Thrice Familiar

by Carolyn Haines

  Thrice Familiar

  Carolyn Haines

  KaliOka Press

  Copyright © 2017 by Carolyn Haines

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Art designed by Cissy Hartley

  This book is dedicated to Susan Tanner, fellow writer, rider and traveler; Carolyn Nyman, cat lover, friend and teacher; Gloria Howard, who made the dream of horses possible; and Corrine Morgan, friend, gardener, and chef extraordinaire.

  Contents

  Letter to the Reader

  Cast of Characters

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  About the Author

  Trouble’s Double Contest Winner

  Bonus Excerpt from Familiar Trouble

  Dear Reader,

  I’ve always loved horses, and on a trip to Ireland and Scotland I discovered a genetic link to my beloved equines! My grandfather (who died when my mom was nine, so I never knew him) was Slater Earl McEachern. On my travels, I learned that “each” is the Gaelic Scottish word for horse. The McEachern clan were horselords for the Clan Donald. Validation! I was born into a family that didn’t ride horses, but horse was the first word I learned to speak. Now I can claim (rightly or not) that I was genetically predestined to love and ride horses.

  All of this is to say that when I went to Ireland and Scotland on an absolute dream vacation where I rode horseback up the western coast of Ireland, I went with the idea of writing a book about my adventures. And of course I needed a savvy black cat detective to help me tell the story. Familiar was more than happy to travel with me in my imagination and to help out my fictional “humanoids” to find their stolen horse and to make them understand how much they were meant for each other.

  Ireland and Scotland have always held a special place in my heart. Like my love of horses—there’s no logical explanation for it. Perhaps it is genetic. That’s the wonderful thing about being a “mutt” in heritage. I’m a little bit of this and that and a lot of things, so I can claim kinship to many places. Just like Familiar.

  So welcome to the third adventure of Familiar, the black cat detective.

  Best,

  Carolyn

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Catherine Nelson—Her lifelong dream turned into a nightmare, and now her life—and love—are at stake.

  Patrick Shaw—He was out for revenge—with a vengeance.

  Familiar—The feline detective would need to do some fancy pussyfooting this time to protect his human friends... and his own sleek black hide.

  Limerick—The future of Beltene Farm.

  Kent Ridgeway—A gambler who's used to winning; how far will he go to take this prize?

  Allan Emory—He may already be guilty of kidnapping. Is he desperate enough to kill?

  Colin Shaw—The black sheep of the Shaw family.

  Eamon McShane—Is he protecting his family—or setting Patrick up for a fall?

  1

  I cannot believe that my life has come to this. Abandoned by my own Eleanor in the squalor of—dare I utter the word—a barn. Not your small, pleasant red variety of barn. This is an enormous rambling structure with forty stalls and a dozen workers moving about at all times.

  And I’m supposed to live here. Outdoors. Eating out of a bowl that hasn’t been washed in days. Drinking rainwater, if I’m lucky enough to find some.

  How is it possible that I’ve been subjected to such a demeaning situation?

  Barn cat. Think of the image this conjures up. Lean, scruffy cats always alert for the tell-tail movement of a rodent. Oh, that’s not a pun, that’s a gag. A real gag! They’re probably going to expect me to catch rats. And eat them.

  It doesn’t matter that I’ve been smuggled into Ireland. There’s not enough bracing air in all of Europe to rid my nostrils of the smell of hay and leather and horses. How could Eleanor do this to me? Dr. Doolittle, well, I don’t expect any more of him. He’s only a man. But Eleanor, she should know better than this.

  I have a multitude of complaints about the travel arrangements, too. First of all, I resent being sedated. Second, the cage is too cramped, with poor ventilation. Third, I could have stayed in Washington and minded my own affairs with perfect safety. Ever since the bombing, I’ve been on the lookout for my old nemesis, Arnold Evans. I know he’s out and about and still trying to get even with Eleanor and Peter. Believe me, I won’t make the mistake of forgetting about him or that bomb blast that nearly killed Eleanor. I won’t forget or forgive. The trouble is, Eleanor won’t either. She won’t give Arnold another chance to hurt me or Peter. That’s why I find myself in this degrading situation.

  The dame packed me in this case and imported me into Ireland in an effort to keep me safe. In the whole country of Ireland, though, it seems she could have found me better accommodations than in the loft of a horse barn on the west coast of the Emerald Isle. She says it’s just a temporary upset of our summer plans. The meeting on human rights scheduled in the peaceful coastal town of Galway has turned into an effort to stop a possible bombing in Northern Ireland. She’s in Dublin with a hot ticket for Belfast and danger. That amnesty group she and the good doctor are working with is doing everything they can to prevent another tragedy.

  And I’m left here, in a cage, in a barn, in the country, on an island, with no prayer of getting out for a little exercise and a snoop around for some vittles. I’m missing Wheel of Fortune on television and the new Nine Lives’ flavor that was due out this month.

