IRISH FIRE (3 page)

She smiled. Good luck.

Mount up, an official called out. Tom mounted. Strains of My Old Kentucky Home from the brass band lifted the crowd to its feet. The riders led their mounts around the clubhouse making their way back down the long stretch to the starting gate. Caitlin watched as Carlson let the horse out in a slow gallop to warm him up before returning to the green and white starting gate. The jockey pulled plastic goggles over his eyes.
Night Journey
stepped into the gate and the doors slammed shut behind him. Carlson reached down, grabbed a handful of the colts mane, and bent forward.

Caitlin held her breath. This moment, before the break, was always the worst. Then it happened. The horses surged forward. Seven tons of hard-breathing animals shot toward the straight and the first turn. Caitlin inhaled, waiting.

Carlson allowed
Night Journey
his space while maneuvering for a stronger position.
Silver Flag
, from the Burlington Stables, ran head-to-head with
Baby Rose
, a California horse, who had been in the lead.
Royal Flush
, another Burlington colt, went from fourth to fifth around the bend.

The line was thinning now with Carlson biding his time. Caitlin clenched her fists. If he didnt make his move soon, it would be too late. Then she saw it.
Night Journey
took the bit in his mouth and leaned forward. She sighed in relief as the horse moved ahead, passing
Seventh Cavalry
and
Royal
Flush
, leaving the two horses in the dust.

Slowly, with the precision of an artist, Carlson urged
Night Journey
to pick up speed, to accelerate around the bend, moving faster and faster. The horse never missed a beat. Swinging out he switched leads, left to right, as if he were flying through the air. Propelling with his forelegs, he ate up the ground. The race was half over. Only two horses were ahead of him and the time was forty-nine and one-fifth seconds, a record, so far.

Effortlessly, Carlson advanced his horse, swallowing up the lengths that separated him from
Baby Rose
. Caitlin removed her sunglasses, narrowed her eyes and watched. Behind her the crowd roared.
Night Journey
was in third position and there was one quarter of the race still to go.

He sailed past
Baby Rose
while her jockey looked helplessly on. The five-sixteenths pole loomed ahead. Carlson rode in a whirl of motion, instincts alert, every movement practiced and sound. Flashing his stick beside
Night
Journey
s eye spurred the horse to a final flash of speed. Moving to the right and forward he was neck-and-neck with
Silver Flag
. The crowd screamed and rose in the stands as the two horses raced through the top of the straight. Slowly, relentlessly,
Night Journey
pulled ahead. Behind him
Silver
Flag
s jockey rode furiously, chirping, pumping, going for the whip.

Caitlins breathing altered. Go with him, Tom, she whispered. Its nearly over.

And it was.
Night Journey
opened one length and then two as the horses drove toward the wire. In the lead now by a full two and a half lengths, he raced through the wire. The board flashed one minute, fifty eight seconds, a Kentucky Derby record.

In the stands and on the blankets the sea of spectators roared their approval. Carlson slowed
Night Journey
to a trot, circled the track another time, pulled the horse to a stop and lifted his helmet in salute. Reporters, photographers, and television people surged toward the winners circle.

Sam and Lucy were already there with the children when Caitlin arrived. Lucy threw her braceleted arm around Caitlins shoulders and hugged her tightly. A photographer snapped their picture. Everything looked as it should have, a united family jubilant with excitement.

Later, after
Night Journey
was led away for the routine urine and saliva tests, after the television crews and reporters disappeared into their favorite sports bars, after the groomers and the pony boys had brushed, watered, and fed the horses, and sunburned tourists had retreated to their fast food restaurants and budget motels, the aristocracy of the thoroughbred community gathered together in the muted light of an antebellum plantation house. The parties would continue for at least a week.

Ice clinked against fine crystal, and ladies showing cleavage and tanned bare backs flirted outrageously with unavailable men in white jackets, their foreheads slick with perspiration, their voices whiskey-slurred, their words lazy and long on vowels, their intentions clumsy, obvious.

Caitlin stopped in for only a moment to speak to Sam. Shed planned to tell him earlier, before the drink had jellied his brain. But, as usual, she was Sam Claibornes last priority. He had bypassed his allowed legal limit for alcohol consumption six hours earlier. A man with less tolerance would have passed out long before.

