Page 12 of Irish Rebel
“Have you no wish for your own place, your own champions?”
“I toyed with it—but in the end, no, it wasn’t for me.” He turned his attention back to Brian. “Is that what you’re after in the end?”
“No. Your own place means you’re rooted, doesn’t it? And there’s no moving on if moving on strikes you. In any case, most owners leave the work and the decisions to the trainer, so you don’t own, but you run.”
“Travis Grant knows how to work.” Paddy inclined his head. “He knows his horses. He loves them. If you earn his trust, he’ll trust you, but he’ll know every move you make. He’s not one for strolling into the winner’s circle after the day is done. Shedrow business will be his business, and Dee’s, as much as it is yours. Whether you like it or not.”
“His wife?”
Amused now, Paddy sat back. “You met her last night when she was done up fancy. I like seeing her looking fine that way. You’re more like to see her down in the stables lancing an abscess or soothing a colicky mare. She’s no delicate flower. My Dee’s a Thoroughbred. And she’s bred true. Not one of her children would back away from a hard day’s work when it’s needed. You’ll learn for yourself how things go around here, and you’ll find it’s not such a far distance from main house to shedrow as it is in some places.”
“It’s usually better all around if it is,” Brian muttered, and Paddy cackled with laughter.
“Right you are, lad, in most cases. Owners can be a fly in your ointment without a doubt. You’ll make up your own mind about this place, and these owners. And I hope you’ll let me know what you think after a bit of time’s passed. Now, let’s take a look at the condition book to start off.”
When Brian left Paddy, he was satisfied with the world in general. Or what, he thought as he trooped down the stairs, was soon to become his world in general. He’d make his mark at Royal Meadows, and live well doing it. His quarters were first-rate. The truth was he’d have been willing to live in a hovel for the chance to work with Travis Grant’s stable.
Everything he’d ever wanted was at his fingertips. He didn’t intend to let it slip through.
He turned toward the stables where he’d parked his rental car. Paddy had told him to have a look at the little red lorry down that way, as he’d be selling it before leaving for Ireland. If the thing ran, it would do, Brian thought. He didn’t require anything but the most elemental means of transportation. And time to get used to driving on the wrong damn side of the road.
As he rounded the garage he was scowling over that one sticking point, and nearly ran into Keeley.
She looked as fresh and perfect as she had that morning. Not a hair out of place, not a speck of dust on her boots. He wondered how the hell she managed it.
“Good day to you, Miss Grant. I saw you in the paddock earlier. That’s a fine horse.”
She was hot, irritable and very close to flash point since the photographer had hit on her. The photo shoot had been necessary. She needed the exposure, the publicity, but she damn well didn’t need the hassle.
“Yes, he is.” She made to move by, and Brian shifted to block her.
“Begging your pardon, princess. Did I neglect to pull my forelock?”
She held up a hand. Her temper was a vile thing when loose, and the drumming in her head warned her it was very close to springing free.
“I’m already annoyed. It won’t take much to push me to furious.” But she drew a deep breath. If the scene in the kitchen earlier meant anything, Brian Donnelly was now part of Royal Meadows. She didn’t make a habit of sniping at a member of the team.
“Sam’s a nine-year-old. Hunter. A Thoroughbred, Irish Draught horse cross. I’ve had him since he was four.” She lifted the bottle she carried and sipped her soft drink.
“Is that all you put in you?” He tapped a finger on the bottle. “Bubbles and chemicals?”
“You sound like my mother.”
“Maybe that’s why you have a headache.”
Keeley dropped the hand she’d pressed to her temple. Those eyes of his, she thought, were entirely too keen. “I’m fine.”
“Turn around.”
“I beg your pardon.”
Brian merely stepped around her, laid his hands on the nape of her neck. Her already stiff shoulders jerked in protest. “Relax. I’m not after grabbing you in a fit of passion when any member of your family might come along. I’d like to put in at least one day on the job before I get the boot.”
As he spoke he was kneading, pressing, running those strong fingers over the knots. He hated seeing anything in pain. “Blow out a breath,” he ordered when she stood rigid as stone. “Come on,maverneen, don’t be so hardheaded. Blow out a nice long breath for me.”
Out of curiosity she obeyed and tried not to think how marvelous his hands felt on her skin.
“Now another.”
