The fact that the stallion no longer belonged to Patrick hung in the air, unspoken.
“The locals wouldn’t do it,” Patrick said, breaking the tense silence. “Not for themselves at least. They could never keep a horse like that secret. The gossip in this county spreads faster than lightning bolts thrown to earth.”
“Maybe we should think of who Limerick would willingly leave with.” She felt more comfortable. The men were at least talking with her, giving her a chance. And it was due to the example that Patrick set.
“Patrick had him well trained,” Timmy said. “He’d go in the starting gate and the trailer without even blinking. He was solid there, so it wasn’t a challenge to load him up.”
“Is there anyone he disliked?” Catherine was desperately searching for a pattern. “Or would he follow anyone?”
“He hated that man who came out to appraise the farm.” Patrick spoke again.
“That’s right!” Timmy smiled at Catherine. “The gentleman got too close to the stall and Limerick reached over and picked him up by the shoulder pad in his jacket. I thought the poor man would have a heart attack. Patrick has taught limerick too many tricks.”
Catherine smiled, a genuine eye-crinkler. “So he did show discriminating taste. I didn’t like that man, either. What was his name?”
“Frederick Tipton.” Timmy had a note of excitement in his voice. “He was asking a lot of questions about Limerick, too. He was acting like it was insurance business, but I wondered why he was asking us instead of you, Miss Nelson.”
“I’d say the man acted suspicious. Achingly suspicious,” Jack added.
“Excellent.” Catherine beamed. “That’s it. We can all think about this and try to find likely suspects.”
“And then?” Patrick asked. He kept his hand on the filly as he turned the water on. At the first pulse on her leg, she jerked, but he circled her with his arms and held her until she ceased struggling. Very gently, he loosened his grip.
“Why, then we’ll begin to check these people out.”
“Are you thinking of hiring a detective?” Patrick asked.
“That would be the best way. That way we could keep it secret. I mean, the authorities wouldn’t have to be involved.”
“I don’t know, Miss Nelson. You should notify the insurance agency.” Timmy’s face was worried. “I don’t know if the insurance company has to pay out if you don’t tell them right off. I mean, you want Limerick back, but what if he’s...dead?”
“And what if he is safely tucked away somewhere?” The man who spoke was tall, a fair-haired man with a thick brogue and self-composure. “I’d swear the horse is not far from here.” He looked at the men around him. “I’d be willing to bet that someone in this group knows exactly where he is.” His gaze shifted to Patrick and held.
“Do you have evidence of what you say, or have you been out in the bogs talking with the fairies?” Patrick’s question was gentle, but his undertone was cold anger.
“I happened to follow the hoof prints to the point where I believe the stallion was loaded. The tire treads turned right onto the main road.”
“Judging from the performance of the last horse you trained, maybe you’d make a better investigator than trainer,” Patrick said. “It seems you’re suited to the snoop.”
“Let the man talk.” Catherine signaled him to step forward. “What’s your name?”
“Eamon McShane, assistant trainer.”
“Not fit to groom.” Patrick threw in. “He was due to be fired when you bought Beltene. My advice is to fire him today.”
“For God’s sake, let the man speak his piece,” Catherine said, her voice sharp.
“Shaw doesn’t want me to say anymore because he knows that what I have to say points the finger of guilt at him.”
“If you’re to be pointing any fingers, you’d better have what it takes to back it up.” Patrick shrugged off the hand that Timmy laid on his arm.
“Or what, Shaw?”
“Or I’ll make you curse the day you were born.”
“You see?” Eamon turned to Catherine. “An innocent man has no fear of the facts. Maybe I can save a call to the coppers and the insurance gents. Why don’t you ask Patrick Shaw to bring his Rover and trailer up here? I marked out the tracks. It would be interesting to see if they match up. I’m willing to bet my job that it’s a perfect match.”
