Рита Браун - Full Cry

“This has been some kind of winter.” He took another sip. “Let’s sit by the fire. I like to look at you in the firelight.”

She kissed his cheek. They walked to the overstuffed sofa, squeezing side by side as the flames, orange, red, a hint of blue, cast warmth.

“Honey, how do you think Sam Lorillard is working out?”

He put his snifter down, stretched his hands. His joints hurt. “So far, so good. Too early to really tell.”

“Fairy thinks there will be trouble in the hunt field with Sam.”

Fairy Partlow kept the Howards’ foxhunters in tune. In her late twenties, she had proven surprisingly capable and reliable.

He exhaled through his nostrils. “Reminds me. I forgot to give the club money for Sam to ride as a groom. I’ll check with Sister.”

“Fairy hasn’t been out in two weeks. Hunting, I mean,” she said.

Fairy rode as a groom, a policy most hunt clubs use to include stable help employed by wealthier members. As a rule, the grooms rode better than their employers and were helpful in the field, as they rode in the rear.

“Well, now that Sam’s here, and I’ve hired Roger Davis to help out with the horses, maybe she can hunt more. But this damned weather has got us all holed up.” He put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Hunt field is the best place to bring young chasers. Sam needs to hunt, too.”

Crawford, having talked to old-timers in the steeplechase world, thought he’d stick to the tried-and-true ways of the past, although many a modern owner and trainer no longer did.

Eager to make a bigger mark, he was purchasing young steeplechase and hunter prospects, hence his recent hiring of Sam.

“Fairy says over the years Sam has worked for members of the club and fallen foul of some of them.”

“Oh, these damned Virginians never forget a thing. That’s ancient history.”

“If someone sleeps with your wife, I doubt it ever becomes ancient history,” she quietly said.

His eyebrows rose. “Oh. Who did Sam sleep with?”

“Henry Xavier’s Dee. Ronnie Haslip told me in confidence. That Ronnie knows everyone and everything.”

“Really?”

“And the list goes on, of women I mean.”

“Hmm.” He dropped his chin for a moment, thought, then raised it. “He’s gone through rehab. He goes to AA meetings at least five nights a week. There has to be some forgiveness in the world.” Crawford did believe in forgive but never forget.

“Hopefully.”

“Can’t understand how those women fell for him. He’s a bandy-legged, skinny little thing. Nice color though.”

Café au lait was Sam’s coloring.

“He was younger then. Alcohol ravages even the most beautiful. Think of Errol Flynn or William Holden.”

“Mmm. Too far back for me.”

She lightly punched him. “You’ll pay for that.”

“How about now?” He pulled her to him, kissing her.

“What a good idea.”

CHAPTER 5

“Are you doing this to irritate me?” Delia, mother of the D litters, crossly said to Trudy, a racy second-year entry.

“No,” the young hound replied as they walked through the snow. The humans accompanied them on foot this Tuesday morning.

Sister, Shaker, Betty, and Sybil Bancroft—she’d taken back her maiden name—each wearing warm boots, marveled at the beauty of this crisp morning.

The snow did not stop Sunday night as predicted, but floated down throughout Monday, finally ending late Monday night. The road crews in Virginia, more accustomed to dealing with flooding conditions or old macadam roads bubbling up in fierce heat, worked twenty-four hours even in the storm to keep the interstates open. Given that Virginia generally gets far less snow than upstate New York, the state budget allowed for the purchase of only a small number of snowplows. Close to the mountains it snowed more regularly, so the state, and it was a good plan, sold the work out to local people. Anyone with a snowplow attachment to a heavy-duty truck, a bulldozer, or even a big old dump truck could earn some extra money during the storms. The dump trucks followed the plows. As the snow would be scraped up and piled to the side, the dump truck driver would slowly release a load of sand. Sometimes salt would be mixed in with the sand, wreaking havoc on the underbodies of older cars and trucks.

Unless more snow fell, or, worse, the temperature climbed and it rained, the New Year’s Hunt would go off without a hitch. And it would be beautiful, given the snow.

All the hounds that were not in season or were puppies came out on hound walk today. Sister and Shaker wanted to see if anyone was footsore or not moving properly. Both master and huntsman bordered on the fanatical concerning hound care. The Jefferson Hunt pack of American foxhounds enjoyed robust health, shining coats, and clean teeth. Their monthly expenses ran at about $1,500, give or take a few hundred, depending on special events such as a whelping difficulty, which would entail a veterinary bill.

Sister Jane’s kennel standards were so high she was often cited as a model by other hunts. Individuals hoping to start a pack of foxhounds made the journey to see her kennels and hounds. They came from as far as California.

The pack knew they were splendid. Even on hound walk they moved in long fluid strides, brimming with confidence, bright eyes, and cheerful demeanors. This was a happy pack.

However, at this exact moment, Delia wasn’t happy. She feared being left in the kennel for New Year’s Hunt due to her age. While indeed the territory was demanding, her conformation was so good, her lung capacity and heart girth perfect, that she showed no signs of breaking down. Still, she had slowed a little, and Dragon, Dasher, and Diana, her third-year litter, pushed up front. Last year’s litter—now in their first year, Darby, Doughboy, Dreamboat, Dana, Delight, and Diddy—also possessed speed, as well as their mother’s power of endurance.

Trudy, also quite fast, was walking next to Delia. She bumped the older hound by accident, turning around to see what Betty Franklin was laughing about. A young hound didn’t bump into an older hound without repercussion; the older hound took this as a challenge to authority. Kennel fights could be started with less provocation. Fortunately this pack had few of those.

“You mind your manners,” Delia growled.

The other hounds knew not to respond, even Dragon, a real smartass. While Delia was not the head bitch, she was older, and the other hounds knew their place. Cora, the head bitch, lorded it over everyone. She used her power wisely, but no one except for the first-year entry, who weren’t born yet, would forget the hunt when Dragon disobeyed her: she bumped him so hard he fell on his side, and then she sat right on him. When he struggled to get up, she threw him down again, this time with her jaws on his throat. Dragon deserved it, and he might challenge other hounds, but he had yet to challenge Cora again. That reminder of who was boss kept the rest of the season running smoothly.

Above Cora on the ladder of authority were Shaker and Sister. The hounds respected the two whippers-in, but didn’t necessarily think those two humans were pack leaders. Sometimes it was hard for the pack to remember that Sister and Shaker were humans. To the hounds, they were flawed hounds on two legs, yet possessing special gifts such as better sight during daylight.

The going would be tough on Thursday, so Sister and Shaker closely watched hounds. No one with even a slight crack in his or her pad could go out since they would be crossing icy creeks. Better not to take a chance of cutting open a crack. Any hound who was a bit weedy wouldn’t be going out. On a day like Thursday might be, some slim hounds ran off every bit of extra fat they had, and Sister didn’t want that. If a hound ran off too much weight during the season, it was hard to put it back on until the off-season. She monitored weight daily. All her hounds enjoyed good lung capacity, but Delia, well built, was older, as was Asa and a few others. Steady and true as they were, and therefore worth their weight in gold, Sister was indeed considering keeping them in the kennel on this particular High Holy Day.