Irish Hearts Read Free

a call."
    "Uncle Paddy." Adelia grabbed his arm on impulse, eyes shining with excitement. "I can do it. Let me take him out."
    "I don't think a little lady like you could handle a big fire-breather like Majesty," Hank put in before Paddy could speak, and Adelia drew herself up to the full of her five feet two inches and tilted her chin.
    "There's nothing on four legs I can't ride."
    "Is Travis back yet?" Paddy concealed his smile and addressed Hank.
    "No." He eyed Paddy through narrowed lids. "You're not thinking of letting her take him out?"
    "I'd say she's about the right size-couldn't weigh over a hundred pounds." He gave his niece a thorough survey, one hand rubbing his chin.
    "Paddy." Hank's hand descended on his shoulder, only to be ignored.
    "You're a Cunnane, aren't you, lass? If you say you can handle him, then by the saints you can." Adelia beamed at her uncle and told him firmly she was indeed a Cunnane.
    "God knows what the boss is going to say when he finds out," Hank muttered, finding himself against a solid wall of family alliance.
    "Just leave Travis to me," Paddy answered with calm authority.
    With a shrug of his shoulders and another incoherent mutter, Hank resigned himself to Paddy's loss of common sense.
    "Once around the track, Dee," her uncle instructed. "Pace him to what you can handle; I can see from the look of him he wants his head."
    Pulling her cap lower, she nodded, watching the well-trimmed hooves paw the ground in impatience.
    With an easy vault she was in the saddle, and as Hank opened the wide gate she took Majesty onto the dirt track. Leaning forward, she whispered in his ear as he sidestepped and strained to be off.
    "Ready, Dee?" Paddy called. As an afterthought, he pulled out his stopwatch.
    "Aye, we're ready." Straightening, she took a deep breath.
    "Go!" he shouted, and horse and rider lunged down the track.
    Crouching low over the Thoroughbred's neck, she urged him on to the speed for which he thirsted. The wind beat against her face, stinging her eyes, as they tore over the dirt at a pace she had never experienced, never imagined, but somehow had craved. It was a wild, exhilarating adventure; both horse and rider reveled in the unbridled sensation as they sped as one around the oval track, sun, wind, and speed their companions. She laughed and shouted to her partner, a new sense of freedom liberating her from the concerns and worries that had been a part of her life for so long. For a few short moments she was riding the clouds, away from pressure, away from responsibility, in a glorious haven that returned her to carefree childhood. When they came to the end of the run, she slowed the horse gradually to a halt and flung her arms around his gleaming neck.
    "I'll be a son of a gun!" Hank said in simple astonishment.
    "What were you expecting?" Paddy questioned, feeling as proud as a peacock with two tails. "She's a Cunnane." He held out the stopwatch for Hank to see. "Not a bad time either." With a final smile, he strutted over as Adelia slipped to the ground.
    "Oh, Uncle Paddy!" Her eyes gleamed like emeralds against her flushed face, and she pulled off her cap, flourishing it in excitement. "He's the grandest horse in the world. It was like riding Pegasus himself!"
    "That was nice riding, little lady." Hank extended his hand, shaking his head in admiration both for her ability and for the gleaming hair that now spilled over her shoulders.
    "Thank you, Mr. Manners." She accepted his hand with a smile.
    "Hank."
    She grinned. "Hank."
    "Well, Adelia Cunnane." Paddy slipped his arm around her shoulders. "Royal Meadows just hired another exercise boy. You've got yourself a job."
    Lying in her bed that night, Adelia stared wide-eyed at the ceiling. So many things had happened, in so short a time, that her mind refused to relax and allow her body rest.
    After her ride on the Thoroughbred, she had been taken through the stables, introduced to more hands and more horses, shown into a tackroom