Thrice Familiar

by Carolyn Haines

  McShane wasn’t impressed. “He always liked to play the important man.”

  “He made sure that your job was guaranteed. It doesn’t sound as if he were totally self-involved.”

  McShane’s laugh was short and bitter. “It’s irony to watch you defending the man who stole your horse.” He got up. “It’s none of my affair. I can take care of getting even with Shaw in my own good time. I don’t need you or anyone. Patrick Shaw will get his, I’ll see to that.”

  “Did you see the man who attacked you?” Catherine kept a firm grip on her temper. “If you can positively identify Shaw, then I’ll take up the matter with him. I can’t have my employees bludgeoning each other.”

  “I didn’t get a clear view. The cretin came up on me from behind, or he wouldn’t have done me so much damage.”

  “If you didn’t see him, how did you know it was Patrick?”

  “He grabbed me around the throat from behind. He has a crooked finger on his left hand. I saw it.”

  Catherine had never noticed the finger. What she did notice was that McShane was eager enough to pin the beating on Patrick to lie about it. “I’ll speak with him about it,” she said.

  McShane snorted rudely. “Thanks very much. Scold him properly for fighting while you’re at it.”

  “That will be all, McShane.” Catherine walked to the door and opened it.

  “You can talk to him all you want, but be alerted that I intend to pay him back in his own coin. You tell him for me to watch his back. I’ll slip up on him and work him over just like I got. Tell him. At least I’m man enough to give warning.” McShane walked through the door and never looked back.

  Catherine listened to his footsteps traveling the length of the hallway to the front door. When she was certain he was out of her house, she closed the door to her office and turned back to her desk. Sitting in the window beside her chair was the black cat. Catherine hadn’t noticed him before, but he was perched on the windowsill. He was a wily rascal with a knack for finding any open door or window. She’d awakened with him asleep on her green silk comforter, curled against her side. No one could say how he’d gotten into the house.

  “You’d better go back to the barn,” she said, reaching through the window to stroke his silky fur. “Patrick will be looking for you.”

  He can look till his eyes roll out of his head for all I care. I’m not spending another night in that drafty old barn when I can warm my spine against those lovely legs.

  But that’s a thought for later. I’m more interested in what’s going on with Eamon McShane.

  Patrick left the barn last night just after two. Since I’ve discovered the open bathroom window on the first floor, I can come and go as I please. That’s the first rule of the Trained Observer—find a route of unobserved entrance and egress. That’s how it happened that I was sitting on the stone wall when Patrick strolled out the back door of the barn and cut across the fields. He went to Old Mick’s. And after that? I can only guess, because they got in Old Mick’s rattletrap of a truck and drove away. It had something to do with a large gray mammal who is reputed to be worth millions of dollars. Or pounds, as they call it here.

  I must be getting cranky in my old age, because this pound business is making me testy. Pounds have to do with butter and cheese. With fish and steak, ground round and shrimp. Money shouldn’t be measured in pounds. It’s almost a sacrilege. The pound is a vital measurement, not a mere monetary unit. Ah, well, what do people who live on an island know? They don’t know what a mile is either. I’m trying to eavesdrop and find out where they’re going and Old Mick says it’s only twenty kilometers. I mean, can I walk it or will it wear my paws down to the nub? If I were running things, the entire world would have miles and dollars and cats on the thrones of power. See, monarchy is one thing we should have in America. A royal family with a royal cat. That’s the ticket.

  Enough of this tirade. I’ve got a little snooping to do around the barn. I was watching the video through the den window. Limerick is fine, which is no surprise to me. I think, though, that I’d better pay him a little visit. And then I want to check out Patrick’s digs for a brown jacket that looks as if it’s had a hard life.

  Catherine watched as Familiar jumped off the window ledge and walked toward the barn. He was an arrogant creature, but extremely affectionate. Why was it that she had the feeling that he knew more than he let on? There was something about those golden eyes, an intelligence that was a bit unsettling.

