Рита Браун - Homeward Hound

On they thundered, coming within sight of the Corinthian columns of Old Paradise, forlorn standards of a different time. Hounds cut right. The field also cut right and then they heard the wind, which sounded as though someone turned on a radio dial. Silence except for hoofbeats and hound music and all of a sudden, a low, loud moan. Trees began to bend.

Sister looked up. The clouds, gunmetal gray, skidded down the east side of the Blue Ridge as though on a roller coaster, opened.

They were a good four miles from Tattenhall Station. The snow started heavy but the wind proved the initial problem. For one thing it blew the scent to bits. Hounds stopped running, searched. What scent there was was already a hundred yards to their east. Not that it would hold.

To the side of those Corinthian columns stood the rehabilitated stone stable and to the left of that, in a line, Crawford and Rory stood in the Carriage House, which was being rehabilitated.

The lumber, neatly stacked, would be protected from the elements, but Crawford’s wrath exploded when he heard hounds.

“Goddammit, I want that fool off my property! I never said Luckham could come onto Old Paradise.” He strode toward the imposing double doors.

Rory, behind him, didn’t argue but said, “The fox doesn’t know that.”

“No, but Sister should!”

Trying to defuse his boss’s fury, Rory stepped next to Crawford, who already had his hand on the one-foot-tall wrought-iron door handle. The double doors measured a story, impressive, but then everything was impressive at Old Paradise.

“Boss, you know Sister would never cross you.” Not entirely true but Rory sounded convincing. “She can’t turn around and throw Luckham out of the hunt field. For one thing, it’s against MFHA rules.”

This stopped Crawford for a moment. “I’m not a member of the goddamned MFHA. To hell with their rules.”

“You’re smart to avoid all that.” Rory fibbed. “But if a hunt has permission to hunt a fixture, the landowner can’t deny a rider access to their land even if they hate that person. No one would be able to hunt anywhere.”

“Not my problem. I can throw off anyone.” He pulled open one door still rolling after two centuries of use. “What the hell?”

A blast of strong wind forced him to take a step back when it hit him in the face.

Shaker blew hounds to him. Three longish blasts. He turned, hounds behind him, his whippers-in turning with him.

Reaching his Master, he leaned forward, shouting, so he could be heard. “Madam.”

“We’ve got to get back before trees come down.” The weather felt like a cold, hard slap in the face. “They’ll be uprooted,” she shouted.

As Master and huntsman realized the danger of the situation, Crawford, head down, pushed to his Range Rover. Rory closed the door behind him, then hurried over to the passenger side, where he got in.

“Wind about tore the door off.” He gasped.

Crawford, windshield wipers on high, crept down the farm road, snow sweeping across it. “I am going to tear that son of a bitch off his horse. He’s not hunting on my land.”

Crawford lowered his window an inch. The wind whistled but he could make out the horn, which was close. Impulsively, Crawford put the car in park, got out. Rory, surprised, sat a moment. Then he, too, got out. The snow, already thick and blowing, obscured everything, although he could hear the horn. Hounds brushed by Rory, who stood still, looking for Crawford. He stretched out his arms to make himself look bigger and riders, coming up on him, swerved.

A country boy, Rory knew if he didn’t find Crawford, if they didn’t get out of there, perhaps they never would. Crawford was out of his element.

Rory heard the horn moving away, knew riders were close but no longer could see them. He heard an umph sound.

“Crawford.”

No response. Thinking his boss might have been knocked down by a horse, Rory raised his voice, called again.

“Boss.” He yelled for all he was worth.

“Where are you?” Crawford called back, sounded to Rory’s right near the sound of the umph.

“To your left. I’ll yodel. Come to the sound.”

A grateful Crawford finally appeared, snow encrusted on his eyebrows. Rory grabbed his hand. They both turned around, hoping to see the car. The lights were on and they could just make out the reflection on the snow.

That was the only time Rory was ever glad for lights on during the daytime. You couldn’t turn them off. Together, the two men, arm in arm, battled their way back to the car, motor running. Feeling the car, each man reached his door, opened it with difficulty, then slumped in the seat.

“I’ve never seen anything come up like that in all my life,” Crawford gasped. “Didn’t know you could yodel.”

“Some.” Rory grinned.

“This is impossible.” The windshield wipers couldn’t keep up with the snow. “I’m heading home.”

“Good idea. When you pass Tattenhall Station, let me out. I’ll help Sam with Trocadero. No point having him drive the horse trailer alone in this.”

“Christ, I don’t even know if I can see Tattenhall Station.”

“There. I can just make it out. Can’t see anyone in yet.” Rory hopped out as Crawford stopped, then slowly drove away.

Sister turned Aztec, trotted toward Chapel Cross for Tattenhall Station. It sat on the southeastern corner of that old crossroads, the chapel on the southwest corner. It took her fifteen minutes to reach the road. She’d heard Crawford’s car in the distance, barely, but she couldn’t see it. He was ahead of the riders. By the time they reached Chapel Cross, the cross on top of the dark blue steeple couldn’t be seen. The world turned white, biting white.

Sister was having ample time to repent of her decision. Then again, the Weather Channel mistimed the arrival of the storm.

The wind howled. People could barely make one another out even though close. They reached the trailers.

People dismounted, wincing when their feet hit the ground as their feet had gotten cold and the ground stung when you hit it. Dewey Milford, next to Freddie’s trailer, helped her load. They both drove out as soon as the horses were on their respective trailers. Dewey, confused by the snow, realized it, crawled to Beveridge Hundred, where he could turn around the trailer, and headed back. The wind shook the heavy trailer. Untacking horses, throwing blankets on, staff horses were led into the trailer. Sister did not take the saddle off Aztec. She thought keeping the saddle on helped keep his back warm. She put on his blanket. Betty did the same for Outlaw, who was grateful. Each of the staff members took care of horses or hounds. Weevil took Shaker’s horse while the older man loaded up the hounds with Tootie’s help. Betty had Tootie’s horse. The staff had the drill down. People got into their trucks, turned on the lights, which reflected off the snow. Slowly, carefully they drove out while others, slower, hurried to get all done so they, too, could get on the road. Sam, unaware that Rory intended to help him, didn’t see anyone so he drove out praying he’d make it.

Staff knew they would be the last ones out. All hounds, accounted for, snuggled into their trailer, which had plastic inserts in the long openings on the top. These were for air circulation but in winter, clear plastic, like glass only it wouldn’t shatter, was slid in and on the back door, too. The trailer, straw piled deep, allowed hounds to bed down. That and their shared body heat would keep them warm until they reached the kennels, which would take longer than usual.

Horses loaded up, Sister kept her hand on the horse trailer as she walked toward the truck. A figure ahead of her appeared out of the snow.