Irish Rebel

by Nora Roberts

  "Yes, I've seen that, and understand that because it's the same with me. But you're in love with this one."

  Embarrassed because it was true, Brian swung over the fence. "That's a woman for you, making sloppy sentiment out of a job."

  She only smiled as Brian walked over to stroke and nuzzle his job.

  "That's a fine thing. My daughter and my trainer grooming a competitor."

  She glanced over her shoulder, held out a hand for her father as he strode toward her. "Did you see him run?"

  "The last few seconds. You've brought him a long way in a short time." Travis pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I'm proud of you."

  She closed her eyes. How easily he said it, how lovely to know he meant it. It made her only more sad, more angry, that Brian had cause to laugh over the idea of his own father having any pride in him.

  "You taught me to care, you and Ma. When I saw that horse, I cared because of what you put inside me." She tilted her head up, kissed her father's cheek. "So thanks."

  When his arm came around her, she leaned in, warm and comfortable. "Brian was right. The horse needs to race. It's what he is. I wanted to save him. But Brian knew that wasn't enough. For some it's not enough just to get by."

  "You brought this off together."

  "You're right." She laughed a little as realization dawned, so clear and bright she wondered how she'd missed it before. "Absolutely right."

  She'd canceled classes for the day. It was, Keeley told herself, a kind of holiday. A celebration, she thought, in compassion, understanding and hard work. It wasn't only Finnegan's return to the track, but Betty's first important race. Her parents would be there, and Brendon.

  If there was ever a day to close up shop, this was it.

  She rode out to the track at dawn, to give herself the pleasure of watching the early workouts, of listening to the track rats, building anticipation.

  "You'd think it was the Derby," Brendon said as he walked with her back to the shedrow. "You're hyped."

  "I've never owned a racehorse before. And I'm pretty sure he's my first and last. I'm going to enjoy every moment of this, but… It's not my passion. Not like it's yours and Dad's. Even Ma's."

  "You channeled your passions into the school. I never thought you'd give up competing, Keel."

  "Neither did I. And I never thought I'd find anything that satisfied me as much, challenged me as much."

  They stopped as horses were brought back from the early workouts.

  Steam rose off their backs, out of the tubs of hot water set outside the stables. It fogged the air, cushioned the sound, blurred the colors.

  Hot walkers hustled to cool off the runners, stablehands and grooms loitered, waiting for their charges. Someone played a mournful little tune on a harmonica, with the ring of the farrier's anvil setting the beat.

  "This is your deal here," she said, gesturing as Betty was led by. "Me, I'm happy just to watch."

  "Yeah? Then what're you doing here so early?"

  "Just carrying on a fine family tradition. I'm going to act as Finnegan's groom."

  That was news to Brian, and he wasn't entirely pleased when she announced her intentions. "Owners don't groom. They sit in the grandstands, or up in the restaurant. They stay out of the way." .

  Keeley continued strapping Finnegan with straw. "How long have you worked at Royal Meadows now?"

  His scowl only deepened. "Since midthrough of August."

  "Well, that should be long enough for you to have noticed the Grants don't stay out of the way."

  "Noticing doesn't mean approving." He studied the way she groomed Finnegan's neck and couldn't find fault. But that was beside the point. "Grooming a horse for showing or schooling or basic riding is a different matter than grooming before a race."

  She let out a long-suffering sigh. "Does it look like I know what I'm doing?"

  "His legs need to be wrapped."

  Saying nothing, she gestured to the wrapping on the line, and the extra clothespins hooked to her jeans.

  Not yet convinced, he studied her grooming kit and the other tools of a groomer's trade. The cotton batting, the blankets, the tack.

  "The irons haven't been polished."

  She glanced at the saddle. "I know how to polish irons."

  Brian rocked back on his heels. He needed to see to Betty. She was racing in the second. "He needs to be talked to."

  "This is funny, but I know how to talk, too."

  Brian swore under his breath. "He prefers singing."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I said, he prefers singing."

  "Oh." Keeley tucked her tongue in her cheek. "Any particular tune? Wait, let me guess.Finnegan's Wake ?" Brian's steely-eyed stare had her laughing until she had to lean weakly against the gelding. The horse responded by twisting his head and trying to sniff her pockets for apples.

  "It's a quick tune," Brian said coolly, "and he likes hearing his name."

  "I know the chorus." Gamely Keeley struggled to swallow another giggle. "But I'm not sure I know all the words. There are several verses as I recall."

  "Do the best you can," he muttered and strode off. His lips twitched as he heard her launch into the song about the Dubliner who had a tippling way.

  When he reached Betty's box, he shook his head. "I should've known. If there's not a Grant one place, there's a Grant in another until you're tripping over them."

  Travis gave Betty a last pat on the shoulder. "Is that Keeley I hear singing?"

  "She's being sarcastic, but as long as the job's done. She's dug in her heels about grooming Finnegan."

  "She comes by it naturally. The hard head as well as the skill."

  "Never had so many owners breathing down my neck. We don't need them, do we, darling?" Brian laid his hands on Betty's cheek, and she shook her head, then nibbled his hair.

  "Damn horse has a crush on you."

  "She may be your lady, sir, but she's my own true love. Aren't you beautiful, my heart?" He stroked, sliding into the Gaelic that had Betty's ears pricked and her body shifting restlessly.

  "She likes being excited before a race," Brian murmured. "What do you call it—pumped up like your American football players. Which is a sport that eludes me altogether as they're gathered into circles discussing things most of the time instead of getting on with it."

  "I heard you won the pool on last Monday night's game," Travis commented.

  "Betting's the only thing about your football I do understand." Brian gathered her reins. "I'll walk her around a bit before we take her down. She likes to parade. You and your missus will want to stay close to the winner's circle."

  Travis grinned at him. "We'll be watching from the rail."

  "Let's go show off." Brian led Betty out.

  Keeley put the final polish on the saddle irons, rolled her now aching shoulders and decided she had enough time to hunt up a soft drink before giving Finnegan a last-minute pep talk.

  She stepped outside and blinked in the sudden whitewash of light. The minute her eyes focused she saw Brian sitting near the stable door on an overturned bucket.

  Alarm sprinted into her throat. He had his head in his hands and was still as stone.

  "What is it? What's wrong?" She leaped forward to drop to the ground beside him. "Betty?" Her breath came short. "I thought Betty was racing."

  "She was. She did. She won."

  "God, Brian, I thought something was wrong."

  He dropped his hands and she could see his eyes were dark, swarming with emotion. "Two and a half lengths," he said. "She won by two and a half lengths, and I swear I don't think she was half trying. Nothing could touch her, do you see? Nothing. Never in my life did I think to have a horse like that under my hands. She's a miracle."

  Keeley laid her hands on his knees, sat back on her heels. Passion, she thought. She'd spoken to Brendon of it, but now she was looking at it. "You made her." Before he could speak, she shook her head. "That's what you said to me once. 'I don't
break horses. I make them.'"

  "I can't get my head round it just now. This field was strong. I put her in thinking now and then you need a lesson in humility. Time for her to grow up, you know what I mean. Face real competition."

  Still staggered, he dragged his hands through his hair and laughed. "Well, she'll never learn a damn thing about humility."

  "Why aren't you down with her?"

  "That's for your parents. She's their horse."

  "You've a lot to learn yourself." She got to her feet, brushed off the knees of her jeans. "Well, Finnegan will be going down shortly. Why don't you come in and look him over?"

  Brian blew out a breath, sucked in another, then rose. "I think he'll place for you," he told Keeley as he followed her in. "It wouldn't hurt to wager on it."

  "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