Fear Familiar Bundle

by Caroline Burnes

  "And I'll bet you had nothing to do with ambushing Eamon McShane in the barn and beating him with a broom handle, did you?" Colin asked.

  "Not a bit of it. 'Twas the little people who got after him. Pounded him squarely, by the looks of him. But it didn't stop Kent Ridgeway from hiring him on, so all in all, there was no harm done."

  "I thought I saw McShane over by the Wicklow grooms." Catherine sighed. "In a way, it doesn't seem fair. Allan and his business partner Craig will spend a long time in jail. Kidnapping is a serious charge." Catherine spoke softly. "Yet Kent is completely free."

  "Free, but not undamaged, if I know my brother," Colin said. "I'll be waiting to hear what you finally do to him, Patrick."

  "Well, I came by to tell you that it's time to bring Limerick out," Mick told Patrick. "Timmy's ready and the track steward is waiting."

  Patrick opened the stall door and stepped out and into his brother's embrace. "Take care, Colin, and good fortune."

  "The same to you."

  Colin touched his hat in Catherine's direction and left.

  "After all those years of hating him, it's a relief to find out I was wrong," Patrick said softly. "No matter what I've lost, I've got my brother back." He went back to tighten the girth one more time. "Ready?" He looked at Catherine. "It's time."

  * * *

  THE SUN DAZZLED off the mahogany coat of King's Quest as he moved toward the starting gate. Only a few steps behind, Limerick's steel gray coat seemed to absorb the light, pooling it in the dapples of his skin. King's Quest danced sideways, eager, ready for the run. Limerick looked at the gate, his ears forward and alert, his step hesitant.

  Beside her, Catherine felt Patrick tense. "Limerick," he whispered, and his hands clutched the rail. Looking down the seats of laughing, gesturing spectators, Catherine saw Kent Ridgeway grin. If Limerick balked at the gate, then King's Quest stood a chance of winning.

  After an initial refusal, Limerick finally walked into the chute. The back gate closed behind him, trapping him inside until the front gate opened to release the horses.

  Up on top of Limerick, Timmy looked around once. Clutching his bat in his right hand, he settled as close to the saddle as possible. When the gate sprang open, Catherine felt her heart stop.

  The bay leapt from the gate, striding out with tremendous force. Catherine felt Patrick grab her hand as Limerick broke out, only a second behind the bay.

  The crowd cheered, nearly drowning out the announcer who followed the horses through the first turn and the backstretch. They were neck and neck.

  "He's limping." Patrick leaned forward, his grip on Catherine's fingers nearly crushing the bone. "Pull him up, Timmy! He's limping!" Patrick's yell was swallowed by the crowd.

  Catherine focused on the gray. She watched him stretch and gather, stretch and gather. There seemed to be no hitch in his movement, no soreness or hesitation. But if Patrick saw a limp, she knew it was there. She kept looking.

  As the horses rounded the final turn and moved into the homestretch, she saw what she'd been missing. It was a movement so slight that no one but Patrick would have noticed it. Up top, Timmy would certainly feel it. She saw the moment the jockey realized his mount was sore. Sitting back, Timmy pulled on the reins.

  A roar went through the crowd as they realized the jockey was trying to halt the big gray horse.

  Timmy pulled with all of his strength, and Limerick stretched his neck longer and continued to run.

  The horses were neck and neck, a dark shadow and a silver streak, moving at blazing speed along the homestretch.

  "Pull back!" Patrick called to the jockey, but there wasn't a prayer that Timmy would hear— or could obey. It was obvious that the gray stallion had made up his mind to run, and Timmy didn't have the strength to pull him down.

  With only a hundred yards to go, Timmy gave up battling Limerick. He leaned farther down the horse's neck. His hands braced the big gray and Limerick lengthened his stride by another two inches. Hooves digging into the loam of the track, he pulled forward. Stride by stride, he moved ahead of the bay.

  All around her Catherine heard the roar of the crowd. Her hand was numb in Patrick's grip. As Limerick flew beneath the finish line, half a length ahead of King's Quest, she allowed herself one fleeting look of victory at Kent Ridgeway. To her satisfaction, he refused to even meet her glance.

