Page 4 of Irish Rebel
“Yes, I do. And a loud one. I hope you still have your hearing left after dancing with Sarah.”
Brian grinned, but he was cautious. “She’s charming—and ambitious. Veterinary medicine’s a challenging field, and especially when you specialize in horses.”
“She’s never wanted anything else. She went through stages, of course,” Travis continued as they walked down a wide white stone path. “Ballerina, astronaut, rock star. But under it all, she always wanted to be a vet. I’m going to miss her, and Patrick, when they leave for college next week. Your family will miss you, I imagine, if you stay in America.”
“I’ve been coming and going for some time. If I settle in America, it won’t be a problem.”
“My wife misses Ireland,” Travis murmured. “A part of her’s still there, no matter how deep she’s dug her roots here. I understand that. But...” He paused and in the backwash of light studied Brian’s face. “When I take on a trainer, I expect his mind, and his heart, to be in Royal Meadows.”
“That’s understood, Mr. Grant.”
“You’ve moved around quite a bit, Brian,” Travis added. “Two years, occasionally three at one organization, then you switch.”
“True enough.” Eyes level, Brian nodded. “You could say I haven’t found the place that wants to hold me longer than that. But while I’m where I am, that farm, those horses, have all my attention and loyalty.”
“So I’m told. The boots I’m looking to fill are big. No one’s managed to fill them to my satisfaction since Paddy Cunnane retired. He suggested I take a look at you.”
“I’m flattered.”
“You should be.” Travis was pleased to see nothing more than mild interest on Brian’s face. He appreciated a man who could hold his own thoughts. “I’d like you to come by the farm when you’re settled.”
“I’m settled enough. I prefer moving right along if it’s all the same to you.”
“It is.”
“Fine. I’ll come ’round tomorrow, for the morning workout, and have a look at how you do things, Mr. Grant. After I’ve seen what you have, and you’ve heard what I’d have in mind to do about it, we’ll know if it works for both of us. Will that suit you?”
Cocky young son of a bitch, Travis thought, but didn’t smile. He, too, knew how to hold his thoughts. “It suits me fine. Come on back inside. I’ll buy you a beer.”
“Thanks just the same, but I think I’ll go on back to my hotel. Dawn comes early.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Travis held out a hand, shook Brian’s briskly. “I’ll look forward to it.”
“So will I.”
Alone, Brian took out a slim cigar, lighted it, then blew out a long stream of smoke.
Paddy Cunnane had recommended him? The idea of it had both nerves and pleasure stirring in his gut. He’d told Travis he’d been flattered, but in truth, he’d been staggered. In the racing world, that was a name spoken of with reverence.
Paddy Cunnane trained champions the way others ate breakfast—with habitual regularity.
He’d seen the man a few times over the course of years, and had spoken to him once. But even with a well-fed ego, Brian had never thought that Paddy Cunnane had taken notice of him.
Travis Grant wanted someone to fill Paddy’s boots. Well, Brian Donnelly couldn’t and wouldn’t do that. But he’d damn well make his mark with his own, and he’d make sure that would be good enough for anyone.
Tomorrow morning they would see what they would see.
He started down the path again when the light and shadows in front of him shifted briefly. Glancing over, he saw Keeley come out of the glass doors and walk across a flagstone terrace.
Look at her, Brian thought, so cool and solitary and perfect. She was made for moonlight, he decided. Or perhaps it was made for her. What breeze there was fluttered the layers of the filmy blue dress she wore as she crossed over to sniff at the flowers that grew out of a big stone urn in colors of rust and butter.
On impulse, he snapped off one of the late-blooming roses from its bush, and strode onto the terrace. She turned at the sound of his footsteps. Irritation flickered first in her eyes, so quickly here and gone he might have missed it if he hadn’t been so focused on her. Then it was smoothed away, coated over with a thin sheen of cool politeness.
“Mr. Donnelly.”
“Miss Grant,” he said in the same formal tone, then held out the rose. “Those there are a bit too humble for the likes of you. This suits better.”
“Really?” She took the rose because it would have been rude not to, but neither looked at it nor lifted it to sniff. “I like simple flowers. But thank you for the thought. Are you enjoying your evening?”
