Irish Rebel

by Nora Roberts

  "Ma, I can't find my brown shoes." Sarah came bursting in. "Hello, Brian, morning, Dad."

  "Sure I had my eyes right on them for weeks," Adelia said as she flipped sizzling bread in the pan. "I can't think how those shoes slipped out of my sight."

  Sarah rolled her eyes and yanked open the refrigerator. "I'm going to be late."

  "You could wear one of the other six thousand pairs of shoes jammed in your closet," her brother suggested.

  Sarah rapped him on the back with the carton of juice she held and otherwise ignored him. "I don't have time for breakfast." She poured juice, glugged it down. "I'll be home by five."

  "Take a muffin," Adelia ordered.

  "We don't have any blueberry."

  "Take what we do have."

  "Okay, okay." She grabbed a muffin off a plate, gave her mother a smacking kiss on the cheek, rounded the table to give her father one in turn, crossed her eyes at her brother, then dashed out again.

  "Sarah works at the vet's office during the summer," Adelia explained. "The pair of you wash up here now, and we'll get you something hot to eat."

  Since the scent of that fried bread was impossible to resist, Brian started toward the sink. And saw the huge old dog stretched out by the stove. He resembled a long, black and outrageously shaggy floor mat.

  "And who's this?" Automatically Brian crouched down.

  "That's our Sheamus. He's an old man now, and likes to tuck himself at my feet while I'm cooking."

  "My wife's fond of mutts," Travis said as he ran water in the sink.

  "And they of me. He spends most of his time sleeping," she told Brian. "And isn't much for anyone but family now." Even as she said it her brows rose up. Brian had no more than stroked the old dog's head before Sheamus opened his eyes, thumped his ragged tail, and with a moan rolled over onto his back for a belly rub.

  "Would you look at that? He's taken to you."

  "Well mutts and I, we understand each other. You're a good old boy, aren't you? Fat and happy."

  "Someone feeds him table scraps." Adelia slanted a look at her husband.

  "I don't know what you're talking about." All innocence, Travis held out the soap when Brian stood up again.

  "Hah" was all she said to that. "Would you have coffee, Brian, or tea?"

  "Tea, thank you."

  "Sit." She pointed to a chair, then shifted the finger to her son. "You, go. I'll finish with you later."

  "I'll be at the stables, doing penance." With a heavy sigh, Patrick rose, then he wrapped his arms around his mother's waist, laid his chin on top of her head. "Sorry."

  "Get."

  But Brian saw her lay a hand over Patrick's, and squeeze. With a quick grin tossed to the room in general, he bolted.

  "That boy's responsible for every other line on my face," Adelia muttered.

  "What lines?" Travis asked, and made her laugh.

  "That's the right answer. So, Brian, does Royal Meadows suit you?''

  After drying his hands, he crossed to the table to sit. "Yes, ma'am."

  "Oh, we're not so very formal around here. You don't have to ma'am me. Unless you're in trouble." She poured tea for him, and coffee for Travis, then stayed where she was, her free hand resting on her husband's shoulder.

  "How did Zeus do this morning?"

  "Took the oval in a minute-fifty flat."

  "I'm sorry I missed it." She turned back to the stove to heap golden bread onto a platter.

  "I'll offer you a one-year contract," Travis began.

  "Can't you let the boy eat before you talk business?"

  "The boy wants to know."

  Brian took the platter, transferred three slices to his plate. "Yes, he does."

  "You'll have a guaranteed annual salary." Travis named an amount that had Brian struggling not to bobble the syrup. "And, after two months, a two-percent share of each purse. In six months, we'll renegotiate that percentage."

  "We'll negotiate it up." Steady again, Brian cut into his breakfast. "Because I promise you, I'll have earned it."

  They discussed—haggled a bit for form sake—responsibilities, benefits, bonuses, duties.

  Brian was on his second serving of toast, and Travis the last of his coffee, when Keeley came in.

  She wore buff colored jodhpurs. Elegant and form-fitting. Her high black boots were shined like dark mirrors. Her white blouse draped soft with its wide collar buttoned high. She had tamed her hair into a sleek twist that left her face unframed. Small, complicated twists of gold glinted at her ears.

  Her brow lifted at the sight of Brian eating breakfast in her kitchen, and her mouth thinned before it moved into a cool, practiced smile. "Good morning, Mr. Donnelly."

  "Miss Grant."

  "I'm pressed for time this morning." She walked to her father, bent down, rubbed her cheek against his.

  "You should eat," her mother told her.

  "I'll get something later." She went to the refrigerator, took out a soft drink. "I'll be done in a couple of hours." She went to her mother, bending first to scratch Sheamus on the top of the head, then in the same manner she'd used with her father, rubbed cheeks with Adelia before she headed out the back door.

  "I'll come down in a bit," Adelia called after her. "I'd like to watch."

  Twenty minutes later, Brian walked from the house toward the trainer's quarters. He saw Keeley in the paddock in front of the small building. She sat astride a black gelding. As she walked the horse, a man photographed her from various angles.

