Quincy thought about it. “There’s a problem. If I drop the charges, and then Loni tells us Ceara is a lunatic, I’ll have let her get out of jail, and she’ll go scot-free.”
“Don’t drop the charges then,” Frank said softly. “Just post her bail.”
Chapter Four
Before Quincy took off for the police station, he needed some time to think. After bidding his father farewell, he felt drawn to Beethoven’s stall. If Quincy had a favorite place, he guessed this was it. Some folks liked to sit along a creek, others under a tree or on a hill. For Quincy, tranquillity was found with his stallion.
“Hey, boss,” a hired hand called. “How’s Clint’s wife doing?”
Quincy turned to see Pierce Howlitz, a thin redhead with so many freckles that he appeared to have a perpetual suntan. Soon to be twenty-three, the kid still had the cocky swagger of an untried youth, which had made Quincy worry at first about hiring him, but over time Pierce had proven himself to be a decent sort with a mild manner. Quincy had long since decided that the air of machismo was mostly for show, Pierce’s way of trying to compensate for his slight build and lack of musculature. Dumb. When push came to shove, Pierce was deceptively strong and agile, a great fellow with horses.
“Not so good, Pierce, but thanks for asking.”
The younger man settled in beside Quincy at the gate to study the stallion. “He’s fixing to be a daddy again, you know. I was looking at the breeding records yesterday, and Symphony should foal around the middle of April. I was wondering if you’ve thought of names for the new baby yet. It’s only a few weeks away.”
Quincy had been so worried about Loni he hadn’t given a thought to the matter. “No, actually, I haven’t.” He glanced sideways at the youth’s freckled countenance. “You got some ideas?”
Pierce grinned sheepishly and dipped his head. “Well, I just been thinking. It’s your stable policy to always pick names that have to do with music or singers or famous composers. For a filly, I kind of favor Crescendo. And”—he broke off and widened his grin—“don’t laugh, but what about Liberace if it’s a colt?”
Quincy considered the names for a moment then finally nodded. “Good choices, Pierce. I’ll keep them in mind when the time comes. Just remember that the AQHA can’t register two horses under the same name. It’ll depend on whether or not those two are already taken.”
Pierce’s neck had turned a ruddy pink, a telltale sign that Quincy’s approval of his ideas had pleased him. He nodded and stepped back. “I hope Loni gets better, sir. I’ve been praying for her.” The blush moved upward to his cheeks. “Some people just say that and don’t really mean it, but I do. I pray for her every day.”
“I appreciate that, and I know Clint will, too, when I tell him.”
Pierce hitched up his pants, a habit of his because his belt failed to keep his waistband from riding low. “Well, I better get back to work or Bingo will be calling me a slacker.”
Quincy nodded, making a mental note that the kid had grit and was bucking for a future as his foreman. He resumed his study of Beethoven, trying as he did to focus his thoughts once again on Ceara O’Ceallaigh and whether he should bail her out of jail. A dark object in the corner of the stall caught Quincy’s attention. The satchel. He scaled the gate to collect the crazy-looking hat and small piece of luggage, then hesitated and shot the bundle a suspicious look. This stuff had appeared with a flash of light along with Ceara. Gingerly he fingered it, and then took it directly to his arena office, where he called Frank on his cell.
“Hey, Dad, sorry to bug you, but in all the excitement, I totally forgot that Ceara’s satchel was still in Beethoven’s stall.” He sank onto the leather caster chair at his desk. “I went through it this morning, but I didn’t really examine the contents. I was more interested in finding vials or traces of powder in case she’d laced my horses’ feed with something poisonous.”
“You gonna go through it again now?” Frank asked. “Chances are Nona’s boys already did that.”
Quincy nodded. “Yeah, it’s probably been searched, but I see no harm in doing it again. Thought maybe you’d like to join me.”
“Be there in five,” Frank told him.
Quincy ended the call and rocked back on the chair to study the satchel he’d set on his desk. The bag was made of tapestry, an attractive variegation of autumn colors that wasn’t the least bit faded. His mouth twisted into a smirk. The style of the grip looked antediluvian, but the cloth itself was bright and unworn. Almost five hundred years old, my ass, he thought.
