Legends Lake Page 11

  As they drove the few kilometers to the turf track, while he knew it was dangerous to allow his mind to go in that direction, Alec decided that Kate definitely fit that description. Her detailed breeding records, kept in a thick leather-bound journal and backed up on the hard drive of her computer, revealed that in business the woman was practical and efficient, with the exception of those rare instances she’d admitted having trusted her instincts when matching two Thoroughbreds. Checking the records of the offspring of these hunch matches revealed that her instincts, thus far, had proven to be excellent.

  But then, complicating the picture of this calm, intelligent, hardworking woman, was that passionate druid faerie protector he’d met on the cliff. Where the hell did she fit into the picture?

  Contrasts layered upon yet more contrasts, all wrapped around a charming female enigma. That was Kate O’Sullivan.

  They turned off the road onto a narrow lane. As she downshifted for the washboard ruts, Alec was drawn to the sight of the hand curved over the black knob of the gear shift and found himself wondering what those long slender fingers would feel like on his body.

  11

  “MR. MACKENNA? Alec?”

  She’d parked beside the shedrow, cut the engine and was now looking at him curiously. “Would there be a problem?”

  “No.” He blinked and the provocative, unbidden image of her shiny hair, draped over his naked chest like a long black veil, evaporated.

  Christ. Didn’t he have enough troubles, with Legends Lake and Zoe? There was no way he was going to allow Kate O’Sullivan to become yet another problem.

  She’d arranged to have a group of local breeders meet them at the track with horses. They ran two mock races, four and one-half furlongs each, around the oval turf track and both times Legends Lake broke first and held the lead, crossing the finish line ahead of the others. Mentally in sync with the stallion, Kate experienced the thrill of the races as if she were Legends Lake: The breeze feathering her hair could have been that rushing through his mane, the drumbeat of her heart the pounding of his limestone-strengthened hooves throwing up clods of dew-moist turf, the sound of the nearby surf, the roar of the crowd, his pleasure as he streaked to the finish ahead of the others, her pleasure.

  He was more than the champion she’d been hoping for when she’d arranged the match between his parents. Legends Lake was magic.

  “We’ll try it again,” Alec said.

  Kate refrained, just barely, from asking who died and made him Emperor of the Realm. She looked up at the sky where a handful of small gray clouds was drifting by. “It looks as if it might rain.”

  “I watched him run in mud and it didn’t bother him. Besides, the track is turf.”

  He spoke with the unyielding confidence of a man accustomed to having his orders obeyed, which wasn’t that surprising, given his winning reputation. But she’d promised the others, who hadn’t been all that happy about helping out some wealthy Yank horseman, that it would be a short morning’s exercise session.

  Summoning up her brightest smile, she went over to attempt to coax them into compliance. Since Castlelough was located in a Gaeltacht part of the country, where despite the old British penal laws, the native language had never been allowed to die out, Kate knew that Alec couldn’t understand their Irish conversation. But she suspected that he could well read the frowns darkening the ruddy faces.

  “Haven’t we done enough humoring of your mad Yank for one day?” Kevin Murphy, who owned the bay gelding who’d come in a full two lengths behind in second place, complained.

  “He’s not my Yank. And aren’t you being well paid for your time and effort?”

  “Money isn’t everything,” the wealthy farmer she suspected still had the first pound he’d ever made said.

  “Of course it isn’t,” she soothed, encouraged by the fact that not everyone shared Alec MacKenna’s mercenary attitude. “But you’d be doing me a great personal favor, Kevin. I’m trying to protect the reputation of the stud, not just for my da’s memory, but for Irish horses in general.

  “If this colt gets banned from racing, people might not want to buy a horse with the same bloodline, which could affect any breeding potential from that colt of yours that’s showing so much promise. Since he and Legends Lake share the same dam,” she reminded him pointedly.

  “That would be of no concern to me,” Michael O’Bannion gruffly entered into the discussion, “since none of my horses have any link to that of your Yank’s.”

