Racing Hearts

Book 1: Hamilton Stables Novel

by Melissa West

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Western Romance

Synopsis

In the lush heart of Kentucky, the Hamiltons are horse racing royalty, born to produce champions. To win takes heart and soul—and to love takes the wild spirit of the land itself… The oldest of three headstrong brothers, Trip Hamilton is considered the best horse trainer in the world. But he learned long ago to keep his focus on the horses and away from the riders. He’s seen the way heartbreak can waylay a career, and he’s determined not to risk it—until a stubborn, sexy rider thunders into his life, breaks his resolve, along with several of his rules, and takes his heart right out of the gate… Emery Carlisle has a point to prove. She’ll be the first woman to win the prestigious Kentucky Derby, if only Trip will hire her, and let her ride the spirited colt she fell for at first sight. He won’t—unless she agrees to train with the horse at Hamilton Stables, under his guidance. It’s supposed to be strictly business, but as the race approaches, and their undeniable chemistry builds, Trip and Emery may be headed for the greatest win of all—as long as the losses of the past don’t gain on them…

Release date: October 27, 2015

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 220

Sample

The air was cold outside, the kind of air that made it easier to breathe, easier to exist. Emery drew a breath and wrapped the afghan she’d grabbed on her way out tighter around her. Her granny had made it, like so many other things inside her parents’ guesthouse, and not for the first time, she wondered if everything she touched was first touched by someone else. It was a peculiar way of thinking, but these days all Emery had were her thoughts.

She closed her eyes, and like a vicious nightmare that refused to let go, she was back there, on her way to her second Kentucky Oaks win. Thrill and adrenaline ran like blood through her veins. And then the spike of fear as she felt the hit, felt Firecrest buckle, and the ground rushed toward her. Pain burst through her leg, her side, her head, and then all she could hear was the wail of the ambulance and the muffled sobs of her parents beside her.

Shaking off the memory, she pushed through the gate by her house, steadying it with her cane as she slipped inside. Then she began her trek down the long path to the main house on the farm—her parents’ house. She could drive, but she liked to walk down the concrete road, cradled by the quiet woods, the birds not yet up, the day still half-asleep. Drawing a breath, she took in the pine and dew scent in the air. It reminded her of the comfort of home and better days, before she’d lost everything and couldn’t find her way back to the light.

Thoughts worked through her mind as she continued, ways to convince Daddy to trust her again, trust the sport he’d loved all his life. Each morning she came to him—and each morning he turned her away. She’d just decided that she wasn’t against begging when she saw a woman walking aimlessly down the road, wearing nothing but a thin nightgown and a look of rage. Several of the pins in the woman’s hair had fallen out, so half of her gray hair fell around her shoulders, the rest still wrapped in a bun. The woman looked like she’d either been caught in a storm in the middle of the night or abducted by aliens who’d promptly decided she wasn’t worth the trouble and tossed her back.

“Good morning, Mama.”

Mama’s steely blue eyes turned on Emery, a combination of fear, anger, and exhaustion within them. “I’ve been up for four hours. My body’s drenched in sweat like I’m burning in hell. It is not a good morning. I swear to God, if this doesn’t end soon I’m moving to Alaska!”

Emery thought her daddy and the rest of the staff might appreciate Mama moving to Alaska. Or anywhere, really, so long as she left the farm and stopped screaming all the time.

“Can’t Doc Paterson give you something? Hormones?” Crazy pills? She thought of her mama when she was little, all sweet words and soft hands as she braided Emery’s hair. Now . . .

Grace Carlisle focused on her only daughter, tears welling in her eyes. “You must think I’m a moron. A silly, miserable, idiotic woman. That’s exactly what your father thinks.”

“No, Mama—”

“Why else would you ask if Doc could give me something, when you know I’ve asked. A thousand times, I’ve asked. It’s menopause, he says every time. Tells me to wait it out like I am a mare in foal! He doesn’t know, ’cause he’s a man. Damn self-centered gender thinks we women are nothing but trouble, but I’ll show him trouble!”

“Oh . . . I’m sure you will.” Emery pointed to the house. “Is Daddy inside or at the barn?”

“He’s reading the paper.” Then her mama tilted her head, her voice softening, the change so sudden Emery contemplated the abduction thing again. “But you know he’s not going to budge on this, darling. You are his baby.”

