Thrice Familiar

by Carolyn Haines

  Limerick followed them to the fence and stopped. “Well, would you look at that,” Old Mick said. A large black cat was sitting on the stone fence. “Is that your American cat?”

  Patrick walked over to the cat and stroked his fur. “It is, indeed. He must have been asleep in the Rover.”

  “And he followed us all the way up here?” Old Mick looked around. There was nothing to see but the rolling pasture, a few sparse briars growing along the stone wall.

  “He’ll have to follow us home,” Patrick said.

  “Meow,” Familiar agreed, jumping to the ground and starting down the path.

  Limerick gave a soft whinny, and the cat turned back to watch as Patrick gave the stallion a last pat.

  “Limerick could be gone from here any minute he chose,” Old Mick noted as he stepped over the low stone wall.

  “He knows to stay. He knows what I want him to do.”

  “I don’t doubt that for an instant. From the day he was born, he looked to you.” Old Mick’s voice faded into the still night. The stars were thick with a half-moon dangling in a cloudless sky. Simultaneously, the two men turned up their collars against the cold, crisp air and began the long walk back to the vehicle. Familiar led the way as if he’d traveled it all of his life.

  Catherine stopped short of the barn door. Patrick and Old Mick were coming across the pasture, both walking as if they’d not slept in days. The large black cat was in front of them. She’d noticed his absence in her bed during the night and wondered what adventure he’d gotten involved in that would keep him out in the cold. Now she knew. He’d been with Patrick and Old Mick, wherever they’d been.

  Unable to sleep, she’d gotten up early and gone to the barn to ride. In the four days that Limerick had been gone, she’d been so busy hanging on to her own emotional roller coaster that she hadn’t given much thought to what she might do on horseback. But yesterday she’d gotten the second handwritten note, sealed with a blob of wax and the same horse head impression. It had said that Limerick would be returned safely. Since there had been no ransom note, Catherine had begun to allow herself to be lulled by the reassurances of the anonymous writer, a writer she’d assumed was Patrick Shaw.

  When she thought of other possibilities, she felt as if she might begin to shake so hard she’d never stop. She’d committed herself to an action—or lack thereof—in failing to report the stallion’s theft. Now she could only wait, hoping that the writer of the note knew what he was talking about. The wolves, in the shape of Allan Emory, were circling her door, and she’d put her faith in the fact that one of her own employees had her horse. She looked sharply at Patrick as he entered the barn.

  A dark shade of stubble marked his strong-jawed face. His dark hair, usually neatly combed, curled softly. It was out of character for him to appear in the barn unkempt. Old Mick was dragging, too, and even the cat acted tired. The suspicion that had been growing blossomed into certainty. Patrick had her horse. She knew it—had known it. So why wasn’t she more upset? She should haul him before the authorities and have him jailed. She could do it, or at least, her father could. It might not be legal or fair, but the Nelson name carried a tremendous amount of weight. It would be simple enough to do, so why didn’t she?

  It was a question with too many answers, all not completely rational.

  “Good morning.” She stepped in front of the men as they approached the barn door. The startled looks on both their faces was her reward. “Sick horse?” She directed the question to Patrick. “You look like you haven’t slept in days. And you’re late.”

  “I didn’t realize you were clocking me in and out.” Patrick couldn’t help the fact that he bristled. Since he was ten years old, no one had forced him to account for his time or activities. He’d done a man’s work without shirking, and he had no intention of letting a woman dictate his movements.

  “How about a ride?” Catherine asked.

  “Help yourself. The riding horses are on the left front. Pick whichever you want.”

  “You don’t understand. I’d like for you to ride with me.”

  Patrick had been avoiding her gaze, but now he looked up. Something in the green of her eyes made him pause with the sarcastic remark unsaid. There was a sudden, unexpected surge of pleasure in the idea of a ride with Catherine Nelson.

  “Excuse me,” Old Mick said. He gave Patrick a warning glance before he entered the barn. “I’ll talk with you later, Patrick.”

  “Make sure Lily’s eating,” Patrick called after him. He turned to face Catherine fully. “So it’s a ride you’re after.”

