Bored, she began opening cupboards. Perhaps it was a bit presumptive but Robert Fowler was Brians friend and hed insisted they make themselves comfortable in his home. Caitlin pulled out a bag of sugar, a tin of baking powder, salt, and a large bin filled with flour. Inside the refrigerator she found butter, milk, and green apples, everything for apple cobbler. She would make an extra large one and leave the bulk of it for the veterinarian.
She ran her finger down the blades of two knives, chose one, picked up an apple and, working quickly from the top, peeled it until she had a long corkscrew length of apple skin. Six more apples joined the first. Then she cored and sliced them into even segments. Setting a stick of butter in the middle of a square baking pan, she turned on the oven and slipped the pan inside.
Into a glass bowl, she emptied the ingredients, stirring with a wooden spoon until all the lumps had disappeared. Then she pulled the pan of melted butter from the oven, poured in the flour mixture and arranged the apples on top. After placing the pan in the oven, she looked at the clock, set her watch, and washed the bowl and utensils before returning to the sitting room.
The turf had caught fire and the room was comfortably warm. She had settled into the couch with the latest copy of Irish Field when the glare of headlights announced the arrival of an automobile. Tossing the magazine aside, she crossed the room to open the door and sighed with relief.
Brian walked toward her carrying two paper bags, one large, one small. Something smelled delicious. He grinned. Hungry?
Starving.
This should do the trick. Ive fish and chips with a bottle of wine to wash it down.
She could have kissed him but settled on removing the larger bag from his grasp. Ill dish out the food. You can pour the wine.
He followed her inside. Any word from Fowler?
Caitlin shook her head. Not yet. Did you check on the colt?
Twisting the corkscrew, Brian pulled the cork from the bottle, reached into the cupboard for two glasses, and poured the wine. Hes fine. Roberts compound is the best there is. Theres a woman on duty. Shell call us when he gets in.
She had a weakness for chips, salty and rich with oil as only the Irish could make them. Dividing the entire lot evenly between the two plates, she gave Brian an extra serving of fish and decided on the small coffee table in the sitting room.
Its warmer in here, she explained when he came out of the kitchen carrying two whiskey tumblers.
He nodded, sat down beside her on the couch and held out a glass. Apparently Robert isnt a wine drinker. This is all I could find. Im sure it wont affect the taste.
Slainte. Caitlin touched her tumbler to his and sipped tentatively. The wine was very dry, with a smooth finish and a hint of white chocolate and apples. This is excellent, she said approvingly.
He leaned back, one arm stretched out along the back of the couch. You sound surprised.
When I left Ireland, Irish men knew about whiskey and ale. No one would admit to knowing wine.
Ireland has changed.
The red rose in her cheeks. Yes, it has.
I imagine there are a great many things you wouldnt expect of us.
Chastened, she picked up a chip and bit into it. Flavor exploded against her tastebuds. Ummm, she moaned, these are wonderful. Ignoring everything but the delicious, gritty pleasure of the grease-soaked Irish praties, she made her way through the generous serving. Not until shed wiped the last salty morsel across her plate and popped it into her mouth did she look up.
Brians eyes danced with laughter. Hed left his food untouched.
Arent you hungry?
Aye. But I can wait. Its entertainin to watch you eat.
She flushed. I dont always eat like this.
You said that the last time.
The last time we had carrot soup, she corrected him, and, if I recall, you were the one who had two servings.
So I did. Youre a grand cook.
Caitlin looked at his plate and then eyed her fish. Im not especially hungry any more.
Brian laughed and picked up his knife and fork. Eat the rest of your meal, Caitlin. I went to considerable trouble to find somethin that was open. There is nothin wrong with enjoyin food. Besides, theres a delicious smell comin from the oven and Im sure you grew up with the same rule I did, no dessert until you finish your tea.
