“Then that was the risk he had to take. His only daughter cried ceaselessly at the loss of her horse. He had to risk everything. So he was walking the fields in the full light of the moon. This was the exact time, thirty days before, when the mare had disappeared. As he topped the last hill of his property, he saw a woman standing beneath a small, stunted tree.”
“A stranger,” Catherine said, arching an eyebrow.
“She was alone, and she stirred not a finger at his approach. ‘Can I help you?’ he offered, thinking perhaps she’d lost her way or her horse. There was no sign of how she’d come to be standing in the middle of his pasture.
“‘I believe it is I who can help you,’ she said. ‘You seek a golden mare with a mouth as tender as spun silk.’”
“‘My daughter’s horse,’ the man agreed. ‘I’d have her back no matter the cost, if there was any way to do it.’”
“‘There is a way,’ the woman said. ‘But the price is far dearer than you’d imagine.’”
“‘If it’s within my power, I’ll pay,’ the man said.”
“What was the price?” Catherine could visualize the woman, the tree, the approach of the man.
“The man was handsome. A widower who never thought to love another, a man content to raise his child alone. That was one reason he couldn’t stand to see her grieve. She was his only happiness.”
“The woman wanted the child, didn’t she?” Catherine’s voice expressed her outrage.
Patrick chuckled. “No, it wasn’t his daughter. It was him that she desired. The woman was the goddess, Epona, whose name means Great Mare. She’d been lured from the otherworld by the beauty and spirit of the golden mare, and she’d taken her to ride as her own personal steed. But she’d been held on earth by the determination of the man to prevent his laughter from suffering. She’d decided that for a night of passion, to experience the pleasures of human coupling with a man so sensitive and caring, she’d return the mare.”
Catherine cast a quick look at Patrick. There was no humor in his eyes. He was deadly serious. She swallowed. Was there really a parallel between the theft of the golden mare and Limerick, or was Patrick merely telling her a tale? “And did the man agree?”
“Indeed, with pleasure and a firm resolve to please. His efforts were so successful, in fact, that he was rewarded thrice fold. His daughter’s mare was returned to the very pasture from which it was taken. He was required to meet the goddess under the same tree each time the moon turned full. And, as a reward for the pleasures he gave Epona, she gave him the ability to bring any horse to his will by the simple touch of his hand upon the horse’s neck.”
Patrick looked at her. He was surprised by the soft rose color that had crept up her neck and into her cheeks.
“An interesting story,” she managed. “How did you come by ‘the touch’?”
“The man’s name was Patrick Shaw, my great-great-great—back to the days before our time—grandfather. I understand he was eventually hanged for a horse thief, so you wonder how much good ‘the touch’ did him.”
The corners of Patrick’s mouth tipped up with mischief. With the story, he was mocking himself and inviting her into his past, his world. Catherine’s gaze fell to Patrick’s hands, and she wondered again what his touch would feel like, just the graze of his fingers along her hip. The flash of desire she felt was unsettling in the extreme.
“How about a canter?” She couldn’t meet his gaze, and without waiting for an answer, she squeezed her thighs on Mayo’s Motion. The mare surged forward, eager to run.
“Catherine!”
She heard the sudden panic in his voice, but she needed a moment to compose herself. The thrill of a run would pull her mind back from thoughts she had no business harboring. Instead of answering, she applied more leg, rose into two-point, and flattened her back along the horse’s neck. Mayo leapt forward.
Hooves thundered behind her, and she felt the mare lengthen her stride even more. She grinned to herself as she pulled in rein and allowed the mare to balance on her hands. She was enough of a horsewoman to know that it was up to her to hold the mare steady and encourage her on.
“Catherine!” Patrick pushed Tam faster. He had to catch her. In the fleeting moment before she’d surged ahead of him, he’d gotten a clear look at her bridle. There was something odd about the right rein.
When he saw she had no intention of heeding his call, Patrick shifted his weight off Tam’s back and gave the gelding the signal to run. If Catherine’s reins gave, she could be in serious trouble. Mayo’s Motion was a well-trained mare, but she was high-spirited and a handful to manage, If she got her head, there was no telling what the mare might do.
