Kate lifted Jigger's slender figure with an affectionate squeeze. He was a sweetly handsome little boy, smaller than average for his years, with a tumble of blonde hair framing a pixie-like face.
His green eyes sparkled with a remarkably beautiful starburst pattern, and Yvette had once explained she'd known something was different about her son as soon as she'd seen them. At the age of two he'd been diagnosed with Williams Syndrome. The rare genetic disorder caused a range of disabilities, but they were often combined with unusual cognitive and verbal strengths.
Unique to this particular condition was an indiscriminately loving, empathic personality—a trait both endearing and worrisome. Jigger was as likely to offer a hug to a stranger as a friend, and this was an endless source of anxiety for his mother.
A deep affinity and aptitude for music was also common in Williams Syndrome children. With an arm around the boy's shoulders, Kate noted the string hanging loose from his guitar's tuning peg and the jumbled circle of wire lying on the porch floor.
"What's happening here, Jigs?"
"I broke a string," he said with a pensive frown. "The new string is all tangled up there. I made a complete mess of it. It was foolish of me, Kate. My hands don't work like that. I should have known."
Kate gave his cheek a friendly pinch. "Well, let's see what we can do."
They sat down together on the floor and Kate tackled the snarl of wire as Jigger described the demise of the string, including the song he'd been playing and the surprisingly loud noise as it sprang free. While listening to this intricate narrative she heard a movement behind them, and turned to see Conor coming out on the porch carrying a gallon container of murky brown liquid.
"Conor!" Again, Jigger leaped to his feet. Conor had just enough time to set the bottle down before the tow-headed bundle of love sailed into his arms.
"Oof—easy there, Jigger. Sure you'll knock the stuffing out of me one day." He rubbed a hand over the boy's tousled hair and winked at Kate. "I was told my services are required."
"I broke a string." Jigger trumpeted the news, his face buried against Conor's shirt. "Playing that song you taught me."
Kate held up the string. "Situation desperate. You're just in time. Is that teat dip? I thought we had cases of the stuff."
"Enough for two hundred cows, but sadly every bottle expired in January. I'm ashamed to say it took me nearly a month to discover. I ordered a new case."
"Good Lord. Jared didn't mention anything?"
"Not to me."
Conor dropped his gaze and Kate again wondered what on earth had happened between the two men. She'd offered to continue Jared's part-time arrangement, knowing his family could use the money, but after only a few days he'd phoned to say he wouldn't be back. In his slow, self-conscious manner he said he was needed at home but would be happy to help again "when the new fellow runs off on you like the others did." She'd been upset, worried about Conor having no one to orient him to the work, but he'd received the news with obvious relief and hadn't needed much orientation, anyway.
"Are you going to fix my guitar?" Jigger dragged him by the arm toward Kate.
"No, I'm going to show you how to fix it." Conor settled cross-legged on the porch, playfully pulling Jigger down with him. He accepted the string from Kate and glanced curiously at her new mop. "You walked all the way down here for that?"
"Easier when it's not pouring rain."
"Och, now that's a dirty dig." He laughed. "I'll run you back in the truck if you like."
"Sure. I can wait."
Kate rested against the railing and watched as he patiently helped Jigger with the guitar. When they'd finished the boy played a few chords, admiring their work. "What about your fiddle, Conor? You promised to bring it here. You said we would play together."
"Right, so. I did say that, didn't I?" Conor absently ran a thumb under his jaw. "Well, we've got the guitar for today, anyway. Have another go at the number I taught you last week."
"I've been wondering about your fiddle myself," Kate said later, when they were in the truck and headed back up the road. "Are you going to play us a tune sometime?"
"Ah, well." Conor stared ahead at the road.
"Maybe it would help," Kate ventured, darting a look at him. She thought he wouldn't reply, but after several seconds he looked at her and smiled.
"Maybe it would."
They arrived back at the inn and pulled up next to a black Chevy Suburban in the parking area.
