Page 66 of Irish Rebel
“I intend to wager on him.” While Brian went in to check Finnegan’s leg wrappings, she got papers out of the pocket of the jacket she’d laid aside.
“The wrappings look all right.” He flicked a finger over the stirrups. “And you polished the irons well enough.”
“Glad you approve. Next time you can do it.” She held out the papers.
“What’s this?”
“Papers giving you half interest in Flight of Fancy, also known as Finnegan.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He was half yours anyway, Brian. This just makes it legal.”
His palms went cold and damp. “Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t take that.”
She’d expected him to refuse initially, but she hadn’t expected him to go pale and snarl. “Why? You helped bring him back. You trained him.”
“A couple of weeks’ work, on my off time. Now put those away and stop being foolish.”
When he started to push by her, she simply shifted to block his way. “First, he wouldn’t be racing today if it wasn’t for you. And second, you’re as attached to him as I am. Probably more. If it’s the money—”
“It’s not the money.” Though a part of him knew it was, to some extent. Because it was hers.
“Then what?”
“I don’t own horses. I don’t want to be an owner.”
“That’s a pity, because you are an owner. Or a half owner anyway.”
“I said I’m not accepting it.”
“We’ll argue about it later.”
“There’s nothing to argue about.”
She stepped out of the box, smiled sweetly. “You know, Brian, just because you can make a fifteen hundred pound horse do what you want, doesn’t mean you can budge me one inch. I’m going to go bet on our horse. To win.”
“He’s not our—” He broke off, swore, as she’d already flounced out. “And you don’t bet to win,” he muttered. “It’s nothing personal,” he said to Finnegan who was watching him with soft, sad eyes. “I just can’t be owning things. It’s not that I don’t have great affection and respect for you, for I do. But what happens if in a year or two down the road I move on? Even if I don’t—as it’s feeling more and more that I’d wonder why I would—I can’t have the woman give me a horse. Even a half a horse. Well, not to worry. We’ll straighten it all out later.”
He shouldn’t have been nervous. It was pitiful. It was just another horse, just another race. It wasn’t, as Betty was, a shining gift. This was an apple-loving, sweet-natured gelding who’d already broken down once and had lost far more races than he’d won in his short career.
Brian was fond of him, of course, and wanted him to have his day in the sun. But he had no illusions about this one being a champion.
He was simply guiding the horse toward doing what he’d been born for. And that was run his best.
And still, nerves danced in Brian’s belly.
“The track’s dry and fast,” he told Larry as they walked past the backstretch. “That’s good for him. The field’s crowded, and he likes that, too. Blue Devil’s the number six horse, and odds-on favorite. There’s reason for that.”
“I know Blue Devil.” Larry nodded and gnashed a mouthful of gum. “He can slither through a pack like a snake. He gets in the lead, he sets a fast pace.”
“I expect that’s what he’ll do today. I need you to feel what Finnegan’s got in him. I don’t want you overracing him, but don’t hold him back past the first turn. Let him test his legs.”
“I’ll take care of him, Mr. Donnelly. Here’s Miss Grant come to see us off. He looks fine, Miss Grant. You done good with him.”
“Yes.” A little breathless from the run back from the betting window, she gave Finnegan a brisk rub. “We did.”
When the call sounded for riders up, she stepped back. “Good luck.”