Catherine looked back over her shoulder. Patrick’s face was etched with determination. He was leaning into the gelding’s flying mane. Her heart caught at the sight of him. He was a graceful man on the ground, but on horseback, he was magnificent.
Turning her attention back to the road, she felt her heart slam into her stomach. Not a hundred yards ahead was an old man leading a donkey. The small animal was toiling beneath two heavy baskets of peat. There was no escape for the man to the left or the right, and he stopped in the road, his mouth agape as he saw the horse and rider flying toward him.
Catherine gripped hard with her knees and pulled back, the snap of the right rein almost flipped her backward off the horse.
Free of the restraint, Mayo’s Motion snaked her head down and opened up even wider.
Patrick saw the rein give and Mayo’s reaction to her newfound freedom. Catherine had no control over the feisty mare.
“Now!” Patrick whispered to Tam. “Now!” he urged. The gelding opened up, pouring on speed. There wasn’t time or hesitation. Patrick pushed Tam beside Mayo. He caught one glance of Catherine’s frightened but determined face. She was trying to use her weight to stop the mare, but Mayo was intent on nothing more than the glory of the run.
With one long arm, Patrick reached out and grabbed the cheek strap of the bridle. Mayo gave one impatient jerk of her head, then obediently began to slow as Patrick pulled Tam back and kept Mayo’s nose pulled toward him.
“Easy girl,” Patrick soothed her. In a few strides, he had both horses down to a walk and then a stop.
“The rein—Thank you.” Catherine gulped air.
They both checked to make sure that the old farmer was none the worse for the experience. His shock had turned to an eager surveying of both horses.
“Nice animals,” he offered. “I love to see a fine horse run.” He prodded his donkey into a slow walk. Without another word or glance, he left them behind.
“Catherine.” Patrick wanted to do nothing more than scoop her off the horse and hold her safely in his arms. For a split second, he’d been afraid she was going to be horribly injured, possibly killed.
“I feel like such a fool.” Catherine shook her head. The ride had been reckless. Stupid. She could have injured herself, her horse, and an innocent old man. “I lost control. When the rein snapped...I mean, I should have been able to control her.”
“She’s a spirited animal and always eager to take advantage.” He reached over and settled his hand on her thigh. “Are you okay?”
“Thanks to you.” She felt her breathing become short, quick. It was just the feel of his hand on her. She couldn’t ignore it, nor could she simply pretend it did not affect her.
“Catherine, did you saddle the horses yourself?”
Patrick’s question made her look up. His tone was innocent, but she knew him too well. “No. Eamon McShane saddled them both.”
Patrick reached across her for the dangling rein. The leather was frayed, broken. “It wasn’t cut,” he said. He stared at her. “There’s no proof that this was deliberate, but then there’s no evidence to show it was an accident. McShane is a man who bears watching.”
7
The moon was slightly fuller than it had been the night before. Patrick stared at it as he slowly made his way
toward the old barn where Limerick waited. Drawing in his breath, Patrick paused. The gray horse seemed to reflect the moonlight. He was as still as a statue, a mythical creature, frozen for a split second by the magic of the moon.
Limerick pawed the ground, and Patrick started forward again.
There was less than a kilometer to go, and Patrick shifted the bag of grain on his back. He’d brought fifty pounds. Not that heavy a load, but he was bone tired and burdened by other items. Only the sight of Limerick, dancing in the moonlight as he watched Patrick approach, relieved his aching muscles and weary mind.
He’d given a lot of thought to the ride he’d shared with Catherine Nelson that morning. The legend he’d made up was a total fabrication. Why? He didn’t know. There was no scientific way to explain his relationship with horses. Over the years, he’d been asked that question a million times. He was no closer to an answer now than he’d been when he was a young boy. He had a gift, a power. There were times when he understood so completely what a horse needed or wanted, he’d begun to think that there was the possibility he’d been one in the long distant past.
