Racing Hearts (17 page)

T
rip woke to the feel of a warm body pressed against his chest, the same warm body who'd been pressed against him for days now, and he was enjoying every minute of it.

But the day was already long begun, and he had a list from here to California that wasn't going to handle itself. He shifted, gently pulling his arm out from under Emery, and stared down at her asleep in his bed, looking like she belonged there.

Then the memory of their last race hit him, and a sinking feeling worked through his gut. They'd won—barely. Craving Wind's times were getting slowly worse with each race, and though he was still a contender for the Derby, he was no longer the favorite, slipping to second, even third on some of the more prominent sites.

He continued to think about it as he showered and got ready for the day, worry weighing heavy on his shoulders. Trip's father hadn't said anything yet, but he knew it was coming, could feel it in the air, which was why he'd avoided him at every turn, staying busy working the other horses, getting them ready for their own races or coordinating transfer to the track if he thought the horse could compete. He could handle his father, but he couldn't force Sarah Anderson to use Emery if she was against it. He worked for her, not the other way around.

In short, one part of his life shone with happiness and the other had taken a nosedive. But maybe the worst part of it all was the sadness he saw in Emery's face every time she took the mount before a race, the long look as she glanced around, like she hoped Beckett would be there, even though they both knew he wasn't and wouldn't be. Beckett hadn't spoken so much as a word to Emery since the fight over the Saratoga race, and though Trip had picked up the phone to call him a hundred times himself, each time he set it back down.

Family was family, and he had no right to interfere unless she asked him to. Plus, he still had far too much respect for Beckett to call him out on his behavior, even though he felt he was being a royal dick about the whole thing. So she lied? She did it to protect him as much as anything. Why couldn't he see that? She knew that his seeing her back on the track would hurt him, so she did it without him having to see. In her own twisted way, she was saving him from the pain. But Beckett could only see the betrayal—her racing for Trip . . . instead of him.

“Hey there, where are you going?” Emery asked, her voice still foggy from sleep. Trip leaned down to kiss her, pulled back, then kissed her again, closing his eyes and enjoying the feel of her lips on his.

“I have a meeting with Mayor Phillips.”

Emery nodded, and though he could tell she wanted to ask more, she didn't. It was one of the things he loved most about her.
Wait ... what was that? Love?
The word hit him so suddenly he nearly missed it, and as he retraced his thoughts, he found himself turning away, his heart creeping into his throat. Shit. When did that happen?

“Trip?”

He cleared his throat, but it'd gone as dry as the Sahara Desert and wasn't thinking of working anytime soon. So he forced himself to look her in the eye, because he was a man after all, not a coward, and this was only a word—it didn't mean anything. They hadn't said anything. There was no risk of marriage or disappointment—or losing her.

He thought of his mother dying and the brokenness of his father, then Nick losing Brit, and Mayor Phillips being unable to get out of bed for all those months, and Trip thought he might pass out right there. He'd made the commitment to focus on his career, never letting anyone in, never exposing himself to the pain he saw all around him. Yet Emery had broken through his walls all over again, curled right up against him like she fit there—was meant to be there, and damn if he didn't want her to stay.

With a long sigh, he kissed her again. “Hang out as long as you need. I'll be back later this afternoon.” Then he turned from the room before he did something really asinine. Like say the word out loud.

Trip parked outside town hall and went on in, unsure exactly why Mayor Phillips had called the emergency meeting, but since there had been that one true emergency last year and he'd skipped it because of all the fake ones, he'd vowed to be here when the good mayor called.

He waved to a few of the office staff and then continued on to the conference room to find the rest of the trustees already there, all of them staring his way like they'd been waiting for him. Hesitating at the door, he peered from one to the other, stopping at Mayor Phillips. “Is there something I should know?”

“Hello, Trip. How are you today?”

“Um . . . fine. What's this about, Mayor?”

Mayor Phillips leaned in, his hands laced on the table, his expression serious. “We were hoping you could run interference.”

“On . . . ?”

Mayor Phillips turned over a piece of paper in his hand and pushed it toward Trip. “Annie-Jean Carlisle has opened a bakery in Crestler's Key.”

