Gabe didn't strike back, though the instinct was there, the back alley that always lurked under the civilized man he'd made himself. The groom was pitiful, he thought, and half his size. And the worst of it was that it had taken Moses to point out that he'd had a drunk handling his horse.

"Go back and get your gear, Lipsky," Gabe repeated, icily calm as the groom stood with cocked fists.

"You're through at Longshot."

"Who are you to tell me I'm through?" Lipsky ran a hand over his mouth. He wasn't drunk, not yet.

He'd had only enough of the gin in his flask to make him feel tall. And mean. "I know more about horses than you ever will. You lucked your way into the big time, Slater. Lucked and cheated and everybody knows it. Just like everybody knows your old man's a drunken loser."

The heat that flashed into Gabe's eyes had the handlers easing back. In tacit agreement they silently formed a ring. It was, they believed, nearly showtime.

"Know my father, do you, Lipsky? I'm not surprised. You're welcome to look him up, have a few drinks. But in the meantime, pick up your gear and the pay that's coming to you. You're fired."

"Jamison hired me. I've been at Cunningham Farm for ten years, and I'll be there after you've gone back to your roulette wheels and blackjack tables."

Over Lipsky's head Gabe saw two of the handlers exchange glances. So, he thought, those were the cards he was dealt. He'd play them out later, but now he had to finish this hand.

"There is no Cunningham Farm, and no place for you at Longshot. Jamison might have hired you, Lipsky, but I write your checks. I don't write checks for drunks. If I see you near any of my horses, I can promise you, it won't be Jamison who deals with you."

He turned, his gaze cutting straight to Kelsey. She stood, like the handlers, watching the show. She had a moment to think she'd prefer that the calm disdain in Gabe's eyes wasn't directed at her before she caught the glint of sun on steel.

The warning strangled in her throat, but Gabe was already whipping back to face the knife. The first lunge sliced almost delicately down his arm rather than plunging into his back. The sight and smell of blood had the handlers shifting quickly from their mildly interested attitudes.

"Keep back," Gabe ordered, ignoring the pain in his arm. His mistake, he thought, was in not judging correctly how far the drink would push. "You want to take me on, Lipsky?" His body was coiled now, ready. When you couldn't walk away from a fight, you dove in and played the odds. "Well, you'll need that knife. So come on."

The blade trembled in Lipsky's hand. For a moment, he couldn't remember how it had gotten there. The hilt had seemed to leap into his hand. But it was there now, and so was first blood. Pride stirred by gin wouldn't allow him to back off.

He crouched, feinted, and began to circle.

"We have to do something." The horror in Kelsey's throat tasted like rusted copper. "Call the police."

"No, not the police." Pale as wax, Naomi clenched her hands at her sides. "Not the police."

"Something. Good God." She watched the blade gleam and lunge, slipping by inches from Gabe's body.

No one moved but the two in the center of the circle, then the stallion began to kick in his trailer, excited anew by the scent of blood and violence.

Before she could think, Kelsey grabbed a pitchfork leaning against the side of the shed. She didn't want to dwell on what the tines would do to flesh, so she hefted it and began running forward, only to stumble to a halt when the knife flashed again. It arched up, flying free, as Lipsky hit the ground.

She hadn't seen the blow. Gabe hadn't appeared to move at all. But now he was standing over the groom, his eyes cold, his face as calm as carved stone.

"Let Jamison know where you end up. He'll send your gear and your money." In an effortless move he hauled Lipsky up by the scruff of the neck. The stink of gin and blood curdled in his stomach, sour memories. "Don't let me catch you around here again or I might forget I'm a gentleman now, and break you in half."

He tossed the limp groom down again, and turned to his men. "Let him off on the road. He can ride his thumb out of here."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Slater." They scrambled, as impressed as boys at a school-yard brawl, dragging Lipsky up and carrying him to the truck.

"Sorry, Naomi." In a careless gesture, Gabe raked the hair out of his eyes. "I should have waited to fire him until we were back at Longshot."

