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She thought of Earl, ill and alone; McKenzie, shorthanded and disappointed; Natasha, angry and full of hate; and her students who sat in a classroom without her. She thought of how she’d failed them all and how she’d failed herself.
Then her fingers stilled against her throbbing lip, and an unexpected surge of determination coursed through her as she realized how much Earl would need her in the coming days . . . and how—even though her life was crumbling around her—she wouldn’t fail him again.
* * *
“What do you mean you’re quitting?” Brooks Moore demanded.
He had spent the past decade of his thirty-two years of life adhering to a strategic business plan he’d infused with one primary goal: justice. A hard-fought objective he’d been on the brink of achieving but that now squirmed in his clenched fist, threatening to slide between his fingers and bolt out of his reach.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me now,” Brooks said. “We’re only nine months away from the Derby.” The fall breeze tugged at the resignation letter he held, fluttering the crumpled corners against his knuckles as he eyed the older man who stood in front of him. “Your reputation for loyalty is unblemished. That’s the reason I hired you in the first place.”
Rhett Thomas, sharp-eyed, thin-lipped, and hard-bitten—a testimony to thirty years spent navigating the corrupt underbelly of horse racing as a trainer—stepped closer on the porch of Brooks’s three-story colonial-style home and met him head-on. “Is that the only reason?”
Brooks cut his gaze to the left, past Rhett’s stocky physique, to the eight hundred acres of sunlit Kentucky land that housed his custom-built home, state-of-the-art stables, and bourbon distillery buildings. He’d undertaken a risky venture—blending bourbon, thoroughbreds, tourism, and his ultimate life’s goal into the thriving business of Original Sin—but his plan had been solid and successful . . . until now.
Gritting his teeth, he faced Rhett again. “I hired you because you were known as the most highly skilled and devoutly loyal trainer in the business. Both of which I witnessed myself throughout your two-year tenure in my stables, training my thoroughbred. And now, at the eleventh hour, you tell me you’re walking.” An unexpected pang moved through Brooks, cutting deep, twisting his mouth. “I thought we were in this for the long haul. I thought we’d established some level of trust between us.”
Rhett nodded. “We have. You’ve been a great partner, Brooks. I’d even go so far as to say you’ve been the best partner I’ve had in my three decades in this sport.”
“Then wh—?”
“You’re also in this for the worst reasons.” Rhett gestured toward the lush bluegrass, massive oaks, and rolling hills extending beyond them. “Look at what you have. Look at how much you’ve achieved at such a young age. You’ve got more here, deeded and thriving, than all your ancestors combined. More than most men could accumulate over ten lifetimes.” His tone softened. “Forgive me, Brooks. But your father didn’t know when to stop . . . and neither do you.”
Brooks bristled. The words were a familiar refrain he’d heard often over the years, but he’d discovered that no matter how much time passed, the wound that festered inside his soul was still as fresh as the day it had been inflicted.
His father had never walked the straight and narrow path—no, not Deacon Moore. He’d developed a gambling habit in his twenties that had morphed into an addiction over the years, and beset by vices and tremendous losses, he’d struggled to remain loyal to his wife and son. Deacon had gambled and lost his life savings, but he’d always safeguarded the deed to Moore family land, especially Rose Farm—a gorgeous stretch of Kentucky acreage where healthy thoroughbreds were bred, and which would serve as a financial safety net for his wife and son.
The Moore family business had thrived for generations until seventeen years ago when Deacon’s gambling losses had left him vulnerable, and the Harris family—Spencer Harris, in particular—had wielded their wealth and power and connived their way into stealing the only financial asset Deacon had left. Months after losing Rose Farm, Spencer had taken the Moore family home as well. Deacon, devastated and destitute, had succumbed to his demons and taken his own life, leaving Brooks and his mother, Ada, grief-stricken, homeless, and the target of ridicule.
One month after that, Ada had died from heart failure (a broken heart, Brooks recalled a nurse whispering) and he’d been placed in a local foster home, where he’d spent three years nurturing the rage inside him. Anger with a purpose, he’d discovered quickly, made a man stronger than tears.
It’d taken Brooks years to rebuild and surpass his family’s wealth—thanks to a blend of luck, risk, and hard work that would’ve shocked even his own mother . . . if she’d lived to see it. Still, no amount of money could buy a good family name, sincere respect, or entry into the social circles of the local elite. A sphere Brooks had to enter to gain access to Spencer and hit the other man’s pride, power, and wealth where it would cause the most damage.
Brooks clenched his jaw as he scanned the expansive grounds of his estate, then smiled tightly at Rhett. “I think it’s obvious I’m not careless with money.”
“I never said gambling was your addiction.” Rhett’s gaze roved over his face for a moment, and then he sighed. “Look, I’m not doing this on a whim. Fact is, I don’t have much choice in the matter.”
Brooks narrowed his eyes. “Who didn’t give you a choice?”
Rhett looked away, lifted his face into the cool breeze rustling the bluegrass, and closed his eyes. “Brooks—”
“What’s he holding?”
Rhett remained silent.
“What’s he holding, Rhett?” A rueful smile lifted Brooks’s lips. “Or maybe I’m wrong? Maybe our enemy isn’t the same after all?”
Rhett ducked his gray head, opened his heavy-lidded eyes, and stared at his worn boots. “I’m not a young man, Brooks,” he said softly. “I’m not a rich or influential one either—never have been. I’m two years away from being able to afford to retire and, hopefully, have a long, peaceful stretch of rest in front of me to spend with my wife and grandkids. My time is the second most valuable asset I possess.”
“What’s he hol—”
“My name.” Rhett lifted his head and glared. “Spencer Harris has my reputation in his palm, threatening to crush it if I continue working with you. If it were just my loss, I wouldn’t care. But it’s my family’s. My sons are in this business, and as talented as they are, they’re set to climb as high as they aim—but not without a decent rep. In this business, word-of-mouth makes or breaks a man, and my boys—as hard as they’ve worked for what little they have—don’t deserve to have their livelihood stripped from them by that bastard because they share my name.”
Brooks held out Rhett’s letter of resignation. “All the more reason to see this through with me. You’ve trained Another Round since his birth—you know what he’s capable of, and so do a lot of others betting on this sport—including Spencer. That’s the only reason he’s doing this. He knows what a Derby win will bring. Spencer won’t be able to touch us when we wi—”
“If we win.” Rhett shook his head. “You of all people know nothing in horse racing is a sure bet. Luck plays its part no matter what we do.”
Brooks held Rhett’s gaze. “Another Round will win.”
