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Inwardly, Jo cringed. This man—this stranger—knew way too much about her life. “I don’t know you, Mr. Harris, but I can tell you this isn’t a neighborly way to approach someone. Whatever you’re offering, I’m not interested.”
He eased away from her, a stony expression appearing. “You’re a talented woman, Jo. You’d be a treasure to any stable owner . . . any man, even.” The slick tone of his voice sent a shudder through her. “You want to train again? See another winner across the finish line at Churchill Downs? Just say the word and I’ll make it happen.”
“And if I don’t?” she asked.
He grinned again, a sinister twist of his mouth. “If a horse you’ve trained steps on that track,” he said, “you’re either on Brooks’s team or mine. That’s your only option. Brooks may have money now but he’s no better than he was years ago. No better than that weak, gambling addict of a father of his who took his own life when he couldn’t face his losses.”
Jo bit her lip, an overwhelming mix of anger, disgust, and pain swelling within her.
“He’s alone,” he added softly. “Brooks is a nobody who’s got no one. That’s why he’s trying to sucker you into training that horse of his. You partner up with him and you’ll get nothing but bad luck. I’d hate to see someone of your talent—and charms—lose what little you have left.”
“Leave.” She pointed at the driveway. “Now.”
Spencer stood there a moment more, surveying the grounds, then glanced once more over his shoulder at Another Round. “The kid’s right. That horse is eye-catching,” he drawled, strolling past Jo toward the driveway. “Eye-catching as can be.”
Jo stood there, frozen in place, watching as he sauntered off, then disappeared around the front of the house, his scornful words resounding in her head with each painful beat of her heart.
Brooks is a nobody who’s got no one.
CHAPTER 8
Brooks leaned back in his office chair and scanned the papers spread out across his desk. Each page he’d printed detailed the specifics of one of the races leading up to the Kentucky Derby. It had been almost two weeks since Rhett had quit, and although Another Round had been exercised by other riders in his stable, the thoroughbred had not been worked out, to Brooks’s knowledge, since he’d delivered him to Jo at Lone Oaks Crossing.
For Another Round to have a fighting chance on the track, Brooks had to put together a training program fast and schedule the races Another Round would run in as soon as possible. The schedule would be tight, considering the time needed to prepare Another Round for competition and ensure he had enough opportunities to earn the winning points required to qualify for the Derby.
Sighing, Brooks propped his elbows on his desk and pored over the papers again, sifting through the details of each race, eyeing the locations and dates.
The Breeders’ Cup Juvenile in November would more than likely be the first race that Another Round would be ready for if the thoroughbred began regular workouts immediately. Then, possibly the Gun Runner Stakes in New Orleans in December. There were a few other races in February that he could consider as well as the Rebel Stakes in Arkansas in late February.
But first, he had to find a new trainer.
Brooks shoved the papers away and sagged back into his chair, dragging his hand over his face. The problem was that he didn’t want another trainer. He wanted Jo.
If he could only let Jo go, the idea of having her as a partner, and simply choose another trainer—anyone at this point—he’d have a better shot at racing Another Round. By continuing in limbo like this, waiting for Jo to change her mind, he was endangering any opportunity he might have to enter Another Round into any race, much less train him to be competitive enough to win enough races to qualify for the Derby in May.
Brooks closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose. Everything would be so simple if he could just move on and choose another trainer.
His cell phone, resting on the edge of his desk, vibrated. He answered the call.
“Mr. Moore,” the voice on the other end of the line said. “You asked me to notify you if Ms. Ellis returned.”
It was his security guard.
“Yes, Vince,” Brooks said. “When did she arrive?”
“Just now, sir. I let her in immediately as you requested. She’s on her way to the main house now.”
Heartbeat racing, Brooks stood and headed for the door of his office. “Thank you, Vince.”
Slipping his phone in his pocket, he walked down the hallway, crossed the foyer, and went outside. Moments later, a truck he recognized as belonging to Earl drove up and parked. The driver’s side door opened, and Jo exited the truck, rounded the front of it, and stood several feet away, looking up at him.
He smiled, just the sight of her setting his tense muscles at ease. “This is a pleasant surprise. How’s Earl today? Has he had a chance to test out the deck?”
It was a cool September afternoon, and she’d dressed for the occasion. The faded jeans she wore clung to her curves, and her long wavy hair spilled over the collar of her denim jacket, shining in the afternoon sun. His hands flexed at his sides, yearning to sift through the shiny strands and feel their soft texture between his fingertips.
“Who is Spencer Harris?” she asked. “And why does he have it out for you?”
Brooks froze at the sound of the other man’s name, his hands curling into fists by his sides. “It’s the other way around actually,” he said quietly. “Why are you asking me about Spencer Harris?”
