Tea? He picked up the kettle.
She rubbed her eyes. You wouldnt happen to have any decaffeinated coffee, would you?
He grinned and for the briefest instant her heart fluttered. Then he spoke and his words made her angry all over again.
Wake up, lass, this is Ireland.
Believe me, Mr. Hennessey, Im aware of that. What did you want to talk about?
I heard about your divorce. Im sorry.
Thank you, she said wearily. However, with the exception of two children, divorce will be the only good thing to come out of my marriage. Her eyes challenged him. Is there anything else?
He reached into his back pocket and handed her a piece of paper. This.
She read it twice, quickly, then handed it back to him. It isnt true.
Which part isnt true, Mrs. Claiborne?
Caitlin, she said, quietly. Please, call me Caitlin. She was so tired it was an effort to speak. From behind her haze, she watched him hang his jacket on the back of a chair, roll up his sleeves, and spoon tea leaves into the pot. She wondered if hed always been like this, practical, objective, every action measured.
No one would ever call him handsome, not in the fleshy, muscular, ruddy-skinned way of Irish men. Brian Hennessey was lean, so lean that the housewives of Kilcullen Town most likely clucked sympathetically while leaving puddings and stews on his doorstep. He had thin, finely hewn features, soaring black eyebrows, and heavy-lidded eyes the clear, blue-green color typical of the Aran Islands where the Anglo-Norman influence hadnt infiltrated the general population. Under the spare flesh, his bones were narrow, capable, of the chiseled quality found in men who ate only when their stomachs reminded them it was time for a meal. The very look of him bespoke calm, reason, and competence, the kind of man whose level blue gaze and steely conviction a woman could count on when she needed it.
It suddenly occurred to her that she wanted him on her side. Kentucky Gold is mine, she explained. My husband gave her to me as a wedding gift.
He looked skeptical.
Its true, she insisted. Ive put years of labor into Claiborne Farms. Kentucky Gold is all I asked for.
He leaned back against the counter and folded his arms across his chest. I imagine Sam Claiborne thought your marriage would last.
Well, it didnt.
Why not?
She stared at him. No Irishman would ask such a question. Its none of your concern, she stammered.
Brian continued to look at her. His unblinking stare grated on her nerves.
Did you hear me? she asked at last.
His voice turned low and husky and his answer was the last one either of them expected. It seemed to come from somewhere deep inside of him. I cant remember when Ive seen eyes so dark against skin so fair. Martin never told me you were pretty enough to stop traffic. Then he smiled and somehow, without quite knowing why, the standard by which she had previously determined the measure of a man had been irrevocably altered.
She felt the heat clear up to her hairline. Before she could formulate a sensible reply, he was all business again.
Its very much my concern if Im harborin a stolen horse in my stables, he said deliberately. The entire reputation of the farm is at stake.
I told you the mare is mine.
What about the foal?
Caitlin bit her lip. Im not sure yet.
When will you know?
Nervously, she fidgeted with her hair clip. Handfuls of black curls fell around her face. Sam has other foals. I only want this one.
But is he rightfully yours?
I dont know, she confessed. My lawyer is filing a petition for a court date. A judge will decide.
The sharp whistle of the kettle interrupted them. Brian poured water into the teapot. There has been a new development, Caitlin. Your husband confirmed that his prize stallion, Narraganset, died yesterday from a blood clot on the brain.
She couldnt have heard him correctly. Not Narraganset, the greatest stallion in the history of American turf, a stallion whose breeding services were reserved ahead of time for a million dollars a covering.
Caitlin. Brians voice came to her as if from a great distance. Her thoughts were coming too quickly, flip-flopping inside her head. Hard fingers dug into her shoulders, and eyes, impossibly blue, peered down at her. Listen to me, Caitlin. Kentucky Gold has just given birth to Narragansets last foal. Samuel Claiborne may care nothin for horses but hes no fool. Hell never give this one up.
