Рита Браун - Hounded To Death

“I know.” A sigh followed. “I’m working on Crawford. For one thing, he has to give up the idea that he can hunt them. For another, he needs to come back to the club.”

“It’ll take time. What can I do to sweeten the punch?”

“You’ve done as much as you can at this point. He dimly recognizes that you decked him for a good reason. He abused one of your hounds.”

“The situation was tense. I might have satisfied myself with harsh language but—well”—Sister threw up her hands—“I did apologize for hitting him.”

“He’ll come around. Where’s Gray?”

“Over there talking to Pamela Rene’s parents. Her mother doesn’t want her to go to Ol’ Miss, and I guess her father isn’t too thrilled either.”

“Good for her.” Marty liked a kid with spunk. “The farther she gets from Momma’s talons, the better.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

Betty and Bobby joined them. “We miss you,” both said.

“And I miss you guys.” Marty, being from Indiana, did not use the southern plural, you-all.

“Wasn’t Felicity’s speech good?” Betty enthused.

“Yes. She’s a very accomplished young lady,” Marty replied. A pause followed. “I haven’t spoken to anyone for such a long time. All the construction on the farm is time-consuming, and then we took a trip to Vienna, which I adore, but when I came back and heard about Hope Rogers, I couldn’t believe it.”

“Terrible thing.” Bobby started to change the subject, feeling it best on this special occasion to focus on positive things.

Before the old friends could continue, Tootie came over with her parents, Jordon and Rebecca Harris.

Everyone said their hellos, and Jordon, impeccably dressed in clothes obviously made for him, beamed. “Thank you for taking such good care of our girl, Master. She speaks of you and the club constantly.” He fished for a moment; then the name came. “Mrs. Franklin, Tootie says you’re a wonderful . . . uh—”

“Whipper-in.” Tootie finished the sentence for him.

“That’s very flattering.” Betty loved the praise.

“See, she doesn’t talk about me at all.” Bobby teased. “Never glances back at second flight.”

“Mr. Franklin, you have the hardest job of all.” Tootie liked having her parents with the other adults she admired.

“Why is that?” Rebecca, diminutive like her daughter and ravishingly beautiful, asked.

“He gets green horses, green riders, and sometimes both together. It’s not a pretty picture, Mom.” Tootie laughed. “But he straightens them out, and pretty soon they’re fine.”

Val bounced up. “Princeton, here we come!”

Tootie smiled but clearly viewed this prospect with less enthusiasm than the class president and salutatorian. “Black and orange.”

“You’ll look so-o-o good in those colors,” Val teased.

Tootie’s parents laughed. They knew Val. She’d visited on holidays and Tootie had gone to Val’s home. Since their dangerous adventure at Mill Ruins back in March when a mentally unstable hunt club member had threatened their lives, the two had drawn even closer.

Felicity joined them, Howie in tow, which always irritated Val although she tried to cover it. “The kitty has come to a grand total of $1,022. One dollar even came from Sister.”

“No shit!” Val exclaimed.

“Make that $1023,” Felicity said.

Everyone laughed, but Val did reach up under her robe to pull a dollar from her shorts pocket. She’d worn shorts just for the hell of it, but Pamela, to everyone’s surprise, had outdone Val by wearing a bathing suit under hers.

“Where are you girls going to have your thousand-dollar party?” Bobby asked. The Jefferson Hunt people all knew about the kitty, a dollar bigger each time one of the girls swore.

Val surprised everyone. “Let’s not have a party.”

“What?” Tootie put her hands on her hips.

“Felicity’s the business brain. I vote for letting her invest the money. Ten years from now let’s see what we’ve got.”

“Will you do it?” Tootie asked Felicity.

“Yes.”

“How simple is that?” Val smiled.

All three shook hands.

After the group dispersed, Gray escorted Sister back to his car, a big Toyota Land Cruiser and his pride and joy.

“Memories.” He held her hand as they walked along the path lined with Victorian streetlamps.

The Custis Hall buildings were a mix of Federal and Victorian architecture. To the credit of those headmistresses who held the reins after World War II, none of the buildings looked overly modern. Every new structure conformed either to the Federal or to the Victorian style, so the campus seemed timeless, warm and very inviting.

Also to the credit of those headmistresses, including Charlotte Norton, the emphasis still remained on a strict education, not fads. A girl had to take a minimum of two years of Latin plus a modern language to graduate from Custis Hall. She had to study math all the way through solid geometry and trigonometry; a calculus course was available for those with further interest. The strongest emphasis was on character. A Custis Hall girl was expected to take responsibility for her actions, to help others, and to participate in her community. A bronze plaque on the wall of Old Main listed the names of those girls who had died in the various wars, usually as nurses but one as a transport pilot in World War II, two who died in Desert Storm, and three in Iraq, second war. Those girls had been killed in combat.

Although she had missed the wars, too young for World War II and Korea, too old for Iraq, the values of Custis Hall remained Sister’s values. In the back of her mind she always wished she had gone to war: an odd wish, perhaps, but in keeping with her spirit and her curiosity to know if she would withstand it.

“Memories,” Gray whispered again.

“So many.” Her eyes glistened. “Field hockey. The show-jumping team. Hunting with Jefferson Hunt as a teenager. The huntsman was Garland Valentine; God how we flew. Garland looked like Cary Grant. I was a little too young to appreciate what an advantage that bestowed upon him with the ladies, single and married.” She laughed.

“I bet. Most of your classmates are still around. The ceremonial dinner you-all had last night, class by class at tables, was damned impressive.”

“The old girls look good, and some of their husbands don’t look bad either.” She watched a milk butterfly dance in the air. “My teachers here pounded on us. I’m grateful. We were taught to think for ourselves.”

Suddenly Tootie, robe flapping behind her, raced up to Sister, flung her arms around her, and burst into tears.

“Honey, what’s the matter?”

“I don’t want to go to Princeton. I want to stay here. Oh, Sister, I want to learn to be a huntsman!”

Neither Gray nor Sister made light of this. Some people are born to be with animals regardless of other gifts. Remove them from their deepest love and they never blossom fully, although they might be very successful in the outside world.

Gray put his hands on Tootie’s heaving shoulders. “Tootie, maybe there’s a compromise.”

She released Sister, who prudently fished in her handbag for a handkerchief.

“Really?”

“Have you mentioned this to your parents?” Gray, ever practical, asked.

“No. My father would kill me. He’s set on me going to Princeton. Val would kill me, too.”

“What about your mother?” Sister inquired.

“I’ve kind of mentioned it, but only a little. She’s more flexible, but I know she’d be disappointed. I’ll be the first one in our family to go to an Ivy League school.”

Gray wrapped his arm around her waist. “How about this: Go to Princeton for one year, even if you hate it like milk of magnesia. Give it one full year. But this summer, work for the hunt club.” He glanced at Sister. “The budget can handle it, don’t you think?”