4
Catherine stood at the front of the barn beside Eamon McShane. Patrick had not hesitated at getting his vehicle and driving it over. He hadn’t hesitated, but he’d displayed a cold aloofness that spoke of possible guilt. Just at a time when she’d begun to put a little trust in the man, she found reason to suspect him. Kent’s words came back to her. Who had a better reason? Who had more access?
The white Rover pulled into the yard only feet away from the tire track that Eamon McShane protected. Patrick let the Rover stop, then backed up to leave a clear track.
“It’s a match,” McShane proclaimed even before he’d really examined it.
Catherine bent down, hoping against hope that there would be a visible difference. Something even her untrained eye could discern. The tread marks looked identical.
“Perhaps I’d better contact the authorities,” she said. Patrick got out of the Rover and walked over. She found she didn’t want to meet his gaze, but she did. “It’s appears to be a match,” she said.
“Which proves what?” Patrick’s blue eyes bored into her, daring her to accuse him aloud.
“I don’t know what it proves, but it does give me pause.” She knew some of the stable hands were watching from just inside the barn door. She’d been on the verge of making some connection with them. Now, once again, she was the enemy.
“Did it ever occur to you that someone else might have driven my vehicle? Or that maybe I’d driven up here two days ago to load a horse, as it happened?” Patrick threw a glance at McShane. “Or perhaps you might ask Eamon McShane if I wasn’t on the verge of firing him for gross incompetence. Leaving horses without water. If he didn’t have three small children and a wife with child again, he would have been gone whether you bought Beltene or not.”
Catherine found herself caught between the two men in what was obviously a personal battle.
“Shaw has that horse. You can bet your life on it,” McShane countered. “He’d rather see him grazing in a cropper’s field than running for the Nelson family.”
“That’s enough.” Catherine stepped between the two men before the accusations erupted into physical violence.
“What are you going to do?” McShane asked.
Catherine looked at Patrick. Once their eyes connected, she couldn’t look away. He was mad, yes, but what else did she see in those blue depths. Frustration? Sadness? She couldn’t be certain.
“There’s only one thing I can say for sure,” she said, feeling her way as she went. “If Patrick has the horse, then I have no concerns for his safety. I appreciate your help, Eamon. Keep your eyes open and feel free to speak with me at any time. Now I think it would be best if everyone returned to his duties. I know I have business at the house.”
Before any more questions could be raised, she walked away. Her head was pounding with the many possibilities of destruction. She wanted to trust Patrick. Needed to trust someone. But as soon as she thought that, she realized it would not help. She had to figure this one out on her own. Advice was well and good, but the ultimate decision rested with her.
As she crossed the road, she saw the big black cat standing outside the kitchen door. Before her very eyes, she saw Mauve, the cook, open the door and put a china bowl on the stoop. She’d never heard Mauve say a kind word about any animal, especially a cat. She loathed the creatures. More in amazement than anything else, Catherine shifted her route so that she went to the back door.
“My God,” she whispered. The bowl was part of the best china in the house, and it was full of plump buttered prawns. The cat looked up with a single meow
as he polished one off.
“You are quite the little beggar,” she said softly. “If you’ve charmed Mauve, then you deserve whatever she gives you. But beware. Don’t try that on me. You’ve still got to get those vaccinations.”
Familiar licked his lips and walked directly toward Catherine. He executed a perfect figure eight around her legs and then rolled over on his back for a stomach rub. When she didn’t oblige, he raised up on his hind legs and reached for her hand with his front paws. Catching her fingers lightly with his claws, he fell onto his back, pulling her hand with him. Catherine was forced to stoop.
“Hey!” She tried to withdraw her hand but found that although he wasn’t clawing her, he held her firm.
“You’re a determined little rogue, aren’t you?” She stroked his soft fur and was immediately rewarded by release and a purr.
“So this is how American cats behave. Pushy and charming.”
“Miss Nelson!” Mauve the cook was standing in the door. “I couldn’t help but feed the little creature. He was so pitiful and hungry. He cried and cried.”