  The innuendo in his words made Catherine’s pulse jump. “Just a ride. I thought it would be nice. Educational. Maybe we could ride in that direction.” She pointed in the direction from which he and Old Mick had come.

  “Aye, that’s a lovely ride over by Old Mick’s cottage. He’s having some bad nights, you see. The pain in his leg keeps him awake.”

  “Oh.” Catherine felt a pang of contrition. Had Patrick really been sitting up with a sick friend? Her gaze slid over to him, and she saw the crust of oats on the front of his brown jacket. Exactly the kind of mark a horse would leave if he nuzzled someone with affection after eating.

  “Would you like a few minutes to shower?” she asked innocently. She took a half step toward him and reached out to brush the oats from his chest.

  Patrick froze. Without a doubt, Catherine knew that he had the horse. So why hadn’t she done something? Their eyes met and held, green against blue.

  A gentle wind sifted through the barn and ruffled the strands of hair that had worked loose from her long braid. The tendrils tickled her cheeks, and she brushed them away with a quick, casual gesture.

  “I’ll meet you in ten minutes,” Patrick said, breaking the spell that had bound them. “I need to change into some riding clothes.”

  “What horse would you like? I’ll have him saddled while you change.”

  “Get Tam for me. I think you’d enjoy Mayo’s Motion. She’s a bit spirited—” his eyes challenged her “—but I feel certain you can handle her.”

  “In ten minutes.” Catherine turned away, walking toward the front section of the barn where several grooms were busy brushing horses and checking hooves. Her heart pounded with each step she took, and a strange rushing of blood affected her hearing.

  Patrick Shaw had Limerick. He’d deliberately taken him, forcing her to pull him from at least two races. He’d jeopardized her strategy for making Beltene a success. He’d thwarted her authority as owner. He’d done everything he could to make her life unbearable. So why was she getting ready to ride with the man?

  “Please saddle Mayo’s Motion and Tam,” she said to the first groom she saw. It took her a second to recognize Eamon McShane where he stood against a barn support. When he stepped into the light, she could see that the purple around his eye was fading to green. “I hope you’re feeling better, Mr. McShane,” she said.

  “Well enough.” He turned away. “I’ll get your horses. Who’ll be riding with you so I can get a saddle?”

  “Patrick on Tam.” A sudden thought occurred to her. “Saddle them, and I’ll be back in ten minutes,” she said, hurrying in the direction she’d seen Old Mick take.

  I hope there’s long-distance phone lines to wherever Eleanor and Dr. Doolittle have gone, because their good buddy, Patrick, is getting ready to take a fall. He’s taken that short step off a steep cliff, and if any little thing goes wrong, he’s going to hit bottom hard.

  Even an obtuse humanoid ought to be able to see that Patrick’s intentions are completely honorable, but the grim fact is that he’s stolen a horse. I believe he did it for all the right reasons. I believe he had no other choice. But if anything happens to Limerick, no one else will believe in him. They’ll think he was bitter over the sale of Beltene and decided to strike back any way he could.

  Oh, Eleanor, there might be trouble in Belfast, but there’s more brewing here than Irish tea. Ice Queen i
s beginning to thaw a bit, but the Lone Ranger is making it terribly difficult. I think I’m going to have to intervene in this situation.

  If I can sneak around and follow Patrick to Limerick’s hidey-hole, then someone else can, too. That’s what really unsettles me. He’s put a two-million-dollar horse running around in a half-fenced pasture with barely enough stable to keep the wind off him.

  Oh, well, I always think better on a full stomach, and last night was quite a workout. I wonder if Mauve might have some fresh sea trout or perhaps another bite of buttered prawns. Those were exceptional, I must say. I’ve never had better, not even on Pennsylvania Avenue, when I was carousing that neighborhood in my renegade days. And the cream here! To die for. My coat is already taking on a sheen that wouldn’t be possible in the States. Not even the injury from the bomb blast last year is giving me any trouble.

