Fear Familiar Bundle (71 page)

That's right, go off on your little joyride. I'll stay here and do the hard work. I want to ambush that rascal who's tailing us. If it's who I think it is, there's going to be trouble later on. Eamon McShane will have the law up here so fast Patrick won't know what hit him.

Why am I doing this? Why am I, a sensible, handsome American cat, involving myself with a wild Irish horse thief and a gray nag with a leg injury? Now that deserves an answer.

Patrick Shaw hasn't as much as checked my teeth or rubbed behind my ears. Sure, sure, he's been busy stealing horses and all. But I ask myself, why am I here, looking out for his back? The only answer I can come up with is that when he does touch me, I know he's kind. And he's Eleanor's friend.

Besides, I think he's being set up to take the blame for something. I don't know what yet, but something serious. If he'd only take Limerick home, then I'd feel much, much better. Instead, he's out playing Lone Ranger and riding along the roads. On a stolen horse. During the middle of the night. When he's liable to break his damn fool neck. These Irishmen have a funny way of entertaining themselves.

So I'll just settle into this cranny by the stone wall and wait to see who comes along. I sense that he's still out there. Not close, but watching. Watching and waiting.

I should have packed a light snack. Had I known the horseman was going to ride off for several miles, I would have. Oh, well, too late to cry over forgotten milk. Mauve promised she'd have a special treat for me in the morning. Some goat's milk delight. Hey, I'm a cultured and well-traveled cat. I'll give any local delicacy a try.

P
ATRICK'S FINGERS
teased the reins as he constantly communicated with the powerful horse. He could detect the slightest difference in Limerick, a shift so subtle that no one else would ever notice it. The week without work had softened rock-solid muscle to solid muscle. It would take only a few days of work to tone him back up.

"Just a trot," Patrick whispered to the horse. Limerick wanted to run. He wanted to fly. And Patrick wanted to let him. The desire was almost irresistible. But it wasn't what Limerick needed.

Trotting, and lots of it. Up and down hills, in small circles along the road, and then possibly a gallop. That's what Limerick had to have.

The seaside town of Clifden suddenly came into view from a high hill. It was a picturesque village, a bit touristy in recent years, but filled with good people he'd known since birth. He pointed Limerick down the hill. He had no intention of going through town, but the road he needed was at the outskirts.

The stallion covered the distance in a few minutes, and Patrick turned him east, along the seacoast. It was wild and rugged country, and the road was little more than two lanes worn smooth through the grass. The landscape was dotted with houses that had been abandoned for one reason or another.

"Hold! Watch who you're near to killing!"

Patrick sat down hard as the stallion lunged to the left to avoid a pile of black rags that had suddenly begun to move on the shoulder of the road.

"Easy, boy," Patrick soothed the agitated horse. The sudden motion, almost under his feet, had greatly upset Limerick.

"Why it's Cuchulain, come to rescue his people and 'rouse their emotions. Aye, riding the gray horse who was known to kill forty warriors with his hooves in a pitched battle. It's high time you showed yourself, my lord."

The old man sounded as if he'd had more than one drink. "Are you injured?" Patrick asked. He ignored the reference to the Irish folk hero, a great warrior who was known for his love of horses and freedom.

"I've been ridden over by a ghost horse and not a hair on my head is out of place." The old man chuckled, but his face was hidden in the shadows cast by a hat and layers of what appeared to be shawls.

"Who are you?" Patrick asked. "Can I help you home?"

"You've helped me already," the man said. "When I tell them that Cuchulain is riding the hills, perhaps they'll listen then. We're Irishmen. We should never forget our history." He tucked his head against the brisk wind.

Patrick considered trying to convince the old man that his near brush with death had not been at the hands of Cuchulain, but he needed to keep Limerick at a constant pace if he was to condition him.

"If you don't need my help, then I'll bid you good night," Patrick said.

"May the gods protect you," the man called. He staggered back and sat down on a large rock. "May the saints protect us both."

"If you're going to find comfort in the history of this land, you'll need the protection of the saints." Patrick spoke more under his breath than to the man. The lessons of history had been bitter ones for his family, especially the ones that involved a free Ireland. He'd lost a sister, his older brother, who was in effect gone, and his family business— all sacrificed for "the cause" as Colin called it.