She watched him work his way through his own meal before attempting the fish. He was a strange one, sometimes so helpful and friendly, other times probing, serious, and difficult to read. An island man, her mother had called him, one of those who never truly adapted to life on the mainland. And yet, he didnt seem out of place in Kilcullen. He was quieter than most. The silver-tongued muse, an Irishmans birthright, appeared to be missing in this man who thought deeply, angered slowly, and chose his words more carefully than most.
No, Brian Hennessey was hardly a typical specimen, despite the wry wit shed surprised out of him on occasion. Here, on this windswept shelf of land that looked out over the Atlantic, he seemed more relaxed, more comfortable with the silences that settled between them after a long bout of words. Perhaps shed misjudged him. Perhaps he wasnt really all that content in Kildares horse country. She resumed her chewing. Pity. John OShea couldnt have found a better replacement if hed scoured the length of Ireland. Brian had magic in his hands, those thin, capable, brown hands, a combination of sun and genes handed down by a remote ancestor washed ashore from a mythical Spanish galleon centuries earlier.
Do you miss your home? she asked suddenly.
He considered her question. She liked the way he thought before speaking as if giving her a careful answer was of prime importance. I miss the way it was, he said at last. Everythins changed. I wouldnt go back now.
Whats changed?
People for one thing. My parents are dead. My sisters have moved on.
But surely you have relatives and friends.
Inishmore is a small place, Caitlin. Only eight hundred people actually live on the island. Everyone who can moves away to the mainland. Theres no work there.
My father was born there. Id like to see it.
He nodded. There are a number of Keneallys on Inishmore. If youre not in a rush to get home, we could take the ferry over for the afternoon.
Regretfully, she turned down his invitation. Ive got to be home for Annies first day at Saint Patricks. Shes expecting me.
He conceded easily. Next time.
I suppose so. Her disappointment was great.
Do you think whatever you cooked up while I was out is ready? Brian asked hopefully.
Youre not such a light eater yourself, Caitlin observed as she collected the plates and headed into the kitchen.
The cobbler was perfect, buttery and thick with apples. Folding a towel several times, she pulled the dessert from the oven and spooned two servings, one generous, one small, on to saucers, the only small plates she could find. Then she filled the kettle, settled it over a burner and while the water heated, dusted the cobbler with cinnamon and poured a tablespoon of thick cream over the larger serving.
Brian stood in the doorway. Can I help you?
She handed him the plates. Take these in while I fix our tea.
Which ones mine?
The small one, she said with a perfectly straight face.
Well then, Brian countered just as seriously, if you dont mind, Ill have a bit of cream on mine as well.
There isnt any more.
He nodded to the carton on the counter. Whats that?
Its empty.
Im sure theres another drop or two. Be a love, Caitlin, and shake it over my cobbler.
She burst out laughing. All right. I give up. Yours is the large one. I couldnt possibly eat any more after all those chips.
Do you have somethin against cream? he asked.
Just the calories. I have to watch them, she admitted. Im not twenty any more.
His glance was brief but appreciative. Youve done a good job of it, he said softly before tur
ning back to the sitting room.
It was no more than a offhand remark, nothing like the comments shed endured from Sams acquaintances after theyd spent an afternoon swigging down bourbon, but it flustered her as if hed offered the most intimate of propositions and walked away, leaving it hanging between them.
She rinsed the tea pot with boiling water, threw in loose tea leaves and refilled it. Then she assembled the tray and followed Brian into the other room. On his face was a look of wonder. When he spoke, his words disarmed her completely.
If you werent still married, Caitlin Keneally, I would propose to you on the spot. I have never in my life tasted anythin like your apple cobbler.
She laughed, sat down beside him, and set the tray on the table. Be careful what you offer a woman. You may find yourself at the altar when you had no such intentions at all.
His voice changed, became softer, with a silky, breath-stealing edge. Are you tempted, lass?
Her heart skipped a beat. Not yet. She kept her answer light and poured milk into the cups, grateful that her hands remained steady. However, desperation often leads us in strange directions.
