Racing Hearts (15 page)

T
rip found himself standing outside Craving Wind's stall, staring at the horse that had started everything, searching for some answers in his eyes that would surely never come.

“You like her, too,” Trip said to the horse. “I can tell. You relax more around her. Like she puts you at ease.” Trip ran his hand down the horse's nose. “She puts me at ease, too.”

The sound of a boot shuffling against ground hit Trip's ears, and he peered over to find Emery a few yards away, watching him, her expression unreadable. Clark stood behind him, refusing to look at Trip, and he knew they'd heard every word.

“So, today's the day,” Trip said, pushing away from the stall. It was the first race for the colt and Emery's return to the racetrack. They'd had the horse stabled there two days prior, giving him an opportunity to run on the track a few times before the actual race. It was a maiden race, and the perfect one to launch Craving Wind into racing while still gaining exposure. And they needed him to win.

The track's backside began filling up then, caretakers and trainers and jockeys doing their jobs. Trip's gaze dropped to Emery's colors, Sarah Anderson's colors, and he felt a sense of pride seeing them—an extension of himself—on her. He wanted to ask her if she'd talked to Beckett yet, told him she was racing today, and that she was racing for Trip instead of for Carlisle Farms. He had no idea what story she'd concocted, but there was no denying that if she and Craving Wind won this race, Beckett would hear about it. And he would know she'd betrayed him.

Trip hoped she'd had the conversation before now and wasn't holding out that the race was too small for it to reach her daddy, because they both knew he followed nearly every race in the country. Always had. Still, right now wasn't the moment to bring it up to Emery. Right now, she needed to conjure that tiger inside her and let it loose—let it carry her first over the finish line.

“Ready?” Trip said to her, wishing he could do more than simply ask her the question. He wanted to hug her close and whisper reassuring words in her ear, but she wasn't his to whisper to, and it had been weeks since their kiss, all with awkward moments between them and stilted conversations. Whatever they had—friendship, attraction, whatever—was gone. But maybe winning today would be the start to bringing it back. Because the truth was, he wanted to be a part of her life, in whatever way she would allow it. He knew he couldn't explore something more with her, especially not now, with her career relaunching under his name. But he also knew that if he ever made another move it would have to be the final move—no testing the waters, all in, no looking back. And he wouldn't do that unless he knew there would be no consequences to her or his family.

The announcer called for riders to the paddock, and Trip gave Emery one last look. “Good luck.”

She held his gaze, and he could almost hear the words on the tip of her tongue. She was excited but also nervous. “Trip . . .”

“You've got this, lady girl,” he said, reaching for her hand. “Trust yourself. I do.”

She nodded once and then he gave her a leg up, and the sight of her on Craving Wind, dressed in colors, looking like she belonged right there and nowhere else, made him momentarily forget all the complications of their relationship and enjoy the sight of the woman he cared about doing the thing she loved most.

He watched her leave, adjusting his tie, needing room to breathe, and started to go up to the grandstand when he heard his name called from behind. He turned to see the same journalist from Santa Anita walking toward him.

“Hello again, Mr. Hamilton. I wondered if I could ask you a few more questions.”

Trip squared his shoulders. “I think you asked enough the last time we met, and the race is about to begin.”

He turned around as she called, “Just one: How long have you been in a relationship with Emery Carlisle?”

Several people around stopped what they were doing, watching the exchange.

“I told you before, Emery and my relationship is strictly professional.”

Then, before she could ask something else, he headed for the grandstand, ignoring the stares from those who'd heard the conversation. Dammit! This wasn't good. He wondered how long before the journalist wrote the story without factual information to support it. He needed to tell Emery.

Nick and Alex were waiting for him when he reached their seats in the grandstand. The crowd buzzed with energy, everyone excited to see who would win—which horses would become contenders for the Kentucky Derby.

“You look like you're ready to deck someone,” Alex said.

“Reporters,” Trip said as answer, wishing he were in his normal jeans and flannel shirt instead of the suit. Suddenly, the tie strangled him, his jacket far too tight around his shoulders.

“And since when are they a problem?” Nick asked, then lowering his voice added, “Is it Emery?”

One look from Trip confirmed he was right, but the horses were in the starting gate, the race about to begin.

