"You don't say?" Pope's eyes were gleaming with interest at learning information that might prove valuable.
"That's what Trussell's saying, and he won't back down. He'd say it and spit in the devil's eye. If it's true, that Nelson woman is stone. Takes her advantage no matter what the cost to others. There's even talk her family cheated the Shaws out of Beltene."
Catherine cast another glance at Pope and the talkative man. They were leaning closer, whispering to one another. Her face was burning with suppressed anger and shame. To have people saying those things about her! It took all of her willpower not to march over and set Pope and his crony straight.
It was significant that talk about the odd circumstances of the race was already covering the track. That put a different light on things. She should have known that Kent's ego wouldn't allow him to keep quiet. And now Trussell was roasting her over the coals. Not that she blamed him. He'd been duped as well as she had. If he was mad now, he was going to be furious when he discovered that they'd both been taken in a con of some sort.
She pulled her cap lower. One single question niggled at her. How often was it that a man was willing to risk an expensive horse for the sake of one race? Kent had paid better than one-hundred-and-twenty-thousand American dollars for King's Quest. It was the kind of gesture Kent loved. Risk was like oxygen to his blood. But it was a risk weighted to loss, and Kent knew that. He'd seen Limerick.
Catherine considered her options. If she got the paperwork from the track, she might be able to get out of the claim race. But it would always throw doubt on Limerick, and on her own ethics, especially since Trussell was bandying her name about as if she were little more than a common thief. If Limerick didn't run this race and win, his potential as a breeding stallion might suffer. Hers undoubtedly would. And Beltene needed a winning season of purses and a good breeding season next spring.
She made her decision then. She'd destroy the papers with the claiming clause and let Limerick run the match race, just as she'd originally proposed. It was all the more important that she got those papers from the track and from Kent.
As she watched, Pope and the unknown trainer went their separate ways. She called softly to get Familiar's attention and then drifted back into the crowd, wandering past the stalls to watch the grooms and trainers getting horses ready for a breeze along the track or walking them cool after an exercise session.
The animals were magnificent, but as she looked at them she couldn't help but think of Limerick, and Patrick. There was definitely something about the big gray stallion that was different from the other horses she saw. His chest was a bit broader. More room for heart and lung, Patrick would say. There was also something else, something harder to define. A look in his eyes, an attitude of eagerness— whenever Patrick approached him.
There was something about all of the horses that Patrick worked. As she stood and watched, a trainer went into a stall to bring out a young stallion. The horse rolled his eyes and held back.
Never, ever, in all of her time at Beltene had she seen a horse react to Patrick in that fashion. They waited for him, heads over the stall.
They liked to work with him. That was the elusive difference. Not muscle or tone or agility, although there was that, too, but an eagerness to work. They waited for a chance to run. Limerick was that extremely rare combination of athletic perfection and heart. Because of Patrick's handling? She couldn't answer that question yet.
It was a sight she never tired of, the glistening animals in the peak of condition moving so gracefully through the crowds. Jockeys, with their saddles tucked over their arms, were moving back and forth looking for the mounts they were to work. Some of the better known jockeys were standing together in a group discussing either the last races or the ones upcoming.
In past times, Catherine would have stopped to talk with the ones she knew. Not today. Part of the reason for her outfit was to disguise who she was. There were several other questions she needed answers to.
She saw a groom she remembered and hurried forward. "Have you seen Mr. Ridgeway today? I was to meet him for a job interview." She tried her best to imitate the accents she'd heard. She was a bit too proper, but she did a passable job of assuming a less privileged dialect.
"Ridgeway's over on the left," the groom said. "He doesn't hire no women."
"Not even as hot walkers?" Catherine was shocked. Kent had a little chauvinist blood in him. She'd seen it before. But most men from wealthy and powerful families did. They'd had generations of women meeting their needs while they went out and brought home the money. But not to hire women hot walkers? A lot of trainers preferred female walkers because they had a more calming influence on the horses. After a day at the track, the horses needed as much soothing as they could get.
