Racing Hearts (12 page)

She smiled a little at the compliment and tilted her head up so she could look into his eyes. “Yet something tells me you need to talk to me.”

He nodded. “I do, but I don't know what to say, so how about for tonight I just walk you to your car and say good night? The rest can wait.”

“Wait for what?”

Trip ran his hands down her arms. “For it to make sense. Right now, this, us . . . it's . . .”

“Complicated.”

He stared at her, allowing himself to get lost in those big blue eyes that had taken him under their spell all those years ago. “Yes.”

They stopped beside her Jeep, Kate outside the bar, watching them. She lifted her hand to wave her friend over, and then gave Trip one last look. “Good night, Trip.”

Shutting her Jeep's door, he backed away and tucked his hands into his jeans. “Good night, Emery,” he whispered.

E
mery slumped down in her chair, ignoring the sidelong look from her best friend. “What?”

“You tell me what,” Kate said. “We have fresh lemon poppy seed muffins with lemon glaze in front of us, yet you've got a frown on your face. How can you frown at these muffins?” She took a bite of hers. “Yum. I swear, if you don't start eating yours soon, I'm going to eat it for you.”

Emery slid her plate across the table toward Kate. “Have it.”

“Em. Seriously. What's the matter?”

“It's been two weeks.” Two weeks since their walk out by the Cherokee River. Two weeks of thinking about his eyes and his hair and the way his voice sounded when it dipped down, the words spoken just for her.

Two whole weeks with no hint of more from Trip and, to add salt to the wound, she was no closer to riding Craving Wind.

“What's holding you back?” Kate asked.

“With which problem?”

Kate's brows went up. “Right. Well, let's tackle one at a time. Easiest first. Why can't you ride? Are you afraid?”

Emery stared around the bakery, watched old Mrs. Gertie wringing her arthritis-ridden hands together, like somehow the bakery held the answer. The same light blue floral wallpaper covered the walls that had been there when Emery was little. The same tables and chairs. The same people there every morning like clockwork. But Gertie had gotten too old to keep up with business. What she needed was a partner. Someone who understood baked goods, but who was energetic and could bring some life back into Crestler's Key's favorite breakfast spot.

And she knew just the person.

“I don't think I'm afraid to ride anymore. At least not fully afraid. I'm afraid to disappoint Trip. I can tell he's expecting something major, my old times. It's intimidating.” Emery eyed Mrs. Gertie again. “But sometimes you gotta ask for help if you want to get back to what you love. By the way, what happened with Alex?”

Kate frowned. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. We watched the game, he patted me on the back, and said 'bye. Like I was one of the guys.” Her expression darkened. “Why do I always end up being one of the guys? I mean, they act like they want a girl who's into sports, but then they date girls who wear nothing for clothes and talk in text language, like that's how people actually speak. It's ridiculous. And sad . . .”

“Aw, K, it's just about finding the right guy.”

Just then, Matthew Bridges came in, small glasses in place as he glanced down at the paper in his hand. Emery kicked Kate from under the table.

“Hey! What was that for—?”

“Kate?”

Kate's neck could have broken off for how fast she whipped around. “Matt. Hey. What are you doing here?”

Matt Bridges, aka Kate's high school love, though they'd never even been on a date. They'd been in to each other since high school, but Matt was Kate's oldest brother Charlie's best friend, so neither would act on their feelings. There seemed to be a lot of holding back going on in Crestler's Key. But it was time for a change.

“Here,” Emery said, pushing out from the table. “Take my seat. The place is buzzing this morning, and I've got somewhere I need to be.”

Kate's eyes went saucer wide, but Emery just shook her head and mouthed,
You're fine
. And then she set out to force another person in her life to stop holding back. Others first, then she'd work on herself.

Emery pulled down Annie's long gravel drive and closed the door to find her mama's car parked in front of the house. With trepidation, Emery went up the steps, knowing she couldn't just leave without them noticing. She went through the screen door, letting it hit loudly as she entered.