Catherine continued to stroke Familiar’s stomach until he flipped over and gave her his back. “I can see you had to feed him the prawns on our best china, too.”
“Mercy me.” Mauve put her hand to her cheek. “I just did it without thinking. It seemed to be what he wanted.”
“I didn’t think you liked cats, Mauve?”
The cook looked at the cat and then at Catherine. “I don’t. But that’s no ordinary cat. I’d say he’s magical. That’s it exactly. The little devil bewitched me. He forced me to use the fine china and give him the prawns.”
Catherine couldn’t help herself. She laughed out loud at the cook’s outrageous excuses. “I doubt he’s a witch’s ally, but Patrick said his name is Familiar, so I’d watch him in the future.”
“In that case he can have anything he wants. I’ll not go against the likes of him.” Mauve was chuckling at her own foolishness.
“I told Patrick to see to his shots, but until he gets to the clinic what harm can he do? He seems friendly enough.”
“Maybe he’ll catch that big rat that’s been living in the woodshed.”
Catherine laughed again. “I doubt he’ll eat rodent that he has to catch if you’re serving him seafood at the back door.”
Mauve reached down and picked up the now empty dish. “Well, he’s a handsome cat. I hear he’s from America. Some friends of Patrick’s moved to Galway and then had to go to Belfast. He’s only here for a few weeks.”
“I used to have a cat when I was a little girl.” Catherine remained kneeling and stroking Familiar’s back. “He was accidentally run over, and it nearly killed me. I haven’t wanted another one since.”
“Beth’s cat has a new litter if you take it into your head to have one.”
“I might at that.” Catherine stood. The interlude with the cat had been a welcome respite from the troubles that settled on her shoulders like a ton of rocks. “I’ll give it some thought.” She started into the kitchen unaware that Familiar was right at her side. Mauve saw the black cat maneuver his way into the house, but she said nothing. Miss Catherine had let the rascal in. He was her problem.
The Cook was a piece of cake. A little purr, a bit of pitiful caterwauling, and she was ready to give me whatever I wanted. A real soft touch, even though she initially threatened me with a broom. Interesting point of observation. In the brief time I’ve been in Ireland, I haven’t seen any stray animals. Cats and even those slobbering, fawning, disgusting dogs aren’t thrown out and abandoned like they are in the good old U.S. of A. What’s going on over here? Maybe a better question would be, how can we get it to happen in America? Ah, well, a bit of something to discuss with Eleanor and Peter when they get back.
Now that I’m in the house, I hope Catherine doesn’t turn temperamental and toss me out. One night in the loft of the barn was plenty for this furry feline. Catherine looks like the silk sheets type to me. Probably a nice green. Something to bring out those amazing eyes. I can imagine that red hair on fat pillow What a picture! And I’m just the treat to cuddle on the foot of her bed. These Irish nights get a little nippy, let me tell you.
But there is an ulterior motive. I want to take a look at some of the goings on up here at the big house. Something isn’t right with Patrick. It’s really gnawing at me. I can’t believe that one of Eleanor’s friends would do something like steal a valuable horse. But just about the time I’m ready to say he’s innocent some new evidence turns up. My eyes and ears are open. The next step rests with the thieves.
The walk to Old Mick’s cottage wound through fields neatly divided by stone walls. Mares and foals grazed in three pastures, and Patrick let his practiced eye roam over them. All seemed at peace as he stepped over a wall and took a shortcut through the fields. He had no time to linger and enjoy the horses on this day, but he couldn’t stop his thoughts from drifting to the past.
As a young boy, he’d been obsessed, sneaking out of his father’s house in the middle of the night to ride bareback around the property on horses that had been declared off limits to him.
For a moment, Patrick allowed himself the luxury of falling into a past far more pleasant than his present. There had been a young stallion named Flint, a steel gray animal with a dead-calm attitude—until the rider was in the saddle. The horse had the speed of fifteen fire-singed demons and the attitude of Satan himself.