"Won't hire women here for any reason. Says a woman's place is in the bedroom or the kitchen." The groom grinned, aware of the touch of red that flushed Catherine's neck and revealed her displeasure.
"Well, tell him he missed a good worker." She turned away and eased back into the flow of traffic. She'd never intended to talk to Kent, she just wanted to know where he was— and that he was occupied. Now she had to find his setup at the track.
Out of curiosity she stopped by the stall where King's Quest stood. He was a magnificent animal. Inch for inch he was as big as Limerick, with the same wide chest, sloping shoulder and lean-muscled body. It would be a match race to make the history books. The thought made her smile, but it quickly faded. If Limerick was found and able to race.
In the distance she spotted Kent. He was talking with a group of trainers. They all wore his colors, even though they wouldn't be racing. That was Kent. He had an eye for showmanship and detail that made his stables noticeable— and profitable. Owners with horses to train liked the flash and dazzle. They liked to come to the barn area and see their horses groomed and ridden by a jockey in silks, even if it was an expensive extra that was costing them plenty. This was a lesson she could learn from Kent.
As Kent turned her way, she ducked instinctively. Of all the people at the track, Kent would be the one who recognized her if he saw her. She hid behind several tall men, using their bodies to shield her as she slipped past Kent toward the entrance to the track offices. Glancing down, she saw that Familiar was right at her heels. Behind her there was no sign of Patrick. Now was her chance. She pushed the door open and slipped inside.
Before she could close the door, she felt a hand on her shoulder. "What is it you're about, Catherine Nelson?"
She turned around into Patrick's chest. He slipped into the hallway with her, crowding her against the wall. With one hand, he lifted her chin and studied her face. "You're going to steal that agreement."
"Someone forged my name," she answered hotly. "I never signed any such agreement. I don't see where it's theft to take something that someone fabricated."
"And Trussell's copy, which Ridgeway now probably holds? What of it?"
Catherine looked down at the ground, unable to meet Patrick's eyes.
"Sweet saints," Patrick whispered. "You were going to steal it, too!"
Before Catherine could look up, she felt Patrick's hands return to her shoulders. He grabbed her roughly, pulling her forward. Her head snapped up to see the look of amusement in his eyes just as his lips came down to hers.
It was a joyful, spontaneous kiss that held approval, relief and acceptance. Catherine felt all of those things, and something more. What might have been a quick, friendly kiss held longer than it should have.
Patrick drew back, slowly. The merriment in his eyes had faded. He hadn't intended to kiss her. In fact, he felt somewhat like giving her a good lecture for trying such desperate measures. But the fact was that she had tried them. She'd intended to steal the papers from Ridgeway, not trust him by asking for them. It showed a degree of good sense he'd been afraid she didn't have.
"Patrick?" His name was a question.
Instead of answering her, he dropped his lips to h
ers again. This time they met softly, each assessing the other. His fingers traced the line of her cheekbone, resting at her temple.
Catherine opened her mouth to him, inviting, as she lifted her arms around his neck. In all the maddening events that had churned around her, she'd finally found a degree of steadiness. Nothing else that was happening to her made sense, and her strong feelings for Patrick were the most nonsensical of all, but she couldn't deny them. In his arms, she felt that she could overcome everything else.
Patrick pulled her tighter against him. He could feel her ribs against his forearms, her breasts pushed against his chest. The desire to have her was overwhelming. His hands moved up her back, and he felt her respond, pressing closer still to him as her tongue teased his. Desire pulsed through him, heavy and sweet.
Catherine moved against him, wanting as much of him as possible. His touch and body and kisses fed a hunger she never knew she had. Or at least, had never acknowledged. All along she'd teased herself with half-dream fantasies of Patrick. But those she'd hidden from herself when she was fully awake. Now she could no longer bury her emotions. Patrick wasn't some gauzy dream figure. He was a man who moved her to the core of her being.