“Hello?”

“Back here!” Annie called from the kitchen. Like always.

But when she circled into the expansive room, she caught her mama dabbing her eyes with a tissue and peered over at Annie with concern.

“Is everything okay?”

Her mother then went on to wipe the tissue over her neck, unbuttoning the top button of her blouse and patting her chest. “Yes, child. Haven't you ever seen a person burn from the inside out?”

Here we go.

“This blasted menopause is going to kill me. Kill me. I can't even—” Then she burst into tears.

Annie and Emery went for her at the same time, but she'd crossed over to the crazy side. There was no coming back. And asking if she was okay always resulted in a sharp look. Then, if they said nothing at all, they didn't care. There was no winning in the battle of menopause.

“It's fine. I'm fine. I need to get back to the farm.”

Emery wanted to call Daddy and warn him that the storm was coming, but then she risked him asking where she'd been. Again. And her excuses got lamer and lamer with each question.

A part of her thought Daddy would understand. He shared her passion for racing, and he would never have given up if he'd been in her shoes. And Daddy liked Trip, respected him and spoke of him fondly. But now she'd lied to him numerous times. How could she admit to working with Trip, the boy he trained, over him?

She couldn't.

Grace Carlisle left after another long cry, and that was when Emery noticed the kitchen. Or, more appropriately, the demolition site. Flour covered everything visible, including Annie-Jean, who looked as though she'd entered a paintball fight, but instead of paint for ammo they'd used flour balls and . . . chocolate chips? “Annie, what happened in here?”

She tossed her hands. “If Patty thinks she's got the patent on Bundt cakes, well, she can think again. I can make one, too. And better than hers!”

Emery's eyebrows lifted as she motioned around the kitchen. “All of this. For just one cake?”

Annie shot her a look that said she'd better watch her mouth or Annie would find a switch out back. Emery grimaced at the memories of Granny switching her legs when she was little. “A cake!” she corrected, faking a giant smile. “That's so great. How did it taste?”

Annie's face fell. “I'm a failure. I spent all night baking and only have one worth eating.”

Emery started cleaning up the kitchen. “No, you're not. You just need more space, and I know just the place.” Then she went into everything about Gertie, Annie's face unreadable throughout her spiel. She continued pitching the idea until the kitchen sparkled, and then faced her aunt. “So what do you think?”

Annie wiped up the last of the flour and dusted her hands on her apron. “I think I'm going to buy Gertie's bakery.”

Emery squealed with excitement. “I thought work there, but yes, buy it!”

Annie grinned as she rushed for her keys. “I'm going to do it.”

“Woah, wait, where are you going?”

“To Gertie's. Come on, Em, keep up.”

“Um, Annie.” Emery scanned her aunt's face, apron, even her fluffy socks were coated in flour and yuck. “You might want to shower first.”

Annie laughed. “Right. Shower.”

 

The track buzzed with life even at six thirty in the morning. Such was the way at Santa Anita track. Normally, Trip would have one of his assistant trainers manage the morning workout for their horses, but on race days, he liked to have a hand on each of them. Make sure there were no avoidable surprises. But while all those things were the truth, today he needed a distraction. It had been more than two weeks since he'd walked hand in hand with Emery, since he'd agreed to hire her, and still he hadn't seen her race. Hadn't even seen her on a horse. And while it wasn't unusual to introduce a jockey and horse on race day, this was different. Emery hadn't ridden since her accident. His emotions aside, this was a problem. A huge fucking problem.

His thoughts drifted to the meeting with his family the day before, how easily the lie had rolled off his tongue when his father asked about her times. Trip knew he had to get Emery back in the saddle, and fast. He just wasn't sure how.

