Racing Hearts (8 page)

“Easy for you to judge, Nicky boy. You're the golden boy. Can-dono-wrong son. Besides, I
am
working.”

Nick opened his mouth, likely to fire off some sarcastic retort, but Trip shot him a look, his eyes narrowed, and his brother went back to focusing on the incoming pitch. “So, about Emery.”

“What about her?” Trip knew his agitation showed more than he wanted, but he couldn't help it. He
was
aggravated. At himself. At his offer. At the whole damn thing. How had he let this happen? And what's worse, he was almost equally aggravated that she hadn't responded yet. He wanted to know where they stood, her plans. And okay, he wanted to see her face light up with excitement and know he put it there. Something about seeing her fall to her worst and having a part in bringing her back again would be special. Beckett sure as hell wasn't helping her get back on a mount. The few times he'd been interviewed about Emery, he all but said he'd never let her race again. No wonder she'd turned to Trip, and though he knew this situation was as screwed up as they came, he couldn't turn his back on her, too. She needed support.

“Is she going to live at the farm?”

Trip shrugged. This conversation was getting worse by the second. “No. I don't know. Maybe. Probably not, though. None of our other jockeys live on-site.”

“So she's going to commute in from Crestler's Key? Is it true she hasn't ridden since the accident? Have you seen her on a mount?”

“I don't know.”

“How can you not know? What exactly
do
you know?”

Both brothers had stopped to stare at Trip, their voices so similar he wasn't sure who'd actually asked the questions. He opened his mouth and shut it again, wishing they'd hit Rudy's first. He needed a few hundred shots to survive this shit. But under their weighted stare, all he could do was tell the truth.

He turned to spit out that he didn't know a damn thing when the pitching machine threw again, the ball zooming toward Trip at 60 mph before he could step out of its path, then the crack and pain as it hit his side, and he went down on his knees, but not before the machine fired again. He had only a second to spin away, landing with a groan face-first in the green turf, his brothers' laughter the only thing he could hear.

“I think I'm done here,” Trip managed. The sentiment true in more ways than one.

“C
atch that dog before it runs loose!”

Emery cracked open the front door to her parents' house the next day as a giant ball of white fur flew through the opening, knocking her back in its effort to get outside. Or escape.

Her mama stood over her a moment later, her hands forever on her hips, her sharp blue eyes creased with worry. Emery wondered if the line between her mama's eyebrows had been marked by her and her alone. “Heavens, child. Didn't you hear me call?”

There were no words that wouldn't result in another sharp look, so Emery simply said what she always said to her mother. “Yes, I guess I did. Sorry, Mama. But Princess Diana couldn't have gone far.”

Grace Carlisle spun on her heels and walked down the long wrap around front porch, her delicate hand over her brow as she peered into the woods that cradled the house, sure she could see through the leaves. Or, at the very least, could spot a flash of white.

“What are you doing here so late?” Mama asked, her gaze still trained on the woods and the diva dog who would keep her in knots all day and night, only to reappear on their front steps the next morning. As innocent as ever.

Truthfully, it'd taken her that long to muster up the courage to go there. Talking about lying was a whole different thing from actually telling the lie. She still wasn't sure she could go through with it.

“I was with Annie-Jean.” This explanation tended to explain everything, but instead of accepting it, Mama turned, her keen eyes zeroing in.

“Nothing else?”

Emery's chest tightened under her mother's stare, and she had to remind herself that she was not some sixteen-year-old girl. She was twenty-five. She could do whatever she liked, when she liked, and she sure as heaven didn't have to answer to her mother.

Mama's head tilted down, as though she knew just what Emery was thinking and had words on such thoughts, but she held them in. For now. “Your father's in his office if you're looking for him. And dinner's in an hour if you're hungry.”

Dinner? Emery checked her watch. She knew it was late, but she hadn't realized she'd spent all day again at Annie-Jean's, doing little else other than sulking. Life had turned hard overnight, and something told her it wasn't going to be getting easier any time soon. She needed to make a decision, and though a part of her knew she'd already made it, this was more complicated than agreeing to work with Trip. He wanted her to ride, wanted her to prove she was still the rider she'd once been. Emery wondered if that meant he didn't trust her, but she couldn't really take offense at the idea. After all, she wasn't sure she trusted herself.

