with him after a long day's work. There'd be a lot to talk about with this woman, over dinner, in the privacy of bed. Shared loves, shared jokes.
A man could wake up in the morning with a woman like that and not feel trapped, or worry that she did.
Catching himself, Brian shook his head. That was foolish thinking.
"Look at this." Brian walked up to the fence, leaned on it. "You've done all the work already."
"You've caught me on a good day." Keeley checked the cinch, stepped back. She knew his stirrup length now, and his favored bit and bridle. "I had no idea how much time I'd free up by having Ma help out on a regular basis."
"And what do you intend to do with it?"
"Enjoy it." When he opened the gate she led both horses through. "I've been so focused on the work the last couple of years, I haven't stepped back often enough to appreciate the results." She handed him the reins. "I like results."
"Then maybe you'll use some of that free time to come by the track." He vaulted into the saddle once she was mounted. "I'm looking for results there. I have Betty entered in a baby race tomorrow."
"Her maiden race? I wouldn't want to miss that."
"Charles Town. Two o'clock."
"I'll ask my mother to take my afternoon class. I'll be there."
They kept it to a walk, skirting the paddock and heading toward the rise of land swept with trees gone brilliant in the softening slants of sunlight. Overhead a flock of Canada geese arrowed across the evening sky sending out their deep calls.
"Twice daily," Brian said, watching the flight. "Off they go on their travels, honking away, dawn and dusk."
"I've always liked the sound of them. I guess it's something else that says home this time of year." She kept her eyes on the sky until the last call echoed away.
"Uncle Paddy phoned today."
"And how's he doing?"
"More than well. He'd bought himself a pair of young mares. He's decided to try his hand at some breeding."
"Once a horseman," Brian said. "I didn't figure he could keep out of the game."
"You'd miss it, wouldn't you? The smell and the sound of them. Have you ever thought of starting your own place, your own line?"
"No, that's not for me. I'm happy making another man's horses. Once you own, it's a business, isn't it? An enterprise. I've no yearning to be a businessman."
"Some own for the love of it," Keeley pointed out. "And even the business doesn't shadow the feelings."
"In the rare case." Brian looked over, scanning the outbuildings. Yes, this was a place, he thought, built on feelings. "Your father's one, and I knew another once in Cork. But ownership can get in the blood as well, until you lose touch with that feeling. Before you know it, it's all facts and figures and a thirst for profit. That sounds like bars to me."
Interesting, she thought. "Making a living is a prison?"
"The need to make one, and still a better one, first and foremost. That's a trap. My father found his leg caught there."
"Really?" He so rarely mentioned his family. "What does he do?"
"He's a bank clerk. Day after day sitting in a little cage counting other people's money. What a life."
"Well, it's not the life for you."
"Thank God for that. These lads want a bit of a run," he said and kicked Honey into a gallop.
Keeley hissed in frustration but clicked to her mount to match pace. They'd come back to it, she promised herself. She hadn't learned nearly enough about where the man she intended to marry came from.
They rode for an hour before heading back to stable the horses and settle in the rest of her stock for the night. He was half hoping she'd ask him over to the house for dinner again, but she turned to him as they left the stables, lifted a brow.
"Why don't you ask me up for a drink?"
"A drink? There's not much of a variety, but you're welcome."
"It's nice to be asked occasionally." Before he could tuck his hand safely in his pocket, she took it, threaded their fingers together. "You have free time now and again yourself," she said easily. "I wonder if you've heard of the concept of dates. Dinner, movies, drives?"
"I've some experience with them." He glanced at his pickup as they turned toward his quarters. "If you've a yen for a drive, you can climb up into the lorry, but I'd need to shovel it out first."
She huffed out a breath. "That, Donnelly, wasn't the most romantic of invitations."
"Secondhand lorries aren't particularly romantic, and I've forgotten where I parked my glass coach."
"If that's another princess crack—" She broke off, set her teeth. Patience, she reminded herself. She wasn't going to spoil things with an argument. "Never mind. We'll forget the drive." She opened the door herself. "And move straight to dinner."
He caught the scent as soon as he stepped inside. Something aromatic and spicy that reminded him his stomach was about dead empty.
"What is it?"
"What is what?" Then she grinned and sniffed the air. "Oh, what is that? It's chili, one of my specialties. I put it on simmer before my last class."
"You cooked dinner?"