He took the tea cup from her hand, drank it down in one swallow and set it back on the tray. Desperation, is it?
She took a deep breath and looked up to find his eyes on hernarrow, serious, the clear fey blue of the islands. It would be the only logical explanation if I were to do something so foolish, so soon.
I can think of another reason or two. His voice, that low purring lilt, was like a caress.
She couldnt think. Dear God, was that his hand against her cheek? She was at a place between fear and desire, somewhere beyond the first, leaning toward the second, not quite sure where she wanted to end up. Instinctively, she knew the remedy. Turning her lips against his palm, she tasted him.
And so it began, warm hands sifting through her hair, callused fingertips stroking her cheeks, firm lips touching her temples, her brow, her jaw line, and finally, closing over her mouth.
Her first sensation was an absence of awkwardness. There was no bumping of noses, no lips attempting to meet and missing, no embarrassing thrust of a tongue before the other was ready. It was as if shed always known this man, as if his thin, sure hands and sensitive mouth had practiced a lifetime on her lips, her throat, her cheeks, her breasts.
She wanted to feel him against her. The urgency of her want shook her. Her mouth opened beneath his and she slid her arms around his neck, her fingers finding and kneading the smooth hot skin under his shirt.
He whispered something against her throat, kissed the point where her pulse throbbed erratically, and eased her down on the couch, covering her body with his own.
His hands and mouth were magic. Caitlin was done with thinking. Her body had been invaded by a maelstrom of heat and need and sheer physical passion, the magnitude of which she had never before experienced. She wanted nothing more than to wrap herself around this man and beg him to make this moment last forever, to never stop loving her as sweetly, as tenderly, and unconditionally as he was doing at this moment.
Rain drops sizzled against the smoking peat in the fireplace. Outside a tree branch lashed against the door and a fierce wind rattled the windowpanes. The lights flickered, dimmed, and went out completely.
Brian chuckled. Convenient, isnt it? His breath was warm against her throat.
I found candles, Caitlin offered.
Do we need them? Theres light enough from the fire.
The shrill double ring of the telephone drowned out her reply. Brian sat up and reached for the phone. After a few monosyllabic responses he handed the receiver to Caitlin. Its Robert. Hes examined the colt.
Robert Fowler was brief and to the point. I need to speak with you, Mrs. Claiborne. Can you come down here right away?
Is it bad news, Dr. Fowler?
It is.
Ill be right there. She handed the phone back to Brian. He wants to see me.
Do you want me to come with you?
She shook her head. Id rather go alone.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys. Ill be here when you get back.
By the time shed negotiated the narrow, dark road and pulled into the parking lot of the animal hospital, Caitlins nerves had reached the point where her emotions had gone the way of the clear afternoon skies. Rain poured down in buckets and flashes of light zigzagged across a sky black with menacing clouds. She struggled with the umbrella, gave up, and made a run for it.
Dr. Fowler held the door open, watching as she dashed across the lot into the shelter of the compound. Her hair, drenched with rain was already curling around her face.
Im sorry to call you out in weather like this, Mrs. Claiborne, but you said you wanted to return home as soon as possible. My offer still stands. Youre welcome to my spare room. Ill be here until morning.
Thank you.
He led her into a small kitchen, poured steaming tea into a mug, and handed it to her.
Caitlin shrugged out of her jacket, hung it on the back of a chair, and reached for the cup. Is there any hope? she asked.
Rob Fowler, a massively built man with a round face, a full beard, and eyes that would disappear behind the folds of his cheeks when he laughed, smiled sympathetically. That depends. The news is both good and bad. If you want a champion flat race horse, I would say, no. There isnt the slightest hope. But if you can be content with waiting an extra two years, I believe something can be done, enough so that he might attempt the steeple races as a four year old.
