Racing Hearts (16 page)

E
mery pushed the key into the front door lock, her heart screaming for her to turn around, avoid hell for another day—or year. But she could almost feel the tension oozing out of the house. She couldn't bring herself to check for an article that morning, but she could tell by Trip's face over breakfast that it had released. The world now knew she worked for Hamilton Stables—which meant so did her father.

She felt like a sixteen-year-old girl again, acting without thinking, seeing only what she wanted to see. How had she been so stupid? Knowing she couldn't avoid it any longer, she turned the knob and stepped into her parents' foyer, the old hardwoods creaking with each step, letting them know she was home. Ready for her punishment. But the house sat eerily quiet for early afternoon.

The sounds that made the house her home weren't there. Mama's dog rushing to the door, her screaming for him to be quiet. The dishwasher running. The vacuum. Anything. A sinking feeling washed over Emery as she made her way down the long hall to Daddy's office. The door was closed, so he might not be home. A part of her found relief in the idea, but then, putting this off wouldn't make it any easier.

Dipping her head and saying a silent prayer for forgiveness and that he'd go easy on her, she knocked on the door.

“It's open,” Daddy called, his voice so small she nearly broke into tears right then.

Opening the door, she folded her arms and tried for confidence, failing miserably. He faced away from her, bent over his laptop. “Hey, Daddy,” she said. “Have a minute?”

“I suppose I do.” He pushed away from the laptop and spun around, exposing what was on the screen. In large letters, the top read: Emery Carlisle, Hamilton Stables' newest star or Trip's latest conquest?

Emery gasped, her eyes widening more and more with each horrible word. “It's a lie.”

“Which part? Tell me the truth, Emery. That's the least you can do now.”

Emery felt like Baby in
Dirty Dancing
, out on the wide deck, her father in a rocking chair, tears in both their eyes as they revealed how deeply they'd disappointed each other. Because the truth was, her father had disappointed her, too. Never once had he told her he believed in her recovery, that she was ready. Never once had he trusted her to know her body, to know herself when she was ready. Instead, he'd hovered over her, reminding her again and again of what had happened—of how close she'd been to dying. Frustration surged up inside her, and for a moment she wanted to scream all those things at him, but she wasn't a teenager, like Baby, ready to go off to college. She was an adult who'd lied to the person who loved her the most.

“You deserve so much more than the truth. I'm so sorry, Daddy. I should have come to you immediately. I thought . . . I don't know what I thought. But what I do know is that I'm a good rider, and I'm not living unless I'm riding. I know you worry that something's going to happen again. I know what it did to you when I fell. How you blamed yourself. But this is my life, and being a jockey is my career choice. Not yours. You didn't force this on me. I chose it. And I love it. I should never have lied to you, but I won't say I'm sorry for racing again. I'm too good to sit in the grandstand, watching others do what I'm born to do.”

She stared at her father, waiting for him to reply, but he wasn't even looking at her, instead focused on something behind her. Turning to see what had caught his attention, her gaze fell on a framed photo of her sitting tall on her first horse. She looked so little then, so fragile, and that was when she realized he still saw her as that little girl. His little girl.

“Daddy?”

He refused to look at her, his attention fixed on the photo.

“Daddy, I'm not that little girl anymore.”

Finally, his eyes lifted to hers, all the pain in the world in them. “No, you're not. My little girl wouldn't have lied to me. I don't know who you are anymore. Now, if you could please leave. I have work to do.” He spun back around in his chair and clicked off the Web site.

Tears welled in Emery's eyes, her body shaking from the effort not to cry. She opened her mouth to say more, but there were no words left to say. She'd broken his heart.

She left her parents' house and walked down the path to the guesthouse, eager to soak in a hot bath, but when she walked up the front steps and put her key in the door, she found it wouldn't turn. She tried again, jiggling the knob, but it still wouldn't budge.

She walked around to one of the windows and peered in, curious to see whether someone had tried to break in or something. The locks had definitely been changed, and why else would her father have changed them unless—

Oh, no. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out to see a single text from her father.

Unable to hold it in any longer, she slumped down onto the front porch, staring out over her family's farm, her arms wrapped around her legs as tears rained down her face.

 

Trip sat down in his father's conference room. He was fifteen minutes early, something that never happened for him, but his father had called the meeting after Emery's win on Craving Wind, and Trip was excited to hear what he would say. Trip was proud of Emery's performance, but he could almost feel the guilt weighing her down in the winner's circle. It was bittersweet, winning without Beckett there beside her.

Twiddling a pen against the table, he barely noticed Nick and Alex come in and sit in front of him.

“Trip.”

He glanced up to see them both looking at him. “What?”

“This meeting. It's—”

Just then, their father came in, clapping his hands together. “All right, let's chat.”