"Mmm." Amused, and very satisfied by his shock, she wandered off into the kitchen. "I didn't think you'd mind, and I knew we'd both be hungry by this time." She lifted the lid on a pot, gave it a quick stir while fragrant steam puffed out. "It's the kind of thing you can just leave and eat when you're ready, which is why it appeals to me. Oh, and I brought over a bottle of Merlot, though beer's never wrong with chili if you'd rather."
"I'm trying to remember the last time someone cooked for me—other than your mother and someone who was related to me."
Even more pleased, she turned to slide her arms around him. "Haven't any of your many women cooked for you?"
"Now and then perhaps, but not in recent memory." Because they were alone, he took her hips, brought her closer. "And I certainly remember none that smelled so appetizing."
"The women? Or the meal?"
"Both." He lowered his mouth to hers, allowed himself the luxury of sinking in. "And it reminds me I'm next to starving."
"What do you want first?" She grazed her teeth over his bottom lip. "Me, or the food?"
"I want you first. And last, it seems."
"That's handy, because I want you first, too." She drew back. "Why don't we clean up? I could use a shower." Laughing, her hands holding his, she pulled him out of the kitchen.
She'd brought over a change of clothes as well. It gave Brian a start to see her casually pulling on fresh jeans. Her hair was still wet from the shower they'd shared, her skin rosy from it. And, he noted a bit raw in places because he hadn't shaved.
But the wild love they'd made under the hot spray in the steamy room wasn't anywhere near as intimate, anywhere near aspersonal somehow as her having a clean sweater laying neatly folded on the foot of his bed.
She reached for it, then glanced over, catching him staring at her. "What is it?"
He shook his head. There wasn't a way to explain this sense of panic and delight that lived inside him while he watched her dress. "I've rubbed your skin raw." Reaching out, he traced his fingertips over her collarbone. "I should have shaved. You're so soft." He murmured it, trailing those fingers up over her shoulder. "I don't know how I manage to forget that."
When she trembled, he looked up into her face. For a moment she saw the need flash back into his eyes, glinting like the edge of a sword. "Now you're cold. Put your sweater on. I've got some ointment."
The hot edge faded as quickly as it came. It was frustrating, she thought as he rooted into a drawer, that the only time he really broke the tether on his control was when they made love.
He got out a tube and since she'd yet to put the sweater on, squeezed ointment onto his fingers and began to gently rub it on her abraded skin. She recognized the scent.
"That's for horses."
"So?"
She laughed and let him fuss. "Does this make me your mare now?"
br />
"No, you're too young and delicate of bone for that. You're still a filly."
"Are you going to train me, Donnelly?"
"Oh, you're out of my league, Miss Grant." He glanced up, cocked a brow when he saw her grinning at him. "And what amuses you?"
"You can't help it can you? You have to tend."
"I put the marks on you," he muttered as he smoothed on the ointment. "It follows I should see to them."
She lifted a hand to toy with the ends of his damp, gold-tipped hair. "I like being seen to by a man with a tough mind and a soft heart."
That soft heart sighed a little, ached a little. But he spoke lightly. "It's no hardship running my fingers over skin like yours." With his eyes on hers, he used the pad of his thumb to spread ointment over the gentle swell of her breast. "Particularly since you don't seem to have a qualm about standing here half naked and letting me."
"Should I blush and flutter?"
"You're not the fluttering sort. I like that about you." Satisfied, he capped the tube, then tugged the sweater over her head himself. "But I can't have such a fine piece of God's work catching a chill. There you are." He lifted her hair out of the neck.
"You don't have a hair dryer."
"There's air everywhere in here."
She laughed and dragged her fingers through her damp curls. "It'll have to do. Come on, let's have that wine while I finish up dinner."
He didn't know much about wine, but his first sip told him it was several steps up from what might be the usual accompaniment to so humble a meal as chili.
She seemed more at home in his kitchen than he was himself, finding things in drawers he'd yet to open. When she started to dress the salad, he set his glass aside.
"I'll be back in a minute."
"A minute's all you've got," she called out. "I'm putting the bread in to warm."
Since his answer was the slamming of the door, she shrugged and lit the candles she'd set on the little kitchen table. Cozy, she decided. And just romantic enough to suit two practical-minded people who didn't go in for a lot of fussing.
It was the sort of relaxed, simple meal two people could prepare together at the end of a workday. She intended to see they had more of them, until the man got a clue this is exactly how it was going to be.
Satisfied, she picked up her wine, toasted herself. "To good strong starts," she murmured and drank.
Hearing the door open again, she took the bread out of the oven. "We're set in here, and I'm starving."
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