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Ah, that was it. The busted lip, bloodstained blouse, and exhausted expression she’d sported in the hospital room last night. It all made sense now. He wasn’t surprised that she had chosen to go the way of so many other teachers before her.
These days, it was impossible to watch the news without hearing about or seeing a clip of violence that had occurred in a classroom. School shootings, student fights, and shouting matches between adults at board of education meetings had become the norm. And at the heart of all the violence, students and teachers were the ones who paid the price.
He frowned, that odd—and unexpected—swell of protectiveness and sympathy welling within him again. “Who was it?”
Her brow creased. “What do you mean?”
“The person who did that to you?” He gestured toward her mouth. “Who was it?”
She looked away. Stared out the window. “One of my students.” A wry grin crossed her lips. “She decided to pursue justice on her own terms and, apparently, I got in the way.”
Brooks froze then turned his head and followed her gaze to the rolling hills in the distance. “I’m sorry to hear that.” His mind drifted to the memory of his father hunched over the TV in the family living room, biting his lip, his teeth drawing blood and fists clenching as his feverish eyes followed the frenzied gallop of horses on the screen. And later . . . Spencer Harris and his father, Victor, knocking on their front door to collect the debt and essentially evict his family from the only home they’d known. “Innocent parties should never be harmed by the conflict of others.” He faced her again and peered into her eyes. “Is that why you chose teaching? To set the world right again?”
Her attention drifted over his right shoulder as she mulled over his suggestion. “That’s a far too lofty goal for anyone. I was like any other teacher. I just wanted to make a difference. Teach children. Support them in any way I could to help them achieve their dreams and secure a brighter future.
“That’s a noble goal,” he said softly.
One he wished more people would choose to take on. But, having spent the last three of his teenage years in a foster home, he knew better than most how challenging it could be to take on such a goal, and how easy it was for well-intended people to fall short on their promises. Which was why, once he’d established his business and began breeding thoroughbreds, he began offering a local foster teen a position as groom or stable hand every year. If the kid took to the horses and performed his or her tasks competently, he followed that up with an offer of internship to pursue the equine career of their choice.
Opportunities, he’d discovered over the years, were sometimes hard to come by for youth who were alone in the world and without sufficient financial support. He, himself, had climbed the ladder of success by being offered a helping hand along the way, and he still sought to pay that help forward in whatever way he could.
“Look,” she said, “I’m not very good at this.”
“Good at what?”
“Asking for help. Trusting someone. I’m used to being the one providing help. Doing things on my own and not leaning on anyone.” She shrugged. “It’s the way Earl raised me, I suppose. I’m not in need of rescuing, but I’m in a dire enough position to admit that I do need help, and I’m hoping you, as Earl’s neighbor, will be willing to assist.”
He nodded. “Please go on.”
She looked down again and began picking at her nails. “Earl will be released from the hospital at the end of the week. He’s doing well but he’s going to need months of physical therapy and almost full-time care on a temporary basis.” She met his eyes again. “He has no health insurance, and the bills are already piling up. I’m relocating to Lone Oaks Crossing to take care of him, and I have a plan to rehabilitate our farm and restore it to a working one. I’d like to make the place over into a healing retreat of sorts—for people and horses. I just need funds to get started—to get myself and the farm back on our feet so to speak.”
“You’re asking me for a loan,” he said.
To her credit, she didn’t deny it or hedge the issue.
“I need twenty thousand dollars,” she said. “And at least two new boarders for our stable. The money would be enough to pay for Earl’s physical therapy, and two new horses boarding at Lone Oaks Crossing would bring in enough steady income to keep foreclosure at bay. I’m hoping you’ll consider loaning me the funds as an investment and possibly sending two boarders my way using your connections. I’ll pay you back, I swear. Every cent, plus whatever interest you deem suitable.”
Brooks studied the stubborn set of her jaw. “Why not go to a bank? Take out a loan? Why come to me instead?”
She spread her hands, a resigned expression on her face. “Because I just threw away a career I spent a decade building. My teaching certificate is probably being digitally incinerated as we speak. I owe a hefty fine to the board of education for breaking my contract midyear and I’ll have to pay a tidy sum to my former landlord for breaking my lease to move back to Lone Oaks Crossing. I was already broke but now, I have less than nothing. There’s no bank around that would be willing to take a chance on my financial situation.”
“And you think I will?”
“Last night you called yourself Earl’s neighbor and said you wanted to help,” she said. “I’m hoping you’ll decide to do a neighborly good deed.”
A neighborly good deed is right, he mused. No one in their right financial mind would sink as much money or energy into such a failing farm, except . . . his plans for a Derby win were founded in risk, so what was one more? Especially if it tipped the scales in his favor and offered him a second opportunity to entice her into training Another Round. In his experience, just the smallest taste of money and success was enough to woo even the most cynical of minds into tossing caution to the wind in exchange for a shot at a bigger pay day.
“Growing up, were you close to your parents, Brooks?”
He stilled, surprised at the surge of grief tightening his throat. “My mother, yes. My father . . . it depended upon the type of day he was having.”
She seemed to hesitate. “Are they still with you? Still living, I mean?”
He shook his head.
Her expression fell. “There’s no way for me to prove to you that I mean to work very hard to earn and repay the help you might give me, other than to say, I intend to see this through for my grandfather’s sake. I never knew my father, and when my mom abandoned me, Earl raised me. He’s the only blood relation I have left . . . and I’ll do everything in my power to support him. I don’t know if you understand what taking care of him means to me, but I hope you believe me in that regard.”
He did believe that. But how could he prove to her—a woman who seemed to want nothing to do with him, aside from his money—that his intentions were just as honorable?