  And my protector, if you can call the man such, is a solitary soul with an attitude. The dame can certainly pick the hard cases. Patrick Shaw. He lives up here in the barn above his beloved horses. I’ve been watching him, and the only time he seems alive is when he’s working with one of those large, temperamental equines. When he touches them, there’s some kind of instant communication. Especially that big gray devil, Limerick. Too bad he hasn’t developed the same bond with his human counterparts. He’s a little brusque, if you ask me. I keep trying to see why Eleanor thinks he’s such a wonderful man. Or at least wonderful enough to be trusted with me for two whole weeks while she’s away. I just don’t see it, but then again, I’m partial to tall, slinky legs, sexy eyes, and the female gender. Patrick definitely doesn’t qualify there. He’s lean and about as soft and cuddly as a field of rocks.

  He’s not even a cat person. Maybe if I could whinny I could attract his attention. I want out of this cage. I’m acclimated. If he’s so concerned that I won’t know where I am why doesn’t he put me up on one of those horses and give me a ride around the grounds? Anything to get out. I’ll try the whinny.

  Startled by the strange noise coming from the cat, Patrick hurried to the cage. He wasn’t overly fond of felines, but he’d given Eleanor and Peter his word that he’d care for the black cat they seemed to regard with such affection. And he honored his word. Always. But especially to the couple who’d helped so many of his friends. Eleanor and Peter Curry had done a lot of work to bring peace to Ireland. For Patrick, that peace was a personal and a political concern.

  As he unlatched the cage and lifted the big bla
ck cat into his arms, he sighed. In the past year, he’d lost his dreams of freedom and peace. The farm that had been in his family for generations now belonged to someone else. Instead of boss, he was a hireling, a “manager.” Horses that he had bred no longer belonged to him, and the only reason he remained in County Galway was the big gray stallion that had once been his future. His invitation to stay was based on the magic he worked in getting a horse to run from the heart. If it wasn’t for his record as a trainer, he would have been asked to leave as soon as the ink had dried on the deed.

  “Can I trust you on your own?” he whispered in the cat’s ear. His brogue was as soft as his touch. He held Familiar with one hand and stroked him with the other. There was nothing that could be done to save his horse farm, but maybe Eleanor and Peter could help his country. Two weeks’ care of the cat was little enough to ask in return.

  “Eleanor says you’re a smart lad. She said you’ll learn the barn and stay out of trouble. Now don’t disappoint her. She’s too fine a lady to be troubled by a prowling cat. And I’ve got the devil’s own spawn due here in five minutes to torment me to death.” He put Familiar on the ground and walked away.

  Tail twitching, the black cat hurried after the man as he disappeared down the center of the barn.

  “Miss Nelson will be here any minute,” Patrick said as he walked to a cluster of grooms. “Check the tack room once again. If there’s a speck of grain on the feed room floor, I’ll have someone’s head, and that’s a promise. Be sure Limerick’s blanket is spotless, and that his halter has been oiled.”

  “That’s a fair amount of work for one woman who’ll walk in, twitch her nose, give a few orders, and leave.” The man who spoke had a thicker accent, gray hair, and an abundance of wrinkles. He walked with a slight limp, evidence of a bad encounter with a horse. “She’s a banker, not a horsewoman. What does she know?”

  “I don’t like it any better than you do, Old Mick,” Patrick said, not bothering to hide his displeasure. “But if it pleases Catherine Nelson to have spotless blankets and oiled halters, then we shall have them for her.”

  “Aye, what would please her would be....”

  General laughter erupted among the grooms at Old Mick’s bawdy remark. For the first time that day, Patrick’s mouth played with the idea of a smile. At last, the smile won out and his blue eyes danced. “That’ll be enough of that. I don’t believe Miss Nelson is known for her sense of humor or her fondness for the opposite sex.”

  “And what exactly is Miss Nelson known for?” The soft female voice carried a load of sarcasm.

  Patrick and the grooms stopped laughing. They turned to confront the woman who stood at the open door of the barn in immaculate riding boots, tan breeches, and a black hunt jacket. Tall and slender, her shadow stopped right at the toe of Patrick’s boot.

  He took in the shape of her leg, lean and booted, the curve of her hips and waist. Beneath the expensive material of her jacket, he could see her breasts rising and falling softly, dangerously. She was mad and struggling to control it. She had more than a bit of spirit, and that was something he enjoyed in his horses and his women. “She’s known for giving ridiculous orders and having a bad temper,” Patrick said evenly, knowing that he was deliberately baiting her. The men around him stood very still.

  “Just as my barn manager is known for his arrogance and rudeness.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Instead of hating us, Mr. Shaw, you should be glad that my father bought your family’s business. It would have been auctioned off piece by piece and horse by horse. At least this way the farm was maintained, and you have a job, which won’t last long with that attitude no matter what kind of a magician you are with the horses.” She walked outside, gave a signal to someone, and turned back to Patrick. “Bring Limerick out of his stall. And do be sure his blanket is clean and his halter is well oiled.” Without a backward glance, she walked into the sunshine.

  “That’s a cold one,” Old Mick said softly. “Many a man would shrivel before that Medusa.”