"I can't imagine who that is." Kate looked from the car to the front porch, where two men in dark suits had appeared, badges clipped at their belts. Abigail was right behind, looking dangerously close to detonation.
"I think I can," Conor muttered. Switching off the ignition he rolled out of the truck and they walked together to the porch.
"Afternoon ma'am, sir. Special Agents Foster and Houseman." The taller of the two indicated himself and the man next to him with a twirl of his thumb. "We're from the ICE Office of Investigations. Are you Kate Fitzpatrick?"
"Yes." Kate frowned in confusion. "Ice?"
"Immigration and Customs Enforcement," the agent clarified. He looked at Conor. "And is this Conor McBride?"
"You don't have to answer," Abigail roared. "People have rights in this country. You don't need to say anything without a lawyer."
"Steady on, Abigail. It's okay." Conor nodded. "I'm Conor McBride."
The agent was already shifting his flat gaze back to Kate. "Mrs. Fitzpatrick, we had a call to the tip line in Williston indicating you've employed an undocumented Irish laborer for your farm."
"An undocumented Irish laborer." Conor gave a low whistle. "That has a menacing 'croppies lie down' sort of ring to it."
"But, he isn't even getting—"
"Kate."
Conor put a hand on her arm and she realized the mistake she'd almost made. Announcing that he wasn't on the payroll wouldn't help the situation. Exasperated, Kate clamped her mouth shut. She'd never thought to ask about his immigration status. Why had it occurred to someone else? Agent Foster began again in a lecturing tone.
"Mrs. Fitzpatrick, I'm sure you're aware employers who hire undocumented workers face serious penalties—"
"Before you go on trying to frighten her, you might want to check that I'm actually undocumented."
The authority and cold stillness in Conor's voice captured everyone's attention. The two agents glanced at each other and Agent Houseman spoke for the first time.
"Mr. McBride, are you inferring you are in possession of a valid H-1 or H-2 class work visa? There's no such evidence from my research."
"Nor would there be, but did you try typing 'green card' into your database? Do you want to head back to Williston and do that now, or shall I go collect it for you?"
Agent Foster seemed forcibly to resist an urge to look at his partner again. "Sir, if you could produce a permanent residence visa for us we'd appreciate it."
Conor took the stairs in two steps, stopping as he reached the front door. He skewered the men with an incredulous stare. "You're going to let me wander out of sight, now? Have you ever done this before, for fuck's sake?"
"Houseman." Agent Foster jerked his head and the shorter man jumped to follow Conor.
Abigail came down from the porch and sidled over to Kate, speaking in a stage whisper from the corner of her mouth. "Seems like he's got this under control."
Kate almost laughed. "You think? My God, they'll be saluting him before it's done. Did you know he had a green card?"
Abigail shook her head. "I'd have bet money he didn't even have a birth certificate."
Agent Houseman re-appeared first. Nodding curtly, he trotted down the steps and presented the card while Conor followed more slowly, his face blank. He avoided looking at either Kate or Abigail.
"Thank you, Mr. McBride." Agent Foster handed the card back to him. "We'll run a background check just to cover the bases. I assume you don't mind?"
"Would it matter if I did
?"
A flicker of interest passed over the agent's face but he left it alone, and catching the eye of his partner signaled their departure with a polite nod.
The three of them stood like mute sentinels, watching the Suburban reverse out of the parking area and coast down the driveway. Conor was first to break their motionless stupor as the car disappeared down the dirt road.
"Like a foot on the neck," he said cryptically.
Kate pivoted on her heel and headed for the house. "I'm having a drink. It's five o'clock somewhere."
6
It was a desultory scene. Kate played bartender, standing behind the mahogany bar in the corner of the dining room while her 'customers' sat on barstools in front of her. She mixed a gin and tonic for Abigail. For herself and Conor, she poured generous measures of whiskey into crystal glasses and slid one over to him. He dipped his head and accepted the drink, refusing to meet her gaze.
"I'm sorry you had to go through that." Kate put her untouched drink on the bar. "I'm the one to blame for this. I probably needed to register you or file a paper with someone."
