Racing Hearts (9 page)

“Hey there,” the blonde said. Mandy maybe? Trip hadn't paid attention. “Are you Trip? I've seen you on TV.”

Trip glared at his brother before finishing his beer and standing. “Nah, that's a much better-looking guy.” Then he turned to Nick. “Listen, I'm out. Early morning tomorrow.”

His brothers started to argue but then just nodded. They knew when Trip needed his space. Outside, the air was less heavy, a chilly evening with stars dotting the black night. He climbed into his truck and started back toward the farm, just as his phone vibrated against the cup holder. He peered down at the number, not recognizing the area code. He wasn't in the mood for business talk, but he didn't want to miss something important either. With trepidation, he hit Accept.

“Hamilton.”

“Trip?”

His chest tightened at the voice, the depth and the warmth. The hint of girl behind the woman. “Did you change your number?”

This seemed to trip her up, and he cursed himself for being so obvious. “Uh, yeah, I did. Right after the accident. The press had gotten hold of the number and wouldn't leave me alone, so I switched it. How did you know?”

He leaned back in his seat, searching his mind for an answer, but all he found was the truth. “I didn't recognize the number.”

“You remembered the old one?”

Damn it all to hell. “I had it in my phone.”

“You have the same phone you had eight years ago?”

Christ Almighty, give him a gun now so he could put himself out of this misery. “No . . . I transferred it over.”

“Over how many phones?”

He scrubbed his face with his free hand. “Not many. Just six . . . or so.”

She went silent, and he worried he'd freaked her out. Hell, he was freaking himself out. “You added my number to six different phones? But we haven't spoken in eight years.”

“I know.”

“So, why . . . ?”

He wasn't sure if she was talking to herself now or him. “You know why.”

Silence settled between them, and he wondered where she was and what she was doing. If she still twirled her hair around her finger when she was deep in thought. If she still slept in mix-matched pajamas. If her lips still tasted like vanilla and honeysuckle . . .

He needed to bring this back on point and fast. “So, what's the verdict, Ms. Carlisle?”

She laughed, and the sound drew his eyes closed, eager to bask in it. He could listen to her all day and never grow tired. “I think seeing someone naked earns a first-name basis. Don't you? Besides, you're my boss now.”

Boss. Trip both loved and hated the sound of that. “Does that mean you accept?”

“On just one condition.”

Trip couldn't help but grin. She was the only jockey who'd dare ask Trip for something. Most took the job with a handshake and a smile, scared to utter a word lest Trip change his mind. “I'm listening.”

“You keep this between us. No publicity. No one knows. For now.”

“My family already knows, Emery. I can't keep this from them or the staff.” He heard her fidget on the other end, curious why she'd want this a secret. “Is this about Beckett? What did you tell him?”

“That I was just an exercise rider for Craving Wind. Nothing more. My riding for Carlisle Farms is important to Daddy. This will devastate him. I need to keep it as private as possible . . . for now.”

“But I thought he wouldn't put you back on a mount?”

“He won't.”

“Then why—”

“I know this doesn't make sense, but I know Daddy, and it's for the best. I'll tell him once we know this is going to work out.”

Trip considered what she was saying. He understood. He'd try to protect his family, too, but he wasn't sure this was a good idea. Stories tended to come out, whether you wanted them to or not. “All right, then. I'll tell them you're an exercise rider. You can ride early morning, before most of the staff get here. Sound good?”

She released a breath. “Thank you.”

He opened his mouth to say more, or maybe just to continue the conversation. “Emery . . .”

“Yeah?”

He released a long breath, then put his truck in drive. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,
Mr.
Hamilton.”

F
og had set in the next morning, giving the farm an eerie, foreboding vibe. A hint of some disaster to come, perhaps? Or—
Stop being so dramatic.

Emery shook out her hands and drew a long breath, but as she stepped out of her Jeep and walked toward the stables, she couldn't help feeling she'd made a life decision by coming here. This wasn't small. It was big, big, big. Somehow that realization both gave her pause and filled her with excitement.

She stopped just outside the stables, and with one glance down the long row, her heart picked up and a smile stretched across her face. Wow. Carlisle Farms was beautiful, and her father made it a point to ensure the stables were equally gorgeous, but they were nothing like Hamilton Stables. Nothing so grand. She lost count of how many Thoroughbreds she could see—bay, roan, brown, chestnut, even the occasional pure black. They were beautiful, their coats shiny, their strength and size evident even from here. She knew Trip trained the best, but she had no idea he stabled so many.

“Having a change of heart? Now's the time to tell me.”

Emery turned, eyes locking with Trip's. Her skin flushed under his penetrative stare, that crooked grin of his far too sexy for this early in the morning. “Hey there, cowboy.”