A screech of brakes and a slammed door announced Frank’s arrival. A moment later he strode into the office, beating his promised time by nearly three minutes. Quincy took off his Stetson and sent it sailing toward the hat tree, where it caught, spun, and then settled in place on a top branch. Quincy grinned at the small accomplishment. He seldom missed, and he sure didn’t want to do so in front of his dad. “Damn, Dad, what’d you do, fly to get here so fast?”
Frank chuckled as he sauntered over the Cyprus planks to take a seat across from Quincy. “Maybe I beamed myself down. I hear tell that people of druid blood can do that.”
Quincy shot him an irked don’t-let’s-start-that-again look. “She’s not really a druid, Dad. She’s a twenty-first-century schizophrenic—or something along those lines.”
Frank settled his gaze on the grip. “Mighty pretty lady to be crazy.”
Quincy preferred not to think about Ceara’s delicate features, big blue eyes, and brilliant red hair. “I don’t think insanity is choosy about the appearance of its victims.” He stood to open the satchel. “You ready for some snooping?”
Frank pushed to his feet. “Ready as I’ll ever be. What’s that on top?”
Quincy withdrew the carefully folded cloth. “When I opened the bag early this morning, I thought it was a garment of some kind, but now that I’ve seen the camera footage, I know it’s that weird star of Ceara’s with the stones at each tip. Remember, she was standing on it when she was beamed down.”
A chuckle rumbled up from Frank’s throat. “No need for sarcasm.” He leaned closer as Quincy unfolded the star. Then he whispered, “Holy shit.”
For an instant, Quincy didn’t know what had startled his father, but then he saw that the stones were glowing an eerie blue again. He was so taken aback that he jerked his hands away from the cloth. The instant he did, the stones turned back to ordinary gray.
“Holy shit is right,” Quincy said as he struggled to regain his composure. “There’s a simple explanation, Dad. I’m sure there are substances that can be painted on surfaces that react to body heat. When I touched the stones while unfolding the cloth, the warmth of my hands made them glow.”
Frank jerked off his Stetson and tossed it on the tall metal file cabinet along a near wall. It skidded across the smooth surface and tumbled to the floor. Quincy opened his mouth to give Frank a hard time when his father announced, “Or the stones react to the touch of a person with druid blood.”
“Oh, for God’s—” Quincy broke off at Frank’s glare. “Okay, okay.” A taut silence fell between the two men, broken only by the electronic hum of the office equipment and a sound alert from the computer that an e-mail had just come in. For as long as Quincy could remember, he had admired his father’s no-nonsense approach to life. Now all of a sudden Frank seemed all too willing to believe in the impossible. “Dad, can you at least try to keep your head on straight about this?”
His features drawn with exhaustion, Frank met Quincy’s gaze. “I’ve got a daughter dyin’, son, so maybe I’m wishin’ on rainbows and takin’ leaps of faith I normally wouldn’t. Those doctors are sayin’ there’s no hope, that she’s already as good as dead. Is it so wrong of me to be feelin’ just a little desperate right now?”
His father’s response struck Quincy like icy ocean spray. He hung his head for a second, staring at the cloth star, ashamed of himself for being so hell-bent on sticking to scientifically proven facts
. Miracles could happen. Quincy simply wasn’t certain that Ceara O’Ceallaigh was heaven-sent. There were other places people could drop in from—or climb up out of.
“I know how you feel, Dad,” Quincy replied in a voice gone husky with emotion. “At least, I think I do, because I’m feeling the same. Of course I want to throw common sense to the wind and grab at any possible chance, no matter how crazy. You know how I feel about Loni. We all adore her. We’re still reeling. We feel helpless. I’d do anything to save her, but—”
“Then stop bein’ so damned reasonable for a while and try thinkin’ outside the box,” Frank cut in. Quincy gaped. His father’s tone had changed to one that sounded like an industrial cutting tool. “Just this once, Quincy, let’s believe in miracles and magic, even if it turns out we’re a couple of fools.” Frank raised an arm and banged a fist on the desk. Quincy’s hand shot out and rescued the lamp as Frank continued. “I need something to hang on to right now. If Loni tells us this Ceara gal is a fake, then I’ll let it go. But, damn it, what if Loni tells us she’s for real?”
