Racing Hearts

STILL HIS FIRST LOVE

Trip lifted her chin and pushed her hair from her face. “I feel like I'm losing my mind every time I'm around you, and yet . . . I can't get enough.”

Emery was too shocked to respond, and then his hands were on her hips, his eyes dipping down to hers, and suddenly there were no words. Only action.

His lips crushed into hers, stealing away her worry and doubt, erasing each fear with his warm touch. She leaned into the kiss, gripping his shirt, securing him to her, and parted her mouth, inviting him in. Trip released a soft groan, and the kiss intensified, heat spreading from her chest out, coating her in it like a blanket, sparking each nerve from her head to her toes. All these weeks, all the tension, built up to this moment, this kiss, and Trip wasn't the only one who couldn't get enough. . . .

RACING HEARTS

A Hamilton Stables Novel

Melissa West

LYRICAL SHINE
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

As always, thank you to God for giving me the strength and courage to put my words out there and the blessings of people willing to read them.

 

I am forever thankful to my agent, Nicole Resciniti, for her continued support and genius in this industry. Thank you to my editor, John Scognamiglio, for being a true joy to work with and thank you to Rebecca Cremonese and the rest of the editorial team at Kensington and Lyrical.

 

Thank you to Todd Pletcher and Christine Hosier for answering questions about racing, breeding, and numerous other questions that were very likely idiotic. Also, thank you for not directly saying said questions were idiotic.

 

Thank you to Siobhan Clayton and Jennifer Jabaley for reading early drafts of this book.

 

Many thanks over to Rachel Harris and Cindi Madsen for your continued friendship and wisdom in all things writing. I feel so blessed to call you friends.

 

Finally, thank you to my wonderful husband, Jason, my two beautiful daughters, and the rest of my very supportive family. I could not write a word, let alone a novel, without you. I love you all dearly.

This Kentucky Derby, whatever it is—a race, an emotion, a turbulence, an explosion—is one of the most beautiful and violent and satisfying things I have ever experienced.

—John Steinbeck

T
he air was cold outside, the kind of air that made it easier to breathe, easier to exist. Emery drew a breath and wrapped the afghan she'd grabbed on her way out tighter around her. Her granny had made it, like so many other things inside her parents' guesthouse, and not for the first time, she wondered if everything she touched was first touched by someone else. It was a peculiar way of thinking, but these days all Emery had were her thoughts.

She closed her eyes, and like a vicious nightmare that refused to let go, she was back there, on her way to her second Kentucky Oaks win. Thrill and adrenaline ran like blood through her veins. And then the spike of fear as she felt the hit, felt Firecrest buckle, and the ground rushed toward her. Pain burst through her leg, her side, her head, and then all she could hear was the wail of the ambulance and the muffled sobs of her parents beside her.

Shaking off the memory, she pushed through the gate by her house, steadying it with her cane as she slipped inside. Then she began her trek down the long path to the main house on the farm—her parents' house. She could drive, but she liked to walk down the concrete road, cradled by the quiet woods, the birds not yet up, the day still half-asleep. Drawing a breath, she took in the pine and dew scent in the air. It reminded her of the comfort of home and better days, before she'd lost everything and couldn't find her way back to the light.

Thoughts worked through her mind as she continued, ways to convince Daddy to trust her again, trust the sport he'd loved all his life. Each morning she came to him—and each morning he turned her away. She'd just decided that she wasn't against begging when she saw a woman walking aimlessly down the road, wearing nothing but a thin nightgown and a look of rage. Several of the pins in the woman's hair had fallen out, so half of her gray hair fell around her shoulders, the rest still wrapped in a bun. The woman looked like she'd either been caught in a storm in the middle of the night or abducted by aliens who'd promptly decided she wasn't worth the trouble and tossed her back.

“Good morning, Mama.”

Mama's steely blue eyes turned on Emery, a combination of fear, anger, and exhaustion within them. “I've been up for four hours. My body's drenched in sweat like I'm burning in hell. It is
not
a good morning. I swear to God, if this doesn't end soon I'm moving to Alaska!”

Emery thought her daddy and the rest of the staff might appreciate Mama moving to Alaska. Or anywhere, really, so long as she left the farm and stopped screaming all the time.

“Can't Doc Paterson give you something? Hormones?”
Crazy pills?
She thought of her mama when she was little, all sweet words and soft hands as she braided Emery's hair. Now . . .

Grace Carlisle focused on her only daughter, tears welling in her eyes. “You must think I'm a moron. A silly, miserable, idiotic woman. That's exactly what your father thinks.”

