• Twelve •

“It’s fairly safe, little doll.”

Capri

The black Mercedes that had been sent to pick me up at eight this morning drove onto a private airstrip that security had cleared before we could proceed. I was a bundle of nerves and adrenaline as we pulled up near the silver plane. I couldn’t take in everything fast enough as my leg bounced in the seat.

“We’re here, Miss Jewel,” the driver said, then opened his door.

I opened mine and climbed out, not waiting for him to open it for me. That wasn’t necessary. He stopped when he realized I was getting out on my own, then opened the trunk of the car to retrieve my luggage.

“This way,” he informed me as he took my one single roller bag and headed to the ramp leading up to the open door of the plane.

I bit my bottom lip to keep from giggling like an idiot. This was crazy. They had their own plane. I mean, I had known they had one, but seeing it in person and getting to ride in it was just … incredible. Almost as amazing as riding for them.

“Go on up,” the driver told me as he handed off my suitcase to another man planeside.

Still chewing on my lip, I stared at the ramp before making my way up it. I felt as if I had walked into some movie. This was so cool. I couldn’t wait to see what it looked like inside. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t googled it last night. Unfortunately, there were no photos of inside their plane anywhere on the internet. I had seen a few of the outside in some different news articles.

When I reached the top, a lady in a navy-and-white uniform, which consisted of a straight knee-length skirt and a white button-up with a matching jacket, met me.

She smiled and stepped back to wave me inside. “Welcome, Miss Jewel. Can I get you something to drink? Mimosa, coffee, juice?” she asked.

I opened my mouth to respond when my gaze locked on Thatcher. He was sitting in a leather chair with his legs propped up on the table in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He had a red drink in his hand with a celery stick in it that I assumed was a Bloody Mary. The corner of his mouth tugged up slightly as he watched me.

We’d spent almost two hours together with Zephyr on Monday, and he said very little to me. Although I had gotten to take the horse around the track several times, a redheaded woman arrived, barely dressed in much clothing, and ended our session. He left one of the stablehands to take Zephyr and just nodded at me before going inside with the other woman. It had sunk my mood for the rest of the day.

“Water,” I said, swinging my focus back to the lady waiting for me to answer. “Do you have just some water?”

“Of course. With or without ice?”

Why was he here? He hadn’t said he was coming.

“Ice, please.”

She nodded and walked away, leaving me in the cabin with Thatcher.

“Have a seat,” he said, breaking the silence.

I looked around, not sure where I should be sitting.

Why hadn’t he told me he was coming too? I’d have been prepared. I probably would have also put on some makeup and chosen a different outfit. Which was pathetic because the image of that redhead he’d left with on Monday was still taunting me. No amount of makeup would make me look like that. As for clothing, I almost laughed out loud. I had nothing to flaunt. My jeans, tank top, and Converse were more my speed.

“There.” His voice sounded like he’d been up most of the night. It had a scratchy sound to it.

I looked back at him to see he was pointing to the chair across from him.

Okay, so I was sitting near him. We would talk … maybe. He didn’t seem to do much of that. At least not to me. The excitement of this flight had taken a turn. I was now wishing I’d flown commercial. Sitting beside a stranger with a screaming kid.

His eyes followed me as I walked over to sit where he’d directed me. I wished he’d look somewhere else. Anywhere but at me. I was trying to love my body. But when Thatcher was focused on me, I felt as if every flaw I had was on display. Like a neon sign flashing.

Sitting down, I tried to appear casual and smiled at him. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

He took a drink from his glass and continued to study me. “Last-minute change in plans. My father had something come up.”

I hadn’t been sure who was coming with me. Miller had mentioned it would more than likely be Stellan, but he wouldn’t be traveling with me. It seemed that his replacement was going to be though.

“Oh,” I replied.

I wasn’t good with small talk in general, but this was Thatcher. He didn’t seem to be much for conversation. I’d brought a book with me and considered getting it out of my purse to read. But he was still looking at me as he drank more of his Bloody Mary.

