IRISH FIRE

by Jeanette Baker

  At least her clothing wont be an issue.

  They reached the intersection of the street and stopped to watch as two women with the small bums, muscled legs, tightly slicked hair, and sun-leathered faces of the English racing aristocracy rode through. Their horses were high-stepping, nearly unmanageable, their eyes wild, their sleek, satiny coats evidence of generations of inbreeding, their hooves kicking up the unmistakable odors of hay and manure and road dust. Caitlin felt a pang. Once that life had been hers. She pushed the thought aside. That life included Sam. Personal happiness had its price.

  Father Durans elegant high-bridged nose wrinkled slightly. He looked down at the woman by his side. This is as far as I go, lass. Its been a pleasure talking with you. I hope it wont be the last time.

  Caitlin sighed and, without thinking, spoke her mind. You know it wont be, now that youve Annie in your clutches.

  Michael Duran threw back his head and laughed. Caitlin Keneally, he managed at last, will you never learn diplomacy?

  She considered his question. Probably not. I think Im hopeless.

  He sobered instantly. You should, at least when dealing with issues regarding your children. Your husband is a powerful man. I believe youve some difficult times to weather. Keep that in mind.

  He had a point. Chastened, she nodded her head. Ill do that.

  His voice softened. Theres something else you should consider as well. Youre a bit weak when it comes to church doctrine. I take no position on your marriage, Caitlin. Because youre a Catholic and your marriage was not sanctified by the church, Im not supposed to recognize it.

  What are you saying?

  We have no quarrel with your secular divorce. May it bring you the peace that you seek. He smiled and touched her cheek lightly. Goodbye lass.

  She stared at his retreating figure. What on earth had happened to the Father Duran she remembered?

  She caught up with her children on the tree-lined road leading to the stud farm. Annie was holding Bens hand but he was clearly in the lead. Her daughters forlorn little figure dragging after Ben brought painful tears to Caitlins throat. Annie must have had another dreadful day. Hello, you two, she said, falling into step beside them. Reaching for her daughters book bag, she took her free hand and laced the small fingers with her own. Am I late or did you get out early?

  There was a teachers meeting, Annie said dully. We got out at half past two.

  Isnt that a stroke of luck? Youll have more time at the stud. Perhaps if it isnt busy, we can eat in the cafeteria.

  What about Gran? asked Ben.

  Ill call her, Caitlin replied. She can join us if she likes. She squeezed Annies hand. Would you like to eat out tonight, love?

  Annie shrugged. I dont care.

  Caitlin stepped in front of her daughter. Annie, please stop for a minute. I want to tell you something.

  Annie waited while Ben looked on curiously.

  I went to Saint Patricks today. Theyll take you as soon as we can get you fitted for a uniform.

  When will that be?

  On Monday morning if you like.

  The girls eyes glistened. Will I have to go back to the National School?

  Caitlin shook her head. No, love, not ever again. She hesitated. There is one condition.

  Annies face closed. What?

  They want you to take religious instruction and were to go to Mass on Sunday.

  Is that all? the girl asked cautiously, as if not quite sure it could be that easy.

  Thats all.

  Bens face crumpled. I dont want to go to school without Annie, he wailed. I want to go to Saint Patricks, too. Can I go, Mum? Please?

  Caitlin looked helplessly at her son. Ben, love, she began, you cant go to Annies school. Its only for girls.

  I want to go, Ben repeated.

  Caitlin reached for his hand and kept walking. I know you do, but even if you could go, think how your friends would miss you.

  Bens forehead wrinkled. He was deep in thought. Caitlin hoped the issue was settled.

  Irish Gold was already out in the paddock when they arrived at the stud farm. She noticed Brian Hennessey standing motionless inside the guard rails.

  Leaning against the fence, she watched as the colt ran frantically across the limestone turf, lifting his head, snorting, eyes wild, teeth exposed, clearly exhibiting his distress at the separation from his mother. He wanted nothing to do with the old broodmare pastured with the yearlings for the sole purpose of comforting the newly weaned foals.

