IRISH FIRE (10 page)

Pushing himself away from the table, Brian lengthened his stride and caught up with her at the door. We agreed that I would take you home.

Id rather walk, she said quickly, avoiding his eyes, really I would.

All right then, he said quietly. Ill see you later. Ive enjoyed the company and the conversation.

She smiled, a quick reluctant twisting of her lips, and then she was gone, out the door before he could say anymore.

God help you, Caitlin Keneally, she muttered to herself, covering the ground twice as fast as she normally did. Are you really so desperate for a mans attention that youd make a fool of yourself over the first one who pays attention to you?

The truth, bare and stripped clean of excuses, wasnt flattering. She felt inadequate. It was all Sams doing, she concluded bitterly. Hed made it clear enough that she didnt have the necessary attributes to keep him interested, whatever those were. Yet hed been interested enough in the beginning and for a long while after until the glow had passed and it was clear to everyone that she was woefully outclassed by the women in his social circle.

Those snubs in the early days of her marriage had left more than a few scars, bitter reminders of how far shed come. A business degree, her own abilities, and Bull Claibornes confidence had resolved most of her issues but the wounds had been slow to heal.

Her pace began to lag as she analyzed her marriage squarely, honestly, something she had avoided until now. To be fair, Sam had been an attentive husband in the beginning and after Annie was born. Hed been truly delighted when she told him she was pregnant with Ben. It was only after she relaxed a bit and allowed the real Caitlin to surface: the woman who had a better than average grasp of finances and invested wisely in the commodities market even though Sam had warned her against it. The woman who understood supply and demand and forced up the price of Claiborne stud fees. The woman who refused to endorse Sams lifelong friend, gubnatorial candidate Dave Gastineau, because his politics would harm small breeders desperately trying to survive in an industry that was slowly crowding them out. It was only after all of that that Sam had cooled toward her.

When she turned down the trip to Paris, a trip that was supposed to be their second honeymoon, he stopped trying altogether. But sales had been slow that year and she was waiting to hear whether
Suliman,
a Claiborne stallion commanding enormous stud fees, had successfully covered the Brockman mare.

Caitlin had deliberately kept the number of brood mares down to twenty, half as many as a healthy stallion could cover in a season, in the hopes that it would drive up the stud fee. In Britain stud fees were paid whether or not a colt resulted from the mating. Not so in America. Unless a broodmare produced a healthy colt, the fee was forfeit.

Her ploy had been more successful than even she had imagined it could be, but it had required a diplomatic hand to turn away those who assumed they would automatically have access to the Claiborne stallion. She could not have left it to anyone else.

Perhaps the failure of their marriage was as much her fault as Sams. She slowed down even more, suddenly in no hurry to get home.

Once, this small village and the Curragh had been her world. Memories came back to her, fond, comfortable memories of Martin and his brother, Dylan, of years before either of them knew the meaning of conscience. Memories of chubby cheeks and scraped knees, of grubby fingers and solemn promises, of confidences shared and hurt feelings soothed.

Shed fallen in and out of love with the OShea brothers a hundred times. Caitlin remembered the exact moment when innocence became something else, something that made her cheeks flame and her chest ache and her breath shorten. Then it would go away again and the old familiar closeness would return.

She missed her sisters. In the room she had shared with Kitty and Mary sleeping so close she could reach out and touch them, shed learned more than she ever had at Saint Patricks. They would tell secrets and stifle laughter, pressing hands over each others mouths to muffle the revealing sounds that would bring Brigid marching down the hall. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Had she ever really cared for Sam? Never with the soul-strangling, uncompromising depth of passion a woman should feel for a man. But there had been a time, however brief, when she thought they could have made a go of it together. He had given her Annie and Ben, and for that, if nothing else, she would be forever grateful. The thought of her children brought a smile to her lips.

Caitlin. Lana Sullivan dropped the cigarette she had finished, ground it out on the pavement, and ran across the street to catch up. Youre up early, she panted, falling into step beside her friend.

I went to see the horses.

Ah, the horses. Lana glanced at her thoughtfully. Did you happen to see Brian Hennessey?

Preoccupied with other thoughts, Caitlin nodded absently.

What do you think of him?

Who?

Lana laughed. Wheres your head, lass? We were speaking of Brian Hennessey, of course.

What about him?

Hes a bit of a dish, dont you think?

It came back to her instantly, that moment in the kitchen when shed touched his hand. Caitlin could feel the blush rise up from her neck. Hes all right, she said tentatively, if you like the dark, intense type.

