Рита Браун - Out Of Hounds

“Mr. Sabatini…” He paused. “Be right back, I left her papers in the office. Let me load her up first. She’s easy.”

Sugar walked up the dropped ramp, beheld a full hay net, went right for it.

Sam stroked her neck then closed the inside divider of the three-horse trailer.

Crawford owned the three-horse trailer, his most practical; a four-horse; and a six-horse. Did he need all those trailers? No, but he had to have them.

Skiff closed the doors when Sam walked out, both lifted the ramp, securing it as Parker returned, handing Sam a fat envelope. “He’s sending the rug, too. Outside she used a heavier one.”

“We’ve got plenty. Anything else you think we should know?” Sam talked while Skiff observed everything, including a large plumbing box truck parked at a distance. This was the basis for Gigi Sabatini’s fortune. The high-end sinks, showers, tubs, and copper pipes were sold nationally.

One of the advantages of being overlooked as a woman is one could study surroundings and other people.

They shook hands, Sam and Skiff, stepped up into the cab of the dually.

“How’s it look? Can’t see Parker. Don’t want to run over him.” Sam checked the side mirrors.

“He’s out of the way.” Skiff snapped her seatbelt. “Let’s hope Sugar’s not hotter than a pistol. Loaded easily enough.”

“Never know until you throw your leg over,” Sam truthfully said.

“Maybe Sugar won’t be ridden at all. The boss is determined to breed blood bays.” She noticed the brand-new fencing, mentally tallying up the cost.

“If color were that easy to breed there’d be more blood bays, more paints, more blanket Appaloosas.” Sam cruised at forty miles per hour.

No need to hurry, especially on the back roads.

“You know the late Aga Khan bred fabulous horses but I don’t know if color was important to him.” Sam read as much as he could about great former horsemen. “But on the other hand, Tesio, the other great breeder in the first half of the twentieth century, felt that grays were mutations. He wouldn’t have one. I can’t say as I see a difference. A good horse is the right color.”

“When is Yvonne coming over for a lesson?”

“This afternoon. She’s almost ready to go out hunting. The rear of Second Flight. I’ll ride with her but she has that long leg. She really has stuck with it.”

“Be good to have a mother and daughter, Yvonne and Tootie, in the field. It’s good when families ride together.”

“When I was a kid, we all did. Even Aunt Dan would get up there for the hunt club’s annual show. We did the family class, my mom, Aunt Dan, Gray, Mercer, and myself. If Mercer were here he’d know every name on Sugar’s papers. What’s her registered name, by the way?”

Skiff opened the fat envelope, which wasn’t sealed, pulling out Sugar’s Jockey Club registration plus her medical papers, shots as well as her last shoeing date. Also enclosed was her feed, the protein content, the fat and sugar content. She was too good a horse to wing it.

“Aspasia’s Dynamite.” Skiff turned to him. “Greek?”

“Pericles’s lover.”

“Did you major in history at Harvard?”

“No, but we took basic courses the first two years; in those days you had to do that before you truly majored. The idea was you’d best understand your own culture, along with calculus.”

“Gone by the time I was at Radford. Not calculus, but I didn’t have to take it. Hate math.”

“I learned a lot. If you don’t know where you’ve been you don’t know where you’re going. It’s a sure bet our enemies know their own culture. It’s pretty stupid not to learn your own.”

“You have Aunt Dan, you’ll always know where you’re going.” She laughed, as did he. “What was her son like?”

“Mercer. Good-looking like Aunt Daniella. Being a bloodstock agent, he had a terrific memory. He could see a horse once and remember everything about the animal. He was gay, which you probably heard, but he was discrete. Gray and I didn’t care but we made him come with us to buy clothes. We teased him that gay men were the best dressers. Even when I was at the bottom of the barrel he would find clothes and bring them to me. He believed you only have one chance to make a first impression.”

“True.”

“Also, Gray and Mercer helped me sober up. I wouldn’t be alive without them. His death was a blow. I think,” he counted in his head, “he was fifty-nine or close. I don’t know. The years go by too fast.”

So did the miles, for he pulled into the long drive at Beasley Hall. No sooner did the trailer stop at Crawford’s main barn than his old Hummer rolled down the driveway.

Out he popped to watch Sugar unload. He did have sense enough to get out of the way. Sam walked her into the barn, Skiff handed him the papers.

Sam quietly guided Sugar into an empty stall, prepared for her, peanut hulls for bedding and alfalfa/orchard grass hay flakes in the corner.

“How about I give her two days then ride her, if that’s all right with you?” Sam asked. “Get her a bit settled.”

“Sure.” Crawford nodded. “What did you think of the operation?”

“Everything’s brand new. Fences newly painted. Brass bolts on the stalls. Brass plates by the door. The wrought iron from Cynthiana, Kentucky. PaveSafe on the floor. Equi-grip in the stalls. He spent a fortune.” Skiff smiled.

“Huge barn, good paddocks. Very well laid out. Someone knew what they were doing,” Sam added. “Place already full of boarders, and you know, he’s hired an Olympic show jumper for a trainer.”

Crawford rubbed his chin. “We’ll see.”

A big Lexus slowly drove down the drive, turning toward the house.

“Nineteenth-century expert from the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts. I know Ben Sidell is a good man, but how many law enforcement officers do you know who understand the art market? Especially for a Munnings? All right. Keep me informed about her.”

“Yes, Sir.” Sam opened the Hummer door for Crawford.

As the boss drove away Skiff, watching the new horse, said to Sam as he walked back in, “That was one of the most beautiful paintings I have ever seen. I hope he gets it back.”

“I do, too. I hope it’s not on a private jet flying to wherever.”

“Me, too.”

“What did you think of Showoff?”

Turning to look at Sam, whom she greatly respected, she remarked, “Aptly named. A lot of wasted money. Who needs cast-iron lampposts lining the drive? That’s like Custis Hall.” She cited the expensive private girls school over the mountain, founded in 1812 by the founder of Old Paradise. The school grew after the war was won. “Chandeliers? I could make out a chandelier in the office.”

“Mmm. Waste, yes, but intelligence, too. Every single paddock had frost-free waterers. The hay was stored in rows with space for air to flow in the hay barn, and that was sort of behind the main stable. So no hay overhead. Makes for more work but also makes for safety. Few can afford that extra hand to move the hay every single day.”

She considered this. “You’re right. But I only saw Parker Bell.”

“To run a place like that, Sabatini has to have a lot of people to drive the tractors, plow the roads, move the hay, keep the fences painted. The man has white fences. Nonstop labor. Washing the windows. Then there’s the Olympic trainer who also has to have an assistant. Who will muck the stalls? Sabatini has about a two hundred thousand dollar nut to crack to keep all perfect. Well, let me drop that back because I don’t know what he pays the Olympian. He’ll have to house him.”

“Her.”

“Ah.” Sam pulled off his gloves, walked into the stall to feel Sugar’s pulse. “Should have thought of that.”