Page 7 of Irish Rebel
“Troublemaker, are you?” Brian put his hands on either side of Betty’s head, looked her in the eye. A quick, hot thrill raced through him at what he saw. What he sensed. Here, he thought, was magic, ready to spring if only you could find the right incantation.
“It happens I like troublemakers,” he murmured.
“She’ll nip,” Linda warned. “Especially if you turn your back on her.”
“You don’t want a bite of me, do you, darling?”
As if in challenge, Betty laid her ears back, and Brian grinned at her. “We’ll get along, as long as I remember you’re the boss.” When he ran his fingertips down her neck, back again, she snorted at him. “You’re too pretty for your own good.”
He murmured to her, shifting without thought to Gaelic as Linda finished the bandage. Betty’s ears pricked back up, and she watched him now with more interest than malice.
“She wants to run.” Brian stepped back, scanning the filly’s form. “Born for it. And more, born to win.”
“One look tells you that?” Travis asked.
“It’s in the eyes. You won’t want to breed this one when she comes into season, Mr. Grant. She needs to fly first.”
Deliberately he turned his back, and as Betty lifted her head, he glanced back over his shoulder. “I don’t think so,” he said quietly. They eyed each other another moment, then Betty tossed her head in the equine equivalent of a shrug.
Amused, Travis moved aside to let Brian out of the box. “She terrorizes the stableboys.”
“Because she can, and is likely smarter than half of them.” He gestured to the opposite box. “And who’s this handsome old man here?”
“That’s Prince, out of Majesty.”
“Royal Meadow’s Majesty?” There was reverence in Brian’s voice as he crossed over. “And his Prince. You had your day, didn’t you, sir?” Gently Brian stroked a hand down the dignified nose of the aged chestnut. “Like your sire. I saw him race, Mr. Grant, at the Curragh, when I was a lad, a stableboy. I’d never seen his like before, nor since for that matter. I worked with one of the stallions this one sired. He didn’t embarrass his breeding.”
“Yes, I know.”
Travis showed him through the tack room, the breeding shed and birthing stalls, past a paddock where a yearling was going through his paces on a longe line, and then to the oval where a handsome stallion was being ponied around in the company of a well-behaved gelding.
A wiry little man with a blue cap over a white fringe of hair turned as they approached. He had a stopwatch dangling from his pocket and a merry grin on his weathered leprechaun’s face.
“So you’ve had your tour then, have you? And what do you think of our little place here?”
“It’s a lovely farm.” Brian extended a hand. “I’m pleased to meet you again, Mr. Cunnane.”
“Likewise, young Brian from Kerry.” Paddy gave Brian’s hand a firm shake. “I told them to hold Zeus until you got here, Travis. I thought you and the lad would like a look at his morning run.”
“King Zeus, out of Prince,” Travis explained. “He’s running well for us.”
“He took your Belmont Stakes last year,” Brian remembered.
“That’s right. Zeus likes a long run. Burke’s colt snatched the Derby from him, but Zeus came back for the Breeder’s Cup. He’s a strong competitor, and he’ll sire champions.”
At Paddy’s signal, an exercise boy trotted over, mounted on a magnificent chestnut. The horse gleamed dark red in the strengthening sun, with a blaze like a lightning bolt down the center of his forehead. He pranced, sidestepping, head tossing.
Brian knew, at one glance, he was looking at poetry.
“What do you think of him?” Paddy asked.
“Beautiful form” was all Brian said.
Twelve hundred pounds of muscle atop impossibly long and graceful legs. A wide chest, sleek body, proud head. And eyes, Brian saw, that glinted with ferocious pride.
“Take him around, Bobbie,” Paddy ordered. “Don’t rate him. We’ll let him show off a bit this morning.” Whistling between his teeth, Paddy leaned on the fence, pulled out the stopwatch.
With his thumbs hooked in his pockets, Brian watched Zeus trot back onto the track, prance in place until the boy controlled him. Then the rider rose up in the stirrups, leaned over that long, powerful neck. Zeus shot forward, a bright arrow from a plucked bow. Those long legs lifted, stretched, fell, flew, shooting out clumps of dirt like bullets as he rounded the first curve.