She was trembling, and hated it. "Then I would have missed the performance." Forcing a smile on her face, she moved closer. Blood was dripping down his arm. "Come on up to the house. We'll clean that arm."

"That's my cue to say it's just a scratch." He glanced down at it, grateful it wasn't much more than that, no matter how nastily it throbbed. "But I'd be a fool to turn down nursing by beautiful women." He looked at Kelsey then.

She still held the pitchfork, her knuckles white as bone on the handle. Valiant color rode high on her cheeks and shock glazed her eyes.

"I think you can put that down now." He took it from her, gently. "But I appreciate the thought."

Her knees began to shake, so she locked them stiff. "You're just going to let him go?"

"What else?"

"People are usually arrested for attempted murder." She looked back at her mother, saw the wry smile curve Naomi's lips. "Is this how things are handled around here?"

"You'll have to ask Moses," Naomi replied. "He does the firing at Three Willows." Taking the bandanna out of her pocket, she stanched the blood on Gabe's arm. "Sorry I don't have a petticoat to tear up for you."

"So am I."

"Hold it there, press hard," she instructed him. "Let's go up to the house and get it bandaged."

They started off, Gabe keeping his pace slow until Kelsey caught up. He turned his face to hers, and grinned. "Welcome home, Kelsey."

CHAPTER FIVE

KELSEY LEFT THE FIRST AID TO HER MOTHER, AND THE BUSTLING AND clucking to Gertie. She would have voted for a trip to the emergency room, but no one seemed particularly interested in her opinion.

Knife wounds, it seemed, were to be taken philosophically and mopped up in the kitchen.

Once Gabe's arm was cleaned, medicated, and bandaged, bowls of chicken soup and hot biscuits were served. Talk was of horses, of bloodlines and races, of times and tracks. Since it wasn't a world Kelsey understood, she was free to observe and speculate.

She had yet to determine Naomi's relationship with Gabriel Slater. It appeared intimate, easy. It was he who rose to refill coffee cups, not his hostess. They touched each other often, casually. A hand over a hand, fingertips against an arm.

She told herself it didn't matter what they were to each other. After all, her mother and father had been divorced for more than twenty years. Naomi was free to pursue any relationship she chose.

And yet it bothered her on some elemental level.

Certainly they suited each other. Beyond the easy flow between them, over and above their interest in horses that consumed them both, there was a strain of violence in each. Controlled, on ice. But as she knew with her mother, and as she'd seen for herself with Gabe, deadly.

"Kelsey might enjoy a trip to the track for some morning workouts," Gabe put in. He was enjoying his coffee, enjoying watching Kelsey. He could almost see the thoughts circling around in her head.

"The track?" She was interested, despite having her private musing interrupted. "I thought you worked the horses out here."

"We do both," Naomi told her. "Using the track gives a horse a feel for it."

"And the handicappers a chance to gauge their bets," Gabe put in. "The track draws an interesting and eclectic group, particularly in those dawn hours long before post time."

"Dawn's no exaggeration." Naomi smiled at her daughter. "You might not like to start your day quite so early."

"Actually, I'd like to see how it's done."

"Tomorrow?" The lift of Gabe's brow was a subtle challenge.

"Fine."

"We'll meet you there." Naomi glanced at her watch. "I've got to get down to the stables. The farrier's due." As she rose she pressed a hand to Gabe's shoulder. "Finish your coffee. Kelsey, you'll keep Gabe company, won't you? He'll tell you what to expect in the morning." She grabbed a denim jacket and hurried out.

"She doesn't stay in one place very long," Kelsey murmured.

"First part of the year is the busiest in the business." Gabe leaned back, the coffee cup in his hand. "So, should I tell you what to expect?"

"I'd rather be surprised."

"Then tell me something. Would you have used that pitchfork?"

She considered, letting the question hang. "I guess neither of us will know the answer to that."

"I'd lay odds you would have. A hell of a picture you made, darling. More than worth a prick on the arm to see it."

"You're going to have a scar, Slater. You're lucky it was your arm and not your pretty face."

"He was aiming for my back," Gabe reminded her. "I didn't thank you for the warning."