  Brian paused to watch, hands on hips. She was getting her picture in some fancy magazine, he imagined. Royal Meadows Princess. No doubt she'd look fine and glossy in it.

  She set the horse into a trot, then a canter, swinging in to sail over a jump. Brian's lips pursed. She had good form, he had to admit it. When she repeated that jump, then another, for the camera, he heard her laugh float out over the air.

  He turned away, dismissing her. Trying to.

  He climbed the stairs to the trainer's quarters, knocked.

  "Come in, and welcome. In here," Paddy called out.

  He sat at a desk in a room set up as an office. File cabinets lined one wall, and photographs of horses lined them all. The window was open, and on a shelf beside it sat a computer. If the dust on its cover was any indication, it was rarely, if ever, used.

  Paddy's glasses balanced on the end of his nose as he gestured to a chair. "You and Travis worked out your details."

  "We did. He's a fair man."

  "Did you expect otherwise?"

  "I don't expect anything from owners, and that way they don't often surprise me."

  With a chuckle Paddy shoved up his glasses, scratched his nose. "This one might."

  "I want to thank you for putting my name in so Mr. Grant would consider me."

  "I've kept my eye and ear on things, though I've retired. Well, retired twice now, if the truth be known, and come out of it again as Travis and Dee haven't been satisfied with the trainers who've come along. This time I mean it to stick. I mean you to stick, boy."

  When his glasses slid down again, Paddy grunted in annoyance and took them off. "We'll be bunking here together, if you have no objection, for the next week. After that, I'll be off, and the place is yours."

  "Where are you going?"

  "Home. Back to Ireland."

  "After all these years?"

  "I was born there. I've a mind to die there—though I've life left in me, no mistake. I've a yearning to spend the last years of it at home."

  "What'll you do there?"

  "Oh, go to the pub to tell lies," Paddy said with a twinkling grin. "Drink a pint of decent Guinness. You'll miss that here, I can tell you. It's just not the same built out of a Yank tap."

  Brian had to laugh. "It's a long way to go for a pint, even for Guinness."

  "Well now, there's a little farm in the south of Cork, not far from Skibbereen. Do you know Skibbereen, Brian?"

  "Aye. It's a pretty town."
/>   "Sloping streets and painted doorways," Paddy said, a bit dreamily. "Well, the farm's a bit of a ways from that pretty town. My Dee was raised there, by my sister after Dee's parents died. When my sister got sickly, the farm fell on hard times with Dee trying to run it and tend to her aunt Lettie. In the end, Lettie passed and the farm was lost, and Dee came here to me. A few years ago, the farm came up for sale, and though she told him not to, Travis bought it for her. The man knows her heart."

  "So that's where you're going?" Brian asked, though he didn't have a clue why Paddy was telling him. "To be a farmer?"

  "That's where I'm going, but I don't think I'll make much of a farmer. I'll have myself a few horses for company."

  He shifted, turned his gaze to the window and the hills beyond where horses grazed in the late-morning sunshine.

  "I'll miss my little Dee, and Travis, and the children. The friends I've made here. But I've a need to go. An itch, if you follow me."

  "I do." There was little Brian understood more than an itch to be going.

  "I imagine I'll be flying back and forth across the pond quite a bit—and they'll come to me as well.

  I've seen Dee married to a man I respect, and love like my own son. I've watched her children grow into fine young men and women. That's a rare thing. And I've had a hand in turning out champions. A man who has a thoroughbred put into his hands is a fortunate man."

  "Have you no wish for your own place, your own champions?"

  "I toyed with it—but in the end no, it wasn't for me." He turned his attention back to Brian. "Is that what you're after in the end?"

  "No. Your own place means you're rooted, doesn't it? And there's no moving on if moving on strikes you. In any case, most owners leave the work and the decisions to the trainer, so you don't own, but you run."

  "Travis Grant knows how to work." Paddy inclined his head. "He knows his horses. He loves them. If you earn his trust, he'll trust you, but he'll know every move you make. He's not one for strolling into the winner's circle after the day is done. Shedrow business will be his business, and Dee's, as much as it is yours. Whether you like it or not."

  "His wife?"

  Amused now, Paddy sat back. "You met her last night when she was done up fancy. I like seeing her looking fine that way. You're more like to see her down in the stables lancing an abscess or soothing a colicky mare. She's no delicate flower. My Dee's a thoroughbred. And she's bred true. Not one of her children would back away from a hard day's work when it's needed. You'll learn for yourself how things go around here, and you'll find it's not such a far distance from main house to shedrow as it is in some places."

  "It's usually better all around if it is," Brian muttered, and Paddy cackled with laughter.

  "Right you are, lad, in most cases. Owners can be a fly in your ointment without a doubt. You'll make up your own mind about this place, and these owners. And I hope you'll let me know what you think after a bit of time's passed. Now, let's take a look at the condition book to start off."

  When Brian left Paddy, he was satisfied with the world in general. Or what, he thought as he trooped down the stairs, was soon to become his world in general. He'd make his mark at Royal Meadows, and live well doing it. His quarters were first-rate. The truth was, he'd have been willing to live in a hovel for the chance to work with Travis Grant's stable.