Yes, well, she wasn’t a baby. She was a twenty-five-year-old woman, and it was time she got a little voice about her when it came to her daddy. “We’ll see.” She continued on up the stairs of the large manor house, through the front double doors, and down the long hall to the kitchen, the smell of bacon and eggs hitting her nose. The same breakfast Daddy ate every morning, despite his cholesterol.

“Good morning, Daddy, I—”

Beckett Carlisle lifted a hand, then tapped the coffee cup in front of him, the paper up, blocking his face. “I’d like at least one cup in before we start this argument.”

Sighing, Emery sat across from him and crossed her arms, bouncing her boot against the tile floor. He lowered the paper and peered over his reading glasses, his salt-and-pepper hair and face full of age letting her know he’d lost his patience twenty-five years ago and never found it again. “Fine, go. But it’s barely five a.m.—don’t you sleep? When I was your age—”

“When you were my age, you were an assistant trainer to Bob Bailor, and you woke at the crack of dawn, determined to beat him to the barn every morning. If anything, I learned my sleep habits from you.”

He looked away. “Yes, well, I wasn’t healing from a major injury.”

At that, Emery leaned in, forcing him to look back at her. “Neither am I, Daddy. When are you going to see that? I’ve been healthy for nearly six months now. I’m ready.”

“Ready to risk your life again? Ready to put yourself in the ground and break your mama’s heart?” He shook his head, pushing away from the table and storming over to the coffeepot, only to stand there, staring out the window above the kitchen sink like he wasn’t sure why he’d gone there in the first place. “You didn’t see what we saw, Em. The bruises and blood. The fear in every doctor and nurse’s eyes. I never want to see you like that again.” He faced her, the stubborn man he’d always been before her. “The answer is no. Today, tomorrow, next week. The answer is no. Besides, I’m retired.”

“But, Daddy—”

“I said no.” He worked his palm into his chest, a grimace spreading across his face, and guilt punched at Emery’s stomach. There’d been a time when he was the one pushing her, helping her through her fear and challenging her to be more than simply a fine rider. He’d urged her to be the best. Now, that desire to be the best was firmly planted, and one fall couldn’t erase it. She didn’t want to put him through this misery, but she couldn’t give up, either.

She’d started to say more when Beckett turned away, and she knew the conversation was done. “All right,” she said, balancing on her cane as she headed out the back door to the stables, wishing she could drop the cane. Maybe then he wouldn’t see her as crippled. But she knew the moment she gave it up, the moment she admitted she was well enough to walk on her own, she’d have to face her fears and get back on a mount. Begging her daddy to hire her again, to find her a mount, wasn’t the same thing as actually getting back on. She told herself she would do it as soon as she had a horse to ride, but the truth was . . . she was scared. Not of falling off; no, that happened. She was scared she wouldn’t be as good as she was before, and then what?

Thoughts of everything she’d given up coursed through her, a different life, so many possibilities, yet only one ever felt right. She’d dropped out of college junior year to focus on her jockey career, and from that moment, she’d all but put the idea of love out of her head. She’d dated, but what she wanted was someone who would see her through the tough times, and she see him through his tough times. The problem was there was only one person she wanted around her during her toughest times . . . and he’d left.

Two years had passed with nothing but healing and physical therapy and far too many antidepressants to count. Then six months ago, her doctor gave her a thumb’s-up to ride, but despite the ache in her chest to get back on a mount, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Emery thought of how all the staff came over to the training ring to watch. Only for her hands to shake and her eyes to water, and before long, she backed away from True Star like he was a monster, ready to drag her to her death. But while every moment of that horror stayed with her, it was nothing compared to the look in her daddy’s eyes. The look that told her she might ride again, but he would never put her back in a race.

As a world-renowned trainer, Beckett Carlisle had trained some of the best Thoroughbreds out there, so when Emery decided to become a jockey, it went to reason she would work for him. She never hired an agent—she didn’t need one. Daddy set her up with a mentor, taught her how to think like a trainer but ride like a jockey, and before long, she won race after race after race. And while falling was always a risk, she never once considered her daddy would blame himself. That the guilt would eat at him every day of her recovery.