He tilted his head down in a hello and tucked his hands into his jeans' pockets. Emery had to order herself to swallow and breathe, swallow and breathe as her gaze swept down him. Trip wore jeans the way others wore gloves, all fitted to perfection, with just enough wear to show that when he was at the barn, in his element, he intended to work. He had on a red and tan flannel shirt, loose over the jeans and rolled to his elbows. The same cowboy boots she'd seen on him before stuck out from the bottom of his jeans. She bet he never wore another pair. In place of the Stetson, he sported an Atlanta Braves baseball cap that looked like he'd had it since he was a boy. The rim was torn in spots, the
A
no longer red but burgundy from dirt and wear. Dark chocolate strands curled out from the edge, tickling his neck, and Emery had to fight the urge to reach out—to see if his hair felt as soft as she remembered.

She cleared her throat. Twice.

Forget getting on the damn mount, this man was going to be the death of her. How anyone worked around him, with that soul stare and those broad shoulders and—

She blinked hard to fix her thoughts ot else she was really going to embarrass herself. Trainers weren't supposed to look like Trip. They were old and whiskered and had more wrinkles than good sense. She knew firsthand; she'd been around her fair share. But Trip had never conformed to the typical trainer stereotype, which might be why he'd so quickly become the best.

He bit his lip, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, and she got the distinct impression he knew just what she was thinking. “He's not in here,” he said, pointing down the row of stalls. “I had Clark take him to the training ring out back. Would you like to see him?”

Emery's heart screamed yes while her head screamed no. She wanted to see the colt like she wanted to breathe, but she knew Trip would ask her to ride; then he'd see that she was still a chicken and retract his offer. He'd never said when she had to fulfill his challenge, and Emery hoped she could delay it a little longer.

She needed to get over her nervousness. So what if she was thrown from her horse? It wasn't the first time it had happened in her life and wouldn't be the last. But the throwing wasn't the scary part, nor the trampling, though the memory of the pain would remain with her for the rest of her life. It was—

“Emery . . . ?”

She glanced up and straight into those chocolate eyes. Damn, melted M&M's had nothing on this man. “Yes?”

He took a step toward her, the move so simple yet full of purpose—no one had ever read Emery the way Trip could read her. The thought warmed her more than it should. “No one's forcing you to do this, to be here,” he said. “You know that, right? Not your family and certainly not me. Especially if you're not ready.” His gaze dropped to her cane, and she held her breath, waiting for the pity to come, but it never appeared. Instead, he returned to her eyes, his head slightly cocked. “The show's yours, lady girl. You gotta decide if you're ready to perform. Nobody else can take the mount for you.”

Emery licked her lips and leaned into the cane, then put all her weight on her left leg, testing it. There was no pain, but then, she hadn't felt any pain in months. The cane was a crutch—both literally and figuratively. A crutch she needed to ditch if she hoped to return to her old self. The moment had come.

It reminded her of when she rode for the first time. She'd been around horses her entire life, but she'd secretly always been afraid of them. Every time the horse cantered, she felt her heart hit the dirt, cowering away. She'd stayed up all night the day before her first galloping lesson, sure she would die of fear the moment she sat on her horse. But then something magical happened. She reached the training ring and pushed through the gate and made a decision to leave the fear behind. It was one of the best days of her life.

Here and now, she knew this moment was a repeat of that lesson. She had a choice—put down the cane (and her fear) or resign herself to never riding again. Emery couldn't do that.

She drew a long breath, thankful that Trip hadn't said any more. She needed silence right now, needed to feel her way through the moment. Slowly, Emery leaned her cane against a nearby empty stall and balanced her weight on both feet, careful not to cringe or hint at her fear.

Trip waited, watching—forever patient—and she could feel all those old feelings floating up, tempting her to succumb to them. She didn't blame him for leaving—she was only seventeen—but that didn't keep her from wishing every day for a year that he'd come back to her.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready.”

They walked around the stables to the training ring out back, Clark already inside with Craving Wind. Emery's pulse sped up with each step, beating from her head to her toes, nervousness and excitement fighting it out for control of her emotions. She forced herself not to limp as she walked, not to lean on her good leg, to forget that she'd ever had a bad leg. This was her time.

Trip held open the gate, and her breath caught as his palm gently rested on the small of her back. “After you.”

She glanced up, and then to the horse, relieved to see an exercise rider on his back. Calling all her strength to the surface, she started over, but suddenly each step felt weighted, more difficult than the last. The air outside turned hot, her hands clammy as she recounted article after article about her accident. Speculation if she'd ride again. Crude comments that suggested she'd never be the same even if she did.

“I . . .”

“Emery?”

“This . . . I . . .” She shook her head, unwilling to say the words
I'm not ready
aloud. Because she was ready. She'd already been through this, said the words, made them real. She couldn't take them back now. What was she doing?

And then Trip waved his hand in the air. “Bring him around.” The exercise rider rode over, a look of sheer fear on his face. Emery couldn't help but smile.

“Is that look because of the horse or Mr. Hamilton here?” she asked.

“No, ma'am, I'm fine,” the boy replied, though his hands shook.

She laughed at how surely his face disagreed with his words. A sense of ease washed over her. “I'd say you're anything but fine. What's the problem?” Without thinking, she walked over, Trip close behind, and stroked Craving Wind's mane. “Are you scary? You don't look so scary.” Emery leaned in and whispered close, “I'm betting it's Mr. Hamilton. Whatcha think?” She peered around at Trip and cocked her head, her eyes narrowing in scrutiny. “Looks pretty damn frightening to me.”

