by Melissa West
Emery felt her face burning. “He’s the best in the business. If I ride Craving Wind for him, I could win. I feel it.”
Annie-Jean cocked her head. “Well, feelings are a fickle pickle. You’re better off trusting that pretty head of yours. And I’m betting it’s telling you to run, faster than that Thoroughbred you’re so desperate to ride.”
Silence overcame them as Emery went about boxing more cookies, the smells of cinnamon and nutmeg in the air from the latest batch cooking. By the time they were done, she was going to have a bellyache from the smells—and her thoughts.
She knew her place was with her family, but she couldn’t help feeling like she’d made mistakes in her career. Been too careful, and yet she’d ended up broken, two years of nothing but her thoughts. Emery didn’t want to make the same mistakes. She had one goal in her life—to win the Derby. And the only way she stood a chance of doing it was to accept Trip’s challenge. She’d sensed the connection as soon as she saw the colt again, as soon as she slid her hand across the horse’s mane. For the first time, her hand didn’t shake, her heart didn’t pound, her eyes didn’t go wide with fear. She was home.
“You’re going to do it, aren’t you?”
Emery glanced up at her aunt, the only person she trusted beside Kate. Annie-Jean pulled another tray of cookies from the oven, all as perfect as the last. “How did you know baking was what you wanted to do? How did you know this would make you happy?”
Annie-Jean laughed. “I didn’t. I saw an opportunity, and I jumped.”
The sentiment hit Emery square, and she leaned back against the counter, deep in thought. Could she jump?
“Life is never easy. Decisions are never easy, but I’d always rather move forward than stand still. I can correct my mess-ups, but I can’t bring back a lost moment. I can’t ask for the rainbow to reappear, the wish to return. It’s all a gamble. You have to choose whether you want to watch the race . . . or run it. I’m not sure working for Trip is a smart idea, but I can’t argue with the spark in your eyes.” She studied Emery. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen that spark in you. I’d hate to see it disappear again. No matter what, the choice is yours. Remember that.”
Emery’s heart swelled, the decision working its way through her. She pushed off the counter and walked around to the cooling rack, transferring the dozen to their white and pink boxes, the logo AJ’s Creations across the top in a fun, swirly font. Annie-Jean was the only Carlisle to step away from the farm, and it had labeled her an outsider at every family function. But she couldn’t argue with the smile on her face, the happy aura that trailed her, a glow instead of the dark cloud her father carried with him. Emery wanted that aura. She craved it.
“You’ve decided.”
Emery’s eyes lifted. “Yes.”
“You’re going to do it?”
She licked her lips, stalling. “I have to, Annie.”
Her aunt nodded slowly. “Well, do me a favor, then. Don’t tell your daddy. Not yet.”
“Annie—”
She swished her hand through the air in the Southern gesture that said hush, you. “Now, I know what you’re going to say. You can’t lie to family. God’ll strike you the moment the words slip from your lips. But this is different. He needs to see you better. He needs that more than anything, and he won’t really see it if he’s stubbornly got his eyes closed.”
“This is going to break him no matter what. I don’t think delaying will make it any better.”
“Time can do a lot of things. Maybe if he sees you racing again, he won’t care who you’re racing for.”
Emery shot her favorite relative a look.
“All right. He’ll rage. But my gut says to wait.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive.”
She said good-bye to Annie-Jean a few minutes later, needing time to think. Could she do this? Leave her family for a competitor? Lie to them about what she was doing? A part of her knew it was a bad idea, all of it, but if she was going to take this leap, she’d prefer to tackle one hurdle at a time. Hurdle one: Get back on a horse.
Time to return to Hamilton Stables.
Trip slipped into the batting cage, his brothers in each of the spots beside him. The air was warm but light—the sun hidden behind a patch of gatelike clouds, refusing to let it free.
The brothers used to all play ball in high school, long before adulthood took them under. Now they made it a weekly ritual—hit the cages, take out their frustration, and then grab a few beers at Rudy’s after. It was the only time they saw each other anymore, beyond their father’s weekly meetings, and let’s be real, those weren’t moments of visitation. Those were moments of survival.
“So, has Carlisle accepted the job?” Alex asked as they set up. “Or are you still refusing to talk about her and we have to hound Clark?”
Clark might be Trip’s favorite person on the planet, certainly his favorite assistant trainer, but even he didn’t know Trip’s true feelings for Emery. Trip wasn’t sure he himself could explain them.
“Haven’t heard from her,” Trip said, swinging as the first ball sailed toward him. They’d chosen to have the pitching machine throw real baseballs instead of the rubber balls, convinced they were still agile enough to handle them, but something told Trip he’d be paying for that decision the next morning.
“Are you hoping to hear from her?” Nick asked, huffing his way through a strike. “You worked at Carlisle Farms, fell for their golden girl, then left. Now you’re hiring her at our barn? This sounds suicidal, man.”
“She’s hot,” Alex said. “I wouldn’t mind her hanging around the barn.” A loud smack filled the air as his bat made contact with his first ball, followed quickly by another smack, and another.
“Damn, what do you live down here or something?” Trip asked, annoyed at his youngest brother’s youth. And his insinuation. And at his praise of Emery. She was hot, but that didn’t mean he wanted his brothers saying it—or noticing it, for that matter. If she accepted the job, she’d be around a lot more. The last thing he needed was Alex screwing things up for him.
He paused at the thought, unsure where it’d come from. Screwing things up for him? He chalked it up to his thrill at the idea of helping her get back on a mount, nothing more, but he couldn’t shake off the nagging feeling that there was more there. A hell of a lot more.
Alex smirked, rolled his shoulders back, got into his best batting stance, and hit again, this time with more force, causing the ball to ricochet off the back netting. “What can I say? God-given talent.”
“Talent my ass,” Nick said with a laugh. “I bet he comes every day. What the hell else does he have to do?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
The air became tight as the two brothers squared off, Trip between them in his cage as the only thing tempering their mood. This was a constant argument between them. Nick knew only drive and success. He slept six hours a day, rose before the sun, and set out to the office, determination his only friend. He’d been more relaxed in his Brit days, her easiness bringing out the best in him. But losing her had nearly destroyed him, and instead of bouncing back and finding another love, he had countless flings and otherwise devoted himself to his work.
Alex was different. He lived and breathed for spontaneity, had spent a year in Australia just because, and had only recently settled into the Hamilton family business, something he’d yet to discuss with Nick.
Trip eyed Alex, pressing him to tell Nick that he’d taken over the mare and foaling barns. In truth, Trip was waiting for his brother to bolt—some insane opportunity in some remote location in Africa or some shit—but instead he’d shown impressive devotion to each project. If training and racing were Trip’s business, then breeding was Alex’s.
When Alex turned back to the pitching machine, refusing to meet Trip’s gaze, he knew the secret would continue.
“Easy for you to judge, Nicky boy. You’re the golden boy. Ca
n-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.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Right from the horse’s mouth
“Catch 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 th
at 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.