Im leaving, Sam, Caitlin said calmly when hed followed her out onto the lawn. My lawyer will contact you to settle the details. There isnt anything you can do to stop me. I want nothing from you except whats rightfully mine.

Reeking of bourbon, his voice thick, his face swollen with alcohol, he sneered at the document shed thrust into his hand. Whats this?

A petition for divorce.

Like hell it is. He downed his drink, threw the glass into the nearby hedges, and methodically tore the papers into shreds. Then he grabbed her arm, pulled her toward him, and before she had time to react, deliberately stuffed them down her blouse.

Caitlins hands clenched. She willed herself to stand still. She would not lose her temper, no matter how he baited her. There was nothing Sam liked better than to see her explode. There are other copies, Sam, she said reasonably.

Theyll go the way these did.

Her control broke. With shaking hands she pulled the scraps of paper from inside her blouse and dropped them on the grass. Why are you pretending it even matters? You cant possibly want to continue this charade of a marriage any more than I do.

I dont give a coon dogs dick about you, Caitie, he croaked drunkenly, but Ill be damned if I allow you to take my kids away from me.

Im not taking them away from you. You can see them whenever you want.

I want to see them all the time.

She laughed bitterly. You mean between drunken binges and screwing half the county?

You got that right.

Caitlin sighed, threw up her hands, and began walking toward her car. Im not going to argue with you, Sam, she said over her shoulder. I thought Id tell you in person. I owe you that much. But you cant stop me.

My lawyer will shred your appeal over his morning coffee, he shouted after her retreating figure. Annie and Benll be home before the Derby dust settles.

Caitlin slipped into Annies room and pushed the door shut behind her. The welcoming glow of the night light softened the corners of the dresser, the edges of the toy chest, and brought life to the carved features of the glassy-eyed dolls staring down at her. They reminded her of the stories shed read as a child about the gentle guardians with eyes of obsidian who watched over the pharoahs tombs of ancient Egypt. The memory gave her courage. Carefully she walked over to the bed and sat down beside her daughter. Annie stirred, her eyelashes fluttered and separated. Caitlin waited. Annie always woke this way. A minute passed, then another. The childs eyes opened and she smiled.

Mama, she said sleepily, did you come to kiss me goodnight?

Caitlin nodded and smoothed her daughters dark hair. I came to tell you something, too, Annie. I need to tell you before you hear it from she hesitated, from someone else.

Annie waited.

She was always like thispatient, thoughtful, well adjusted. Caitlins heart thumped. What if she didnt want to come? How could she live without Annie?

Ive decided to go to Ireland for awhile, Annie, to visit Gran. Id like you and Ben to come with me.

Annie smiled. Ill come. I love visiting Gran. Ben does, too.

It will be a long visit.

Will I miss school?

Caitlin nodded. A few weeks, I think. There are two schools in Kilcullen where Gran lives. We can see which one you would like best.

Annie sat up. But its almost summer. Why do I have to go to school in Ireland?

Im not sure that well come back here to live, Annie. Youll have to go to school.

Annies mouth puckered as if shed eaten something sour. We arent moving, are we, Mama?

The truth was always a mouthful, no matter how short the word. Yes.

Why? Daddy and Grandma wont want to move. Theyve lived here forever.

Caitlins eyes filled. She took her daughters hands in her own. Lowering her head, she kissed each knuckle. When she lifted her head, the tears were gone. Daddy and I wont be living together anymore.

Youre getting a divorce? There was no mistaking the horror in Annies voice.

Yes.

Why?

We arent happy together.

Im happy. Bens happy. Does he know?

Caitlin shook her head. Not yet. Hes only six years old. I wont use the word
divorce
with him. He wouldnt understand.

Annies lip trembled. Will I see Daddy again?

Caitlin gathered her daughter into her arms. Of course you will. And when you do see him, hell spend more time with you than he does now.

What if he doesnt? Can I come back?

Caitlins heart broke. If you really want to, love. I cant imagine living without you. But if you really want to, Ill manage. All I ask is that you give it a chance.

Why do we have to go away? Annie mumbled into her mothers shoulder. Cant you be divorced here?

