Racing Hearts (2 page)

Emery shrugged. “I like to watch them in the morning,” she said, though that wasn't the full story. She came out every morning hoping she would feel that pull in her gut, that twitch and prick in her spine that rippled through her until she got on a horse. For three long months, she'd come out to the stables, and for three long months her body had done nothing more than breathe. It made her feel sick and ashamed. She was a jockey! Where was her spirit?

Mr. Sampson studied her, like he saw straight through her lie. “You know, Ms. Carlisle, Lemon Grass would be a fine option for a morning ride.”

Lemon Grass, an old mare with as much gait as a turtle. Emery was offended for a moment, and then her offense was quickly replaced by sadness. How had she allowed herself to fall from True Star to Lemon Grass? Still, Mr. Sampson had a point. Riding Lemon Grass would be easy, like an injured runner walking instead of taking to the track. A small step.

She thought of the upcoming Sandbar Maiden, a tiny race compared to the Triple Crown, but the place where she should begin. A solid win would throw her name back into the circle for the next Kentucky Derby. She needed to train every single day to have a chance. Instead, she had yet to even sit on a horse. The thought made her angry with herself, and with every bit of the spunk she once wore like a cape, she said, “Saddle her up. I have a call to make.”

Emery rotated on her heels and walked out of the stable, jerking her phone from her pocket as she strode far enough away that Mr. Sampson couldn't hear her voice. She ducked behind a nearby tree and dialed the number she had called every day for the last week. And every day she'd been told he wasn't available, wasn't in town, a different excuse each time. Which was exactly what they were—excuses. But her farm in Crestler's Key was just a town over from Triple Run, and if he refused to talk to her on the phone, she would come to his house and pound on his door. Dignity be damned.

Enough was enough.

Trip's cell vibrated from the pocket of his worn Levi's. It was five in the morning, and already it felt like he'd forgotten something. Every day ran that way—a to-do list so long he had no choice but to check off the most important things and leave the rest for the next day. Only to start the process all over again. He told himself he'd slow down eventually, but so far
eventually
hadn't come.

His cell vibrated again, and he peered down at the number, recognizing the main office and cringing. He pictured his father at his grand cherry desk, tapping a pen against its surface, an annoyed look on his face. He'd been on Trip for the last week to meet with Gerald Lancaster, a wealthy businessman who had a hand in everything from real estate to oil and now had his sights set on Thoroughbreds. He wanted Trip as his trainer, but Trip didn't trust the man, his motives, or that conniving grin that said his words were no match for his thoughts. Besides, Trip had already built a solid relationship with owners he trusted. Why add one who could end up being nothing more than a thorn in his side? This was the great difference between Trip and his father; Carter Hamilton always sought more, when Trip was content to keep things steady. Enjoy his successes instead of always seeking the next gain.

Carter used to be that way, too, until he lost his wife, Trip's mother, to a ruptured brain aneurysm, and his father's heart refused to bounce back. They never saw it coming, and Trip often wondered if knowing would have helped his father—being able to properly say good-bye—or if that only would have made things worse for him.

Trip eyed the number again, readying himself for an argument, and reluctantly clicked the call. “Hamilton.”

“Trip?”

“Yes . . .” Trip hesitated. Definitely not his father. Peyton, the office admin, must not be in just yet, so the call had forwarded to his cell. Suddenly, he wished he'd ignored it. He didn't like the slip in the female's voice, the brief break, like she was mustering her courage—or preparing to go off on him.

He tried to remember if he'd angered any women lately. Hell, who was he kidding? Angering women was his second best skill. He thought of Lexi Price's long legs and come-here smile and promise that she, like him, was too focused on business for a relationship. That attitude held for a whopping two weeks before her manicured claws set in, and once again, he had to have the conversation that'd branded the Hamilton brothers as womanizers. Though the title held no truth, it interfered with business, so their father had ordered them to stay away from any and all women involved in racing.

Of course, Trip had always been selective in the rules he chose to follow, hence the Lexi issue. He trudged on with the conversation carefully. “Who's asking?”