  Life is sweet, for those who know how to live it well. Yes, humans have a long way to go on the evolutionary chart. Work, ride, use those biped muscles to labor and sweat, while I, superior in my knowledge as well as my manipulative abilities, stroll to the kitchen for some food and a few kind words from the obliging Mauve.

  “Old Mick!” Catherine caught sight of the older man as he limped toward the west pasture. He was making very good time for someone who suffered a foot injury and looked as though he hadn’t slept.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He turned slowly to face her, as if he’d thought about ignoring her call.

  “I’m worried about Patrick. Is there anything troubling him?”

  Old Mick furrowed his brow in mock concentration. “Not that I know of, Miss Catherine. He seems happy to me. He’s a bit concerned over Limerick, but he believes the horse is safe. Unless you’ve heard otherwise?” Old Mick gave her a cagey look.

  “I’ve heard nothing.” Catherine decided to give as little information as possible. She’d been dying to talk with Patrick about the handwritten notes, but something held her back. The notes had to have come from him. Why would he endanger himself to that extent? It didn’t make sense.

  “It’s a strange case.” Old Mick shook his head sadly. “No ransom note, eh? Maybe the thieves will tire of dealing with that spoiled horse and bring him back.”

  “I haven’t heard a word from the thieves since that first note. If they don’t want a ransom, what could they want?” She had to work hard not to smile. Old Mick was far too easy to manipulate.

  “Must be the thieves had some other reason.”

  “Must be. Can you guess what?” She looked down at the lush winter grass, toeing her boot into it. “I wouldn’t be nearly so worried if I was certain he was okay. It’s just that I have no idea what the thieves are up to. Ransom? Breeding? Have they taken him simply to hurt me?” She gave him an innocent look.

  “I wouldn’t think a man would risk spending the best part of his life in prison just to get at someone else. No, I’d say revenge wasn’t the motive.” Old Mick rubbed his stubbly face with his hand. “More likely, maybe it was someone trying to provide a bit of help.”

  “Help?” Catherine felt her pulse increase. She was on to something. She could tell by Old Mick’s awkward demeanor and his earnestness. He wanted to tell her, to explain. But he could only go so far, and she knew why. He was as guilty in taking the horse as Patrick.

  “Help to be sure that he was...protected.” Old Mick stumbled through the sentence. “I have to go and check on Lily. She’s a beauty, and I don’t want Patrick yelling at me that she didn’t get her morning ration.”

  “But what kind of man would steal a horse to make sure the horse was protected?”

  Old Mick didn’t hesitate. “The kind of man who works for a woman too stubborn to listen to him.” He clamped his mouth shut when he finished.

  “I see.” Catherine felt her spine tighten.

  “No, I don’t think you do.” Old Mick pushed the brim of the flat green hat back a bit where he could stare at her with piercing blue eyes. “There are men who do what they think is right, no matter what the consequences. Not for themselves, but for those they love. You should never push a man like that to the extreme. When you do, the fault of whatever happens is yours.” He pulled the cap back down. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to do my chores. You pay an honest wage, Miss Nelson, and I intend to give an honest day’s work.”

  “Thank you, Old Mick,” she said, watching the old man walk away. His limp was more pronounced, as if he’d used up a measure of strength to talk to her.

  She walked back to the barn to find Patrick holding the two horses. He’d shaved the worst of the stubble from his face and changed into riding clothes, but there were faint blue depressions beneath his eyes. The man was tired, and he had good reason to be.

  “Why don’t you take me where you ride Limerick when you train him?” she suggested as she took her horse’s reins and prepared to mount.

  Patrick gave her a sharp look. There was something too innocent in the way she spoke. “Did you need something specific from Old Mick?” he asked, swinging up into the saddle with a grace that came of natural ability honed to perfection.

  “Yes, it was specific, but it shouldn’t trouble you.” She answered his look with a smile. “Patrick, I want to talk to you about the next step in finding Limerick. I’ve decided to hire a professional investigator. Someone private. I feel certain the horse is close by. I mean to have him back safely at Beltene. Is there anyone you could recommend for the work? I’d ask you to do it, but I know you have your hands full managing the stables and all the men.”

