An Irish Country Love Story (11 page)

Before O'Reilly could follow up on that cue, she'd changed the subject. “Arthur's having fun. Look.”

The big Lab was running along the edge of a drainage ditch, nose to the ground, tail in the air.

She pointed at a herd of cows grazing in the next field. “What kind are those?”

“Dexters,” he said. “Good for both milk and beef.”

A sudden hoarse craking and clattering of pinions accompanied two teal as they sprang into the air and flew away.

“Pretty wee birds,” O'Reilly said. “Tasty roasted too. Don't let Lars hear me say that, though.”

“As long as you don't expect me to pluck and gut them, I'll cook them for you anytime.” She looked him in the eye. “Aren't the eye patches on the lead bird pretty? I think teal blue would be a very good colour for the dining room.”

So she wasn't going to drop the quest for new curtains. O'Reilly opened a gate standing in the middle of the open field. There was no flanking wall, fence, nor hedge. The gate closed off the bridge over the drainage ditch that flowed between the two fields. “And I think that today we're looking for a lost dog. We're getting close to culverts where he may be hiding.” Cows had wandered over, and he moved closer to Kitty, not wanting her frightened by so many big animals. He needn't have worried.

She clapped her hands, yelling, “Get away to hell out of that,” and they lumbered off. “I'm not a complete city girl,” she said. “Dad used to take us on picnics in farmers' fields in County Wicklow. They call it the garden of Ireland, so green, and Glendalough is stunning. Mum loved Saint Kevin's Monastery.”

O'Reilly sang,

In Glendalough lived an ould saint,

Renowned for learning and piety

His manners were curious and quaint

And he looked upon girls with disparity.

“But I don't. I love you, city girl,” said O'Reilly, closing the gate. He took her hand and together they followed Arthur as he crashed through several clumps of yellow-flowered gorse, scattering their almond scent, and rabbits that scuttled off, white tails bobbing. O'Reilly and Kitty spent most of the time avoiding stepping in steaming piles of fresh cow clap.

He clambered atop a low dry stone wall and held out his hand. “Let me help you.”

Kitty took his hand and he hauled her up. He was going to jump down when Kitty held her free hand above her eyes and said, “Good Lord, whatever's going on over there? And listen to that.”

As they had progressed, O'Reilly had glanced from time to time to the clear area to his right. The pack was spread out across the fields and the three equestrians spaced out across the ground had been following the dogs at a leisurely walk. Things had changed. “Holy Moses,” he said, “I think they've started a fox and the hounds are off in full cry.” The air was rent by the belling of twenty foxhounds now racing along in a much tighter pack close on the heels of a low russet animal tearing diagonally to cross in front of where O'Reilly and Kitty stood.

Myrna could be heard yelling, “Tallyho,” the traditional cry of a hunter who has the fox in view. She was leading, crouched low in the saddle, her horse's hooves pounding on the turf. O'Reilly could hear the animal snorting. “Stay up there, Kitty,” O'Reilly said. “This could get exciting. Usually in a hunt, the huntsman and the whippers-in control the dogs. I can see John. He's trying to get ahead of them to stop them, but Myrna's got her blood up, and … oh Lord, look at Lars.”

“Heaven help the poor man,” Kitty said, then yelled, “Hang on, Lars!”

Lars's mare knew her duty. She might be named for a chemical element, but she was a horse. And she had a rider on her back, and ahead the pack was after a fox. Her job, even if she wasn't thoroughbred, was to join in. The little mare was stretched out in a full gallop, bounding forward, nostrils flaring. Lars clearly neither knew his duty nor was able to carry it out. No yells of “view halloo,” no soaring along in rhythm with his mount. O'Reilly's poor brother was crouched forward on the horse's neck and had both arms wrapped round it. One rein had worked loose from his grasp and was flying free. Fear was in his eyes. And unless checked, he'd tear past within yards of where O'Reilly and Kitty stood, heading straight for trees with low branches.

“Stay put,” O'Reilly said to Kitty, and before she could protest he'd jumped down, taken a few paces, and now stood directly in the horse's path, hoping to God he correctly recalled reading that horses had a pathological aversion to trampling on people. If Ruby was as gentle as Myrna said, surely she'd stop.

