d get a flight back this late. And even if you did, he’ll hear who won the race. Likely already has. He doesn’t need to read an article, lady girl. Beckett follows the races. He knows.”

  Emery glanced up, broken. All she wanted was to get back on a mount, to ride again, to make him proud. Why hadn’t she realized the first two wouldn’t mean anything without the third?

  “What should I do? What should I tell him?”

  “The truth.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Dark horse

  Emery pushed the key into the front door lock, her heart screaming for her to turn around, avoid hell for another day—or year. But she could almost feel the tension oozing out of the house. She couldn’t bring herself to check for an article that morning, but she could tell by Trip’s face over breakfast that it had released. The world now knew she worked for Hamilton Stables—which meant so did her father.

  She felt like a sixteen-year-old girl again, acting without thinking, seeing only what she wanted to see. How had she been so stupid? Knowing she couldn’t avoid it any longer, she turned the knob and stepped into her parents’ foyer, the old hardwoods creaking with each step, letting them know she was home. Ready for her punishment. But the house sat eerily quiet for early afternoon.

  The sounds that made the house her home weren’t there. Mama’s dog rushing to the door, her screaming for him to be quiet. The dishwasher running. The vacuum. Anything. A sinking feeling washed over Emery as she made her way down the long hall to Daddy’s office. The door was closed, so he might not be home. A part of her found relief in the idea, but then, putting this off wouldn’t make it any easier.

  Dipping her head and saying a silent prayer for forgiveness and that he’d go easy on her, she knocked on the door.

  “It’s open,” Daddy called, his voice so small she nearly broke into tears right then.

  Opening the door, she folded her arms and tried for confidence, failing miserably. He faced away from her, bent over his laptop. “Hey, Daddy,” she said. “Have a minute?”

  “I suppose I do.” He pushed away from the laptop and spun around, exposing what was on the screen. In large letters, the top read: Emery Carlisle, Hamilton Stables’ newest star or Trip’s latest conquest?

  Emery gasped, her eyes widening more and more with each horrible word. “It’s a lie.”

  “Which part? Tell me the truth, Emery. That’s the least you can do now.”

  Emery felt like Baby in Dirty Dancing, out on the wide deck, her father in a rocking chair, tears in both their eyes as they revealed how deeply they’d disappointed each other. Because the truth was, her father had disappointed her, too. Never once had he told her he believed in her recovery, that she was ready. Never once had he trusted her to know her body, to know herself when she was ready. Instead, he’d hovered over her, reminding her again and again of what had happened—of how close she’d been to dying. Frustration surged up inside her, and for a moment she wanted to scream all those things at him, but she wasn’t a teenager, like Baby, ready to go off to college. She was an adult who’d lied to the person who loved her the most.

  “You deserve so much more than the truth. I’m so sorry, Daddy. I should have come to you immediately. I thought . . . I don’t know w
hat I thought. But what I do know is that I’m a good rider, and I’m not living unless I’m riding. I know you worry that something’s going to happen again. I know what it did to you when I fell. How you blamed yourself. But this is my life, and being a jockey is my career choice. Not yours. You didn’t force this on me. I chose it. And I love it. I should never have lied to you, but I won’t say I’m sorry for racing again. I’m too good to sit in the grandstand, watching others do what I’m born to do.”

  She stared at her father, waiting for him to reply, but he wasn’t even looking at her, instead focused on something behind her. Turning to see what had caught his attention, her gaze fell on a framed photo of her sitting tall on her first horse. She looked so little then, so fragile, and that was when she realized he still saw her as that little girl. His little girl.

  “Daddy?”

  He refused to look at her, his attention fixed on the photo.

  “Daddy, I’m not that little girl anymore.”

  Finally, his eyes lifted to hers, all the pain in the world in them. “No, you’re not. My little girl wouldn’t have lied to me. I don’t know who you are anymore. Now, if you could please leave. I have work to do.” He spun back around in his chair and clicked off the Web site.

  Tears welled in Emery’s eyes, her body shaking from the effort not to cry. She opened her mouth to say more, but there were no words left to say. She’d broken his heart.

  She left her parents’ house and walked down the path to the guesthouse, eager to soak in a hot bath, but when she walked up the front steps and put her key in the door, she found it wouldn’t turn. She tried again, jiggling the knob, but it still wouldn’t budge.

  She walked around to one of the windows and peered in, curious to see whether someone had tried to break in or something. The locks had definitely been changed, and why else would her father have changed them unless—

  Oh, no. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out to see a single text from her father.

  Quit Hamilton Stables or find yourself a new home. I have the new keys waiting for you when you’ve come to your senses. Until then, you aren’t welcome here.

  Unable to hold it in any longer, she slumped down onto the front porch, staring out over her family’s farm, her arms wrapped around her legs as tears rained down her face.

  Trip sat down in his father’s conference room. He was fifteen minutes early, something that never happened for him, but his father had called the meeting after Emery’s win on Craving Wind, and Trip was excited to hear what he would say. Trip was proud of Emery’s performance, but he could almost feel the guilt weighing her down in the winner’s circle. It was bittersweet, winning without Beckett there beside her.

  Twiddling a pen against the table, he barely noticed Nick and Alex come in and sit in front of him.

  “Trip.”

  He glanced up to see them both looking at him. “What?”

  “This meeting. It’s—”

  Just then, their father came in, clapping his hands together. “All right, let’s chat.”

  Trip’s father set a folder in front of him, and Trip opened it to see photos of Emery . . . and Marcus, the Hamilton Stables logo above the shots. “What is this?”