Conor rolled the glass between his hands. "Of course you’re not to blame. I am. I'm a bloody fool for not realizing this would happen. Instead of helping I put you in an impossible position."
Abnormally quiet until this point, Abigail snorted. "Listen to the two of you, thrashing yourselves. Personally, I'd like a crack at the busybody who stuck his nose where it didn't belong and called Williston. That's whose fault this is and I've a mind to go tell him so."
"Jesus, don't." Conor looked up sharply at Abigail and she gave a mollifying grimace.
"Oh, I won't do it. Just blowing off steam."
"You're saying you know who called them?" Kate saw a glance pass between them. "Both of you do?"
"Well, we can guess," Abigail said. "Can't you, for God's sake? Jared Percy. He had the most obvious motive."
"Jared Percy?" Kate gaped at her. "What motive? I wanted to keep him on, I told him so. Conor wasn't taking anything away from him."
"I'm betting Jared thought he'd taken something."
Seeing the gimlet gleam in Abigail's eyes, Kate felt a flush spread over her face. "You can't be serious. He must be ten years younger than me."
"He's twenty-two." A wicked grin dimpled Abigail's cheeks.
"Okay, seven years." Mortified, Kate glowered at her and peeked at Conor. "Anyway, you're right. Neither of us is to blame. We didn't do anything wrong."
Conor studied his glass, looking as though he wanted to dive inside and disappear. "Unfortunately, that's not true." He drained his whiskey and set it down. "I've got to go over for the second milking but I'll be back in an hour. I need to talk with you, Kate."
"Are you going to leave?" She hated herself for asking the question, and for the plaintive note in her voice. Conor's brow contracted. He set the barstool neatly in place and stood with his hands gripping its sides.
"That will be up to you, I think. Before long those agents will finish their background check and they'll want to tell you what they found. I've got a criminal record, Kate. Not a very exciting one, for all the grief it's caused, but it's there in black and white for anyone to check."
It was closer to two hours before he got back to the house. After turning the cows into the pasture for the evening Conor walked a few miles up the dirt road, thinking there was something vaguely comedic about the situation if he could get up the energy to laugh. His new life hadn't lasted thirty days before being compromised by a jealous suitor with more imagination than he would have believed. As if he'd needed it, the fiasco was another reminder: he was an amateur at this game and he'd elected to play it on his own.
After being discharged from the hospital and before his brief trip back to Ireland, he'd collected the green card and passports promised to him but had rebuffed any further assistance. In retrospect it might have been wiser to accept, and if he'd had greater faith in the capabilities of those offering help maybe he would have considered it more seriously.
Conor retraced his steps back to the inn, dreading the approaching encounter with Kate. In the kitchen, Abigail had left a covered plate on the counter along with a note giving instructions for re-heating the meal. A line scrawled at the bottom read: Don't do something stupid. You belong here.
He put the plate in the refrigerator and went upstairs to Kate's apartment, where he found her sitting in the living room facing the window. The bottle of whiskey and two fresh glasses had migrated from the bar to her coffee table. She saw his reflection and looked back over her shoulder.
"I was beginning to think you'd already left."
"I'm sorry. I went for a walk." Conor eyed the immaculate wheat-colored carpet and wiped his forehead, realizing how dirty and sweaty he was. "I'll just clean up a bit. I won't be long."
When he returned, his anxiety was tempered by inquisitive interest. Although he passed the living room every day he'd never ventured inside. The handsome space was lit by artfully arranged lighting, and its pale yellow walls glowed in the deepening twilight. Although the carpeting provided a muffled ambiance,
the overall design seemed more formal than he would have expected. Everything was tasteful and complementary, but too pristine and strangely inexpressive of what he knew of Kate's personality.
"This is a gorgeous room." He paused in front of the large window framing the lake in the distance.
