Fear Familiar Bundle (67 page)

When she got to the shot of the hand, she stopped. It was a large hand, a man's hand. That was no surprise. The tip of a sleeve was evident— nondescript jacket, no jewelry. It was a left hand, and the man did not wear a watch. That was something to think about.

The hand also looked rough, callused, an outdoor hand. But the nails were clean. She rewound the tape again and clicked off the VCR. So Limerick was alive and in good health. That was the message the horsenappers wanted to send to her. That meant she had more time to put money together in preparation for their demands. Strangely enough, there was no demand attached to the tape.

At that thought she felt a stab of apprehension. How much would they demand? The letter, the video, that was all preparation. A few days of torment and worry, then the ransom note when she was at the peak of her anxiety. These were very sophisticated horsenappers. They'd studied their subject and knew well how to manipulate her.

With the tape in hand she returned to her office. She locked the video in her desk drawer and got out the figures she'd compiled. It was slow work, but she'd managed to eke out twenty-three thousand pounds for ransom. It had taken all of her personal savings and the retirement she'd earned. Everything she could cash in or convert had been included. Would it be enough? It all depended on who had Limerick.

The dark-haired Irish trainer materialized in her mind. If Patrick had the horse…At the thought, she got up and went to the window. In the last day she'd gotten into the bad habit of walking to the window and looking out, hoping to see him in the fields or riding along the road. He used to work Limerick up and down the roadways, over fences and around the county. It was a practice that appalled most racing trainers. But the Shaws had used alternative training to great effect. In fact, Limerick had even been put to the plow, pulling large stones out of the pastures. He'd developed a broad and strong chest because of it, too. As had Patrick.

Once again Catherine found her mind drifting to the absurd. Patrick Shaw was not a figure to dwell on.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the phone, and she picked it up to hear Kent's voice.

"Have you determined to take this matter to the police?" he asked.

There was a tightness in his voice that immediately made Catherine balk. She was tired of people, particularly men, trying to push her around.

"I'm still considering my options." Her voice was equally tense.

"You're being pigheaded, and I can't understand why." Kent backed off. There was a degree of amusement in his tone. "Is it Shaw? Are you feeling sorry for the chap, what with the fact you've bought his farm, cleared his debts, left him with a line of credit and given him a cushy job? Is that why you're sympathizing with him?"

"Your sarcasm goes unappreciated." She didn't want to get into a row with him. Not now. Not when she was feeling so uncertain about her decisions.

"If you don't report the theft, the insurance isn't valid. I checked it out. You have a reasonable time frame, but you're tampering with a total loss if you don't take the proper steps."

"Thank you, Kent. I appreciate your efforts." She forced her voice to sound sincere. He had only her best interest at heart. The least she could do was show a little graciousness.

"I thought I'd drop back on Sunday with the van and pick up those two-year-olds. There were six, correct?"

Catherine hesitated. Patrick's rage at the thought of Ridgeway touching those horses came back to her. It wasn't necessarily ego with him. He was concerned about the horses.

"Catherine?"

"Kent, I'm not certain I can afford your services. If Limerick is gone, that well may be the end of my racing career." She wasn't exaggerating her plight. She'd gambled on Limerick.

"I'll give you a line of credit, darling." Kent chuckled. "And there are other methods of payment."

"Kent!"

"Just teasing. Listen, I know your father's good for the bill. Harold Nelson may not like the decisions you've made, but he won't let his name be ruined for a bad debt."

Catherine sighed. "You're right about that. Of course I'd never hear the end of it."

"What about it? Shall I bring the van?"

"No." Catherine didn't know why she was refusing such a generous offer. Nine months ago, when she was still negotiating for Beltene, she'd determined to send the six animals to Wicklow for training. Now it didn't seem like a good idea.

"Is something wrong?"

"Of course not. It's just that I won't be put in a position where I can't pay my bills. It won't hurt to wait a week. By then I should have Limerick back."

"Catherine— " Kent broke off. "Well, shall I come up Sunday?"

