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door to take a better look. Cat stopped next to him, too close for his comfort. Her arm brushing his left a swath of heat shooting through him.
    “That’s Dean’s champion,” she confirmed.
    “Aye, he’s a handsome lad. He should sire some grand foals.”
    “Fingers crossed. I have other clients, too. They share the aisle on the other side of the barn. Right now, only eight of the stalls are in use. Martin Bradley brought in four of his broodmares and his own stallion from his farm,” she said, mindful of Jack’s threat to bring in the horses she used to own, as well. “My own horses—six mares, a stallion, a teaser and two geldings—are in the middle aisle. Plus Mac,” she added.
    Again she spoke in a possessive tone, as if the colt belonged to her. Aidan fought a twitch of discomfort.
    “Mac won’t be there for long,” he assured her. “The first stakes race is barely two weeks away. We need to get him in a stall at the track so he can start working out there every morning and so I can find a jockey. Unless you’ve already made all the arrangements.”
    “No, of course not. I got the paperwork going, and I planned to take you over there tomorrow, so you can see the facility and the stalls available. How would I know your preference?”
    Aidan told himself to relax already. He didn’t need to go looking for trouble. No matter that he’d feared he’d gone from the frying pan into the fire, Cat wasn’t his older brother. She wasn’t making decisions for him as Cashel would.
    “In the meantime, I have a short track opposite the pastures.” She moved away from the stallion. “You can start stretching Mac’s legs tomorrow before we go to the track if you want.”
    “That sounds like a fine idea, though he won’t be breaking any speed records with me on his back.”
    “Just think of how much faster he’ll be when he gets a lightweight jockey.”
    A few seconds later, Aidan heard a man’s deep voice call out, “Cat, you in here?”
    “Over here, Martin,” she called, then lowered her voice. “My other best client.”
    A burly man with unnaturally dark hair, as if it had been dyed, popped out of the far aisle. “We brought Sweetpea Sue a little early.”
    “We?”
    He stepped his aviator glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Simone is putting her in the stall next to Quick Pick.”
    Cat forced a smile. “No problem.”
    “The problem is Quick Pick isn’t pregnant yet.”
    “Quick Pick was a maiden. You need to be patient, Martin. We’ll try again as soon as she goes back in season.”
    A maiden not conceiving in her first season wasn’t unexpected, but Aidan picked up on the strain in Cat’s voice. Was there some reason for her to be nervous?
    Dressed as if she were about to go riding, a lovely blonde stepped next to her father. “What about Abigail Runs? Why isn’t she pregnant?”
    Cat sounded like she was about to choke when she turned to her client. “Martin, are you unhappy about something? You’ve been with me for three years. You know I always do the very best for you.”
    “Hill already has two pregnant mares and this is his first breeding season with you.”
    “Sheer luck. You’re not in a competition. Not here, away from the track. Just give it some time.”
    The man grunted and gave Aidan a once-over. “You the Irishman Jack told me about?”
    “That I would be,” Aidan agreed, holding out his hand. “Aidan McKenna.”
    “Martin Bradley,” the other man said, taking Aidan’s hand and shaking. “My daughter, Simone.”
    Aidan noted how Cat’s jaw clenched.
    He nodded at the blonde. “Miss Bradley.”
    Simone held out her hand, and when Aidan took it, she gave Cat a smug smile. “A pleasure.”
    Aidan sensed Cat’s immediate dis pleasure.
    She asked, “Martin, are you thinking of bringing in more than the mares we originally discussed?”
    “Where would you get that idea?”
    “Just checking so I can hold open more spots if needed.”
    Aidan thought she