Рита Браун: The Hounds And The Fury

“Three hundred and sixty-four days until next Christmas. Thank you, Jesus.” She braked, putting both feet on the ground.

“Amen, Sister.”

They burst out laughing.

“Hounds had a wonderful Christmas. Nothing like warm stew. I remember watching my father cook it up outside. The pot was large enough to hold three missionaries.”

He smiled. “Horses liked their treats, too, as did I. Thank you for my Dehner boots and my bug guard.”

“Do you think they really work?”

“Bug guards?” He paused. “Not now.”

“I deserved that.” She rolled her eyes at his droll remark. They wouldn’t work now because it was winter, hence no insects were flying around outside.

“Sure they work. That curve at the top sends the bugs away from the windshield.”

“Maybe I should get one for my GMC. You know, I’m still getting used to it. Drove the other one 287,000 miles and buried it with honors.” She smiled at him. “I actually considered parking it in front of the kennel and making a huge planter out of it.”

“You cut the bed off the truck and use it for a wagon.” He pretended to think hard. “Could still fill with dirt and spring bulbs.”

“No point wasting something that can be useful. All I had to do was sand the edges so we wouldn’t cut ourselves, put a Reese hitch on it. If nothing else, we can put a big old water tank up there, and I can water my trees on the drive if another drought comes.” She crossed herself as if warding off the evil eye, for droughts caused terrible damage.

“Heard anything?” After crossing himself, Shaker changed the subject.

“Not a peep.”

He sat on the edge of the desk as she rolled back to it, replying, “He’ll be vicious.”

“Marty can’t calm him down?” Shaker named Crawford Howard’s wife.

“Crawford was publicly humiliated. Even the ministrations of his good wife won’t help. His ego is in a gaseous state, ever expanding.” Sister threw up her hands, exasperated.

“He deserved it, loading hounds up like that, then setting them loose during the hunt ball.”

“Of course he did! After you belted him, he knew he couldn’t stand up to you, so unleashing hounds was his revenge. And a damned sorry one. He wasn’t entirely sober, which only made matters worse. He’s lucky I only slapped him.”

“Hard. Everyone in the room heard that crack.” Shaker relished the recollection.

“Too bad I didn’t have a roll of nickels in my palm. Then I’d have broken his jaw. Now, that’s a happy thought, Crawford Howard with his jaw wired shut.”

“Strange we haven’t heard anything. Betty hasn’t, either. I called her.”

“You surprise me.” Sister didn’t expect him to call Betty Franklin, one of her best friends, an honorary whipper-in.

He folded his arms across his chest. “I didn’t get us in this mess, but I made it worse.”

“When a man pulls down your fiancée’s evening gown, even if he was pushed and tripped, most of us can understand the response.”

“Poor Lorraine. She’s still embarrassed.”

“Honey, any woman with that rack should never be embarrassed. Entire careers have been built on less.”

He smiled. “She’s a beautiful woman.”

“She is. You two are a good pair and a good-looking pair to boot.”

He walked over to the kennel-side door. “Sound asleep.”

“I often envy them. They are loved, have the best of care, and do what they were born to do. Think of the millions of people in this world struggling at jobs that aren’t right for them. They might be flourishing financially, but deep in their hearts, they know this isn’t what they should be doing with their lives—and, oh, Shaker, how fast the time slips away.”

“Got that right.” He returned to the desk. “Hope we can hunt tomorrow.”

“Me, too, but feel the storm coming? Truth is in the bones.”

“Seen the sky in the last hour?”

“No, I’ve been in here rooting through the old stud books.”

“Look.” He opened the front door, and they both stepped out into the biting air.

Gunmetal-gray clouds stacked up behind the Blue Ridge Mountains.

“Moving faster than the Weather Channel predicted.” She noticed the tops of trees swaying slightly. “Going to be a big one. We’d better get all the generators in place, just in case.”

“Already did. Up at your house, too.”

Relief filled her voice. “Thank you.”

“Rather deal with snow than ice.”

“Me, too.”

“Boss, you think Crawford will sue?”

“He doesn’t have much of a case. It would be a hardship on us, of course, but ultimately it would be worse for him. My hunch is he’ll forego that and do something where he can use his wealth as leverage.”

“Like withdraw his support to the club?”

“That’s a given.” She rubbed her shoulders. “It will hurt, too. His largesse covered about 25 percent of our annual budget.”

“He’ll go to Farmington Hunt or Keswick, maybe even Deep Run, and throw money at them. If he can keep his ego in check, he might even get along with most of them. What master doesn’t need money for the club?” Shaker put his arm through hers, and they stepped back into the office. Sister settled back into the warmth of the office, glad the door was closed. “Ego is the key word.”

“Hard on Sam.”

Sam Lorillard of the Lorillards, an African-American family that had been in the country since before the Revolutionary War, possessed both intellectual and athletic brilliance. Unfortunately, a tendency toward alcoholism had also passed from generation to generation among both the white and black Lorillards. Gray, Sam’s older brother and Sister’s boyfriend, had escaped it. Sam had not. He was currently sober after much suffering. Attending Alcoholics Anonymous Meetings helped.

The black Lorillards had taken the name of their owners, common enough in the Old South. Not even the pull of convention or ideology could keep the two sides of this vast family apart. A Lorillard stayed a Lorillard.

Before sobriety, Sam had wreaked so much damage throughout the Virginia horse world that he’d descended to living at the train station downtown. He and the other drunks sucked up Thunderbird, panhandled, took odd day jobs. Eventually, he got clean and, with Gray’s financial help, back on his feet. But no one would hire him. Crawford Howard, however, who was relatively new to the town and the club, did. He had no preconceived notions. Sam was loyal, drunk or sober. Sister knew he’d stick with Crawford even if he cringed at Crawford’s revenge. Shaker knew it, too.

Shaker glanced out the window again. “We’re in for it.”

“In more ways than one.” She pulled on her fleece-lined old bomber jacket and wrapped her red scarf around her neck. “Bring it on. If nothing else, we’ll find out who is the stronger.”

“My money is on you.”

“Funny, I was going to say the same thing about you. We’re in this together.”

“Hey, if there’s a fight, you’re the one I want at my back.” He threw his arm around her shoulders.

Since Sister was six feet tall and Shaker five ten, he reached up slightly. She was strong in her early seventies, smart as the foxes they hunted. He was thirty years younger, quick and muscular. They made a sensational team as master and huntsman, each intuitive concerning the other.

Outside the wind was rising.

“You know, we might get a foot out of this.”

“Plow’s on the old 454.” Shaker mentioned the old Chevy with the mighty engine.

“Sometimes I welcome a storm.”

“Nature’s pruning.”

“Clears the air. Trouble’s easier to deal with if you see it coming. We see this coming.”