Page 67 of Irish Rebel
“Talk to him.” Brian gave Larry a leg up. “Don’t forget to talk to him all the way. Don’t let him forget what he’s there for.”
“They look good,” Keeley decided. “Here.”
“What now?”
“I put fifty down for you.”
“You—damn it.”
“You can pay me back out of your winnings,” she said breezily. “We’d better get to the rail. I don’t want to miss the start. Have you seen my family?”
“No. They’re around. The lot of you’s everywhere.” Because she was moving through the crowd, he grabbed her hand. He could imagine her being trampled. “I don’t know why you don’t go up into the bar where you can watch in civilized surroundings.”
“Snob.”
“It’s not a matter of—” He gave up. “I want you to tear up those papers.”
“No. Look they’re bringing them to the gate.”
“I’m not taking a half interest in your horse.”
“Our horse. Who’s number three? I lost myRacing Form.”
“Prime Target, eight to five, likes to come from behind. Keeley, it’s a thoughtful gesture, but—”
“It’s a sensible one. Okay, here we go.” She shot him a brilliant smile. “Our first race.”
The bell rang.
They shot out of the gate, ten muscular bodies with men clinging fiercely to their backs. Within seconds they were merged into one speeding form with legs reaching, flying, striking. Silks of red, white, gold, green streamed by in a shock of color. And the sound was huge.
Blindly Keeley groped for Brian’s hand and clung.
She lost her breath, and her sense, in the sheer thrill.
Clouds of dust spewed from the dry track, jockeys slanted forward like dolls, and the pack began to break apart at the second turn.
“He’s holding on to fourth,” Keeley shouted. “He’s holding on.”
The lead horse edged forward. A head, a half a length. Finnegan bulled up the line, nipping the distance, vying for third. Keeley heard the crowd around her, the solid roar of it, but her heart pounded to the rhythm of hoofbeats.
Those legs stretched, reached, lifted.
“He’s gaining.” She began to laugh, even as her hand clamped on Brian’s, she laughed. From the joy bursting inside her, she might have been riding low on the gelding’s back herself. “He’s gaining. He’s moving up, into second. Would you look at him?”
He was looking, and the grin on his face was wide. “I didn’t give him enough credit for guts. Not nearly enough credit. He’ll move on the backstretch. If he’s still got it in him, he’ll move.”
And he moved, a big, unhandsome horse at twenty-to-one odds with a washed-up jockey in the irons. He moved like a bullet, streaking down the dirt, charging the leader, running neck-in-neck with the favorite while the crowd screamed.
Seconds before the finish line, he pulled ahead by a nose.
“He won.” Keeley whirled to Brian. She wondered if the shock on his face mirrored her own. “My God, Brian, he won!”
“Two miracles in one day.” He let out a short, baffled laugh, then another, longer. Riding on the thrill, he plucked Keeley off her feet and spun her in circles.
“I never expected it.” She threw her arms in the air, then wrapped them around his neck and kissed him. “I never expected him to win.”
“You bet on him.”