"Cause, be damned," Patrick said, nudging Limerick into a faster trot. The wind had turned damp and cold. In the short time he'd talked with the old ragman, a heavy mist had blown in from the sea. Patrick tightened his collar and wished for a pair of gloves. He urged Limerick into a gentle canter as they began to climb the road that would give him a view of the Atlantic Ocean.

Limerick's stride lengthened and steadied, and Patrick gave himself to the ride. The road tunneled into dense blackness and there was a savage joy in the way they pounded along, together. Patrick knew he had to let the past go. For the first time he considered leaving Beltene. Once Limerick had been transported to the track, he could go. His last scrap of influence— and protection— over the horse would be gone.

As if he sensed Patrick's thoughts, Limerick crow hopped suddenly. The movement forced Patrick to clamp down with his thighs and pull in rein. Limerick intensified the bucking. He let out a playful squeal.

"And to think I was feeling sorry for you," Patrick said. He rode the rocking bucks, laughing at the stallion. He knew Limerick was only playing. There was no serious intent in the gentle bucks and stiff-legged crow hops.

"You'd best straighten up. If you do this on the track, Catherine will have you to the glue factory."

Tired of the game, Limerick settled back into a gallop. For the last three miles they rode in silence.

M
UMBLING CAME FROM
the loft in a gentle murmur, as if a conversation was going on just below the actual level of hearing. Catherine paused as she got Mayo's Motion out of the stall and led her to the cross ties.

There were several grooms about, in another wing, but it was barely daylight and she'd come to the barn for another ride. And to see Patrick. Sleep evaded her. No matter how much during the day she could convince herself that Limerick was fine, at night the devils of worry and guilt nagged at her. She was feeling rough and bruised, and the one thing that seemed to soothe her was to see the trainer at work. If he had Limerick, and she felt that he did, then his presence at the barn meant all was well. If anything was wrong with Limerick, Patrick would be with the horse. That much she knew. More troubling was when Patrick would decide to return her horse. The more time that passed, the more anxious she was becoming.

She climbed the ladder to the loft to satisfy her curiosity about who, or what, was making such an interesting noise. Studiously avoiding the door to Patrick's quarters, she walked in the opposite direction toward the hay storage area. The noise was coming from the hay mound where loose hay had been gathered into a pile.

Her gaze fell on the long length of leg, boot-clad, the breeches permanently discolored at the knees from saddle soap. Even before she saw the dark hair, sprinkled with hay, she knew it was Patrick. The big black cat was asleep in his arms. The smile that crossed Catherine's face was amused and tender. It was quite a sight, a grown man curled up in the hay with a cat.

"The past…" Patrick whispered.

Catherine eased down and stroked a purr from Familiar. She didn't stop to analyze her actions; she only knew her heart had begun a faster, racy beat. The cat's green eyes opened, then closed again. "So, I'm not even worth waking up for, am I?" she asked softly.

She felt Patrick's gaze on her before she looked at him. He was wide-awake. There wasn't a trace of sleepiness in his gaze, and she felt suddenly vulnerable.

"Do you find this more comfortable than your bed?" she asked, awkwardly looking down. What was she doing sitting in the hayloft with him? She'd invaded his privacy in a strange way. Even her question was embarrassingly familiar.

"I've slept plenty of nights in the hay." There was no reprimand in his tone, only mild amusement. He was enjoying her discomfort. "How about you, Catherine Nelson? Have you never spent a summer night in the sweet hayloft?"

Catherine knew to get to her feet, to answer him with a smile and a quick retort. But she didn't move. Her mouth went dry and she stared at him. "It isn't summer," she managed. Sunlight filtered in through air laden with dust motes and struck the stubble on his face.

As if he read her mind, he ran a hand over his chin and sighed. "Time for a shower and shave." He pushed up to an elbow, taking a moment to fondle Familiar. "Have I missed breakfast?"

His light remark broke the trance. Catherine got to her feet. "Do you always sleep in your boots?"