It wasnt until later, until after hed driven her home and left her at the door, after shed scrubbed away all traces of the foaling barn and curled up beneath the warm duvet, until shed gone over every word of their conversation and relived every nuance of his expression, that it came to her. How could Brian Hennessey know that a man in charge of a multi-million dollar thoroughbred farm cared nothing for horses?
Caitlin punched her pillow and flipped over on her back. It was late and the subtle changes in her appearance, obviously invisible in the soft light of Brians kitchen, would be glaringly evident in full sunlight. Twenty-one-year-old women could manage a few sleepless nights and still appear radiant the next day. Ten years later they could not.
Her appearance had never concerned her before, at least it hadnt until Samuel Claiborne made it blindingly clear that she lacked the necessary qualities to keep him faithful or even tactfully discreet. Not that her husband meant anything to her. He hadnt in a long time. But Caitlin had never been short on pride and Sams behavior was humiliating.
Now, in retrospect, with wisdom earned through fourteen years of experience, much of it painful, she could look back to that first year in America and see exactly why she had succumbed to his brand of southern charm, synthetic and maple-syrupy though it was.
Her two week visit to Lelia, the older sister who lived in Boston, had stretched to three months. Lelia had given her an ultimatum. Find work and a place of her own or go back to Ireland. Caitlin knew she had outlasted her welcome. Three people in a one bath, studio apartment was unbearably crowded. It was time to move out on her own.
Caitlin had helped out in her mothers pub often enough to know something about waitressing but her heart wasnt in south Boston. She yearned for country roads, fog hanging like gray lace over low stone walls, white plank fences, and gleaming horses grazing in lush grass. It wasnt long before shed earned enough to set out for the bluegrass horsebreeding country south of Louisville, home of the aristocracy of the equine world.
Unlike Ireland, where women had yet to assume a place in male-dominated occupations, thoroughbred farms in the United States were hiring women throughout the industry. Caitlin was amazed and gratified to see women grooms, trainers, exercisers, and jockeys.
Charlie Barton, groom for the Claiborne Farms, took a careful measuring look at Caitlins petite, high-waisted frame, her dramatic dark eyes and ivory skin, and another at the compact muscles in legs that appeared too long for her body and hired her on the spot.
You havent seen me ride, Caitlin had protested.
Charlie spat out the end of his cigar, pulled a piece of tobacco from his tongue, and grinned, white teeth splitting his black face in two. Missy, ya got the body of a jockey. Ill teach ya whatever ya need to know.
As it turned out, John OShea, manager of the Curragh Stud, had already taught her more than anyone had expected. By the time Caitlin cashed her first paycheck, Charlie trusted her enough to allow her to begin training Mollies Joy, a yearling colt sired by Citation, a Triple Crown winner.
So strong were the images of those early days in Kentucky that Caitlin had only to close her eyes and it would come back to her in graphic detail: the white plank fences, rolling hills, antique shops at every crossroad, the mares frosty breath on the morning air. The light panting and thudding hooves of thoroughbreds out for their morning exercise. The brilliant orange of a southern sunrise. The Kentucky river rolling past white-pillared eighteenth century homes set back on canopied, tree-lined drives. The brilliant purple, red, gold, and
green of country fruit stands, and stone walls that reminded her of her fathers home in the west of Ireland.
Woven throughout it all, was an awareness of moneythe decadent, surreal, eye-crossing pace at which it flowed in ways that it never could in that green country across the Atlantic where she was born.
In Kentucky, yearlings sold for more than ten million dollars, horses dined in stables lit by crystal chandeliers, and it was not unheard of for waitresses to receive thousand dollar tips from well-fed foreign buyers.
Caitlin couldnt be blamed for falling under Samuel Claibornes spell. Sam was a gentleman, soothing, complimentary, protective. His oozing, relaxed confidence, his appreciative glances and his casual disregard for money were as different from a blunt, principled Irishman as Lucy Claiborne, elegant matriarch of Claiborne Farms, was different from blunt-speaking Brigid Keneally, local publican.
Lucy had disapproved of her from the beginning. Now, when she reflected back, Caitlin could see her point. Sam was a catchintelligent, educated, and rich. His mother had wanted the very best for her only son and Caitlin Keneally, Irish immigrant with only a high school education, did not measure up.
