“Good morning,” she said in greeting. The shadows stopped moving, and she could hear footsteps padding down the steps. A man emerged wiping bits of hay off his sweater.
“Dea-maidin,” he returned.
Nan surveyed Tim carefully. He had piercing green eyes that never seemed to rest. Tall and well built, he had a lanky way of moving many women thought sexy but had little effect on her. Copper colored highlights peppered his head when the sun hit his sandy hair. He kept his eyes downcast as he talked. If it weren’t for the fact that they were alone, she would have thought him distracted by someone else. He appeared to talk more to himself than to her.
She began, “We have a few minutes here. The girl is still wrestling with the Doherty’s snotty beast down in the far ring.” She pulled a large brown file out from behind her apron. “These are the papers I told you about.”
Tim looked at the file with surprise. “What’s this?”
“It’s more information on her.”
“Why are you showing me this now?”
She needed to progress carefully, and adjusted her manner and approach to project calm. “Michael made it clear that he wanted to be... ah, how did he say it... I know. He wanted to be ‘transparent’ in his dealings with her and wanted to make sure you knew everything about his girl.”
“He does? He said that?”
“Aye. He does. It’s coming time for you to meet her.”
He shuffled his weight back and forth on his feet. “You said I should stay away from her.”
“Things have changed. That’s why I want you to read these.”
Tim looked at a point somewhere over her shoulder then carefully reviewed each page. He spent the most time on the newspaper clippings. “These aren’t about her training.”
“Some are,” Nan said as she guided him to a clipped section of stories. “But most are about other matters. I scan the news daily. There aren’t as many stories in recent weeks as there were, but any time there’s a snippet of new information, the stories feed on one another.”
“She’s beautiful. Can I have these?”
Nan watched Tim’s expression carefully, and seized her opportunity when he took an interest in the articles. “She likes our protection and only wants certain people around her. She’s been asking to meet you.”
“She does? When did she say that?”
“As soon as she heard you were Michael’s friend. Liam chose you because of your connection to Michael, and rightly so. The girl appreciates that connection.”
“Okay. Okay. Okay. Let me think about that. What else?”
Nan leaned out of the door and peered down to the ring to make sure they were still alone. “She’s a nervous wreck, jumping at every squeak and shadow. She leaves all the lights on in the cottage and even hauls a chair over to block the door at night.”
“She’s afraid?”
“Hmm. That’s my thought. ‘Tis a pity. She’s here all by herself. I don’t think she likes that,” she cooed. “You’d be wise to keep a closer eye on her.”
Tim continued nodding. “What about her days?”
“It’s never any different than what you’ve seen with the training notes.”
He watched Jessica school the horse through a series of complex passes. Dark swatches of sweat slicked the horse’s bright penny sides. “The horses listen to her.”
“In the same way they listen to you. You’d make a good partner with her. She spends hours with the horses, and when she’s done she spends hours more makin’ notes. There’s not been a peep out o’ her, but she’s getting lonely.”
“Has she asked about him? About Michael?”
“A bit. She’s love struck for certain.” She looked at Tim with intensity, but kept her voice velvety. “You should see the look she gets in her eyes when she talks of him. He can do no wrong in her opinion. I’ll bet she’ll do anything for him.” A slight smile crept up on her lips as Tim’s eyes darted back and forth from the newspaper pictures to the figure in the ring. Nan sorted through the file and gave a handful of clippings to Tim. She tucked rest into her trousers’ waistband under her apron, then grunted. “I guess she figures he’ll show up when he shows up. Poor thing just needs a friend,” she added, enough under her breath to not require a response. Remembering herself, she straightened up. “Enough about her. What about you? What are you needing?”
Tim bent over slightly, bracing his arms on his legs, as if the weight of the question was too great. “What’s news on the talks?”
“Stalled. No one’s makin’ a move. All of the positions are out front and parties have dug in their heels.”
“I don’t understand,” he mumbled. “How can all of the positions be out front when all the voices aren’t bein’ heard? Are you keeping your ears to the signs? Are they still refusing’ us a seat at the table?”
“Aye. The loyalists have blocked Gerry Adams and Sinn Fein from being heard. They’re simply repeating the rubbish that the IRA is a bunch of criminals, and that Sinn Fein is merely its mouthpiece. Word is they’re still refusing to call our men in prison political prisoners and persist in calling them criminals. They refuse to talk about everything including getting their British butts out of our country.”
“No. No. No.” Tim became agitated, working his fingers on his thighs as if he were playing a piano. “It won’t be long. Not long at all. We’re ready.”
She gently reached out and placed her hands on his arms. “What have I told you? Calm yourself. Remember our lessons. What are you doing right now?”
Tim stopped, shoved his hands in his pockets, and looked at her apologetically. “You said it. You said it was a logjam.”
“Well,” Nan nodded her approval, “you know what they do for logjams, don’t you? A little stick of dynamite works wonders. I got the word, Tim. It’s on to bigger and better things.”
Tim gave a smile that only touched one corner of his mouth. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Jessica dismount and begin walking a very tired horse around the ring. He raised an eyebrow at Nan asking permission to introduce himself. He straightened his shoulders and turned to go out to meet her but was pulled back into the shadow of the barn.