  “He’s not my Yank. And that doesn’t matter, Michael. Since we all know how a brush—even a false one—can spread a wide swath. You could end up getting unfairly tarred with the rest of us. If you won’t do it for me, at least do it to uphold the grand tradition and protect the future of all of Ireland’s horses.

  “Over the centuries, when others have looked down their noses at us for one reason or another, the entire world—even our former enemies—has acknowledged Ireland’s reputation for breeding champion horse stock. Surely you would not let us lose that? Because without our horses,”—she threw out her arms—“what are we?”

  John O’Neill laughed at her fervor. “Ah, Katie, child, what a fine heartfelt speech. Why, if I’d closed my eyes and imagined your voice two octaves lower, I would have thought I was hearing the dear departed Joseph Fitzpatrick himself.”

  Her father and John had been closest friends for more than three decades. John had been the best man at her parents’ wedding and was her godfather. In the interconnected way of small communities, she’d once had a wild schoolgirl crush on his nephew, Brendan, who owned the Irish Rose pub, and John’s eldest son, Patrick, a solicitor in Galway, was handling her divorce.

  “Does that mean you’re agreeing?”

  “For you, lass,” he said. “And for your father’s memory, God rest his soul.”

  “God rest it and keep it,” the other two men murmured automatically.

  “We’ll also be doing it to uphold the grand reputation of Irish horses,” Kevin Murphy added, revealing that it had been her final argument that had swayed him.

  “But we’ll do no more than one last run,” O’Bannion stated firmly.

  She smiled in gratitude. “Thank you.”

  “No thanks necessary, darling,” John said. “But know this one thing, Katie. We are not doing it for your Yank.”

  Pleased to have won their cooperation, Kate decided against pointing out yet again that the MacKenna was not her Yank.

  She walked back over to Alec, who was standing there, arms folded, waiting with an impatience that shimmered around him in a bright red aura.

  “They’ll be staying for one more run,” she reported.

  “Thanks. I was watching you win them over. If you ever decide to give up breeding champions, you’d probably make one helluva politician.”

  Such simple words. Yet it was lovely hearing them. Not that she’d be caring for compliments from the American, Kate lied to herself as the horses were led back to the portable starting gate for the third time this morning.

  It was just that it had been a very long time since she’d received a compliment from any man other than Michael, Brendan O’Neill or Quinn Gallagher, none of whom counted, since she and Michael were more like brother and sister, having run barefoot in the fields together when they were still in nappies. Brendan, who’d been her brother’s best friend, had become hers as well and was as dear to her as Connor had been, and Quinn was obviously besotted with Nora.

  Kate wondered what it would feel like to be so adored, then shook off the slight depression, reminding herself that she was not divorcing Cadel in order to start up with anyone else. She was divorcing him because she wanted to ensure that the harsh and brutal alcoholic was out of her life forever.

  “He certainly doesn’t look nervous,” she ventured as Legends Lake calmly awaited the start of the race.

  “Hell, he doesn’t even look awake.”

  “No doubt he’s conserving his strength.”
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  Alec’s pointed look suggested that she might be overdoing the optimism.

  The colt broke as he had the first two times, flying out of the gate like a bullet shot from the barrel of a gun. His muscles bunched, rippled, then stretched with a power that literally took Kate’s breath away. His already long stride lengthened, the clods thrown up by his hooves striking the chests of the horses behind him.

  Kate unconsciously grasped Alec’s arm. “He’s glorious.”

  “You won’t get any argument there.”

  He’d no sooner agreed when, faster than a breath, quicker than a heartbeat, it happened. The colt reared, clawed his front hooves in the air, dropped back down to the turf and took off streaking across the track.

  A scream lodged in Kate’s throat as she watched him leap the rail fence and keep running, approaching a stone wall without so much as slowing. The rider, Johnny Doyle, cousin to both Brian of the hated bulldozer and her own husband, was hanging on like a cockleburr. Her grip on Alec’s arm tightened.

  “Hell,” Alec muttered.

