Irish Rebel

by Nora Roberts

  grinning.

  "You're back."

  "Just." He strolled over to rub a hand over Mo's hair. "I talked to Ma a couple of hours ago from the road and she said you were all coming here tonight. So we swung by on the way home."

  "We?"

  "Yeah, Bri's taking a look at Lonesome, giving him a pep talk. Moodiest damn horse. Figured we might as well catch the race, then I can hook a ride back with you guys and Brian can trailer Zeus back home."

  "Sounds like a plan." It pleased her to hear the calm of her own voice while her heart was galloping. "Actually I came down to take a look at Lonesome myself."

  "He's all yours—and Bri's. Hey, I've got time to get some dinner. See you up there."

  "Now you can introduce me to the hunk." Mo fell into step beside Keeley.

  "I will if you can behave like you have a brain as well as glands."

  "It has nothing to do with glands, I'm just curious. Don't worry, I'm taking a page out of your book there when it comes to men."

  Keeley stopped at the door to the stables. "Excuse me?"

  "You know, guys are fine to look at, or to hang around with occasionally. But there are lots more important things. I'm not going to get involved with one until I'm thirty, soonest."

  Keeley wasn't certain whether to be amused or appalled. Then she heard Brian's voice, the lilt of it. And she forgot everything else.

  He was in the box with Lonesome, a temperamental roan gelding. The horse moped, as was his habit before a race.

  "They ask too much of you, there's no doubt about it," Brian was saying as he checked the wrappings on Lonesome's legs. "It's a terrible cross you have to bear, and you show great courage and fortitude day after day. Perhaps if you win this one I can put a word in for you. You know, extra carrots and that sort of thing, a bit of molasses in the evening. A bigger brass plaque for your box at home."

  "That's bribery," Keeley murmured.

  Brian turned, his eyes going warm. "That's bargaining," he corrected. "But if I can interest you in a bribe," he began and opened the box door intending to snatch Keeley inside for a much anticipated welcome back kiss.

  He nearly stepped over Mo. "Sorry. Didn't see you there."

  "I'm short. That's my cross to bear. I'm Mo Logan." She stuck out a friendly hand. "Keeley's cousin from Three Aces."

  "Pleased to meet you. You've a horse running tonight, Ms. Logan?"

  "Mo. Hennessy. Sixth race. My money says he'll win laughing."

  "I'll keep that in mind if I get up to the betting window."

  "I want to take a look at Hennessy before his race. Come up to the dining room if you have time, Brian, for food or a drink. The family's all there."

  "Thank you for that. Pretty thing," Brian murmured when Mo dashed off.

  "She wanted to take a look at you, too. She heard you were a hunk."

  "Is that so?" Amused, Brian shifted. "Did you tell her that?"

  "I certainly did not. I have more respect for you than to speak of you in such a sexist way."

  "Respect's a good thing." He yanked her into the box, crushing his mouth to hers before she could laugh. "But I'm banking on passion just at the moment. Have you passion for me, Keeley?" he murmured against her mouth.

  "Apparently." Her ears were ringing. "Oh Brian, I want—" She strained against him until they bumped into the horse. "You. Now. Somewhere. Can't we… it's been days."

  "Four." He wanted to tear off the long slim dress she wore and mount her like a stallion, all blinding heat and primitive need.

  He'd thought, convinced himself, that he'd be sensible about her, kept his wants and wishes under control. And all it had taken was seeing her. Just seeing her. It was exactly as it had been that first time he'd laid his eyes on her. A lightning strike in heart and blood.

  "Keeley." He ran kisses over her face, buried his in her hair, then started all over again. "I've such a need for you. It's like burning from the inside out. Come with me, out to the lorry."

  "Yes." At that moment, she'd have gone anywhere. It seemed he would swallow her whole. "Hurry. Let's hurry."

  She took his hand, fumbled with the door herself. Breathless, she would have stumbled if he hadn't caught her. "Teach me to wear heels in the damn stable," she muttered. "My legs are shaking."

  With a nervous laugh she turned back to him. Her legs stopped trembling. At least she couldn't feel them. All she could feel now was the unsteady skipping of her heart.

  He was staring at her, his eyes intense. When she'd turned his hands had reached up to frame her face. "You're so beautiful."

  She'd never believed words like that mattered. They were so easily, and so often carelessly, said. But they didn't seem easy from him. And there was nothing careless about the tone of his voice. Before she could speak, before she could think of what could be said, there was a shout and the sound of running feet.

  "Keeley, hurry, come with me." Oblivious to the intimacy of the scene she'd burst in on, Mo grabbed her hand. "I need back up. The bastard."

  "What? What's happened?"

  "If he thinks he's going to get away with it, he's got another think coming." Dragging Keeley, Mo barreled through the stables, turned and charged toward a stall.

  Keeley could already hear the voices raised in argument. She saw the man first. She recognized him. Peter Tarmack with his oiled hair and cheap pinkie ring made a habit of picking up horses in claiming races, then running them into the ground.

  The jockey was a familiar face as well. He was past his prime and, like Tarmack, was known to enjoy a few too many nips from the bottle at the track. Still, he picked up rides now and again when a regular jockey was sick or injured.

  "I tell you, Tarmack, I won't ride him. And you won't get anyone else to. He's not fit to run."

