Irish Rebel (15 page)

 "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."

 Since the statement wasn't delivered in what could be mistaken for a complimentary tone, Keeley turned to frown at him. "What's wrong with you?"

 "There's not a bloody thing wrong with me. But you could use some work. Do you have to do everything yourself, every flaming step and stage of it? Can't you just take help when help's offered and shut the hell up?"

 She did shut the hell up, for ten shocked seconds. "I simply assumed that you'd be tired after your trip."

 "I'll let you know when I'm tired."

 "The gelding here doesn't seem to be the only one with something nasty in his system."

 "Well, it's you in my system, princess, and it feels a bit nasty at the moment."

 Hurt came first, a quick short-armed jab. Pride sprang in to defend. "I'll be happy to purge you, just like I'll purge this horse tomorrow."

 "If I thought it would work," he muttered, "I'd purge myself. You'll want to wait until at least midday," Brian told her. "You can't be sure the last time he was fed."

 "I know how to treat stomach-bots, thank you." Gently she began to apply the blister to the injured knee.

 "Here, you'll get that all over your clothes."

 Keeley jerked away bad-temperedly when Brian reached for the pot of blister. "They're my clothes."

 "So you should have more respect for them. You've no business treating a horse in clothes like that. Silk dresses for God's sake."

 "I've got a closetful. We princesses tend to."

 "Nevertheless." He curled his fingers around the lip of the pot, and under the sick gelding they began a vicious little tug-of-war. He would have laughed, was on the point of it, when he looked at her face and saw that her eyes were wet.

 He let go of the pot so abruptly, Keeley fell back on her butt. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

 "I'm applying a non-irritating blister to a knee spavin. Now go away and let me get on with it."

 "There's no reason to start that up. None at all." Panic jingled straight to his head, nearly made him dizzy. "This is no place for crying."

 "I'm upset. It's my stable. I can cry when and where I choose."

 "All right, all right, all right." Desperately he dug into his pocket for a bandanna. "Here, just blow your nose or something."

 "Just go to hell or something." Rather grandly, she turned her shoulder on him and continued to apply the blister.

 "Keeley, I'm sorry." He wasn't sure for exactly what, but that wasn't here nor there. "Dry your eyes now,a grha , and we'll make this lad comfortable for the night."

 "Don't take that placating tone with me. I'm not a child or a sick horse."

 Brian dragged his hands through his hair, gave it one good yank. "Which tone would you prefer?"

 "An honest one." Satisfied the blister was properly applied, she rose. "But I'm afraid the derisive one you've used since we got here fits that category.

 In your opinion, I'm spoiled, stubborn and too proud to accept help."

 Though the tears appeared to have passed, he thought it wise to be cautious. "That's pretty close to the truth," he agreed, getting to his feet. "But it's an interesting mixture, and I've grown fond of it."

 "I'm not spoiled."

 Brian raised his eyebrows, cocked his head. "Perhaps the word means something different to you Yanks. Seems to me it's not everyone who could casually ask their father to write a check for five thousand dollars for a sick horse."

 "I'll pay him back in the morning."

 "I've no doubt of it."

 Baffled now, she threw up her hands. "Should I have just left him there, walked away so that idiot Tarmack could find a jockey who would go up on him?"

 "No, you did exactly right. But the fact's the same that you could toss around that kind of money without blinking an eye."

 Brian walked to the gelding's head to examine his eyes and teeth. It grated on him. He wished it didn't, as it said little for him that her easy dismissal of money scored his pride.

 But it had, at that heated moment at the track, slammed the distance between them right in his face.

 "You're a generous woman, Keeley."

 "But I can afford to be," she finished.

 "True enough." He ran his hands down the horse's neck, soothing. "But that doesn't take away from the fact that you are." Slowly he continued to work his way over the horse. "You'll have to forgive me—Irish of my class are generally a bit resentful of the gentry. It's in the blood."

 "The class system's in your head, Brian."

 That, he thought, wasn't even worth commenting on. What was, was. His fingers found a small knot. "He's a bit of an abscess here. We'll want to bring this to a head."

 They'd bring something else to a head, she decided and moved in so they faced each other over the gelding's back. "So tell me, how do men of your class deal with taking women of mine to bed?"

 His eyes flashed to hers, held. "I'd keep my hands off you if I could."

 "Is that supposed to flatter me?"

 "No. It just is, and doesn't flatter either of us." He moved out of the box to get flannel to heat for a hot fermentation.

 No, she thought. She'd be damned if she'd leave it at that. "Is that all there is to it, Brian?" she demanded as she followed him out. "Just sex?"

