IRISH FIRE (16 page)

He took the tea cup from her hand, drank it down in one swallow and set it back on the tray. Desperation, is it?

She took a deep breath and looked up to find his eyes on hernarrow, serious, the clear fey blue of the islands. It would be the only logical explanation if I were to do something so foolish, so soon.

I can think of another reason or two. His voice, that low purring lilt, was like a caress.

She couldnt think. Dear God, was that his hand against her cheek? She was at a place between fear and desire, somewhere beyond the first, leaning toward the second, not quite sure where she wanted to end up. Instinctively, she knew the remedy. Turning her lips against his palm, she tasted him.

And so it began, warm hands sifting through her hair, callused fingertips stroking her cheeks, firm lips touching her temples, her brow, her jaw line, and finally, closing over her mouth.

Her first sensation was an absence of awkwardness. There was no bumping of noses, no lips attempting to meet and missing, no embarrassing thrust of a tongue before the other was ready. It was as if shed always known this man, as if his thin, sure hands and sensitive mouth had practiced a lifetime on her lips, her throat, her cheeks, her breasts.

She wanted to feel him against her. The urgency of her want shook her. Her mouth opened beneath his and she slid her arms around his neck, her fingers finding and kneading the smooth hot skin under his shirt.

He whispered something against her throat, kissed the point where her pulse throbbed erratically, and eased her down on the couch, covering her body with his own.

His hands and mouth were magic. Caitlin was done with thinking. Her body had been invaded by a maelstrom of heat and need and sheer physical passion, the magnitude of which she had never before experienced. She wanted nothing more than to wrap herself around this man and beg him to make this moment last forever, to never stop loving her as sweetly, as tenderly, and unconditionally as he was doing at this moment.

Rain drops sizzled against the smoking peat in the fireplace. Outside a tree branch lashed against the door and a fierce wind rattled the windowpanes. The lights flickered, dimmed, and went out completely.

Brian chuckled. Convenient, isnt it? His breath was warm against her throat.

I found candles, Caitlin offered.

Do we need them? Theres light enough from the fire.

The shrill double ring of the telephone drowned out her reply. Brian sat up and reached for the phone. After a few monosyllabic responses he handed the receiver to Caitlin. Its Robert. Hes examined the colt.

Robert Fowler was brief and to the point. I need to speak with you, Mrs. Claiborne. Can you come down here right away?

Is it bad news, Dr. Fowler?

It is.

Ill be right there. She handed the phone back to Brian. He wants to see me.

Do you want me to come with you?

She shook her head. Id rather go alone.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys. Ill be here when you get back.

By the time shed negotiated the narrow, dark road and pulled into the parking lot of the animal hospital, Caitlins nerves had reached the point where her emotions had gone the way of the clear afternoon skies. Rain poured down in buckets and flashes of light zigzagged across a sky black with menacing clouds. She struggled with the umbrella, gave up, and made a run for it.

Dr. Fowler held the door open, watching as she dashed across the lot into the shelter of the compound. Her hair, drenched with rain was already curling around her face.

Im sorry to call you out in weather like this, Mrs. Claiborne, but you said you wanted to return home as soon as possible. My offer still stands. Youre welcome to my spare room. Ill be here until morning.

Thank you.

He led her into a small kitchen, poured steaming tea into a mug, and handed it to her.

Caitlin shrugged out of her jacket, hung it on the back of a chair, and reached for the cup. Is there any hope? she asked.

Rob Fowler, a massively built man with a round face, a full beard, and eyes that would disappear behind the folds of his cheeks when he laughed, smiled sympathetically. That depends. The news is both good and bad. If you want a champion flat race horse, I would say, no. There isnt the slightest hope. But if you can be content with waiting an extra two years, I believe something can be done, enough so that he might attempt the steeple races as a four year old.

Dear God. She slumped against the counter and passed a hand over her eyes. It was worse than shed imagined. She couldnt wait four years, not with Annies tuition and the house shed rented, not when Brian suspected
Kentucky Gold
of carrying RLN disease. Despair settled over her in thick suffocating waves. The veterinarian was speaking again. Forcing herself to focus, she listened.

Your colt, he explained, has congenital recurrent laryngeal neuropathy on the left side of the voice box. In other words, a portion of the voice box is partially paralyzed. His voice was kind, professional, completely impartial. This will eventually result in something commonly called
roaring
and bleeding of the lungs. RLN reduces the ability to open the voice box during exercise and to close it when swallowing. The symptoms are progressive, worsen over time, and are irreversible. Horses with RLN that are forced to race drop dead on the track.

Caitlin set down the cup and lifted her chin. You said there was good news.