  For the second time that afternoon, a light tap on the door alerted her that someone was waiting to see her. “Come in,” she called as she walked back to her desk.

  “There’s a gentleman to see you.” Mauve stepped into the room and softly closed the door. “He said he was an old friend, but I didn’t know. He’s in the parlor.”

  “Thanks, Mauve. I’ve never known Beltene to have so many visitors. Maybe I should think about getting a butler.”

  “Now that would add a bit of polish to the house,” Mauve agreed. “Just find a good-looking man who’s single, and it would suit my fancy.”

  Catherine chuckled. If the men at the barn sometimes made her feel like an outsider, Mauve had done her best to make her welcome. The cook was humorous and always ready to talk about men, or the lack of them, in her life. “Did the man give his name?” Catherine asked.

  “He said he wanted to surprise you.”

  Catherine made a face. “I see.” She started toward the door. “I usually love surprises.”

  When she walked to the parlor with Mauve at her heels, she saw only the man’s boot. An expensive English riding boot. The rest of his body and face were hidden by the wing of the chair.

  At the sound of her step, the man stood, turning to face the door.

  “Allan.” She was completely flabbergasted. Allan Emory had been the man of her dreams—until a year ago when he “let her down gently” to marry a duchess. The wedding had never materialized. She’d hoped never to see him again.

  “Catherine.” He stepped toward her and lightly kissed her cheek. “You look marvelous, especially under the circumstances. How are you holding up?”

  “What are you talking about?” The question contained some heat. What was Allan doing on her doorstep with this false air of solicitude?

  “I’ve heard. It’s terrible.” Allan picked up her hand and kissed it. “I’m here to do anything I can to help.”

  Catherine jerked her hand away, then looked at Mauve. “Could you bring us some tea? Or maybe some brandy. I think I need something stronger.” She had no idea what Allan was talking about, but she wanted whatever it was kept within the confines of the parlor.

  “How thoughtless of me,” Allan said, dropping his voice. “You haven’t told anyone yet, have you?”

  She heard Mauve shut the door. “Told them what, Allan?”

  “I know Limerick has been stolen.” Allan grabbed both of her hands. “I’ve come to help.”

  She withdrew her hands from his. “And how do you intend to do that?”

  “Moral support. Whatever. If you think he’s in the area, maybe we can mount a search. Farm to farm. If the locals have him, we can intimidate them into giving him up.”

  “Oh, really?” Catherine felt the bite of her temper. “What shall we do? Torch their farms? Perhaps take their children?”

  Allan caught her tone and shrugged. “I’m only trying to help.”

  “How did you find out about Limerick?”

  He walked away from her to the fireplace. A crystal decanter contained an arrangement of roses. Leaning into the flowers, he took in their perfume. The afternoon sun slanted into the room and caught his blond hair, the tan skin. “These are delightful. Do they come from Beltene gardens?”

  “Who told you about Limerick?” Catherine stared at the handsome man she’d once fancied herself in love with. It seemed like a million years ago. “The only people who know about the horse are my staff. I went to great pains to make certain no one else
knew. How on earth did you find out?”

  “When I saw that Limerick was scratched from the Kildare track, I asked a few questions. I found it interesting that Wicklow’s owner had scratched your horse. Very interesting.” He walked away from the roses and gave her a look.

  “So Kent told you?” Catherine found that even more unlikely. Allan was often at the track, as a bettor. But he had nothing to do with the training of horses. He had nothing in common with Kent Ridgeway. Except her. And the knowledge that Limerick had been stolen.

  “Kent didn’t actually tell me. I put two and two together, based as much on what he didn’t say as what he did. He was too evasive. Almost as if he didn’t want me to speak with you. He’s acting as if he had some personal interest here.”

  Catherine ignored the implied question. “I asked Kent to scratch the horse.”

  “Because he’s missing?”

  “He’s fine. I just—”

  There was a light tap at the door and Mauve entered with the brandy. “Connie found a letter on the drive. The postman must have dropped it on his way out. It’s on the tray.” She put her burden on a table and left the room, carefully closing the door.

