Free Perfect Timing by Catherine Anderson Page B

slave. He never knew he was part black until he paid someone to trace his family. Ain’t that somethin’?”
    Quincy shrugged. “There was a time when people preferred to forget if they had certain ancestry. The blacks and Native Americans for sure. Hell, even the Irish and Germans had reason. If a family was trying to bury the secret deep, it wouldn’t have been something they’d have talked about at the supper table to make their kids aware of it.”
    “Maybe the same can be said of druid blood in the Harrigan family, a secret my father or grandfather decided to keep buried.” Frank put the mouth of the water bottle to his lips again. As he capped the container, he added, “I don’t get why some folks are sensitive about bloodlines, but in some cases, I reckon there’s good cause. It wasn’t all that long ago that blacks, Irish, Germans, Jews, and Native Americans was discriminated against.”
    “In a lot of instances, they still are, Dad.”
    Frank nodded. “Reckon so, shameful as it is.” His jet brows drew together in a frown. “And maybe, for similar reasons, my family wanted nobody to know of the druid blood. Think about it. At the next American Quarter Horse Association meetin’, how would people react if I announced that I’m part druid? Don’t you think a good share of folks might avoid me like I had a nasty virus they might catch? That right there would be reason enough for my family to have buried the truth.”
    Quincy’s knees felt as if they’d turned to water. He took a seat across from his dad. “I wouldn’t announce that you’re a druid if you want to keep your position on the board of directors. Come on, Dad, this is a time for clear thinking. We can’t buy into this woman’s story. It makes no sense.”
    “Nope, not a lick,” Frank agreed, “but that don’t negate the fact that she appeared, like magic, in Beethoven’s stall. Them there cameras don’t lie, son.” He hooked a thumb over his chest at the box. “And that damned family tree don’t, either. You saw the pattern. I saw it. Our first wives die, damn it. And now Loni is dyin’.” Frank sat forward on the chair to nail Quincy with a gaze that sparked like flint. “Sweet Christ, think. I know you’re concerned about your horses, but bottom line, is that damn stallion as important to you as Loni? What if this Ceara gal can save her life? What if you can? Would you hesitate?”
    Quincy could no longer feel the seat of the chair under his ass. He groped for words. Was insanity catching? But no, Frank hadn’t even seen the woman except on camera. Quincy’s brain felt like mush. Finally, his tongue moved. “Of course I wouldn’t hesitate, Dad. I love Loni, too. And I love my brother! I know he’s going through sheer hell right now. But think about what you’re suggesting. I’m supposed to go bail a crazy loon out of jail, and—”
    Frank held up a thick, work-roughened forefinger. “A confused lady, you mean?”
    “All right, confused . Majorly confused, Dad. And in order to save Loni, I’m supposed to marry her? She may have entered my arena to harm my horses. She’s sure as hell confused by any normal standards. Give me a break! Hand her over to a good psychiatrist and she’ll be taking medication for the rest of her natural life.”
    “Point taken. Maybe she is crazy. But if we get her out of jail, we can put her to the true test, and it’s better than any examination by a psychiatrist.”
    Quincy mentally circled that. “The true test? I’m not following.”
    Frank spit into the bottle again. “Introduce her to Loni. Let them touch hands.” He snapped his fingers. “Loni will know in a heartbeat if this Ceara gal is a fake. A simple touch, and Loni will know. She’s more accurate than any damned lie detector.”
    All the breath rushed from Quincy’s lungs. He sank back on his chair. “Damn, Dad, that’s brilliant. Loni will know, won’t she?”
    “Of course she will.”
    Quincy thought