He gave a low, stuttering whistle, and Limerick called a greeting in return. They’d always shared that—delight in seeing each other.
Along with the feed, Patrick carried a lightweight saddle and a bridle. It was time to put Limerick back to work. Their life together was almost over.
One thing that had become clear to Patrick was Catherine’s regard for the horse. She might not know what was best for him, but she didn’t mean to deliberately cripple him. She’d been sensible, fun, and concerned, during the ride. The action that made Patrick really take notice was when she asked to see Old Mick’s place—to be certain the old man was comfortable. He’d never have suspected that the cold authoritarian who’d first come to Beltene was the same woman. Perhaps he’d been a bit rash in taking Limerick. Maybe he could have talked to her about the injury.
The memory of Kent Ridgeway came back to him, and he muttered an oath beneath his breath. The entire thing could have gone a different way if Ridgeway hadn’t been around. The man was fatal to horses. He’d ruined more good animals than anyone knew. That had been the determining straw that prompted Patrick to hide Limerick until his leg healed. But Ridgeway had been gone for most of the week. Maybe, with some gentle prodding, Catherine would come around to seeing the man for what he was.
“Hello, fella,” Patrick said as he dropped the feed and put the saddle on the low stone wall. His back welcomed the release from the weight, but his heart lifted as the gray stallion threw his head, whinnying, and rushed to the wall to give Patrick a nuzzle.
“Tired of this pasture? Ready for a ride?” Patrick threw the saddle onto Limerick’s back and tightened the girth. “I wasn’t about to haul brushes and the like up here. You’ve been a field horse for the past week, so a ride without a bit of grooming won’t hurt you. Like all little boys, you like a chance to get dirty, don’t you?” He spoke softly to the horse as he bridled him. Limerick took the bit eagerly, blowing out his nostrils in impatience as Patrick made sure the buckles were secure. Before he mounted, Patrick checked Limerick’s knee.
Once in the saddle, he took a look at the moon. It was better than half-full and there was plenty of light. He’d charted a seven-mile course that wound around a small village and stayed on clear paths. There were few rocks and no fences, a good beginning to get the stallion back in peak condition after a week of being laid off.
Tired as he was from a week with little or no sleep, he felt a surge of anticipation at riding Limerick. He was much too tall and heavy to be considered a jockey, but it was Patrick’s theory that a horse should learn to carry his weight. Then when the feather-light jockey climbed aboard, it would be as if he carried nothing at all.
Limerick’s snort brought Patrick up sharp. The stallion was blowing and sidling away from a black shadow that moved slowly down the stone wall.
“That damn cat,” he whispered. How was it that Familiar hid away in the Rover and walked all the way up to Limerick’s hideout? Twice! It was as if the cat were guarding them—or spying on them.
“Eleanor will skin me if anything happens to you,” Patrick said to the cat as he picked up the reins. “You behave yourself and wait here. I’ll be back in better than an hour.”
Exactly what are my options, Einstein? You have the keys. I have to wait here, and you’d better be glad someone did. You’ve been so busy daydreaming, you didn’t notice that we were being followed. I couldn’t catch a good look at him, but it was a him, and he’s as stealthy as a wolf. He’s been dogging our steps since we left the Rover three miles back. Of course, it wasn’t hard with all that grunting you were doing.
That’s right, go off on your little joyride. I’ll stay here and do the hard work. I want to ambush that rascal who’s tailing us. If it’s who I think it is, there’s going to be trouble later on. Eamon McShane will have the law up here so fast Patrick won’t know what hit him.
Why am I doing this? Why am I, a sensible, handsome American cat, involving myself with a wild Irish horse thief and a gray nag with a leg injury? Now that deserves an answer.
Patrick Shaw hasn’t as much as checked my teeth or rubbed behind my ears. Sure, sure, he’s been busy stealing horses and all. But I ask myself, why am I here, looking out for his back? The only answer I can come up with is that when he does touch me, I know he’s kind. And he’s Eleanor’s friend.