"That would be delightful." Catherine tried to sound enthusiastic. "It would be good to have you to discuss things with."

"My advice is don't pay any ransom. Your father would agree with me, but I know you well enough to know you'll pay whatever you have. You haven't come to realize what it's like not to have money, how desperate these people may be. Even if they get the money, they might not let Limerick go."

"I intend to pay the ransom, if I'm given the chance, and I can only pray that I'm given the chance." Catherine shivered. She only wanted to get Limerick back safely.

"I'll ring off now and see you Sunday. I know you don't want to fire Shaw, but I think you should. If you'd like, I can tell him for you."

"Thank you, Kent, but I can manage my employees myself. If and when I decide to fire anyone, I can do it in person."

"It was just an offer. You hide it well, but I know how tenderhearted you can really be. That's one of the things that attracted me to you."

"Tenderhearted but not stupid," Catherine said, injecting a note of humor into her voice. "But thanks for your offer. You're a good friend."

"One day I hope you'll view me as more than a friend."

A light tap at her office door was a signal Catherine was delighted to hear. "There's someone at the door, Kent. We'll talk Sunday."

"Yes, we need to talk. Sunday."

Catherine replaced the receiver. Of all things she didn't need now it was Kent pressuring her to feel something. It was just too much.

"Come in," she said, eager to see anyone at all. But the sight of Eamon McShane, blood crusted in the corner of his mouth and his right eye blackened, wasn't what she'd bargained for.

"That bastard Patrick Shaw beat me up and threatened me." He stepped into the room. "Left me in a ditch, bleedin', and I'd be there today if my wife hadn't come out lookin' for me."

Catherine stood slowly, assessing the damage to the man. He was bruised and battered, but he was walking properly, without any difficulty. "Have you seen a doctor?"

"No need. What I want is action against Shaw. He can't go around bullying and beating up on people. He doesn't own Beltene anymore and he can't act like he's the king of Ireland." McShane's swollen face was red with anger. "I wanted you to see what he's done."

"Take a seat," Catherine said, pointing to the chair. "I'll call Mauve. She'll know what's best for your cuts and bruises."

Excusing herself, she went to the kitchen and got the cook, hurriedly explaining that someone had been injured. For the next fifteen minutes, Mauve clucked and washed, her strong fingers probing bruises and finally exploring McShane's teeth.

"No serious damage," she assessed. "You'll hurt like hell for the next few days, but you'll live."

The furrow between Catherine's brow eased slightly. She thanked Mauve and let the cook return to her duties. When she was alone with the groom, she crossed her arms. "Why did Shaw attack you?" she asked.

"I was out looking for that horse. See, I figure he's around here close by. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed to me that Patrick would put him where he could keep an eye on him every day. He and Mick are in it up to their ears, I tell you. They don't care that you could fire the lot of us. They've never cared about anyone or anything except their own selves."

McShane's hatred of Patrick was as easy to see as his bruises. It piqued Catherine's curiosity, especially knowing what she did about Patrick. "Were you aware that one of the conditions Mr. Shaw insisted upon before he sold Beltene was that I keep on every single one of his employees, at least for a year?"

McShane wasn't impressed. "He always liked to play the important man."

"He made sure that your job was guaranteed. It doesn't sound as if he were totally self-involved."

McShane's laugh was short and bitter. "It's irony to watch you defending the man who stole your horse." He got up. "It's none of my affair. I can take care of getting even with Shaw in my own good time. I don't need you or anyone. Patrick Shaw will get his, I'll see to that."

"Did you see the man who attacked you?" Catherine kept a firm grip on her temper. "If you can positively identify Shaw, then I'll take up the matter with him. I can't have my employees bludgeoning each other."

"I didn't get a clear view. The cretin came up on me from behind or he wouldn't have done me so much damage."

"If you didn't see him, how did you know it was Patrick?"

"He grabbed me around the throat from behind. He has a crooked finger on his left hand. I saw it."

