Thrice Familiar

by Carolyn Haines

  Limerick’s stride lengthened and steadied, and Patrick gave himself to the ride. The road tunneled into dense blackness and there was a savage joy in the way they pounded along together. Patrick knew he had to let the past go. For the first time he considered leaving Beltene. Once Limerick had been transported to the track, he could go. His last scrap of influence—and protection—over the horse would be gone.

  As if he sensed Patrick’s thoughts, Limerick crow hopped suddenly. The movement forced Patrick to clamp down with his thighs and pull in rein. Limerick intensified the bucking. He let out a playful squeal.

  “And to think I was feeling sorry for you,” Patrick said. He rode the rocking bucks laughing at the stallion. He knew Limerick was only playing. There was no serious intent in the gentle bucks and stiff-legged crow hops.

  “You’d best straighten up. If you do this on the track, Catherine will have you to the glue factory.”

  Tired of the game, Limerick settled back into a gallop. For the last three miles, they rode in silence.

  Mumbling came from the loft in a gentle murmur, as if a conversation was going on just below the actual level of hearing. Catherine paused as she got Mayo’s Motion out of the stall and led her to the cross ties. There were several grooms about in another wing, but it was barely daylight and she’d come to the barn for another ride. And to see Patrick. Sleep evaded her. No matter how much during the day she could convince herself that Limerick was fine, at night the devils of worry and guilt nagged at her. She was feeling rough and bruised, and the one thing that seemed to soothe her was to see the trainer at work. If he had Limerick, and she felt that he did, then his presence at the barn meant all was well. If anything was wrong with Limerick, Patrick would be with the horse. That much she knew. More troubling was when Patrick would decide to return her horse. The more time that passed, the more anxious she was becoming.

  She climbed the ladder to the loft to satisfy her curiosity about who, or what, was making such an interesting noise. Studiously avoiding the door to Patrick’s quarters, she walked in the opposite direction toward the hay storage area. The noise was coming from the hay mound where loose hay had been gathered into a pile.

  Her gaze fell on the long length of leg, boot-clad, the breeches permanently discolored at the knees from saddle soap. Even before she saw the dark hair, sprinkled with hay, she knew it was Patrick. The big black cat was asleep in his arms. The smile that crossed Catherine’s face was amused and tender. It was quite a sight, a grown man curled up in the hay with a cat.

  “The past....” Patrick whispered.

  Catherine eased down and stroked a purr from Familiar. She didn’t stop to analyze her actions; she only knew her heart had begun a faster, racy beat. The cat’s green eyes opened, then closed again. “So, I’m not even worth waking up for, am I?” she asked softly.

  She felt Patrick’s gaze on her before she looked at him. He was wide-awake. There wasn’t a trace of sleepiness in his gaze, and she felt suddenly vulnerable.

  “Do you find this more comfortable than your bed?” she asked awkwardly looking down. What was she doing sitting in the hayloft with him? She’d invaded his privacy in a strange way. Even her question was embarrassingly familiar.

  “I’ve slept plenty of nights in the hay.” There was no reprimand in his tone, only mild amusement. He was enjoying her discomfort. “How about you, Catherine Nelson? Have you never spent a summer night in the sweet hayloft?”

  Catherine knew to get to her feet, to answer him with a smile and a quick retort. But she didn’t move. Her mouth went dry, and she stared at him. “It isn’t summer,” she managed. Sunlight filtered in through air laden with dust motes and struck the stubble on his face.

  As if he read her mind, he ran a hand over his chin and sighed. “Time for a shower and shave.” He pushed up to an elbow, taking a moment to fondle Familiar. “Have I missed breakfast?”

  His light remark broke the trance. Catherine got to her feet. “Do you always sleep in your boots?”

  “Saves on the wear and tear.” He smiled, and it had an amazingly boyish quality. “Actually, I couldn’t find my bootjack and I sat down here in the hay to spend a moment with Familiar and I fell asleep. In fact—” he eased the cat onto his lap “—this fellow was acting a little sore last night. Stiff in a back leg, so I decided to check it out. Last year he was involved in a bombing.”