  Picking up the envelope, Catherine noticed several things, the handwriting was neat, as if the writer made sure to make each letter uniform. It was printed, not written. The envelope was addressed to Miss Catherine Nelson, Beltene Farm. There was no postage at all.

  Allan’s gaze bored into her, so Catherine flipped the letter over. The flap had been sealed with old-fashioned wax and the crest of a horse head. Sliding her nail under the flap, she opened the letter and read it silently.

  “The horse is in perfect health. Whatever you do, don’t panic.” She looked up to find Allan staring at her intently.

  “What is it, a ransom note?”

  She tucked the single page back inside the flap. “An invitation.”

  “To what?” Allan demanded. “How can you think about social engagements when the future of Beltene is missing?”

  “Allan, what are you doing in Connemara?” Catherine turned the question back on him. She had to think of some way to keep Allan’s mouth shut about Limerick. The note indicated the horse was okay. If she could only keep everything calm, she might get him back.

  “I came to help you find your horse.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. This is something I’m handling myself.” Catherine saw that he wasn’t paying any attention to her. “I don’t want your help, Allan. I fully expect to get Limerick back.”

  “I’ve booked a room in Galway. I’m staying here until Limerick is found, dead or alive. I came to offer you some money for his ransom, if you need it.”

  Allan’s generosity made Catherine really look at him. “Why?” she asked. With Allan, she’d learned, there was always a why.

  He smiled slowly. “I want a piece of him. If you need the ransom money, then I’ll give it to you for fifty percent of the horse.”

  Catherine felt the blood rush to her heart and then to her brain. She’d never experienced such a blinding fury. “You’ll loan me the money for fifty percent of the horse?”

  “Calm down, Catherine. Not loan. Give. If it comes down to a ransom, I’ll pay half for half the horse. That’s a fair business deal.”

  “I’d rather die than be a business partner with you.” Catherine hurled the words at him, her fingers clenched around her brandy glass. The smash of the crystal against his face would be extremely gratifying.

  “I realized you’d put up some resistance to the idea. That’s why I brought cash.” He motioned to a suitcase on the floor on the opposite side of his chair. “That’s fifty thousand pounds, cash. If you can come up with your fifty, that should be able to ransom Limerick.”

  “And what makes you think they’re going to demand a ransom?” Catherine’s voice was shaking.

  “That’s what they always do, isn’t it? A few silly little notes, maybe a video, and then they come across with their demands. You meet them and, if we’re lucky, we get the horse back alive.”

  “If we’re lucky....” She didn’t like the sound of those words.

  “It’s a gamble, love. You know how much I love a good risk.” He went to her and removed the brandy glass from her lifeless fingers. “You, on the other hand, never learned to enjoy risk. But I’ve been giving it a lot of thought. Perhaps I can teach you.”

  6

  Patrick ran his fingers down Limerick’s front leg. The tendon was clean and straight, the flesh firm and not sensitive. He moved up to the knee, probing gently, exerting more and more pressure. Limerick lowered his head and nuzzled Patrick’s hair.

  “He’s sound,” Old Mick declared.

  “Another two days. I’ll start conditioning him tonight.” Patrick had to make sure. Once Limerick was returned to Beltene, the stallion would be off to the track. By means of the desperate horse-napping, he’d succeeded in pulling the big gray from the Kildare opening race. But there would be another match, and another. Catherine Nelson had her reputation riding on Limerick, and he would run—and win—for her. As soon as he was totally sound.

  Old Mick shifted from side to side, favoring his bad foot. “It’d be best if we took him on back, Patrick. It’s been four days. Miss Catherine is tired of waiting for a ransom note, and she’s tired of waking up each day with her most prized possession gone. She’ll be taking it to the coppers if we aren’t careful.”

  Patrick, too, was amazed that Catherine had not gone to the authorities. In fact, her entire demeanor was a puzzle. The first two days of Limerick’s disappearance, she’d been frantic with anxiety. Then for the past two days, she’d acted as if she had some secret connection to the horse’s safety.