  “There’s a lot of publicity buzzing around Emery’s win, but we have to remember it’s the horse people are betting on, not the jockey.”

  “Can you get to the point?”

  Carter’s eyes narrowed. “I think Marcus should ride Craving Wind in the Derby, and Emery can ride a filly of your choosing in the Kentucky Oaks.”

  “Marcus is an asshole.”

  “Perhaps, but he’s a winner, and he’s the best shot we have of winning the Derby.”

  Anger rocked through Trip. “No. She’s worked too hard for us to pull her from Craving Wind.”

  “A female jockey has never won the Derby, Trip. Be reasonable here. We have an obligation to Sarah Anderson, don’t forget that.”

  “Yeah, well, you let me handle the owners. After all, I’m the trainer, not you. And I say she rides Craving Wind until she gives us a reason to doubt her. I won’t doubt her now.”

  His father leaned back in his chair, clearly not expecting this reaction. “What is your connection to this woman? Why do you care?”

  “I hired her. It’s my job to make sure she crosses that finish line first. You let me worry about getting her there.” Then he turned his rage on his brothers. “You knew about this?”

  Nick shook his head. “We just found out.”

  “Emery wins or she’s done. Do you understand?” Carter Hamilton said, his tone hard.

  “You don’t make that call,” Trip said, pushing out of his chair and tossing the folder on the table. “I do. I’m the trainer here, not you.”

  “Yes, but you’re not Craving Wind’s owner. You are his trainer. And I’ve already spoken with Sarah. She agreed that Emery is a risk. A risk she’s not willing to take unless Emery continues to perform. One slip, and Marcus is Craving Wind’s rider.”

  Trip threw open the conference door and stormed out. His father could screw himself. He was the reason people came to Hamilton Stables. He was the reason their name was synonymous with winning. They needed him more than he needed them. And he wouldn’t let his father take this from Emery. But his father was right about one thing—he was at the mercy of Sarah Anderson. He couldn’t force her to allow Emery to ride, and though she trusted him, he couldn’t risk the family’s business if Emery stopped performing.

  He couldn’t let that happen.

  Needing to do something, he jumped in his truck and drove in silence, unsure where he was going until he found himself in Crestler’s Key, driving down Main Street, not sure how he would find Emery but knowing he had to talk to her. First her father, now this.

  Crestler’s Key looked astonishingly similar to Triple Run, like the filly version to Triple Run’s colt. Cobblestone streets through downtown, small shops on each side of the road. But where Triple Run had a slight masculine vibe, Crestler’s Key boasted flowers and vegetation everywhere you looked. The stop signs were wooden, but with floral detail cut into the posts. Triple Run was charming where Crestler’s Key was beautiful.

  He’d get kicked out of his town if he ever uttered those words aloud.

  Parking outside GP Bakery, he went inside, hoping to find a familiar face, though he only knew three people in town. The bakery brimmed with life, every chair full, and he thought maybe he’d get lucky and spot Kate when instead his eyes landed on someone else. He smiled wide and started over.

  “Color me surprised. What are you doing here, handsome?” Annie-Jean said as she put out fresh pastries.

  He thought of all the reasons he’d come there, but the truth was, it all boiled down to one thing. “I need to see her.”

  She nodded once. “I think she needs to see you, too. Here’s my address.” She jotted it down on a Post-it Note and passed it over.

  “Why isn’t she at Carlisle Farms?”

  “Beckett asked her to leave after . . . well, you know.”

  Trip’s chest tightened in hurt and anger. Beckett was a stubborn man, but this? “Right. And she’s there? At your house?”

  “She hasn’t left since it happened.”

  The thought of her falling to this level made Trip want to punch something—his father, Beckett, anyone for driving her to this low. But that wasn’t what she needed now. She needed someone to remind her that she was an amazing rider, to remind her why she kept racing a secret from Beckett in the first place. It wasn’t to hurt him—it was because she needed to prove to herself that she could get back on a mount without her father standing by with skepticism.

  He went for the door as Annie called out, “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to remind her.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of exactly who Emery Carlisle is to the racing world . . . and to me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Hands down

  Em
ery pulled the rubber band from her wrist and wrapped it around the mess of hair piled on her head. She hadn’t showered since the hotel back in Saratoga, and though she probably smelled like a horse by now, she didn’t care.

  All she could think about was her father’s expression as he stared at the picture of little Emery, like he wondered where he’d gone wrong. She reached blindly for another doughnut from the half-eaten box on the coffee table and eyed the TV, tears building in her eyes as she watched Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks walking toward one another in the park, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” playing in the background. They finally reached each other and a hiccupped cry released from Emery’s lips.

  “See, this is what love should be like,” she said to the empty room. Then, realizing how pathetic it was to talk to herself, she reached for a tissue from the various half-crumpled bunches surrounding her on Annie-Jean’s couch. She’d been that way for more than a day, watching romantic comedies and eating doughnuts and . . . crying. Because while the movies always got their happily ever after, Emery knew with certainly she wouldn’t get hers. At least not a full happily ever after.

  She might win, but what was winning without the people she loved around her to celebrate? And then there was Trip, the only man to make her heart dance and scream, and he’d turned her away. Told her no.

  She imagined him coming to her now and saying he was wrong, sweeping her into his arms, her long hair flowing behind her as he pulled her close and took ownership of her mouth, then her body. So what if her breasts were a little larger in the fantasy, her thighs a little slimmer, her hair a little fuller? It could happen . . .