She got in the car and closed her door, feeling slightly guilty for spying. Seeing Patrick in the village during the morning hours, especially at a bar, was enough to make her look twice. In all of the things she’d heard about Patrick, drinking wasn’t one of his weaknesses. If any man ever looked as if he needed a drink, Patrick did.
As she watched, he entered the bar. Instead of driving back to Beltene as she’d planned, she settled down in her seat and prepared to wait.
Inside the bar, Patrick checked out the interior. There were two men sitting at a table drinking coffee, newspapers spread before them. The barkeep was washing glasses. In the back, there was the sound of someone working in the kitchen.
“What can I do for you?” the barkeep asked.
Patrick took a seat and asked for hot tea. “I'm looking for a friend of mine. An older man, walked with a limp. Mick McGuire.”
“Old Mick. He was in here last evening.” The barkeep smiled. “He didn’t drink enough to go missing from work.”
“I’m a friend of his,” Patrick repeated, stressing the word friend. “I’m worried about him.”
The barkeep put his cloth down and leaned on the bar. “What can I tell you?”
“When did he leave here last night?”
“Sammy was behind the bar, but I was here for a game of darts. There was some talk about this horseman—” “Horseman?” Patrick’s back straightened.
“Some old man had been in saying that Cuchulain was out of his grave and riding the roads on a big gray stallion. He said it was a warning to all Irishmen to remember the past, to remember the warriors, and to remember the time when the Irish controlled their own destiny. A regular rebel he was, for an old man. Right vigorous when he got to talking. Yeah, whiskey and insurrection took thirty years off him.” The barkeep laughed. “Old Mick got wound up a bit, telling everyone it wasn’t real. I don’t think anyone thought much about it except Old Mick and the old beggar who started the tale.”
Patrick sipped his tea and realized that he hadn’t eaten in at least a day. “How about a toasted cheese?”
The barkeep called the order to the back. “Old Mick drank his drink, talked a bit, and left. He said his foot was troubling him and he had a walk.” The barkeep shrugged. “That’s all I can remember. Sammy will be back at four if you’re wanting to talk with him.”
“The old man who saw this Cuchulain, was he here?” A bad feeling was beginning to grow in Patrick’s gut. It had to be the same old man he’d run across on the Clifden sea road. How had such an old man made his way to O’Flaherty’s? He could have hitched a ride. Even walked it in a night and day. But it was a long stretch for such an old, pitiful man, even if he was fueled by liquor and rebellion.
“I never saw him. Sammy gave him a drink and some food, and he was on his way, as far as I know. You could ask around the village. He might be holed up in someone’s barn, doing odd jobs. There’s not much work to be had in these parts.”
“Did you notice if anyone left with Old Mick?”
The barkeep picked up his cloth and absently dried a few glasses. “I couldn’t say for sure. It was a busy time. There were several folks gathered around the bar, talking about Cuchulain and the old stories. I was over at the board.” He nodded to the dartboard across the room. “To be honest, I was playing for five pounds and my full attention wasn’t on what was happening at the bar. There were just a few women and some talk.” He laughed. “You know how that kind of thing goes in a bar. Some bawdy humor.”
“I do.” Patrick accepted the toasted cheese sandwich that the cook brought out from the kitchen. He wasn’t hungry, but he had to eat. He felt as if his muscles were bending his bones he was so tired. “Can you remember if there was anyone here but the regulars?”
“There’s always one or two. Folks come to Galway and Clifden and somehow drift in here. We didn’t have the traditional playing last night, so it was more of the local people stopping by after work.” His gaze roved around the room. “There were two men I didn’t know. A younger man and one close to your age. Well dressed.” As he talked, he grew more certain. “They were at a table beside the bar, just beyond where you’re sitting. And they were listening to the talk about the horseman. They were interested, leaning forward.”
Patrick felt his hopes begin to build. “Irish?”
“Couldn’t tell. I didn’t hear them talk, but they were comfortable in the bar. You know. They had an idea of what they were about. Not like the tourists staring around and all.”