  "Don't you tell me what's fit. You'll get up and you'll ride, and you'll damn well place. You've been paid."

  "Not to ride a sick and injured horse. You'll get your money back."

  "What you haven't already put in a bottle."

  Because Mo was quivering and had sucked in a breath to speak, Keeley squeezed her hand hard enough to grind bone. "Is there a problem, Larry?"

  "Miss Keeley." The jockey yanked off his cap and turned his wrinkled, flustered face to hers. "I'm trying to tell Mr. Tarmack here that his horse isn't fit to race tonight. He's not fit."

  "It's not your place to tell me anything. And I don't need one of the almighty Grant's damn whelps interfering in my business."

  Before Keeley could respond, Brian had moved in. She blinked and he had hauled Tarmack up to his toes. "That's no way to be speaking to a lady." His voice was quiet, the eye of a storm. And the storm, with all its vengeance, was in his eyes. "You'll want to apologize for that, while you still have teeth to help you form the words."

  "Brian, I can handle this."

  "You'll handle what you like." He kept his eyes on Tarmack's now bulging ones. "But he'll by God apologize with his very next breath."

  "I beg your pardon." Tarmack choked it out, wheezed in air as Brian relaxed his grip a little. "I'm simply trying to deal with a washed-up jockey—and one I've paid in advance."

  "You'll get your money back," the jockey replied, then turned to Keeley. "Miss Keeley, I'm not getting up on this ride. He's half lame from a knee spavin, and anybody with eyes can see he's hidebound. He ain't fit to race."

  "Excuse me." Her voice viciously cold, she pushed past Tarmack and moved into the box to examine the horse for herself. Within moments, her hands were shaking with rage.

  "Mr. Tarmack, if you try to put a jockey on this horse, I'll have you up on charges. In fact, I'm damn well having you up on charges regardless. This gelding's sick, injured and neglected."

  "Don't hang that on me. I've only had him a couple weeks."

  "And in a couple weeks you haven't noticed his condition? You've been working him despite it?"

  "Now you look." He started to take a step forward and found himself looking eye to
eye with Brian again. "Listen," he said, his tone shifting to a whine. "Maybe you can be sentimental when you've got money. Me, I make my living moving horses. They don't run, I go in the red."

  "How much?" Keeley laid a hand on the gelding's cheek. In her heart, he was already hers. "How much did he cost you?"

  "Ah… ten grand."

  Brian merely shoved a finger into Tarmack's breastbone. "Pull the other one. It has bells on it."

  Tarmack shifted his shoulders. "Maybe it was five thousand. I'd have to check my books."

  "You'll have a check for five thousand tomorrow. I'm taking the horse tonight. Brian, would you take a look at him, please?"

  "Wait just a minute."

  This time it was Keeley who turned and she who shoved Tarmack aside. "Be smart. Take the money. Because whether you do or don't I'm taking this horse with me."

  "The knee needs treatment," Brian said after a quick look. It burned his blood to see how the injury had been neglected. "We can deal with that. From the look of him, I'd say he has a good case of bots. He needs tending."

  "He'll get tending."

  Keeley merely glanced over her shoulder at Tarmack. "You can go." Her voice held the regal ring of dismissal—princess to peasant. "Someone will deliver the check to you in the morning."

  The tone burned in Tarmack's gut. She wouldn't be so hoity-toity without her damn bodyguard, he thought. He'd have taught her a little respect if the Irish bastard hadn't been around.

  He bunched a fist impotently in his pocket and tried to save face. "I'm not just letting you take the horse and leave me with nothing but your say-so. I don't give a damn who you are."

  Brian straightened again, blood in his eye, but Keeley merely held up a hand. "Mo, would you please take Mr. Tarmack to the dining room. If you'd ask my father to write him a check for the five thousand, and I'll straighten it out later."

  "Happy to." She grabbed Keeley by the shoulders, kissed her. "I knew you'd do it." Then with a sniff she turned away. "Come with me, Tarmack. You'll get your money."

  "I'm sorry, Miss Keeley." Larry ran his cap through his hands. "I didn't know how bad it was till I saw the ride here. I couldn't get up on him seeing how he was."

  "You did the right thing. Don't worry."

  "He did pay me ahead, like he said."

  She nodded, stepped out of the box again, gesturing to him. "How much do you have left?"

  "'Bout twenty."

  "Come and see me tomorrow. We'll take care of it."

  "'Preciate it, Miss Keeley. That horse there, he ain't worth no five, you know."

  She studied the gelding. His color was muddy, his face too square for elegance and made homelier still by an off-center blaze of dirty white. And his eyes were unbearably sad.

  "Sure he is, Larry. He's worth it to me."

  Chapter Nine

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  "You don't have to help with this."

  Brian said nothing, simply continued to clip the gelding's legs. Bots were a common enough problem, especially with horses at grass. But this one had been sadly neglected. He had no doubt the eggs the botfly had laid on the gelding's legs had been transferred to the stomach.

  "Brian, really." Keeley continued to mix the blister for the knee spavin. "You've had a really long day. I can handle this."

  "Sure you can. You can handle this, morons like Tarmack, washed-up jockeys and everything else that comes along before breakfast. Nobody's saying different."