Besides, I think he’s being set up to take the blame for something. I don’t know what yet, but something serious. If he’d only take Limerick home, then I’d feel much, much better. Instead, he’s out playing Lone Ranger and riding along the roads. On a stolen horse. During the middle of the night. When he’s liable to break his damn fool neck. These Irishmen have a funny way of entertaining themselves.
So I’ll just settle into this cranny by the stone wall and wait to see who comes along. I sense that he’s still out there. Not close, but watching. Watching and waiting.
I should have packed a light snack. Had I known the horseman was going to ride off for several miles, I would have. Oh, well, too late to cry over forgotten milk. Mauve promised she’d have a special treat for me in the morning. Some goat’s milk delight. Hey, I’m a cultured and well- traveled cat. I’ll give any local delicacy a try.
Patrick’s fingers teased the reins as he constantly communicated with the powerful horse. He could detect the slightest difference in Limerick, a shift so subtle that no one else would ever notice it. The week without work had softened rock-solid muscle to solid muscle. It would take only a few days of work to tone him back up.
“Just a trot,” Patrick whispered to the horse. Limerick wanted to run. He wanted to fly. And Patrick wanted to let him. The desire was almost irresistible. But it wasn’t what Limerick needed.
Trotting and lots of it. Up and down hills, in small circles along the road, and then possibly a gallop. That’s what Limerick had to have.
The seaside town of Clifden suddenly came into view from a high hill. It was a picturesque village, a bit touristy in recent years but filled with good people he’d known since birth. He pointed Limerick down the hill. He had no intention of going through town, but the road he needed was at the outskirts.
The stallion covered the distance in a few minutes, and Patrick turned him east along the seacoast. It was wild and rugged country, and the road was little more than two lanes worn smooth through the grass. The landscape was dotted with houses that had been abandoned for one reason or another.
“Hold! Watch who you’re near to killing!”
Patrick sat down hard as the stallion lunged to the left to avoid a pile of black rags that had suddenly begun to move on the shoulder of the road.
“Easy, boy,” Patrick soothed the agitated horse. The sudden motion, almost under his feet, had greatly upset Limerick.
“Why it’s Cuchulain come to rescue his people and ’rouse their emotions. Aye, riding the gray horse who was k
nown to kill forty warriors with his hooves in a pitched battle. It’s high time you showed yourself, my lord.” The old man sounded as if he’d had more than one drink.
“Are you injured?” Patrick asked. He ignored the reference to the Irish folk hero, a great warrior who was known for his love of horses and freedom.
“I’ve been ridden over by a ghost horse and not a hair on my head is out of place.” The old man chuckled, but his face was hidden in the shadows cast by a hat and layers of what appeared to be shawls.
“Who are you?” Patrick asked. “Can I help you home?”
“You’ve helped me already,” the man said. “When I tell them that Cuchulain is riding the hills, perhaps they’ll listen then. We’re Irishmen. We should never forget our history.” He tucked his head against the brisk wind.
Patrick considered trying to convince the old man that his near brush with death had not been at the hands of Cuchulain, but he needed to keep Limerick at a constant pace if he was to condition him.
“If you don’t need my help, then I’ll bid you good night,” Patrick said.
“May the gods protect you,” the man called. He staggered back and sat down on a large rock. “May the saints protect us both.”
“If you’re going to find comfort in the history of this land, you’ll need the protection of the saints.” Patrick spoke more under his breath than to the man. The lessons of history had been bitter ones for his family, especially the ones that involved a free Ireland. He’d lost a sister, his older brother, who was in effect gone, and his family business, all sacrificed for “the cause” as Colin called it.
“Cause, be damned,” Patrick said, nudging Limerick into a faster trot. The wind had turned damp and cold. In the short time he’d talked with the old ragman, a heavy mist had blown in from the sea. Patrick tightened his collar and wished for a pair of gloves. He urged Limerick into a gentle canter as they began to climb the road that would give him a view of the Atlantic Ocean.
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