“Go ahead.” Meara made a little note on her clipboard. “They asked for ninety minutes, so you’ll see more than yesterday.”
“I want to see it all. And, Meara?” The guilt over the dream wouldn’t allow her to just let it go. “I just wanted to say thanks for lending me Boyle last night for the ride home.”
“I’m not in the habit of lending him, but you’re welcome to keep him if you like.”
“Oh, did you have a fight?”
“About what?” The puzzled frown gave way to wide eyes, then a roll of wicked laughter. “Oh! You’re thinking me and Boyle are tangled. No, no, no! I love the man to distraction, but I don’t want him in my bed. It would be like shagging my brother. And that thought’s just put me off my lunch.”
“You’re not . . .” Embarrassment kicked up several notches. “I just assumed.”
“Look like lovebirds, do we?”
“There’s just something, I guess, intimate, between you
, so I thought you were together. That way.”
“We’re family.”
“Got it. Good. I guess it’s good. Maybe it’s a problem.”
Now Meara leaned on the side of the stall opening. “You’re a fascination to me, Iona. A problem?”
“It’s just that when I assumed, I had a good reason to ignore the . . .” She wiggled her fingers over her stomach.
“You’ve got”—Meara mimicked the gesture—“for Boyle.”
“He looks really good, on a horse and off. The first minute I saw him, I just . . . whew.” She laid one hand on her heart, the other on her belly, patted both.
“Is that the truth?”
“He’s all tough and cranky. Then there’s the big hands, the scar,” she said, tapping her eyebrow. “And those liony eyes.”
“Liony.” Meara tried out the words. “Well now, I suppose they are. Boyle McGrath, King of the Beasts.” She let out another of her barroom laughs.
“That’s just looks, but they’re really impressive. On top of it, he was really kind to me. Then there was the sex. Dream,” Iona said quickly when Meara’s mouth fell open. “Sex dream. I had one last night, and I felt so guilty because I really like you. And you don’t want to hear any of this.”
“You’re mistaken, entirely. I want to hear all of this, in the greatest of detail.”
On a laughing moan, Iona covered her face with her hands. “You’re Boyle’s friend. If you tell him the Yank’s got this slow simmer going on, he’ll either laugh himself into a coma or fire me.”
“He’d do neither, but why would I tell him any such thing? There’s a sisterhood that covers such matters. That’s a universal sort of thing to my mind.”
“Of course there is. Anyway, I think I’m just jet-lagged, and turned around, and coming to grips. It’s nothing. It’ll pass.”
“Maybe you should take him on a ride before you—”
She broke off at the sound of raised voices. “Ah, Christ.”
Turning on her heel, Meara strode out, and as the voices—male, extremely pissed—escalated, Iona followed her.
Boyle faced off with a hard-packed bull of a man in a red cap and plaid jacket. The bull, his face nearly as red as his cap, jabbed out with a finger. “I come here being reasonable, though you’re a cheat and a liar for all that.”
“And I’m telling you, Riley, what business we had is done and over. Get off my property, and keep clear of it.”
“I’ll get off your bleeding property when you give me back the horse you next to stole from me, or hand over fair payment. You think you can steal from me. Bloody thief.” He shoved Boyle back two steps.
“Oh Jesus,” Meara muttered. “Now he’s done it.”