  “A smart man would run,” agreed Jack, a young groom. He looked at Patrick, but the taller man was staring at the empty door through which Catherine Nelson had disappeared. The look on Patrick’s face was anything but that of a man who intended to yield the battlefield. “Don’t even be thinking you can best her, Patrick,” Jack whispered. “She’s a devil, and she owns you lock, stock, and barrel.”

  “Get on with your chores,” Patrick said. His blue eyes were hard even though his voice was soft. “I’ll bring Limerick out myself.”

  “She’s here because you haven’t worked him in a week,” Old Mick said. “I told you she’d be on your back. They mean to race that horse next week no matter what condition his knee is in. It doesn’t matter to them if they cripple him or not. Why should it matter when they can just buy another toy to race?”

  “That’s enough!” Patrick’s words were harsh. “Get to work or you’ll find yourself begging along the roadsides. It’s only by Miss Nelson’s generosity that any of us have jobs. And that’s something she never intends to let us forget.”

  As Patrick strode down the barn, Old Mick shook his head. He spotted the black cat sitting by the wall. “Ah, the American cat. It’s best for you if you take yourself off from here. If Miss Nelson sees you, she might take it into her mind that you aren’t part of the Nelson plan. Then you’ll be in a pickle and Patrick right alongside you.”

  Familiar arched his back and rubbed against Old Mick’s leg. “So, you aren’t intimidated by the likes of Catherine Nelson, are you?” He scratched the cat’s ears. “Neither is Patrick. And that doesn’t bode well for his future.” Mumbling to himself, Old Mick went to make sure the foals had been brought into the barn for their evening feeding. His mumbling ceased as he stepped into the sunshine. It was hard to be in a bad mood when the sun was shining and the grass was as green as a new bud.

  Inside the barn, Familiar sought deep shadows.

  Ah, things are picking up. Instead of a bucolic holiday in the country, I get the feeling that Eleanor and Peter aren’t the only ones dealing with an explosive situation. Catherine Nelson. What a babe. She carries herself like royalty, and she’s got the face and figure to support the title. If she ever let that red hair loose from that braid, I’ll bet it would go all the way to the top of those long, long legs. Really a classy piece of work in those boots and breeches. Maybe an ice queen, though. She’s cold. But I suspect that Patrick runs just as hot. It’s a tit for tat situation here. Now I’d better scoot to see how Limerick will fare in this contest of wills. I’m laying my bets on Patrick.

  The big gray stallion nosed his velvety muzzle into the halter that Patrick held. With a quick movement, Patrick latched the hook and stepped back to allow Limerick to enter the barn aisle. The stallion’s stall was in a separate portion of the barn, removed from the mares and geldings. Patrick used the cross ties to secure him in the center of the aisle and quickly readjusted his green blanket before Catherine Nelson could arrive. He heard her before he saw her.

  “He’s the best prospect I’ve seen in years. That’s one reason we’ve kept him over here in Galway. We didn’t want to attract any attention. When we take him to Kildare County on Saturday we want to take them by storm.”

  Patrick’s fingers clenched the cross tie as he watched Catherine walk into the barn with a tall, well-muscled man also dressed in riding clothes. His boots were polished to a high gloss, his tweed jacket immaculate. Just as always.

  “Patrick, this is Kent Ridgeway. Kent, this is our trainer, Patrick Shaw.”

  The two men eyed each other, neither extending a hand nor making any gesture of common courtesy. Patrick knew Kent Ridgeway. They’d competed against each other for years, though they’d never met face-to-face.

  “For God’s sake, Kent,” Catherine said with exasperation. “You two act like dogs ready to be thrown into the pit together. Surely, you know Patrick’s work. His horses have won everything in the country. As I understand it, Patric
k’s bloodlines have consistently put yours in second place.”

  “They’re your horses now,” Kent said easily. His gaze strayed over to the gray that had begun to paw the ground. “Yes, I’m familiar with the Shaw name in horse breeding. It was exceptional at one time. Tell me, Patrick, was it bad management, fondness for the bottle, or gambling that lost Beltene Farm for you?”

  Patrick gently pulled in his breath. “I’m not certain that it’s any of your business why I chose to sell my farm, Ridgeway.”

  “Kent!” There was genuine disapproval in Catherine’s voice. “Patrick’s right. That is none of your concern. If you’re going to act like a boor, I’ll get someone to drive you back into town.”

  “Sorry, Catherine.” Kent smiled at her. “I didn’t realize how personal the question would sound. Forgive me, Patrick. I wasn’t thinking.” He smiled at Patrick, his blue eyes hard.

  “Enough foolishness. Let’s get the blanket off this big fellow and give Kent a chance to look him over.” Catherine stepped forward and took the green blanket off the stallion before Patrick could protest. “Would you saddle him up and call Timmy to ride him?” Catherine was busy running her hands over the horse’s legs. She missed the expression that blazed on Patrick’s face.

  “Did you not get the message I sent about Limerick’s right knee?” Patrick asked softly.

  “Indeed I did.” Catherine’s slender fingers pressed about the knee in question. “There’s no soreness or swelling. He seems fit to me. Saddle him up.”