  At the look on Catherine’s face, Patrick stopped short. “In America, not here. His owner believes the bombs were directed at her and her husband because of some work they did in putting an animal researcher behind bars.”

  Catherine looked down. She’d jumped to a conclusion. She’d heard “bomb,” and she’d thought of Patrick’s brother and his affiliation with a militant group in Northern Ireland. It wasn’t something Patrick ever talked about—he was unreasonably private about such matters. And bigger fool, she’d let him read her thoughts right off her face.

  “But, of course, I’m sure you think all Irishmen have a passion for dynamite and a fuse.” Patrick stood, gently lowering Familiar back into the hay. “That’s one of our national weaknesses, I suppose. Whiskey, song, and bombs.”

  “Patrick.” She stood. “I’m sorry.” There should have been something else she could say, something more. But the bitter extremities of their backgrounds were laid bare before them. “Please excuse me,” she said, heading toward the ladder. No matter that she’d been reared and schooled in Ireland. Her birth and heritage were English. To him, she was British. She was British, and she had money. To think that a friendship could ever be built across that abyss was heartbreakingly foolish.

  Retreat was the only recourse she had, and she took it, going down to the barn aisle where Mayo’s Motion waited patiently in the cross ties. Refusing the offers of the grooms for assistance, she curried the mare, cleaned her hooves, saddled her, and led her into the yard. She couldn’t help herself as she cast a look up into the hayloft. Patrick stood there, the cat at his feet. Both of them watched her as she rode into the distance.

  Old Mick drained his glass and put it down on the bar. “Tell me again what was said and done,” he requested, motioning for a refill.

  O’Flaherty’s was smoky and filled with patrons. It was the hour just before the evening meal when men and women stopped by from the bustle of the day for a quick drink and a chat with their neighbors and friends. Old Mick shifted onto a stool, taking the weight off his throbbing foot. Patrick hadn’t allowed him to accompany him to see the stallion the previous night. Now Old Mick was hearing the stories of it, though. It stirred a fire in his heart, and it troubled him greatly.

  “The old man came in here, babbling about Cuchulain and the mystical horse,” the barkeep repeated. “He said the animal was enormous, a chest the width of a brawny man, and hooves that sparked fire on the rocks in the road.”

  “And you’re believing this?” Old Mick said in a mocking voice. “Next you’ll be claiming to see St. Patrick running the snakes into the ocean.”

  “The old beggar was dead serious. His hand was trembling so, I gave him a drink.”

  Old Mick hooted. “And now you’re out a free drink, so you want to keep us all here listening to wild tales and filling your till.”

  Old Mick’s scorn was not having a detrimental effect on the barkeep’s audience. Several men and three women had moved closer to hear the tale.

  “How did he know it was Cuchulain?” one woman asked.

  “Because he said he was here to remind all Irishmen that freedom is a natural state,” the barkeep said. “He urged all of us to remember that.”

  “Cuchulain,” a man said. “It’s about time Ireland found herself a national hero. Even one that’s been dead for centuries.”

  There was general laughter, but Old Mick saw the look of tension that passed from face to face. History and heroes were serious business to most Irishmen. Both could stir a heart to dangerous deeds.

  In Old Mick’s mind, he knew who was out on th
e road late at night riding a big gray horse. Patrick would not be amused to find himself the embodiment of a legend. And Old Mick would never believe that Patrick was encouraging talk of freedom, not even in jest. Colin Shaw had labeled himself a freedom fighter, and it had cost the Shaw family money, blood, and much, much more.

  “Was he as handsome as the legend says?” another woman asked. “If he is, maybe I’ll wait out on the road to see him. It might be worth losing a night’s sleep to lure him home to my bed.”

  “He wouldn’t want to be riding no horse in the middle of the night if he had an offer from you,” a man replied and was greeted by general laughter up and down the bar.

  “I wouldn’t put too much stock in the foolish babblings of an old drunk,” Old Mick said. He finished his drink and stood.

  “Keep that foot by the fire,” the barkeep called to Old Mick as he saw him prepare to leave.

  “Aye, not much else to do on a raw night.” Old Mick pushed his money forward on the counter, picked up his cap, and pulled it over his eyes as he stepped into the night. A blast of cold air almost made him turn back inside. He heard someone else follow him out.