Quincy had no ready answer, so he began emptying the satchel, carefully placing each item on his desk.
Frank whistled when he saw the ivory-backed brush and hand mirror. “Give me them things. My God, would you look at that? We’re talkin’ genuine ivory. If it’s fake, you can kiss my bare ass in broad daylight on the courthouse steps.”
“I’ll pass.” Quincy fingered the back of the brush, which was intricately carved. It felt and looked like real ivory. “Really examine this, Dad. I agree it’s probably genuine ivory, but does it look hundreds of years old to you?”
Frank took the brush and fanned his fingers over the bristles. “Genuine pig bristles,” he announced thoughtfully. “You know how long it’s been since I seen pig bristles? My mama used to have a pig-bristle toothbrush.” After further examination, Frank sighed, the sound defeated. “You’re right, though. Mama’s toothbrush wore down to not much more than nubs with years of use. This hairbrush shows little wear as yet.”
“Can brushes and mirrors like this still be purchased?” Quincy asked.
“I imagine so,” Frank conceded, “if you’re willin’ to pay the price. You ain’t gonna find a set like this at a department store; that’s for damned sure. You’d have to special-order it.”
“So Ceara O’Ceallaigh may be a wealthy lunatic.”
“A wealthy confused person,” Frank corrected.
Quincy ignored the jibe and dug deeper in the satchel to pull out a thimble that also looked to be made of ivory. “Wow. I think this is the real thing, too.”
Frank was still fingering the brush. “Go with me for a minute,” he said gruffly. “Say Ceara is really from the fifteen hundreds and she traveled forward in time with these things. In her day, they might have been new, or fairly new, because she’s young, and they wouldn’t have been showing any wear yet. You followin’ me? A woman back then probably had only one brush, mirror, and comb her whole life long, so things were made to last, not like the plastic and nylon crap we buy today. Travelin’ forward in time wouldn’t make anything instantly old, would it, any more than it made Ceara instantly old?”
A bitch of a headache blossomed behind Quincy’s eyes. He wanted a miracle for Loni as much as anyone else did, but was his father actually hearing himself? The entire conversation was moving quickly from strange to totally bizarre. But bizarre or not, his dad’s theory made sense. If Ceara hadn’t aged on her still-unverified trip, why should her possessions?
Damn. He was losing it, really losing it. He dug deeper inside the satchel and pulled out a silk gown of burnished gold, similar in design to the one Ceara had been wearing that morning. Upon close inspection, Quincy noted that the cloth looked like genuine silk, but the lace trim resembled—what was that needlework his grandma Mariah had once done, tatting or something like that? As young as he’d been, Quincy could still remember hovering by her rocker to watch her arthritic fingers create lace as delicate as spiderwebs.
Holding the dress up in front of him, Quincy wanted to believe it was a reproduction, but his common sense told him that probably wasn’t true. Who in her right mind would go to so much effort to create a replica? And there were other things inside the bag—odds and ends that defied explanation. An intricately hand-carved wooden horse. Prayers and recipes written in elaborate script on paper so different from any Quincy had ever seen that he could no longer tell himself everything he saw was fake. Wordlessly he handed each item to Frank after he’d examined it, and his dad, equally silent, gave it a second looking over.
What if? Quincy was a practical man, but he kept remembering the appeal in Ceara’s gaze as the cops took her away. She was either unbalanced or completely convinced she was telling the truth. Of course, that didn’t mean she wasn’t some kind of a nut. Quincy was still pretty much sure that had to be the case.
But Loni . . . she would know for sure.
“All right,” he said hoarsely, “I’ll bail her out of jail, Dad. I’m not sure it’s smart, but I’ll do it.”
Frank’s shoulders relaxed, angling into a slump beneath his fleece-lined jacket. He nodded. “It’s what we gotta do, son. Clint will have Loni home and settled in by early evenin’. The only way we can know for sure if this Ceara woman is legitimate is to let Loni touch her hand. Then, one way or another, we’ll have the truth.”
“It may not be the truth you’re hoping for,” Quincy warned.
Frank’s haggard face creased in a weary grin. “I’m aware of that. On the other hand, maybe the truth will be an answer to all our prayers.”
