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And they did. They must’ve walked at least two miles across Max Anderson’s land, moving from paddock to paddock, pasture to pasture, and stable to stable, searching for Lee. He was nowhere to be found in the places they’d looked, so they returned to the main stable near the front of the property an hour later.
Stomach sinking, Jo stopped by the stable and thanked Zeb for taking the time to speak with them earlier. It wasn’t until she joined Brooks walking back toward the truck that she heard a low moan emerge from behind two large bales of hay stacked beside the stable. She walked over to the bales, Brooks following close behind, and peered around them.
And there he was. Lee Simmons, in all his glory, with the bleary-eyed, slack-jawed expression of a hangover, lying on his back amid a bed of hay where, she guessed from his appearance, he’d spent the previous night.
“Lee?” she asked. “It is you, isn’t it?”
He looked up at her from his sprawled position on the bed of hay and narrowed his eyes. “Jo?” His drunken slur was so thick she barely recognized her own name. “Jo Beef Ellis?”
Brooks, standing beside her, snorted.
Jo elbowed him and grimaced. “Beth,” she stressed, staring down at Lee. “It’s Jo Beth.” She shook her head, taking in his disheveled appearance. His T-shirt, dirty and stained, was rolled up almost to his chin, exposing his potbelly. “Did you spend the night out here? What happened to you?”
Lee swiveled his head, straining to focus his gaze on his surroundings. “Don’t know. Last thing I remembered I had a beer in each hand and a woman on each arm.” He looked back up at her and grinned, a goofy expression on his face. “But I don’t remember you being one of them. If you were, I would remember. ’Cuz you’re the kinda gal a man wouldn’t forget spending the night with.”
“Hey, watch that.” Brooks shook his head and stared down at Lee with disgust before narrowing his eyes at Jo. “There’s no way I’m letting him get on Another Round.”
Jo touched his arm. “But Brooks—”
“Nope.” Brooks held up a hand. “Forget it. I’m not letting this rude, inebriated kid anywhere near you or my thoroughbred. How old is he anyway?”
“Around my age.” Jo rubbed her temples. “He’s older than he looks.”
“Twenty-eight.” Lee glared up at Brooks, his eyes not quite focusing on his face. “I’m twenty-eight and I bet you I can ride any horse you put in front of me. Gimme ten minutes,” he slurred, “and I could ride a donkey across the finish line at the Derby and put him in first place.” He grinned, gazing up at the sky as though an angel hovered above him, patting his head. “That’s right. I’d ride that donkey right into first place.”
Brooks raised one eyebrow, an exasperated tone entering his voice. “You plan on doing that with a beer in each hand, too?”
“Any horse would be proud for me to ride it”—he patted his belly—“beer gut and all. I’m the best rider there is.” He hiccupped, then made a face, his confident expression drooping. “I mean . . . I used to be the best.” He looked at Jo, his hazel eyes filling with tears. “Wasn’t I, Jo Beef? Wasn’t I the best back in the day?”
Oh, gracious. Despite his slovenly appearance, inebriated state, and slurred ramblings, there was still a hint of the old Lee in the pained expression on his face. The same young boy she’d known as a girl, both of them working hard to find their place in the sport, exerting themselves beyond expectations for a chance at winning. And when the win at the Derby had finally arrived, despite all the odds being stacked against them, she remembered the sheer joy that had enveloped Lee, the broad smile on his face as he’d entered the Winner’s Circle, beaming with pride at the realization that all his hard work had finally paid off. And then . . . the crushing sorrow and desperation after his fall from Sweet Dash at the Preakness Stakes. The sheer anguish in his eyes at the news that the injuries the thoroughbred had sustained were dire enough to necessitate putting him down.
Lee had changed in an instant that day, morphing from the laser-focused, dedicated athlete he’d been to a broken man full of remorse. And, judging from the regretful shadows haunting his eyes, it seemed as though the years hadn’t brought him any relief from the pain of that day. Resignation was embedded in every inch of the slack frame that lay sprawled in the dirt before her.
A pang of sympathy squeezed Jo’s chest at how far he’d fallen. She was all too familiar with feeling like a failure.
“Oh, Lee.” She sank to her haunches beside him and reached out, brushing a strand of hair out of his eyes. “You were the best rider in Lone Oaks—the nation, even—no question. Not only that, but you could be again if you’d be willing to come back to Lone Oaks Crossing and work hard.”
He stared up at her, remaining silent.
“What would you say,” she asked, “if I told you that you had another chance? If I told you that Brooks, here, has a winning horse that needs a rider?”
Lee’s expression crumpled. “But Sweet Dash,” he said, his voice wavering. “I’m the one that—”
“No,” Jo said. “Don’t ever say that. You did everything right that day. You were a good rider, Lee. A great one. That’s why I’m here.” She glanced up at Brooks, who looked slightly less irritated than he had before. Lee’s expression, contorted with pain, seemed to have tugged at his innate sense of empathy and goodwill. “That’s why we’re here,” she continued, looking back at Lee. “Brooks, too. We’re here to give you another chance, if you want it.”
He continued staring up at them, his gaze moving from Jo to Brooks, then back.
At a loss, Jo struggled for words, recalling the words Brooks had used that had finally prompted her to accept Cheyenne as a stable hand at Lone Oaks Crossing. “What do you have to lose, Lee?”
Lee blinked, his mouth growing even slacker as he struggled to think it over. “Nothing,” he finally said. “I ain’t got a damn thing.”
Jo tilted her head, feeling the odd urge to laugh and cry at the same time as she held out her hand. “So, we got a deal then? We’ll offer you great pay, free room and board, as well as meals for your expert riding skills.”
His brow creased. “Do I still get two days off a week?”
“Yes,” Jo said.
“And I can still drink?”