 He ran water, hot as his hand could bear, and soaked a large section of flannel in it. "No." He spoke without turning around. "I care about you. That just makes it more difficult."

 "It should make it easier."

 "It doesn't."

 "I don't understand you. Would you be happier if we just jumped each other, without any connection, any understanding or feelings?''

 He hauled up the bucket. "Infinitely. But it's too late for that, isn't it?"

 Baffled, she walked back into the box behind him. "You're angry with me because you care about me. This water's too hot," she said when she tested it.

 "No, it isn't. And I'm not angry with you at t'all." Murmuring to the gelding, he lay the heated flannel over the abscess. "A bit with myself, maybe, but it's more satisfying to take it out on you."

 "That, at least, I can understand. Brian, why are we fighting?" She laid a hand over the one he held pressed to the flannel. "We're doing the right thing here tonight. The method of how we got the gelding here isn't as important as what happens to him now."

 "You're right, of course." He studied the contrast of their hands. His big, rough from work and hers small and elegant.

 "And why we care for each other isn't as important as what we do about it."

 About that he wasn't as sure, so he said nothing while she lifted another square of flannel and wrung it out.

 Morning dawned misty and cool. As she'd slept poorly, Keeley's mind refused to click into gear. Her usual rush of morning adrenaline deserted her so that she began her daily chores with her body dragging and her brain fogged.

 Brian's doing, she thought sulkily. This inconsistency of his, this off-and-on insistence to keep a distance between them was baffling. She'd never run into a problem she couldn't solve, an obstacle she couldn't overcome. But this one, this one man, might just be the exception.

 He hurt her, and she hadn't been prepared for it. Could they have spent so much time together, been so intimate, and not understand each other? He cared about her, and that made it a problem. What kind of logic was that? she asked herself. Where was the sense in that kind of thinking?

 Caring about someone made all the difference. She'd seen that constant well of compassion in him. It was, she admitted, as attractive, as appealing to her as that long, tough body, that thick, unkempt mane of sun-streaked hair.

 The look of him, the face of planes and angles, the bold green eyes, might have stirred her blood—and had, though she'd been more annoyed than pleased initially. But it was the heart, the patience, the nurturing side he refused to acknowledge that had won her interest and respect.

 Rather than being a problem, it had been, and was, the solution for her.

 How could he look at her now, after all they'd shared, and see only the pampered daughter of a privileged home?

 How could he, believing that, have feelings for her?

 It was baffling, irritating and very close to infuriating. Or would be, she thought with a yawn, if she wasn't so damned tired.

 The lack of energy struck unfairly keen when Mo bounced into the stables. "Just had to come by before I headed off to the eternal hell of school." She popped right into the box where Keeley was examining the injured knee. "How's he doing?"

 "He's more comfortable." Testing, Keeley lifted the gelding's foot, bending the knee. He snorted, shied. "But you can see there's still pain."

 "Poor guy. Poor big guy." Clucking, Mo patted his flank. "You were such a hero last night, Keel. I mean just stepping in and taking right over. I knew you would."

 Keeley's brows drew together. "I didn't take over. I don't take over."

 "Sure you did—you always do. The original take-charge gal. Very cool to watch. And this guy's grateful, aren't you, boy? Oh, and the hunk wasn't hard on the eyes, either." Grinning, she gave an obvious and deliberate shudder. "The real physical type. I thought he was going to punch that idiot Tarmack right in the face. Was kinda hoping he would. Anyway, the pair of you made a great team."

 "I suppose."

 "So, what about those smoldering looks?"

 "What smoldering looks?"

 "Get out." Mo cheerfully wiggled her eyebrows. "I got singed and I was only an innocent bystander. The guy looks at you like you were the last candy bar on the shelf and he'd die without a chocolate fix."

 "That's a ridiculous analogy, and you're imagining things."

 "He was going to pound Tarmack into dust for dissing you. Man, I just wanted to melt when he hauled the guy up by the collar. Too romantic."

 "There's nothing romantic about a fight. And though I certainly could have handled Tarmack myself, I appreciated Brian's help."

 Damn it, she thought. She hadn't even thanked him. Scowling, she stomped out of the box for a pitchfork.

 "Yeah, you could have handled him. You handle everything. But not really needing to be rescued sort of makesbeing rescued more exciting, you know."

 "No, I don't know," Keeley snapped. "Go to school, Mo. I've got mucking out to do."

 "I'm going, I'm going. Sheesh. You must be low on the caffeine intake this morning. I'll come by later to see how the gelding's doing. I've got a kind of vested interest, you know? See you."