"I didn't give you one."

"Sure you did. Your face was as good as a shout." He slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out a worn deck of cards. Casually he began a riffling shuffle. "Do you play poker?"

Confused, she scowled at him. "I don't as a rule, but I know the game."

"If you take it up, never bluff. You'd lose more than your shirt."

"Have you? Lost more than your shirt?"

"More times than I care to remember." Out of habit, he began to deal two hands of stud, faces up.

"Would you bet on your queen?"

Kelsey moved her shoulders. "I suppose."

He flipped up the next cards. "After a while, if you're smart, you don't risk what you can't afford to lose. I've got plenty of shirts. Your queen's still high."

"So it is." For some absurd reason, she was enjoying the game. On the third card, her spade queen still reigned. And on the fourth. "Still mine. Is it the betting or the horses that interests you?"

"I've got more than one interest."

"Including Naomi?"

"Including Naomi." He turned over the last card, smiled easily. "A pair of fives," he mused. "Looks like they usurp your queen."

Her mouth moved into what was very close to a pout. "It's a shame to lose to such pathetic cards."

"No cards are pathetic if they win." He took her hand, amused when the fingers went rigid. "An old southern tradition. Ma'am." He brought her hand to his lips, watching her. "I owe you for Lipsky.

Payment's your choice."

It had been a long time since she'd felt this quickening in the blood. Since it couldn't be ignored, it would have to be fought. "Don't you think it's in questionable taste for you to make a move on me in the kitchen?"

Christ, he loved the way she could come up with those prim little phrases and deliver them in that husky voice. "Darling, this isn't even close to a move." Keeping her hand firmly in his, he turned it palm up.

"Lady hands," he murmured. "Teacup hands. I've always had a real weakness for long narrow hands with soft skin."

He pressed his lips to the center, lingering while her pulse bumped like a hammer under his thumb.

"That," he said, curling her fingers closed as if to ensure she kept the imprint of his lips there, "was a move. As far as taste goes, yours suits me. You'll probably want to keep that in mind."

He released her hand, scooped up his cards, and rose. "I'll see you in the morning. Unless you're having second thoughts."

Dignity, she reminded herself, was as important as pride. "I'm not having any thoughts at all, Slater, that involve you."

"Sure you are." He leaned down until they were face-to-face. "I warned you not to bluff, Kelsey. You lose."

He left her steaming over cold coffee. It was a damn shame, he thought, that he couldn't indulge himself in a few afternoon fantasies. But he had work to do.

As soon as he returned to Longshot, Gabe sought out Jamison. The trainer had been Cunningham's man, but when Gabe took over the farm, it hadn't taken much to induce Jamison to stay.

His loyalties had always been more with the horses than with the owner.

He was a big-bellied man who liked his food and his beer. Though he'd trained generations of horses that had finished in the money, no one but his staunchest friends would have considered him in Moses Whitetree's league.

He'd come from the county of Kerry as a babe in his mother's arms. His earliest memories were of the shedrow, the smell of the horses his father had groomed.

Jamison had lived his entire life in the shadow of the Thoroughbred. Now, at sixty-two, he sometimes dreamed of owning his own small farm and one champion, just one to carry him comfortably into retirement.

"Well, Gabe." He set aside his condition book and rose as Gabe walked in. "I shipped Honest Abe to Santa Anita, and Reliance to Pimlico. Missed the first post." He smiled wanly. "But I heard you'd had a spot of trouble and thought you'd want to see me before I headed to the track."

"How many times have you caught Lipsky drinking on the job?"

No prevaricating or how was your day with the likes of Gabriel Slater, Jamison thought. He'd known the boy for some twenty years, and had yet to fully understand him. "Twice before. I gave him a warning and told him he'd be cut loose if it happened again. He's a good hand. A weakness for gin, it's true, but he's worked on this farm for a decade." He glanced at the bandage on Gabe's arm and sighed. "I swear on my mother's heart I'd no notion the man would try to stick you."

"Drunks are unreliable, Jamie. You know my feelings about that."