"Roberts, Nora - Irish Hearts 3 - Irish Rebel" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberts Nora)

Keeley lifted a brow, and a smile ghosted around her mouth as she looked Brian over. She'd been checking his form, naturally. "Well, you're competent enough at a trot." With a light tap, she sent Sam into a canter. The minute Brian matched her pace, she headed into a gallop.
Oh, she missed this. Every day she couldn't fly out across the fields, over the hills, was a sacrifice. There was nothing to match it-the thrill of speed, the power soaring under her, through her, the thunder of hooves and the whip of wind.
She laughed as Brian edged by her. She'd seen the quick grin of challenge, and answered it by letting Sam have his head.
It was like watching magic take wing, Brian thought. The muscular black horse soared over the ground with the woman on his back. They streaked over another rise, moving west, into the dying sun. The sky was a riot of color, a painting slashed with reds and golds. It seemed to him she would ride straight into it, through it.
And he'd have no choice but to follow her.
When she pulled up, turned to wait for him, her face flushed with pleasure, her eyes gleaming with it, he knew he'd never seen the like.
And wanting her was apt to kill him.
"I should've given you a handicap," she called out. "Mule runs like a demon, but he's no match for this one." She leaned over the saddle to pat Sam's neck. She straightened, shook her hair back. "Gorgeous out, isn't it?"
"Hot as blazes," Brian corrected. "How long does summer last around here?"
"As long as it likes. Mornings are getting chilly, though, and once the sun dips down behind the hills, it'll cool off quickly enough. I like the heat. Your Irish blood's not used to it yet."
She turned Sam so she could look down at Royal Meadows. "It's beautiful from up here, isn't it?"
The buildings spread out, neat, elegant, with the white fences of the paddocks, the brown oval, the horses being led to the stable. A trio of weanlings, all legs and energy, raced in the near pasture.
"From down there, too. It's the best I've ever seen."
That made her smile. "Wait till you see it in winter, with snow on the hills and the sky thick and gray with more-or so blue it hurts your eyes to look at it. And the foalings start and there are babies trying out their legs. When I was little, I couldn't wait to run down and see them in the morning."
They began to walk again, companionably now, as the light edged toward dusk. She hadn't expected to be so comfortable with him. Aware, yes, she always seemed aware of him now. But this simple connection, a quiet evening ride, was a pleasure.
"Did you have horses when you were a boy?"
"No, we never owned them. But it wasn't so far to the track, and my father's a wagering man."
"And are you?"
He tilted his face toward her. "I like playing the odds, and fortunately, have a better feel for them than my father. He loved the look of them, and the rush of a race, but never did he gain any understanding of horses."
"You didn't gain any, either," Keeley said and had him frowning at her. "What you've got you were born with. Just like them,'' she added, gesturing toward the weanlings.
"I think that's a compliment."
"I don't mind giving them when they're fact."
"Well, fact or fiction, horses have been the biggest part of my life. I remember going along with my da and seeing the horses. When he could manage it, he liked to go early, check out the field, talk with the dockers and the grooms, get himself a feel for things-or so he said. He lost his money more often as not. It was the process that appealed to him."
That, and the flask in his pocket, Brian thought, but with tolerance. His father had loved the horses and the whiskey. And his mother had understood neither.
"One of the first times I went along, I saw an exercise boy, very young lad, ponying a sorrel around the track. And I thought, there, that's it. That's what I want to do, for there can't be anything better than doing that for your life and your living. And while I was still young enough, and small enough, I slid out of going to school as often as it could be managed and hitched rides to the track to hustle myself. Walk hots, muck stalls, whatever."
"It's romantic."
He caught himself. He hadn't meant to ramble on that way, but the ride, the evening, the whole of it made him sentimental. When he started to laugh at her statement, she shook her head.
"No, it is. People who aren't a part of the world of it don't understand, really. The hard work, the disappointments, the sweat and blood. Freezing predawn workouts, bruises and pulled muscles."
"And that's romantic."
"You know it is."
This time he did laugh, because she'd pegged him. "As a boy, when I hung around the shedrow, I'd see the horses come back through the mist of morning, steam rising off their backs, the sound of them growing louder, coming at you before ever you could see them. They'd slip out of the fog like something out of a dream. Then, I thought it the most romantic thing in the world."
"And now?"
"Now, I know it is."
He broke into a canter, riding with her until the lights of Royal Meadows began to flicker on and glow. He hadn't expected to spend a comfortable, contented hour in her company, and found it odd that underlying all the rest that buzzed between them they'd seemed to have formed a kind of friendship.
He'd been friends with women before, and was well on the way to being convinced he'd do just fine keeping it all on a friendly level with Keeley. He was the one who'd initiated the sexual charge, so it seemed reasonable and right that he be the one to dampen it again.
The logic of it, and the ride, relaxed him. By the time they reached the stables to cool down the horses, he was in an easy mood and thinking about his supper.
Since she was interested, he told her of the yearling training, the progress, the five-year-old mare with colic, and the weanling with ringbone.
Together they watered the horses, and while Brian took the saddles and bridles to the tack room, Keeley set up the small hay nets and set out the grooming kits.
They worked across from each other, in opposite boxes.
"I heard you and Brendon are heading off to Saratoga next week," she commented.
"Zeus is running. And I think Red Duke is a contender, and your brother agrees. Though I've only seen that track on paper and in pictures. We're off to Louisville as well. I want to be well familiar with that course before the first Saturday in May."
"You want Betty to run the Derby."
"She will run it. And win it." He picked up the curry comb to scrape out the body brush. "We've conversed about it."
"You've talked to Brendon about the Derby?"
"No, Betty. And your father as well. I expect Brendon and I will talk it through while we're away."
"What does Betty have to say?"
"Let's get on with it." He glanced over, saw she was running her fingers over Sam's coat, checking for lumps or irregularities. "Why aren't you still competing? With that one under you you'd need a vault for all your medals."
"I'm not interested in medals."
"Why not? Don't you like to win?"
"I love to win." She leaned gently against Sam, lifted his leg and sent Brian a long look that had his stomach jittering before she gave her attention to picking out the hoof. "But I've done it, enjoyed it, finished with it. Competing can take over your life. I wanted the Olympics, and I got it."