Trip's father set a folder in front of him, and Trip opened it to see photos of Emery . . . and Marcus, the Hamilton Stables logo above the shots. “What is this?”

“There's a lot of publicity buzzing around Emery's win, but we have to remember it's the horse people are betting on, not the jockey.”

“Can you get to the point?”

Carter's eyes narrowed. “I think Marcus should ride Craving Wind in the Derby, and Emery can ride a filly of your choosing in the Kentucky Oaks.”

“Marcus is an asshole.”

“Perhaps, but he's a winner, and he's the best shot we have of winning the Derby.”

Anger rocked through Trip. “No. She's worked too hard for us to pull her from Craving Wind.”

“A female jockey has never won the Derby, Trip. Be reasonable here. We have an obligation to Sarah Anderson, don't forget that.”

“Yeah, well, you let me handle the owners. After all, I'm the trainer, not you. And I say she rides Craving Wind until she gives us a reason to doubt her. I won't doubt her now.”

His father leaned back in his chair, clearly not expecting this reaction. “What is your connection to this woman? Why do you care?”

“I hired her. It's my job to make sure she crosses that finish line first. You let me worry about getting her there.” Then he turned his rage on his brothers. “You knew about this?”

Nick shook his head. “We just found out.”

“Emery wins or she's done. Do you understand?” Carter Hamilton said, his tone hard.

“You don't make that call,” Trip said, pushing out of his chair and tossing the folder on the table. “I do. I'm the trainer here, not you.”

“Yes, but you're not Craving Wind's owner. You are his trainer. And I've already spoken with Sarah. She agreed that Emery is a risk. A risk she's not willing to take unless Emery continues to perform. One slip, and Marcus is Craving Wind's rider.”

Trip threw open the conference door and stormed out. His father could screw himself.
He
was the reason people came to Hamilton Stables.
He
was the reason their name was synonymous with winning. They needed him more than he needed them. And he wouldn't let his father take this from Emery. But his father was right about one thing—he was at the mercy of Sarah Anderson. He couldn't force her to allow Emery to ride, and though she trusted him, he couldn't risk the family's business if Emery stopped performing.

He couldn't let that happen.

Needing to do something, he jumped in his truck and drove in silence, unsure where he was going until he found himself in Crestler's Key, driving down Main Street, not sure how he would find Emery but knowing he had to talk to her. First her father, now this.

Crestler's Key looked astonishingly similar to Triple Run, like the filly version to Triple Run's colt. Cobblestone streets through downtown, small shops on each side of the road. But where Triple Run had a slight masculine vibe, Crestler's Key boasted flowers and vegetation everywhere you looked. The stop signs were wooden, but with floral detail cut into the posts. Triple Run was charming where Crestler's Key was beautiful.

He'd get kicked out of his town if he ever uttered those words aloud.

Parking outside GP Bakery, he went inside, hoping to find a familiar face, though he only knew three people in town. The bakery brimmed with life, every chair full, and he thought maybe he'd get lucky and spot Kate when instead his eyes landed on someone else. He smiled wide and started over.

“Color me surprised. What are you doing here, handsome?” Annie-Jean said as she put out fresh pastries.

He thought of all the reasons he'd come there, but the truth was, it all boiled down to one thing. “I need to see her.”

She nodded once. “I think she needs to see you, too. Here's my address.” She jotted it down on a Post-it Note and passed it over.

“Why isn't she at Carlisle Farms?”

“Beckett asked her to leave after . . . well, you know.”

Trip's chest tightened in hurt and anger. Beckett was a stubborn man, but this? “Right. And she's there? At your house?”

“She hasn't left since it happened.”

The thought of her falling to this level made Trip want to punch something—his father, Beckett, anyone for driving her to this low. But that wasn't what she needed now. She needed someone to remind her that she was an amazing rider, to remind her why she kept racing a secret from Beckett in the first place. It wasn't to hurt him—it was because she needed to prove to herself that she could get back on a mount without her father standing by with skepticism.

He went for the door as Annie called out, “What are you going to do?”

“I'm going to remind her.”

“Of what?”

“Of exactly who Emery Carlisle is to the racing world . . . and to me.”

E
mery pulled the rubber band from her wrist and wrapped it around the mess of hair piled on her head. She hadn't showered since the hotel back in Saratoga, and though she probably smelled like a horse by now, she didn't care.

All she could think about was her father's expression as he stared at the picture of little Emery, like he wondered where he'd gone wrong. She reached blindly for another doughnut from the half-eaten box on the coffee table and eyed the TV, tears building in her eyes as she watched Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks walking toward one another in the park, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” playing in the background. They finally reached each other and a hiccupped cry released from Emery's lips.

“See, this is what love should be like,” she said to the empty room. Then, realizing how pathetic it was to talk to herself, she reached for a tissue from the various half-crumpled bunches surrounding her on Annie-Jean's couch. She'd been that way for more than a day, watching romantic comedies and eating doughnuts and . . . crying. Because while the movies always got their happily ever after, Emery knew with certainly she wouldn't get hers. At least not a full happily ever after.

