Рита Браун - Fox Tracks

The lights shone in the kennels and in the barns, too. Shaker, bless him, was feeding the hounds a warm gruel. He had a potion and a recipe for everything, devoutly believing that on cold days animals need to be warm from the inside out.

The state roads had to have been plowed because Betty Franklin’s yellow Bronco, another old vehicle made of heavy steel, was parked by the tack room door.

On and on Sister chugged, feeling the same satisfaction she felt when she mowed the lawn or cut hay. There’s something about seeing an immediate result for your effort. So much of her labor took years to come to fruition. Training the horses she’d bred took about five years before she felt they were secure in the hunt field. But then some horses that had been donated to the club or that she’d bought herself, like Matador, a former steeplechaser, took hardly any time at all to train, if you know how to buy them in the first place.

You had to study the animal’s mind.

“You can’t put in what God left out,” her mother used to say.

Boy, was that the truth and not just for four-legged animals.

The plowing took two hours of careful, cold work. She’d slaved too many years over her herringbone-brick walkways, her English boxwoods and other gardening delights, to mess them up now. She’d put burlap over most of her bushes and all the boxwoods. They could withstand the cold, but snow deformed their lovely shapes. The branches didn’t always bounce back. Sister had a thing for symmetry.

Finally, task completed, she drove the serviceable tractor into the shed, cut the motor.

“You have no more sense than a sack of hammers,” she called down to the two dogs who’d followed the tractor the entire time she’d plowed.

“You never know when an enemy might jump out of a bush,” Raleigh soberly replied.

“Yeah, something big and hairy,” Rooster agreed.

Sister swung down a lot more stiffly than she had swung herself up. The cold gnawed into her joints. Even with the superheavy gloves, she couldn’t feel her fingers. She knelt down to kiss the two canine heads.

“Come on.”

They fell in behind her.

Pushing open the door to the tack room, she felt a welcome envelopment of warmth. Betty sat perched on a chair.

“Coffee?” she offered. “I made a big pot. You’ve got to be frozen.”

Sister poured herself a cup. “Last winter was so mild and the start of this one was, too. Making up for it, now, but I sure hope this isn’t our only snow. We need moisture.”

“Yes, we do,” Betty then agreed. “But did you hear those leaves crunching yesterday in some places in the thick woods? We usually don’t hear a thing this time of year when we hunt. Not that sound anyway.”

“Yeah. Every time I think I know what the weather will do next, I don’t.” Sister sat down, the dogs plopping at her feet. “I could have done all this.”

“Wednesdays are my day in the stable,” said Betty. “You need your shopping day and the roads aren’t bad. If you’re going into Charlottesville, Garth Road is a holy horror, but everything else is okay.”

“Not plowed?”

“No. People fly up and down those curves. Idiots.”

“Betty, speaking of idiots, have you seen Crawford since the Ball?”

“No. Nor Marty either. Sam Lorillard told me he’s been lining up his hay purchases early, giving people half the money before their first cutting.”

“Smart. I think we’ll get enough hay off our land and the Lorillard place.”

“That’s rich soil over there.” She polished a horse’s bit with a clean soft cloth. “Not one little pit. Tell you what, there’s nothing like English steel. This bit has to be seventy years old if it’s a day.”

“Good luck finding an English bit these days. Nothing like their leather either.” Sister admired quality.

“Forgot. Brought you your paper. Haven’t looked at the headlines yet.”

Sister picked up the paper from the coffee table, an old door affixed to four heavy wooden legs. She read silently, flipping through until she reached page three of the first section.

“What? Tariq Al McMillan is being accused by some parents at Custis Hall of belonging to the Muslim Brotherhood!”

“Anyone making accusations like that is pretty stupid.” Betty smacked her knee. “If he were a member of that organization, he wouldn’t be teaching at an exclusive girls’ school.”

“Listen to this. One of our congressmen is expressing concern for our security and will investigate.”

“Don’t people have anything better to do?” Betty raised her eyebrows.

Sister read more. “Congressman David Rickman fears Mr. McMillan might be spying for the Brotherhood or planning harm in D.C. ‘Charlottesville is so close and filled with former officials, military people. He could insinuate himself with those people who have security clearance.’ ” She shook her head. “Remember when Rickman accused the president of being un-American because he owned a Mercedes in 1985? And he still gets reelected!”

Betty nodded. “Rickman has a lot to answer for.”

Sister read aloud. “Mr. McMillan categorically denies the charge. Headmistress Charlotte Norton responded that such unfounded attacks on any staff member of Custis Hall will be met with legal redress.” She snapped the paper closed and put it back on the table. “Well, all I can say is if Tariq Al McMillan is a member of the Muslim Brotherhood and they all can ride like he does, they’re welcome in my hunt field.”

“Big problem,” Betty deadpanned.

“You mean the Feds will come down on me, too?”

“No. I don’t think the Brotherhood would accept a woman as their leader.”

“I could wear a black bushy beard,” Sister replied with solemnity.

“Silver. You aren’t as young as you used to be, Babydoll. And we’d have to strap down your girls, but that might do it.”

They laughed.

“I’ll call Tedi and Edward later.” Sister was back to hunting. “They’ve read the paper, the Bancrofts know everyone in politics. They’ll have more insight about this than I do.”

Betty paused for a moment. “Age is starting to tell on Tedi and Edward. They stoop a little now or maybe I’m just noticing it. I always thought the Bancrofts were indestructible.”

“None of us are, but we have to live as though we are. What’s the point of going through life worrying about everything? Just go. Just do it.” Sister’s philosophy was simple, but it served her well.

“Yep.” Betty hung the bridle pack up on the small wooden half-moon nailed to the wall, upon which Aztec’s name was neatly painted.

“Come on up for lunch,” said Sister. “We could all use hot soup. You go tell Shaker to come up and I’ll go and get started. Give the three of us a chance to talk about the hound breedings I planned. I am not having much luck this year. Only one of my girls caught. Driving me crazy.”

When she pushed open the door to the kitchen, Sister found every dishtowel on the floor. Her cookbooks had been expertly thrown off the shelves, too.

“I will kill that cat.”

“No, let me,” Raleigh begged.

By the time her huntsman and best friend came up, the chicken corn soup was bubbling, the spoon bread ready.

As they sat to eat, the phone in Sister’s pocket rang.

She looked at the screen. “Gray. He rarely calls at this time. Will you two excuse me?”

She punched the “talk” square. “Hello. What’s up?”

Betty and Shaker watched as her face changed, her cheeks reddened.

When the call ended, she growled, “That son of a bitch. Crawford has bought hay in advance just like you said, Betty, but according to Gray, he has also offered to put up new gates at Old Paradise, replace all the fences and to buy a new furnace for the abandoned big house.”