 

A surge of fear hit Emery's stomach as she entered the starting gate, her teeth clamping down at the sound of metal grinding together and then the clang of the lock, securing them inside. There was no going back now, no escape. For a moment, she felt like a little girl on a roller coaster, forced into the coaster's car by her parents, them telling her to be brave, her on the verge of crying. And then the coaster rose up, up, up until it was at the top of the first giant drop, and the girl felt sure her parents must hate her; why else would they force her to do this? The sound of something releasing echoed in the air, and then the coaster soared down, the girl's stomach in her throat, and then—

“Breathe.”

Emery jolted upright, causing Craving Wind to stir. She glanced over to see the jockey beside her nodding encouragingly, his eyes warm.

“Remember, it's only two minutes. We can do anything for two minutes.”

Her head bobbed. “Right, two minutes.”

And then the magnets holding the gates closed were turned off and the gates flew open and her breath caught in her throat, air whipping past her as she rose up, Craving Wind gaining early momentum. She held the reins close, unwilling to let up. Not yet. She knew Queen's Revenge and Groundbreaker were closers. They would find their stride any second, any second, any—

She held her breath, feeling the horses close in as she rounded the first turn. She had to maintain pace, had to know when to break free without causing Craving Wind to tire before the race was over. Her nerves coiled up, doubt and excitement waging war in her head, her hands shaking so badly she wasn't sure how she held the reins. Craving Wind would be the dark horse of this race, the colt no one expected to win but everyone should have had faith in. His worst time was seconds faster than either of his competitors' best reported times. He was ready, born for this, and she refused to let him down.

Forcing herself to take a slow breath, she loosened the reins and leaned forward, readying herself for the burst of speed she knew would come.
Don't be afraid, don't be afraid.
She told herself to close away her memories, the pain she still felt in her leg whenever it rained. Like the weather held all her worst experiences. This was it. Ready? “Go, boy!” she screamed.

And he did.

They made their way into the backstretch, gaining on Groundbreaker, until they were side by side, neck and neck, and then, like Craving Wind grew bored with toying with the horse, he took off. Queen's Revenge in sight, he sped toward her. If not for the sounds of his hooves on the dirt, she would think he flew. Because while he didn't have wings, there was no denying they were flying, faster and faster, blowing past Queen's Revenge. One length. Two. Five.
Oh my God.

Happiness replaced fear and determination replaced doubt, and for the first time, Emery allowed herself to feel this moment. The speed, the raw power, the thrill that would remain with her for the rest of the night. Because that jockey in the starting gate had been wrong—this wasn't two minutes. This was hours and days, months and years of preparation. Countless staff members' sweat and tears and hope and fear. One race never told the whole story, but it was a start. And this start she intended to win.

She shouted one more command to Craving Wind, reminding him to keep going, to stay strong, and then, in a blink, they sailed over the finish line. Emery's chest clenched tight, tears brimming in her eyes as she lifted her hands into the air, the grandstand erupting in cheers as the announcer said the three precious words Emery was dying to hear:
Craving Wind wins!

The world slowed down all around her, each second passing in sharp detail. The announcer's energy. The flashes from photographers. The calls from the crowd. Emery blinked, allowing her tears to fall, and dropped her chest down against Craving Wind, hugging the horse she loved close. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you so much.”

They made their way to the winner's circle, and Emery could almost feel the moment Trip walked up, Sarah Anderson right beside him, but somehow Emery could only see Trip, her eyes locked on his, some unspoken celebration passing between them—words too private for others' ears.

“You did it,” Emery said, smiling down at him.

He shook his head and peered up at her. “No, you did.”

Emery's heart
beat, beat, beat
in her chest, in her ears, the sound almost foreign. Had it always sounded so loud? She didn't know. But one thing she knew for sure—she would never forget this day.

E
mery walked into the hotel's restaurant, her hands gliding down her dress. She'd chosen a black cocktail dress that hit above her knee. Classy but attractive. Her hair was pulled back into a messy bun, her makeup and jewelry were simple. She wanted the staff and people attending Hamilton Stables' celebratory dinner to know she wasn't embarrassed to be a woman. She'd won.

Trip stood as she neared the table, dressed in a dark navy suit tailored to perfection. His eyes drifted down her body and then back up. “You look amazing.”

She smiled. “You look pretty great yourself.”

They stared at each other, her heart speeding up in her chest, and then someone cleared his throat and Emery's attention shifted to the table, all eyes on them.