Lana linked her arm through Caitlins. He can be rather fierce looking, she agreed, but I like him well enough. You never were one for the lads here in Kilcullen.

Caitlin opened her mouth to tell Lana that she knew nothing about it, but the woman wouldnt allow her an opening.

I know thats all water under the bridge, Lana chatted on companionably. She pulled a strand of flyaway red hair from her mouth. You arent still in love with your husband, are you, Caitie?

No.

Lanas blue eyes warmed with sympathy. Thats wise. No sense in rehashing whats over, unless theres a chance of going back.

No, Caitlin said again. Theres no chance of that.

You never answered my question.

Which one? Caitlin asked. Had there been a question?

Lanas expression was open, her eyes honest. Once, we were close enough to share our thoughts. Would you like to have that again, Caitie?

In the interminable seconds that followed Lanas question, Caitlin searched her mind for an answer. The truth was, other than Martin and her sisters, she couldnt remember having a friend, not in Kilcullen and certainly not in Kentucky. Had she ever wanted one? Lord, she was hopeless. Did she want one now? Caitlin swallowed. Everything was so different. She was so different. Sharing thoughts means an exchange, she said slowly. Is there something you wanted to tell me, Lana?

The young womans sturdy body suddenly lost its rigidity and she sighed gratefully. You always were a clever one, Caitie. The thing is, Im interested in Brian Hennessey. But I know that I havent got a chance with him once you decide that you fancy him as well. So, Ive come to ask if you do.

You want to know if Im interested in Brian Hennessey? Caitlin asked incredulously.

Aye.

For pitys sake. Caitlin stopped dead in the street. This entire conversation was absurd, much worse than the gossip at Lucy Claibornes bridge parties. Im trying desperately to get out of a dreadful marriage. The last thing I need is another man.

Lana grinned and once again linked arms with her friend. Im glad to hear it.

Caitlin lifted her face to the sky and felt rain on her cheeks. This time of year it fell suddenly and relentlessly, in horizontal sheets accompanied by wind that made an umbrella useless. Theyd be soaked to the skin if they didnt find shelter in the next few minutes. Lana was clinging to her like a mosquito stuck on fly paper. For her the crisis had passed. She meant well but just now Caitlin would have preferred her own company. Her friends disclosure had shocked her into offering up a quick, albeit, incomplete answer. She didnt need another man. That part was glaringly evident. The rest of Lanas question, the part about Brian Hennessey, shed deliberately left unanswered for very good reasons.

She needed time to sort out her thoughts, to analyze exactly what it was about Brian that appealed to her so intensely. By reliving that moment in the kitchen, by refracting it into separate events and exposing it through repetition, by minimizing the magic of that sudden, terrifying attraction that leaped to life between them, she would ensure that it never happened again.

W
ithout waiting for the Newberry racing train to come to a complete stop, Brian jumped lightly off the steps and headed toward the track. It was a clear golden Saturday, rare for October, and the stud farm was relatively quiet. Hed taken the weather and the respite as an auspicious sign and flown
British Midlands
across the channel to bet on four flat and two English jump races.

It was still early. Brian walked into the bar, ordered a Harp, and found a small table near the back. He didnt recognize anyone until a large, callused hand gripped his shoulder.

Brian Hennessey, lad, the booming Yorkshire-tainted voice reverberated throughout the lounge. Hows the breeding business, and what brings you to Newberry?

Brian tipped his head back, recognized the balding, red-faced, barrel-chested frame of Robert Tilton, sports writer for the
London Times,
and offered him a seat. Business is grand, he replied. Im havin a bit of holiday. What about yourself?

All in a days work for me, lad. He pulled up a chair and held up two fingers to the barman before turning his attention back to Brian. Whats this I hear about a court battle over
Narraganset
s last foal?

Not by the flicker of an eyelash did Brians expression reveal his thoughts. Ive no idea. What have you heard?

Tilton waited until the barman delivered his whiskey and walked away. Come now, lad. Its common knowledge that the Claiborne divorce is stalled over the colt.

Thats all there is, Brian said woodenly. Youve got the entire story in a nutshell.

Sam Claiborne has millions, said Tilton bluntly. It could go badly for the Curragh if you go against him.

Brian downed the last of his beer. Im aware of that. The colt was born at the farm. As far as I know he belongs to Mrs. Claiborne. When I know for a fact that he doesnt, Ill return him. Until then, he stays.

