Racing Hearts

by Melissa West

  Scrubbing a hand over his face, he reached for his phone to call Clark again when he spotted him rushing toward Trip, a smile on his face.

  “Tell me you’ve got good news, man.” Trip put his hands on his hips to keep them steady. He might die of a heart attack before the race began.

  “See for yourself.”

  Clark turned, and Trip followed his outstretched hand to the person walking toward them, already dressed in the orange and red and yellow silks that represented an Anderson horse. He told himself to remain still, to watch her and file away this moment into his memory, but he’d never been one to follow the rules. Before he could think about it, he started for her, speeding up until he stood over her, peering down at the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He wanted to say thank you, to say he was sorry, to spit out a thousand words that might mean nothing.

  “Trip, I . . .”

  He pressed a finger to her lips, the feel of them against his skin so good he nearly lost himself right there. “I have something to say.”

  She stared up at him with those blue eyes narrowed in aggravation, and then he lost his ability to think—lost the speech he’d planned out, all the things he wanted to say and apologize for, instead replaced with three small words, and he couldn’t keep them inside another second.

  “God, I love you.” She snapped back, her angry eyes suddenly wide, her mouth fallen slack. “I feel like I’ve loved you my whole life, like every moment before you was dead and useless, like I wasn’t really living, like I wasn’t breathing. And then you came into my life and showed me all that spunk and fire, and now I can’t seem to function without you. I don’t care about this race. I don’t care if we win or lose. I don’t care if I never have another trophy on my mantel. All I care about is you.”

  Emery took a step toward him, and he threw up his hands, sure she was going to go off on him, but she said, “Will you shut up and kiss me already?”

  A smile broke across her face, and he leaned down, pressing his lips to hers, securing her to him, promising himself he’d never let her go again.

  Flashes went off all around them, and Trip pulled away to see reporters and photographers circling them, Trip and Emery still in an embrace, Clark off to the side, and Craving Wind behind them in the background. Trip smiled at the cameras, no longer caring who knew about them. If Trip had his way, she’d be beside him for the rest of his life.

  “Riders up!” the announcer called.

  Trip cupped Emery’s face. “All right, lady girl, you ready for this?”

  She smiled. “I was born for this.”

  Trip gave her a leg up, then took her hand and pressed his lips to her palm. “One more thing. I have a surprise for you in the grandstand. We’ll be waiting for you in the winner’s circle.”

  “We?”

  “Good luck, lady girl. Show these men who’s the real rider out here.”

  She grinned wide, and then he watched Clark lead her away, and he went to the grandstand, a sureness washing over him. He’d always been able to feel a race, to know the win was coming. Call it a sixth sense or a feeling, but it burned bright in him today.

  They were going to win. They had to win.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Run for the Roses

  Emery told herself to relax, to breathe, to ignore the butterflies fluttering in her stomach. This was it—the moment she’d spent her whole life preparing for. She smiled inwardly, proud. No matter what happened, she would remember this moment forever.

  They walked out of Craving Wind’s stall, and Emery took in each step, the walking ring, the two circuits to warm up. She couldn’t pull the smile from her face.

  “Ready, Ms. Carlisle?”

  She peered over to see her escort rider smiling encouragingly at her. “I’m ready.”

  The trumpet sounded, and Emery’s heart swelled as the University of Louisville’s marching band played the traditional “My Old Kentucky Home.” The grandstand was on their feet, singing along.

  The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home,

  Tis summer, the people are gay;

  The corn-top’s ripe and the meadow’s in the bloom

  While the birds make music all the day.

  The young folks roll on the little cabin floor

  All merry, all happy and bright;

  By’n by hard times comes a knocking at the door

  Then my old Kentucky home, Good-night!

  Weep no more my lady. Oh! Weep no more today!

  We will sing one song for my old Kentucky home

  For the old Kentucky home, far away.

  Twenty racehorses, including hers, made their grand entrance onto the track for the post parade, the song playing in the background, everyone on their feet, the crowd overflowing with anticipation—the purse well over two million dollars. The announcer introduced each horse one by one—his winnings, his owners, his trainer, the jockey on his back. And then he called number four, Craving Wind, and Emery felt a surge of excitement burst from her chest. She smiled as they walked in front of the grandstand, allowing attendees to see them, to gauge whether the horse was alert or eager or agitated. And then the setup was over, and the real point of it all was about to begin. The most exciting two minutes in sports.

  Emery edged Craving Wind into the starting gate, tuning out the taunts from the male riders all around her. Talk of her fall at the Kentucky Oaks. Talk of her and Trip. And that’s when she realized she hadn’t told him. He’d spilled his guts to her and she hadn’t said the one thing he wanted—the thing he needed—her to say back.

  That she loved him, too. That she wanted him beside her for the rest of her life, that she hadn’t been whole without him, how nothing else mattered but them, together. And now she was going into the race, on the very track where she’d nearly lost her life, and she hadn’t told him.

  Shaking, she turned around, hoping to spot Clark, someone, but it was almost time. There was nothing she could do. God, why hadn’t she told him?

