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Jo frowned. “No. You have to stick to a strict training regimen and get yourself back in shape.”
“But—”
“I’m offering you a chance,” Jo said firmly. “But I can’t take it for you. You have to reach out and take it. Wholeheartedly and with complete dedication. The kind you used to have for the sport. This moment, right now, is your opportunity to turn your life around. Otherwise, you stay right where you are.” She narrowed her eyes and added for good measure, “Sprawled on your back, in the dirt, hoping you’ll be able to scrounge up another job in another town after you get fired from this one.”
He swiveled his head around, gazing slack-jawed at the dusty hay and hard earth, then nodded. Lifting his hand, he attempted to grab her outstretched fingers and haul himself up, but a bit of hay fell from the sleeve of his raised arm onto his nose, and he sneezed, his palm jerking with his body, so he missed her hand by a mile.
Grimacing, Jo shoved herself off the ground, rose to her feet, and summoned an encouraging smile for Brooks, who scowled back at her. “You mind helping me get him in the truck?”
* * *
Though Brooks crafted the best bourbon in Kentucky and was known to frequently indulge responsibly himself, he was not accustomed to transporting drunks in his truck—especially so early in the afternoon.
He sat outside the Dixie Mart, a convenience store located halfway between Max Anderson’s stables and Lone Oaks Crossing, and stared at Jo, who stood outside, waiting beside the closed door of the men’s restroom. This was the third pit stop of their trip back to Lone Oaks Crossing.
Lee, whom Brooks had grudgingly picked up off the dirt of Max Anderson’s stable yard, lugged in his arms to his truck, and settled into the back seat of the extended cab, had complained of a headache and feeling carsick several times during the journey back. His most recent complaint, however, had been accompanied by dry heaves, which had led Brooks to swerve off the highway and into the parking lot of the gas station. The hungover, overly flirtatious, and out-of-shape jockey had been inside the men’s restroom now for almost twenty minutes.
Brooks rolled down the window and stuck his head out, shouting across the parking lot to Jo, “He still alive in there?”
Jo waved away his concern. “He’s fine. Just give him another minute.”
Growling, Brooks slumped back against the driver’s seat and closed his eyes. They’d already been parked on this cracked tarmac for what seemed like forever, wasting time rather than working with Another Round.
“Oh, Lord,” Brooks groaned, rubbing his forehead. That was another worry altogether.
After Jo had shared that Lee had been the jockey who had ridden Sweet Dash at the Preakness Stakes, he’d wanted to shut down Jo’s idea of hiring him right then. No way did he want to take a chance on a jockey who’d been part of such a disaster—despite a one-off Derby win—especially when he’d worked so hard for so long to put himself and one of his thoroughbreds in a position to possibly win the Derby this year.
Another Round wasn’t just any thoroughbred. Another Round was born with a natural instinct and love of competing as well as a spirited personality—three of the most cherished traits of a winning racehorse.
And now, with everything on the line—including Earl’s home and Jo’s future business venture for Lone Oaks—here they were, risking everything for a drunk who probably didn’t yet understand that he’d agreed to ride as a jockey again, much less realize the pain he’d encounter transforming himself from an inebriated slob back into a physically fit, disciplined athlete.
. . . I trust him.
Oh, man. That’s what Jo had said and yes, he believed she did trust Lee. But she’d said herself that she hadn’t seen or spoken to the guy in years. Lee could have become a completely different person from the one she’d known years ago, and judging from first impressions, Brooks would bet his last dime that Lee had completely changed—in the worst of ways. Not only that, but Jo had seemed as shocked by Lee’s miserable appearance as he had been.
But . . . there was another reason he needed to bite his tongue, agree to Jo’s request that he give Lee a chance.
Brooks touched his fingertips to the seam of his mouth as he thought of Jo’s kiss, missing her touch and taste as much as he had every moment since she’d first kissed him yesterday. She’d stated she was his neighbor . . . and friend, but he wanted more than that, and he trusted her judgment.
So, agreeing to give this drunkard a chance hadn’t been up for debate after he’d realized how dead-set Jo was on bringing Lee onto their team. In that moment, standing on Max Anderson’s land, looking down at Jo’s earnest—almost pleading—expression as she’d asked him to carry Lee to the truck, Brooks had discovered that he’d have trouble denying her anything.
The realization had both pleased and scared him simultaneously.
He knew his feelings for Jo had deepened. That had become evident to him when his heart kicked his ribs every time he got his first sight of her for the day; when at night, he found himself seeing her face even after he’d closed his eyes.
He was, he suspected, falling in love. The intense sensation was new to him—the strong stirring of emotion in his chest an unfamiliar one—but one he enjoyed as much as he feared. This longing he’d developed for Jo was wild, unpredictable, and all-consuming. And, as he’d quickly discovered earlier today, the intense attachment left him at her mercy . . . as well as her beck and call.
The door of the men’s restroom banged open, clanging against the brick wall as Lee stumbled out.
Jo immediately rushed over to him, slung her arm around his back, and braced his weight against hers. The guy was less than five feet tall, his head just reaching Jo’s shoulders. He had a slight build—the perfect kind for a professional jockey—except for one thing.
Brooks frowned. That beer belly he sported.
Not that he would’ve noticed it, much less minded, had Lee been embarking upon any occupation other than one that involved him straddling the back of Brooks’s prized thoroughbred. Lord knows, Brooks enjoyed savoring his own bourbon from time to time. There was no better end to a cold winter’s day than sipping a prized bourbon by a warm fire and pairing it with a quality cigar.
But Lee’s circumstances were different. To ride skillfully and competitively, Lee had to be stone-cold sober, physically fit, clear-eyed, and meet a specified weight requirement. The more weight he slung over Another Round’s back, the slower the thoroughbred would run. And if Lee’s current state were any indication, the man would have a heck of a time weaning himself off the booze, cleaning himself up, and strengthening his lungs. It would take hours of exercise, intense self-discipline, and the utmost commitment to turn his physical, mental, and emotional health around and, quite frankly, Brooks wasn’t sure the guy had it in him.
The passenger side door opened, and Jo helped Lee inside, shoving him with both hands into the back seat of the cab. After Lee was settled upright, she climbed into the passenger seat and shut the door.
