Рита Браун: Fox Tracks

“Yes, sir.”

Released, Art drove back to Old Paradise going twenty-five miles an hour, as the roads had deteriorated. It really was an accident, shooting Crawford. Firing over the heads of the Jefferson Hunt hounds was not.

He knew that Crawford would be hunting at Old Paradise Saturday, but he didn’t expect Sister. The more he’d thought about the tobacco being in that barn, the more he knew he had to move it. The chances were slim that anyone would go inside the barn, but he didn’t want to risk it. His father would blame it on his uncle. A lot of questions and snooping would result. By himself, he had loaded up his truck, parked in the closed-up barn, and was ready to go back down the ladder when he heard the hounds. Later, after the shooting, he returned and drove the truck to his house, parking it outside. Right now that seemed safer than anywhere else, and he would be ready to drive north come Tuesday.

He had to find a better storage place. He had a furniture delivery Friday on his way back from New Jersey. It gave him a cover. As for storage, he’d think of something.

After hot showers, Sister, Gray, and Tootie sat in the den. Sister had bought a DVD of The African Queen , which Tootie had never seen. Sister liked to unwind after a hunt and was looking forward to watching the movie, which she hadn’t seen for forty or so years.

She’d found out that Crawford was okay. His wife, Marty, told Sam, who told Gray. Sam drove out, drove the horses back, leaving his car there. He wouldn’t be getting it for a few days. He was lucky to get the horses back. Marty had driven the hound truck. Tariq drove with her so his Saab was at Old Paradise as well.

Sam drove the young teacher back to his lodgings at school after they both put the horses up. Marty lent him her four-wheel-drive Lexus.

On the coffee table in front of Sister rested six packs of American Smokes. From a distance, they looked fine. Close examination would reveal the card slipped inside the cellophane. Betty had given them the cards after the hunt breakfast. Sister and Tootie slipped the graphics in at the kitchen table.

Two pair of socks on, his heavy robe wrapped around him, Gray slumped in the sofa. “I don’t know why I’m so tired,” he said.

“Long hunt, hard riding, and the cold can beat you up.” Sister sat next to him while Golly curled around next to the cigarettes. “I’m tired, too.”

Tootie sat in the club chair. “I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face at the end.”

On the coffee table by the doctored cigarette packs, Golly looked over at the two dogs. “Why don’t you start smoking?”

“For what reason?” Rooster asked.

Raleigh sat up, now peering over at the cat. “Why should we smoke?”

“It will improve your mood.” The cat smiled.

“You’re the one who needs help,” Rooster replied.

“Just a suggestion.” Golly half closed her eyes but what she was thinking was if they smoked maybe they’d die soon.

CHAPTER 33

Snow fell throughout Sunday. A storm of such intensity hadn’t been forecast. Roads became impassable. Even the interstates had sections closed, especially crossing the Blue Ridge Mountains or in the Alleghenies.

Sister was glad to have Tootie’s help, and they trudged their way to the barn, as Shaker did the same to the kennels. Sister couldn’t plow out the farm roads because the snow just kept falling. When it slowed down, she’d take a crack at it.

The hounds tucked up in the kennels. A few stayed in their outdoor condos, stuffed with straw. At a human’s appearance, a head would peek out from the heavy canvas, which covered the hound-sized opening, only to duck back in.

Wearing their heavy blankets, the horses were turned out to play by Sister and Tootie. It’s never good for a horse to stand hours in a stall, and “stall rest” is one of the dreaded phrases from a veterinarian’s lips. Even the best of horses, laid up for a time, could become sour or destructive. An early warning signal was banging a feed bucket against the wall.

Fortunately, the horses walked through the snow, kicking up snow for the fun of it.

“Tootie, wouldn’t you like to be a horse just for a day?” Sister asked as they slipped the halters and flipped the lead ropes over their shoulders. Like the horses, they kicked up snow as they walked back to the barn.

“A Thoroughbred, deep heart girth, wide nostrils, long and powerful hindquarters, and a well-developed stifle. I’d love it,” the young woman answered as they pushed through the two feet of snow, with more coming down.

The rat-tat-tat on the Blue Spruces by the barn bore evidence to the storm.

“Studying conformation, are you?” asked Sister. “You know, my mother had the best eye for a horse of anyone I ever knew. Well, let me amend that—Mother, Kenny Wheeler, the late Jean Beegle, and the very alive Joan Hamilton. It’s like they have X-ray vision. Well, I digress. Sorry.”

Tootie smiled. “I like listening to you.”

“You’re kind. God, I don’t want to turn into one of those people who live in the past and the past is always better than the present. In some ways it was, any past, any century, but in other ways not. I believe the present is pretty good. Remember that when you’re in the dentist’s chair.”

They both laughed.

“Your mother”—Tootie slid open the barn door, which they’d had to shovel snow from—“her turnout was really perfect.”

Sister had a few photographs of her mother in lovely frames throughout the house. With one exception, Mother at the beach, they all showed the gracious lady on horseback.

“Proper attire for every occasion,” said Sister, following Tootie into the barn. “I liked hunting kit, obviously, but she even loved the rest of it, tea dresses, afternoon gloves versus evening gloves. The right shoes. When to wear high heels and when not. Colors. Tootie, when I was young, you couldn’t wear white before Memorial Day. It just wasn’t done.”

“A lot to remember, but your mother must have remembered everything.”

“That she did.” Sister walked along the center aisle, placing the halters and attached lead shanks on the brass hook on the side of each door. “Can’t let Lafayette grab his halter. For whatever reason, that horse lives to destroy leather. He’s happy with his gel pad though, now that I had another one sent. I’ll never be able to take the one in the kitchen from Golly. She’d tear down the house.” Sister paused, then laughed. “How could I miss what’s under my nose? Golly and Lafayette are good friends. They egg each other on to demolish whatever they can.”

Also hanging up halters and shanks, Tootie asked, “Did your mother love animals?”

“Good Lord, mother picked up every stray, every unwanted animal she ever saw or even heard about. She’d get in the station wagon, had wooden sides, and off we’d go. My poor father put up with it. Well, he loved her. We all did. Especially the rescued animals.” Sister laughed.

Just as Bitsy was looking down, Tootie looked up. She said, “My mother isn’t hard-hearted, exactly, but she never wants anything to be trouble.”

“A lot of people are like that. Inanimate objects have more value than living things.”

“Odd, isn’t it?”

“I know what I was going to say before I went off on a trip down Memory Lane. Mother used to say, ‘Movement is the best of conformation.’ Remember that.”

“I will.”

As they threw down three flakes of hay for later, when they’d bring the horses back into the barn, they heard the outside tackroom door open and close. The door into the center aisle opened.

Gray shoved his gloved hands into his pockets. “You’ve got puppies.”