Patrick smiled. “You’ve a good eye for detail.’’
“It pays to look at folks. Trouble can start in the beat of a heart. I’ve learned to try to sniff it out, so I look the people over once or twice.”
“Old Mick left alone, did he?”
“He did as far as I know. Sammy would know more. He and Old Mick’s son were friendly. He’d take an interest in the old man, you know.”
“Do you know where I can find this Sammy?”
“I wouldn’t want to find him at ten in the morning. He worked the night and will be sleeping.” The barkeep grinned. “But it looks as if you did, too. He lives down past the woolen shop. There’s a little lane on the left. Go a bit, and there’s a house with a red front door. Very neat place, he has. He’ll be home. If he’s not sociable, Nell will make you welcome.”
“Thanks.” Patrick finished his sandwich, drank the rest of his tea, and left the money on the counter.
When he walked out of the bar, he was so intent on his mission that he failed to notice Catherine ducking low in the Volvo. He walked right past her to his vehicle and got in.
For a moment, Catherine was tempted to follow Patrick. His rugged good looks were honed to sharp angles of worry and fatigue. At the barn, he worked hard to hide his problems, but walking down the street, he wore them plainly on his face and body. He was headed away from Beltene, as if he were going on an errand. She argued with herself, trying to shake the concern she felt for him. It was certainly none of her business if he stopped in a bar for a cup of coffee or tea or anything else. He wasn’t in need of her assistance, wouldn’t appreciate her interference. Then why wasn’t she on the road to Beltene and the multitude of chores that awaited her?
She got out of the car and walked straight to O’Flaherty’s. Pushing open the door, she went in and stopped. Two men were drinking coffee and reading newspapers. The barkeep was drying glasses. An empty plate and a teacup were on the counter where Patrick had obviously been.
“I’m looking for a tall man, dark hair, blue eyes.” She smiled. “We were supposed to meet at the post office and I’m late. A bad habit of mine, and one he doesn’t tolerate well.”
The barkeep smiled. “Everyone knows that women have a tendency to run late. Your friend was here, but he had something else on his mind. If it were me, I’d have been thinking about you instead of Old Mick.”
Catherine walked to the bar and took a seat on the stool. “A cup of tea would be nice.”
“On the way.” The barkeep busied himself behind the counter for a moment.
“Do you think Patrick will be back this way?”
“If Sammy doesn’t take his head off. Sammy’s a passionate grump about being awakened. But your friend was intent on talking to him.” The barkeep pulled a face. “It’s his ears that Sammy will box.”
“What on earth has Old Mick gotten into now?” Catherine laughed. “He can tell a story like nobody else, but he gets himself into some fine jams.”
“I don’t think it was his tongue this time. Your friend was looking for him, like maybe he was missing.” The barkeep frowned. “Old Mick’s not in the best of health. If I’d been thinking, I would have offered him a ride last night. I should have.”
“Missing?” Catherine tried not to show much interest, but she wasn’t very good at pretending. “For how long?”
“He was in here at five.” The barkeep slapped the cloth on the bar. “Now I’ll have to worry about Old Mick. I shou
ld have listened to that crazy talk closer.”
“What talk?” Catherine felt as if she were spinning in circles.
“Cuchulain.” The barkeep told her about the old man who’d claimed to see the legendary figure, and Old Mick’s reaction to it.
“Cuchulain. The Irish warrior, the mythological horseman?” Catherine spoke with a mixture of disbelief and anger. If Patrick Shaw was riding Limerick up and down the roads at night to stir the hearts and minds of the Irish people, he was going to pay a terrible price. She didn’t give a damn about the past and old legends and Irish sentiment and history. Limerick was a valuable animal. Riding him along the roads at night was stupid, foolhardy, and insane.
“You’ve been very helpful.” She got up and put her money on the counter.
“Are you from around these parts?” the barkeep asked.
“Yes. I am.” She spoke with pride and defiance. “My name is Catherine Nelson. From Beltene Farm.”