The first wave of horses hit the track, and Trip leaned against a nearby rail, watching, analyzing. And then his gaze lifted to the riders on their backs. Exercise riders. He realized then that he'd rarely paid them any attention. He talked to the ones on his staff, but beyond that, the riders weren't important. The horses were important. Which was exactly what Emery needed. An idea took shape in his mind. What if Emery could ride without expectation, without anyone paying attention to her form? She'd already told Beckett that she was an exercise rider. So why not make her one?

He knew part of her fear lay in the memory of being trampled, the pain of her bones crushing, but another part—maybe even a larger part—was afraid she wouldn't be the same rider. Winning the Kentucky Oaks two years in a row was no easy feat. In a short time, she'd had others standing up and paying attention. Which was why everyone who was anyone knew about her injury. The weight of expectation must be killing her. If he took that weight away, then maybe, just maybe, she would ride again.

He crossed his arms and watched the horses he'd trained circle the track, his mind on Emery and how similar she was to the colt she so desperately wanted to ride. And just like that colt, Emery was destined for great things. She just needed a little confidence boost, and if Trip's plan worked, she'd get a lot more than a little boost. Of course, convincing her could be the greatest challenge of all.

Trip pulled his cell from his pocket and surfed through until he found Emery's new number, then stared at it for a good ten seconds before deciding to stop being a damn coward and just call her. The phone rang twice, three times, then, “Hello?”

“Emery? It's Trip.”

He heard a car door close on the other end. “Yeah, I kind of figured by the name on my caller ID.”

He grinned. Damn, was she ever feisty. “Are you always this coiled up, or do I bring out the best in you?”

He was rewarded with a laugh, and for a moment he couldn't speak, lost in the soft sound. Clearing his throat, he pressed on. “Can you come by tomorrow morning? I have an idea that I want to run past you.”

She went silent again, and Trip wondered how many hearts she'd broken over the years by that silence. How many men between the Emery he left and the Emery of today? Desperate men eager to hear that rich voice and instead were met with a void. Had any of them made an impression? Was she dating someone now? He hadn't thought to even ask. Then he cursed himself, because what right did he have to ask?

“Um, sure. What time?”

“Sorry what?” he asked, then, realizing what she'd said, added, “Is five too early?”

“No . . .”

“I'd say tonight, but I'm out of town.”

Her breath hitched. “Out of town? Where?”

“I'm in California at the Santa Anita.”

He could almost hear the excitement work its way through her. “There's a race tonight?”

“Yes. You should have come.”

“With you?”

Trip turned away and walked down the path before him, unsure where he was going both in his walk and the conversation. “With me.”

“Trip, this is getting—”

“Five it is, then. Be there, okay?”

She released a slow breath that slid through Trip's chest, soaking his heart in the sound. God, he was in trouble. “See you at five.”

Trip tapped his phone on his thigh, then turned around only to find an attractive woman and a photographer behind him. It wasn't unusual for the press to show on race days to get photos of the workouts, but Trip wasn't in the mood for an interview. Nor was he comfortable with someone following him around.

“Hello, Mr. Hamilton. I'm Nancy Blake with
Racing Today
. I wondered if I could get a shot for an article I'm working on about the Santa Anita?”

Trip was running behind, and he didn't like how close they were to him while he was having a private phone conversation. But angering the press was never a good idea. “Sure, just the photo, please,” Trip said.

The photographer motioned for Trip to move so the track ran in the background, then began snapping photos. It didn't occur to Trip until a second or two had passed that the woman—the journalist—was jotting down notes. He hadn't said anything, so what could she possibly be writing?

“Mr. Hamilton, I couldn't help overhearing you on the phone before. I could have sworn you said the name Emery. As in Emery Carlisle?”

Trip's back went rigid, his eyebrows drawing together. “I think that will do,” he said to her and the photographer.

“Is she working with you?” the journalist pressed. “Is she riding in the Kentucky Oaks this year? The conversation sounded intimate. Are you two together now?”

Trip walked away, the journalist still shouting out questions, but there was only one word on Trip's mind—screwed. He needed to warn Emery before the article about the Santa Anita suddenly became an article about her.