“Here, allow me.” Trip pulled out her chair and she sat down between him and Alex.

Sarah Anderson grinned over at Emery, her once-blond hair now white with age, making her icy blue eyes almost scary if not for the warmth of her smile. She raised her glass. “To our winner of the evening, Emery Carlisle. May this be the first of many.”

Emery returned a gracious smile, and then the table started in on the race: who looked strong, the competitors, the disappointments.

“Good job, slick,” Alex whispered to her.

Emery shook her head. “What is with you Hamilton boys and your nicknames?”

Alex glanced over at Trip. “Ah, probably has something to do with so many women and our inability to remember all of your names.”

“Ignore him,” Nick said, leaning over his brother. “And congratulations. Your time was impressive.”

“Thank you. I think you may be my new favorite Hamilton.”

His eyes widened a touch and his gaze shifted to Trip, who seemed very interested in his wine.

“It was a joke,” she whispered to him.

“I got it.”

Emery took a long sip of her own wine, wishing they could go back to before, when their relationship was all flirtation and easy banter. And then they kissed, and everything became messy.

“So, Alex, I heard you're a big college football fan,” she said, hoping to lighten the mood.

“How? Oh, Kate. Yeah, I played in high school and walked on when I went to Virginia Tech.”

“Were you any good?” Emery asked, taking another sip of wine, then, realizing she should pace herself, set it back down.

Nick laughed. “I'd say Alex thinks he's the best at everything he touches.”

“There's no thinking about it.” Alex winked. “I
am
the best.”

“Kate's a big fan, too.” Emery hoped she didn't sound as obvious as she felt, but Kate hadn't stopped talking about Alex since their last date. Though, apparently, Alex never once called it a date. He'd invited her over to watch a game but had spent the entire time talking and acting like she was only a friend. He hadn't called her since.

Alex cut into his steak and took his time chewing. “I know. She's a cool chick.”

Cool chick?
“Yeah, she is.”

Trip stood up then and walked over to speak to someone at another table. Emery stared after him, wondering if she'd said something she shouldn't have, as Alex leaned in close. “You should cut him some slack. He's just doing what he thinks is best.”

“I'm not doing anything.”

“Really? He's sitting right beside you and you've yet to speak to him.”

Emery patted her mouth with her napkin and returned it to her lap. “I don't know how to talk to him, okay? And this isn't really any of your business.”

Alex laughed sarcastically. “Trust me, with Trip and his mood, it's everyone's business. He doesn't want to mess up.”

“Is that why you're refusing to really go out with Kate? I can tell you like her.”

He pulled away, returning his attention to his plate. “That's . . . complicated.”

“I hear that word a lot these days. . . .”

Alex set down his fork. “Trip's trusting me to focus on breeding, to grow the business, and to help cement our name as one of the best breeders in the country. This is the first time my family has ever taken me seriously. He's giving me a chance, and I have no intention of blowing it.”

Emery shook her head. “But you can still date. You can have a career
and
a life.”

“Really? Do you?”

Trip returned to his seat, and they fell into an awkward silence, until finally the meal was over and everyone said good-bye. The Hamilton brothers and Emery all shared an elevator up, and as they reached her floor, Emery contemplated asking Trip to come back to her room, to talk, to work through the mess they'd become. But then he held the door and said, “Good night, Emery,” and she felt her heart drop.

“Good night.”

Once back in her room, she lay down on her hotel room bed, allowing her fingers to spread out over the feather duvet, and recounted the race from earlier. A laugh burst from her lips. She'd won. The feeling of crossing that finish line, knowing she'd won, made her want to scream out in excitement and laugh and jump and call everyone she knew. But that was the problem with the way she'd done this. She couldn't call the one person who would be the proudest of her, the person who would feel the same level of joy at her accomplishment. Her father.

He still had no idea she rode for Trip, but she had a feeling he would know after this race. Not only had she won but Craving Wind's time had impressed. The press had surrounded her immediately, asking question after question, and then a pretty blonde had asked her the hardest question of all—how did it feel racing for Hamilton Stables instead of for her family? She'd wanted to ignore the question, call her father and explain everything, praying the win would be enough to make him understand—to make him forgive her. But Beckett Carlisle wasn't a forgiving man. Now she had no choice but to tell him, but she didn't want to do it over the phone. He deserved more from her.

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.”