An Irish Country Love Story by Patrick Taylor Page B

expect to find Jasper here. There seemed to be nowhere to hide, but they wouldn’t know until they’d walked it. “Not finding the going too bad, pet?” O’Reilly asked.
    â€œNot one bit,” she said, matching him pace for pace. “It feels so good to just walk in the open air. I wish I could take a walk when I’m at the hospital, but it’s so darn busy I usually just grab a bite at mealtime and keep working.”
    Before O’Reilly could follow up on that cue, she’d changed the subject. “Arthur’s having fun. Look.”
    The big Lab was running along the edge of a drainage ditch, nose to the ground, tail in the air.
    She pointed at a herd of cows grazing in the next field. “What kind are those?”
    â€œDexters,” he said. “Good for both milk and beef.”
    A sudden hoarse craking and clattering of pinions accompanied two teal as they sprang into the air and flew away.
    â€œPretty wee birds,” O’Reilly said. “Tasty roasted too. Don’t let Lars hear me say that, though.”
    â€œAs long as you don’t expect me to pluck and gut them, I’ll cook them for you anytime.” She looked him in the eye. “Aren’t the eye patches on the lead bird pretty? I think teal blue would be a very good colour for the dining room.”
    So she wasn’t going to drop the quest for new curtains. O’Reilly opened a gate standing in the middle of the open field. There was no flanking wall, fence, nor hedge. The gate closed off the bridge over the drainage ditch that flowed between the two fields. “And I think that today we’re looking for a lost dog. We’re getting close to culverts where he may be hiding.” Cows had wandered over, and he moved closer to Kitty, not wanting her frightened by so many big animals. He needn’t have worried.
    She clapped her hands, yelling, “Get away to hell out of that,” and they lumbered off. “I’m not a complete city girl,” she said. “Dad used to take us on picnics in farmers’ fields in County Wicklow. They call it the garden of Ireland, so green, and Glendalough is stunning. Mum loved Saint Kevin’s Monastery.”
    O’Reilly sang,
    In Glendalough lived an ould saint,
    Renowned for learning and piety
    His manners were curious and quaint
    And he looked upon girls with disparity.
    â€œBut I don’t. I love you, city girl,” said O’Reilly, closing the gate. He took her hand and together they followed Arthur as he crashed through several clumps of yellow-flowered gorse, scattering their almond scent, and rabbits that scuttled off, white tails bobbing. O’Reilly and Kitty spent most of the time avoiding stepping in steaming piles of fresh cow clap.
    He clambered atop a low dry stone wall and held out his hand. “Let me help you.”
    Kitty took his hand and he hauled her up. He was going to jump down when Kitty held her free hand above her eyes and said, “Good Lord, whatever’s going on over there? And listen to that.”
    As they had progressed, O’Reilly had glanced from time to time to the clear area to his right. The pack was spread out across the fields and the three equestrians spaced out across the ground had been following the dogs at a leisurely walk. Things had changed. “Holy Moses,” he said, “I think they’ve started a fox and the hounds are off in full cry.” The air was rent by the belling of twenty foxhounds now racing along in a much tighter pack close on the heels of a low russet animal tearing diagonally to cross in front of where O’Reilly and Kitty stood.
    Myrna could be heard yelling, “Tallyho,” the traditional cry of a hunter who has the fox in view. She was leading, crouched low in the saddle, her horse’s hooves pounding on the turf. O’Reilly could hear the animal snorting. “Stay up there, Kitty,” O’Reilly said.