  Then she realized the words were just that, words. She couldn’t say them to him now, but she could show him. And she would. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to Craving Wind, ignoring the laughter from the other jockeys. “Let’s do this, boy.” And then the horn sounded and the gates opened, and they were off.

  Craving Wind broke from the gate like a cannon, all strength and speed, and Emery smiled despite herself. But then Rowdy Mouth and Hemingway sped past her, and Emery held her breath into the first turn, Craving Wind breaking too sharply, nearly bumping into Rowdy Mouth. Fear licked its way through her, memories shooting up of Firecrest doing the same thing, and then the surge of pain as she was trampled.

  “Come on, boy,” she screamed at him, and then, like the first light of day clearing the darkness, she saw Rowdy Mouth and Hemingway running out of gas and knew this was her chance. Please, God, she prayed, then she loosened her hold, and it was like Craving Wind had heard her prayer, like he’d been right there with her all along, in her head, and he broke free, speeding past Rowdy and Hemingway.

  Memories flooded in all at once—her first time on a saddle, waving to her parents as she trotted by. The first time she raced and lost. The first time she raced and won. Then Trip arriving at Carlisle Farms, all tanned skin and white smile and eyes that saw right through her. Weeks of flirtation, then their first kiss, and she thought her heart stopped that very second, offering itself over to Trip, never to return to her again. God, how she loved him, even then, and now he was here, waiting for her—watching and experiencing this moment with her. She couldn’t get back to him fast enough.

  “Take her home, boy,” Emery screamed to Craving Wind as they hit the mile mark. She shook her stick in his face, commanding him to give it his all. And he did. She could feel it in her bones, the distance building between her and the field, two lengths, three, six—oh my God. And then they blew across the finish line, and she rose up, tears streaming down her face as she punched the air. She’d done it; they’d
done it!

  Emery was the first woman to win the Kentucky Derby.

  Emotion overflowed as she made her way to the winner’s circle, and then her gaze landed on the person standing beside Trip, tears in his eyes as she reached out to him.

  “Daddy?” she said, a sob breaking free. “You’re here?”

  “There’s no way I’d miss this.” He kissed her cheek. “I’m so proud of you.”

  Emery wiped away her tears. “You taught me to never quit. You taught me everything. I’m here because of you.”

  They hugged again, and then she turned to Trip, unable to stand it another second. She jumped off Craving Wind and threw herself into his arms. “I forgot to tell you something.”

  He kissed her softly. “Oh, yeah?”

  “You are my match, Trip Hamilton. I love you. I will love you forever.”

  He took her helmet off and peered into her eyes. “Care to say that in a church?”

  “Are you . . . ?”

  “There’s no one else for me. I love you. Marry me and you’ll make me the happiest man in the world.”

  Emery laughed with joy as chaos started all around them, reporters ordering their cameramen to get the shot. But she tuned everything out and stared up into the warm eyes of the man she loved.

  The governor announced Craving Wind as the winner of the Kentucky Derby and draped the garland of more than four hundred roses over him, and then handed Emery a bouquet of sixty long-stemmed roses wrapped in ten yards of ribbon, and she couldn’t help feeling she was a part of this history now, this tradition. Her name would forever live in Churchill Downs.

  Sarah Anderson received her winning trophy, and reporters began questioning Emery and Trip, but she couldn’t hear their questions above the cheers, above the clapping—above the sound of her racing heart.

  Trip pulled her to him once more and pressed a kiss to her cheek, then her lips. “Let’s go home. You’re Triple Run’s first champion. The town will want to celebrate.”

  Beckett cleared his throat from beside them. “You mean Crestler’s Key’s first champion.”

  “No, she races for Hamilton Stables . . . which is in Triple Run.”

  “But she’s from Crestler’s Key.”

  Emery sighed heavily as they walked to the backside, the debate continuing, sure to be one among many. And then the thought settled over her peacefully.

  Many. She liked the sound of that.

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of

  WILD HEARTS

  the second novel in Melissa West’s Hamilton Stables trilogy

  coming in February 2016!

  CHAPTER ONE

  Alex Hamilton groaned as he rolled over in bed, the taste of gin still on his lips, his throat cottony from a hangover he couldn’t afford to have. Cursing himself, he sat up and immediately groaned again at the ringing in his ears and the pain slicing through the center of his brain. Why the hell did he drink? He’d asked himself that single question on more occasions than he could count, each one with the same answer—no damn clue. And no damn sense.

  Pushing out of his sheets, he stood, stretching his long and lean body until the joints in his back cracked, then started for the shower, when his foot hit a pair of boots on the floor. Boots that weren’t his and weren’t male, for that matter. He lifted one very tall black boot into the air, curious how anyone managed to walk on such a high heel, but being thankful all the same, because damn he loved a woman in knee high boots. All this went through his mind without much thought as to who belonged in these boots, until he heard someone clearing her throat from behind him. Shit. Please tell me she isn’t still in my—

  “Good morning, handsome.”

  Alex turned slowly to find a very blond and very young woman in his bed. His first thought and worry was whether he had ever stopped to ask her age.

