Page 52 of Irish Rebel
“What smoldering looks?”
“Get out.” Mo cheerfully wiggled her eyebrows. “I got singed and I was only an innocent bystander. The guy looks at you like you were the last candy bar on the shelf and he’d die without a chocolate fix.”
“That’s a ridiculous analogy, and you’re imagining things.”
“He was going to pound Tarmack into dust for dissing you. Man, I just wanted to melt when he hauled the guy up by the collar. Too romantic.”
“There’s nothing romantic about a fight. And though I certainly could have handled Tarmack myself, I appreciated Brian’s help.”
Damn it, she thought. She hadn’t even thanked him. Scowling, she stomped out of the box for a pitchfork.
“Yeah, you could have handled him. You handle everything. But not really needing to be rescued sort of makesbeingrescued more exciting, you know.”
“No, I don’t know,” Keeley snapped. “Go to school, Mo. I’ve got mucking out to do.”
“I’m going, I’m going. Sheesh. You must be low on the caffeine intake this morning. I’ll come by later to see how the gelding’s doing. I’ve got a kind of vested interest, you know? See you.”
“Yeah, fine. Whatever.” Keeley muttered to herself as she went to work on the stalls. There was nothing wrong with being able to handle things herself. Nothing wrong with wanting to. And she did appreciate Brian’s help.
And she didn’t need caffeine.
“I like caffeine,” she grumbled. “I enjoy it, and that’s entirely different from needing it. Entirely. I could give it up anytime I wanted, and I’d barely miss it.”
Annoyed, she snagged the soft drink she’d left on a shelf and guzzled.
All right, so maybe she would miss it. But only because she liked the taste. It wasn’t like a craving or an addiction or...
She couldn’t say why Brian popped into her head just then. She was certain if he’d seen her staring in a kind of horror at a soft drink bottle, he’d have been amused. It was debatable what his reaction would be if he’d realized she wasn’t actually seeing the bottle, but his face.
No, that wasn’t a need, either, she thought quickly. She did notneedBrian Donnelly. It was attraction. Affection—a cautious kind of affection. He was a man who interested her, and whom she admired in many ways. But it wasn’t as if she needed...
“Oh God.”
It had to be overreaction, she decided, and set the bottle aside as carefully as she would have a container of nitro. What she was going through was something as simple as overromanticizing an affair. That would be natural enough, she told herself, particularly since this was her first.
She didn’t want to be in love with him. She began wielding the pitchfork vigorously now, as if to sweat out a fever. She didn’tchooseto be in love with him. That was even more important. When her hands trembled she ignored them and worked harder still.
By the time her mother joined her, Keeley had herself under control enough to casually ask Adelia to work in the office while she exercised Sam.
Keeley Grant had never run from a problem in her life, and she wasn’t about to start now. She saddled her mount, then rode off to clear her head before she dealt with the problem at hand.
The portable starting gate was in place on the practice oval. The air was soft and cool. Brian had seen the blush of color coming onto the leaves, the hints of change. Though he imagined it would all be a sight in another week or two, his attention was narrowed onto the horses.
He was working in fields of five, using two yearlings and three experienced racers at a go. This last phase of schooling just prior to public racing would teach him every bit as much as it taught the yearlings.
He needed to watch their style, learn their preferences, their quirks, their strengths. Much of it would be guesses—educated ones to be sure, but guesses nonetheless, at least until they had a few solid races under their belts.
But Brian was very good at guessing.
“I want Tempest on the rail.” He chewed on a cigar as it helped him think. “Then The Brooder, then Betty, Caramel and Giant on the outside.”
He glanced around at the sound of hoofbeats, then lost his train of thought as Keeley trotted toward the oval. Irritated, he looked deliberately away and slammed the door on that increasingly wide area of his mind she insisted on occupying.
“I don’t want the yearlings rated,” he ordered, telling the exercise boys not to hold them back. “Nor punished, either. No more than a tap of the bat to signal. My horses don’t need to be whipped to run.”
Despite his concentration, he was aware when Keeley dismounted behind him. He took out his stopwatch, turning it over and over in his hand as the field was led to the gate.
“I don’t know the yearling at the rail,” Keeley said conversationally as she looped her reins around the top rung of the fence.
