Lone Oaks Crossing

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 9

The next morning, five minutes after the sun rose, Brooks drove up the long driveway of Lone Oaks Crossing and parked his truck in front of the main house. Before he could exit the cab, Jo had already opened the passenger door, hopped in, shut the door, and pointed back to the driveway.

“Let’s go,” Jo said.

Brooks glanced over at her from the driver seat and frowned. “Go where?”

“To Anderson Stables,” she said. “To pick up your jockey.”

“My jockey? I wasn’t aware I had one.”

“And that’s exactly why we’re going,” she said. “You can’t race a thoroughbred without a rider. And I’ve found the perfect one.”

“Without me meeting him first?”

Jo raised one eyebrow. “What makes you think it’s a him?”

Brooks’s lean cheeks flushed, and he shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, then. Who is she?”

Jo settled back in the passenger seat and buckled her seat belt. “You were right the first time. Our new jockey is a he.”

And it had taken hours to track him down.

Yesterday afternoon, after breaking the news of their new venture to Frankie and Earl, Jo had dug through the old belongings in her room at the main house, searching through drawers, old albums, and address books from ten years ago. After hours of hunting, she had managed to find the number of the man she’d been looking for.

Lee Simmons. One of the best—if not the best—jockeys Jo had ever known. An integral part of the team Lone Oaks Crossing once had in residence with Earl at the helm.

Jo hadn’t seen or heard from Lee in years, but she remembered how impressed she’d been with his passion for the sport and the horses he rode. He’d started interning early—just as she had, waking up at the crack of dawn, following a rigorous training routine that involved stringent workouts, healthy eating, and strict attention to the pounds on the scale. Despite the challenging regimen, she couldn’t remember him ever complaining—not even once.

Even early in his career, Lee had possessed an innate gift for quickly determining a thoroughbred’s strengths and weaknesses and would tailor his approach to match each horse’s unique abilities. And Lee had been fearless—almost to a fault. He’d remained calm in the face of overwhelming challenges on the track, maintaining his focus and encouraging the thoroughbreds he worked with to do the same.

She and Earl had been blessed to have Lee on their team ten years ago and she doubted, wholeheartedly, that they would have achieved what they had if Lee had not been part of their team.

Jo hoped—and prayed—Lee would bring the same energy, discipline, and talent to Brooks’s thoroughbred and guide Another Round to a Derby win despite the misfortune they’d suffered ten years ago. A misfortune that had proven to be not only her downfall but Lee’s as well. The loss of Sweet Dash had been too much for Lee to bear, and from what she’d been told by Lee’s current employer, he had abandoned racing not long after, just as she had, and ventured out on his own in search of a fresh start.

Only, she suspected things hadn’t quite turned out as well as Lee had perhaps hoped. But there was no need to share that bit of information with Brooks just now. And besides, once Brooks met Lee, he’d recognize the rare qualities Lee possessed that made him the perfect jockey for Another Round.

“So,” Brooks asked. “Who is this fantastic new jockey you’ve found?”

“Lee Simmons,” she said. “He’s the first and only jockey that came to my mind yesterday.”

Brooks put the truck in drive and headed down the driveway. “You’ve worked with him before?”

“Yeah.” Jo looked out the passenger window, staring at the highway. “I worked with him years ago.”

Brooks reached the end of the driveway and stopped the truck. “Years ago? As in the year you won the Derby?”

“That would be the one.” She gestured toward the road in front of them. “Take a left here. The stable he’s working at is about an hour and forty-five minutes away. I know a couple back roads that might get us there faster though.”

The truck remained parked as Brooks stared at her, his brow creasing. “This Lee you’re talking about . . . he rode Sweet Dash, right?”

Jo looked down and picked at one of her thumbnails. “Yeah.”

“Did he ride Sweet Dash in the Preakness Stakes, too?”

Jo bit her lip. “Yeah.”

Brooks sighed. “And this is the jockey you think would be a good rider for Another Round?”

Jo looked up and spoke firmly. “Lee is a great rider. What happened to Sweet Dash wasn’t his fault. A horse could have the best rider in the world and still stumble. Lee had no control over what happened.”

Brooks studied her face. “What other horses has he raced?”

Jo held his gaze. “None. Sweet Dash was the first.”

“And he hasn’t ridden in competition at all since then?”

“No,” she confirmed quietly. “He started interning young—around thirteen, I think—with his uncle. Then at sixteen, he started homeschooling like me and took jockeying up pretty much full-time, training on a regular schedule. He had an innate talent for riding that you just can’t teach someone. Everyone noticed it. I haven’t seen or heard from him in years though. The old cell number I had for him didn’t work, so I called a few more of my connections to track him down. From what I’ve been told, he took what happened to Sweet Dash pretty hard. He walked away from racing like I did and has been traveling and taking up odd jobs since then.”

Brooks leaned his head back against his headrest and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling of the truck. “And you really think he will give us the best shot at winning the Derby? Someone who hasn’t raced or trained in years?”

“I’m telling you he’s the best. He had an awful experience—just like I did—and it devastated him. But he’s a natural rider who truly cares about his horses, and he deserves another shot at his dream.” Jo reached over, placed her hand on his knee, and squeezed. “I wouldn’t steer you wrong, Brooks. When I say he’s the best, I mean it. I don’t know what shape he’s in so, yeah, it may take some extra effort to get him back in shape and acquainted with Another Round, but I believe he’s the right choice.”

