"He came out of the mist?" Patrick said encouragingly.
"There was the thunder of hooves," Tamara said. She'd sat down on the edge of a chair and her eyes were sparkling as she recalled the event. "I gathered up the baby and held him in my arms. I couldn't be certain what was happening. It was those hooves striking the ground. In the gray mist and all, the first thing I saw were the sparks flying on the pavement. I swear to you I thought old Lucifer himself was coming up the road, clanging his tail behind him."
"The children must have been terrified," Catherine murmured.
"No more than us," Tamara said. "The horse was enormous, a big gray animal with nostrils flaring. The man astride was hidden in a black cloak, but he rode bareback. That much I remember. I thought, 'How can he stay with that big animal without even a saddle?"'
Patrick lowered his cup. Only Catherine saw the way his fingers clutched the delicate handle of the china. "And a bridle? Did he ride with a bridle?"
Tamara furrowed her brow. "I can't rightly say. He had reins, but it could have been a halter. I didn't pay that much attention to what was in the horse's mouth. I was more taken by the man. His shoulders were broad, his legs long and hugging the sides of that dancing horse." She cast a glance at her own husband, a man of average height who'd begun to accumulate a stomach. "No harm in looking, Ralph, especially since it was a ghost." She smiled at him, a smile full of affection.
"He was a big man," Ralph agreed. "It was dark, but even in the broad light of day he could have passed for a god. And that voice."
"What about it?" Patrick felt his excitement grow.
"The purest Irish I've ever heard. He spoke in Gaelic, as if he'd never been taught another tongue."
Patrick felt as if he'd been slapped. He realized then how much he'd wanted the rider to be English, to be Kent Ridgeway. That way, at least, he'd find pleasure in dealing with Ridgeway on a one-to-one basis.
"Who speaks Gaelic?" Catherine asked. "I know it's taught in the schools, but does anyone really speak it?"
"A few scholars, some young people who're interested in preserving the language. Some of the older people." Tamara skirted the obvious— the political groups who wanted Gaelic as the official language. She smiled at Patrick and continued talking.
"I remember the story about Cuchulain's birth. He was born at the same time as twin horses. The horses were given to him as gifts, and they'd been blessed by the ancient ones, the gods. One was black and the other gray. It was the gray that he rode into battle as a young man." When she saw recognition of the tale in Patrick's eyes, she turned to Catherine. "It was said that when Cuchulain was injured, his horse felled forty of the enemy with his hooves."
"And what happened to the horse?" Catherine's pulse beat in the temple at her forehead.
"He was killed in the battle, but he saved his master."
* * *
THE FOG had been building as Catherine drove Mauve's compact up the Clifden road toward the Adamses' house. On the way down, her headlights couldn't even penetrate the thick, swirling mass of moisture.
"Bad night to be out," Catherine said. She was trying to think of anything to say. Patrick was silent as a stone in the passenger's seat. Tamara Adams had brought all of his worst fears to the forefront.
"When you get to the curve, stop," Patrick said.
Catherine didn't argue. There was nothing Patrick could see in the fog, but what would it hurt to stop and look?
She concentrated on her driving as she eased along in the fog. Images danced in front of the lights, tempting her to apply her brakes too fast. They were only slivers of fog, shifting and dancing on the wind that blew from the Atlantic.
At the curve, Catherine pulled far to the left and got out. The fog immediately touched her face, a moist greeting with a sinister promise in it. She felt beads of moisture spike her eyelashes and she blinked them away.
Patrick got out and from the pocket of his jacket withdrew a flashlight. He searched along the side of the road, looking for an imprint in the soft ground.
Leaning against the fender of the car, Catherine watched, wisely saying nothing. What good would it do to find a hoofprint? Would it prove it was Limerick? Maybe, maybe not. Either way, the outcome didn't look good.
"Patrick, why would someone want to stir up things now? I mean, Tamara said Cuchulain was trying to rouse them to fight for freedom. This isn't the north."