Tilton studied him shrewdly, bushy eyebrows drawn tightly together. He must be an exceptional colt.

Hes good-lookin enough, said Brian noncommittally. But he hasnt proven himself.

A colt out of
Narraganset
and
Kentucky Gold
wont have much to prove.

Youve been around long enough to know that bloodline is only one factor. There have been at least a dozen
Narraganset
foals born every year for the last decade, and only a few were Triple Crown winners.

But this one is out of
Kentucky Gold
. All
Narraganset-
Kentucky Gold
foals are champions, Brian. Even if they havent won every cup, theyve brought in enough money in the last ten years to retire their owners. Nominations are priceless and practically impossible to get. You know the figures. Do the arithmetic.

Ive done it, said Brian quietly. When the colt finishes his trainin and starts winnin, hell be worth his keep, somethin Im sure Mrs. Claiborne will appreciate.

Tilton laughed, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose loudly. Difficult, is she? Wealthy Americans usually are. Cant blame Sam Claiborne for wanting his horse back.

Brian couldnt explain the impulse that made him leap to Caitlins defense. Mrs. Claiborne is Irish, and I believe
Kentucky Gold
belongs to her.

The sports writer shook his head and held up his hand for another double shot of whiskey. It wont wash, lad. Shell have to buy him out. There isnt an attorney on either side of the Atlantic who will award the colt to either of them scot-free.

Brian shrugged, uncomfortable with the conversation. That remains to be seen.

Sooner than you think. Tilton pulled a mangled periodical from his pocket and handed it to Brian. Claibornes featured in the
Racing Gazette
. It says here he plans to be in Antrim to preside over the last flat race of the year at Down Royal. I imagine hell stop over in Kildare to see the colt.

Brian opened the magazine and stared at the black-and-white print. I imagine he will, he said slowly, wondering if Caitlin knew. It would be foolish of him not to.

Tilton downed his drink. The race is beginning. Shall we go down?

Brian stood, stuffed the periodical in his pocket, and followed the sports writer through the gate to the center of the course to find a position at the last fence. You never mentioned why youre here, Rob, said Brian. This is a small race, certainly not important enough for the
London Times
.

Tilton nodded toward the gate.
Angel Light
is running. Id bet my pension on him. Hes the horse to watch. After the race tell me Im wrong.

Brian recognized the name.
Angel Light
had been the favorite for some time now. The two year old could be counted on for speed from the starting gate to the finish line. Hed won every race hed entered and was on his way to becoming a household word in the equine industry.

The gates shot open and eight horses streaked toward the first turn.
Angel Light
in the number two position immediately struck out in front, running unchallenged to claim the first straight. Brian could see that the horse hadnt yet hit full stride nor had he taken a deep breath.

Seconds passed. Silence gripped the crowd like a chokehold. Then came the thunder of hooves.
Angel Light
raced around the second bend with seven other horses following, their jockeys looking for an opening, chirping, urging their colts forward. Once more he led the others around the seven-eighths pole, around the three-quarters pole, picking up even more speed. With only 660 yards to go, the jockey let out a notch. The horse responded by pulling ahead nearly two lengths. Collectively the crowd leaped to its feet. The jockey rode furiously, using the whip, demanding the last ounce of strength from the dun-colored colt. Twenty yards from the wire,
Angel Light
grew wings and flew across to lead by more than three lengths.

Brian nodded approvingly. A magnificent animal.

A champion, Tilton agreed. There wont be another like him this season. He looked at Brian. I hope you placed your money on him.

Brian grinned. My moneys safe. I do know a bit about horses.

Tilton laughed. Sorry, lad. The excitement never stops for me, especially here, at such close quarters.

It was nearly time for the second race. The jockeys, bigger this time and resplendent in their colors, galloped the horses onto the course for the three-mile steeple chase. Again the gates opened and the horses leaped forward over the fence, colors brilliant in the afternoon sun.

The crowd roared its approval while the pounding turf reverberated in eardrums, hearts, and throbbing pulses. The air rang with the shouts of jockeys, the sighs of the disappointed, and the hammering hooves of massive bodies pulling at their bits, straining through the openings, racing around their first loop to the finish line.

Silence swallowed up the endless seconds until once again the ground rumbled and the sweat-stained powerful animals came around into the straight, running at incredible speeds toward the winning post. The final fence was in sight. The inevitable question rose in the throats of every betting man, choking the blood to his brain. Which horse would claim the cup?