Caitlin breathed in the scent of Annies freshly shampooed hair. Its complicated but Ill try to explain. I want to breed and train thoroughbreds for racing. Its all Ive ever done and all I know how to do. But it takes an enormous amount of money to do that here in Kentucky or anywhere in the United States. In Ireland land and fees are much less. The chances of beginning something there are much greater than here. She kissed Annies cheek. Do you understand, love?

Yes. Annies arms slid around her mothers neck. Will you sleep here with me, Mama?

Caitlin stretched out on the twin bed beside her daughter. Annies slight form molded itself against her. Minutes later she heard the childs deep, even breathing. Pressing her lips against the soft nape of her neck, Caitlin closed her burning eyes and slept.

Three weeks later, without the anesthetizing affect of a pint of bourbon straight up, Sam Claiborne had good reason for his anger. His lawyer had called with the news that custody battles took time. Meanwhile, Caitlins final riposte was clear, purposeful, and astonishingly well executed. Not only had she sold exactly one half of the mutual funds shed invested and withdrawn half of their joint savings account, but
Kentucky Gold
, the mare he had given his wife for a wedding gift, the dam of three Triple Crown champions recently covered by the champion,
Narraganset
, was on her way to Ireland.

Kilcullen, Ireland, six weeks later

C
aitlin woke to a loud banging on the door. Groggily she opened her eyes and focused on the glowing hands of her alarm clock. Dawn was still three hours away. The mare must be in foal. Adrenalin surged through her and she was instantly completely awake. Throwing aside the duvet, she reached for the jeans and sweatshirt she had left hanging over the back of a chair, walked to the long window and threw open the sash. An icy blast of wind cut her face like a knife. She shouted out the window. Im coming, Davy. The knocking subsided.

Within minutes she was ready, her mass of curls twisted and controlled in a claw clip, her jacket zipped, a denim tote bag slung over her shoulder. She paused long enough to walk down the long hall to peek into her mothers room.

Brigid was awake. Im off, Caitlin whispered.
Kentucky
Gold
is foaling.

Brigid sniffed and sat up. Why are you botherin t tell me? With himself poundin and shoutin, the entire town must know. Go along now. Ill see t the children if youre not back by breakfast.

Caitlin nodded, ran down the stairs, out of the house, and into the waiting truck. Without a word she opened the door and climbed in. The man at the wheel was visibly nervous.

I thought wed have another week at least, he said, but shes breathin hard and waxin.

Caitlin shrugged and stared out the window, her mind on what was most likely happening inside the stable. What did the vet say?

Davy Flynn didnt answer immediately. She knew it was her accent that he couldnt get past. Except for a certain husky timbre, Caitlin sounded nothing like herself. Fourteen years in America had nearly erased all the Irish from her voice. Her accent wasnt the only change. It was something much more subtle than that. She recognized it even if Davy didnt. She wasnt the same Caitlin Keneally whod left Ireland fourteen years before. Education, sophistication, and more money than the blue-collar inhabitants of Kilcullen would see in a lifetime had left their mark.

Hes at the Grange, Davy said at last. Mrs. Clarke had an emergency. There was no one else.

Caitlin turned. Are you saying that he doesnt even know
Kentucky Gold
is foaling?

Not yet, replied Davy grimly.

I thought a resident veterinarian was one of the benefits of keeping a mare at the stud farm?

For Christs sake, Caitie, what was the man to do? There was no one else to go.

She stared straight ahead silently acknowledging the reasonableness of his argument. Im sorry, Davy, she said at last. Im just nervous. What about Brian Hennessey? Does he know?

Brians still not back from the auction, Davy said stoically, refusing to criticize his superior.

Caitlin let out a long breath. Well then, I suppose its up to us.

Davys eyes left the road to stare incredulously at the woman across the bench seat from him.

Caitlin knew him well enough to read the thoughts running through his mind. Davy Flynn, a groom at the Curragh Stud Farm, had known her since she was born. He was wondering when that wild streak he remembered from her youth, the one that shed tempered slightly after marriage and motherhood, would resurrect itself. What Davy Flynn didnt realize was that Caitie Keneally was gone forever. She was Caitlin Claiborne now, and impulsive decisions were an indulgence she could no longer afford.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw him swallow. Flying a premium broodmare across the Atlantic when she was due to foal was a disaster waiting to happen. If anything happened to the mare or her foal, they could all be in a very bad way.

