Chapter 11
Harrison
I don’t usually dress for the track. Most days, it’s boots, denim, and whatever shirt doesn’t smell like hay or covered in dust. But this isn’t most days.
Today, I pulled on dark jeans that actually fit right, a crisp button-down, and a jacket that signals money without trying too hard.
No suit. I’m not that guy. But I’m not a ranch hand today either.
I slide my sunglasses on before I step through the gates of the track, letting the noise hit me all at once.
There’s an undercurrent of conversations going on, along with race patrons silently studying racing programs. Most of all, I notice the sharp, electric smell of anticipation that always settles over a racetrack before the first race runs. This is where belief gets tested.
I grab a program and flip straight to the third race, barely glancing at the earlier listings. Jupiter Rising has long odds. Longer than most people would touch without a second thought. I huff a breath through my nose, not surprised.
I scan the paddock, the rail, and the walking ring. No sign of Nicole yet. I tell myself I’m just checking out of curiosity. The lie doesn’t sit well.
I place bets on the first three races that are modest, enough to stay interested without tempting fate. When the clerk hands me the slips, I fold them carefully and tuck them into my pocket.
I order a coffee and take my seat trackside, the sun cutting across the grandstand just enough to make the day feel sharp and alive.
I lean back, watching the first race thunder past in a blur of color and muscle.
The crowd roars. Someone curses. A group of women that appear to be here for a day out cheer too loud.
I notice everyone. But my attention keeps drifting back to the track entrance. By the time the second race finishes, the coffee is half gone and cold. I don’t order another. And I don’t have a winning ticket yet.
Race three is announced. That’s when I see her.
Nicole emerges from the tunnel at the far end of the track, walking beside Jupiter Rising.
The jockey sits astride the horse, focused and still.
A handler keeps a steady grip on the lead.
But Nicole is the one the horse keeps checking in with, ears flicking toward her as they move.
She’s wearing the horse’s colors. Tight-fitting riding pants, a windbreaker zipped just enough to be practical, but not enough to hide her curvy shape beneath.
The fabric moves with her stride, confident and unhurried.
There’s nothing flashy about her, but she still stirs something inside me. Somehow, that makes it worse.
I lean forward, elbows resting on my knees. The sunglasses suddenly feel like a necessity. Watching her here as more of a spectator — out in the open — hits different than seeing her at the barn.
Jupiter Rising tosses his head once, testing the air. Nicole says something to him, her hand brushing his neck just once. It must have been enough as the horse settles like he’s been waiting for that exact reassurance. She wasn’t kidding about bonding and trust.
The horse is a large thoroughbred that moves beautifully. I hear a couple of men nearby talking odds, dismissing him with the casual cruelty of gamblers who think they know everything. I don’t say a word.
Nicole walks him toward the gate, her posture calm and focused. She doesn’t look up at the crowd in the stands. She has no idea I’m here, watching, betting and rooting for this horse, Jupiter Rising, that’s not even mine.
That shouldn’t bother me. But it does. I want her to know I showed up for something that’s important to her.
The gates load. The handler steps away. Nicole lingers just long enough to give Jupiter Rising one last look. Then she steps back, already letting go of this unspoken connection she has with this animal.
That might be the hardest part to watch. I realize then that this isn’t about winning the race. It’s about watching someone do exactly what they’re meant to do — and knowing you had the sense to get out of the way when they need to do it.
The bell rings. The gates snap open. Jupiter Rising breaks clean.
I suck in a breath, my jaw tightening as the pack surges forward. He’s not leading, but he’s not trailing either. He’s right where he needs to be, stride smooth, ears forward.
The roar of the crowd crests as the horses thunder past the finish line.
Jupiter Rising doesn’t win. But he finishes strong, charging up the rail in the final stretch, closing the gap in a way that has heads turning and voices rising in surprise.
Second place. Close enough that it matters and people will remember his name.
???
I don’t see her again right away. Time stretches after the race the way it always does with congratulations traded, tickets torn up, and drinks ordered.
I find myself walking the grounds without purpose, replaying the way Jupiter Rising moved, the way Nicole stood beside him like she belonged to that moment leading to the loading gate and reassuring him as he readied for the race.
I tell myself I’m looking for her because she might be working with Red Ledger now. It’s sort of an excuse or lie I use to find her. I spot her near the paddock entrance a couple of hours later. For a second, my brain refuses to reconcile what I’m seeing.
Nicole isn’t in riding pants now. She isn’t zipped into a windbreaker.
She’s wearing a light, flowing dress patterned with small flowers.
The fabric moves easily with the breeze.
A wide-brimmed hat shades her face, softening her features.
She looks … radiant and alive. Like the race and excitement didn’t drain her …
but charged her. She’s laughing with someone just out of view, her whole body turned toward the sound.
The sight lands in my gut, sharp and unwelcome.
Jealousy. I recognize it immediately. I don’t like it or understand why it’s there. She spots me before I can look away. Her face lights up in a genuine expression.
“Harrison,” she says, walking toward me like this is the most natural thing in the world. “Did you see that finish?”
“I did,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend. “Hell of a run.”
“He exceeded expectations,” she says, practically glowing. “That’s the sweet spot for me as his trainer. I’m really pleased with Jupiter Rising.”
I nod. “Congratulations. Each day you’re making me more of a believer. You heading out?”
“Yes, well sort of.” She gestures over her shoulder. “There’s a post-race dinner. The owner invited me.”
The word owner lands wrong. Something twists low in my stomach before I can stop it.
“That so,” I say.
She studies me for a second, something knowing in her eyes. Then she smiles, amused.
“You should come,” she says. “As my guest.”
I blink. “I—”
“Only if you want to,” she adds easily. “No pressure.”
Pressure is exactly what I feel. This wasn’t part of the plan.
Today was about the horse. Suddenly she’s standing here in a dress that makes it very clear she’s not only a trainer …
and I’m being invited into something that feels personal whether she intends it or not.
But I wanted to see her. She’s invited me. Why am I resisting?
“Alright,” I say. “I’ll come.”
Her smile widens. “Good.”
We walk together toward the parking lot, and only then does she add casually, “Oh, and just so you’re not surprised … the owner is Margaret Hale. She’s in her seventies. Her late husband got her into racing years ago. She kept it going after he passed.”
I stop short. Nicole glances back at me, one eyebrow lifting.
“Problem?”
“No,” I say, heat creeping up my neck. “No problem.”
She laughs softly and turns back toward the path, the sleeve of her dress brushing my arm as she passes. I fall into step beside her.
How could I let my mind run ahead of me? I’m imagining rooms I haven’t entered, conversations I haven’t heard, men I haven’t met. Other owners. Other trainers. Other people who might look at Nicole and see exactly what I’m trying not to.
I haven’t asked her out. I haven’t crossed a single line. And still, the idea of her belonging, even briefly, in someone else’s orbit sits wrong inside. That’s when it hits me.
I didn’t underestimate her skill. I underestimated how fast Nicole has gotten under my skin — and how little control I have now that she’s there.