Page 32 of Irish Rebel
Keeley headed up a gentle slope where trees were still lush and green despite the encroaching fall. “I’d use Foxfire with her,” she said casually. “He’s a sturdy one, with lots of experience. He loves to charge out of the gate. She sees him do it a couple of times, she won’t want to be left behind.”
He’d already decided on Foxfire as Betty’s gate tutor, but shrugged. “I’m thinking about it. So... have I passed the audition here, Miss Grant?”
Keeley lifted a brow, and a smile ghosted around her mouth as she looked Brian over. She’d been checking his form, naturally. “Well, you’re competent enough at a trot.” With a light tap, she sent Sam into a canter. The minute Brian matched her pace, she headed into a gallop.
Oh, she missed this. Every day she couldn’t fly out across the fields, over the hills, was a sacrifice. There was nothing to match it—the thrill of speed, the power soaring under her, through her, the thunder of hooves and the whip of wind.
She laughed as Brian edged by her. She’d seen the quick grin of challenge, and answered it by letting Sam have his head.
It was like watching magic take wing, Brian thought. The muscular black horse soared over the ground with the woman on his back. They streaked over another rise, moving west, into the dying sun. The sky was a riot of color, a painting slashed with reds and golds. It seemed to him she would ride straight into it, through it.
And he’d have no choice but to follow her.
When she pulled up, turned to wait for him, her face flushed with pleasure, her eyes gleaming with it, he knew he’d never seen the like.
And wanting her was apt to kill him.
“I should’ve given you a handicap,” she called out. “Mule runs like a demon, but he’s no match for this one.” She leaned over the saddle to pat Sam’s neck. She straightened, shook her hair back. “Gorgeous out, isn’t it?”
“Hot as blazes,” Brian corrected. “How long does summer last around here?”
“As long as it likes. Mornings are getting chilly, though, and once the sun dips down behind the hills, it’ll cool off quickly enough. I like the heat. Your Irish blood’s not used to it yet.”
She turned Sam so she could look down at Royal Meadows. “It’s beautiful from up here, isn’t it?”
The buildings spread out, neat, elegant, with the white fences of the paddocks, the brown oval, the horses being led to the stable. A trio of weanlings, all legs and energy, raced in the near pasture.
“From down there, too. It’s the best I’ve ever seen.”
That made her smile. “Wait till you see it in winter, with snow on the hills and the sky thick and gray with more—or so blue it hurts your eyes to look at it. And the foalings start and there are babies trying out their legs. When I was little, I couldn’t wait to run down and see them in the morning.”
They began to walk again, companionably now, as the light edged toward dusk. She hadn’t expected to be so comfortable with him. Aware, yes, she always seemed aware of him now. But this simple connection, a quiet evening ride, was a pleasure.
“Did you have horses when you were a boy?”
“No, we never owned them. But it wasn’t so far to the track, and my father’s a wagering man.”
“And are you?”
He tilted his face toward her. “I like playing the odds, and fortunately, have a better feel for them than my father. He loved the look of them, and the rush of a race, but never did he gain any understanding of horses.”
“You didn’t gain any, either,” Keeley said and had him frowning at her. “What you’ve got you were born with. Just like them,” she added, gesturing toward the weanlings.
“I think that’s a compliment.”
“I don’t mind giving them when they’re fact.”
“Well, fact or fiction, horses have been the biggest part of my life. I remember going along with my da and seeing the horses. When he could manage it, he liked to go early, check out the field, talk with the clockers and the grooms, get himself a feel for things—or so he said. He lost his money more often as not. It was the process that appealed to him.”
That, and the flask in his pocket, Brian thought, but with tolerance. His father had loved the horses and the whiskey. And his mother had understood neither.
“One of the first times I went along, I saw an exercise boy, a very young lad, ponying a sorrel around the track. And I thought, there, that’s it. That’s what I want to do, for there can’t be anything better than doing that for your life and your living. And while I was still young enough, and small enough, I slid out of going to school as often as it could be managed and hitched rides to the track to hustle myself. Walk hots, muck stalls, whatever.”
“It’s romantic.”
He caught himself. He hadn’t meant to ramble on that way, but the ride, the evening, the whole of it made him sentimental. When he started to laugh at her statement, she shook her head.
“No, it is. People who aren’t a part of the world of it don’t understand, really. The hard work, the disappointments, the sweat and blood. Freezing predawn workouts, bruises and pulled muscles.”