She turned back to the road. Shed played the odds. But it was her turn to win. Just this once, to make up for the mistakes shed made, she needed a win.

The neonatal unit and foaling barn were at the end of the farm along the Tully Walk. Past the wrought iron gates with their enormous gold letters. Past the tree-lined drive and rail fences. Past the training school, the dormitory, and the kitchen. Past the stallion boxes, the museum and the Black Abbey. Away from engine noises and crowds. Near the side of the paddock where the mares chewed on lush grass, rich in lime, blue at the rootgrass that bred horses unlike any other in the world. Davy drove up to the white-washed building with its lantern-shaped roof broken by a series of skylights, and killed the engine.

Caitlin grabbed her bag, ran across the packed dirt, and disappeared into the black shadow thrown by the barn door.
Kentucky Gold
was pacing back and forth inside her stall. Easy, love, she crooned, rubbing her hand against the mares swollen belly. Milk had congealed around her nipples like melted candle wax. Her nostrils were flared and she was warm to the touch.

It wont be long, Caitlin said, when she heard Davys footsteps at the door. She reached for her bag, her fingers closing reassuringly around the iodine and the enema. Fill a bowl with water and bring me some gloves, she ordered.

Davy watched the horse begin to circle. Then he disappeared through the door to find a bowl, returning quickly.

Caitlin glanced at him. Dont be nervous, Davy, Her husky voice was filled with amusement. Have I ever let you down?

He sat on a low stool and watched the mare pace. No, lass, but weve never had so much at stake.

She nodded. At fourteen years old,
Kentucky Gold
was already a legend, the dam of more winning bloodstock than any mare in the history of American thoroughbred racing. The foal she carried was a
Narraganset
foal, the Claiborne Triple Crown winner whose syndicated shares sold for one million dollars each. This was the mares sixth labor. It was imperative that nothing go wrong.

Less than an hour later, she stopped pacing and collapsed in the straw on her left side. Caitlin slipped on rubber gloves and knelt beside her, waiting. Amniotic fluid, warm and foul smelling, gushed from the animals vaginal opening. The foal would soon follow. A minute passed and then another. The tip of a foot appeared. Caitlin bit her lip. Where was the other one? Normally, the two came out together. A full three minutes passed. Call the vet, Davy, she said tersely. Tell him we need him now.

Davy ran for the phone beside the tack room. Caitlin waited no longer. Gently she inserted her gloved hand into the vagina. The mares contraction peaked and her tight muscles clamped down mercilessly, crushing Caitlins hand. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Gritting her teeth, she waited it out. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she was able to feel for the foals foot and gently untwist it.

Kentucky Gold
breathed heavily, blowing through her flared nostrils. Caitlin waited for the foals legs and then the head to appear. If all went well the shoulder would be next, followed by the neck. Both slipped out of the opening with perfect precision.

A cold draft pierced her fleece-lined sweatshirt. Someone had entered the barn. The mare panted and strained. Caitlin took hold of both legs and pulled hard.

Easy now, said a voice as rough as tires on wet gravel, a voice that definitely did not belong to the stud farms vet. Dont rush her. Youre doing fine.

Caitlin kept her eyes on the horse. This must be the elusive Brian Hennessey, the man in whom John OShea had enough confidence to turn over the reins of one of the most prestigious thoroughbred stud farms in all of Europe. The man touted as having an uncanny instinct for knowing what an individual horse needed to make him a winner. A man who had the reputation of a magician, who turned horseflesh into gold. You took your time coming back, she said.

Brian Hennessey knelt in the straw beside her, slipped on a pair of rubber gloves and took hold of the colts left leg. I didnt realize I had a Claiborne thoroughbred waitin to deliver in my stall. You neglected to mention your mare was in foal when we talked on the phone.

Shes mine, said Caitlin automatically, hearing only the first half of his sentence.

Without answering, he slipped a practiced hand inside the mare. The shoulders are large, he said, withdrawing his hand. He might have difficulty clearing the opening. Wait for the ribs to come and Ill guide the hips.

