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He shrugged. “I suppose loss is a part of life, but sometimes good outcomes spring from bad events.” He motioned toward her. “Take your situation, for instance. You gave up your career and came back to Lone Oaks to take care of Earl. To support him through what I’m sure will be a very difficult time of healing for him and to revive his farm. I’m sure your presence and intentions are a great comfort to him.”
“My presence, sure,” she said. “But he’s unaware that I know how much trouble Lone Oaks Crossing is in. The last thing he would ever do is to cross that line of oaks separating your property from ours and ask you for charity.”
“I don’t consider my giving you help to be charity.”
“No.” A cynical tone mixed with the exhaustion in her voice. “You see it as a potential business opportunity, which is fine with me so long as we understand each other.”
She ducked her head as they entered the stable, then walked slowly from one stall to the next, her downcast eyes glancing up occasionally to observe the new horses he’d delivered before she arrived home from the hospital with Earl.
“You brought six,” she said, stopping with her back to him. “I only asked for two.”
“I know.” Brooks stopped as well and leaned against the door of an empty stall. The wood of the frame, cracked and weatherworn, creaked beneath his weight. “I thought you could use more than two, seeing as how you’ll need as much income as you can get to fix this place up.” He surveyed the six stalls stretching out in front of him, each one housing a new horse. “The two grays on the left belong to a friend of mine from out of the county. He runs a boarding service himself that has more business than he can handle, and he considered it a favor for you to take these two off his hands. The three paints on the right are from a rescue ranch near Lexington. They’re full up and needed to clear a couple stalls for new arrivals so I suggested that we board them here until we find suitable applicants for adoption.”
Jo turned her head to the side, the waves of her honey-brown hair rippling down her slender back. Her wardrobe had changed. Instead of the baggy shirt and jeans she’d worn on her visit to him a few days prior, she now wore a fitted, faded set of jeans, a long-sleeved Henley shirt, and well-worn boots. “And the chestnut?” The cynicism in her tone deepened. “He doesn’t look like a typical boarder.”
Brooks smiled, his chin lifting as he studied the two-year-old thoroughbred in the stall on Jo’s right. “No. That one’s a winner.”
Shoulders tensing, she turned slowly and faced him. “He’s yours, isn’t he?” she asked. “Your colt.”
“Yeah.” Brooks strode over to the stall. Immediately, the thoroughbred raised his head above the stall door, his damp nose sniffing the air, searching for Brooks’s outstretched hand. “Another Round is mine.”
“Another Round?” Soft footsteps fell behind him as Jo walked to his side, the sweet scent of her hair prompting Another Round’s nostrils to flare even wider. “What inspired you to give him that name? His sire?”
“No.” He stroked Another Round’s forehead, watching as the horse’s soulful eyes settled on Jo. “He doesn’t need inspiration from a sire. He stands for something in his own right. He’s strong and powerful, fierce and competitive. Capable of going the extra mile and turning things around at the last fraction of a second.”
“So, he’s a closer?”
Another Round, ears moving toward the sound of Jo’s voice, dipped his head away from Brooks’s hand and nudged his nose toward Jo.
“He’s more than a closer,” Brooks said, pride lifting his chest. “He’s a natural.”
Jo issued a wry smile. “One could say that all thoroughbreds are born for it, don’t you think?” She glanced up at him and raised one eyebrow. “Isn’t that the reason they’re born? The reason you breed them?”
Brooks remained silent for a moment, watching as Jo turned back to Another Round, her eyes following the curve of his head, jaw, neck, shoulders, and body, a grudging light of admiration for his impressive musculature brightening her expression.
“Why did you stop training?” he asked, though he had his suspicions. “What happened to change your opinion of the sport?”
Her expression dimmed again. She lifted her hand and rested it on the stall door, a few inches away from Another Round’s nose. “Sweet Dash was the first racehorse Earl and I trained together. Earl was named head trainer and I was listed as assistant, but I had a connection with Sweet Dash from the day he was born. One deeper than Earl could replicate, so he stepped aside most of the time and let me take the lead.”
Another Round moved at the tender tone of her voice, his hooves stepping on the shavings of his stall as he moved closer, stretched his neck, and brushed his nose against the center of Jo’s open palm.
Brooks smiled. Aside from his strength and talent, Another Round was a friendly, vibrant horse who sought attention.
“Sweet Dash was a natural, too.” Jo glanced at Brooks, then returned her attention to Another Round. “He loved to run. Loved to race. Loved the competition.” Her hand moved, stroking Another Round’s forehead gently. The thoroughbred seemed to crave her touch, nudging his broad head closer to her chest. “We had such high hopes for Sweet Dash, and he delivered on all fronts. He took to the track like it was home. Like he never wanted to be anywhere else. And he was friendly, too”—she lifted her chin toward Another Round—“like this one. When Sweet Dash delivered the Derby win, he was the talk of the town. The champion of the sport. Everyone wanted a piece of him.” The nostalgic sparkle in her eyes faded. “We should’ve stopped there. Should’ve taken him home after he won the Derby and let him enjoy his life. Instead, we hauled him to the next leg of the Triple Crown.” She cut her eyes at him, her hand stilling against Another Round’s forehead. “I’m sure you know what happened next. You don’t strike me as the kind of man to partner up with anyone without thoroughly researching them first.”
Brooks winced. “Yes,” he said softly. “Once Rhett gave me your name, I did some searching. I saw what happened in an old highlight clip from the Preakness Stakes. I’m sorry. It’s a tragic thing. I can’t imagine—”
“What?” Her tone hardened. “You can’t imagine a horse like yours”—she gestured toward Another Round—“like this one, stumbling for a fraction of a second during a race? A fraction of a second that’s just long enough to shatter bone, take him down, and ultimately, end his life? You can’t imagine something like that happening to Another Round?”
An uneasy feeling swirled in his gut as he looked at the horse he’d bred, raised . . . and loved. “I try not to. I try to focus on giving Another Round an opportunity to do what he loves. An opportunity every horse who loves to run should be afforded.”
Something in his voice must have hinted at the fears he harbored because her own expression gentled as she stroked Another Round’s forehead again.
“No one who loves horses wants to imagine or dwell on the tragedy when it happens,” she said. “But it’s an undeniable hazard of the sport that’s dismissed all too easily in the interest of money, tradition, and fame.” She stepped away from Another Round, shoved her hands in the pockets of her jeans, and faced him again. “I appreciate all you’ve done for me, Brooks, but I have no desire to train again. Losing another horse is just too painful a prospect.”
“Oh, but the joy, Jo. You can’t deny there’s joy in the sport—not just for trainers, owners, grooms, and all those who benefit from the economic impact of the sport, but also for the horses. These thoroughbreds live a good life.” A small laugh escaped his lips. “They live a better life than most people do—including me. And there’s no guarantee Another Round will meet the same fate as Sweet Dash. Surely you remember what that Derby win was like. What witnessing the magnificence of a thoroughbred’s strength, power, and accomplishment brings to those who are a part of it.”
She nodded. “Money and pride. Those are the biggest joys most people glean from racing. Years of hard work, dedication, and care for a one-hundred-and-twenty-second bet that risks a horse’s life. Win or lose, the typical thoroughbred only has a brief window of luxury before their lives are at stake—on and off the track. There are as many—if not more—horror stories as there are successful tales.”