“That’s where Old Mick works.” Understanding touched the barkeep’s face. “Was Old Mick at work today?”
“I don’t know, but I intend to find out.”
“Well, be damned.” The barkeep threw his cloth on the counter. “If Old Mick doesn’t show up, let me know. We’ll help you hunt for him.”
“Thanks.” Catherine picked up her purse and left. She was worried about Old Mick, but that was secondary compared to her anger at Patrick. Every time she was willing to give him credit for decent motivations, she found out something else about him. Stealing Limerick to protect his knee was one thing. Stealing him to ride at night to stir up Irish nationalism was another. Both were wrong, but the latter was so much worse! So much more of a betrayal.
She pointed her car toward Beltene and drove. Well, Patrick would find himself in a pickle when he got home. He’d eventually show up at Old Mick’s cottage again, and when he did, there would be a surprise waiting for him.
Patrick pushed open the door of Old Mick’s small cottage. The dead smell of the peat fire lingered in the room, an odor that tightened Patrick’s stomach and made his heart beat faster. His interview with Sammy had yielded no new facts. Old Mick had left O’Flaherty’s after a pint, with the expressed intention of going home. That was the last anyone had seen of him. And now it was twenty-four hours later, with darkness coming on thick, and no sign of the old man. It had taken all of Patrick’s concentration to do his chores at the barn and bide his time to return to Old Mick’s. All day he’d held on to the hope that Old Mick would be here. With the cold and empty cottage as testament, he could no longer deny the fact that Old Mick had to be in trouble.
“By the saints,” Patrick said, slipping into a thick brogue as he eased into the cottage to hunt for clues to what might have happened. He hugged the walls, moving softly, unsure why every signal in his body warned of danger.
There was the sound of something moving outside the house, and Patrick silently cursed the black cat. Familiar had begun to dog his footsteps wherever he went. The cat had a sixth sense about what he was up to, and somehow managed to wiggle his way into the Rover or to follow along, a dark shadow unseen until it was too late.
He crossed the kitchen and stopped, listening once again to the sound of shifting outside. Was it Familiar? He tensed, ready to dive to safety.
The house settled back into silence, and Patrick moved forward, quickly looking through the house. There wasn’t much of monetary value, but the house was filled with pictures, mostly of horses and the Shaw family. Not a single thing was disturbed. There had not been a fight or struggle in Old Mick’s home. There wasn’t the first clue as to what might have happened.
Taking care to close the door softly behind him, he turned toward his vehicle.
“Where’s Old Mick?”
The soft question almost made him jump. He recognized Catherine’s voice immediately, and the anger it contained.
“I don’t know,” he answered.
“Would you like to tell me what’s going on? I know it involves one of my employees and my stallion. Have you somehow managed to put both of them in danger?”
The sound of loose rocks shifting forced them into silence. Patrick couldn’t be certain where the sound had come from, but standing at the door, they were sitting ducks. He took her arm and motioned to the Rover. She had no vehicle. Apparently she’d walked. With a small hesitation, Catherine allowed him to lead her to the Rover.
“Good Lord,” Patrick whispered. Familiar sat in the front seat. He was looking out the window, his green eyes glowing in the moonlight.
“Meow,” Familiar said, looking into the distance.
To Patrick’s complete astonishment, the cat hissed. Not a sound of fear, but of anger. The hair on Familiar’s back rose until the cat was puffed to twice his size. Patrick had seen cats cornered by dogs, but he’d never seen such a calculated display of hatred—and directed at something he couldn’t see.
“What’s wrong with him?” Catherine’s voice was barely audible. “I’ve never seen him act like that.”
“Is it Old Mick?” Patrick didn’t even bother to feel silly as he directed the question to the cat. Something had happened to Old Mick, and Familiar sensed it.
“Meow.” Even though he was still outraged, Familiar’s answer to Patrick was civil. But when he turned back to look out the Rover’s window another hiss accompanied by a warning growl escaped him.