  For thirty-five days the colt had survived on mares milk alone. After that Kentucky Gold had been tied while her foal was given small amounts of crushed oats and sweet feed. Hed grown quickly, Caitlin observed, noting with pleasure his height, the white-stockinged feet, the good shoulders, and straight hind legs. He should be up to six quarts of grain by now, a healthy amount for a colt born only three months ago.

  Soon it would be time to name him. In America the Jockey Club administered the naming of all thoroughbreds and rarely accepted a first choice due to its complicated reasons for disqualification. No horse could have the name of an existing horse, a deceased famous horse, a horse whod raced or served the stud in the last fifteen years, no horse could be named for a famous deceased personality, or a famous living person without his written consent. No horse could advertise a trade name and no name could be over eighteen characters.

  The process was nearly as complicated in Ireland. Weatherbys of Ireland managed the General Stud book where horses were registered, bloodtyped, and tested for parentage. It was a formidable process and Caitlin did not relish the experience. She was set on the name Irish Gold. Annie and Ben would be disappointed if their chosen name was not accepted. Still, they were Claibornes. Theyd grown up around horses and knew, on this matter, that the rules were nonnegotiable.

  The colt had settled into a tentative walk and finally stopped to sniff the grass between his long, stiltlike legs. Caitlin watched as Brian approached him holding a bucket filled with grain, a non-threatening, chirruping sound coming from somewhere back in his throat.

  The colt lifted his head, swayed slightly on his too-long legs, recognized the man and stepped forward to bury his nose in the grain. Brian ran his free hand over the satiny neck, under the throat and then back and forth across the nostrils and mouth. He waited until the horse lifted his head and moved away toward the broodmare and other yearlings before walking back to the rail and climbing over it.

  He did all right, didnt he, Mr. Hennessey? Ben called out.

  Aye, lad, he did well enough. Brian set down the bucket, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands, replacing it immediately. How are you, Annie?

  Im fine, thank you, the girl said, glancing thoughtfully at the tip of the handkerchief sticking out of his pocket. She turned to her brother. Come on, Ben, lets put the bucket back inside the tack room. Then well walk to the other side for a closer look.

  Caitlin placed a restraining hand on her daughters shoulder. You can see well enough from here, Annie.

  Id like to speak with you, Caitlin, Brian said tersely. The children can join us for a bite to eat in the dinin room after theyve looked their fill.

  His hands were shaking and there was a taut look around his eyes that she had never seen before. Run along, she said to the children.

  Brians anger was the furious white-hot kind that rational discussion would never penetrate. Caitlin, walking beside him, recognized the symptoms and wisely remained silent. Brian Hennessey wasnt a man who lost control of his emotions. Whatever was troubling him would come out as soon as he won the battle with his temper.

  They walked in silence over the hill and down through the ridge of trees to his cottage. He opened the door and stepped back allowing her to precede him. Still without speaking he opened the antique wooden sideboard, pulled out a bottle of whiskey, poured liberal measures into two glasses, and handed one to Caitlin. Then he sat down on the couch and stared unseeing at his own.

 
Dismayed, Caitlin turned the glass in her hands. Please tell me whats wrong.

  He raised his head and looked at her, his eyes blazing and blue in a haunted face. Caitlins throat felt parched as if shed stood too long under a blast of scorching desert heat without water. Her hand moved to her forehead. She wanted nothing more than to be away from this place. Then she remembered the whiskey and lifted the glass to her lips.

  Your foal is bleedin badly from the nostrils, he said harshly.

  Relief made her weak. Is that all? Antibiotics will take care of that in no time.

  I dont think so.

  She frowned. What are you saying?

  I dont believe this is a viral or bacterial problem, Caitlin.

  She rejected it immediately. How can you possibly know that?

  He was very still, his words forced and deliberate as if explaining something basic to someone with impaired mental faculties. Irish Gold has all the symptoms of RLN disease. RLN is recurrent laryngeal neuropathy, palsy of the voice

  For Gods sake, Brian, she snapped. I know what RLN is. Get on with it.