He nodded. A large percentage of thoroughbreds are born with RLN. Those that arent go down in history as our winners. The others die trying or become something less than we would wish. Are you willing to support an animal that will bring you no income?

She straightened to her full height and looked at him steadily. He was an enormous man. My children have named that colt.

Robert Fowler grinned. My name is Rob.

All at once she liked him. What do you suggest we do for my colt, Rob?

He pulled out a chair and waited for her to sit down. Then he sat down across from her. Ive developed an experimental technique that locks the glottal cartilage into a neutral position.

What good will that do?

Wait here. He stood and walked out of the kitchen, returning seconds later with a white folder. Opening it, he spread out a diagram on the table before her. The vocal cords are elastic ligaments that run between the glottal cartilage and the thyroid cartilage, he explained. By releasing the ligament from the thyroid and threading it through a hole in the voice box, it can be moved from the inside to the outside of the box. By applying traction to the ligament, I believe I can graft it to a new position and resist the collapsing force of suction on the glottal cartilage.

Does it work?

Not always, he replied honestly. But one thing Im sure of, it wont hurt him. Hell be able to swallow normally after surgery and the throat muscles will be spared. Its worth a try.

Is it expensive?

Do you have insurance?

Insurance doesnt cover experimental procedures.

This isnt exactly experimental. Well work something out.

Everything has to be completely legal.

Robert Fowlers thick eyebrows drew together. It will be.

Caitlin bit her lip. Is there an alternative?

Not unless you put him down.

She shook her head emphatically. I wouldnt do that.

Again he smiled, a full separating of the lips that revealed his teeth and a healthy measure of gum. No, I didnt think so.

When can you do it?

Theres time.

Her voice cracked. But hes already bleeding.

Only when hes extremely agitated. Keep him in the paddock. Register him as usual. Next year will be soon enough.

She pushed her chair away from the table and stood up. Ill catch the late train back home. Id like to use your phone, if I may.

Brian answered on the first ring. Its me, she began and stopped. Tears crowded her throat.

Caitlin?

I cant

Brians voice, warm and soothing, traveled through the wire. Its all right, love. Dont cry.

You were right.

Oh, lord, Caitlin. I didnt want to be. Im sorry.

Im going back to Kilcullen tonight on the train. Ill leave the truck here for you.

What about the colt?

Rob thinks he can save him but not for flat racing. He wants to operate next year.

She could feel him take in her words. He would think them over carefully, deliberately, as only Brian could, and then he would formulate an answer that was every bit as thoughtful and cautious as the man himself.

After a lengthy interval he spoke. Im scheduled to stop in at the Ballinasloe sale tomorrow but Ill be happy to bring the colt home.

Thank you, she said, relieved that it had gone so easily, that she could return home alone and that he hadnt mentioned what had taken place between them on the couch in Robert Fowlers living room.

She would have long hours to herself on the train, hours when she must come up with a solution to the downward trajectory that her life had taken. All her hopes were now pinned on
Kentucky Gold
. The mare would have to be tested. Sam would also have to be contacted. If RLN disease was prevalent among Claiborne bloodstock, his reputation, the reputation she had helped to create, would be destroyed. He would be out of business before the year was out.

Despite her personal antipathy toward her husband, the magnitude of such a tragedy and what it would mean to the American thoroughbred industry filled her with despair.

I
rish Gold
was surprisingly docile when Brian led him into the trailer before dawn the following morning. It was one of the new and improved model trailers recently purchased by the Curragh Stud. Horses walked in from the side instead of backing in and stood at an angle with a window view of their surroundings. The new style better accommodated the yearlings and colts who could stand without the restricting lead rope tying down their heads.

The sky was a dismal leaden gray. Overnight the frost had silvered the grass so that every blade stood stiffly erect in its coat of armor. Brian was scraping the residue from his windows when Robert Fowler hurried out to say goodbye, clapping his arms, his breath smoke-white in the bitter cold air. You should have an easy drive to Ballinasloe. The weathers good.

Aye. Brian stripped off his gloves. Caitlin said you were goin to operate on her colt.

Fowler nodded. Its what she wants.

Brian scraped the last of the frost from his window. Theres no hope of racin him after the hobday operation, not in the flats anyway.

I wont be trying the hobday, but the results are the same. She knows that.

What of the expense?

I wouldnt think a Claiborne would be concerned with that.

Brian frowned. He was reluctant to betray Caitlins trust.

Youve heard the Claibornes are divorcin.

Fowler frowned. Are they now?

The colt is part of the disagreement, or he was, Brian amended, before this happened. I cant imagine Sam Claiborne fightin for a defective animal.

You wouldnt happen to be the reason for their divorce, would you, mate?

