Fear Familiar Bundle

by Caroline Burnes

  "I see by your tone and your expression that I've angered you." Kent was more amused than distressed. "You are a volatile woman, Catherine. I find that exciting."

  "I find the idea of— " She stopped herself. She was about to say that a book up against the side of his head would really be amusing. "A match race between Limerick and King's Quest will be irresistible. I'll look forward to it. Either Saturday, or two weeks from Saturday, if we can arrange the track."

  "Yes," Kent said. "I think I'll stroll over to the barn and see that big gray devil, if you don't mind?" He watched her carefully.

  "Patrick has taken him to the upper pasture where he can graze without smelling or hearing the other horses."

  "And you left him unattended, after he'd been stolen once?"

  "Someone is with him." Catherine itched to stand up and pace the room, but she couldn't without revealing her stash of notes.

  "When are you leaving for County Mayo?"

  "In a few hours." She looked at her watch and frowned. "I have a lot to do before I go." It wasn't subtle, but then, she was tired of the game.

  "I'll head back to Dublin." Kent watched her. "Is something going on here, Catherine? I've never seen you look so tired or act so stiff."

  "Beltene is a lot of work. Probably more than I bargained for." She had to get a grip on her impatience. Kent was getting ready to sniff around for trouble. "I'm upset with myself for thinking it was going to be easier than it is. And I've made some bad decisions. It's part of learning, but I really can't afford to tutor myself by bad example."

  "The bank is a world, for all of its complexity, with less risks than the horse world." Kent straightened his expensive jacket. "I don't know that it's a woman's world, but I believe if any woman can survive it, you can, Catherine."

  Rather than argue the point, Catherine smiled. "Thanks for the compliment. I hope you're right."

  "I'll call you Wednesday. If I have to come here, you have to pay for the ticket. I'm tired of running the roads."

  "Agreed. I hope Limerick is fit and ready, but if he isn't, I'll gladly pay for your trip so you can see him for yourself."

  "I'll tell you, if he comes to live at Wicklow, he'll learn not to bite the hand that feeds him."

  Catherine had forgotten how the horse had snatched at Kent's arm. Obviously, Kent hadn't forgotten. She didn't respond.

  "We'll talk soon." Kent bent and kissed her cheek, then left the room without looking back. As soon as Catherine heard the front door close, she stood, gathered her notes and stuffed them into the top desk drawer. Someone had to go to the track at Kildare and find a copy of the racing agreement she'd signed. Allegedly signed, she reminded herself. Never, ever, in a million years would she have agreed to such a crazy arrangement.

  Yet the paperwork was there. Kent had seen it. Which meant that not only had someone stolen Limerick, they'd arranged it so that she'd lose him without a prayer of getting him back.

  Going to the file cabinet in her office, she pulled the file on the Saturday race she'd set up for Limerick. The edges of the papers were slightly askew. She knew instantly that someone had been in her files. The racing agreement with David Trussell and King's Quest was the first document. Scanning it quickly, Catherine saw that it was, indeed, a claim agreement allowing the loser to be purchased by the winner for the price of the purse. Thirty thousand pounds, for a horse worth more than a million.

  The last page showed her signature in black duplicate. Even as she studied the long scrawl of her name, she knew it looked authentic. It couldn't be, but it looked it.

  Limerick's registration information was all in order. The document was exactly as she remembered it to be— except for the claim clause.

  Because of the nature of the race, it was basically an agreement between herself and David Trussell. That meant that she had a copy of the contract, Trussell had one, and the track had a complementary copy. In all probability, Trussell had sent his agreement with the horse to Kent.

  Whoever had switched contracts had had access to either Trussell's or Kent's records, her records, and the track.

  Someone had methodically set out to ruin her. Someone who knew her business inside and out. There had been no secret about her race with King's Quest, but neither had it been advertised. Both horses were unknowns. It wasn't as if two record winners had been pitted against each other. So someone had been on the lookout for the race, and they'd gone to the trouble of switching documents, adding the one clause that would be her ruination. She couldn't race Limerick because she couldn't produce him. If she didn't race him, he went up for sale to the owner of King's Quest.

