The Irish Trilogy by Nora Roberts

by Nora Roberts

She turned to put the basket of bread on the table and saw Brian, and the clutch of mums and zinnias he held in his hand.

  “It seemed to call for them,” he said.

  She stared at the cheerful fall blossoms, then up into his face. “You picked me flowers.”

  The sheer disbelief in her voice had him moving his shoulders restlessly. “Well, you made me dinner, with wine and candles and the whole of it. Besides, they’re your flowers anyway.”

  “No, they’re not.” Drowning in love she set the basket down, waited. “Until you give them to me.”

  “I’ll never understand why women are so sentimental over posies.” He held them out.

  “Thank you.” She closed her eyes, buried her face in them. She wanted to remember the exact fragrance, the exact texture. Then lowering them again, she lifted her mouth to his for a kiss. Rubbed her cheek against his.

  His arms came around her so suddenly, so tightly, she gasped. “Brian? What is it?”

  That gesture, the simple and sweet gesture of cheek against cheek nearly destroyed him. “It’s nothing. I just like the way you feel against me when I hold you.”

  “Hold me any tighter, I’ll be through you.”

  “Sorry.” He pressed his lips to her forehead to give himself a moment to compose. “I forget my own strength when I’m starving to death.”

  “Then sit down and get started. I’ll put these in some water.”

  “I . . .” He had to say something and cast around for a topic where he wouldn’t stutter or say something that would embarrass them both. “I meant to tell you earlier, I looked up Finnegan’s records.”

  There, he thought as he sat and began to dish up salad for both of them. Safe ground. “Of course he’s registered as Flight of Fancy.”

  “Yes, I knew that.” She tucked the flowers in a vase, and set them on the table before joining Brian. “Finnegan suits him better, I think.”

  “He’s yours to call what you like now. His record in his first year of racing was uneven. His blood stock is very decent, but he never came up to potential, and his owners sold him off as a three-year-old.”

  “I was going to look up his data. You’ve saved me the trouble.” She broke a hunk of bread in half, offered it. “He has good lines, and he responds well. Even after the abuse he hasn’t turned common.”

  “The thing is he did considerably better in his third year. Some of his match-ups were uneven, and in my mind he was a bit overraced. I’d have done things differently if I’d been working with him.”

  “You do things different, Brian, all around.”

  “Ah well. In any case, he went into that claiming race and that’s how Tarmack got his hands on him.”

  “Bastard,” Keeley said so coolly, Brian cocked his head.

  “We won’t argue there. I’m thinking you’d be wasting him in your school here. He was born for the track, and that’s where he belongs.”

  Surprised, she frowned over her salad. “You think he should race?”

  “I think you should consider it. Seriously. He’s a Thoroughbred, Keeley, bred to run. The need for it’s in his blood. It’s only that he’s been misused and mismanaged. The athelete’s inside him, and though your school’s a fine thing, it’s not enough for him.”

  “If he’s prone to knee spavins—”

  “You don’t know that. It’s not a hereditary thing. It was an injury a man was responsible for. You could have your father look him over if you don’t think I’ve got the right of it.”

  She considered a moment, sipped her wine. “I certainly trust your judgment, Brian. It’s not that. You and I both know that a horse can lose heart under mistreatment. Heart and spirit. I just wouldn’t want to push him.”

  “Sure, it’s up to you.”

  “Would you work with him?”

  “I could.” He ladled chili into bowls. “But so could you. You know what to do, what to look for.”

  She was already shaking her head. “Not for racing. I know my area, and it’s not the track. If I consider running him again, I’d want him to have the best.”

  “That would be me,” he said with such easy arrogance she grinned.

  “Is that a yes?”

  “If your father agrees to having me work your horse on the side, I’m happy to. We’ll start him off easy, and see how he goes.” He started to leave it at that, then because he thought she’d understand, hoped she would, finished. “It was in his eyes this morning, when you rode him down to the track. It was there. The yearning.”

  “I didn’t see it.” She reached over to touch his hand. “I’m glad you did.”

  “It’s my job to see it.”

  “It’s your gift,” she corrected. “Your family must be proud of you.” She spoke casually, began to eat again, then stared at him, baffled, when he laughed. “Why is that funny?”

  “Pride wouldn’t exactly be part of their general outlook to my way of thinking.”

  “Why?”

  “People can’t find pride in what they don’t understand. Not all families, Keeley, are as cozy as yours.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it. Not only for whatever lack there was in his family feelings, but for deliberately prying.

  “Sure it’s not such a matter. We get on all right.”

  She meant to let it go, to change the subject, but the words burned inside her. “If they’re not proud of you, then they’re stupid.” When he stared, his next bite of chili halfway to his mouth, she shrugged. “I’m sorry, but they are.”

  Watching her, he started to eat again. Her eyes were snapping, her cheeks flushed, her jaw set. Why, the woman was fuming, he realized. “Darling, that’s sweet of you to say, but—”

  “It’s not. It’s rude, but I meant it.” Snatching up the wine bottle, she topped off both of their glasses. “You have a real talent, and you’ve earned a strong reputation—or you damn well wouldn’t be here at Royal Meadows. What’s not to be proud of?” she demanded, with even more heat. “Your father, of all people, should understand.”

  “Why?”

  Her mouth dropped open. “He’s the one who introduced you to horses.”

  “To the track. It wasn’t the horses for my father,” Brian told her. He was so fascinated by her reaction it didn’t occur to him that he was having an in-depth conversation about his family. Something he absolutely never did.

