Рита Браун: The Hounds And The Fury

Sister was right in that. Trouble that creeps up on little feet is far worse. That was coming, too.

CHAPTER 2

Like white molasses the winter storm moved so slowly that by the afternoon of Wednesday, December 28, the last bands still spit snow over the mountains and valleys of central Virginia. The power stayed flowing, a miracle under these conditions. If the storm didn’t knock down lines, some fool going sixty miles an hour in an SUV usually skidded off the road, taking out a utility pole. The snow, heavy and steady, kept even the owners of sixty-thousand-dollar SUVs at home.

Until midnight, every couple of hours, for two days, Shaker fired up the Chevy 454 to plow the farm roads and the paths to kennels and stables. By morning’s light he was back at it again while Sister fed and checked the hounds and horses. The horses when turned out played in the snow. The hounds in the big kennel yards frolicked as well until worn out, when they snuggled down into their condominiums raised off the ground. The wraparound porches on these eight-foot-square, four-feet-high buildings glistened with snow. Before winter’s onset, Sister and Shaker had bolted on an addition to the large openings, blocking most of the frigid air. The opening, facing away from the northwest, could accommodate two hounds passing through. Sometimes in early morning Sister would walk out into the quarter-acre yards to see the steam floating out of the condos from the hounds’ body heat.

She’d started at five-thirty this morning, accompanied by Raleigh, her Doberman, and Rooster, the harrier. Golliwog, the long-haired calico, felt that the deep snow would clump on her luxurious, much-groomed coat. She elected to lounge on the leather sofa in the den as the fire crackled in the simple, beautifully proportioned fireplace.

Sister returned every three hours to toss hardwood logs on that fire, put logs in the kitchen walk-in fireplace, and cram full the wood-burning stove in the cellar. The heating bills stayed down, thanks to the stove and fireplaces. The split hardwood logs came from dead trees on her property or the property of friends. Country neighbors helped one another in this fashion. Someone usually had an excess of fallen timber somewhere.

Sister told Shaker to keep plowing. She’d do the chores. Trudging through deep snow wearied her legs. Even with the paths cleared, in no time there’d be a bit more snow. Double-checking the condos was what told on Sister’s legs, even though hers were strong. At least her feet stayed warm in her Thinsulate-lined high work boots.

Another squall sent tiny flakes down. The big flakes looked pretty, but the tiny ones stuck. Little bits stung her cheeks, touched her eyelashes.

She’d put out kibble for the foxes on the farm in three locations. She figured Inky and Comet, gray foxes, brother and sister, and Georgia, Inky’s grown daughter, were toasty in their straw-lined dens. Each fox had only to go a few yards to the five-gallon bucket with the hole drilled in so they could pull out food. The small hole kept larger marauders from raiding the buckets, although raccoons and possums could fish out the small kernels of food. Once the snows subsided, walking would be easier. She’d move the feed buckets farther from the dens.

Shaker chugged along. He stopped outside the stable as she came out.

“How’s it going?”

“Pretty good. Did you check the Weather Channel lately?”

“Two hours ago when I filled up the fireplaces. Should end about five.”

“Jeez,” he whistled.

“You’ve got your girlfriend in the cottage.” Sister nodded at the smoke barely rising from the chimney before flattening out. “Bet she’s making barley soup.”

He smiled underneath the lumberjack cap pulled low over his auburn curls. “Want some?”

“I’ll be by later. Who could pass up Lorraine’s soup?” She rubbed her hands together. “While I remember, Delia’s looking a little ribby. I fed her separately and threw in some extra vits. Let’s not hunt her until she puts the weight back on.” She paused. “Starting to show her age a little.” Then she sighed. “She’s a good solid hound.”

“Old Piedmont blood.”

“Yep,” she agreed. Delia’s blood went back to a hunt established in 1840 that had used hounds bred for Virginia conditions by the Bywaters family, one of the great names in American foxhunting.

As he rolled up the window, slowly pushing snow again, she whistled for the house dogs, busy trying to catch a mouse in the feed room. The mouse would have none of it.

“Come on, boys. Come on, let’s have a cup of hot tea, and then we’ll come back and bring in the horses. Sun will set around quarter to five. Going to be a bitter night.”

No sooner had she stepped into the kitchen, the oldest part of the house, than the phone rang.

“Sam.” She recognized Sam Lorillard’s voice. “How are you doing over there?”

“Okay.”

“What can I do for you, Sam?”

“Crawford’s still in a rage.”

“Crawford’s not taking this out on you, is he?”

“No, no”—his voice lowered—“he’s really good to me. Marty, too. Politics,” he said, assuming she’d understand he needed to stay out of it, which she did. “The reason I called is before the storm hit, early Monday morning, I drove up to Green Spring Valley Hunt in Maryland to look at a timber horse, a balanced, sixteen-hand, flea-bitten gray. Good mind. Smooth, bold over fences. Crawford was interested, but the horse is too small for him. Crawford’s packing on weight again. This is your kind of horse: bold, kind, beautiful.”

“How much?”

“Twenty thousand.”

“That’s a lot of money.”

“It’s a lot of horse and only six years old. Duck Martin knows the horse. Sheila Brown, too, and I think Ned Halle is friends with the owner.” He named the three masters of Green Spring Valley Hounds, all tremendous riders. Green Spring Valley was one of the great hunts in this or any country.

“Why doesn’t one of them buy it?”

“Full up. You’ve got good horses, too, but you could use another made horse. You could throw a leg over him right now and go. He’s that good.”

“Why is the owner selling?”

“Getting out of the ‘chasing game.’”

“All right, give me the number and I’ll see what’s what. I sure thank you for thinking of me.”

“Sister, you’ve been good to me, and well, I know things are going to be tense for a while. I don’t want to lose my job, but I’ll keep you posted.”

“Everyone knows you need the job, Sam. No one will criticize you for it. And I’ll never reveal my source.” She chuckled.

“This is Virginia.” A note of sarcasm crept into his voice.

“You’re right. Some will criticize you, but they’ll end the sentence with ‘Bless his heart.’”

“Right,” he agreed.

“Sam, what’s the horse’s name?”

“Matador.”

“Bold name.” She liked it.

Sam lowered his voice, even though Sister was sure he was alone. “One other thing, Crawford’s always been on good terms with Jason Woods. Better terms now.”

“Oh.” Sister wondered what Crawford’s real interest was in the good-looking doctor. “Maybe he’s sick.”

“No. But Jason, Crawford, and the Bancrofts are the big-money people in Jefferson Hunt. No secret that Crawford will leave.”

“We all figured that.” Sister actually felt some relief that Crawford would be out of the club.

“I suspect he’ll pull Jason with him. I know the doctor hasn’t been in the club but so long. He’s the kind of member people want. Rich.”

“Yes.” Sister paused. “And often those members will give more as they settle in, really become part of the club.”