  All right. Ive seen it in American horses over and over again. The upper airway is obstructed due to a genetic deterioration of the left side of the voice box. If it isnt a severe case, it doesnt show up until the horse is exercised vigorously, usually before a first race.

  Thats absurd, she argued. Irish Gold comes from a line of champions. He has no genetic diseases.

  The muscle along Brians jawline tightened angrily. Ninety percent of American thoroughbreds have RLN. For that very reason some of us have tried to hold out against breedin programs involvin North American horses. In case you dont remember, we were overruled. He downed his drink and poured another. That horse will never win a race, Caitlin. Hell be lucky if he doesnt drop dead in the middle of his trainin.

  Her eyes were wide and dark and horrified in the pale oval of her face. I dont believe you.

  Believe it, he said bluntly, pulling out his handkerchief and laying it flat on the couch cushion. It was stained an ugly red-brown. Believe this as well. Until I see the autopsy reports on Narraganset, I wont allow Kentucky Gold to be covered by an Irish stallion. This lethal inbreedin has got to stop or we wont have a healthy animal left in the industry.

  Gathering her composure, Caitlin set her glass down on the end table. The man was mad. I have no idea why youre doing this to me, she said carefully. There have been very few cases of RLN disease at Claiborne and we made sure those animals never competed and never reproduced. If Irish Gold is bleeding, then there must be another reason. Ill call the vet right away.

  The anger drained out of him immediately. He stood and held out his hand. You do that, he said gently. Im sorry, Caitlin, truly sorry.

  She stared at him without moving. Was he unspeakably cruel or a complete fool? Sorry. He was sorry. What a pathetic little apology for the horror hed thrust upon her. Did he really have any idea what it would mean to her if his suspicions proved correct?

  If the colt must be put down, Ill help you find another, he said. Were a bit late for Tatersalls but the Goffs premier foal sale is coming up soon

  She interrupted him. Dont be ridiculous. What makes you think I have eleven thousand guineas to throw away? Do you think Im independently wealthy? I cant last forever without income. Tears burned beneath her eyelids. This foal means everything to us. Hes our future.

  He looked bewildered. I dont understand. Claiborne Farms

  She waved her hand in a desperate, angry gesture of dismissal, no longer caring that the privacy she preferred and had so carefully cultivated was irrevocably shattered. Sam Claiborne is Claiborne Farms, she said bitterly. Even Lucy, my mother-in-law, decent as she is, wont be able to help if he decides to punish me for leaving him.

  His face was shuttered, emotions carefully concealed. What does he want?

  I dont know. She was close to coming undone. Annie and Ben, maybe. To have things back the way they were.

  Was it so bad?

  Pressing the backs of her hands against her eyes, she shook with hysterical laughter. Not for Sam. And maybe not for the children. Not yet, anyway. For me, she dropped her hands and shrugged helplessly, wondering if Sams reputation extended outside of Kentucky, I just couldnt do it anymore.

  What will you do if the vet confirms what I told you?

  She reached into her pocket, pulled out a tissue and blew her nose. He wont. Theres nothing wrong with that colt.

  His mouth was hard again, all traces of compassion wiped away with his conviction. If I were you Id have a strategy to fall back on.

  She lifted her chin. Youre not me. You dont know the first thing about me.

  Through the open door he watched her walk away, the straight line of her back, the obstinate way she held her head, her hands clenched and tight at her sides. A reluctant smile appeared on his lips. If that were true, Caitlin Keneally, he muttered under his breath, I would be an idiot.

  13

  Brian Hennessey slipped the printed message he had copied from his e-mail into his pocket, pulled on his gloves, and stepped out into a dawn still dark enough that remnants of last nights paper-thin moon hung in the sky. There would be no rain today. The wind had bundled the clouds up and hurled them somewhere out to sea, leaving the promise of light, a soft milky light completely different from the luminous quality he remembered as a boy, in the west.