Clark broke into fits, and Trip shot him a look that made Emery laugh still harder. The sun had burned away the fog, and now the birds crowed, telling the farm to wake up. Workers busied about, feeding horses, saddling them up for their morning workouts, cleaning and brushing. The whole place had a sense of community about it, different than other farms she'd been around—different from her own. Like every person worked hard because he wanted to, not because he was paid.

“Haven't you ever heard of teasing?” Emery asked Trip with a smile. “All work and no play for Mr. Superstar Trainer?” She knocked his stomach lightly with her fist, too comfortable and too in her element. But the moment her hand made contact with his rock-solid abs, she felt herself flush. God, why had she done that? She couldn't seem to be around Trip without staring or flirting—like no time had passed and nothing had changed between them. She needed to get herself under control.

Trip cleared his throat and ducked his head, but she caught the edges of his lips curving into a small grin before he tucked it away.

Embarrassed, Emery focused back on the exercise rider. He couldn't be older than sixteen, likely a cousin or son of one of the trainers. Some poor kid forced to ride when he'd rather be playing video games or chasing girls. Did they still call it that? “Tell me what's the trouble. You're tense and the horse knows it.”

The boy glanced from Clark to Trip, then finally to Emery. “He threw Mike Black yesterday. Talk said Mike couldn't even get out of bed today. That's why I'm covering for him.”

At that, Clark started laughing again. “You're a fool, boy. Mikey's going to hit the races today and bet away his wages for a week. Mark my word.”

“So, he wasn't thrown?”

Trip patted Craving Wind. “Ah, he was thrown all right, but he got back up. So will you. We've all been thrown a few times. Rarely does anybody get injured. No one's been put in the hospital. This year.” He winked at the boy, whose attention was on Emery.

“But you were thrown, weren't you, Ms. Carlisle?”

Emery felt all the blood drain from her face. For whatever reason, she'd never expected anybody on the farm to mention her injury. She knew everyone in racing knew about it. Heck, it was the Kentucky Oaks and she was a front-runner for the Derby. That kind of thing didn't go unnoticed. But how could she explain to this boy that she wasn't afraid of getting thrown or even being trampled—she was afraid she'd lost her touch. Lost her talent. Lost herself.

She'd opened her mouth to reply when Trip cut in. “Well, I think I'll show Emery around the rest of the farm. We'll check in with you later,” he said to Clark, who nodded. And then, with the relief of a cup of water on a scorching day, she followed Trip back out, ignoring his curious stare. There was no doubt he had opinions, and that was fine. That was perfectly and completely fine. He could keep his opinions. As long as he kept to their agreement and let her race, she didn't care what he thought of her. So there!

Only, as she watched him walking toward the stables, his head slightly down, she knew she was lying to herself.

Trip led her around the stables and back to a small white house with navy shutters, planter boxes full of vibrant flowers below each window, and a red door. They stepped through the door without knocking and into a small kitchen with a breakfast nook just to the right, facing the pastures, with a clear view of the rising sun. A six-person rectangular oak table dominated the nook, a metal light with a rooster on it hanging down over the table, like it was ready to steal your food if you came in a minute late.

Emery glanced around, feeling better with each passing moment. From the orchard print shades over the windows to the rug below the sink that read “Southern Soul,” it felt like she'd entered her grandmother's house back home. “I thought you were showing me the rest of the farm?”

Just then a woman appeared from around the corner, all gray hair and Southern curves and a smile that said she knew Emery down to her bones even before she'd heard her name. “Trust me, honey, this is the most important place on the farm. Especially first thing in the morning.” Then she wiped her hands on her apron and gripped Emery's shoulders gently before leaning in to kiss her cheek. “You must be Emery. I'm Vivian Marshal, but everybody around her calls me Mama V.” She winked over at Trip. “Omelet and bacon?”

Trip grinned. “You know me well.” He pulled out a chair for Emery and nodded for her to sit before taking the seat across from her.

“Mama V keeps us fed,” Trip said with a smile. “It's a twenty-four-hour kitchen in here.”

Mama V laughed. “Well, not all day. But yes, before I started cooking for them, they'd go all day without eating. Riding those horses, training, talking business, then turn to the races. They'd go sunup to sundown, all of them turning into skin and bones and embarrassing the family. Couldn't have that.” She cracked an egg into a frying pan, the sizzling sound filling the silence in a comfortable way. Then she flipped it and threw in peppers and onions, and Emery wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“Now, now. What's that look for, lady girl? I'm sensing some high-and-mighty judgment falling my way.”

Mama V spun around, her wooden spoon out, and under her stare, Emery straightened and smiled. She distinctly remembered her grandmother spanking her with a wooden spoon—on more than one occasion. Something told Emery Mama V wasn't against using her spoon either.

“Nothing. I was just . . . Nothing.”

Trip leaned in. “Let me guess; you're a simple, egg-whites-only kind of girl?”