Patrick pulled back suddenly. "Ouch!" Both of the cat's front fangs had been sunk into his shin. He looked down to see a fuzzed-out Familiar, back arched, eyeing the corridor to their left.
"This way!" The voice coming from the corridor was Kent Ridgeway's. There was no mistaking it. And he was approaching them.
Patrick grabbed Catherine's hand and pulled her after him as he sprinted down the hallway. He looked back only once, to make sure Familiar was with them. The cat was at their heels.
"Here." Catherine saw the door marked Ladies and pulled Patrick in with her, holding the door long enough for Familiar to scoot inside, also. She was panting, her chest heaving up and down. She saw Patrick watching her and felt a flare of desire so intense that she almost moaned.
"We have to get you out of here," Patrick said. "You're too well known, Catherine. With everything that's happened, you can't be seen here, especially if those papers go missing. The reputation of Beltene now rests with you. Any scandal or smudge could ruin the farm."
"I know." She stared at him as she spoke. She did know. Patrick was absolutely correct. "What are we going to do?" With careful control, she checked the desire she felt for Patrick. Another place, another time…
We. Patrick had heard her say it. It was amazing how one single little pronoun could make a sentence so significant. "We're going to take care of this," Patrick said, reaching out to her.
"How?" Catherine didn't sound very reassured, but she took his hand and let him pull her into his arms. "I didn't have a plan. I was just going to see what I could do here, and based on that, drive over to Wicklow and see if I could find the contract in Kent's office."
"Maybe not such a bad idea." Patrick lifted the cap from her head. The braid had loosened and he shook out her hair. His fingers curled in it, lifting the silky red mass and letting the slight perfume intoxicate him. He'd dreamed of her hair, of lying in the hayloft with her beside him, that mass of red hair flung over his chest and shoulder. Her creamy skin exposed to the soft light that filtered into the old barn.
"You want me to go to Wicklow?"
"Kent was going to train some two-year-olds for you, wasn't he?"
"Yes." Catherine hesitated. "I've been rethinking that, though. I've implied that I can't afford to do that."
"But he doesn't know for certain that you aren't. Couldn't you tell him you'd changed your mind and wanted to be sure he had enough space for you?"
"I could. But he thinks I'm north buying breeding stock. And that Limerick is back at Beltene."
"Good." Patrick thought. He didn't know Kent's role in forcing David Trussell to sell King's Quest. He had much the same opinion of the trainer that Catherine had— Ridgeway loved a risk, a gamble, and he had the money to support his vice. The idea of a claiming race with stakes as high as Limerick would really appeal to him. Win or lose, it would build the reputation of high-stakes player that he loved to cultivate. It could be that he stumbled into a situation someone else had created. Or it could be that he'd manipulated circumstances— and forged documents— to suit himself.
"Catherine, if Ridgeway is behind the forgeries, he's completely unethical. He's capable of anything."
"Of taking Limerick? Of killing him?" Catherine tensed her fingers into the muscles at Patrick's back. The gesture was involuntary, but he reacted to it.
"Don't give up on Limerick. I promised I'd get him back and I will. Now I'll take care of the documents here at the track. I know one of the employees in the office. I'll stand a lot better shot at getting them than you. We don't have much time, though. Can you manage Wicklow?"
"Kent's here at the track. I can drive there now and be at the stables when they open tomorrow. With luck, I can check Kent's files before he even goes home. It'll be tricky, but it won't be that dangerous." She looked up at him and nodded. "I can do it."
"If he catches you at it, it could be extremely dangerous," Patrick warned her. "But there's no other way. Now let's get you out of here and back to the car."
* * *
GOOD GRIEF! These two have the finesse of a couple of alley cats, no slur intended on my fellow creatures. I mean, they shoot daggers at each other for months, and then fall on each other like love-starved fiends in a washroom while trying to pull off a heist. A poorly planned burglary at that!
Lucky for them, one of us kept his wits about him or Kent Ridgeway would have caught them red-handed, or hot-lipped as the case may be. I know, I know, my puns are going downhill faster than a greased sled.