  It was all happening too fast. The wall was too high, Legends Lake was running too fast. It was, Kate thought, like watching two freight trains speeding toward each other on a single track. The outcome was as inevitable as it was impossible to change. With fear thundering in her ears, remembering all too well that vision she’d had so long ago of Connor failing to clear just such a wall on a faraway Breton coast, Kate braced for tragedy.

  Later, she would try to convince herself she’d imagined it. Surely no horse, none of this mortal world, could have achieved such a feat. But for one suspended fleeting moment, Kate could have sworn she was watching winged Pegasus soar over the wall without so much as breaking his stride.

  The knocking on the door was driving Zoe crazy. “Go away,” she called out for the umpteenth time in the past ten minutes. She turned up the volume on her Discman. But she could still hear it.

  “All right. I’m coming!” She tossed aside the book her literature teacher had assigned—coincidentally, The Crucible, which Zoe found ironic since she was currently staying in a witch’s house—stomped across the wood floor, unlatched the lock and yanked the door open.

  “What do you want … and who are you?” she asked, staring down into the unfamiliar freckled face of a kid who looked to be about eight or nine.

  “I’m Jamie O’Sullivan.” He moved aside so she could see the child behind him, who looked like a small, red-haired doll. “And this is my sister Brigid. We live here. In fact, you’re sleeping in my room.”

  That explained the collection of American baseball cards she’d found in a shoe box in the closet and a plastic model of a dinosaur in a drawer.

  “Mama fixed it up to be pretty for you,” the doll piped up. “Because you’re a girl.”

  “I didn’t know. Look, if you want it back—”

  “Oh no,” he said quickly, paling so that the freckles on his face stood out like small copper coins. “Ma’d be getting angry at me if I made you feel unwelcome. Besides, I like sleeping up in the attic. It has a grand view of the castle.”

  “Yeah, I saw the castle.”

  “That’s one reason we knocked on your door,” Brigid said in a clear, sweet voice. “To ask if you wanted to go there with us.”

  “You want me to go with you?” Oh God. If there was anything more pitiful than being so bored and hard up for company you were actually considering playing with a couple of little kids, Zoe didn’t know what it was.

  “You wouldn’t have to be walking all the way.” The boy’s eyes were the clear blue of the alpine lakes Zoe remembered from Switzerland. She could see his mother in those eyes. And in the little girl’s full rosy lips.

  “We could take my pony cart,” Jamie pressed the invitation. “My ma made us some sandwiches before she left with your da.”

  “Stepda,” Zoe corrected absently. “I mean stepfather. And shouldn’t you be in school?”

  “It’s Saturday.”

  “Oh.”

  Obviously, she’d lost track of the days during her self-imposed solitary confinement. She chewed a ragged purple fingernail and considered her options. Riding around in a pony cart with a couple of little kids definitely wasn’t her idea of a cool way to spend a Saturday.

  On the other hand, the trouble with sulking in silence was that it got to be a real drag after a while. Her feelings were still all tangled up in a huge knot and there were so many of them—anger, frustration, fear, love—jumbled up inside her she could hardly think straight.

  She was more than ready to come out of the bedroom, but since Alec had given up asking, she hadn’t been able to figure out how to pull it off without looking as if she was surrendering and giving him the upper hand. Still, as nice as this room was, she was getting sick and tired of looking at the same four walls.

  “Maybe we’ll see the lady,” Brigid said.

  “Your mom said something about her.”

  “I’ll tell the story if you’d like to be listening.”

  Zoe glanced around the room again. Then looked out the window where green fields and the glistening lake beckoned. Her shoulders lifted and dropped in a shrug meant to show them how little she cared. “Might as well.”

  “Oh, it’s a grand story,” Brigid said on a bit of a lisp as she grinned up at Zoe. “You’re going to love it!” She looked up at her brother. “Now you can ask her for your notebook before we go,” she prompted.

  “Notebook?” Zoe asked.

  “It’s beneath my mattress,” he mumbled, obviously embarrassed.

  “It’s his spy notebook!” Brigid announced loudly.

  “Spy notebook? Like double-oh seven?”