  “You need a ride, Old Mick?” a young man who’d been sitting at a table asked. He pulled his hat down lower and cast a glance at the closed door of the bar.

  “Do I know you?” Old Mick questioned. He looked the neatly dressed young man over.

  “I went to school with your son, Michael.”

  “Sure.” Old Mick nodded and suppressed his sigh of relief. It wasn’t a long walk to his cottage, but his foot was throbbing, and he was bone tired. Patrick had said another three nights of riding Limerick, and he would bring him home. If only their luck would hold another seventy-two hours. “A ride would be nice, indeed.”

  “The red one,” the young man said, pointing to the car. Old Mick walked over to it, realizing that the man who’d offered him a ride wasn’t a regular in O’Flaherty’s. “I’m sorry but I can’t recall your name,” he said.

  “Craig. Craig Murray.” The young man stuck out his hand.

  Old Mick took it. The palm was smooth. “Are you sure I’m not taking you out of your way?”

  “Not at all.” The man slid into the driver’s seat and reached across to unlock the door for Old Mick. “Hop in. Won’t take but a minute to drop you home.”

  Darkness had fallen heavy and thick, and Old Mick thought about the four-kilometer walk. When he felt better it wouldn’t take half an hour, but tonight the wind was kicking up from the ocean, and his foot promised wet weather for sure. Still, he hesitated. There was something about the young man. His face was shadowed by a slight growth of beard, but his skin was smooth, as if he didn’t normally allow himself to go ungroomed.

  He was wearing a jacket and slacks. Nothing unusual. In fact, as ordinary as clothes could be. That was what was troubling. They were creased, as if they’d just come out of a store.

  “Old Mick?” Craig asked. “Is something wrong?”

  “No.” Old Mick slid into the seat and slammed his door. When the motor was cranked, a seat belt slid across his chest and snugged him against the seat. He put his hands on it to hold it back.

  “Newfangled things,” Craig said. “Cars now have them so you don’t have a choice to buckle up or not.”

  “Nice car.” Old Mick noticed the newness, the expensiveness. It moved away from the curb without a sound.

  “So, how are things at Beltene?”

  There was a hint of something in Craig’s voice. Old Mick turned to him to ask him what he meant. Before he could say anything at all, a heavy cloth was pressed into his face. A nauseating odor made him choke and gag. Over the edges of the cloth, as he fought to free his mouth and nose, he saw the pleasure in Craig’s eyes.

  Craig’s hands were on the steering wheel and the car continued to move forward. Old Mick knew then that he’d been ambushed. Someone was in the back seat holding chloroform to his nose. He recognized the odor now, the sweet, sickening smell. He struggled, but the seat belt held him, as did the arms of the man in the back seat.

  “My word, he’s feisty for an old man,” a voice said from the back seat. But the arms that held Old Mick were strong.

  In only a matter of minutes, Old Mick’s struggles ceased, and he slipped limply back into the seat.

  8

  The grain spilled into the feed trough and Patrick stepped back. Eager for a bite, the weanling pushed forward and nosed into the bucket. Very gently, Patrick scratched the little one’s neck. He was a beautiful baby with plenty or potential. One of Old Mick’s favorites.

  For a moment Patrick’s worries about Old Mick were lost in contemplation of the young horse. As he started back to the barn, the weight of Old Mick’s absence crashed down on him again. Where was the old man? He’d been absent last night when he went to feed and exercise Limerick.

  He’d urged Old Mick to stay home and nurse his foot often enough, but never before had the old man heeded him. Old Mick’s problems kept multiplying. As soon as he finished the morning chores, Patrick decided he’d check up on Old Mick. He had a terrible feeling that something was wrong.

  In a matter of minutes, he was striding across the fields toward Old Mick’s. Normally he enjoyed the walk, but not on this day. He entered the cottage without knocking, and it took only a few glances around the house to ascertain that his friend was gone. He checked his watch. It was just after eight. He had a couple hours’ worth of chores back at the barn, and then he’d begin to retrace Old Mick’s steps.