Trip cocked his head, like he was missing something important. “All right. And how does that involve us?” Or, more accurately, him, but he knew better than to call that out. To the people in that room, Triple Run was one giant family, one joined community.

“She's seeking to expand into Triple Run, which has Patty in fits.”

“Plus,” Hayden Christian added, his forehead crinkled from overthinking, “how would we know where to go in the mornings if there were two bakeries?”

The rest of the group agreed, and Trip wondered if he had slipped into one of those old sitcoms. “So, let me get this straight,” he said, taking a seat in front of them. “This is the emergency? Two women feuding over a small misunderstanding from more than thirty years ago?”

This time it was Agatha Saint who spoke up. “It isn't small to them, Trip.”

True enough. “What are you wanting me to do?”

“Well, we were hoping you could talk to Emery and have her ask Annie-Jean to stay in Crestler's Key. Patty will stay here, and everything will be fine.”

He shook his head while everyone around the table nodded. “But why would Emery listen to me?”

All eyes found the table except the mayor's. “Well, because of your relationship, of course. Or has that ended? Charlotte—” He glanced over to the woman, who seemed to find her necklace very interesting all of a sudden. “Um . . . we
heard
you were still together. Is that the case?”

Trip couldn't believe an emergency town meeting had been called to discuss his relationship. An emergency! He opened his mouth to chastise them for this silliness, but then he caught the concern on all their faces, and though these meetings drove him crazy, though the town drove him crazy, he loved it—and all the quirky people in it.

What the hell? Trip jumped up, his heart in his throat. Dammit. There it was again. That word. Like it was placed in his chest by the devil himself, eager to drag Trip down to his personal hell.

“Are you okay, son?” Mayor Phillips asked, but Trip was sure he was seeing stars at this point, sweat building at the base of his back.

Freaked out on more levels than one, Trip spun around. “Sorry, I uh, I have to be somewhere.”

He started for the door when Hayden called out, “But what about the bakery?”

“Set up a meeting with Annie-Jean and Patty. It's time they hash this out.”

“But what about you? Where are you going?”

Trip stopped inside the office and peered back around at them. “I just . . . need a little air.” And a heart transplant, apparently, so he could stop all this
loving
before it buried him.

E
mery stared down at her phone, watching as her mama's name continued to appear, torn between answering and ignoring it. Like she had the last three times she'd called. The problem was, they'd already had this conversation—twice. And Emery didn't think she had it in her, today of all days, to have it again.

The crowd buzzed with excitement, chatter carrying down to where she stood in the backside, waiting on Clark to call her to mount Craving Wind. It was her fifth race, and though she loved every second of it, she felt herself only 90 percent in it. Like she couldn't quite reach that full level of happiness, and because of it, she found herself holding back. She always lost herself when she raced, disappearing in the speed and adrenaline, allowing the thousand-pound animal below her to take over while she became nothing more than a feather on his back, guiding when she needed to but otherwise staying out of his way.

But somehow she couldn't do that now. She was thinking the whole time, overthinking her commands: when to use the stick, when to hold back, thinking, thinking, thinking. And all that thinking had nearly cost her the last race.

Ducking her head, she walked away and clicked to answer the call. “Hey, Mama.”

“Emery Jane Carlisle. This is the third time I've called you and yet the first time you've answered? Is there a reason you're ignoring me or, or . . .” Emery heard her mother's voice rising and knew she was on the verge of another menopausal meltdown. She had to intercept it before she was responsible for all of Carlisle Farms enduring her mama's wrath.

“No, ma'am. I'm at the track about to race.”

“Which one?”

“Billington.”

Her mother went silent, and it was as though she had transferred a giant helping of guilt through the phone, dropping it right on Emery's shoulders. “Mama?”

“He should be there,” she whispered. “This just isn't right.”

Emery's bottom lip wobbled, so she clamped it down with her teeth, then drew a breath. She knew people were watching her—cameras snapping shots. It'd been relentless since her first win in Saratoga, and she didn't need to give them anything they could fabricate into a story about her. Her family didn't need that. She'd done enough.

“I wish he was,” Emery managed to say, then she saw Trip walking toward her, Clark on his heels, and hurriedly added, “I love you, Mama. And I'm sorry. I've said it a thousand times, and I'd say it a thousand more times if it'd change anything. I'm sorry.”

