An Irish Country Love Story by Patrick Taylor Page A

to get moving. Any questions?” He waited, but none came. “Let’s get started.” He produced a referee’s whistle. “I’ll give us a wheep on this when we’re all ready so we can start together.”
    There were general mutterings of assent. O’Reilly waited as searchers strode past him to take up their positions. Patches of snow were scattered on the lower slopes, and the ridgeline was covered and glistening in the weak morning sunlight. The breath of horses, dogs, and people hung on the crisp, still air.
    â€œSo, big brother,” O’Reilly said as he moved to stand in front of Lars’s mount and stroke the horse’s soft cheek, smelling her hay-sweet breath, “since when have you been riding?”
    â€œSince he started coming to Ballybucklebo House to help us give most of our lands to the National Trust,” said the marquis.
    â€œYour brother, Fingal, is working like a demon for us,” said Myrna. “And we’re so grateful. It looks as though we’ll still have the rights to live there, farm there, and shoot there. He is remarkably industrious and creative.” She looked at him and nodded her head. “But he’s shy, and does not get nearly enough exercise. I’ve taken him in hand.”
    Lars sighed and smiled. “She insists we go riding twice a week, and talked me into coming today. I’ve learned how to get on—”
    â€œMount,” Myrna said. “Mount. Let’s get the terms right. I’d have thought solicitors were sticklers for exactitude when it comes to language.” She shook her head but was still smiling. “You, my dear Lars, may know about tort and res ipsa loquitor, and the names and breeding habits of hundreds of orchids, but when we started you couldn’t tell a cannon from a pastern or a hock from a gaskin.”
    â€œThose are parts of a horse, but I won’t tell you which ones,” Lars said, glancing at Myrna with a grin.
    â€œI’m sure I hardly know one end of a horse from the other.” Kitty smiled and winked at O’Reilly. “But I’m impressed. And you’re learning, Lars?”
    â€œSo far, Kitty, I can walk and trot and we’re working on my cantering…” He laughed.
    Goodness, O’Reilly thought, my usually reserved brother seems to be coming out of himself.
    â€œAnd so far—so far, I haven’t fallen off.”
    â€œThere are only two kinds of horsemen,” said Myrna. “Those who have fallen off and those who are going to. You will, someday. But not today.”
    This coming from a woman who not so long ago had been thrown and had fractured her now-healed femur. She’d been very brave throughout the whole thing and O’Reilly had got to know and like Lady Myrna Ferguson better and better.
    â€œYou’ll be fine, Lars. This is Rubidium, thirty-seventh element in the periodic table. Ruby for short. She’s as good a horse as there is. Gentle as a kitten. You’ll be perfectly safe with Ruby.”
    A voice O’Reilly recognised came from the left. Donal Donnelly had been released from work today by his boss, Bertie Bishop, to take part. “All set this side, sir.”
    â€œSame here,” came from Lenny Brown on O’Reilly’s right.
    â€œRight, come on, Kitty. See you all for lunch,” O’Reilly said. “And no galloping, Lars. Kitty and I are off duty and don’t want to be setting any broken bones.”
    The marquis saluted by touching his crop to the peak of his hard hat.
    O’Reilly took Kitty’s hand and together they trudged fifty yards from the open area. Donal stood fifty yards farther out.
    O’Reilly put his whistle between his lips, looked to each side, nodded to himself, and blew a long blast. “Hey on out, Arthur,” he said, and the big dog obeyed.
    The small ploughed field smelt of earth, and mud clung to his boots. He didn’t