So, we're off to Wicklow soon. I've always wanted to see England. Wicklow's in the northwestern part of the country and a light-year from the bustle of London, Big Ben and all of that, but still, the English countryside has inspired many a novel. Eleanor has given me quite a taste for good fiction. She reads aloud to me and Dr. Doolittle. I'm particularly fond of the English mystery writers. As a lot, they seem to have such a fine eye for detail, the sort of thing an alert feline might observe. At any rate, I pick up a few tips here and there from the best of them. Perhaps I'll pen a line or two someday.
The allure of England aside, I'd like to know how Ridgeway's luck is running on the track. Why do I get the feeling that maybe he's losing money faster than it's coming in? Perhaps he's bleeding like a stuck pig, as those colorful Tennesseeans like to say.
I keep going over the area of the hideout in my mind. That horse was ridden away. That's what's so strange. Not that Limerick wasn't ridable. Far from it. But whoever rode him took him without a saddle or bridle. Unless they brought their own. But just for the sake of argument, think about who could ride him through treacherous terrain without benefit of a bridle. That limits the list of suspects to a very select few.
And Mick? I know someone was watching the hideout. They didn't need Mick to tell them where the horse was. So why take him? The only conclusion I can come to is that they are using his disappearance to make sure that Patrick doesn't do anything rash. It's all too much.
Hey! Watch your step, me bucko! Take your hands off me! Patrick! So, it's back to the car for me and Catherine. Then off to Merry Old England. If you'd give me a chance, I could walk. But no, I'm going to be suffocated in your jacket. Oh well, I'll just go limp and relax. As one of the highest life-forms, which cats are, I've learned a great degree of wisdom, especially when it comes to humanoids who think they're the superior race. All a smart cat has to do is give the impression that they yield to the humans' demands. A small— and sometimes annoying— price, but so easy to do once the rudiments are learned.
I'll demonstrate. Just a little purr, to make Patrick think I'm very happy and content curled up in his warm jacket as he hauls me to the car. He thinks he has won me over.
That's fine. I don't mind going to England— a new adventure and all. I'm more than a little curi
ous about Wicklow. And why Kent Ridgeway would risk a fortune on a horse he knows can't beat Limerick. Ridgeway is playing another angle, and it's a darn good thing these two humanoids have me to look out for them. They hardly have sense enough to dodge bullets.
Chapter Twelve
Wicklow was something out of a storybook. As much as Catherine had heard about it, she wasn't prepared for the reality. One look and she felt all of her doubts about Kent were unjustified. With so much at stake, why would he want to risk everything by involving himself in something illegal? It didn't make sense.
Turning into the long, tree-lined drive, she followed the neat signs that directed her toward the stable office. On either side were lush pastures. Mares grazed while their foals ran and bucked, playing the games that would develop muscle, wind and heart. The land surrounding Wicklow was much gentler than that of Connemara. At Wicklow, it was as if the very earth accommodated the horse. In contrast, Beltene wore the face of stubborn survival, carved out of rock and limestone, rugged and enduring.
"Stay put," she ordered Familiar as she got out of the car.
She didn't give the cat a chance to back talk. She got out and slammed the door before he could escape.
"Can I help you?"
The man who confronted Catherine was middle-aged and perfectly groomed. He stepped forward helpfully, as if he thought she might be lost. After spending the night in a bed and breakfast not twenty miles up the road, Catherine had dressed in an expensive business suit, stockings, heels and as much of the Nelson family jewelry as she could wear with any degree of comfort and taste.
"I'm Catherine Nelson. Kent is going to train some two-year-olds for me and I wanted to surprise him." She smiled and brushed her long hair back from her face, revealing the Nelson rubies at her ears. "He isn't expecting me, but I think he'll be glad to see me."
"I'm terribly sorry. Mr. Ridgeway is away." The man frowned. "He isn't expected back until tomorrow. I'm afraid he's in Dublin on business."
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