“Wait here.” Pushing Catherine down behind the vehicle, Patrick picked up a tire tool from the back of the vehicle and started off in the direction where Familiar was looking. To his total shock, the cat launched himself out the window and dug into his leg, effectively acting like an anchor.
“Ease off,” Patrick said, disentangling the cat’s claws from his boots. But Familiar was not so easy to dislodge. He clamped down again. “Let go, cat.” Patrick tried to shake him loose, but the cat held.
There was the sound of scuffling in the distance. Patrick stopped fighting the cat and listened. A rock slid followed by another. It sounded as if someone was throwing stones or toppling the wall that Old Mick had worked so hard to construct. Anger and fear combined to make Patrick shake Familiar free. He strode toward the sound.
“Who’s there?” he demanded of the darkness.
His only answer was the cat. Familiar leapt through the air, landing on Patrick’s rear with all four claws digging in. Patrick twisted, trying to free himself from the razor-sharp claws and not lose his balance in the process. The impact of the fifteen-pound cat almost knocked him down.
“Familiar!” Patrick felt his temper slipping. He reached behind him, bending to reach the cat just as the crack of a rifle came through the night. Only inches from where his head had been, the metal top of the Rover ripped from the impact of the bullet.
Catherine’s muffled scream came from behind the vehicle.
Patrick dropped flat to his stomach, Familiar still riding the seat of his pants, and crawled to the other side of the Rover. Catherine was crouched down, her head covered by her arms. She wasn’t hit—at least, not yet. With one hand, he detached Familiar and put him into the vehicle. When he eased the door open, Catherine got in without any urging on his part. He crept behind the wheel and cranked up. In a matter of seconds, he was careering down the narrow road. The back window of the Rover shattered and glass exploded over the front seat. Pulling the cat against his chest, Patrick did the best he could to protect him while at the same time pushing Catherine down below the seat.
“Hang on, this is going to be a rough ride.”
The shooters were between him and the main road. If they chose to pursue him, he’d be an easy target. Crouching as low as he could and still see over the wheel, he pushed the pedal to the floor and charged. Hanging around certainly wasn’t going to solve any of their problems.
Three more shots rang through the night. Patrick heard metal tear, but he didn’t slow. About a hundred yards to his right, he saw a flash of the muzzle of the rifle. In the darkness, he couldn�
��t detect anything else.
Instead of going to Beltene, he turned toward town. When the Rover hit the blacktop, Catherine sat up. She took Familiar from Patrick’s arms and held him, giving herself a few moments to collect her thoughts before she spoke. She’d never known such fear. Only Patrick’s quick actions had saved them. She looked over at him. He was so tense she felt he might explode, but he kept his eyes on the road and his hands on the steering wheel.
“Where are we going?” There were a million questions she needed to ask, but that seemed to be the easiest.
“To Galway. It’s time to involve the authorities. Old Mick is missing, and he hasn’t gone visiting his son.”
The Rover tore through the night, and Catherine watched the dark shapes of well-known landmarks pass. “I trusted you, Patrick,” she said. “Now everything has gotten out of hand. I get the distinct impression that both Old Mick and Limerick are in danger.” She could hear the emotion in her voice, and she swallowed angrily. “What’s happening here?”
Patrick eased the Rover to a stop on the side of the darkened road. “That’s a legitimate question, Catherine. One to which I owe you an answer.” He stared into the night.
“If you’re thinking that someone has kidnapped Old Mick in an attempt to find Limerick, I’m afraid you may be right. Don’t endanger that old man any further.”
Patrick sighed. “That’s the question, isn’t it? I find myself between a rock and a hard place. I’m sure you know the feeling. If I go to the authorities about Old Mick, it could put his life in more danger.”
“That’s the same way I’ve felt about Limerick.”
“How well I know.” Patrick tapped the steering wheel as he continued gazing into the night. Suddenly he started the Rover and made a sharp U-turn on the empty road. “Where are we going now?” Catherine asked.
Thrice Familiar Page 11