He glanced at Kitty, who stood on the wall staring at him, hands clasped in supplication in front of her face. She was silent, apparently understanding that the last thing he needed was to be distracted by cries of “Take care!” or “Look out!”

Horse and rider were so close he could smell the animal's sweat, was almost deafened by the sounds of hooves. As they swept by, he yelled, “Whoa,” grabbed the free rein, and hauled, trying to force the animal's head to the side and down. The stink of the horse's sweat was overpowering. He was jerked off his feet, thought both arms had been yanked from their sockets, avoided the flying nearside front hoof, and to his great relief realised the animal was slowing down.

He was dragged for several yards before the horse stopped, looked down at him with huge, apologetic, liquid brown eyes, tried to shake her head, and made a rubbery sound with her lips.

O'Reilly, feeling bruised, but knowing nothing was broken, got to his feet. He held on to the rein, and gentled the beast. “Easy, Ruby, easy old girl. Easy.”

She nuzzled him as a breathless Lars slipped from the saddle.

“You all right, brother?” Lars gasped.

“I'll live,” O'Reilly said. “How about you?”

“I don't give a damn what Myrna's going to think. I never want to see one of these blasted creatures again. What in the name of the wee man was she playing at, tearing off with the pack after that fox. Someone, and that someone was me, could have been killed.”

“All right, Fingal? Lars?” Kitty had scrambled off the wall and was standing close to O'Reilly. “I thought you were both going to get marmalized. I think, Fingal Flahertie O'Reilly, that you've seen too many Westerns. You are
not
John Wayne.” Her eyes blazed, but O'Reilly knew her anger was that of relief that both men were safe and sound—or in his case relatively sound. He ached in muscles he'd forgotten he had. He was going to be stiff for a few days.

“Come on, Kitty,” he said. “I've had worse boxing or playing rugby.” And, O'Reilly thought, but would not consider voicing, a few bruises were nothing to what might very well have happened to Lars among the trees if the horse hadn't been stopped.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, pet. Honestly. I'm like James Bond's martinis, a bit shaken, but not stirred.”

She laughed, shook her head, and said, “Do you see why I love your buck eejit of a little brother, Lars? He's not quite right in the head.” She pecked his cheek, stepped back, and said, “All right. We're all safe. Now what?”

“Lord knows where John and Myrna have got to, but I'll bet when they get things straightened out they'll come back this way and continue the search. Lars, I seem to remember an adage about immediately remounting if you are thrown—”

“I was not thrown, but I could have been. And I have no intention of getting back on Ruby.”

“Someone has to get the horse back to Ballybucklebo House, and it's not going to be me. I think,” and he looked his brother right in the eye, “it would put your stock up with Myrna if you carry on.” He inclined his head to one side. Something about the way she'd teased Lars about his orchids and calmed his horse for him had set bells ringing for O'Reilly. Could his confirmed bachelor of a big brother have stirred something in Myrna Ferguson?

“Lady Myrna is a force of nature but she's been very good to me.” Lars grinned. He cocked his head, frowned at the now docile animal, and blew out his breath through pursed lips. “All right. Give me the reins.” He stood on the left side of the horse, held the reins in his left hand, and with it grabbed the front of the saddle. “I could use a boost, Fingal.” Lars faced to the animal's rear.

O'Reilly bent, locked his hands into a shallow cup, and said, “Right foot in here.” In a moment O'Reilly had straightened and thrust his hands up. Bruised muscles in his arms protested, but he kept a straight face.

Lars, as if he'd been mounting horses for years, landed in the saddle. “Thank you,” he said. “I'll wait back in that treeless bit and see you both later for lunch. Keep an eye on him, Kitty, and Finn? Thank you for everything.” He bent forward, nudged the horse's flanks with his boots, clicked his tongue, and said, “Walk on.”

O'Reilly watched his brother, swaying rhythmically in the saddle, walk the horse back to the open field where farther ahead the pack, with John and Myrna in the lead, were emerging from the woods.

“I hope,” said Kitty, “the poor old fox got away.” She moved closer to him. “And,” she kissed him soundly, “I hope I never ever have to watch you nearly getting yourself killed. That was a very brave thing you did.”