  Patrick silently cursed his luck. She’d neatly stuck him on the sharp prongs of a hayfork. If he agreed to look for Limerick, then he’d have to let her manage the barn. He knew exactly what she was driving at. She was a cunning woman. And he hadn’t missed the amusement sparkling in her green eyes. Dangerously clever and with a bit of humor he’d never suspected before.

  “Old Mick says you’re already overworked,” Catherine added as she nudged her mare into a trot.

  Patrick set Tam to trotting to stay beside her as they left the Beltene gate and headed down the open road.

  Before them, the green hills dipped and swayed, broken by the neat fences and the vivid flowers that spoke of spring and soil rich with limestone. Small cottages dotted the fields, the traditional peat fires burning as the smoke rose in the chill morning air.

  “Old Mick is a meddling old man. I stay busy, but I’m not overworked. Before you bought Beltene I did what I do now plus the books.”

  “And when did you sleep?” Catherine asked.

  “When I found a moment.” He laughed. “I fell asleep standing up in the barn one day. The men moved some hay to make a soft cushion, and then drew straws to see who would knock me over. Lucky for them I’m not as mean as I sound when I’m rudely awakened.”

  “It would take a brave man, or a fool, to topple you into the straw,” Catherine said. Her laugh was easy, light.

  Patrick glanced at her and saw the smile on her lips and in her eyes. His gaze moved down her, taking in her long-limbed grace. Her seat was natural and easy; her hands steady. Her legs, though lean, were strong.

  For her part, Catherine noticed that Patrick’s hands never lost contact with Tam. His touch was as light as a feather, and the horse seemed to understand what his rider wanted long before Patrick gave any signal that she could see.

  “Tell me about ‘the touch,”’ she said suddenly. “I’ve heard of it all my life. When I was learning to ride in Dublin, I heard that Thomas Shaw’s boy, Patrick, had ‘the touch.’ You rode as an under aged jockey when you were barely old enough to go to school, didn’t you?”

  “We needed a rider.”

  Catherine saw the look of distress that crossed his face; the past was an open wound with Patrick. It must have been hard for him, forced to give up his childhood and ride like an adult, with all of the pressures of a fully-grown man. She almost regretted bringing up ‘the touch,’ but she wanted to know his explanation for it.


  “I’ve seen the way the horses respond to you. Why is that?” she pressed.

  “I don’t know for certain.” Patrick answered her honestly. “There’s a story about a man who was smitten by a beautiful woman. It happened many years ago, when the otherworld and this world were not so far apart.”

  Catherine let herself fall into the gentle rhythm of his words. If he had a way with animals through his hands, his voice was certainly a powerful weapon on her. “Tell me, please,” she said. “I love to hear your stories.”

  Patrick’s grin was quick, boyish. “It will be my pleasure. It was said the man was walking his fields late at night in search of a valuable mare who’d gone missing from his herd. The people of his village warned him to let the mare go. They thought she’d been chosen by the gods as one of their steeds. If so, the man and his farm would be blessed with fertility.”

  “But he couldn’t let the horse go, could he?” Catherine said, anticipating the twist the story would take.

  “He could not.” Patrick slowed his horse to a walk. They were approaching Old Mick’s cottage. He knew the older man was still at the barn, but he wanted to make sure there was nothing amiss when they passed.

  “Wouldn’t he rather have the blessing of the gods than one mare?” Catherine knew she was playing into his hands, but she didn’t care.

  “In most cases, yes. But this mare was the prized possession of his daughter. She was a small chestnut mare with four white stockings and a blaze and trained by the girl to the gentlest touch of silken threads.”

  “A valuable animal, but certainly not as valuable as the blessing of the gods.”

  “Perhaps not to some, but this man loved his daughter dearly and couldn’t stand to see her suffer. He was determined to find the mare and bring her home, even if he had to go to the otherworld and hunt.”

  “And if he displeased the gods?” Catherine could see a dark parallel, and she wondered how much of the story Patrick had made up to suit his own purposes.