“Your water,” the lady said, coming up beside me, then placing it on a coaster that had the Shephard Ranch emblem on it.

“Thank you,” I replied.

“Can I get you anything else?”

I shook my head.

She shifted her gaze to Thatcher. She might be older than him, but the immediate warmth that touched her face made it clear she was attracted to him.

“Mr. Shephard, can I get you anything?”

“Bring out a tray of fruit and cheeses with the cookies once we are in the air,” he told her, barely flicking a glance in her direction.

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

I reached for my glass and took a long drink before putting it back on the table beside me and then studied my hands like a weirdo. My only other option was looking at Thatcher, and this seemed the easiest of the two.

“Have you studied the other horses and the jockeys you’ll be up against on Saturday?” he asked.

My head shot up, and I nodded. “Yes. Several times. Nightly,” I admitted.

Winning this race was vital. I wanted to ride for the Shephards, but I knew losing a race that their horse was favored to win would be bad. I’d be tossed aside quickly, and they’d move on to someone else.

“Taze is a threat,” he said, his dark eyes still on me.

I wished he’d turn on a television or something and stop looking at me. I might be able to relax a little.

“Yes, but Bloodline is better. McGuire is riding Taze in this race. He has gained a few pounds since his last win, and he drinks the night before the race for his nerves. In an early race, it affects his performance.”

Thatcher raised an eyebrow slightly as he studied me. “That’s thorough.”

I shrugged. “It’s best to know your opponent’s weaknesses. McGuire was a last-minute exchange too. He’s not been working with Taze. The jockey who had been scheduled to ride him was newer but hungry. She would have been more of a competition. But she had a fall two weeks ago and broke her ankle.”

I was still nervous. Even with all this knowledge and the fact that I was riding the best horse there, I feared I would make a mistake. I’d trained, worked on my upper and lower body strength, eaten clean, stayed off alcohol, but that didn’t make me foolproof. Nothing did.

“When did you shift from barrel racing to thoroughbreds?” he asked me.

Surprised, I stared at him for a moment. He remembered. Or he heard that I’d once barrel raced. I shouldn’t read into that. It was more likely the latter. His family had probably done a complete background check on me before offering me the job.

“Uh, I made the switch about seven years ago. Slowly at first. I had to train and work to get my jockey license. But my interest came when I was given the chance to go to a race. Watching the track, seeing the jockeys, the energy of the place. It was something I’d never known existed. I wanted it.”

He leaned forward and set his empty glass down. “Tim Markson is a smart man. He knew potential when he saw it.”

How did he know about Tim Markson? How thorough was the background check they had done on me?

Tim Markson wasn’t from around here. I’d met him at a rodeo in Nashville. He’d approached me after a race and mentioned that he thought I’d be a good jockey. Then, he invited me to his stables and had his trainer take me out on a thoroughbred. Two weeks later, he took me to my first race. I had fallen in love with the world of thoroughbred racing that day.

“What do you know about Tim?” I asked.

Thatcher smirked. “He might not be on our level of success in the racing world, but he’s consistent. It takes wealth to truly have a winner. He makes ends meet, and with what he has, he can produce some impressive horses. But they’ll never make it to the winner’s circle,” he finished.

That wasn’t what I’d been asking. “How did you know about my connection to him?”

Thatcher looked amused. I didn’t see how this was funny, but I waited. “We don’t let a jockey ride for us unless we know their history.”

I was right. Background check. Thatcher didn’t remember our past. Or me.

I nodded. “That makes sense.”

His gaze dropped to his phone as the pilot came over the intercom and informed us we were ready for takeoff. I looked for a seat belt, but couldn’t find one. It seemed unsafe to take off without a seat belt. I heard a low chuckle from Thatcher and glanced up at him. He stood and stepped over the table between us, then leaned down close to me. I stopped breathing. He’d never gotten this close to me before.

“There,” he said, his mouth near my ear.