“Och,” said O'Reilly, always uncomfortable with praise, even if it did come from the woman he loved. “I only did what had to be done.” And, not giving her a chance to continue, said, “We'd better try to catch up with the others. Come on, old girl. Jasper's got to be waiting for us somewhere.”

 

9

Flowing Water Near the House

“Okay. Unless I ring you back, Dapper, to say I can't get away, I'll see you here as soon as you're finished with your client. I've just finished my home visits for the morning.” Barry put the phone down and went into the dining room. “Busy surgery, Nonie?” he asked.

“Pretty routine for a Tuesday,” she said, exhaling cigarette smoke. “Sorry about the cigarette,” she said, waving her hands in the air. “I thought I had time for a quick one. Fingal and Kitty are out and Kinky's busy getting your lunch ready.” She patted the chair next to hers. “Come and sit down. I was starving and Kinky's such a dear she served me first. Her cream of chicken soup was out of this world and she'll do you a heavenly Welsh rarebit.”

“Actually,” Barry said, “it's only twelve so I'm going to skip lunch if you'll do me a favour.”

“For you, Barry? Anything. I'm so glad I have the afternoon off.” Her smile was inviting and there was a hint of huskiness in her voice.

Being used to Sue, who was sparing with her makeup, Barry thought Nonie'd been a bit enthusiastic with the eye shadow. He had belonged to the Queen's University Film Appreciation Society. Pictures of movie vamps like Theda Bara, Pola Negri, and Rita Hayworth flashed into his mind. He cleared his throat. “That's great,” he said, keeping his voice light, “because I need you to cover for emergencies, just for an hour.”

“Oh, dear. How thoroughly boring,” she said, and crushed out her cigarette in a convenient ashtray. “Fingal's out on some silly search for a dog—”

“Come on, Nonie. Not just a dog. Jasper's a much-loved pet.”

She shrugged. “I like dogs as well as the next girl. Arthur and I are old chums, but really, this search seems like a waste of time to me, but each to his own. I just thought, since the boss and Kitty aren't here and Kinky's going shopping once she's given you your lunch, that we could have some fun together.” She exhaled with a grunt. “Oh, never mind,” she said. “Yes, of course I'll cover for you for an hour. But I don't particularly want to sit in here or in the surgery and I only go upstairs when I'm invited. Could I wait in your quarters? They're much more comfortable than my little room in the attic. Sometimes I feel like the poor cousin up there.”

“Sure,” Barry had blurted out before the possible consequences dawned on him. He'd be coming home to a house deserted by everyone—everyone but a single, very attractive young woman who would be waiting in the privacy of his rooms.

She lifted one eyebrow, pushed her chair back, uncrossed her legs with a rustling of nylon, and walked past Barry. As she did she let one hand brush against his shoulder. “Thanks, Barry. Are you sure you have to go out?”

Barry swallowed. He felt the hairs on the nape of his neck tingle. Damn it all. Behave. You'll be seeing Sue in February. He was struggling for a reply to her last remark when the front doorbell rang. “I do,” he said, following her through the door, “and I'd appreciate it if you don't smoke in my place.”

“Of course I wouldn't.” She managed to look hurt. “Have a good time.”

“Thanks.” Barry grabbed his cap and coat from the coatstand. He met Kinky, who was trotting along from the kitchen to answer the door. “It's all right, Kinky. It's for me, and I'm sorry, but I can't stay for lunch.”

As he opened the door to Dapper Frew, he heard her tutting behind him. “It does not be a good thing for a young man to miss his meals, so.”

“How's about ye, Doc?” Dapper asked, leading the way to his new Mark II Ford Cortina.

“Grand, and yourself?” said Barry, who was having a distinctly saved-by-the-bell feeling with Dapper's timely arrival.

“Grand altogether. Now, let's get in quick,” Dapper said, holding the passenger door for Barry. “The road's narrow here and I'm holding up the traffic.”

“Right,” said Barry.

As the estate agent nipped round the car, Barry frowned. Nonie Stevenson might be a first-class physician and appreciated by many of the women patients, but he was seeing some traits that he could not find appealing. Smoking? The profession had known about the link between tobacco and lung cancer for years. He had to admit she was a damned sexy woman, but he couldn't quite understand her.