“Emery . . .”

“I've got to go. The race is about to begin.”

“All right, honey. Love you, too.”

Then the call was over, and Emery turned away from Trip and Clark, her hand pressed into a nearby wall, steadying herself. She thought she might break down right there, until Trip reached her and slipped in front of her, pulling her to him, ignoring everything and everyone around him. How amazing it must feel to never become affected. To never waiver. She wished she were more like him.

“What happened?”

“Just my mother, and the reminder of what I've done to Daddy.”

Trip took a moment to consider this before responding. “I know it's hard for you. I can see it in your eyes, but I need you to put it out of your mind. For two minutes, I need you to forget. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”
No
.

He cupped her cheeks and pressed an easy kiss to her lips, though even that felt a little too businesslike. She realized then that she liked the Trip at home a lot better than the Trip at the track. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

Just then, the announcer called the riders to the paddock, and Emery went on, her heart anywhere but at that race.

And then she was inside the gate, listening to her breathing, and somehow she couldn't stop hearing it. Her breath came in and went out, slow, then fast, then slow again. It sounded unnatural, so loud in her ears that she couldn't hear anything else. Then the gates flew open and Craving Wind broke free. But Emery couldn't focus, couldn't lose herself, couldn't stop thinking about how miserable she was there, riding without her family in the grandstand. Sensing her unease, the colt fell back, but he was a closer. He'd find his pace. And then, suddenly, Emery was suffocating, her colors too tight, the strap of her helmet cutting into her chin. God, breathe, breathe.
Just help me breathe
. Her lungs burned and her hands tightened on the reins, and unsure what to do, Craving Wind fell back again, a length, then two, more and more horses zooming past them, and then they sailed over the finish line and panic ripped through her. No! It couldn't be over yet. They'd just started. She had time to fix her delay, she could . . .
oh my God
. It was over. She didn't need to see the time or hear who was in the money to know that she wasn't.

Her heart felt so heavy she wasn't sure how Craving Wind still held her up. Tears pricked her eyes and she pushed them away, standing tall despite how very, very small she felt.

She'd lost.

 

Emery sat quietly in the passenger seat of Trip's truck the next day, staring out the window, unwilling to look at him. She knew he wouldn't return her stare anyway. He'd barely said two words to her since the race, the disappointment all over his face, and she wondered how the hell it was possible to so fully disappointment everyone she cared about. The thought packed a fresh pound of misery on her chest and, angry, she lashed out, jabbing at the radio.

“I'm tired of this crap.”

“It's Sports Talk Radio. What'd it do to you?”

She glared over, and he glared right back. “The constant crackling is giving me a headache. Who listens to AM anymore anyway?” She turned back to her window.

“So now it's the radio station's fault?”

“What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

Fury rose so quickly in her chest she thought she'd explode. “Pull the damn truck over. I can walk from here.”

Trip gripped the steering wheel tighter. “No.”

“Pull over!”

He stared forward. “No.”

“You, you—”

“What? Let me guess—now it's my fault? Go ahead, throw the bucket at anyone but yourself, Emery.”

And then it hit her what he was talking about. He blamed her for losing the race and thought she didn't want to accept fault. Little did he know she had no trouble blaming herself. She'd spent all night awake, replaying what had happened, trying to find a way to learn from it, but it all came down to her. There was no one else to put this on, no one else riding Craving Wind and completely falling apart with each passing second. She remembered her inability to breathe, to focus, all the decisions she'd made and all the pain she'd caused washing over her until she was so close to a nervous breakdown it was a miracle she'd made it across the finish line at all.

“You blame me,” she finally managed, the words hurting more than they should. More than she should let them.

Trip leaned back in his seat, his jaw set, all the answer she needed, and she felt herself losing it all over again, but this time not in anger but sadness.

They pulled into Annie-Jean's and Emery slipped out, Trip refusing to look at her. She started to shut the door, then paused and swallowed once so she wouldn't lose it as she spoke. “I'm sorry I let you down.”

Then she shut the door and disappeared into her favorite house, praying Annie had a fresh batch of cookies in the oven. She'd need a few dozen to soothe this heartache.