Fear Familiar Bundle (66 page)

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.

"I came to make sure you were resting that foot," Patrick said, stepping into the kitchen and moving on into the sitting room. Mick was before the fire, a glass at his hand with an inch of amber liquid. "I was thinking about that hellion Flint."

"Ah, Flint. I think about him a lot," Mick said. "I'm getting to be an old man, dwelling in the past. But you could sit that devil like you were hooked to his spine."

Patrick smiled and took a seat in another cane-bottom chair in front of the fire. "He was a fine animal." He sighed. "Limerick reminds me a great deal of Flint. There's the same heart there, the same willingness to give everything if he's only asked properly. We have to get him back here…whether we want to or not."

"It broke your father's heart to sell Flint to the Kimballs."

"It broke mine, as well," Patrick said. He didn't like to think of what had happened to Flint. An overeager owner and a bad trainer had conspired to push him too hard and too fast.

"If your da' had had the funds to campaign him…"

"If we'd had a bit more money it would be a different story to tell now." Patrick's voice was laced with bitterness. "If Colin had only decided to get himself killed in a simple fashion instead of making a martyr of himself, then the family wouldn't have come to such a pass."

Mick picked up a bottle from beside his chair. There was a clean glass beside his own and he poured a measure of whiskey into it and handed it to Patrick.

"I see you were expecting a guest," Patrick said, forcing himself to beat back the anger and frustration that came whenever he thought of his older brother.

"I knew you'd be along. There's too much to discuss." They sipped the liquor in companionable silence for a moment.

"How's the foot?" Patrick asked.

"No better or no worse. I didn't want to be around the barn today. I have no use for Catherine Nelson, none in the least, but I find it hard to watch her twist in the wind. Did she call the police?"

"No."

The two men shared a look as the fire danced in front of them.

"Why not? The horse is the best asset she has."

Patrick sighed, staring into the flames as if they would burn the truth out of him. "She's afraid to put pressure on the people who took him. I recalled the story of Speedo to her. She wants Limerick back, alive. She's willing to pay as much as she can without having to go to her father."

"She said so?" Mick sat forward.

"In so many words."

"If she was so damn fond of the horse why wouldn't she give him time to heal his knee? Why pay money for something that you ruin because you don't have another few days?"

"You'll have to take that question to someone who has two coins to rub together. Since I can't afford to buy anything, I can't speak to the matter of ruining it." Patrick got up and paced before the fire. "I don't think she knows any better. She's got that fool Ridgeway chattering in her ear, telling her how I mollycoddle the horses, and she's too ignorant to understand how delicate a horse can be."

Mick nodded. "She's green. And a bit spoiled. That's a dangerous combination. How much ransom do you think she'll pay?" Mick looked at the fire as he asked the question.

Patrick paced faster. "I believe she'd give her last penny." Patrick turned to face the older man. "Damn her! She thinks she can buy his safety. Money isn't the answer to everything, except if you don't have any."

"It's a quandary, Patrick, my lad. But if she's willing to pay a ransom, then she'll be busy putting it together. That would give the kidnappers a chance to find a really secure hiding place for the horse. How long, do you think, before she takes it to the police?"

Patrick stopped pacing. He returned to his seat, rubbing the bridge of his nose. A fierce headache was forming between his eyes. "That depends on how much influence that ass Ridgeway has on her. If she believes Limerick's safe, then I believe she'll want time to raise the ransom. I can promise you one thing, Mick, when she gets ready to go after the culprits, she's going to hit with everything she has. I get the feeling she's not the kind of woman who stops in midstream."

"Aye, she's not a quitter, no matter what else you can say about her." Mick gave Patrick an appraising look. "It's a pity for a woman with her face to have such a temperament. She reminds me of that chestnut filly your father bought at auction."

"Crimson Flyer." Patrick remembered the horse well. He smiled. "She was a challenge, but when she was finally broken, she was a pleasure to ride."

"Perhaps Miss Nelson will prove to be a pleasure, but I pity the man who's sent up to break her to the saddle."

Patrick couldn't help but laugh. That was one thing about Mick— he was bawdy enough to chase away the blues, at least for a limited time.

"What are you going to do about Limerick?" Mick asked.

"What can I do?" Patrick answered. "It's a waiting game."

"And the grooms? How are they taking it?"

"They all think I took him, and a few are spoiling to see me take the blame."

"Don't worry about Jack. It's a shame he caught me, but he didn't know for certain it was you, and he won't rat on an old man like me. McShane is another matter. You should have fired him when you had the chance. He's a worthless layabout."

"You're right on that count, but there's no undoing the past."

Mick looked out the window. "It's time to feed the foals." He pulled his feet under him and prepared to rise.

Patrick stood and put a hand on the older man's shoulder. "Take a rest, Mick. I'll feed the little ones for you. I can tell it's going to be a long, long night and I'd just as soon have plenty to do. You'll see to it that Limerick is fed? I can't leave the grounds. I'm sure they'll have me followed."

"I'll see to Limerick. In a week we can sneak him back to the stables just as easily as we took him. His leg will be healed and he'll be fit to run for the Queen's jewels if that's what Catherine Nelson wants."