  “Hey.” He pushed at the horse’s muzzle. Limerick was breathing in his ear, nibbling at the edge of it.

  “Do you think we should send another video?” Old Mick asked. “It would make her feel that he’s still safe.”

  Patrick shook his head. “I don’t think it’s necessary, and each time we do anything, it increases our risk.” He rubbed his hand over his unshaven face. It was barely daybreak, and the long days and nights were beginning to tell on him.

  The location that he and Old Mick had chosen to hide Limerick was extremely secluded. It was a long and bumpy drive over fifteen kilometers of rut and bog. Then it was a six-kilometer walk. Feed had to be carried on his back, and water brought up from a spring. None of that mattered in the long run, because Limerick was completely safe and getting the rest he needed.

  “You should leave the horse to me,” Old Mick said softly. He was concerned for his friend. As much as the long hours and hard work were telling on Patrick Shaw, it was also his conscience. Patrick wasn’t the kind of man who took another’s property. Only his grave concern for the horse would ever have provoked him to steal Limerick. His concern and his love for the animal.

  “I heard that McShane told Miss Nelson that you’d beaten him.” Old Mick leaned on the fence. It had taken the gossip three days to get from the house staff to the barn staff, but it had finally arrived, as did all of the gossip.

  “He can say anything he pleases. I didn’t touch him, and he knows that.”

  “What’s his gripe with you?”

  “Personal.” Patrick’s lips clamped shut, a sign he would talk no more on that particular subject.

  “I heard his wife had a fancy for you, would that be it?”

  “Peg McShane is a decent woman.” Patrick’s lips grew harder.

  Old Mick nodded to himself. He’d ferreted out the secret, sure enough. “She’s a decent woman who’s been indecently treated. It’s no sin to want a man to treat you with a bit of kindness. Even the animals expect as much.”

  “Peg was just wishin’ and talkin’.” Patrick’s brogue intensified for a moment. “I talked with her because she reminded me of Lucy.”

  “Aye, she does, now that you say it.” Old Mick recalled Patrick’s sister. She’d died as a teenager. She’d be
en in the wrong place at the wrong time—looking for her older brother, Colin, in Belfast.

  “Eamon must have thought there was more to it than a friendly conversation.”

  “The man is daft. He isn’t capable of thinking.”

  “And you kept him on because of Peg.”

  “And the children.”

  “She’d be better off if a horse kicked that one in the head.”

  Patrick’s lips curved up in a smile. He pulled a bottle of liniment from his pocket and splashed some into his hand. With firm and gentle strokes, he began to work on Limerick’s leg. “Now that’s a picture, Peg with three little ones and a husband with a hoof print on his forehead.”

  “It would look well in a wooden box carried by six pallbearers.”

  Patrick chuckled. “I wonder who did smack his ears for him. Not as if he didn’t have it coming from a number of sources. Timmy said he isn’t doing his work, and some of the other men are tired of picking up the slack for him.”

  “He knows because of you he has a year to lay about if he chooses.”

  “A man can change.” Patrick stood up.

  “If he has a mind to, or if God smites him hard enough.” Old Mick grinned. “I suspect it was Jack that got him, but maybe you should give him a beating. He’d know well enough who had hold of him then.”

  “You’re a violent man, Old Mick,” Patrick said, shaking his head in mock concern.

  “I don’t like that bastard. He’s been following us around, peeking ’round corners and spying up lanes. He’s trouble, mark my words.”

  “Trouble for Peg and the children. Let’s head back. It’s a long haul, and I want to be there for first feeding.”

  “You’re going to have to sleep sometime, Patrick.”

  “I will, when Limerick’s safely home and all accounted for.”

  Patrick ran his hand down the gray stallion’s neck. In return, Limerick lowered his head and pushed it gently into Patrick’s chest. “See you later,” Patrick whispered in the horse’s ear.