"You don't have to be born in Belfast to have a hope for Irish freedom," Patrick said. His voice was tense. "It's not a subject I'm fond of discussing. I know Mauve has told you about Colin and my sister, about how she sneaked out of the house and caught the train to Belfast to stop her older brother from getting killed." There was a pause before Patrick's voice came out of the fog, slightly distorted by the moisture in the air. "She was only thirteen. She tracked him to the city, and then to the place where he was supposed to be. Only it was a trap. No one ever claimed the bomb that was hidden in the building, but it didn't matter to us. What mattered was my sister died."
"Mauve told me," Catherine said gently. Her hands splayed across the fender of the car. She wanted to go to him, to hold him and help ease the pain he still suffered. But now was not the time to offer solace to Patrick Shaw. The angry sound of his strides let her know that he needed action, not sympathy.
"I would think they'd ask for money if they had Limerick. What I could scrape together would buy them a lot of things."
"What? Bombs? Guns? That's great, so there can be more and more killing."
Catherine bit her lip. Patrick was an enigma. She didn't know where or how he stood on the issue of independence, but it seemed he wanted peace for his country, and for himself.
She was about to suggest that they get back in the car and return to Beltene. They could come back in the daylight when the fog had lifted. It was useless to try to track now.
"Here it is!" Patrick's light shone toward her out of the gray fog. "Come here, Catherine."
She walked toward the light, placing each foot carefully. There were loose rocks everywhere. She tried not to think of Limerick galloping through them in the darkness. One false step and he would break a leg. Then whoever had him would surely put him down. Horsenappers weren't interested in getting vet care for an injured animal.
As she approached the light, she felt Patrick's hand on her elbow. He led her forward and then directed her to kneel. In the cone of light, there was a perfect print.
"See that notch, a double nick on the left side. That's Limerick. I made the shoe myself. I always mark the shoes so that if we come across one in pasture, we'll know who it belongs to. That's Limerick's, all right."
Catherine stood slowly. "So he was here." She felt empty, drained of everything. "What now?"
"Leave me here, Catherine. He was here two nights ago, he might come back."
"The rider might be armed." Catherine felt Patrick's desperation, but she wasn't going to let him do anything stupid.
"I won't need a weapon."
"Spoken like a hero, but one that's likely to be dead." She shook her head, then realized he couldn't see the gesture. "No way, Patrick. I'm not leaving you here. We'll come back tomorrow. Bring a few men who can help you track. Maybe you can follow the prints. They go up into the bogs and the Twelve Bens. You know the mountains better than anyone, but it's something we should do in the daytime."
"Listen." Patrick's hands came out of the fog and gripped her shoulders.
"What?" The fog was like a thick blanket, muffling all sounds. Even the wind seemed to moan and hiss around her.
"Listen," Patrick said again, his hands tightening on her shoulders as he moved her toward the car. "Get inside," he said. "Lock the door."
"What is it?" Catherine balked. Patrick was scaring her. She couldn't hear anything, but there was something in the night. He sensed it if he didn't hear it. Catherine had grown to develop great respect for Patrick's senses.
"It's a horse, I think. Now get in the car and wait."<
br />
Catherine allowed him to push her toward the driver's door. When he opened it, she folded into the seat and cleared the way for him to softly close the door.
"Lock it," he ordered.
She did, and rolled down the window. In the distance there was the sound of hooves on asphalt. The animal was large and moving fast. Catherine drew in her breath. Patrick disappeared into the fog as he stepped away from the car.
"Patrick!" She called his name softly and cursed when he didn't answer. He didn't have a gun or even a tire tool. He was completely unarmed, and there was no telling what the horseman carried.
Opening the door softly, she slipped out. She left it ajar to avoid making a noise. Taking off in the direction she thought Patrick had gone, she went after him.
The pounding of the hooves grew louder, more intense. In the fog they sounded like thunder, like rocks being hurled against the earth by an angry god. As she listened, Catherine knew the horse was traveling at ultimate speed. She took a deep breath and moved forward until she was at the edge of the road.
Her eyes strained to find Patrick, but there was nothing but the swirling fog and the sounds of the hoofbeats. They were on top of her, coming from all directions. In a moment of panic, Catherine realized she had no idea what direction they were coming from. They were pounding down on her, and she didn't know which way held safety.