There was a pause on the other end, then, “It's Emery.”

He sucked in a breath, the name hitting him like a punch to the gut. Memories poured in, flashes of endless blue eyes and coy smiles and afternoons laying in the fields behind Carlisle Farms, the clouds making shapes above them, his heart speeding away in his chest for reasons he couldn't understand. But that was all stuff of his youth, before his mother died and he watched his kind father break in two, unable to return to the man he'd once been, his kindness replaced with coldness. Then his brother Nick lost his fiancée to cancer, and Trip vowed to never be that man—lost to his feelings and grief, his career stunted by love. Nah-ah, not him.

Which was the very reason he'd avoided Emery's calls all week. Now what the hell was he supposed to do?

Trip focused back on the phone, drawing an annoyed breath, prepared to let her have it for calling him personally. There was a protocol, for God's sake—he talked to agents, not jockeys. But then he caught the desperation in her voice as she started to speak again, barely there below the confidence, and instead of barking off an angry reply, he found himself asking, “How are you?”

“I would be better if you agreed to meet with me,” she said, her silky voice dropping just a touch. He had always liked the sound of her voice, the way it was both strong and feminine. It had been to blame for one or two of his greatest transgressions. He couldn't believe he hadn't recognized it immediately. A woman's voice had always been his undoing, but this was different, complicated, the last thing he wanted to add to his already jam-packed schedule.

“Look—”

“I know what you're going to say, but please . . . one meeting. If you like what I have to say, I'll ride for free. Whatever you ask. And just so you know, I'm not against stooping to blackmail.”

“Blackmail? That's a new one, even for you.” Trip couldn't help but smile. Years had gone by, but she was still the same Emery, all heart for the race, all love for the horses. She didn't need the money and really didn't care about the fame—Emery raced to prove to herself that she could. Her guile, coupled with that voice of hers, made him reconsider her offer . . . if only for a second.

“I still have the photos.”

He stopped walking. “You don't.”

“Oh, I do. You lost the bet fair and square. It's not my fault you were forced to sit on a mount.
Naked
. It must have been a cold, cold day, because—”

“Hey, now,” he said, unable to keep from laughing. “I think we'd have a greater problem on our hands if I'd shown my real size, if you know what I mean.”

Emery released a small laugh, the sweet sound hitting him straight in the chest. Damn, it felt good talking to her. Too good.

“Come on, Trip. It's a meeting. Just hear me out.”

He sighed and started back for his training ring. “Your father would kill me.”

“Wouldn't be the first time you've taken that risk.”

Trip grinned. Sure enough, he'd taken lots of risks back then, but he was older now. Wiser, he liked to think. He opened his mouth to reply with as much when he heard a squeal from the training ring. Clark, his assistant trainer, had a new colt out that'd just come in from auction, a purchase by Sarah Anderson, a longtime friend of the Hamilton family. He listened, curious if they'd worked through their problem, when he heard a shout from Clark.

“Son of a bitch . . .” Trip whispered.

“Sorry?”

“Not you, obviously. We just got a new colt, and by the sounds of it, he's working my assistant trainer into the ground.”

“From the sales?”

“Yeah, Sarah Anderson bought him. Actually . . . come to think of it, she bought him from your farm.”

Emery sucked in a breath. “Did you say a colt?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I'm coming over.”

Trip nearly dropped the phone as he skidded to a halt. “You can't come here.”

“I can, and I will. We need to talk about this, and I need to see that colt. If he's the horse I'm thinking, I can help you.”

Trip released a breath and peeked back over at Clark, who looked like he might piss his pants any second. “There are plenty of trainers.”

“I don't want to work for just any trainer. I want you.”

His breath caught at her words, at the intimacy of them. At the way her voice had dipped back down, as it had in the beginning of the call, like she couldn't hide her plea. He started to tell her—again—that he couldn't, this was too complicated, when a sharp scream cut through the early morning silence.

Trip spun around to find the colt reared up, Clark on his back, and then Trip ran, the words, “Be here Thursday. Seven a.m.,” rushing out of his mouth before he could convince himself otherwise. He shoved his phone back into his pocket and leaped over the fence. His pace slowed as he reached the horse and steadied him, his mind still on Emery's silky voice as she said
I want you.