They pulled together for several minutes. When the ribs came through, Brian positioned his hands and eased out the rest of the body. It was a male, large of bone and shoulder, perfectly proportioned.

Oh, Caitlin breathed, hes beautiful. Look at him. Hes perfect.

Brian Hennessey sat back on his heels and expertly sized up the foals long straight legs, the dished-in Arabian facea recessive trait from the
Godolphin Arabian,
father of all thoroughbredsthe blaze of white down his forehead, and the strong musculature that bespoke good racing blood. Aye, that he is, he said at last, a fine colt, generations of speed bred into him. If he has the rest of what it takes, hell be a runner.

You mean if he has heart?

I mean nothin of the sort, retorted Brian.
Heart
is an old wives tale. If the horse can breathe enough to run, hes got a fightin chance. Gently, he pulled the foal around to the mares head, breaking the umbilical cord in exactly the right place. Tentatively, and then with growing confidence,
Kentucky Gold
began to lick her newborn while Brian wiped her wound with iodine.

Caitlin rubbed the foal down with a towel to dry him off and jumpstart his circulation. The mare needs penicillin.

Brian nodded. Well give her a combination of penicillin and streptomycin just to be sure. He looked at Caitlins smeared sweatshirt and cheeks. Where in bloody hell is our vet?

With Mrs. Clarke, at the Grange, Caitlin replied. There was an emergency.

Davy spoke up from behind them. Hes on his way.

Forty-five minutes later the Curragh Studs veterinarian walked through the door in time to see the foal gain his legs and begin to suckle.

Im sorry, Brian, he apologized. Clarkes mare was in trouble and I thought we had another week here.

No harm done. Mrs. Claiborne managed on her own. You can check the pair of them out and let us know of any developments. Well be in the kitchen.

Caitlin waited until they were out of hearing range to voice her objection. I have to go. My children are home asleep.

Your mother raised six children. I dont imagine another two would phase her.

My mother is past seventy.

Come, Mrs. Claiborne, Brian said reasonably. This wont take long and Ill drive you back when were finished.

She relented. Ten minutes. Thats all I can spare.

Together they walked down the long, tree-lined lane to the farmhouse kitchen. Brian slowed his pace to match hers. He wasnt particularly tall for an Irishman but the top of her head barely reached his shoulder.

He opened the door. A single light over the stove lit the kitchen. He would have flipped the main switch but Caitlin stopped him. Leave it, she said. Im exhausted and the light wont help.

Tea? He picked up the kettle.

She rubbed her eyes. You wouldnt happen to have any decaffeinated coffee, would you?

He grinned and for the briefest instant her heart fluttered. Then he spoke and his words made her angry all over again.

Wake up, lass, this is Ireland.

Believe me, Mr. Hennessey, Im aware of that. What did you want to talk about?

I heard about your divorce. Im sorry.

Thank you, she said wearily. However, with the exception of two children, divorce will be the only good thing to come out of my marriage. Her eyes challenged him. Is there anything else?

He reached into his back pocket and handed her a piece of paper. This.

She read it twice, quickly, then handed it back to him. It isnt true.

Which part isnt true, Mrs. Claiborne?

Caitlin, she said, quietly. Please, call me Caitlin. She was so tired it was an effort to speak. From behind her haze, she watched him hang his jacket on the back of a chair, roll up his sleeves, and spoon tea leaves into the pot. She wondered if hed always been like this, practical, objective, every action measured.

No one would ever call him handsome, not in the fleshy, muscular, ruddy-skinned way of Irish men. Brian Hennessey was lean, so lean that the housewives of Kilcullen Town most likely clucked sympathetically while leaving puddings and stews on his doorstep. He had thin, finely hewn features, soaring black eyebrows, and heavy-lidded eyes the clear, blue-green color typical of the Aran Islands where the Anglo-Norman influence hadnt infiltrated the general population. Under the spare flesh, his bones were narrow, capable, of the chiseled quality found in men who ate only when their stomachs reminded them it was time for a meal. The very look of him bespoke calm, reason, and competence, the kind of man whose level blue gaze and steely conviction a woman could count on when she needed it.