  By some fluke of fate, that now happened to be Kent Ridgeway. Or was it merely coincidence? Kent knew more about her personal business than almost anyone except her grooms and trainers.

  She picked up the four notes. Expensive paper, well-schooled hand, sealing wax with a horse head crest. Surely Kent wouldn't be so obvious. Was it possible someone was framing him?

  "Oh!" She got up and paced the room. It was completely maddening. Her thoughts went 'round and 'round in circles. Who was lying about whom and for what purpose? It only seemed that everyone was suspect.

  She had to get the track records and destroy that agreement and Kent's copy. Both had to be replaced with the original agreement.

  Kent would certainly recognize the change, but if he didn't have a document, he couldn't prove anything.

  Pounding in her temples signaled the beginning of a fierce headache. She had no intention of going to County Mayo for horses. No, she was going to Kildare and then Wicklow Stables. The simplest thing would be to drive and take the ferry across to England, she thought. She picked up the notes from the desk drawer, looking at them once more. Kent? Allan? Who? The possibilities were endless. It was even conceivable that Patrick still had the stallion and was using all of this as a ruse to throw her off his trail. He, too, could benefit. If she lost Limerick, then there was a very good chance she'd lose Beltene. The farm would go back on the market, not to mention that it would be cursed with a reputation for bad luck. Patrick might be able to get it back.

  If he was working on that premise, then he, too, could be guilty of stealing Limerick.

  Catherine walked out of the office and down the hallway, slapping the notes in her palm. But would Patrick risk Limerick in a claim race? Only if he knew the gray stallion would win.

  Had Patrick had time to switch the papers around?

  Maybe Mick wasn't missing, after all. The trainer was old and walked with a slight limp, but he was wily and plenty smart. It was possible the old man had been traveling around the country slipping racing papers in and out of offices.

  "If there's a way to find out, I intend to get to the bottom of this, and then someone is going to be in deep, deep trouble," Catherine said, speaking softly as she walked up the stairs to her room. She had a bit of packing to do, and an adventure in mind. It just so happened that the Kildare track might be the best place to find out the scoop on several of the suspects on her list. For the first time that day, she smiled, and there was a hint of pleasure in it.

  * * *

  OKAY, so Ice Queen is up to something. She's putting some things into an overnighter, which means she intends to be gone for at least twenty-four hours.

  That business about the race comes out of the blue. Catherine would never risk Limerick. Someone's been very busy forging her signature on papers, and making a few switcharoos.

  Now let's see, she's packing jeans and a shirt that looks like she salvaged it from…in Ireland, I don't know what the term would be. Let's just say it's pretty worn and threadbare. Brogans and socks. She's going somewhere dressed as an urchin á la Charles Dickens. It looks like a great costume, but I've learned one thing about humans. When they begin trying to look like someone they're not, trouble generally follows.

  Catherine is going to the track. There's no way to stop her, so I guess I'd better go along. And Mauve was going to make my favorite seafoo
d casserole tonight! I wonder where Catherine will be eating.

  Maybe I should go and alert Patrick so he can follow along, too. He may not know it yet, but he'd never forgive himself if he let something happen to the green-eyed lady.

  And Limerick and Mick. Why do I get the idea that Kent wasn't all that surprised by the fact that he didn't get to see the horse? It was almost as if he was testing, probing to see how Catherine would respond to his questions.

  If I'm reading too much into this, then take away my birthday. In the meantime, I'm going to find a comfortable little nook in Catherine's car. She can go gallivanting around all over the country if she wants, but she isn't going alone.

  Chapter Eleven

  Catherine tossed the overnight bag onto the floorboard of the Volvo and slid behind the wheel. The car door jammed and she pulled harder to close it. It wouldn't budge. She looked up to find Patrick's blue gaze searing into her.

  "Going somewhere?" he asked. His hand was on the door and he held it firmly, his expression wary. He took in her shabby clothes. "Costume party?"