"Thanks. Anna designed it—my latest stepmother." Kate glanced around the room. "Actually, her interior decorator did. She wanted to help. I had to let her do something but I didn't anticipate the consequences. I feel like I'm visiting someone else's house when I sit in here."
"I know what you mean. Maybe this will take the edge off." Conor splashed some whiskey into one of the glasses, and with the bottle poised over the second looked at Kate. She nodded. "A Jameson's drinker." He poured and handed her the glass with a smile. "I don't think I would have guessed that."
"Well, there's always more to learn about someone."
"Touché."
He sat in one of the two leather club chairs anchoring either side of the couch, considering how to begin. As he'd completed the walk back to the inn Conor had begun piecing together a story—something to spin the facts into a benign tidy package and seal off further avenues of inquiry. The strategy involved a fair amount of dissembling. Looking at Kate's solemn face as she sipped her drink, he couldn't do it. His appetite for pretense had never been strong, and grew weaker the longer he remained anywhere near her. Without any backup plan he started talking, praying he'd know when to stop.
“The trick is knowing when to stop," he blurted aloud, and after a stab of panic realized he'd begun a more authentic story than the tale practiced earlier. "With the drink, I mean. That's where my brother got into trouble, after I'd left for Dublin. Our father had been dead for years, and our mother . . .”
An image of Brigid McBride rose in Conor's mind and pain bloomed in his chest like the kinetic flare of a match. "She was a rare one, a sort of half-pagan, half-Catholic mystic. A lot of the time she seemed to be living on the threshold of some other place. She was easy to love but not always easy to live with, and I never realized how lonely it was for Thomas until I got a taste myself. Not hard to end up spending your evenings with a bottle when you've nothing better to do. I was lucky I had the fiddle." Conor took a sip from the glass and shot Kate an apologetic glance. "Sorry. Getting off to a slow start, here. I'll come to the point, eventually."
She nodded, drawing her feet up to the couch and tucking them beneath her. He waited until she'd settled again before resuming.
"Thomas hired two farming assistants. From Northern Ireland. He started getting drunk with them on a regular basis, and they went to work on him. They connected him with someone they said had a scheme for building Irish pubs in places that didn't have them—Asia, Africa. They said this fellow wanted partners who could come up with capital. Thomas got seduced by it all, the idea of having a different kind
of life in some exotic country. He was an easy mark. One night they got him completely fucking scuttered and he signed off on papers for a business loan."
Conor still remembered his own incredulous anger at first hearing this tale—a textbook scam, and one that had a nasty twist buried inside.
"At least, they told him it was a loan," he continued bitterly. "Turns out he'd submitted an application to the European Union for an agricultural grant with barely a word of truth in the bloody thing. The EU made the award, but pretty soon they twigged the farm didn't have nine hundred head of cattle and didn't have sheep at all. They filed a warrant with Interpol, and the Garda—that's the Irish police force— went to arrest him, but when they got to the farm Thomas had disappeared. So, they came looking for me."
"I don't understand." Kate frowned.
"I was co-owner, and I'd signed the application forms as well." Conor put his unfinished glass down, sliding it across the coffee table. "I didn't even read them. They came in the post with a typed note telling me to sign and send them on to an address in Tralee. I saw it was to do with the farm, so therefore I didn't give a shit, and I always did what my big brother wanted. A few months later the Garda took me out of my flat in handcuffs and I got convicted for conspiring to defraud the EU. That ended my days in Dublin, and my career with the National Symphony Orchestra."
"You went to prison?" Kate had shifted to the end of the sofa near Conor. Uncomfortably near.
"I went back to the farm, which seemed like prison right enough, at first." Conor sat farther back in his own chair, seeking respite from her clear-eyed attention. "My solicitor made a deal for repaying the money in installments, and the farm was the only way I could earn enough. The debt's been paid—I had help in the end—but the record stands for anyone who wants to look for it."
"Did you ever see Thomas again?"
Kate's question was a natural one, but Conor wished she hadn't asked. It took the story in a direction he couldn't allow. Before he could form an answer she made it more complicated.
The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3 Page 39