  “A bit like that,” he confessed. “I got the idea when I read Harriet the Spy for a book report in school.”

  “I read that.” Zoe remembered finding in the poor little rich girl a friend she could not only identify with, but trust.

  “Did you like it?”

  “It was okay, I guess.” She did not divulge that for the six months after having read the book, she’d walked around with a notebook and leaky pen, recording every observation, searching for patterns that might explain her unhappy life.

  “I liked it a lot. Even if Harriet was a girl, she was a good spy.”

  “Jamie’s going to be a spy when he grows up.”

  “I said I might become a spy,” he corrected his sister. “I like writing things down,” he told Zoe. “So maybe I’ll be a writer like Uncle Quinn.”

  “And write about spies,” Brigid suggested as Zoe obligingly lifted the mattress, allowing Jamie to retrieve the blue spiral-bound notebook.

  Fifteen minutes later she was bouncing down the lane in a horse-drawn cart filled with little kids. They’d stopped along the way and picked up a red-haired girl named Shea who was introduced as Michael Joyce’s daughter.

  Then they made another stop for another boy and girl. As they continued on to the lake, Zoe was relieved she didn’t know anyone in Ireland. She’d never live it down if anyone from school saw her with this bunch of Irish munchkins.

  “Rory’s da makes movies,” Brigid told Zoe, after their cousin joined them with Celia Joyce, who was introduced as Rory’s aunt, but looked about the same age. “He made the movie about the Lady when I was just a wee girl, and we all went to the pre—pre—”

  “Premiere,” her brother filled in as she struggled for the word.

  “That’s it.” She nodded and beamed up at Zoe. “It was in Dublin and we all got dressed up in our Sunday clothes and flew on our very own airplane.”

  “’Twasn’t really our airplane,” Jamie qualified. “Quinn only hired it for the weekend.”

  “Sounds rad,” Zoe admitted.

  After breaking up with the duke, her mother had, for a while, dated an actor she met at the Cannes film festival. He’d been totally stuck on himself and Zoe had hated him as much as he’d hated her. He’d sure never taken them to a premiere party. Rory’s dad, on the
other hand, didn’t sound like a Hollyweird phony.

  “Quinn is really, really nice,” Brigid said. “Mum says he doesn’t act like a famous Hollywood person at all.”

  Zoe was startled to hear her own thoughts spoken in a clear bell tone tinged with its Irish musical cadence. She looked at Brigid.

  The little girl looked right back at her.

  And in that brief exchange of silent communication, Zoe realized that Kate O’Sullivan wasn’t the only druid witch in the family.

  “He’s like a regular person,” Jamie agreed. “Didn’t he come on the father-and-son trek with us?”

  “That was fun,” Rory said.

  “Until you thought you got the leprosy…. It was really sunburn,” he told Zoe as Rory flushed scarlet.

  “It could have been leprosy,” Rory muttered.

  “If he did get the leprosy, Erin could have fixed it,” Shea said. “She’s my new mum,” the girl informed Zoe. “From America, just like Rory’s da. And she’s a doctor. She helped make me better when I had my brain tumor.”

  “You did not,” Zoe challenged.

  “I did,” Shea said earnestly. She bent her head and parted some fiery curls. “See, that’s where they cut into my head and took it out.”

  There was indeed a network of raised red scars. The thought of anyone drilling into her skull made Zoe’s stomach slip over. “That must’ve really hurt.”

  “Oh no, because Dr. Jess, who’s Erin’s best friend, gave me a shot that made me go to sleep before the operation. And Mary Margaret was watching over me. She’s my guardian angel.”

  Zoe rolled her eyes but, not wanting to get into an argument with a little kid who’d nearly died, didn’t bother to respond.

  12

  LEGENDS LAKE was shaking with what appeared to be stark fear, just as he had that first morning Alec had watched him blow at Tarlington Farms. He pawed the ground and snorted, running away whenever Alec attempted to approach. Having always prided himself on his ability to handle horses without force, Alec’s frustration escalated as the colt demonstrated yet again that he was not the least bit eager to be captured.