She might win, but what was winning without the people she loved around her to celebrate? And then there was Trip, the only man to make her heart dance and scream, and he'd turned her away. Told her no.

She imagined him coming to her now and saying he was wrong, sweeping her into his arms, her long hair flowing behind her as he pulled her close and took ownership of her mouth, then her body. So what if her breasts were a little larger in the fantasy, her thighs a little slimmer, her hair a little fuller? It could happen . . .

A fresh wave of self-pity washed over her as she realized, no, it couldn't, and she was wondering if there was any ice cream in the fridge she could dip her doughnuts in when she heard a knock, followed by the doorbell ringing. Crap fire. She was in no way presentable enough to take a delivery from Annie's obsessed mailman, who hadn't quite gotten the hell-no memo Annie'd sent him.

Deciding to ignore it, she turned up the volume on the TV.
Marty could leave it on the front porch
. But the knocking persisted, and finally she had no choice but to wrap her grandma robe tightly around her and trudge to the door.

Without looking, she threw it open, prepared to let the mailman have it. This crush of his was interfering with Emery's miserable afternoon. “Look, Marty, she's not home. You can—” But her words cut short at the sight of the man before her. So not short and stocky Marty.

Instead, she took in the tall, lean frame. The loose jeans hung low on his hips, the flannel shirt rolled to his elbows, the Atlanta Braves cap containing a mess of wavy brown hair. Her hands went to her own messy hair, her worse-than-no-makeup face. Had she even brushed her teeth today? Yes, she thought—she hoped.

“This is not at all how I pictured this moment.”

A smile played at Trip's lips, and he reached down for the tie to her robe, gripping each end in his hands. “How did you picture it?”

“What?” Ah, crap, she hadn't realized she'd said that out loud.

“Can I come in?”

Emery peered down at her yucky robe and bare legs because she couldn't be bothered to put on pants, only a T-shirt and the robe.

“I'm not really . . .” she trailed off, her eyes finding his. Bless the gods of warm chocolate eyes.

“Please.”

“Um, okay, sure. Come in.”

She led Trip into the family room and sat on the couch, crossing her legs up under her as he took in the tissues, the doughnuts—the romantic movie paused on the screen.

“I'm assuming Beckett didn't take it very well?”

Emery offered a sarcastic laugh. “If by well you mean calling me a liar, telling me he didn't know me anymore, and kicking me out, then yes, he took it splendidly well.” She reached for another tissue, but Trip got there first, sitting beside her as he dabbed her eyes.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “Why are you here?”

He opened his mouth twice before speaking, as though he wasn't quite sure himself. “I have something to show you.” He walked over to the TV and peered around the sides, then, seeming to spot something he'd hoped to see, grinned and returned to the couch to sit beside her. When she didn't argue at his nearness, he pulled out his phone and clicked on the Roku app, then searched until he was on YouTube.

Glancing over at her with his penetrating stare, he said, “I know you feel lost right now. I know without Beckett beside you, you're questioning why you're doing this, what it all means. But it was never about Beckett. This has always been about you, your gift, and you've earned the right to see it through. You can't quit. Not now. You're too good to quit.” Then he typed in the search field and clicked for the video to start.

Music filled the air, and then she was watching her first race, her first win, the first time she'd crossed the finish line at the Kentucky Oaks. Race after race appeared on the screen, her heart bursting with each second. She leaned in closer to the TV, captivated by the athlete she'd once been. And then the final race filled the screen, the Saratoga maiden she'd just run, and her chest heaved with emotion. Because this race, her first race back from the dead, had beaten her best time from before, the year she'd considered the best of her life until the accident. Part of that was Craving Wind, who by all accounts was a machine of a horse that might function as well with any jockey. But maybe not. Maybe she was a piece of the winning puzzle.

The final race replayed, and then the video ended and she caught the words
Hamilton Stables
below the video, and suddenly her heart soared for different reasons. “You did this?” She turned to him, her feelings out of control. Her thoughts out of control. All she knew was that she wanted to kiss him, long and hard, until he knew how much this meant to her. But she couldn't—he'd said no. Why did he have to say no?

“I needed you to remember who you are. Who you were born to be.” He cupped her face, trailing his thumb over her cheek, sending a zing through her body that felt a lot like hope. “Who you are to me.” And then, before she could question what he meant, he covered her mouth with his, all the want they'd felt for each other taking over, refusing to let go. The kiss skipped sweet and went straight for holy-God-above-I'd-die-happy intense, and Emery's body responded, heat pooling low in her belly, sinking lower until she was sure she'd explode.