Out of the fog she saw the spark of metal striking asphalt. It was only ten yards away. The horse was coming from the north. Before she could make a move, there was the sound of a curse as the rider hauled back and the horse reared. Looking up, Catherine saw nothing but a huge horse, hooves pawing the fog as they started to crash down on her head.
The rider yelled something in a language Catherine could not understand. She knew it was Gaelic, but she'd never learned to speak it. He was nothing but a large shadow leaning over the side of the horse, his features hidden by a black cloak.
"Limerick," Catherine breathed, holding up her hands to ward off his hooves. It was indeed her stallion. The horse twisted in midair in a valiant effort to avoid her.
The force that struck her side was like a wall. She was swept off her feet and pushed into the ditch. Her shoulder crashed against a sharp rock and she cried out in pain. Then there was the sound of a horse's scream and the rapid dance of hooves upon pavement.
"Damn you," a strange voice called out. "You're a bloody fool, Patrick Shaw." The hooves danced and the horse screamed again. "Gallop, you beast!" the rider commanded, and there was the sound of the horse fleeing down the road.
"Patrick!" Catherine crawled to the road. She knew then that Patrick had seen her danger and had pushed her to safety— with no regard for his own life. "Patrick!"
She found him at the side of the road. As she ran her hands over him she found a pool of sticky blood beside his head.
"Patrick." She kept her voice calm. "It's okay. I'll get you to a doctor." She felt his neck. His carotid artery pulsed at a funereal pace. "Shock," Catherine said to herself. She had to get blankets and keep him from getting cold.
Reluctant to leave him, she got up and went to the car. Even after she pulled on the headlights, she could barely make out his form on the side of the road, but at least she'd be able to check his wounds. From the back seat she took a jacket and several articles of clothing that belonged to Mauve's children. Rushing back to Patrick, she staunched the flow of blood from a gash in the side of his head.
He moaned softly, a sign Catherine took to be good. She put the jacket over him and lifted his hand. Pressing it against her lips, she talked to him, telling him that he was going to be fine, that everything would work out.
When he tried to stir, Catherine forced him to be still. "Take it easy," she warned. "Head injury."
"It was Limerick," he whispered, forcing his eyes open. "He knew me. He tried to avoid me. I almost had the bastard. I had his leg and he was coming off."
"You almost got yourself killed," Catherine added.
"We have to get home." Patrick forced himself to sit up. Dizziness struck and he braced himself with both hands behind him. "Now. We have to get back."
"We have to go to the hospital. And no arguments."
"To the barn, Catherine. We can get torches and follow the tracks."
"He went down the road," Catherine admitted. "Hell-for-leather." She almost flinched as she thought of Limerick's beautiful clean legs pounding on the pavement.
"But not for long." Patrick pushed himself to his feet. "Not for long. The horse is here, in Connemara, and I'll have him by Saturday." Weaving slightly, he went to the car. "Drive me, please," he called out to her. "Damn the fog, drive me home."
* * *
AT PATRICK'S insistence Catherine drove to the barn. He had no intention of staying in her home for the night. He wanted his loft. How he was going to get up the stairs was another matter, though. During the tedious drive home, he'd drifted in and out of awareness.
"Quiet, now," Patrick ordered as he stumbled out of the car.
As quietly as she could, Catherine made her way to his side. Together they lurched toward the stairs that were little better than a ladder. Catherine had no idea how Patrick would negotiate them. She hadn't counted on his total stubbornness. Step by step, he worked his way up, weaving a couple of times to the point where Catherine feared he would topple over backward and to his death. At the top, he wisely crawled a few paces before standing and staggering into his loft apartment.
Following closely behind him, Catherine stopped at the door. He'd not invited her in, but he wasn't in any condition to issue invitations. Looking around, she wondered if he'd feel that she'd invaded his private domain. The loft was definitely a man's abode. There were touches of home— a braided rug, several very nice drawings on the wall, all of horses, and a beautiful quilt on the big bed. Curled in the center of the bed was Familiar. He watched them with his lazy yet alert gaze.