  "Patrick!" But she had no time to talk. Still holding her hand, he was dragging her through the crowd to the winner's circle.

  Hands slapped her back as congratulations were tossed at her. She had no time to listen or respond. Patrick pulled her forward like a train. When they broke free of the crowd, she had to run to stay with him.

  "Patrick!"

  "His shoulder, Catherine. I thought I'd arranged the saddle so that it wouldn't rub." At those words, he moved even faster.

  Instead of a grin of victory, Timmy's face reflected worry as he sat on Limerick while Mick walked the big horse around to cool him. Well-wishers and other trainers were watching, talking, laughing, offering congratulations and asking for information on the big gray.

  "Timmy!" Patrick's voice was sharp with worry.

  "I tried to pull him down," Timmy said. "All along the homestretch I was doing everything I could to stop him. I could feel him— " Aware of the curious onlookers, he stopped. "Limerick was determined to win, Patrick. There was nothing I could do at the last but stay with him."

  Patrick reached up, as if to assist Timmy off the horse. Mick stepped forward, maneuvering between them. "Leave him be, Patrick, the horse isn't damaged!" He put his hand on Patrick's chest. "It's done and no harm, I'd say. Limerick's a bit sore on his shoulder where the saddle was rubbing, but don't call attention to it. Turn around and smile. Let Miss Catherine stand up here beside her horse for the photos." He motioned her forward. "A big smile now. Beltene is a winner today. Limerick has the good sense to recognize it."

  Instead of stepping forward, Catherine withdrew something from the pocket of her jacket.

  "Catherine." Mick held the reins out to her as the photographer stepped forward to snap the picture. "Come on up here. They want a picture of you and your horse." A track attendant stood by with a garland of roses.

  "No." She handed the paper to Patrick. "I might own Beltene, but I'll never own Limerick. I made a vow to myself when we were on the mountain. Limerick is Patrick's horse. Perhaps we can work something out together about breeding services."

  Before Patrick could protest, Catherine put the papers in his left hand and Mick gave him the reins in his right. The flash exploded and Limerick turned to blow hot air in Patrick's ear.

  "Good luck, Patrick." Catherine stepped forward and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "I'll help you any way I can. You know that. If there's any way possible, I want you to consider staying at Beltene as head trainer."

  Patrick signaled Mick over. He took a moment to rub Limerick's head, whispering a few words into the stallion's ear before giving him over to Mick. "I'll be back in a minute." Once again he took Catherine's hand, but this time he led her carefully through the people and back to the stables.

  "I can't accept the horse," he said. "He's yours. You bought him fairly, and without him Beltene will fail."

  "I'll have King's Quest, or at least the use of him. I intend to return him to David Trussell with an agreement for some breedings."

  Patrick grinned. "So, you're giving it all away, everything you've fought so hard to hold."

  "I think I'm doing what's fair. If you'll agree to race Limerick and allow me to buy some breedings from you, then perhaps it won't be as terrible as you think."

  "There is a way you could have me as trainer and the stallion." Patrick's voice was thoughtful. "It would require more than a little sacrifice on your part, though."

  "What?" Catherine waited.

  "You could marry me."

  Catherine stopped dead still. The noise of the crowd faded slowly away. She stared into Patrick's blue eyes and saw the fut
ure. Together they could make Beltene a great horse breeding and racing farm. She might do it alone, but that wasn't what she wanted. She couldn't imagine Beltene without Patrick. No matter where she went, she'd see him in the pastures, in the barn.

  "Catherine?" Patrick held out his hand.

  Ignoring it, she ran the two steps into his arms. "Yes," she agreed. "Yes."

  "I always knew Limerick was a valuable animal. Little did I know he'd get me the woman I wanted from the first day I saw her."

  Catherine pulled back. "You acted as if you hated me," she said.

  "I wanted you, and I knew I'd never stand a chance of having you."

  "Dreams can sometimes come true," she whispered.

  "Ah," Patrick said, "indeed. But we have someone else to thank for all of this."

  Catherine looked down. The sleek black cat stood at her feet. With a quick slap of his front paw he sent a rose scuttling against her left foot. It had fallen from the garland that was now draped around Limerick's neck.