She walked into the house and stopped in the study, her fingertips gliding over a hundred different spines as she thought through the truth of her situation. The way Emery saw it, she had two options. Force herself to remain loyal to her family, support her father's pride . . . and never ride again. Or she accepted Trip's challenge, dropped out of the plane, and prayed the parachute opened. Despite racing for all of her adult life, she'd never considered herself a risk taker. She did what her father told her to do. It was only now that she realized she'd never really grown up, never spent a day of her life as an adult. And she hungered for it. She wanted to fail and rise again. She wanted to do things all on her own and know without any doubt that she got there by her bare hands and her passion and little else.

With that thought fresh on her mind, she stepped into Beckett Carlisle's office, the hint of cigar smoke fresh in the air. Clearly, he was in a mood. Otherwise, he'd never risk smoking in the house, when he knew Mama would hit the roof and never look back if she caught him.

Scottish plaid curtains accented the French doors of the large room, bookshelves on two walls, awards and degrees in expensive frames on the others.

Daddy used to say his office helped him think, brought all the chaos back to neutral. After all, it was the only room in the house designed by him, decorated by him, and used by him and him alone. This fact had driven Mama crazy, until she realized she needed her free time, too.

“Daddy?” Emery said. She realized her spine was hunched and cowering, and she tightened it, if only for show. Beckett lifted his eyes, peering over the tops of his glasses from where he sat at his desk. The sound of his desk clock ticking caught Emery's attention, and she had to fight the urge to look over at it. She'd just stepped inside his office, but already it felt as though she'd been there for an eternity.

“Emery.” He said her name with the slightest bit of softness, a tone rarely used by any of the Carlisle men, and certainly not her daddy. It picked at her resolve.

She'd made the decision to go in there and profess that she'd be contracting with Hamilton Stables for the next year. One year. And then she'd return home to her family and do whatever he asked. For however long he asked. Just give her a year without guilt, without that look in his eye that said she'd disappointed him . . . again.

And that's when the lie took shape in her mind, Annie-Jean's words so fresh—”Don't tell him.” Maybe she could keep it to herself, see how things went with Trip. See if her gut was right, live a little while in her own shoes and her own opinions. She bit her lip, desperately searching her mind for some way out of this without crushing her family or lying, but there was nothing, so she opened her mouth, and before fear silenced her tongue, she said, “I've spoken with Hamilton Stables, and I'm going to do a little work there.”

At this, Daddy set down the pen in his hand, removed his glasses, and sat up. “You spoke with whom?”

“Trip Hamilton.”

“All right, you have my attention. What exactly will you be doing there that you can't do here?”

“Um, see, I . . . he has that white-diamond colt from Tiger's Curse. The one Sarah Anderson bought? They're having some problems with him, so I agreed to help out.” The air in her lungs became weighted, difficult to push out, difficult to breathe in new. She wondered if all lies were this heavy.

“Help how?”

Lord, did he have to make this so difficult? “I . . . exercise rider?” Her eyes widened, as the words settled over her. “Yes! Exercise rider.” She cleared her throat. “The colt's proving difficult with training, so I agreed to help with his morning workouts. Give him someone he's used to, you know?”

“No. Absolutely not. Besides, that's one of our colts. There's no chance he's difficult. A good trainer would know how to work him into shape. This is, it's—” He stood up, reaching for his phone, and started away from his desk.

“Daddy, who are you calling?”

“Carter Hamilton. How dare he orchestrate such a mess.”

“No, please. Don't call Mr. Hamilton. You don't understand. This is my doing, not theirs.”

He set down his phone slowly, his eyebrows threading together. “Yours?”

Emery cleared her throat, calling up the last bit of her courage, wondering if she would always feel like a child before her father. “I visited the stables a few days ago, saw the colt, and I remembered him. I offered to help.”

Beckett stared at his daughter for a long moment, taking in the excitement on her face. The hope. “An exercise rider?”

Emery swallowed again, but her throat refused to function right, the lie too large to go down easily. “Yes.”

“Okay.”

Her eyes flew up. “Okay?” Emery felt her heart lift, hope floating.

He crossed the room and placed his hands around her arms. “I want you to be happy again. I want you riding again—just not racing. If this will make you happy, then go ahead. But promise me you'll be careful.”

“I will, Daddy.”

He kissed her cheek, then went back to work, and Emery left, feeling both better and worse. She'd lied to her father, betrayed him. Now she just had to make the lie worth it.

Time to ride.

 

Trip flipped a bottle cap into the air and caught it easily in his hand, his gaze trained on the game on the widescreen in front of him, though he wasn't even sure who was playing. He couldn't get Emery out of his mind, his curiosity too intense. Would she accept his offer? Did he want her to?

