Рита Браун - Scarlet Fever

“I’m sure he did, and some of them walked on two legs.” Yvonne rose to fetch a plate, putting cookies on it.

“Oh well, Yvonne, half of marriage or looking desirable is theater. You are well out of it.”

“I am.” Yvonne sat down. “Are there car manufacturers in Africa? Then again, are there roads in Africa?”

“Not like here. Having never visited Africa I can only imagine there must be a great disparity between the countries. A pan-Africa highway, one north and south and one east and west, for starters, would seem to me to be a great boost to businesses and outside investors. But how to get all these nations to cooperate, especially when many of the citizens are being robbed blind?”

“You know, Aunt Dan, whenever I am fed up to here,” she drew her hand up to her neck, “I remind myself of situations like that or of Syria. I’ve visited Egypt, South Africa, Botswana, Zimbabwe, and Namibia. Glad I did. Cape Town is one of the most beautiful cities in the world. The natural beauty alone is thrilling, and I admit, seeing the pyramids and the Sphinx was overwhelming. But I was always glad to get home.”

“I can imagine. Time to take the towel off, wrap the pan in aluminum, and put it in the refrigerator.”

“Don’t you want to test it?”

“Good idea.”

Yvonne walked over to the stovetop, brought out a knife, cut a sizable square for each of them, brought out the creamery butter, two spreading knives, two small plates. “Here goes.”

“Spoons. We need spoons.”

“Oh, Aunt Daniella, of course. That’s why it’s called spoon bread.”

The two carefully poked their spoons into the heart of the golden corn bread.

“Well?”

“Aunt Dan, your recipe did the trick. I can’t wait to spring this on Gray and Sam.”

The phone rang. “Excuse me. I told Tootie to call me this afternoon. I’m taking her and Weevil to dinner.” She pulled out her cellphone. “Hello.”

“Mom. Remember the accident I told you about? It’s on the news.”

“A car going through a fence?”

“Yes, because his son who was supposed to watch over Morris was found by the side of the road in his car with all the Taylors’ silver.”

“Dead?”

“No, on drugs or something.”

After Yvonne hung up the phone she relayed the news to Aunt Daniella then laughed. “It’s funny living here. Barely a day went by in Chicago without a murder, a big robbery, a protest. Here it’s silver in a car by the side of the road.”

“Too compromised to keep driving. I mean, if you’ve stolen silver you should keep going.”

Yvonne looked at the older woman. “You’d think he’d have the sense not to get loaded.”

“Yes, you would.”

CHAPTER 3

February 23, 2019 Saturday

“B other,” Mr. Nash thought to himself as the many rigs pulled into Close Shave, the farm where he lived. Mud Fence’s footing had proved so dreadful Sister switched the hunt, with both landowners’ permission. The Mud Fence owners suggested the switch.

The red fox, a large fellow, somewhat new to the area, had learned about Jefferson Hunt during cubbing season, which started right after Labor Day. If those crazy people wanted to run around behind hounds, fine. He felt no obligation to entertain them, especially today, for the low clouds and light drizzle, so fine you could barely see it, meant he’d stay inside his spacious den. Years ago the den had been inhabited by reds but as is the nature of such things the girls married, moving not terribly far away, and the boys sought dens elsewhere. Nature favors the female.

Mr. Nash accepted this. He and three younger males in the area did not yet have mates but he felt confident in time he would find the right vixen. As it was mating season, and late this year due to the insufferable weather, he searched every day, but not today.

As the red fox curled up in his straw-filled den, a few old shredded towels in there as well, the trailers parked nose out toward the farm road. Close Shave maintained excellent farm roads, crusher run on them as well as all around the six-stall barn, which the new owners of this old place were restoring. Crusher run, small crushed stones, gray or tan, often provided a better road surface than slightly larger stones. The horses would come later but there the owners were, bundled up, offering stirrup cups. Good people.

“God, why do they have to take a drink? Let’s go!” Rickyroo, one of Sister’s Thoroughbreds, danced a bit under her.

“Calm down, Ricky.” She patted his sleek neck.

“You’re the master. Why do you tolerate this? The sooner we’re off the sooner we find a fox,” he sassed as she continued to pat him, which he liked.

“No thank you.” Sister smiled at Della Vosburgh, the owner. “I can’t drink, as I’m staff. And I look forward to you and your husband cubbing with us next year. The stable is coming along.”

“I can’t wait.” Della smiled, her dimples adding to her friendly demeanor.

“Gather round,” Sister called to the field, thirty-five strong on this iffy day. “We’ll head south toward Chapel Cross.” She glanced skyward. “The worst should hold off for a bit.” She looked at Weevil, as did most of the women in the field, although she had a purpose in doing so, for he was her huntsman. “Hounds, please.”

“Madam.” He smiled, leaned over a bit, and said in a low voice, “Let’s boogie, babies.”

“I love it when he does that.” Tinsel giggled.

Sterns up, they pranced, packed in front of their huntsman, walking down to the fence line separating the stable paddock from a large pasture.

First Flight burst with the diehards; no threat of bad weather could keep away Kasmir Barbhiya, Alida Dalzell, Dr. Walter Lungren, Jt-MFH, Gray and Sam Lorillard, Freddie Thomas, everyone wearing heavy gloves, too.

Tedi and Edward Bancroft, Sister’s dear friends and neighbors, her oldest members, in their mid-eighties, no longer rode out in bone-chilling weather or rain. Sensible though it was, she missed them, for they always rode in her pocket, which was their right as the oldest members of the club. They had earned their colors back before most of the current members had been born.

First Flight filled out with only fourteen people today. Everyone else was jammed up in Second Flight, led by Bobby Franklin, Betty’s husband. Ben Sidell, the sheriff of the county, rode with Bobby, who had noticed over these last few years that the sheriff, fortyish, missed little. Ben was a good man to have around. Drew Taylor, smartly turned out in his scarlet Melton, rode in Second Flight today.

Following slowly in his truck was Shaker Crown, now in his early fifties. Sister’s longtime huntsman had cracked vertebrae in his neck from a strange riding accident. He was on medical leave, so to speak. He hated it. A rival hunt’s huntsman, the very attractive Skiff Kane, hunting Crawford Howard’s outlaw pack, drove, for Shaker was not to drive. She tended to him and as fortune smiled on them, they spoke the same language.

“Goddammit!” he cursed. “I hate not riding. Hate it!”

Perhaps she didn’t speak the same language at that moment.

“Honey, keep your pants on.”

He tried to turn his head toward her but the neck brace limited his motion. “Later.”

“Ha,” she rejoined as the First Flight easily popped over a jump built to resemble a chicken coop, and therefore was called a coop.

Sister quietly sat while Ricky smoothly took the coop. Rarely did she ever need to squeeze this glossy bay. He knew all the horn calls, knew the various hound voices, and could smell the fox a lot better than she could. Ricky believed he was assisting a limited creature. After all, she only had two legs, and a weak nose, but he gave Sister credit, she had sharp eyes and quite good hearing for a human. Then again, he loved her and she loved him. However, he felt it imperative that she let him make the decisions, such as where to take off for a jump. Mostly she did, for she trusted this horse.