  Patrick's laugh was rich and deep. "Look, he wants to be the first to congratulate us," Patrick said.

  "I do believe we may have to kidnap that cat."

  Patrick shook his head. "No, Peter and Eleanor will be at Beltene to get him Monday. Mick spoke with them. They're headed to Scotland, and they want to take him along."

  "There's no way they'd let us keep him? Even for a few more weeks?"

  "Familiar is a very special cat. I'm afraid he means as much to them as he does to us. It was Familiar who brought Peter and Eleanor together."

  "As well as us," Catherine said. Her green eyes were dancing with mischief. "It was the way you stroked him that made me think you might be human."

  "Wait until tonight. I'll show you exactly how human I can be."

  Catherine laughed as she bent down to pick up the rose. She stroked Familiar's fur. "Perhaps you did put a witch's spell on him— on both of us. You saved our lives, Familiar. And I thank you."

  * * *

  ELEANOR AND PETER should be here in the next ten minutes. I think Patrick got the idea that I'm not going back in that "kitty carrier." Jeez. Even the name is an insult.

  I hear Scotland is the next stop on my travel agenda. Something about Eleanor's relatives. The dame is tall enough to have a little Scottish blood in her. Tall and striking.

  I'm giving fair warning now though, no matter what they say, I'm not eating any of that haggis stuff. Sheep's belly! Whoever heard of such? I do understand that there's some perfectly lovely salmon, and if we're only visiting, I'm certain I won't go into a decline. It's a strange thing, though. I've been having a real attack for the sight of some golden arches. Just a good ol' American burger.

  Here comes Catherine. You know, she even walks a little like a cat. Sort of a slinky, stalking kind of walk. Ah…I see what she's getting ready to pounce on. There's Patrick in the pasture with Limerick. Isn't that sweet? Just the three of them. One big happy family.

  Here comes the car. Hello, Eleanor. Goodbye Ireland. 'Tis a fair and green land filled with fast horses and magic. But this black cat is ready to start the next leg of this journey. Scotland— and then my own Clotilde.

  Shades of Familiar

  by Caroline Burnes

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter One

  So this is the borderland of Scotland. Rolling hills, hardwood forests. Almost as beautiful as my dark-haired Eleanor. The only trouble is that Eleanor is worried. And Peter, too. They've hardly spoken a word since we crossed the Irish Sea, but the sense of impending doom is thick enough to cut with a knife. Even though I have incredibly sharp ears, I could detect only so much from that one frantic phone call Eleanor received from a Mary Muir in Kelso, Scotland, and here we are, flying along these narrow, winding roads at breakneck speed.

  Apparently something is terribly wrong with someone named William MacEachern. He must be important. The dame is fighting back tears, and Peter is driving straight through to Kelso without a wink of sleep or even a decent meal. If only they'd talk, whisper, anything! This pent-up emotion is killing me.

  I've racked my fertile brain, and the best I can remember is some wild talk about a man named MacEachern who was a Scottish warlord. Compared to my ancestors, this Slaytor was a real pussycat. But humans tend to glorify the past. It seems this Slaytor was a master of horses and the broadsword, and he started the family from which my Eleanor, with a few sidetracks, descended. But I've never heard of William MacEachern.

  Hey, there's a castle in the distance. I mean, an honest-to-goodness, storybook, Sleeping Beauty, wicked witch castle. Check out those ramparts, those turrets, those battlements. Not to mention the neat slots for bows and arrows. Ah, but there isn't a moat. Too bad. If we weren't in such a blistering hurry, I'd like to stop and poke around in that old creaky joint. No telling what I might uncover.

  But wait, Peter is taking a turn into the old castle drive. He's driving right up to the open gates and into the courtyard. I hope these people don't have guard dogs. I mean, this place looks like the Hound of the Baskervilles could be hiding around a cold stone corner.

  Check out that door. It must be six inches thick and bound with metal bands. The bell is positively frightening. I'm expecting to see the ghost of E. A. Poe, or possibly a relative of the Ushers. Uh-oh, the door is opening.