Brian was genuinely shocked. Whatever put that idea into your head?

Shes an attractive woman, Fowler observed.

Ive noticed.

It would be difficult for a man not to.

Are you interested for yourself, Rob?

Fowler held up his hands and backed several steps away. I never said that. Shes unusual, thats all I meant. And she took it quite well, about the colt. It had to be quite a blow.

Brian knelt to check a tire. She had a bit of warnin. It wasnt hard to figure out after he bled all over my hands.

His chances are good, Fowler said emphatically. Only one side is defective.

Brian stood and leaned back against the truck. Shes in a financial bind, Rob. This colt was to be her ticket. There wont be any Claiborne money comin this way.

It wont break me. The vet had come close to the trailer to stroke the colts velvety nose. Theres something odd about this one, Brian.

How?

Ive followed
Narraganset
ever since he was put out to stud. Hes never thrown a colt that looks like this one. His genes run truer than any stallion Ive seen, small muscles, large head, nothing Arabian about him. This one doesnt look like he has
Narranganset
bloodlines at all.

Later, after Brian had negotiated the maze of round-abouts leading out from Galway, after hed waited patiently for endless minutes while a road bowling game dispersed, and after hed waited for a flock of sheep to be herded off the road by a redheaded lad with so many freckles they appeared to stand up on his cheeks, his mind finally cleared, and the ramifications of Rob Fowlers casual comment came to him. It was preposterous, of course. Not even Samuel Claiborne could get away with such a fabrication. Not unless hed expected the colt to be born in the privacy of the Claiborne stables. Not unless he planned to control every aspect of his bloodtyping and his registering. He couldnt do it alone. Others would have to be involved as well, others whod worked for Claiborne for years, those whose livelihood depended on the reputation of the Claiborne stables.

It occurred to Brian that if his suspicions were true, Claiborne must be feeling rather desperate now that only two months remained before the colts required blood tests and registering. He looked out of the rearview mirror. The narrow road hugged the edge of the cliff and wound snake-like behind him into the distance. He tightened his grip on the wheel, grateful that Caitlin had decided to go home by train. A desperate man was often a dangerous man.

The Ballinasloe horse sale was located on a flat piece of land resembling the Burren, that ancient limestone shelf that covered a good portion of Connemara and western Ireland. Rows of trailers lined the perimeter of the field and men in wool caps known as middlemen stood arguing the merits of a particular horse to buyers while reminding the owner of his defects. The familiar open palmed, hand-slapping between middleman and seller, and then middleman and buyer, and the rubbing of soil on an animals hindquarters to indicate an agreement, had been part of the Ballinasloe tradition ever since Celtic warriors raced their steeds at the Curragh a thousand years before.

Brian parked the trailer and checked on the colt before making his way across the long wet grass to where the most promising horses were corralled. Ballinasloe attracted all breeds, from the small, wiry Connemara pony to the Irish draft horse, heavy with muscle. Occasionally a bankruptcy or divorce would force the sale of a thoroughbred of high enough quality for Brian to consider training at the Curragh Stud, but that was a rare day indeed. He came to these events to keep his finger on the pulse of the true Irish horse world.

The Curragh Stud and other farms like it were Irelands treasuresarchitectural masterpieces with manicured grounds, state-of-the-art neonatal units, pristine stables, and horses worth millions in worldwide currency, worlds as far away from the backyard horse trainers reality as the Ballinasloe sale in the middle of a horse pasture was from the Goffs auction in its modern building surfaced with glittering mirrors.

Ballinasloe was the common mans auction and despite his association with the Curragh Stud, Brian considered himself a common man. A horse lover who had learned everything he knew from the kind of grass roots training acquired by trial and error and hanging on the heels of those with experiencejust the same as a thousand other lads like himself who had empty pockets, horses in their blood, and hands that werent afraid of an honest days work.

Well, if it isnt our lad, Brian Hennessey. A heavy hand slapped his back nearly knocking him off his feet.

Brian turned, grinned and held out his hand. How are you, John?

John Connelly with his bowed legs, mismatched clothes, curly gray hair, and scruffy beard hardly looked the part, but he was a man known the length and breadth of Ireland for his shrewd horse sense and razor-quick wit. He was seventy years old, a middleman, known for bringing buyer and seller together and sticking with a promising transaction until both parties were equally satisfied. His commissions were substantial and Brian had never regretted acting on his advice.

Well enough, lad, the man replied. What brings y t Ballinasloe?

I havent missed a Ballinasloe sale since I was a boy.

Connelly stroked his beard. No, I dont suppose y have. Why is that, I wonder, when youve enough on your plate takin care of the diamonds of the thoroughbred world?