  “They were a kind of vehicle. He admired them, certainly. But it was the wagering, the rush of gambling that called to him. Likely still does. That and the chance to take a few pulls from the flask in his pocket without my mother’s silent and deadly disapproval. I told you, Keeley, he’s a bank clerk.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  All, was what Brian thought, but he struggled to find a more tangible explanation for her. “He stopped looking through the bars of his little cage years back. He and my mother, they married young, not quite the full nine months, you understand, before my oldest sister came along.”

  “That can be difficult, but still—”

  “No, they were content with it. I think they love each other, in their way.” He didn’t think about those areas much, but since he was in it now, he did his best. “They made their home, raised their children. My father brought in the wage. Though he gambled, we never went hungry—and bills were paid sooner or later. My mother always set a decent table, and our clothes were clean. But it seemed to me that the both of them were just tired out at the end of the day, just from doing.”

  Keeley remembered an expression of her mother’s. A child could starve with a full plate. She understood that without love, affection, laughter, the spirit hungered.

  “Going your own way shouldn’t stop them from being happy for you.”

  “My brother and my sisters, they’
re clerks and parents and settled sort of people. I’m a puzzle, and sooner or later when you can’t solve a puzzle, you have to think there’s something wrong with it. Else there’s something wrong with you.”

  “You ran away,” she murmured.

  He wasn’t sure he liked the phrase, but nodded. “In a sense, I suppose, and as fast as I could. What’s the point in looking back?”

  But he was looking back, Keeley thought. Looking back over his shoulder, because he was still running away.

  Chapter Eleven

  Keeley decided some men simply took longer than others to realize they wanted to go where you were leading them. It was hard to complain since she was having such a wonderful time. She was making it a habit to go to the track once a week, a pleasure she’d cut out of her life while she’d been organizing her academy.

  There were still dozens of details that she needed to see to personally—the meetings, the reports and follow-ups on each individual child. She wanted to plan a kind of open house during the holidays, where all the parents, grandparents, foster families could come to the academy. Meet and mingle, and most importantly see the progress their children had made.

  But now that her school was on course, and she’d expanded to seven days a week, she was more than happy to turn the classes over to her mother for one day.

  She was thrilled to watch Betty’s progress, to see for herself that Brian’s instincts had been on target with the filly. Betty was, day after day and week after week, proving herself to be a top competitor and a potential champion.

  But even more she was delighted to see Finnegan come to life under Brian’s patient, unwavering hand.

  Bundled against the chill of a frosty morning, Keeley stood at the fence of the practice oval and waited while Brian gave Larry his instructions on the workout run.

  “He gets nervy in the gate, but he breaks clean. You’ll need to rate him or he’ll lose his wind. He likes a crowd so I want you to keep him in the pack till after the second turn. You let him know then, firm, that you want more. He’ll give it to you. He doesn’t like running in front, he misses the company.”

  “I’ll keep his eye on the line, Mr. Donnelly. I appreciate you giving me the chance.”

  “It’s Miss Grant’s giving you the chance. I smell whiskey on your breath before post time tomorrow, and you won’t get a second one.”

  “Not a drop. We’ll run for you, if for nothing but to show that son of a bitch Tarmack how you treat a Thoroughbred.”

  “Fair enough. Let’s see how she goes.”

  Brian walked back to the fence where Keeley stood sipping her soft drink. “I don’t know if you made the best choice in jockeys, but he’s sober and he’s hungry, so it’s a good gamble.”

  “It’s not the winning this time, Brian.”

  He took her bottle, sipped, winced. How the woman could drink such a thing in the morning was beyond him. “It’s always the winning.”

  “You’ve done a wonderful job with him.”

  “We won’t know that until tomorrow at Pimlico.”

  “Stop it,” she ordered when he slipped through the split-rail fence. “Take credit when it’s deserved. That’s a horse that’s found his pride again,” she said as the practice field was led to the gate. “You gave it to him.”

  “For God’s sake, Keeley, he’s your horse. I just reminded him he could run.”

  You’re wrong, she thought. You gave him back his pride, just the way you made him your own.

  But Brian was already focused on the horse. He took out his stopwatch. “Let’s see how well he remembers running this morning.”

  Mists swam along the ground, a shallow river over the oval. Shards of frost still glittered on the grass while the sun pulsed weakly through the layers of morning clouds. The air was gray and still.

  With a ringing clang the gate sprang open. And the horses plunged.

  Ground fog tore like thin silver ribbon at the powerful cut of legs. Bodies, glistening from the morning damp, surged past in one sleek blur.

  “That’s it,” Brian murmured. “Keep him centered. That’s the way.”

  “They’re beautiful. All of them.”

  “Got to pace him.” Brian watched them round the first turn while the clock in his head ticked off the time. “See, he’ll match his rhythm to the leader. It’s a game to him now. Out gallivanting with mates, that’s all he’s thinking.”

  Keeley laughed, leaned out as her heart began to bump. “How do you know what he’s thinking?”

  “He told me. Get ready now. Ready now. Aye, that’s it. He’s strong. He’ll never be a beauty, but he’s strong. See, he’s moving up.” Forgetting himself Brian laid a hand on her shoulder, squeezed. “He’s got more heart than brains, and it’s his heart that runs.”

  Brian clicked the watch when Finnegan came in, half a length behind the leader. “Well done. Yes, well done. I’d say he’ll place for you tomorrow, Miss Grant.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Sincerely shocked more than offended, he goggled at her. “That’s a hell of a thing to say. And what kind of luck is that going to bring us tomorrow, I’d like to know?”

  “It’s enough to watch him run. And better, to watch you watching him run. Brian.” Touched, she laid a hand on his heart. “You’ve gone and fallen in love with him.”

  “I love all the horses I train.”

  “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, K
eel.”

  “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.”