I dropped my eyes to see he had pushed a button I hadn’t noticed because it blended into the leather seat. The metal tip of the seat belt had slid out. He stood back up, and I finally took a deep breath.

Keeping my focus on buckling myself, I didn’t look at him as he moved away. But his scent lingered, and I regretted not inhaling while he’d been so close to me. He smelled like cigarette smoke, which I normally didn’t care for, but mixed with spice and a woodsy scent, it was delicious.

The plane began to speed up, and I gripped the armrests. Taking off wasn’t my favorite. Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I relaxed my shoulders and focused on my lap.

“You’re not afraid of flying, are you?” Thatcher asked.

Guessed I didn’t look as calm as I had been trying to appear. “It’s just takeoff,” I told him.

“It’s fairly safe, little doll,” he drawled.

My head snapped up, and I stared at him. He’d called me little doll. He remembered me. My heart was beating fast for reasons that had nothing to do with the takeoff or this plane.

The corner of his lips quirked. “That worked.”

I blinked, still trying to wrap my head around the fact that he did remember me. Was he the one who had brought the cookies? Had he done it all those years ago?

“What?” I asked, not sure what he meant by that comment.

“You’re not thinking about takeoff anymore,” he replied, then glanced toward the window. “And we are almost ready to level out.”

He was right, but that wasn’t what I wanted to talk about. I had questions, but I didn’t know if I could ask them. His mood changed too quickly. Being alone with him in this cabin for the duration of our flight kept me from blurting out the things I wanted to know.

Had he known who I was when they hired me?

“I, uh, I didn’t think you remembered me. It’s been seven years … or something like that,” I said, watching him closely. I didn’t want him to know I knew exactly how long it had been.

He looked amused. “I have an excellent memory.”

“You haven’t mentioned it before,” I pointed out.

I watched as he leaned forward and picked up an empty glass in front of him.

“What would you have had me say?”

I didn’t know. Nice to see you again. How has life been? No, none of that sounded like something Thatcher would say. In fact, his not bringing it up sounded exactly like how he would have responded.

I shrugged.

The flight attendant arrived, carrying a tray, and set it down on the table between us, then placed two small plates beside it. “Can I get you anything else to drink?” she asked me.

“More water,” I replied, then turned my attention to the tray of food.

The sight of lemon crinkle cookies caused me to let out a small gasp at the significance of them. Did this mean all those cookie deliveries had been him? It was still hard to believe Thatcher would do that. Considering what I had come to know of him, that didn’t fit. He wasn’t kind or thoughtful, yet there were my favorite cookies, surrounded by fresh berries and fancy cheeses.

“Another Bloody Mary?” I heard the lady ask.

“Just a water for me too,” Thatcher replied.

I waited until she walked away before lifting my eyes to look at him.

He was typing something on his phone, looking as relaxed as he had been before. As if my favorite cookies weren’t on the tray in front of us.

Did I ask, point it out, thank him?

He looked up from his phone to me, then at the tray. “What? Those aren’t your favorite anymore?” he asked.

I swallowed hard, then nodded. “Yes.”

“Then, get some before I do,” he replied before dropping his eyes back to his phone and continuing to type.

I was his jockey. Perhaps he’d had the cookies ordered for me because they wanted to treat me. This did not mean he had been delivering them to my front porch at night. That wasn’t typical Thatcher behavior. But then neither was this.

Picking up a plate, I placed two cookies on it, then took three strawberries and a few blackberries before sitting back in my seat.

Thatcher muttered a curse as he stared down at his phone, then stood up and walked toward a door in the back while placing the phone to his ear.

“Then, fucking fix it,” I heard him bark into the phone before disappearing into another room.

I let out a sigh and stared down at the plate in my lap. Reading too much into some cookies was silly. He didn’t know much about me, but this one thing. One evening on a park bench, he’d found out they were my favorite. Perhaps he was supposed to ask me what I’d like for the food on the flight, and he hadn’t wanted to take the time and just gone with the cookies. The one thing he did know.

That had to be it.