E
mery made her way into Brighton's Sandwich and Pastries for lunch the next day, the smell of fresh bread hitting her nose and soothing her soul, despite her body still being keyed up from the call with Trip. Was it her imagination or had he laughed at her throughout the conversation? The thought made her both scowl and smile.

Her entire life she'd felt like a young girl among adults. Her parents still called her baby and patted her head like she was a ten year old, instead of the twenty-five-year-old woman she'd become. Her accident, while tragic in its own right, did nothing more than detract from her age in her parents' eyes—in the eyes of everyone on the farm. But Trip was different. He didn't laugh at her because he thought she was a kid. He laughed because he understood her, knew how she ticked, and it amused him.

Whether that was a good thing, she couldn't be sure. She'd told herself as soon as they ended the call that this was for her career. That if he hired her on, their relationship would remain professional, nothing more. Her heart wouldn't get involved. The problem was, her heart had never once been safe around Trip Hamilton.

Emery glanced around the sandwich shop in search of her lunch date, ignoring the curious stares from everyone within reaching distance. Brighton's was every bit as small town as the rest of Crestler's Key, Kentucky. Small glass tables covered in floral tablecloths. Wrought-iron chairs. Pictures on the wall of every famous person who'd ever stepped foot in the town, including her. And a mess of town folk ready to gossip at the first word worthy enough to spread.

She frowned, which didn't go unnoticed as she slipped into a chair across from her best friend.

“Good God, Em, what'd old Mrs. Wilbanks do to you?” Kate asked, her freckled face lit with humor. She had her red hair pulled back in a bun, a blue paisley wrap around her head, making her blue eyes even more pronounced.

“Why do they have to stare all the time? It isn't like my face changed from yesterday.” Emery pulled her cloth napkin into her lap and sat tall. God forbid she forgot her manners and ate without it.

Kate's face softened. “They're just worried about you, hun. You're the only one in this town worth worrying about, so they make it their mission to keep up the job. It'll pass as soon as you're racing again.”

Emery cleared her throat and lifted her menu to hide her face, which Kate promptly pulled down so she could look at her friend. “Em . . . why do you look like you stole someone's mail on the way over?”

Crap. She'd thought she could hide her secret a little better.

“I don't. It's . . . I don't.”

Kate pinned her with that kindergarten teacher stare of hers, waiting. She'd mastered the look at just six years old, when she'd demanded that Emery tell her what Curtis Trink had said about Kate's request to marry him—again. Needless to say, Kate's desire to be loved never went away, nor her ability to suck the truth out of someone by scrutiny alone.

“All right, fine,” Emery huffed and leaned in. “But if you breathe a word of this, I will make it my mission to tell Matthew Bridges just how deep that crush of yours runs.”

Kate flinched, before smoothing out her expression and crossing her arms, faking ease. “Well, that would be a waste of time, see. I don't have a crush on Matt anymore. That was
last
year, and . . .” She trailed off at Emery's cocked brow, and her shoulders slumped. “Okay, okay, but I'm nearly over him. For real this time.”

Emery sat quietly while her friend tried to explain away her feelings. It was one of a hundred conversations they'd had about Matt, and Kate had yet to act on her feelings, too shy to take the first step.

Seeing her best friend wasn't buying it, Kate dropped her head. “Fine, I promise. Now, spill it. I'm dying here.”

Emery glanced around, lowering her voice. “I made an appointment with Trip Hamilton for Thursday.”

“You
what
?” Kate said too loudly, causing several heads to turn.

“Lord Almighty, keep your voice down,” Emery said, smiling to the few who had turned to look at them. “I think they heard you in China.”

Kate's eyes were still wide, but she dropped her voice to a whisper. “Okay, I'm listening. Quietly. But I have a lot to say on this. A lot. So speak quickly so we can get to the part where I tell you what a horrible idea this is.”