Raising his head upright again, he looked down at her hand on his knee and covered it with his own, squeezing gently. “Okay. I trust you.”

“And I trust him,” Jo said softly. “Trust is the most important thing between a trainer, a jockey, and a horse. Lee knows what he’s doing, and despite what happened to Sweet Dash, I trust Another Round with him.”

Sighing, Brooks removed his hand from hers and cupped her cheek. “I trust your judgment, Jo. But Lee has already had a bad ride with Sweet Dash. What makes you think things will turn out any better with Another Round?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Except hope and the fact that I’m willing to take a chance on him. Lee’s a great rider and deserves another opportunity to make his dream come true. That’s all any of us can do when it comes to racing—take a chance, right?”

Brooks was silent for a moment, then nodded. “All right. But if we’re taking back roads to this place, you’ll need to give me directions along the way.”

Brooks took a left and they drove on. The journey to Anderson Stables, the farm where Lee was currently working, took almost as long as Jo had estimated, their travel time clocking in around one hour and thirty minutes. Because it was early on a weekday morning, traffic was light, but once they drove up the long winding entrance to Anderson Stables, it was clear everyone at the working farm had woken early and hit the ground running.

“This is a nice spread,” Brooks said as he drove along the dirt road toward the main stable. “Do they breed or board?”

“Board,” Jo said, craning her neck for a better view as they approached the main stable.

It was, as Brooks had put it, a nice spread. The large, main stable was white with stonework and housed multiple stalls. Two other stables and one barn were stationed on opposite sides of the grounds along with several paddocks and pastures enclosed with black fencing.

“Max Anderson, the owner, told me on the phone that they do a pretty good business even though they’re a small operation compared to the larger farms in this area,” Jo said. “He says he’s short on help though, which is why he hired Lee.”

She bit her tongue as soon as the last comment left her lips, wishing she’d thought better of it before speaking aloud.

“So, the only reason the owner of this stable hired Lee,” Brooks repeated slowly, “is because he’s short on help? Is that what you’re telling me?”

Jo winced. “Um . . . yeah. That’s the way he put it.”

Brooks glanced at her as he parked the truck near the main stable and cut the engine. “And what else did he say about this Lee of yours?”

Jo shrugged, ducking her head and evading his dark, probing gaze. “Not much.”

Just that Lee was on the verge of being fired. Apparently, Lee liked to sleep late, drink copious amounts of alcohol, and chase women. All of which had become an impediment to his job performance at Anderson Stables . . . and the dozens of other jobs he’d lost as a stable hand over the past few years.

Jo forced a bright smile, opened her door, and hopped out. “Come on. Let’s see if we can find him, shall we?”

Finding Lee turned out to be a bit harder than Jo had imagined. After leaving the truck, she and Brooks walked to the stables, introduced themselves to a tall stable hand named Zeb who, despite being shorthanded and obviously overworked, took the time to stop mucking a stall, set aside his shovel, and smile widely while introducing himself. His smile, however, vanished as soon as Jo asked about Lee.

“That sumbitch?” Zeb spat on the ground. “What you want with him?”

Brooks shot a look at Jo, the uneasy expression on his face intensifying.

“He’s an old friend of mine,” Jo said, shifting nervously from one boot to the other. “I’d just like to see him. Maybe catch up with him a bit. Max told me he was working here and said I could stop by and talk with him.”

Zeb laughed. “Well, good luck with that. We’ve been looking for that loser all morning and still haven’t set eyes on him yet. If you do manage to find him, tell him I’m looking for him and that if he doesn’t show at his post, drunk or not, within the next ten minutes, I’ve a good mind to tell Max he ain’t cutting it and give him the heave-ho. Matter of fact, I might just put my boot in his ass and kick him to the curb without even telling the boss. Considering the scant amount of work that boy’s done, no one would miss him around here anyway.”

With that, Zeb walked away and joined the other hands who were already busy mucking the stalls.

“Great,” Brooks said, dragging a hand through his hair. “Just great. This jockey of yours can’t even manage to show up for a stable hand position sober and from Zeb’s reaction, seems to be more trouble than he’s worth.” He scowled. “Not to mention the fact that they can’t even find him. So, what do you propose we do now?”

Jo put on a brave face despite her misgivings. “We take a look around.”

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?”

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.

She flashed a smile at Brooks, one far too bright to be sincere. “I think things went really well in there. Lee managed to take an aspirin, eat a few bites of a hot dog, drink half a bottle of a sports drink, and wash his face, so he should feel more hydrated and awake now.” She glanced in the rearview mirror. “Don’t you feel better now with something in your stomach to soak up all that alcohol, Lee?” Receiving no response, she prompted, “Are the sports drink and aspirin helping to ease your headache?”

A muffled groan emerged from the back of the extended cab.

Brooks glanced in the rearview mirror just in time to see Lee double over, lower his head toward the floor mat, and issue the most stomach-churning sounds and smells he’d ever had the misfortune of witnessing.

“God help me,” Brooks whispered, struggling not to gag or think of his recently cleaned floorboards. “Please tell me those are more dry heaves.”

Jo, a dismayed look on her face, swiveled in her seat, glanced at the back floorboard, then swiftly faced forward again, clutching her mouth and nose with both hands. “No,” she said softly, her throat moving on a hard swallow. “They’re definitely not dry.”

Brooks cranked the engine, rolled down the windows, and pumped the gas pedal, violently revving the engine for good measure. “Jo . . . I adore you. But the second I stop in front of your grandfather’s house, I want his ass out of my truck.”