Page 6 of Irish Rebel
“I couldn’t say.” She moved her shoulder, a graceful little shrug. “I don’t know you.”
“No, you don’t. But you think you do. The rover with his eye on the prize, and stable dirt under his nails no matter how he scrubs at them. And less than beneath your notice.”
Surprised, not just by the words but the heat under them, she started to step back, would have stepped back, but he held her in place. As if, she thought, he had the right to.
“That’s ridiculous. Unfair and untrue.”
“Doesn’t matter, to either of us.” He wouldn’t let it matter to him. Wouldn’t let her matter, though holding her had made him ache with ideas that couldn’t take root.
“If your father offers me the job, and I take it, I doubt we’ll be running in the same circles, or dancing the same dance, once I’m an employee.”
There was anger there, she noted, just behind the vivid green of his eyes. “Mr. Donnelly, you’re mistaken about me, my family, and how my parents run their farm. Mistaken, and insulting.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Are you cold or just angry?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re trembling.”
“It’s chilly.” She bit off the words, annoyed that he’d upset her enough to have it show. “I’m going back in.”
“As you like.” He eased away, but kept her hand in his, then angled his head when she tugged at it. “Even the stable boy learns manners,” he murmured and walked her to the door. “Thank you for the dance, Miss Grant. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.”
He knew it could cost him the offer of the job, but he couldn’t resist seeing if there was any fire behind that wall of ice. So he lifted her hand, and with his eyes still on hers, brushed his lips over her knuckles. Back, forth, then back again.
The fire, one violent flash of it, sparked. And there it simmered while she yanked her hand free, turned her back on him and walked back into the polished crowd and perfumed air.
Chapter Two
Dawn at the shedrow was one of the magic times, when fog was eating its way along the ground and the light was a paler, purer gray. Music was in the jingle of harness, the dull thud of boot and hoof as grooms, handlers and horses went about their business. The perfume was horses, hay and summer.
Trailers had already been loaded, Brian imagined, and the horses picked by the man Grant had left in charge already gone to track for their workout or preparation for today’s race. But here on the farm there was other work to be done.
Sprains to be checked, medication to be given, stalls to be mucked. Exercise boys would take mounts to the oval for a workout, or to pony them around. He imagined Royal Meadows had someone to act as clocker and mark the time.
He saw nothing that indicated anything other than first-class here. There was a certain tidiness not all owners insisted upon—or would pay for. Stables, barns, sheds, all were neatly painted, rich, glossy white with dark green trim. Fences were white, too, and in perfect repair. Paddocks and pastures were all as neat as a company parlor.
There was atmosphere as well. It was a clever man, or a rich one, who could afford it. Trees in full leaf dotted the hillside pastures. Brian spotted one, a big beauty of an oak, that rose from the center of a paddock and was fenced around in white wood. In the center grass of the brown oval was a colorful lake of flowers and shrubs. Back a ways, curving between stables and track, were trim green hedges.
He approved of such touches, for the horses. And for the men. Both worked with more enthusiasm in attractive surroundings in his experience. He imagined the Grants had glossy photos of their pretty farm published in fancy magazines.
Of the house as well, he mused, for that had been an impressive sight. Though it had still been more night than day when he’d driven past it, he’d seen the elegant shape of the stone house with its juts of balconies and ornamental iron. Fine big windows, he thought now, for standing and looking out at a kingdom.
There’d been a second structure, a kind of miniature replica of the main house that had nestled atop a large garage. He’d seen the shapes and silhouettes of flowers and shrubberies there as well. And the big shady trees.
But it was the horses that interested him. How they were housed, how they were handled. The shedrow—should he be offered this job and take it—would be his business. The owner was simply the owner.
“You’ll want a look in the stables,” Travis said, leading Brian toward the doors. “Paddy’ll be along shortly. Between us we should be able to answer any questions you might have.”
He got answers just from looking, from seeing, Brian mused. Inside was as tidy as out, with the sloped concrete floors scrubbed down, the doors of the box stalls of strong and sturdy wood each boasting a discreet brass plaque engraved with its tenant’s name. Already stableboys were pitching out soiled hay into barrows or pitching in fresh. The scent of grain, liniment and horse was strong and sweet.
Travis stopped by a stall where a young woman carefully wrapped the foreleg of a bay. “How’s she doing, Linda?”
“Coming along. She’ll be out causing trouble again in a day or two.”
“Sprain?” Brian stepped into the box to run his hands over the yearling’s legs and chest. Linda flicked a glance up at him, then over at Travis, who nodded.
“This is Bad Betty,” Linda told Brian. “She likes to incite riots. She’s got a mild sprain, but it won’t hold her back for long.”