“No, Mama—”

“Why else would you ask if Doc could give me something, when you know I've asked. A thousand times, I've asked.
It's menopause
, he says every time. Tells me to wait it out like I am a mare in foal! He doesn't know, 'cause he's a man. Damn self-centered gender thinks we women are nothing but trouble, but I'll show him trouble!”

“Oh . . . I'm sure you will.” Emery pointed to the house. “Is Daddy inside or at the barn?”

“He's reading the paper.” Then her mama tilted her head, her voice softening, the change so sudden Emery contemplated the abduction thing again. “But you know he's not going to budge on this, darling. You are his baby.”

Yes, well, she wasn't a baby. She was a twenty-five-year-old woman, and it was time she got a little voice about her when it came to her daddy. “We'll see.” She continued on up the stairs of the large manor house, through the front double doors, and down the long hall to the kitchen, the smell of bacon and eggs hitting her nose. The same breakfast Daddy ate every morning, despite his cholesterol.

“Good morning, Daddy, I—”

Beckett Carlisle lifted a hand, then tapped the coffee cup in front of him, the paper up, blocking his face. “I'd like at least one cup in before we start this argument.”

Sighing, Emery sat across from him and crossed her arms, bouncing her boot against the tile floor. He lowered the paper and peered over his reading glasses, his salt-and-pepper hair and face full of age letting her know he'd lost his patience twenty-five years ago and never found it again. “Fine, go. But it's barely five a.m.—don't you sleep? When I was your age—”

“When you were my age, you were an assistant trainer to Bob Bailor, and you woke at the crack of dawn, determined to beat him to the barn every morning. If anything, I learned my sleep habits from you.”

He looked away. “Yes, well, I wasn't healing from a major injury.”

At that, Emery leaned in, forcing him to look back at her. “Neither am I, Daddy. When are you going to see that? I've been healthy for nearly six months now. I'm ready.”

“Ready to risk your life again? Ready to put yourself in the ground and break your mama's heart?” He shook his head, pushing away from the table and storming over to the coffeepot, only to stand there, staring out the window above the kitchen sink like he wasn't sure why he'd gone there in the first place. “You didn't see what we saw, Em. The bruises and blood. The fear in every doctor and nurse's eyes. I never want to see you like that again.” He faced her, the stubborn man he'd always been before her. “The answer is no. Today, tomorrow, next week. The answer is no. Besides, I'm retired.”

“But, Daddy—”

“I said no.” He worked his palm into his chest, a grimace spreading across his face, and guilt punched at Emery's stomach. There'd been a time when he was the one pushing her, helping her through her fear and challenging her to be more than simply a fine rider. He'd urged her to be the best. Now, that desire to be the best was firmly planted, and one fall couldn't erase it. She didn't want to put him through this misery, but she couldn't give up, either.

She'd started to say more when Beckett turned away, and she knew the conversation was done. “All right,” she said, balancing on her cane as she headed out the back door to the stables, wishing she could drop the cane. Maybe then he wouldn't see her as crippled. But she knew the moment she gave it up, the moment she admitted she was well enough to walk on her own, she'd have to face her fears and get back on a mount. Begging her daddy to hire her again, to find her a mount, wasn't the same thing as actually getting back on. She told herself she would do it as soon as she had a horse to ride, but the truth was . . . she was scared. Not of falling off; no, that happened. She was scared she wouldn't be as good as she was before, and then what?

Thoughts of everything she'd given up coursed through her, a different life, so many possibilities, yet only one ever felt right. She'd dropped out of college junior year to focus on her jockey career, and from that moment, she'd all but put the idea of love out of her head. She'd dated, but what she wanted was someone who would see her through the tough times, and she see him through his tough times. The problem was there was only one person she wanted around her during her toughest times . . . and he'd left.

Two years had passed with nothing but healing and physical therapy and far too many antidepressants to count. Then six months ago, her doctor gave her a thumb's-up to ride, but despite the ache in her chest to get back on a mount, she couldn't bring herself to do it.

Emery thought of how all the staff came over to the training ring to watch. Only for her hands to shake and her eyes to water, and before long, she backed away from True Star like he was a monster, ready to drag her to her death. But while every moment of that horror stayed with her, it was nothing compared to the look in her daddy's eyes. The look that told her she might ride again, but he would never put her back in a race.

As a world-renowned trainer, Beckett Carlisle had trained some of the best Thoroughbreds out there, so when Emery decided to become a jockey, it went to reason she would work for him. She never hired an agent—she didn't need one. Daddy set her up with a mentor, taught her how to think like a trainer but ride like a jockey, and before long, she won race after race after race. And while falling was always a risk, she never once considered her daddy would blame himself. That the guilt would eat at him every day of her recovery.