  Oh, my, the little lass who's answered the bell is all eyes and elbows. A pretty pixie, a vision of delight. And she's drawing Eleanor and Peter into the house. So this is Mayfair Castle, home of Lord William MacEachern and the source of our sudden departure from Ireland.

  What a lovely woman this Mary Muir is. So delicate and dreamy. Whatever has this William done to frighten her so? Or maybe it's this place. Mayfair Castle is a bit much. Ghosts could literally walk in here and it wouldn't seem out of place. Not a bit. Whatever is troubling her, the poor young woman looks distraught.

  * * *

  "DR. AND MRS. CURRY." Mary looked behind her as if someone might be spying on her, then shook her head. "Forgive me. I'm Mary Muir, William's fiancée. I'm so sorry to have called you here like this."

  "What's wrong with William?" Eleanor stepped forward and took Mary's slender but strong hand. "What's wrong here, Mary?"

  "I wish I knew," Mary said, biting her lip to hold back sudden tears. "I know how much William thinks of you. If you can't help him, I don't know what I'm going to do." Suddenly realizing that they were standing in the foyer, she urged Peter to leave their bags.

  "Come and sit down. Have a glass of port." Impulsively, Mary turned back to Eleanor. "We have to find out what's happening to William." She tried for a smile but failed; her bravado melted. "As incredible as it sounds, I'm beginning to believe Mayfair Castle is haunted." Before Eleanor or Peter could respond, Mary led them down the long, stone corridor where their footsteps echoed all around them.

  By the time they were seated in a large formal parlor, Mary had composed herself. Back erect, she sat in a beautifully carved chair and met Eleanor's direct gaze.

  "This is going to be hard to explain. But first, let me tell you that I love William unconditionally."

  "I love him, too," Eleanor replied. "We don't see each other often now, but we were very close when he was younger. Even when his parents were alive, he was so alone."

  "I know." Mary glanced at Peter and felt warmed by the encouraging smile he gave her. "You see, since we've come here to Mayfair to plan our wedding, William has been…has become…strange."
She tried to swallow the emotion that almost choked her. "And it's getting worse. He's risking life and limb with wild midnight rides, and he's…Well, it's as if he assumes a different personality. A personality for his past."

  "Like a split personality?" Eleanor couldn't believe it. Not William. Not the cousin who'd spent summers at her home, his blue eyes dancing with mischief and fun.

  "Not exactly like that. More like he's been invaded bya…ghost." She hurried on. "A specific ghost. That of Slaytor MacEachern, Lord of the MacEachern clan." Mary felt the tingle of fear that came with speaking her worst fears aloud.

  * * *

  WHAT IS SHE SAYING— a ghost! Here at Mayfair! One that invades her fiancé and forces him to prowl the halls and ride horses at night! This is crazy. But judging from my Eleanor's face, she's taking this very seriously. This beautiful redhead believes her fiancé is possessed by a ghost. And not just any ghost, but the shade of his late, centuries-dead antecedent, one Slaytor MacEachern. I remember the story now. This Slaytor was the horse lord for the Clan MacDonald. A legend, of sorts.

  This is, indeed, a fascinating situation. If any set of circumstances ever called for the unique talents and abilities of one very observant black cat, this is it. Ghosts! Castles! Ancestors haunting the living! Perfect for me. And I'll stay. Just as long as they don't try to make me eat any of those haggis things.

  * * *

  "SURELY YOU CAN HELP him?" Mary Muir pushed a tangle of soft red hair away from her face. "He spoke so highly of you, of the summers you spent together, and I didn't know who else to call." She cast a glance over her shoulder as she stood.

  "He honestly believes he's possessed by a ghost?" Eleanor Curry looked at her husband. Her brown eyes were pinched with worry. When they'd gotten the emergency message to hurry to Kelso to assist William, they'd had no idea of the nature of the emergency. A haunting had never crossed her mind. Now William's bride-to-be was standing before them with a tale that was hard to swallow— and disturbing in a number of ways. For all of her enormous green eyes and gentle manner, Mary didn't seem to be the kind of woman who frightened easily. But was she the kind to imagine a haunting of her betrothed?