Brian narrowed his eyes, and for an instant the years fell back and he was a boy again with imagination enough to feel what it must have been like for a Celtic warrior to race his stallion on the flat plain of the Curragh. The feel of it stayed with him, through summers as an exercise boy at stud farms, as an amateur jockey, as a grooms assistant, and then trainers assistant and finally, thanks to John OShea, a position coveted by every boy in Ireland who ever sat on a horse: manager of the Curragh Stud.

Brian was under no illusions that his talent for training winners would have brought him to the point where he now was. There were many men in Ireland as talented with horses as he was, but only he had managed the good luck of rooming with Martin OShea. This is where it all began for me, John. I wouldnt miss it.

The old mans eyes misted. Unashamed of his emotion, he squeezed Brians shoulder. I remember well enough the first day y came with your da. A scrawny dark little lad y were with that black hair and those eyes that looked liked all the sea in Galway was locked behind them.

Brian remembered. He wanted a horse for his wagon.

Aye. And I found it for him, didnt I?

You did, John. We brought home a fine horse that day.

I remember takin a good look at your face and thinkin this lad will never be a fisherman.

Brian laughed. Right you were, John. Ill not be makin my livin from the sea.

I was sorry to hear about your da, lad. He was a good man who should have had another ten years in front of him.

It seemed to Brian as if the din surrounding them had lessened, and the noise and crowds and color receded to a different plane.

He was at his fathers funeral again. His mother had reproached him for missing the Rosary as if that were more important than the years of silence between them. Hed watched the throng of mourners pass by the closed coffin and for the first time saw something in the women of Inishmore that hed never seen before.

Without exception their foreheads were pinched in the center and the skin around their eyes was stretched with lines that could only have come from long hours spent squinting at the sea, fingering Rosary beads, scrubbing floors that were already bleached to an unnatural purity, beating rugs, washing windows, wringing linens, praying until the fishing boats were sighted again, signaling a fresh catch and a husband who hadnt been washed overboard and swept away.

The sea was both savior and nemesis. It put food on a womans table and widowed her before her time. The sea had claimed Kevin Hennessey during an unexpected storm, kept him hidden for six long days, and finally washed him up in the nets of another fishing boat, so bloated and disfigured that his sweater, the distinctive Aran with its blackberry stitch representing the Holy Trinity, was his only identifying mark.

No, Brian would not go the way of his father, despite his love for that wild and lonely island off the coast of Galway Bay. Give him the settled beauty of Irelands horse country: leaves crimson and gold, piled in heaps along winding country roads. Gravel paths leading away from wrought iron gates, hedge rows and oak trees, spruce-lined fences. Sleek horses munching in rich pastures, rare November sunlight picking out diamond-bright raindrops in water-slick grass. Turf fires, pungent, white steam against a pewter sky. Low foamy clouds that hung like stiffly beaten egg whites over the peaks of green hills, an orange sunrise coloring the patchwork quilt that was Ireland. Women in bright anoraks who walked the roads with healthy dogs for no reason other than that the day was a lovely one.

He cleared his throat. He was a good man.

Aye, that he was. John pulled his pipe from the inside pocket of his jacket and dug around for his matches. After an exhaustive search he found them in the same place where they always were, beside his pipe. Striking the match against his shoe he lit the tobacco and sucked in deeply. I hear youve stabled a Claiborne mare and colt, he said casually.

Thats right, answered Brian. John Connelly wasnt one for idle conversation. Sooner or later he would come out with his reasons for throwing a particular subject out on the table for discussion.

Word has it that Samuel Claiborne has come to Ireland to take them back.

Brian shrugged noncommittally and kept his eyes on a promising bay with black legs and mane. She was giving the boy holding his lead rope a difficult time of it, twisting and pawing the ground. I havent heard from him.

Word has it that Mrs. Claiborne has broken the law bringin the mare t Ireland the way she did.

Brians eyes never left the bay. Do you know Sam Claiborne, John?

Not if I was t see him face t face.

If I were judge and jury, Brian continued, Id lay odds that it wasnt Mrs. Claiborne who broke the law, but rather the other way around.

Before the old man could answer, Brian gripped his shoulder and nodded in the direction of the bay. What can you tell me about that two year old?

John immediately picked out the horse. Thats Jamie Dempseys filly. She was passed over last year. Her da was
Satans Madboy
.
He looked at the leaping, snorting horse. It appears that shes inherited some of his tendencies.

Brian groaned.
Satans Madboy
was possibly the fastest horse to come out of Ireland since
Simba Kahn
but he was unpredictable. No jockey would ride him. Even after he was retired to stud, he mauled an exercise boy, crippling him permanently. Eventually he was put down.