Although there was no hearth, there was a rocker beside a good lamp and a stack of books. Patrick made his way to the sturdy rocker and sank into it. Groaning softly, he let his head recline and touch the back of the chair. "I feel like someone hit me in the head with a hammer."
In the better light of the room, Catherine went to examine his injury. The gash was at least three inches long, and in places it was deep, but it was not too serious. "You need stitches," she said.
"No time for that," Patrick answered. "If I go to hospital, they'll give me drugs and want to keep me for observation."
"Not a bad idea." Catherine went to the bathroom and returned with antiseptic and cotton. It looked as if one of the horse's iron shoes had clipped the side of his head in a glancing blow. There was the possibility of concussion, internal bleeding, a clot that might suddenly break loose. The horrors were endless, and only a hospital could run the proper tests. But she knew Patrick well enough to know she'd have to knock him in the head again to get him to a doctor. Besides, his speech was clear and his pupils dilating properly. He'd have a headache— a big one— but she didn't think he'd die.
"Clean it out and get me some aspirin, please." He added the last as he squinted up at her.
"Men," Catherine muttered as she applied the antiseptic. Patrick flinched, but he grasped the arms of the rocker and held steady. Feeling every stroke of the cotton, Catherine forced herself to thoroughly clean the wound. "I can try taping the edges," she suggested. "If that doesn't work, you're going to have a nasty scar."
"Get the tape," Patrick answered. His voice was worn out, drained.
Catherine finished dressing the wound as well as she could. She'd cut his thick black hair away from the gash and now she picked up the pieces of it.
On the bed, Familiar stretched long and luxuriously. He hopped to the floor and promptly dug his claws into Catherine's foot.
"Hey!" She tried to shake him loose, but he held tenaciously. When she bent down to unhook him, he grabbed her hand. "Familiar!" she cried, holding steady so as not to set his claws more fi
rmly in her.
"I think he's trying to tell you something," Patrick said. In the rocker, his eyes were barely open. "He's rather adamant."
"Okay, what?" Catherine stopped resisting and allowed herself to be maneuvered across the room by the cat. When he had her beside the telephone, he let her go and flipped the receiver off the hook with one deft movement.
"So who should I call? The doctor?" Catherine asked. "I agree completely, but Patrick will shoot both of us."
Familiar pulled the receiver down to him and deftly pressed the redial button with his paw. Bemused, Catherine lifted the receiver to her ear as she heard the digits being pressed. The phone began to ring. Four, five, six, seven times. She was almost ready to put it down. It was well after midnight.
On the ninth ring, it was answered. The voice that spoke was heavy with sleep. "Hello?"
Catherine caught the hint of something. She knew that voice. Who was it?
"Hello?" The man was more fully awake, and growing angry. "It's nearly one o'clock. Who's calling?"
"I've seen the gray stallion." Catherine lisped the words in a guttural tone. "He's on the road tonight. How much for his location?"
"Who is this?" There was a sudden caginess in the man's voice.
Catherine swallowed a gasp. She knew who she was talking to. How could she have forgotten he was in the area? How had she failed to consider that Allan Emory might be involved in everything that was happening at Beltene? He was also a man who knew too much of her business.
"Who is this?" Allan was growing angry.
Catherine replaced the receiver slowly, depressing the hook before she eased it back into the cradle. As soon as the connection was broken, she picked up the phone and pressed redial. Before it could ring, she hung up and went through the process again. When she'd memorized the pattern of beeps, she matched them to the numbers on the phone.
Galway.
The call had been made to somewhere in Galway, and she had the number. She had only to figure out where.
She gave Patrick a hopeful look, but he was dozing in the chair. She hated to wake him, but…Why would he be calling Allan in Galway? She concentrated on watching his chest rise and fall as he sprawled in the rocker. The answer to that question was crucial. Her answer. No matter what Patrick said, she had to decide whether she trusted him. Why had he called Allan? Or did he place the call? He'd been gone for two days. Someone else could have slipped into the loft apartment and used the phone.
Fear Familiar Bundle Page 65
