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give this one up.
    It wasnt until later, until after hed driven her home and left her at the door, after shed scrubbed away all traces of the foaling barn and curled up beneath the warm duvet, until shed gone over every word of their conversation and relived every nuance of his expression, that it came to her. How could Brian Hennessey know that a man in charge of a multi-million dollar thoroughbred farm cared nothing for horses?
    Caitlin punched her pillow and flipped over on her back. It was late and the subtle changes in her appearance, obviously invisible in the soft light of Brians kitchen, would be glaringly evident in full sunlight. Twenty-one-year-old women could manage a few sleepless nights and still appear radiant the next day. Ten years later they could not.
    Her appearance had never concerned her before, at least it hadnt until Samuel Claiborne made it blindingly clear that she lacked the necessary qualities to keep him faithful or even tactfully discreet. Not that her husband meant anything to her. He hadnt in a long time. But Caitlin had never been short on pride and Sams behavior was humiliating.
    Now, in retrospect, with wisdom earned through fourteen years of experience, much of it painful, she could look back to that first year in America and see exactly why she had succumbed to his brand of southern charm, synthetic and maple-syrupy though it was.
    Her two week visit to Lelia, the older sister who lived in Boston, had stretched to three months. Lelia had given her an ultimatum. Find work and a place of her own or go back to Ireland. Caitlin knew she had outlasted her welcome. Three people in a one bath, studio apartment was unbearably crowded. It was time to move out on her own.
    Caitlin had helped out in her mothers pub often enough to know something about waitressing but her heart wasnt in south Boston. She yearned for country roads, fog hanging like gray lace over low stone walls, white plank fences, and gleaming horses grazing in lush grass. It wasnt long before shed earned enough to set out for the bluegrass horsebreeding country south of Louisville, home of the aristocracy of the equine world.
    Unlike Ireland, where women had yet to assume a place in male-dominated occupations, thoroughbred farms in the United States were hiring women throughout the industry. Caitlin was amazed and gratified to see women grooms, trainers, exercisers, and jockeys.
    Charlie Barton, groom for the Claiborne Farms, took a careful measuring look at Caitlins petite, high-waisted frame, her dramatic dark eyes and ivory skin, and another at the compact muscles in legs that appeared too long for her body and hired her on the spot.
    You havent seen me ride, Caitlin had protested.
    Charlie spat out the end of his cigar, pulled a piece of tobacco from his tongue, and grinned, white teeth splitting his black face in two. Missy, ya got the body of a jockey. Ill teach ya whatever ya need to know.
    As it turned out, John OShea, manager of the Curragh Stud, had already taught her more than anyone had expected. By the time Caitlin cashed her first paycheck, Charlie trusted her enough to allow her to begin training
Mollies Joy
, a yearling colt sired by
Citation
, a Triple Crown winner.
    So strong were the images of those early days in Kentucky that Caitlin had only to close her eyes and it would come back to her in graphic detail: the white plank fences, rolling hills, antique shops at every crossroad, the mares frosty breath on the morning air. The light panting and thudding hooves of thoroughbreds out for their morning exercise. The brilliant orange of a southern sunrise. The Kentucky river rolling past white-pillared eighteenth century homes set back on canopied, tree-lined drives. The brilliant purple, red, gold, and green of country fruit stands, and stone walls that reminded her of her fathers home in the west of Ireland.
    Woven throughout it all, was an awareness of moneythe decadent, surreal, eye-crossing pace at which it flowed