* * *
Ceara jerked awake from an exhausted sleep to the sound of a female voice shouting, “Oh—kee—alley! On your feet. Somebody posted your bail.”
Ceara rolled to a sitting position, nearly falling off the narrow cot in the process. Sleep hazed her vision. Every muscle in her body ached and protested the sudden movement. She blinked and rubbed her face, then slowly brought into focus the round countenance of a female guard with eyes as black as currants and skin as brown as a dried hazelnut. The woman’s hair crowned her head like a cap, black curls glistening in the light cast from the ceiling by strange, boxlike objects that somehow produced steady light.
“Do ye mean I’m free to go?” Ceara asked as she wobbled to her feet.
The fleshy woman, dressed in a light blue léine and darker trews, opened the cell door and tossed a shiny red sack into Ceara’s arms. “Free as a bird. Get dressed. Leave your scrubs on the cot. I’ll wait for you at the end of the corridor.”
Ceara didn’t need to be told twice. She put the bag on her bed and struggled to loosen the drawstring. In all her days, she’d never seen such a sack. It shimmered like polished satin, but to the touch, it felt insubstantial, slick, and a bit stretchy. It made a faint crackling sound as she pulled it open. Inside were her things—the green gown, her ankle-length léine, her underclothes, and her prized velvet slippers. She hurried to clothe herself, ignoring the curious stares of the other women in nearby cells.
“So, you’re getting out in record time,” Paula, the woman next door, noted. “What did I tell you, sweetie? We’re like cattle in a chute, in for a bit and then booted out.”
Ceara had no idea how this turn of events had come to pass, but she thanked God that it had. Freedom. She had fully expected to be imprisoned for the remainder of her life. She quickly donned her léine, lacing it tight to her waist, and then tugged on her dress.
“Sweet Christ, you wear enough layers,” the older woman said. “Does that really work for you out on the streets? Maybe I need to get me an outfit like that.”
Ceara didn’t know what Paula was talking about, and she had no desire to tarry for an explanation. “’Twas lovely making yer acquaintance,” she said breathlessly as she tested her bodice laces. ’Tis my hope that ye shall be set free soon. ’Tis no place fer a gentlewoman.”
“Now, that’s a new one,” the woman said with a husky lau
gh. “A gentlewoman, am I? I like the sound of that.”
Hopping to get her slippers on, Ceara exited the cell. “Farewell, me friend. May ye be in heaven a full hour before the devil knows ye’re dead. ’Twill be me prayer that ye become rich and make the journey to New Zealand well before that becomes a worry.”
The woman laughed again. “If I had a beer, I’d toast to that, and same back at you. Maybe you’ll return to Ireland soon.”
As Ceara raced along the corridor, praying the guard hadn’t left her behind, she wanted to shout over her shoulder that she would never again see the Ireland of her birth. But ’twas a wee bit of information best kept to herself.
Once out of the cell block, Ceara was led into a small room appointed with only a chest-high bench. Behind it, a balding man in a uniform stamped forms and made her sign papers, one stating that all her personal belongings had been returned to her. “’Tis not so,” she protested. “Sir Quincy Harrigan kept me hat and me satchel, which contains all me belongings except for the clothing on me back.”
The man shrugged. “Take it up with Mr. Harrigan. We are responsible only for what was in your possession when we booked you.”
Ceara reluctantly signed the paper with a strange writing implement she wanted to take apart and examine. ’Twas not a quill. There was no need to dip it in an inkwell. How did it work? As she signed her name several times, she kept expecting it to run dry, but it didn’t.
The man took the documents and slipped them into a folder. “You’re free to go, ma’am. Just don’t leave town until your court hearing. Since you have no address here, notification of date and time will be sent to you general delivery. Be sure to stop by the main post office every couple of days to see if it has arrived.”
Post office? She would have to find out what that meant, but two words she understood clearly. Her heart squeezed. “Court hearing? So I’m still in trouble?”
“Breaking and entering is a serious offense. Getting out on bail doesn’t negate the fact that you’ve been accused of a crime.” He jabbed a thumb at some double swinging doors to her left. “Go out that way, and best of luck to you.”