Sighing, Emery set down her menu on the table and leaned back in. “Look, I know exactly what you're thinking, but it'll be fine. It's just a meeting, anyway. He could say no.”

“No to what exactly?”

Emery chewed on her left thumbnail. “Well, I kind of asked him to hire me.”

“You what!”

“Jesus, be quiet. I think you just blew up Mr. Black's hearing aid.”

Kate drew a long breath and clasped her hands together in front of her, her mouth opening and closing twice before she spoke. “Um, do I need to remind you that this isn't just any trainer? This is Trip. The boy who broke your heart. Doesn't that matter to you?”

“Of course it matters.” Emery's gaze fell to the table, before she revealed just how much. It mattered more than she would ever admit to anyone, even herself. “But he didn't even know my real feelings, Kate. He didn't leave me. We weren't anything serious. He got a job—it happens—and I was only seventeen. What was he supposed to do?”

Kate tossed up her hands, drawing more looks, and Emery thought she might kill her friend before they made it out of this conversation. “Sorry. It's just . . . you were absolutely something. Maybe not with a title and promise rings or your names carved into an old oak. But you were something. It mattered. It would have been nice if he'd called you once or twice in the last eight years. Instead, he just left, went on about his life. Doesn't that bother you?”

What bothered her was that she wouldn't have left him. If he'd asked, she would have gone anywhere with him, done anything, but she couldn't admit those feelings. Besides, she didn't want to be that kind of woman. “What would you say I did these last eight years? I have a shelf full of trophies and a body full of scars to prove I lived, too. We were young, but we're adults now, and feelings aside, he's the best. Owners want to work with him, he's smart and talented and—”

“Too hot for his own good.” Kate shook her head. “You're sure about this?”

Emery stared out the shop's window, watching as an old Ford pickup truck went by.

“I'm sure I need to get back on a mount, and he's the best trainer to get me there. For now, that's all I need to know. Anyway, the appointment is Thursday morning.”

Brighton's teen daughter, Mary Elizabeth, stepped up then to take their order, her braces-lined teeth showing for all to see. “Doing okay, Ms. Carlisle? Ms. Littleton?” she asked, her smile widening. “What can I get y'all today?”

They placed their order, and then, as soon as Mary Elizabeth was out of earshot, Kate leaned back in. “Okay, initial reaction is over and now I'm to
wow
. This is just so wow. How did you even get him to take your call? I thought you said he wouldn't talk to you about it.”

Emery grinned. “I have no idea. The call went directly to his cell, like fate or something. I couldn't believe it.”

Kate shook her head, smiling. “You are the luckiest person I know,” she said, and then, realizing the deeper meaning of her words and just how very
unlucky
Emery had been, she started to apologize as Emery waved her off. “What time do you have to be there?”

“Seven.”

Mary Elizabeth brought their chicken salad sandwiches, and Kate took a bite from hers before saying, “I guess I have plans Thursday morning?”

Emery smiled that pretty-please-with-sugar-on-top smile she knew worked best on Kate. She'd spent the last ten minutes trying to figure out how she would ask Kate to ride with her for moral support. Leave it to her friend to see through her ploys before she'd even conjured them. “I would owe you forever.”

“Will there at least be some hot guys there? Cowboy hats who say things like, ‘Hello, darlin'?”

“Um, well, I think he has two brothers, both younger, though I can't remember their names. Maybe one of them?” Emery wondered how she would feel if Kate actually
did
date one of Trip's brothers. Kate was adorable, and she knew all three brothers to be very handsome, but Kate dating a Hamilton brother would only remind her of the fact that she couldn't.

Kate picked up a bagel chip and popped it into her mouth, seeming satisfied. “Fine. But you're buying lunch.”

Emery nodded as she sunk back into her chair. “Absolutely. And what about Matt? Are you really over him?”

“Matthew Bridges?”

Their gazes snapped up to find Mary Elizabeth standing over them, floral tea pitcher in hand as she shook her head in disappointment. “You're too good for him. He's a
mailman
, Ms. Littleton. You should date someone from the fire department. Firemen are hot. Mailmen are so not. Maybe Chris Dickens?”