But for once in his life, Sam had proven unusually difficult. He was set on Caitlin and none of the debutantes his mother paraded before him swayed his thinking. They met on a crisp fall morning, shortly after her nineteenth birthday. Hed recently returned from six months in Europe, a gift from his parents upon his graduation from Duke University. Sam wasnt particularly interested in horses but he was interested in business, and Claiborne Enterprises was enough of a business to warrant his full-time interest.
Because Sam was a dutiful son and because he was intelligent enough to know what was coming to him, he did not protest when his father roused him before dawn to see the latest batch of Claiborne yearlings.
Caitlin, dressed in black jodhpurs and a red sweater, dark curls twisted untidily away from her face, was exercising Mollies Joy. Sam Claiborne, caught by the brilliant red and black against the colts dark coat and the breathtaking beauty of Kentuckys fall foliage, stopped to take a second look and forgot to breathe.
Already, Mollies Joy showed the promise of great speed, and when the two of themhorse and girl, perfectly formed, effortlessly alignedthundered around the track, Sam, a connoisseur of beauty, was smitten as he had never been in his life.
Caitlin flushed becomingly when Bull introduced them. Looking back she wondered if what had happened that morning would have blown over if she had been a bit further removed from Ireland or if Sam had been less romantically inclined, or if Lucys protests hadnt been so uncharacteristically strident, or if Bull Claiborne hadnt praised her so effusively, as effusively as any father proud of a daughters accomplishment.
As it turned out, Lucys protests went unheeded. When Bull Claiborne pronounced Caitlin the best little bruising rider hed seen this side of the Mason-Dixon, his wife threw up her hands and, with the beautiful manners instilled in southern women from birth, gave up graciously and began planning the wedding of the decade.
Caitlin was a reasonable person. Although she could never really like Lucy Claiborne, over the years fairness forced her to admit that the woman was a wonderful grandmother. Shed often taken Sam to task for his philandering and assured Caitlin that no matter what happened to the marriage, her grandchildren would never want for anything.
Unfortunately for Caitlin, Lucy was no longer a major shareholder of Claiborne Enterprises. Since Bulls death, his son ran the company, with the exception of a few duties his father had stipulated Caitlin take care of. Those duties had escalated, earning her a reputation in Kentuckys thorough-bred community. They also brought Claiborne Farms a healthy profit. Sam made it quite clear that if Caitlin chose to humiliate him with a divorce, he would see her reduced to nothing.
His threat was meaningless, of course. American courts were reasonably fair to women whod given birth to a wealthy mans children. And Sam Claibornes idea of nothing in no way resembled Caitlins definition of the term. She would have laughed in his face if it hadnt been for paragraph three in the proposed settlement, a paragraph far more chilling and cruel than his taunt to leave her penniless. He wanted custody of the children.
Sam had underestimated her. Caitlin would die before giving up her children. Kentucky Golds foal meant far more than a winning purse. It meant stud and breeding fees, foals, syndicated shareseverything she needed to break free of the Claiborne yoke and keep her children. The money would keep them until the foal reached racing age. After that Caitlin was on her own.
She had every hope of success. She was Irish, and Ireland was the place for a trainer to establish a repututation. Fees were low, yards were inexpensive, and the Irish Curragh was the only stud in the world where horses were trained on the same track where they raced. The spindly, chestnut colt shed pulled feet first into the world was her single hope for the future.
4
Brian Hennessey had never really loved a woman. He knew that now, at least not the way a man does when he thinks in terms of children and a forever kind of permanence, the kind found in marriage vows, insurance policies, and adjoining cemetery plots. Women and their preoccupation with order and appearance were fine in small doses, to attend the cinema or to share a meal with and, if they were willing, occasionally a bed, but that was the extent of it.
For some inexplicable reason, Caitlin Claiborne, reeking of horse blood and amniotic fluid, her arms halfway up the insides of a laboring broodmare had come closer than anyone to revealing the folly of his assumptions. Caitlin was the kind of woman who turned a mans insides to mush, the kind he could count on to keep going when everything around her fell apart and there wasnt much hope of coming about.