“Patience, my boy. You’ve more to learn yet. All in good time.”
The wind whipped her hair around her face as Jessica led the exhausted horse back to the barn. She was in a foul mood and wanted to avoid the other trainer who waited for her at the top of the hill. She had asked Nan over a week ago to speak with him, and of all the days he would pick to finally meet, it had to be the one time when she wanted to be left alone in her misery. Planxty favored its right hind leg, no doubt a result of her misjudging his training schedule. It would heal without lingering effects, but the additional time would prolong his training. She worried if the delay would cost her the confidence of his owners. She had no one else to blame but herself and the last thing she wanted to be was civil.
“Well, mornin’! Mornin’! It’s good to see you out and about on a lovely day as this.”
Jessica looked at the outstretched hand and followed it up the arm. A pair of startling green eyes surrounded by a shock of unruly hair stared at her. Seeing him at a distance gave no hint he was this handsome. The revelation came upon her suddenly, and unprepared, a flush crept into her cheeks. Catching herself, she shook his hand. “I’m Jessica.”
He held her hand as if disbelieving his sense of touch, staring, and holding on to it for longer than necessary. “I know that. I’m Tim. Nan told you about me.”
Jessica gently pulled her hand away, noticing how warm his hands were. “Oh! Yes,” she stammered, flustered that her usual self-control failed her. Embarrassed, she cleared her throat and tried to redirect her attention. “I’ve been hoping to meet you. You’re never here when I am. Perfect timing always.” She watched to see if he would flinch at being caught in his obvious avoidance of her.
Nothing flickered over his face. “Nan said that you liked your privacy. I’m here to help
with the horses.” His eyes swept over her and settled on the horse. “Here now. I haven’t seen Planxty in quite a while. Favoring his back leg? Did you push him too hard?”
She winced at the reprimand and noted how easily her miscalculation was uncovered. “I’m afraid I misjudged his conditioning. Daily logging just isn’t clear enough. Your notes are good, but cryptic. It’s exactly why I wanted to talk with you. You have a lot of insight into the horses.” She wanted a good rapport with him but was already off on the wrong foot.
“He can’t compete injured.” A line of color crept up his neck. He took the reins from her hand and loosened the saddle’s girth. “Let me walk this beast and cool him down a bit. You’ve others to tend today?”
“I do, thanks.” Jessica appreciated the added help, but couldn’t be sure if his curt manner meant he was angry or uncomfortable. He had the information she needed, which gave her enough motivation to get along. She infused her manner with warmth, hoping being outgoing would help build their relationship. “Walking him out would be perfect. You just gave me an extra hour. Since you’re here, I wanted to talk to you about my training strategy and goals.”
“Yes. Yes. Yes. That’s what I’m here for. I’m here to talk to you.” He gave an imperceptible bow.
His manner varied from friendly to irritated, confusing her and making her feel that he might be more irritated at Planxty’s lameness than he let on. She kept the topic on what she needed to know. “What do the owners want?”
“Ever hear of Tully Farm?
“Tully Farm? Yes. They are one of the finest breeding farms in the world.”
“They’re part of the syndicate that owns the horses under your care. They want to get them ready for competition. You might have heard about their most recent champion, Bealltainn?” He waited until she shook her head. “All of their horses are the product of the most advanced breeding and training programs in the world. Some consider their stable more valuable than gold. Bealltainn’s stud fees alone were worth a king’s ransom. His last stand at stud cost the mare’s farm one hundred thousand U.S. dollars.” He spoke each word slowly, enunciating each syllable and inflecting his voice carefully. A rehearsed speech delivered. The actions hinted that he worked at being outgoing.
Jessica’s eyes rounded. “I knew these horses were great, but I had no idea they were that valuable.”
“Bealltainn’s not under your care, but he and the others have been written off as worthless.” Tim smiled at eliciting a gasp from Jessica. “Even that chestnut you’re training.”
“Kilkea? Worthless? Impossible. He’s a tough one to figure out but he’s coming along.”
“He won the Grand National and used to be Ireland’s national hunt champion.”
“If that’s the case, then why do the owners disregard him so much?”
“He beat himself, they say. After he earned the title, he had a crash that cost his rider’s life and his own nerve.”
“What happened?”
“His rider misjudged the dirty tricks other jockeys do during a race. They got cut off and had to shorten an approach to a large jump. The botched flight sent them crashing through the hedgerow. Other horses in the pack were not able to pull up in time and crushed their riders into the turf. If his rider’s broken neck didn’t kill him, a hoof to the noggin did the deed. Two horses were euthanized on the spot.”
“The notes talked about a crash, but I had no idea it was that terrible! It explains a few things. He loves to open up,” she said, referring to a horse’s desire to run as fast as it is physically able, “but he’s skittish to jump over anything he hasn’t seen. Can you tell me more?”
“He lost his nerve a cutthroat claiming race. It seemed he knew if he lost the race, he would be claimed by a crappy farm and never see his rider or trainer again. He was lucky Tully Farm decided to take him in, but I swear Kilkea feels the guilt of the loss.” Tim rubbed his forehead. “He lost his heart after that, just like a person would.”
