And it was turning into a nightmare.
Limerick was the stallion on which she'd pinned her hopes. His potential was so clear to her. He had the ability, the natural talent, to take every race on the continent. Maybe even America. And then return as a stud. Twenty-four hours ago, it had all been possible. With the Saturday race, he would have been on his way. And now?
She couldn't sit and wait for something to happen. She made sure the gate was closed and followed Patrick's path to the barn. There had to be something else she could do.
Talk among the grooms and jockeys stopped when she walked down the barn aisle to where Patrick was soothing the little bay filly before he started treatment on her leg. There was an immediate tension among the men, as if they all expected she'd come to fire them. Or worse.
Only Patrick ignored her. His full attention was focused on the filly. For the first time in years Catherine found herself wishing that she had developed some rapport with her employees. It had never really mattered to her at the bank that she was "the boss's daughter." It mattered greatly now. She was not a part of the barn team. The harsh truth was that she might never be. The men looked to Patrick, not her.
"I was wondering if any of you had come up with ideas about who might have taken Limerick." She looked around the group. She recognized Timmy, the jockey, and Jack, one of the grooms. The others she didn't know. "If he's returned unharmed, I promise there won't be any charges filed."
No one answered her. No one looked at Patrick. They looked down at the ground or off to the side.
"I want to get Limerick back." She felt as stiff and awkward as a teenager, and she hated it. "The horse is of tremendous f-financial importance to the stables. I'm s-sure you know that." Damn! She was stammering all over the place and sounding as if it was only the money she cared about. "But that isn't my only concern."
She caught Patrick's eye. He was looking at her with interest, as if he really wanted to hear what she was saying. The usual resentment he displayed was not apparent.
"What I mean to say is that I don't want anything to happen to that horse. And not just for financial reasons. He's a special animal. Anyone with eyes can see it. I want him back here safe and sound." She took a breath. "Can you think of anything that might help? Maybe there was someone about asking questions. Have you spoken with anyone about Limerick? I'm not accusing anyone. He's a magnificent horse and it would be natural to brag about him. But if we could begin to put together a list of people who'd shown an interest in him, maybe the same name will pop up more than once. I feel that he's been taken by someone who intends to ask for a ransom."
"That's what I've been thinking," Timmy said. He cleared his throat and spoke a little louder. "The truth is, I've talked about him to several other jockeys. Just to say that he was something special and that Beltene would have a surprise for everyone once we brought him out."
"I can't believe it was a local who took him," Jack said. "At least, not anyone we know. They wouldn't do such a thing to Patrick. Everyone around here knows how long and hard he worked to get Limerick ready to race. Patrick's put the last three years of his life into that horse." He glanced at the trainer and then quickly away.
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 hoofprints 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 any more 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."
Chapter Four
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 procla
imed 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 a pillow. What a picture! And I'm just the cat 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 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 Mick's chimney. It would be good to warm his hands, and possibly his belly. 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 Mick's welcome.
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