It wasnt just that she was willing to dirty her hands with hard work. Brian didnt know of an Irish woman who hadnt defined the phrase with a whole new dimension. Nor was it the way her eyes and mouth had gone soft when the colt finally made his appearance. Brian had known a number of women, and men as well, whose insides turned to jelly at the sight of a newborn colt. There was something incredibly unassuming about her, as if she didnt know she had the kind of beauty that scared a man witless, as if she didnt care what he thought of her.
He liked the way she persevered during her mares delivery, working hard enough for the arteries to pop up on the sides of her neck. Women didnt normally allow a man to see that, as if strain somehow demeaned them or made them less feminine. And for a single brief instant after the colt was delivered, shed included him in her happiness. Something told him it would be no small thing to be a part of Caitlin Claibornes joy.
He couldnt afford to fall in love with her. It hit him that moment in the kitchen when theyd stared at one another, the absolute polarity of who they were. She was Mrs. Samuel Claiborne, with fourteen years in America behind her and the resources to stable ten mares at the Curragh Stud Farm. He was a salaried employee living in rented quarters with a savings account that next to Sam Claibornes millions would look like pocket change.
Brian absently caressed the shapely head of his six-year-old collie, Neeve, and watched the blinking light on his fax machine spit out yet another sheet of paper into the overflowing tray. It was almost dawn. Hed been awake for nearly twenty-four hours and still sleep eluded him. He knew the reason for his insomnia. He wasnt a complicated enough person to have hidden, unprobeable depths. Only once had he misread himself.
That mistake had sent him in the wrong direction for a number of years. It was his friend, Father Martin OShea, whod shown him the error in his thinking. He couldnt completely regret those years. Without them he might have followed his father to the fishing boats, a fate similar to a prison sentence in Brians mind. Instead hed acquired an education few fishermans sons from the Aran Islands could claim.
The fact of the matter was that Caitlin had surprised him. There was nothing left of the girl Martin OShea told him about, nothing except a mass of flyaway black curls and eyes as large and dark as Raphaels Madonna
, the one that had so intrigued him in the antechamber of the Jesuit rectory in Dublin. Only now those eyes didnt sparkle with mischief. They were angry and concealing and filled with an unmistakable wariness. Intuition told him the anger he saw was really something else, something he couldnt imagine associating with the Caitlin Keneally hed heard so much about.
Neeve slipped out from under his hand, walked to the fireplace where the turf still glowed a dull red, turned around several times, and settled into a comfortable sleeping position. Brian gulped down the last of his now tepid tea, rose, and headed for the single bedroom at the back of the cottage he called home. If he was lucky he could manage at least three hours of undisturbed rest before anyone called him.
Thirty minutes later, in that twilight stage between waking and sleeping, when the edges of a solution are not yet clearly defined but the problem doesnt appear quite so difficult as it seems in the merciless, unrelieved light of day, it came to him just as it always did when the night was long and his mind was particularly receptive to association. Martin OShea had grown up with Caitlin. He would know her as well as anyone. The priest had a way of putting a healing finger on the heart of a matter.
After all it was Martin whod shown Brian that a calling to holy orders was absolute, with no room for halfway measures, doubts, or portions held back in reserve. Four years in the Jesuit College with Martin had clarified the shallowness of his own religious commitment. With a sense of relief and more than a little gratitude, he had shaken his friends hand and promised to keep in touch.
Later, when Brian needed work, it was Martin whod convinced John OShea to recommend him as a thoroughbred trainer, and it was Martin who smoothed his path with the local residents who welcomed strangers, but only those who stayed from February through June, the racing season, and then went home again.
Brians reputation had been further cemented by the training of three consecutive winners of Englands Grand National, the most prestigious steeple chase in the world. The race that catapulted his face onto the front pages of Irish Field and the Racing Gazette. The race that made his name a household word in equine circles, and for the first time in his life, earned him enough of a bank balance to merit a savings account, an investment portfolio, and a platinum credit card.
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