She rose onto her knees and he pulled her into his lap, straddling his waist, her robe falling open, nothing between her and the rigidness of his jeans but a thin strip of silk panties and a T-shirt. He gripped her hips and tugged her closer, allowing her to feel his need as his hands wrapped around her ass, and then in one quick move, he had her on her back on the couch, him over her, one hand bracing himself up while the other explored every reachable inch of skin.

She ran her hands under his shirt, gently stroking the sharp contours of his abs, his pecs, and then he released the sexiest sound she'd ever heard when her fingertips went across his nipple, and she thought,
forget the risk of heartbreak
. She wanted this man, right here and right now. No more delays.

“Emery . . .”

“Don't stop. Don't you dare stop.”

All the prompting he needed; he lifted her up and eased off her robe and shirt and lay her back, taking in her naked chest, then her face, holding her gaze. “Damn . . . you are so beautiful.”

She stopped her work at unbuttoning his shirt, growing frustrated by how very little she had on when he was still fully clothed. After all, she'd seen
her
body. It was his body that filled her dreams.

“A little help here,” she said, gripping the shirt, “or I'm not sure these buttons are going to survive the afternoon.”

Trip's lips quirked up. “Do you have a room here?”

She motioned to the hall running beside the TV. “Third door on the right. It's—” But before she could continue, he swept her into his arms and started down the hall, shutting the door behind him, the shirt off so quickly she wondered if he'd ripped it off. And then he was there in front of her, bare chest cut to absolute perfection, jeans unbuttoned, a wicked look on his face, but she had to be sure. Lust could make a person make mistakes, and she didn't want to be his mistake.

“You said we couldn't do this,” she said, fighting to keep from drooling as he pushed his jeans to the floor and stepped out of them.

“I actually said we
shouldn't
.” He slowly strutted toward her, taking her hand and kissing her palm, then the inside of her wrist. “But I've never been good at doing what I'm supposed to do. And I'm tired of pretending when I'm around you. Talking when I want to be doing this.” He pressed his lips to her neck, trailing up to her jaw.

“And your family?”

Trip pulled away to look at her. “Have you changed your mind?”

“I have wanted you since I was seventeen years old, long before you were
the
Trip Hamilton, manly horse whisperer. I want this. But I need to know you aren't going to regret me in the morning.”

Trip took a step away from her and peered down. “I don't make mistakes, Emery. I make decisions, and then I handle the consequences of those decisions, but I never make mistakes. And certainly not with you.”

“But—”

“Do you remember when your dad first got Broken Fence? You were sitting in a nearby pasture, watching, your hands clasped together in excitement. You'd been with him at the auction. I still remember your smile when Beckett won him, and I knew then, staring at you instead of the horse, that there would never be another woman like you. I've never seen another woman the way I see you.”

“But you left.”

Trip hesitated.

And it was then Emery knew that he hadn't wanted to leave. Something had happened. “Tell me.”

“It doesn't matter now.”

“Please . . . tell me.”

He hung his head. “All right, but you should know you have me in a pretty vulnerable state here.” She smiled, so he continued. “Mr. Sampson asked me to leave. Said he would tell Beckett if I didn't go quietly.”

She sucked in a breath. “He . . . I . . . but that wasn't his decision to make.”

“You were seventeen and I was twenty, working for your dad. Worshipping your dad. He taught me everything I know. I couldn't let him find out like that. So I left. But you never left me. You were always right here.” He tapped the space over his heart. “Eight years, and not a day went by that I didn't wish I'd stayed. Don't make me stay away now.”

Emery took a step toward him, closing the distance he'd made. “Your reputation . . .”

“Is just that—mine. Let me worry about it.” When she didn't say anything, he ran his fingers through her hair, gently tugging the ends so her head tilted back. “I don't want to talk anymore. Do you?”

She shook her head, and he swooped in, pressing her to him, unable to get close enough. He lay her back, staring down at her once again, the wicked look in his eyes enough to make her explode right there, but then he was over her again, kissing a trail up her legs, stopping to press a hard kiss to her mound over her panties. “I'm taking these off now.” The words were not a question but a statement of ownership. For that moment, that day and night, she was his.

She closed her eyes, drawing a long calming breath, and heard the crinkle of their protection, then she gasped as he drove deep inside her. She expected it to turn fast, rough and controlling like the man inside her. But instead his gaze locked on hers and they moved in unison, enjoying each slow thrust, careful to watch for what made her tense and what made her moan with pleasure. It was then she knew Trip was more than a skilled lover but a man who cared for her—as she cared for him.

The realization nearly knocked the wind out of her, and seeing the change, Trip sped up, both of them no longer able to handle the emotions swirling through them, all around them, taking them into this dangerous unknown.

Emery clung to him as they came together, and then Trip pulled her to him, her face pressed against his chest, listening to the sound of his heart, her own aching as she realized her feelings weren't merely feelings. Not at all.

They were love.