He flipped the cap again, and Nick swiped it from the air. “Beer for your thoughts?”

Nick slid a fresh bottle toward him, his eyebrow cocked. “You've barely said a word since we got here.”

Trip shrugged, unsure of where to begin. Or even if he wanted to. “I'm just taking a gamble, and for the first time in my life, I'm not sure I'll win.”

Alex's face broke into a grin. “Now, see, that's the difference between you and me, bro. Those are my favorite kind. What's the fun if you already know the outcome? Kind of takes away the excitement when you win.”

Trip liked this sentiment, even if he wasn't sure he could adopt it. He was a planner. It was part of what made him so successful. He made it his life to win, never allowing himself to grow attached to anyone in the business. Even the horses. He treated them with the respect they deserved, but he had never loved any of his horses. That love would blind him to a true winner, and he couldn't let that happen. His reputation depended on his name being beside the winner of the race. But this was different. It was cement thick with emotion, sure to harden any second and lock him into something he couldn't get out of.

A pair of women on the opposite side of the bar flashed them a grin, and Alex's attention shifted. “Be right back.”

Trip nodded, wishing he could be distracted so easily, as Nick took Alex's seat.

“This doesn't have to get complicated.”

“Oh, it's already complicated.” Trip took a long pull of his beer,

Nick did the same, then, without looking at Trip, asked, “So what actually happened eight years ago? Between you and Emery.”

The evening crowd had set in, chatter all around them, the sounds of glasses hitting wood from shots being taken, balls clinking at the pool table to the far left. People made happy look so damn easy, but it wasn't easy. Or it hadn't been easy for Trip in a long time.

He thought of his last days at the Carlisle Farm, and the final moment between him and Emery. Her lips on his, her long black hair all around him, his heart out of control in his chest. And then Mr. Sampson walked in on them, the look on his face very clear. It took less than twenty-four hours for him to come to Trip and order him to leave, else he would tell Beckett everything and ruin Trip's career before it'd officially started.

So Trip left, telling himself he would come back for Emery when she turned eighteen and could make her own damn decisions. But then his mother died, and suddenly he wasn't so sure. Days turned into months, then years, and before long, too much time had passed. Their lives went separate ways, and his heart turned harder and harder with each year.

He'd never told anyone what really happened, including Emery. She thought he'd taken another job because his time with them was over, but he didn't want it to end with her. Now she was back, all woman, able to make her own decisions, and he couldn't deny a part of him wanted to pick up where they'd left off.

“Trip?”

“What? Oh. What happened? What always happens—we went our separate ways. Can I ask you something?” Trip said, his gaze on Alex over at the end of the bar, talking it up to two women who'd just come in.

Nick adjusted on his stool. “Shoot.”

He hesitated, unsure how to ask what he wanted to know without suggesting things he didn't want to suggest. Curiosity won out. “Do you think you'll ever find another one?”

“Another one what?”

“Partner. Wife. Do you think Brit was your one and only chance, or do you think you'll love again?”

Nick went rigid beside him, and he felt like a jerk for bringing it up. Nick rarely ever talked about his fiancée, the pain clearly too much, but Trip had long since thought he needed to talk about it more. And he was just the selfish asshole to force it.

“Some days I think I shouldn't want anyone else. I should live my life and just be glad I had the time I had with her. But then . . .” He shook his head. “I think if it were me, if I were the one who was gone, I'd want her to find someone. I wouldn't want her alone for the rest of her life out of some misplaced loyalty to me.”

“So why haven't you dated anyone seriously?”

Rudy brought over a fresh round of beers, giving them a moment to breathe from the intensity of the conversation. “I haven't met anyone worth the guilt. What about you?”

Trip took a long pull of his beer and set it back down. “I think a part of me hoped the next person I dated seriously would be her.”

“But you know it can't be.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

Something happened in the game and the bar erupted in applause, giving Trip time to think. “Ask yourself what you would do. If it were Brit and she needed your help. What would you do?”

Nick took a sip of his beer and then slid it away from him. “I'd do whatever she needed me to do.”

“Exactly.”

Alex came over then with three women, likely touring horse country. Hell, they could've toured Hamilton Stables for all Trip knew. They ran tours in the afternoons, and he spent his afternoons at the races. “Gentlemen, meet Mandy, Carly, and Amy. They're sisters.” Alex's eyes sparkled and Nick groaned. Nick liked to keep his flings private, and Rudy's was anything but private.