Catherine had never noticed the finger. What she did notice was that McShane was eager enough to pin the beating on Patrick to lie about it. "I'll speak with him about it," she said.

McShane snorted rudely. "Thanks very much. Scold him properly for fighting while you're at it."

"That will be all, McShane." Catherine walked to the door and opened it.

"You can talk to him all you want, but be alerted that I intend to pay him back in his own coin. You tell him for me to watch his back. I'll slip up on him and work him over just like I got. Tell him. At least I'm man enough to give warning." McShane walked through the door and never looked back.

Catherine listened to his footsteps traveling the length of the hallway to the front door. When she was certain he was out of her house, she closed the door to her office and turned back to her desk. Sitting in the window beside her chair was the black cat. Catherine hadn't noticed him before, but he was perched on the windowsill. He was a wily rascal with a knack for finding any open door or window. She'd awakened with him asleep on her green silk comforter, curled against her side. No one could say how he'd gotten into the house.

"You'd better go back to the barn," she said, reaching through the window to stroke his silky fur. "Patrick will be looking for you."

H
E CAN LOOK
till his eyes roll out of his head for all I care. I'm not spending another night in that drafty old barn when I can warm my spine against those lovely legs.

But that's a thought for later. I'm more interested in what's going on with Eamon McShane.

Patrick left the barn last night just after two. Since I've discovered the open bathroom window on the first floor, I can come and go as I please. That's the first rule of the Trained Observer— find a route of unobserved entrance and egress. That's how it happened that I was sitting on the stone wall when Patrick strolled out the back door of the barn and cut across the fields. He went to Mick's. And after that? I can only guess because they got in Mick's rattletrap of a truck and drove away. It had something to do with a large gray mammal who is reputed to be worth millions of dollars. Or pounds, as they call it here.

I must be getting cranky in my old age, because this pound business is making me testy. Pounds have to do with butter and cheese. With fish and steak, ground round and shrimp. Money shouldn't be measured in pounds. It's almost a sacrilege. The pound is a vital measurement, not a mere monetary unit. Ah, well, what do people who live on an island know? They don't know what a mile is, either. I'm trying to eavesdrop and find out where they're going and Mick says it's only twenty kilometers. I mean, can I walk it or will it wear my paws down to the nub? If I were running things, the entire world would have miles and dollars and cats on the thrones of power. See, monarchy is one thing we should have in America. A royal family with a royal cat. That's the ticket.

Enough of this tirade. I've got a little snooping to do around the barn. I was watching the video through the den window. Limerick is fine, which is no surprise to me. I think, though, that I'd better pay him a little visit. And then I want to check out Patrick's digs for a brown jacket that looks as if it's had a hard life.

C
ATHERINE WATCHED
as Familiar jumped off the window ledge and walked toward the barn. He was an arrogant creature, but extremely affectionate. Why was it that she had the feeling that he knew more than he let on? There was something about those golden eyes, an intelligence that was a bit unsettling.

For the second time that afternoon, a light tap on the door alerted her that someone was waiting to see her.

"Come in," she called as she walked back to her desk.

"There's a gentleman to see you." Mauve stepped into the room and softly closed the door. "He said he was an old friend, but I didn't know. He's in the parlor."

"Thanks, Mauve. I've never known Beltene to have so many visitors. Maybe I should think about getting a butler."

"Now, that would add a bit of polish to the house," Mauve agreed. "Just find a good-looking man who's single and it would suit my fancy."

Catherine chuckled. If the men at the barn sometimes made her feel like an outsider, Mauve had done her best to make her welcome. The cook was humorous and always ready to talk about men, or the lack of them, in her life.

"Did the man give his name?" Catherine asked.

"He said he wanted to surprise you."

Catherine made a face. "I see." She started toward the door. "I usually love surprises."

When she walked to the parlor, with Mauve at her heels, she saw only the man's boot. An expensive English riding boot. The rest of his body and face were hidden by the wing of the chair.