"I couldn't stand by and see him ruined. Like Flint. I just couldn't." Patrick's hands were clenched at his side. "Even if I hang for horse theft, I couldn't allow that to happen."

"It'll take her at least a week to raise the ransom. We'll send another note and keep her stirred to the point of boiling. When Limerick is back safely, she'll forget soon enough about who took him."

Patrick arched an eyebrow. "I hope you're right about that, old friend, but I'm not so certain. Especially not if she suspects that I had anything to do with it."

C
ATHERINE PUSHED
the books away from her and flopped back in her chair. Her shoulders were knotted and throbbing from tension. She'd been able to pull together twenty thousand pounds, without her father noticing the drain on her personal and the farm accounts. That was it, though, and she knew it wouldn't be enough to ransom a horse as valuable as Limerick.

The first time she'd seen the horse, she'd recognized his potential. Not because of his conformation or bloodlines. She'd seen it in his eyes, in the way he carried himself. She'd known he was a winner, even if she didn't know all the ways she'd known. Now he was gone.

She got up and wandered to the window. She couldn't see the barn, but she could see the pastures where two young colts were rearing and charging each other in a game of tag. This was everything she'd ever wanted, but it wasn't happening the way she'd dreamed.

The day was ending, and she had no idea where Limerick might be, or what was happening to him. She tried to keep her mind away from gruesome thoughts, but she couldn't help herself. As she watched the colts frolic, her eyes sought Patrick. Even when she realized that she was consciously thinking about the head trainer, she didn't stop herself. It did no good. It was better to admit that the man was constantly in her thoughts. It occurred to her that it was the very fact that he had no use for her that made her want to prove herself to him. She wasn't a born-to-the-saddle horseman, like he was. But she loved the animals and the sport. Why couldn't he give her a chance to show that she was a capable businesswoman and farm manager?

As she watched the light begin to fade from the sky, she felt a pang of regret. She had come to Beltene with the attitude that she was going to show everyone who worked there who was boss. That was how things were done in the business world. When a company was bought out or merged, there was the total assertion of power by the winning side. The vanquished had to understand the power of the conquerors. It was a system as long and brutal as the history of humanity. And the Irish knew it well.

At that thought she felt a flush of color rush up her neck and into her face. She'd made a mistake. She should have come in with kid gloves instead of brass knuckles. Now she had to figure out a way to rectify it. As she'd sat in her office trying to find ransom money for Limerick, it had occurred to her that the only people who really cared if Limerick was returned safely or not were the men who worked for her. To them, Limerick was more than an investment. He was a horse, a living creature valued above all others. A vision of the future.

He was also Patrick's horse.

As if she'd called him up, Patrick came across the field into her line of vision. She couldn't see him clearly, but she knew his walk, the way he carried himself, and she felt a simple surge of pleasure at the thought of him.

"Enchanted sea horses, indeed," she said aloud, remembering the legend Patrick had told her. "It would seem that Limerick has been spirited away by the fairies. Or that's what some people would have me believe."

The tire treads troubled her enormously. They seemed incontrovertible proof that Patrick was involved in Limerick's disappearance. Would he be so stupid as to use his own vehicle to steal a horse? Patrick was not a stupid man.

But he was a daring man. It was possible that he'd enjoy the idea of flaunting his theft in her face. He knew better than anyone else how much Beltene depended on Limerick. He was the heart of the farm, the future of it. Without him, Beltene would fade into oblivion.

She pushed aside the draperies to get a better view out the window. Patrick had stopped beside one of the two colts that had been playing earlier. He seemed frozen, but Catherine knew there was some communication going on between man and horse. In a few seconds, the colt walked up to him and nuzzled his chest.

The man had a way with horses. And he also had a very unsettling effect on her.

The large manila envelope was padded, the address typewritten on a plain postal label with local postage from Galway. Thinking of fingerprints, Catherine held it gingerly as she slit it open with a letter opener. It was no surprise to see the videotape. She'd been expecting it all along. She was torn with relief and fury. Relief that Limerick was still alive; fury that someone had taken him and reduced her to a position where she was totally powerless to protect the stallion.

She could hear Mauve rumbling about the dining room, checking dishes and setting the table for lunch. The rest of the house staff were busy upstairs. The den was free and Catherine took the tape and went there to plug it into the VCR. Until she'd determined a course of action, she wanted to keep the tape a secret.

In the sixty-second shot of Limerick, she saw three things. The horse was still in Ireland, and somewhere along the western coast. The slope of the land, the stones and fences, the vegetation— it all smacked of the Connemara region. Of course, she wasn't an expert. She noted the old wooden structure in the background. Was Limerick safe? Were there things he could injure himself on? In the video he pranced and shook his head, and there was the brief glimpse of a man's hand reaching out toward him— and the horse extending his nose toward the hand. Then it ended.

Catherine rewound the tape and played it through three times more before she froze the video on different frames. The camera angle didn't allow for her to see much of the background. The camcorder had been held from high up and aimed toward the horse and ground, as if the cameraman deliberately wanted to limit the horizon view. It would also indicate that the cameraman was standing on top of a vehicle or a rock or steps of some kind to get such a high angle.