Then it happened, the inevitable variable, always a strong possibility in a steeple chase. The bay shied away from the jump, twisting his back and making a complete u-turn on the track. His jockey fought for control, to no avail. The chestnut, two-lengths behind, couldnt turn in time to avoid the bays flying hooves. Both horses and jockeys went down in a confusion of jewel-bright colors and two thousand pounds of heaving, sweating bodies. The sing-song whine of an ambulance broke through the moans of the crowd. One jockey was on his feet, the other sat up, cradling his head in his hands. Both horses were still down, one with legs thrashing, the other completely still.

Tilton shook his head. I played that one badly. What about you?

Brian shook his head. I make it a habit to never bet on a steeple chase. Too many variables can crab a race.

Eyebrows raised in astonishment, Tilton mocked him. Youre not really a gambling man are you, lad?

Only when the odds are in my favor. This time they werent. I didnt know any of the horses and I didnt get here in time to look them over.

Is that how you do it?

Aye. Brian nodded. Its the only way to be sure.

Two hours later, after an inadequate ham sandwich, he left Robert Tilton at the track and boarded the train back to Gatwick with a light heart. His pockets were richer by a hundred pounds but that was of little consequence. It was early in the season but already he had a good grasp of the competition. A few more races and he would know the extent of it, except for the upcoming crop of two year olds, of course, and no one would know about them until the first race.

Robert Tiltons news had thrown him. Caitlin hadnt mentioned that her husband intended a stopover in Kildare which probably meant that she didnt know. He didnt relish telling her. Her initial coolness following the
cruinni
and their breakfast together the next morning had settled into a tentative camaraderie. He looked forward to their conversations when she came to the barn in the morning. He hadnt expected her to be as knowledgeable as she was about the training of yearlings, and wondered if Sam Claiborne was feeling the pinch of her absence from his stables.

He almost stopped in at Kathleen Finchs for a proper dinner but changed his mind when he saw that Lana Sullivan was working the tables. The girl was fishing for a man and Brian had no intention of taking the bait. With a brief wave he hurried past, ignored the disappointed look on the waitress face, crossed to the other side of the street, and headed home.

The barns were quiet in the evening, clean and uncluttered. Blankets, baskets, linseed oils, and liniments were stored away in tack rooms. Brian walked down the aisle of C-Barn, inhaling the odors of alfalfa, sweet grass, hay, and leather that never failed to excite him. Unlike a racing stable where a groom or exercise boy was responsible for one or two yearlings, a stud farm exerciser cared for a number of horses, simultaneously, at different stages of maturity. Mares could be with their foals out in the paddocks or in their stalls, either in heat or readying to foal. Colts, depending on their need to grow into themselves or put on weight, were still with their dams grazing in the lime rich pasturelands. Some preferred the stalls at night and were brought inside while others stayed out in the open. An exerciser had to be intuitive to the needs of his horse, watching for mood swings and body language. A reluctant gait could mean a desire to stay inside. Ears perked forward could signal a colts excitement for the rich pasturelands outside the training areas.

Kentucky Gold
and her foal were in the paddock just outside the barn. Brian leaned over the top rail of the fence and studied the pair. The colt, Brian noted with satisfaction, was growing into a beauty: muscular, graceful, a shapely head, and more importantly, the strong straight legs, short canon bones, smooth knees, and forty-five degree pastern angle of a champion. He also had something else that made the adrenalin surge through the stud managers veins. He had a wide jaw which meant good airflow. Only five percent of all thoroughbreds were born with a jaw like that. Now, if inbreeding, the foe of a thoroughbreds healthy respiratory system, hadnt already predetermined his air passages, this colt might very well live up to Caitlins expectations.

Brian had made a detailed study of speed relative to thoroughbreds. Conformation, gait analysis, heart score, muscle fiber, and bloodline were not nearly as important as airflow, the ability of a horse to take in air as it ran. Airflow was something that could not be accurately measured until a colt was at least a year old. Not all racehorses who were born with that identifying trait were winners, but all who
were,
without exception, had the generous jaw signifying wide air passages. A horse needed air to stay the pace, and this one, he predicted, would have the staying power to last the distance and run to win.

Rounding the back corner that led to the training track, he stopped abruptly, unprepared for the rush of pleasure that washed over him. Caitlin was riding
Indigo Blue
.

He watched as she walked him first and then tightened the reins, chirping gently, trying to give the colt a feel for her weight, her experience, and the bit in his mouth. Heading down the backstretch, she leaned forward, mouth beside his ear, rump above the saddle.