  "I'm going to Kildare," Catherine said. "Something's come up." The urge to take action made her impatient. "Let me go."

  "I thought we'd agreed to work together. We both know dangerous people are involved in this."

  "Something's come up," she repeated. "I have to go." She met the challenge of his gaze. "This is something I have to do."

  Patrick took in the determined square of her jaw, and the troubled emotions in her eyes. "Every instinct I have tells me you're about to walk into serious trouble, Catherine Nelson. I won't let you do that." His hand covered hers on the steering wheel. "I won't sit back and let you put yourself in danger." His fingers covered her hand, an offer of help and security. "We're together, remember?"

  "Kent has purchased King's Quest from David Trussell."

  "I never thought Davey would sell that stallion. That's the last of the line for him. I doubt he'll train another." Patrick sighed. It was difficult to watch; more and more of his father's contemporaries were being forced out of the business. Still, he didn't see why Catherine should be so hell-bent to get to Kildare. "How did Ridgeway manage to finagle the horse from Davey?"

  "I don't think he sold willingly. A claim race agreement has turned up. Winner has the option to buy the loser for the price of the purse."

  "What kind of damn fool would sign that paper? Limerick would win hands down. Trussell's not senile." Understanding dawned in Patrick's face. "He didn't sign it, and you didn't, either, did you?"

  "Not on your life. Limerick would win, no doubt about it, but I'd never risk Limerick for a silly race and the chance to buy an inferior stud. King's Quest is a wonderful horse, but he's not Limerick."

  "You're going for the agreement." Patrick pushed his hat back from his forehead, revealing blue eyes that held pride, admiration and concern. "How?"

  "I have a plan." She didn't want to discuss the details. "I have to do this alone." She wouldn't allow Patrick to put himself at risk.

  Before she could think, Patrick walked around the car and slid into the passenger seat. "Whatever it is you're up to, I don't like the looks of it. I'll go along."

  "I'm capable of taking care of myself." She was desperate and she knew it. Patrick would try to stop her. "You have to stay here, to watch the horses."

  "I can always quit." He leaned back against the seat. "If you press me, I will. Then I can go wherever I want."

  "Men! You're always trying to push me into one corner or another." She slammed her door and started the car.

  "I know better than to ask." Patrick leaned back deeper into the seat. "Just wake me when we get to Kildare. Or when you get ready to tell me what you're planning."

  "Buckle your seat belt," Catherine answered. She spun gravel as she turned the car around in the drive and headed toward the main road.

  With her foot heavily pressed on the accelerator, Catherine pulled into the beautifully maintained track near Kildare in just over two and a half hours. Exhausted, Patrick continued to sleep. The drive had given her a chance to streamline her plan.

  The track was a big place. She could ditch Patrick easily enough. If he continued to sleep soundly, it wouldn't take any effort at all. She gave one final glance at his tired face, the stubble of his beard evident in the sunlight. The door opened with only a quiet click. She was slipping out of the car when she caught the glow of Familiar's golden eyes tucked beneath a jacket on the back seat.

  "Cat!" She was shocked and upset. "What are you doing here?"

  "Meow." Familiar came out from under the jacket. He gave Patrick a curious look, then slapped him on the jaw with a paw, claws carefully sheathed.

  "Hey!" Patrick's eyes opened wide.

  "Familiar!" To Catherine he looked like nothing more than a naughty child caught in a prank.

  "Meow." He jumped into the driver seat where he could put his paws on the window and rub against her arm.

  "So we're a threesome." Patrick hadn't moved, but he was taking in the situation. He gave Catherine a sleepy grin. "Any woman should be flattered to work with such accomplices as a sleepy horse trainer and a stowaway black cat."

  "You're bad enough, Patrick. I won't be worried to death about Familiar." She opened the door to roll up the window. Familiar made a bold leap, sailing past her and landing a good three yards away.

  "Meow!" Tail straight in the air, he started toward the stable area.