After eleven jockeys had given him up as unridable, Thomas Shaw finally made an attempt. It was a brief episode. Patrick’s father was laid up in bed for a week with four cracked ribs.
But Patrick had been sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night to ride the stallion. He’d used the only bit he could reach—a rubber training bit—and no saddle. And he and Flint had flown down the road, taking any fences that happened to get in the way of their wild ride.
Patrick had been too afraid to tell anyone that he could ride Flint. He was only seven, and he’d been forbidden to go near the stallion or any of the more temperamental horses.
When Patrick’s secret was discovered, as he found all such secrets ultimately were, his father wasted no time in finding a set of silks for young Patrick and putting him up on the big gray in a race. Flint won handily and Patrick’s career, brief but sweet, as a winning jockey was launched. Too young to ride at regulation tracks, and too big to ride by the time he was old enough, his only days as a jockey were in grammar school.
Putting aside the past, Patrick watched the smoke rising from the peat fire in Old Mick’s chimney. It would be good to warm his hands, and possibly his belly. Old Mick kept a bottle of good Irish whiskey, and at the moment, Patrick could use a drink. Unconsciously he wiped the back of his hand across his eyes as if to erase the mental image of Catherine Nelson from his mind. When he dropped his hand, she was still there, a red-haired tigress of a woman, giving orders and leveling accusations. Complicating his life at a time when he could ill afford another snarl.
Patrick groaned softly. The green-eyed Catherine was not likely to disappear. Tapping lightly at the door, he entered before he heard Old Mick’s welcome.
“I came to make sure you were resting that foot,” Patrick said, stepping into the kitchen and moving on into the sitting room. Old Mick was before the fire, a glass at his hand with an inch of amber liquid. “I was thinking about that hellion Flint.”
“Ah, Flint. I think about him a lot,” Old Mick said. “I’m getting to be an old man, dwelling in the past. But you could sit that devil like you were hooked to his spine.”
Patrick smiled and took a seat in another cane-bottom chair in front of the fire. “He was a fine animal.” He sighed. “Limerick reminds me a great deal of Flint. There’s the same heart there, the same willingness to give everything if he’s only asked properly. We have to get him back here...whether we want to or not.’ ’
“It broke your father’s heart to sell Flint to the Kimballs.”
�
��It broke mine, as well,” Patrick said. He didn’t like to think of what had happened to Flint. An overeager owner and a bad trainer had conspired to push him too hard and too fast.
“If your da’ had had the funds to campaign him....”
“If we’d had a bit more money it would be a different story to tell now.” Patrick’s voice was laced with bitterness. “If Colin had only decided to get himself killed in a simple fashion instead of making a martyr of himself then the family wouldn’t have come to such a pass.”
Old Mick picked up a bottle from beside his chair. There was a clean glass beside his own and he poured a measure of whiskey into it and handed it to Patrick.
“I see you were expecting a guest,” Patrick said, forcing himself to beat back the anger and frustration that came whenever he thought of his older brother.
“I knew you’d be along. There’s too much to discuss.” They sipped the liquor in companionable silence for a moment.
“How’s the foot?” Patrick asked.
“No better or no worse. I didn’t want to be around the barn today. I have no use for Catherine Nelson, none in the least, but I find it hard to watch her twist in the wind. Did she call the police?”
“No.”
The two men shared a look as the fire danced in front of them.
“Why not? The horse is the best asset she has.”
Patrick sighed, staring into the flames as if they would burn the truth out of him. “She’s afraid to put pressure on the people who took him. I recalled the story of Speedo to her. She wants Limerick back, alive. She’s willing to pay as much as she can without having to go to her father.”
“She said so?” Old Mick sat forward.
“In so many words.”
“If she was so damn fond of the horse why wouldn’t she give him time to heal his knee? Why pay money for something that you see the value of and then ruin it because you don’t have another few days?”
Thrice Familiar Page 5