Рита Браун - The Hounds And The Fury

“No doubt. That does put you over a barrel. Do you want to hunt with an outlaw pack, or do you want to make even more money than you already do?”

“I’ll bring Crawford around to registering his pack.”

“Good luck. He’s publicly derided the MFHA. Crawford’s not one to reverse a public position.”

“If it’s in his extreme self-interest, I’ll bet he will.”

“Like I said, good luck,” Walter admonished. “I know you don’t want to get on the bad side of Crawford. I understand, but you don’t want Sister angry at you. She can take you down.”

“She knows how to throw a punch,” Jason nodded. Then he leaned nearly halfway across the table. “Is it true her husband was your father?”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t upset her?”

“No.”

“Does it upset you?”

“For my father, it did. But Big Ray was one of those men who walked into a room and women’s heads swiveled around. Whatever he had, if we could have bottled it, we’d be worth billions.” He exhaled. “Things just happened around Big Ray. ’Course they happened around Sister, too.” He shrugged. “Ancient history. I love her. I’ve always loved Sister. When I was a kid I wanted to ride like her. Working with her is one of the joys of my life. I just wish I knew what she forgot.”

“Plenty of good foxhunters out there.”

“She’s beyond good.”

“Look, I’ll concede that Crawford doesn’t know shit. Those hounds running all over proves that, but it’s not rocket science.”

“Exactly.” Now Walter leaned forward. “It’s an art woven into primeval instinct. She has it. Sister has horse sense, hound sense, game sense, and that something extra. You can’t teach it. You can’t buy it. I’m learning hounds and game, but I also know that what she has I’ll never have. What I have is a sharp political sense. I’m useful to her for that. And I love hunting. I’d lose my mind without hunting.”

“Suppose I would, too. That’s why I want to whip-in. I don’t want to be in the field watching everyone’s ass over a jump.”

“Some of those asses are mighty fine.”

Jason leered. “Well, yes.”

“Jason, we’d all like to whip-in to this pack. To whip-in at Jefferson Hunt is to be taken seriously by other foxhunters. None of us are immune to that kind of attention. I can’t do it, but I wish I could.”

“Why?”

“I’m not that good a rider, and I don’t have much hound sense, although I like the hounds. But I have people sense.”

“I can ride,” Jason boasted.

“What about the rest of it? She’s right to make you walk-out. And I don’t know if she’ll keep that offer after what you did yesterday.”

Jason shifted in his seat. “If I bow to Sister, I lose Crawford. I have to find another way.” He exhaled. “Or accept that I’ll not be hunting with you.”

“Jason, I wish I knew what the middle way might be. Until you, I, or someone else can think of it, you’ve got to calm the waters. You’d better apologize to Sister.”

Jason’s cell phone rang. He flipped open the cover to see the caller’s number displayed. “Damn. Excuse me.” He pressed the talk button. “Hello.”

Iffy bellowed, “Jason, where are you?”

“I’m in a meeting.” He didn’t mention that he wasn’t in his office.

“A meeting with whom?”

“Walter.”

“Get out of it. I have to see you.”

“Don’t worry about the insurance paperwork.” He sounded soothing.

“It’s three-thirty. I have to see you. Not in your office,” she persisted.

“All right, but let me call you right back. This is an important meeting.” A note of irritation crept into his voice.

She slammed down her phone.

Walter noticed the expression on Jason’s face. “I’d better be going.”

The shorter man folded his cell phone up. “She needs a psychiatrist. Iffy.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Walter thought it best to stay out of this discussion.

“Her health is improving; her personality is not.” Jason, exasperated, shoved the phone aside.

Walter rose. “If you don’t call Sister by tomorrow, I’ll call Dennis Foster at the MFHA Monday. I don’t want to do that.”

Dennis Foster was the director of the MFHA. As a lieutenant colonel, retired, in the U.S. Army, he could be forceful when he needed to be. Jason would find this out in a hurry if he didn’t mend fences.

“I’ll do it. Will you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Don’t mention that Crawford and I are partners in the Paradise deal. Look, it’s possible we won’t develop it. If I can put my ducks in a row, I might be able to buy him out.”

“He’s not one to pass up a big profit.”

“If there’s prestige involved, he might.”

Walter cocked his head slightly. “What kind of prestige?”

“Master of Jefferson Hunt.”

“Jason, that will be a cold day in hell.”

“Stranger things have happened.”

Jason was right about that.

CHAPTER 19

Hunt days were outlined in bright green on Sister’s month-at-a-glance calendar on the kitchen wall. A smaller version was tacked onto her bathroom wall. Today’s fixture, Little Dalby, owned by the Widemans, interested her. During summer and fall, hunt club members reopened old trails and built jumps. The property, in limbo for years, had suffered neglect. The lawyers in charge of the old Viault estate lived in New York City. They had thought they were protecting the property by throwing off Jefferson Hunt. The reverse had happened, because it was the hunt club that had kept the hundreds of acres cleared, hayed, and tidied up during those last years of Mr. Viault’s life. It was Jefferson Hunt’s thank-you to a family that had been a vibrant part of foxhunting.

Pricker bushes, pokeweed, chickweed, and broomsage choked the once luxurious pastures. Outbuildings listed. A hole had been punched in the roof of the main house during a hurricane. The lovely little church, St. John of the Cross, had suffered comparatively little damage, although a great horned owl was now in residence.

Sister wondered whether the owl had converted to Christianity. She suspected not, given that the owl is sacred to Athena. Then, too, Christians talked too much about lambs and sheep and not enough about owls.

Last night Sister had called Anselma Wideman to make sure Crawford wouldn’t be hunting and to find out whether he had hunted the territory at all. The “all clear” pleased her. She wondered how long it would take Anselma and Harvey to realize this arrangement wouldn’t work.

After she’d checked in with Anselma, she and Gray hung on the phone like teenagers. Since Sam’s accident, he’d stayed home to help his brother. Usually from Friday night through Sunday night Gray spent the weekends at Roughneck Farm. Sister found she missed him. Apart from sharing a bed with him, she missed his picks and pans as he read choice passages from the morning’s paper.

Gray operated under a code of ethics as strict as that for physicians. He couldn’t discuss a client’s affairs, but she could tell from his voice that something was amiss. She figured the tension was because Farmers Trust had thrown a monkey wrench into the process of extending credit. But last night, she could hear in his tone that something was wrong, something more significant than Farmers Trust. Of course, she knew nothing about Garvey’s call to Ben Sidell. Nor did she know that the deputy sent to pick up Iffy couldn’t find her. She had flown the coop.

Gray promised to spend next weekend with her. Sam swore he could fend for himself. He told Gray to go; he was tired of being with a lovesick moose. Sister liked hearing that.

Right now she liked hearing little Diddy opening at St. John of the Cross. After drawing through a still unrehabilitated pasture for twenty minutes, Shaker finally jumped the coop into the woods. Sister noticed hound sterns waving. Diddy marched right up to the heavy front door, the cross on the graceful steeple covered in snow, and she sang out.