“No chance,” Kate said. “His name contains the word di—”

“Kate!” Emery kicked her under the table and Kate cried out, causing Mary Elizabeth to drop her pitcher and sweet tea to run everywhere. Several people nearby came over to help clean up the mess. Including half the fire department. Kate cringed as she slowly lifted her eyes to each of them, then stopped when she locked on Chris Dickens, the expression on his face revealing he'd heard every word of their conversation.

He flashed Kate a shiny grin and edged close. “Yes, it does, which should tell you I know just what to do with that word. And I'm willing to show you Friday night if you're willing?”

Kate's face went scarlet. “Um, thanks. I'll, uh . . . think about it.”

Emery burst out laughing, still giggling as they left Brighton's. They walked down the sidewalk, enjoying the afternoon sun, everything about the moment easy and light, until Kate stopped and turned to Emery, biting her lip in that way she did when she wasn't sure how to say something.

“What?”

“Well, there's just one thing.”

Emery's eyebrows threaded together. “About Chris Dick-ens?” She laughed again. “He said he's open for a date if you're willing.”

Kate smacked her arm. “Not about Chris, though . . .” She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “Nah, too beefy.”

“Then what?”

Her friend's eyes softened. “What are you going to do if Trip asks you to ride?”

Fear washed over Emery, settling into the base of her spine, all the easiness from before replaced by worry. She straightened before her weak backbone dropped her to the sidewalk. She couldn't even sit on Lemon Grass and had spent all of yesterday thinking about what she would say if Trip asked her to ride, playing out scenarios in her mind, coming up with excuse after excuse. But at the end of the day, Trip was a trainer, and he had owners counting on him to put the best jockeys on their mounts. If he trusted her enough to hire her, she couldn't let him down.

She started back down the sidewalk. “Then I'll ride.”

 

Trip had spent the better part of the last twenty-four hours cursing everyone in his path, but mostly himself. He replayed his conversation with Emery again and again, wondering how she'd broken through his careful facade so easily. Hadn't he told her no? Hadn't he been stern in his delivery?

But this was Emery.

He thought of the first time he'd realized he couldn't stay away from her. They were friends, nothing more, and he'd ordered himself to be good out of respect for her father. And then one night everything changed. She had come home from a date with some loser on the football team, and the guy had kissed her, but clearly he had no clue what the hell he was doing. She laughed about the kiss as she described it in detail to Trip, their legs hanging over the second story of the barn, staring out over the farm, the night warm above. He'd looked into those amazing eyes of hers and told her she deserved to be kissed by someone who knew what he was doing. A breath passed between them, and she whispered, “Someone . . . like you?” And then his lips were on hers, and he'd spent all night answering her question, losing himself more and more with each kiss.

Trip shook himself from the memory, angry that he'd let the one person who dropped him to his knees back into his life. He blamed Clark for losing control with the new colt.
His thoughts were on other things
, Trip told himself. But the truth was, he couldn't find the will to deny her, not when he heard the break in her voice. Emery Carlisle had always been Trip's greatest weakness. Even her name stopped him in his tracks. Now, he'd all but handed her his man card by allowing her to come to Hamilton Stables after he'd already said no. Twice! What was he thinking?

And there was the problem—he wasn't. Trip never thought clearly when it came to Emery. He remembered the first time she'd raced, the thrill in her eyes when she'd returned to the farm. She hadn't won, not even close, but she was so excited no one cared. They'd celebrated her loss like she'd won the Triple Crown, and as he'd watched her laugh and dance with excitement, he knew she'd become a part of him. His thoughts, his dreams. He saw her in them. To him, she was everything.

But then he had that dreaded talk with Mr. Sampson, followed by his mother's death. Trip returned home to his father's tears and that was the end of it. He left, and she never called, so their lives continued on in parallel yet separate directions. A part of the same world, but never sharing the same life. And the truth was he missed her. When the quiet overcame the noise and rain beat against the roof and nothing occupied his mind but the sound of his heart, he thought of her. Until he ordered the thought away, closing up his heart once again.