  "Hey, they won't let cats in there," Catherine called after him. The spectator stands were almost empty, but from long experience, Catherine knew the stable area would be a beehive of activity. Even though no races were scheduled for that day, the riders who breezed the horses for their daily exercise, the owners, the jockeys, bookmakers and gawkers, would all be about.

  The racetrack was an exciting place, usually. Today it seemed like a frenetic place of sinister possibilities. And now she had the cat to worry about and Patrick to shake.

  "Familiar, you'd better stay right with me," she said. Maybe no one would notice the cat. He had a way of hiding in the shadows when he wanted to. She'd caught him several times in her office or bedroom, curled inconspicuously in some soft corner, but always alert. Always watching and listening.

  "What's the plan, Catherine?" Patrick's tone was lazy, amused, as he got out of the car.

  "I'm going around the stables and see what gossip I can pick up." To that purpose she'd worn her oldest jeans, a long-sleeve cotton shirt and her muck boots from the barn. With an expert motion she hurriedly braided her hair and tucked it up in a denim cap.

  "You look like a street urchin. A tall street urchin," Patrick said.

  "My intentions exactly." She grinned at him. If she could just get away, then he wouldn't be able to stop her. "Can you help me?"

  "I'm afraid my face is too well known around the track for much subversive activity."

  "No one will recognize me in this getup."

  "And what is it you hope to find out?"

  "Someone forged my name to those papers. We both know that there are no secrets on a racetrack."

  He nodded. "I'll take a more direct approach. There are a few of the men here who can be trusted. I'll speak with them."

  "Thank you, Patrick." Catherine was sincere, and relieved. "Let's meet in an hour. Back here at the car."

  He nodded, then glanced down at the cat. "So, Familiar has made his choice. He's going with you."

  Catherine wasn't about to argue. "We'll be fine," she agreed.

  With several backward glances at Catherine and the cat, Patrick headed toward the area where several trainers had gathered. His best bet at gathering information would be from the men who knew him.

  When he was out of earshot, Catherine turned to the cat. "Stay out of the stalls and out of the way," she warned Familiar as they set off.

  Elegant horses walked by while trainers or grooms moved them from one place to another. Once the spectator portion of the track was left behind, the scene wa
s total bustle. Watching for her moment, Catherine joined the flow of traffic, blending in with all the other track employees.

  She'd been there less than three minutes when she heard a familiar voice. As a ruse to stop and listen, Catherine bent to tie her shoe.

  "Sold to that British trainer, Kent Ridgeway. He's one fine horse. I never thought old Trussell would let him go."

  The man speaking was Theodore Pope, a retired trainer and one of the biggest bookies in Ireland. He made the rounds, lining up his bets only on very special races. When Theodore Pope took bets, the stakes were high, the profits fantasy material and the losses staggering. There were always more losers than winners.

  Catherine moved over slightly to stand by a stall door, acting as if she were inspecting the gelding inside. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Familiar stretching near the stable door. He was as calm as if he'd lived at the track his entire life.

  "Trussell didn't want to let him go. Was mostly forced, if what I hear is true. There's a crazy claim agreement against the loser."

  The man speaking was one of the hundreds of trainers who came and went along the racing circuit. Catherine cast a look over her shoulder and couldn't put a name to his face, but she knew him. He'd been around ever since she was a little girl and would come to the track with her father.

  "Well, if he didn't like the agreement, why did he sign it? Why would he risk losing his stallion?" Pope demanded. "This sounds like someone's trying to queer the race."

  "Not me." The man shook his head. "Makes no difference to me who runs and who wins. It's just talk along the track. That's why Kent Ridgeway was able to buy King's Quest. Or at least, that's the gossip. Trussell is getting old. He's been up and down like a yo-yo. When he found out the terms of the racing contract he'd signed, he decided to sell Quest, take the money he could get up front and be gone. I heard he got double the claiming purse." The man chuckled. "He's put the word out about that redheaded woman. He says Catherine Nelson switched the papers on him. Says he signed one agreement and that then the other one with the claiming clause showed up."