Page 61 of Irish Rebel
There, he thought as he sat and began to dish up salad for both of them. Safe ground. “Of course he’s registered as Flight of Fancy.”
“Yes, I knew that.” She tucked the flowers in a vase, and set them on the table before joining Brian. “Finnegan suits him better, I think.”
“He’s yours to call what you like now. His record in his first year of racing was uneven. His blood stock is very decent, but he never came up to potential, and his owners sold him off as a three-year-old.”
“I was going to look up his data. You’ve saved me the trouble.” She broke a hunk of bread in half, offered it. “He has good lines, and he responds well. Even after the abuse he hasn’t turned common.”
“The thing is he did considerably better in his third year. Some of his match-ups were uneven, and in my mind he was a bit overraced. I’d have done things differently if I’d been working with him.”
“You do things different, Brian, all around.”
“Ah well. In any case, he went into that claiming race and that’s how Tarmack got his hands on him.”
“Bastard,” Keeley said so coolly, Brian cocked his head.
“We won’t argue there. I’m thinking you’d be wasting him in your school here. He was born for the track, and that’s where he belongs.”
Surprised, she frowned over her salad. “You think he should race?”
“I think you should consider it. Seriously. He’s a Thoroughbred, Keeley, bred to run. The need for it’s in his blood. It’s only that he’s been misused and mismanaged. The athelete’s inside him, and though your school’s a fine thing, it’s not enough for him.”
“If he’s prone to knee spavins—”
“You don’t know that. It’s not a hereditary thing. It was an injury a man was responsible for. You could have your father look him over if you don’t think I’ve got the right of it.”
She considered a moment, sipped her wine. “I certainly trust your judgment, Brian. It’s not that. You and I both know that a horse can lose heart under mistreatment. Heart and spirit. I just wouldn’t want to push him.”
“Sure, it’s up to you.”
“Would you work with him?”
“I could.” He ladled chili into bowls. “But so could you. You know what to do, what to look for.”
She was already shaking her head. “Not for racing. I know my area, and it’s not the track. If I consider running him again, I’d want him to have the best.”
“That would be me,” he said with such easy arrogance she grinned.
“Is that a yes?”
“If your father agrees to having me work your horse on the side, I’m happy to. We’ll start him off easy, and see how he goes.” He started to leave it at that, then because he thought she’d understand, hoped she would, finished. “It was in his eyes this morning, when you rode him down to the track. It was there. The yearning.”
“I didn’t see it.” She reached over to touch his hand. “I’m glad you did.”
“It’s my job to see it.”
“It’s your gift,” she corrected. “Your family must be proud of you.” She spoke casually, began to eat again, then stared at him, baffled, when he laughed. “Why is that funny?”
“Pride wouldn’t exactly be part of their general outlook to my way of thinking.”
“Why?”
“People can’t find pride in what they don’t understand. Not all families, Keeley, are as cozy as yours.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it. Not only for whatever lack there was in his family feelings, but for deliberately prying.
“Sure it’s not such a matter. We get on all right.”
She meant to let it go, to change the subject, but the words burned inside her. “If they’re not proud of you, then they’re stupid.” When he stared, his next bite of chili halfway to his mouth, she shrugged. “I’m sorry, but they are.”