Dear God. She slumped against the counter and passed a hand over her eyes. It was worse than shed imagined. She couldnt wait four years, not with Annies tuition and the house shed rented, not when Brian suspected Kentucky Gold of carrying RLN disease. Despair settled over her in thick suffocating waves. The veterinarian was speaking again. Forcing herself to focus, she listened.
Your colt, he explained, has congenital recurrent laryngeal neuropathy on the left side of the voice box. In other words, a portion of the voice box is partially paralyzed. His voice was kind, professional, completely impartial. This will eventually result in something commonly called roaring and bleeding of the lungs. RLN reduces the ability to open the voice box during exercise and to close it when swallowing. The symptoms are progressive, worsen over time, and are irreversible. Horses with RLN that are forced to race drop dead on the track.
Caitlin set down the cup and lifted her chin. You said there was good news.
He nodded. A large percentage of thoroughbreds are born with RLN. Those that arent go down in history as our winners. The others die trying or become something less than we would wish. Are you willing to support an animal that will bring you no income?
She straightened to her full height and looked at him steadily. He was an enormous man. My children have named that colt.
Robert Fowler grinned. My name is Rob.
All at once she liked him. What do you suggest we do for my colt, Rob?
He pulled out a chair and waited for her to sit down. Then he sat down across from her. Ive developed an experimental technique that locks the glottal cartilage into a neutral position.
What good will that do?
Wait here. He stood and walked out of the kitchen, returning seconds later with a white folder. Opening it, he spread out a diagram on the table before her. The vocal cords are elastic ligaments that run between the glottal cartilage and the thyroid cartilage, he explained. By releasing the ligament from the thyroid and threading it through a hole in the voice box, it can be moved from the inside to the outside of the box. By applying traction to the ligament, I believe I can graft it to a new position and resist the collapsing force of suction on the glottal cartilage.
Does it work?
Not always, he replied honestly. But one thing Im sure of, it wont hurt him. Hell be able to swallow normally after surgery and the throat muscles will be spared. Its worth a try.
Is it expensive?
Do you have insurance?<
br />
Insurance doesnt cover experimental procedures.
This isnt exactly experimental. Well work something out.
Everything has to be completely legal.
Robert Fowlers thick eyebrows drew together. It will be.
Caitlin bit her lip. Is there an alternative?
Not unless you put him down.
She shook her head emphatically. I wouldnt do that.
Again he smiled, a full separating of the lips that revealed his teeth and a healthy measure of gum. No, I didnt think so.
When can you do it?
Theres time.
Her voice cracked. But hes already bleeding.
Only when hes extremely agitated. Keep him in the paddock. Register him as usual. Next year will be soon enough.
She pushed her chair away from the table and stood up. Ill catch the late train back home. Id like to use your phone, if I may.
Brian answered on the first ring. Its me, she began and stopped. Tears crowded her throat.
Caitlin?
I cant
Brians voice, warm and soothing, traveled through the wire. Its all right, love. Dont cry.
You were right.
Oh, lord, Caitlin. I didnt want to be. Im sorry.
Im going back to Kilcullen tonight on the train. Ill leave the truck here for you.
What about the colt?
Rob thinks he can save him but not for flat racing. He wants to operate next year.
She could feel him take in her words. He would think them over carefully, deliberately, as only Brian could, and then he would formulate an answer that was every bit as thoughtful and cautious as the man himself.
After a lengthy interval he spoke. Im scheduled to stop in at the Ballinasloe sale tomorrow but Ill be happy to bring the colt home.
Thank you, she said, relieved that it had gone so easily, that she could return home alone and that he hadnt mentioned what had taken place between them on the couch in Robert Fowlers living room.
She would have long hours to herself on the train, hours when she must come up with a solution to the downward trajectory that her life had taken. All her hopes were now pinned on Kentucky Gold. The mare would have to be tested. Sam would also have to be contacted. If RLN disease was prevalent among Claiborne bloodstock, his reputation, the reputation she had helped to create, would be destroyed. He would be out of business before the year was out.
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