  She stepped out of his bed, not caring to cover her naked body. There was once a time that Alex would have appreciated her audacity, but that time had long come and gone. He missed female modesty and soft smiles, the looks and actions of a Southern lady. The kind of lady his mother would have liked if she were still alive. And in two years, he’d only been with one woman who met that description, but she’d walked away or maybe he’d walked away. Still, months later he wasn’t sure which of them had actually left.

  Staring at the woman before him, Alex found her nakedness grated on his nerves. Of course, he too stood with nothing on, and feeling a tinge of unease about that fact, he crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the woman.

  Her gaze dipped down to his lower half, still very exposed despite the whole crossing his arms thing. As if she’d read his thoughts, she said, “It’s Brittany, and I’m twenty-two.”

  Alex didn’t know if he should congratulate her or show her out. He’d never heard someone reveal her age with such pride. Again, he wondered what the hell he was doing. He had to be at the foaling barn in an hour, and knowing his brother, he was already—

  Before he could finish the thought, his cell vibrated against his nightstand and he glanced over. He didn’t want to take the call in front of the girl, but then he caught Trip’s name flashing across the screen.

  “Look,” he said to Brittany. “I hate to play and run, but I’ve got a busy schedule and...” The phone vibrated again, supporting his story.

  “Play and run?” She grabbed up her clothes and jerked her dress down over her body, hopping as she pulled on her boots. “Play and run! Who even says that? I’ll see myself out.” Then she stopped at the door and spun around. “And when Trip asks why I quit, just let him know I refuse to work with his jackass of a brother.”

  She slammed the door shut and Alex cringed, searching his mind for a Brittany who worked at the farm, and that was when he remembered his conversation with Trip the week before. New exercise rider, Brittany Light. Well, there went that.

  Taking his phone from his nightstand, he texted his brother that he’d see him in twenty, then jumped in the shower to wash off the night, his thoughts on the week he had before him. Calls with two stud farms, vet checks on the broodmares, and hopefully a flight out to Ireland later in the week.

  Soaring Star was ovulating, and though he still wasn’t 100 percent sure that Pirate Pete was the best match for her to produce a champion, he couldn’t argue with Pete’s pedigree. He’d long since known that breeding was less science, more art, and he was close to finding the perfect balance. If only he could keep Trip off his back long enough to make a decision.

  Wrapping a towel around his waist, he stepped out of his shower, only to hear his phone vibrate again. Sighing, he hit answer and said, “Give me ten,” before hanging up and walking to his closet, throwing on a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt, and shoving on his boots. Shaking out his hair as a means of styling it, he went to work brushing his teeth, curious how the day had just begun and it was already shit. That didn’t bode well for his week.

  Alex ran a hand over his face as he went through the rest of his morning routine—black coffee, notepad and pencil, because he liked the quiet he felt whenever he jotted down notes. That same quiet never came when he entered things into his phone or iPad. So notepad and pencil for him.

  Once out in his three-car garage, he eyed his diesel truck and Harley, shaking his head a little that his life required him to walk past both man vehicles. Instead, he hopped into a small golf cart, glad to be out of his house. Well, technically it was Trip’s house, but Alex liked to ignore that fact, especially when he was pissed at Trip. And he was heading that way now.

  The sky was dark in places, light in others, the day unsure of its official starting time, as if Mother Nature had hit snooze. He knew the feeling.

  Mama V greeted him as he parked the cart by her house, grabbed a protein shake, then continued on to the foaling barn, where sure enough his brother’s truck had been parked at an angle—proving that he ran the farm and could park wherever the hell he liked. It irritated Alex to no end, but instead
of lashing out, he reminded himself that the breeding side of Hamilton Stables could more than triple the earnings of training. Alex might be the youngest Hamilton brother, but if his plan worked, he would bring in the most profit for the family business this year. And then what would they have to say? Nothing, that’s what. But Alex told himself that didn’t matter. He wasn’t doing this to prove himself to his family. And any day now, he’d believe it.

  “’Bout damn time.” Trip walked out of the foaling barn, his Stetson firmly planted on his head, the same cowboy boots he always wore around the farm on his feet. A red and black plaid shirt hung loose over his Levi’s, and though to some he might appear to be an ignorant hick, those in the business knew the truth—no one in horseracing was half the trainer Trip was.

  Among owners, Alex felt the weight of his brother’s name following him around like a dark shadow that refused to let up. He introduced himself and immediately owners asked, “Trip’s brother, right?” For Christ’s sake, there were three Hamilton brothers, not one.

  Pushing aside his bitter thoughts, he opened his mouth to say that he wasn’t late, Trip was early, but then his eyes caught the two women standing a few yards away from his brother, and suddenly Alex’s throat refused to work properly.

  “How are you doing, Alex?” Emery, Trip’s fiancée, asked as she started over. Emery was a rider for Hamilton Stables, and her father was the legendary Beckett Carlisle. Which all meant their relationship owned the title of most unexpected match, but there they were, head over heels in love, wedding date three months away. But while all that was true, Emery wasn’t the woman who’d caught Alex’s attention.