  In the western isles of his youth, a strange kind of light rolled in from the Atlantic, played among the clouds, gathered in the rocky shoals, danced among the Blue Stacks and Twelve Pins, coloring the land a dozen shades of green, celery, mint, jade, pine, turquoise, emerald, until the glow of it changed a mangave him a mind that was no longer a tidy one with straight and narrow lines, made him believe in ghosts and curses and the myths of his ancestors long buried now beneath the guano-stained Celtic crosses dotting cemetery churchyards.

  His people, the Irish of the Isles of the Blessed, those green stepping stones in a turbulent sea, were descended from pastoral Druids, Celtic warriors, and marauding Norsemen. They grudgingly lived in towns, farmed their land, attended Mass, playing out a charade of civilization in its loosest form but they were by no means a regular people. They preferred a different kind of life and theyd found it in the isles of the west. There was no softness to break up the horizon, to pacify and soothe it, no waving fields of grain, no turf bogs, no white-aproned haystacks, just the seamless boundaries of sky and sea, wind-hammered rock and lashing waves pounding a disappearing shore.

  Caitlins father had been an island man, another of the banished malefactors forever condemned to make his life away from the light and the land that nourished his soul. What had he done, Brian wondered? What kept an island man expatriated and perpetually numbed with drink in the civilized county of Kildare?

  His daughter had escaped the curse. Caitlin was not a woman who turned to alcohol no matter how difficult her problem. But she had her own share of stubbornness as well as a goodly amount of pride, both island traits. He wondered if she would listen to him or if his bluntness had destroyed what had been the beginning of a tenuous friendship.

  The truth was she brought out the worst in him. He wanted to impress her but the minute he thought he had, she would look at him with a raised eyebrow, her face still and quiet like an empty canvas, and the words he wanted wouldnt form. Instead, he heard himself saying what she should never have heard, words that were no less honest, but rough and tactless, harsh, outspoken words that a woman courageous enough to survive Samuel Claiborne would not shrink from but should have been spared.

  Brian walked down the packed dirt road, past the sign-posted gate to the street that led to the Curragh race track. Caitlin came early to see Kentucky Gold and the colt. Often Davy Flynn recruited her to exercise one or more of the two year olds if they were short on help. If Caitlins night had been anything like Brians, she would be up even earlier than usual today. He wanted to catch her before she set out for the barns.

  She
wore a red sweater and gray jodhpers, the expensive kind that a woman from Kilcullen would never own. The color blended with the mist, blurring her outline. Standing a decent distance from the track, he waited for her to finish. There were few things Brian enjoyed more than watching Caitlin take a prize-winning two year old through his paces on the Curragh.

  He might have missed her if it hadnt been for her red sweater. The color suited her far more than the muted gray of her jacket. Careful not to alarm her, he stood back away from the track watching her move forward instinctively, head low, rump up, legs straight, urging the colt to greater and greater speeds. She passed the one-eighth pole, easing up on the reins for precious seconds before tightening them again, her hands loose, her body perfectly balanced. He heard her soft chirping sounds, saw the turf fly, and finally, at the three-eighths pole saw the colt stretch out, take the bit in his mouth and lunge. Once again, the animal surged across the wire.

  Brian hadnt used his watch this time but he was sure the colt had never performed better. Caitlin was a natural. He waited until shed cooled down the colt and handed him back to Davy before calling out her name.

  Turning, she waited for him, a still figure with black ringlets curling around her face and a slash of red around her throat where her jacket parted, the same red shed used on her lips. Reaching into his pocket, Brian pulled out the message hed received late last night and handed it to her. She read it quickly, her eyes moving down the page twice before she looked up. What is this about?

  Robert Farlow has had tremendous success with RLN disease, Brian explained. Hes agreed to look at your colt if youre willin.

  Youve told people that my colt is diseased?

  Deliberately, he curbed his impatience. Not people, Caitlin. Robert Farlow is the best veterinarian there is. Hes a friend of mine and very discreet.

  Why would he do such a thing?

  Because I asked him, as a favor to me.

  Why would you do that?

  Brians eyes narrowed. Are you deliberately being rude or is this a display of American manners?