“Why race a horse like that in a claiming race? Usually those are for horses that haven’t lived up to expectations or are past their prime. Or damaged. With the reputation of Tully Farm behind them, the owners could have put any price on him and gotten it. Why gamble like that?”
“Because when the owners are so rich, the only things they have to play with are futures.” Tim shifted his weight from foot to foot. “He’s raced a bit since then, but he never qualified for the Nationals again. You’ve a head case to fix.”
“I can’t ‘fix’ him. A memory like that scars the best of riders, and horses are not immune from trauma. Thank you for letting me know, but I doubt he’ll ever compete again.”
Tim stopped shuffling his feet and looked down at the ground. His voice was a mixture of iron and anger. His tone changed abruptly. “Are you saying you’re not up to the task of training him?”
“It’s not about me being up to the task,” Jessica snapped back. “It’s about whether the animal is.”
Tim’s mouth curled in a sly smile. “He’s hoped to compete in a private steeplechase.”
“Private? I don’t follow you.”
“You’re familiar enough with the Grand National?” Jessica gave a non-committal shrug in response, admitting she was a bit out of her depth. He paused in thought for a moment. “I don’t have to tell you about the wager between two Irish Earls to see who could race from one town center to another the fastest, do I? They used the churches to mark the route because their steeples could be seen for miles and were used to help the riders navigate through the unknown countryside.”
Jessica interrupted him by touching his arm. “My family raised and trained thoroughbreds for the flat track back in the States. So, if you’re going to tell me about steeplechases, I may know a thing or two about them.” She wanted to put him at ease with humor. “They’re like a hunter pace on steroids.”
He fingered his shirt where she touched him and gave an easy natural laugh that stopped as quickly as it started. “Forgive me. I forgot who I was talking to for a minute! We call flat races without jumps ‘bumpers’ and consider them for babies. You Americans think steeplechases are some bonny tyker race, but here they’re serious business. The U.K.’s Aintree and Cheltenham tracks in England are the world’s toughest chase courses.” His words boomed out like an announcement.
“I’ve heard of them. Pretty fancy stuff.”
“The public races that you’ve heard of are often the appetizer for the real events that happen post season. In private races, owners get together and wager their best horses. It’s a way for them to win back their investments and have some fun. Ever hear of ‘betting the farm?’ Well, some do that, too. It’s where the super-rich strut their manhood.”
“And?”
“The owner wants them ready for Aintree. It’s a winner-takes-all.”
“They can’t be serious.”
“They are. Get Kilkea ready for a less important race held before the main event. He’ll be able to go at his own pace. He’s been bred for this kind of thing. It’s in his blood. Not givin’ him a chance to do what he loves would be cruel.”
“I’m not sure what I can do in a month’s time.”
“The horses go to Aintree with or without your approval.”
The stark truth of his message landed with a thud. The owners saw her as merely a hired hand whose opinion meant nothing. “This is exactly the information I’ve needed for effective training. If they put them in a race too early, it’s their fault if they ruin their investment, but they’ll blame defeat on me. I’ll have no part in it.”
Tim stiffened and looked up in surprise at her harsh tone. “You can’t quit. You have to stay.” He started to sway slightly and his eyes darted to the side, slightly narrowed, as if he was trying to remember something. His face reddened and he tripped over some words, then stopped. Almost mechanically, he leaned closer to her, lowered his voice, and spoke slowly. “You’ve already done more with these horses than I thought co
uld be done. They need you here. I need...” He stopped and rubbed his mouth with his hand. “Y-you’re needed here.” A beseeching tone crept into his words.
His overly smooth and borderline inappropriate tone jarred her. She stepped back, giving him a sidelong glance and repressed an urge to leave him standing there, alone and acutely aware that she would not be played. Reluctantly, she admitted her own manner may have been off, too. Maybe he detected a flicker of attraction had lit up inside of her. Besides, he was right. Her temporary role in these horses’ lives gave her no control. She didn’t have a say in the horses’ futures. Her only concern, both personally and professionally, had to be for their safety and health, not how the owners maximized or ruined their investment. She dismissed his behavior as a misstep and returned her focus to the horses.
He placed Planxty into crossties and ran his hands over the horse, starting at the neck and working his way down the haunches and legs, keeping up a steady stream of banter as he moved. He lingered over the area causing the horse’s stiffness and rhythmically worked his fingers until the horse’s muscles softened and he hung his head. He spoke over his shoulder to her. “I’ll wash him down with some liniment and walk him out later to keep him loose. If that doesn’t work, I’ll give him some LPS.”
Jessica stopped in her tracks. LPS stood for the injectable drug lipopolysaccharide, a powerful anti-inflammatory. The thought of using drugs on the horse angered her. Worldwind Farm’s reputation toppled because of unscrupulous doping. “These horses have to be able to race clean. I’m not going to prop them up with drugs and I’m not going to risk any drugs being detected on race day. Let’s keep the therapies external.”
The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2) Page 4