So, she didn’t push it, let him deal with his grief, while she dealt with her injuries. But the time had come and she was ready. She had to be. She knew in her heart if she didn’t get on a mount now, she never would. The truth was, she needed someone to push her—needed a new trainer. But of course, a good trainer would look at her, a broken jockey with a cane, and laugh.

The thought made her want to rush into the stables and throw a saddle on True Star and show everyone that she was still the best female rider in history, but she knew that wasn’t possible. Not yet. She needed to feel connected to her horse, body and mind, like it was a part of her very soul, and she knew from the moment Mr. Sampson, their lead trainer now that her father had retired, brought True Star to her that he wasn’t her match. He was someone’s match, perhaps, but not hers.

It was a different way of thinking for a jockey. Most simply accepted whatever contract they were offered, riding any colt or filly the trainer assigned them. They were paid, plus a percentage of the purse, and then they were done. No dedication to the trainer or the owner or the horse. But Emery’s passion wouldn’t allow her to be so carefree, and her agreement with Daddy, while painful at times, gave her one great advantage over other jockeys—she would know her horse, through and through. She would select him. She would assist in his training, and when they crossed the finish line, Emery would know that she’d genuinely earned it.

Of course, to be that rider again, Emery needed to actually ride. And the problem was that True Star wasn’t Mr. Sampson’s first attempt. Or second. Or tenth. The poor man had brought Emery more Thoroughbreds than she could count, all boasted to be champions in the making, but Emery couldn’t bring herself to ride. Part of it was that she hadn’t felt that spark she craved, but she also knew Mr. Sampson wouldn’t force her. It was easy to back away. She needed a trainer who didn’t accept no, who pushed and demanded and didn’t accept anything less than a win.

And only one trainer fit that description.

A memory hit of a young man, tall and strong, with a scruffy face and callused hands and a smile so warm it stopped you in your tracks. He’d worked with her daddy for over a year, learning all he could, watching Beckett like he was a god. And truthfully . . . he was. Four-time Eclipse Award winner, Hall of Famer, no one trained racehorses the way Daddy trained them. Until the young man became all man, and putting those years of learning to good use, he’d trained more champion racehorses in the last four years than any other trainer in the world. He was the next Beckett Carlisle, and exactly what she needed.

Goosebumps rose across her skin at the thought of him, of the special moments they’d shared . . . of her promise to never forget him when he left. She told herself that if nothing else, they would always be friends, but things were different now. He was a superstar and she was a nothing, broken and sad, with no mounts and no prospects . . . and he had refused to meet with her.

She balanced on her cane and knocked lightly on the weathered door of the trainers’ quarters, letting Mrs. Sampson—and, by default, Mr. Sampson—know that she would be in the stables. Of course, they already knew. She’d knocked on their door every morning for the last three months. She’d become obsessed with watching the horses go through their morning workouts, eager to feel that spark she craved, but it never reached her like it should—like it used to. Since her accident, only one horse had made her sit up and pay attention—a colt, beautiful and strong, born ready to run. But he was sold at the sales.

Maybe she should give up racing altogether, and instead become a trainer. Her daddy had taught her everything he knew. She felt sure she could become a lead trainer in no time, especially with Mr. Sampson at her side.

The thought gave her hope, until she realized that would also mean losing everything she loved about racing—the adrenaline rush, the danger, the complete faith in the animal below her. Deep down she would be submitting to her fear, allowing it to take control. She couldn’t do that, and besides, she was a born racer. One of only three female jockeys to have any hope of winning the Kentucky Derby. Of course, all of that was before the accident. Now . . . she wasn’t sure she could finish a race, let alone win one.

Emery stopped just inside the stables and stared down the long path, a few horses already peeking out of their stalls to see who was coming. The smell of hay and horses mixed with the scent of rain in the air, and she drew a deep breath, letting it wash over her. She loved the stables in every way, especially from this vantage point. Her daddy’d had his architect design the plans so when you peered inside it was the perfect picture of strength and elegance. Tall red oak beams stretched high, crisscrossing on their way, so even the ceiling was beautiful.

“Trying to beat the sun again, I see,” a voice called from behind her, and she peered around with a smile at the familiar wrinkled face of Mr. Sampson, his two boys on his heels to cycle soiled hay for fresh. Mr. Sampson took it upon himself to be her second father, overbearing and all, but in a quieter way than her daddy, making it impossible not to love him.

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 clou. . .