"Saves on the wear and tear." He smiled, and it had an amazingly boyish quality. "Actually, I couldn't find my bootjack and I sat down here in the hay to spend a moment with Familiar and I fell asleep. In fact— " he eased the cat onto his lap "— this fellow was acting a little sore last night. Stiff in a back leg, so I decided to check it out. Last year he was involved in a bombing."

At the look on Catherine's face, Patrick stopped short. "In America, not here. His owner believes the bombs were directed at her and her husband because of some work they did in putting an animal researcher behind bars."

Catherine looked down. She'd jumped to a conclusion. She'd heard "bomb," and she'd thought of Patrick's brother and his affiliation with a militant group in Northern Ireland. It wasn't something Patrick ever talked about— he was unreasonably private about such matters. And bigger fool, she'd let him read her thoughts right off her face.

"But, of course, I'm sure you think all Irishmen have a passion for dynamite and a fuse." Patrick stood, gently lowering Familiar back into the hay. "That's one of our national weaknesses, I suppose. Whiskey, song and bombs."

"Patrick." She stood. "I'm sorry." There should have been something else she could say, something more. But the bitter extremities of their backgrounds were laid bare before them. "Please excuse me," she said, heading toward the ladder. No matter that she'd been reared and schooled in Ireland. Her birth and heritage were English. To him, she was British. She was British and she had money. To think that a friendship could ever be built across that abyss was heartbreakingly foolish.

Retreat was the only recourse she had, and she took it, going down to the barn aisle where Mayo's Motion waited patiently in the cross ties. Refusing the offers of the grooms for assistance, she curried the mare, cleaned her hooves, saddled her up and led her into the yard. She couldn't help herself as she cast a look up into the hayloft. Patrick stood there, the cat at his feet. Both of them watched her as she rode into the distance.

M
ICK DRAINED HIS GLASS
and put it down on the bar. "Tell me again what was said and done," he requested, motioning for a refill.

O'Flaherty's was smoky and filled with patrons. It was the hour just before the evening meal when men and women stopped by from the bustle of the day for a quick drink and a chat with their neighbors and friends. Mick shifted onto a stool, taking the weight off his throbbing foot. Patrick hadn't allowed him to accompany him to see the stallion the previous night. Now Mick was hearing the stories of it, though. It stirred a fire in his heart, and it troubled him greatly.

"The old man came in here, babbling about Cuchulain and the mystical horse," the barkeep repeated. "He said the animal was enormous, a chest the width of a brawny man and hooves that sparked fire on the rocks in the road."

"And you're believing this?" Mick said in a mocking voice. "Next you'll be claiming to see St. Patrick running the snakes into the ocean."

"The old beggar was dead serious. His hand was trembling so, I gave him a drink."

Mick hooted. "And now you're out a free drink so you want to keep us all here listening to wild tales and filling your till."

Mick's scorn was not having a detrimental effect on the barkeep's audience. Several men and three women had moved closer to hear the tale.

"How did he know it was Cuchulain?" one woman asked.

"Because he said he was here to remind all Irishmen that freedom is a natural state," the barkeep said. "He urged all of us to remember that."

"Cuchulain," a man said. "It's about time Ireland found herself a national hero. Even one that's been dead for centuries."

There was general laughter, but Mick saw the look of tension that passed from face to face. History and heroes were serious business to most Irishmen. Both could stir a heart to dangerous deeds.

In Mick's mind, he knew who was out on the road late at night riding a big gray horse. Patrick would not be amused to find himself the embodiment of a legend. And Mick would never believe that Patrick was encouraging talk of freedom, not even in jest. Colin Shaw had labeled himself a freedom fighter, and it had cost the Shaw family money, blood, and much, much more.

"Was he as handsome as the legend says?" another woman asked. "If he is, maybe I'll wait out on the road to see him. It might be worth losing a night's sleep to lure him home to my bed."

"He wouldn't want to be riding no horse in the middle of the night if he had an offer from you," a man replied, and was greeted by general laughter up and down the bar.

"I wouldn't put too much stock in the foolish babblings of an old drunk," Mick said. He finished his drink and stood.