  The teacup rattled in the saucer, but it was the only sign that Catherine gave that Allan’s visit was unexpected, and disturbing. He swept into the dining room just as she was finishing breakfast.

  “Marmalade.” Allan walked to her side, picked up a piece of toast, and dropped a spoonful of the orange preserves onto it. “Homemade?”

  “I believe Mauve made it.” Catherine had to force herself not to show her irritation. Allan had apparently opened the front door and walked in without even knocking. He’d always been a bold man. “What brings you for a visit?”

  “I came to see if you’d gotten a ransom note yet. After all, I did leave a considerable sum of money here with you.”

  “It’s in the safe. Safe.” Catherine smiled as she rose from the table. “Since I won’t be needing it, I’d prefer to return it to you.”

  “Are you certain?”

  She thought she caught a glimmer of distress in Allan’s eyes, but his perfect mask covered it too soon for her to be positive. “What are you up to, Allan?”

  “Making a profit. Having a good time.” He gave her a careless smile and shrugged his shoulders. “You remember, don’t you?”

  “I do.” The thought made her a little sad. Allan’s charm was in his boyishness, his enthusiasm for life, but he was rapidly getting to an age where boyishness wasn’t cute. “One thing about you, Allan, you’re consistently consistent.”

  “There’s something to be said for that.” He brightened. “Now why don’t we work out the details of our partnership? I’d love to own a piece of that stallion. You know, I have great faith in your ability to make this horse farm pay off. Even though you never cared for the bank, you always had a head for business.”

  “Thanks.” Her smile was still touched with a degree of sadness. “Thanks, but no thanks. Limerick isn’t for sale. Not a little piece or a big chunk.”

  “What if you don’t find him?” Allan’s sharp question was softened by another shrug. “I mean, what will you do? Will you lose Beltene?” He searched her face.

  “Limerick will race, and he’ll win for Beltene.” She rose and moved away from the table. What was Allan’s big interest in Limerick? Was it possible he was really trying to be a friend? “Let me get your cash, Allan. It was foolish of you to leave it. Help yourself to another piece of toast.” She left him in the dining room as she hurried to the safe in her office. The briefcase was still there, just as she’d left it.

  Still
munching the toast, Allan met her in the hallway. “I don’t mean to eat and run, but I do have an appointment.”

  “In Dublin?”

  “No, in Galway.” Allan kissed her cheek. “The wine selection leaves something to be desired, but the seafood is excellent. Truly excellent. Maybe you can drive over and have dinner with me one night. For old times’ sake.”

  “Perhaps,” Catherine answered. She had no intention of doing so, but she felt no need to coldly state her feelings. Allan was what he was, a handsome man with charming manners. He would not miss her visit; he was far too busy with himself to notice her absence.

  Allan hefted the briefcase. “Catherine.” His look was serious. “Just keep in mind that there are desperate people out there.”

  Chill bumps tingled along her arms, more at his expression than at his words. “What are you saying?” She couldn’t believe Allan was threatening her. It was so out of character.

  “Just a word to the wise. Circumstances can sometimes make people do things they wouldn’t ordinarily. You know desperate measures for desperate times.” He smiled, but his eyes were cold. “If you get desperate for some money, you can call on me. If Limerick were my horse, I’d want him home where I could keep an eye on him. You never know what unethical people can do to an innocent animal.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Allan. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some errands to run.” She opened the front door. She didn’t like what Allan implied. As she watched him walk down the sidewalk to the drive, she finally admitted to herself that she didn’t like the idea that he was in Connemara at all.

  Picking up her purse and keys from the foyer table, she went to her car. She hadn’t fibbed about errands. There were several items she needed from the village, and her boots were ready at the repair shop.

  Twenty minutes later, she loaded her boots into the trunk of the Volvo and walked around to open the driver’s door. Her gaze passed down the curving street of the village and stopped on the tall figure of a man paused in front of O’Flaherty’s Bar and Grill. It was Patrick Shaw. At first, she didn’t believe it, but as she stared, she recognized him. His shoulders were stooped, as if he were bone weary, and he stood at the door as if undecided whether to go in or not. She checked her watch. It was eleven. By all rights, Patrick should be at the barn working.