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attagirl, boss, but you’re wasting time flapping your lips. We got work to do.”
    Quincy managed a smile. He’d just pulled his phone from his belt to call the security company when his father entered the building via the personnel door. “Hey, Dad, good to see you.”
    Wiry and lean, yet well muscled, Frank strode across the sandy arena, his bowed legs bearing testimony that he’d been in a saddle most of his life. Beneath the brim of his brown Stetson, his hair still shone as black as jet, with only touches of silver at the temples. He paused to pet Bubba and Billy Bob, who were excited to see him after so long. Then he sauntered toward Quincy again.
    “What the heck happened over here?” His dark brown eyes reflected concern. “I heard the sirens. Woke me up from a sound sleep. Saw the cop lights clear from my place.”
    “Some woman broke into the arena. I found her sleeping in Beethoven’s stall.”
    “That took gonads. She’s lucky he didn’t trample her. He don’t cotton much to strangers.”
    Quincy quickly gave his father the rundown. “I swear, Dad, if I was the superstitious sort, I might have bought into her story.” With a shake of his head, Quincy laughed humorlessly. “Crystal balls, druids, and traveling forward through time. She has to be a bona fide nutcase.”
    Frank nodded in agreement. He looked drawn and years older than he had a week ago, when Quincy had last seen him in Portland. Normally when Quincy studied his dad, he took heart that he had inherited good aging genes and would still be fit and strong in his sixties. But this morning the forecast didn’t seem quite so positive. With Loni’s illness, Clint’s pain, and the grim prognosis, Frank was showing his age.
    Since his father contributed nothing more to the exchange, Quincy continued his story. “I have to admit she spooked me a couple of times. She probably made up the bit about our name being changed from O’Hourigan to Harrigan way back when, but her knowing about how Mom died and how sick Loni is?” Quincy shrugged. “ That was downright eerie.”
    “O’Hourigan,” Frank repeated softly. “Why does that ring a bell?” His gaze sharpened on Quincy’s face. “I remember now. I think I’ve seen that name in the old family Bible.”
    Quincy’s nape hair stood on end. “You what?”
    “You heard me. When my family came here from Ireland during the potato famine, they changed our surname to something that sounded a little less Irish.”
    “Are you shitting me?”
    Frank swept his brown Stetson from his head and whacked it against his leg. “No, I’m dead serious. You gotta remember that bein’ Irish wasn’t a plus way back then. Changin’ the family name to Harrigan was part of our fresh start in the land of dreams and possibilities.”
    Quincy couldn’t quite believe his ears. “Are you saying our surname was once O’Hourigan?”
    “I can’t say for certain. I’d have to get the Bible out of the safety deposit box at the bank to check. But O’Hourigan sure as hell sounds familiar.”
    It was Quincy’s turn to give his hat a good dusting on his jeans. “That is too weird for words. How in the hell could that woman have known about the name change when I didn’t know about it myself?”
    For the first time, Quincy questioned the wisdom of having had the O’Ceallaigh woman arrested. Then he gave himself a hard mental shake and reminded himself that an accomplished researcher could discover almost anything on the Internet nowadays. Ceara O’Ceallaigh was a convincing liar and spinner of tall tales, nothing more. Right about now, the authorities were probably trying to decide which psychiatrist to send her to for evaluation and treatment.
    * * *
    By the time Ceara was delivered to what her captors called the station, she was violently nauseated and shaking like a leaf. The horseless carriage with flames painted on its doors had traveled at such an incredible speed that the landscape had passed by