So, she didn't push it, let him deal with his grief, while she dealt with her injuries. But the time had come and she was ready. She had to be. She knew in her heart if she didn't get on a mount now, she never would. The truth was, she needed someone to push her—needed a new trainer. But of course, a good trainer would look at her, a broken jockey with a cane, and laugh.

The thought made her want to rush into the stables and throw a saddle on True Star and show everyone that she was still the best female rider in history, but she knew that wasn't possible. Not yet. She needed to feel connected to her horse, body and mind, like it was a part of her very soul, and she knew from the moment Mr. Sampson, their lead trainer now that her father had retired, brought True Star to her that he wasn't her match. He was someone's match, perhaps, but not hers.

It was a different way of thinking for a jockey. Most simply accepted whatever contract they were offered, riding any colt or filly the trainer assigned them. They were paid, plus a percentage of the purse, and then they were done. No dedication to the trainer or the owner or the horse. But Emery's passion wouldn't allow her to be so carefree, and her agreement with Daddy, while painful at times, gave her one great advantage over other jockeys—she would know her horse, through and through. She would select him. She would assist in his training, and when they crossed the finish line, Emery would know that she'd genuinely earned it.

Of course, to be that rider again, Emery needed to actually
ride
. And the problem was that True Star wasn't Mr. Sampson's first attempt. Or second. Or tenth. The poor man had brought Emery more Thoroughbreds than she could count, all boasted to be champions in the making, but Emery couldn't bring herself to ride. Part of it was that she hadn't felt that spark she craved, but she also knew Mr. Sampson wouldn't force her. It was easy to back away. She needed a trainer who didn't accept
no
, who pushed and demanded and didn't accept anything less than a win.

And only one trainer fit that description.

A memory hit of a young man, tall and strong, with a scruffy face and callused hands and a smile so warm it stopped you in your tracks. He'd worked with her daddy for over a year, learning all he could, watching Beckett like he was a god. And truthfully . . . he was. Four-time Eclipse Award winner, Hall of Famer, no one trained racehorses the way Daddy trained them. Until the young man became all man, and putting those years of learning to good use, he'd trained more champion racehorses in the last four years than any other trainer in the world. He was the next Beckett Carlisle, and exactly what she needed.

Goosebumps rose across her skin at the thought of him, of the special moments they'd shared . . . of her promise to never forget him when he left. She told herself that if nothing else, they would always be friends, but things were different now. He was a superstar and she was a nothing, broken and sad, with no mounts and no prospects . . . and he had refused to meet with her.

She balanced on her cane and knocked lightly on the weathered door of the trainers' quarters, letting Mrs. Sampson—and, by default, Mr. Sampson—know that she would be in the stables. Of course, they already knew. She'd knocked on their door every morning for the last three months. She'd become obsessed with watching the horses go through their morning workouts, eager to feel that spark she craved, but it never reached her like it should—like it used to. Since her accident, only one horse had made her sit up and pay attention—a colt, beautiful and strong, born ready to run. But he was sold at the sales.

Maybe she should give up racing altogether, and instead become a trainer. Her daddy had taught her everything he knew. She felt sure she could become a lead trainer in no time, especially with Mr. Sampson at her side.

The thought gave her hope, until she realized that would also mean losing everything she loved about racing—the adrenaline rush, the danger, the complete faith in the animal below her. Deep down she would be submitting to her fear, allowing it to take control. She couldn't do that, and besides, she was a born racer. One of only three female jockeys to have any hope of winning the Kentucky Derby. Of course, all of that was before the accident. Now . . . she wasn't sure she could finish a race, let alone win one.

Emery stopped just inside the stables and stared down the long path, a few horses already peeking out of their stalls to see who was coming. The smell of hay and horses mixed with the scent of rain in the air, and she drew a deep breath, letting it wash over her. She loved the stables in every way, especially from this vantage point. Her daddy'd had his architect design the plans so when you peered inside it was the perfect picture of strength and elegance. Tall red oak beams stretched high, crisscrossing on their way, so even the ceiling was beautiful.

“Trying to beat the sun again, I see,” a voice called from behind her, and she peered around with a smile at the familiar wrinkled face of Mr. Sampson, his two boys on his heels to cycle soiled hay for fresh. Mr. Sampson took it upon himself to be her second father, overbearing and all, but in a quieter way than her daddy, making it impossible not to love him.