Рита Браун - Outfoxed

Douglas swung onto the saddle. “They do know.”

“I expect they do.” Sister turned to Lafayette, leading him to a log. She stepped on the log, then lifted up lightly as everyone mounted up. “Well, let’s call it a day.”

Shaker quietly said, “Come along, hounds.”

As the small band rode away, Diana, drawn by an overpowering curiosity, snuck back to the den.

“I’ll get her,” Doug volunteered.

“Don’t rate her, Doug. She’s going for the fox and she’s young,” Shaker ordered.

“I won’t.” Doug knew better than to crank on a young hound, but he cheerfully took the advice. Some people couldn’t stand to be told what they already knew but Douglas was an easygoing fellow.

Diana scurried to the den opening, spread her front paws far apart, and stuck her head down the entrance as far as it would go. To her surprise, Inky was coming out to see the pack leave. They touched noses.

This surprised Diana. She jumped back and sat down blinking. Inky did the same thing. Then the smallish black fox crept up closer to the entrance to get a better look at the hound.

The two looked at each other. Then Inky, hearing Douglas, ducked back in.

“Diana. Come along,” he sang out to her.

She hurried to him but thought to herself, “They’re like us. They’re dogs.” She’d only smelled fox. She’d never seen one before.

Douglas soon joined the others, the rain beating down on them in sheets.

“Thought you said this would clear up,” Betty, riding next to Sister, complained.

“I thought it would.”

“You say that every time the weather gets filthy. ‘Oh, it will pass.’ ” Betty mimicked Sister’s voice, an amber alto.

“It does pass.”

“In two days or two weeks.” Betty laughed.

Cody rode over to Douglas. They were on the hounds’ left. Jennifer was on the right as Sister and Betty now brought up the rear.

“Hi,” Cody said.

“Hi,” he replied.

They rode along, water spilling over their cap brims.

“You aren’t very talkative.”

“I think you’re making a big mistake,” he replied.

CHAPTER 5

The world was wrapped in silver-gray. Fontaine couldn’t see the town square from his office window at Mountain Landscapes, the rain was so heavy.

Marty Howard buzzed him. “Mr. Buruss, Mrs. Arnold is here to see you.”

“I’ll be right there.” Surprised, he pressed the disconnect button on his intercom, stood up, and checked himself in the mirror. He straightened his charcoal-gray tie with the small fuchsia squares; then he strode into the small well-appointed reception room, beaming, hand outstretched. “Sister, what a pleasure to see you on such a wicked day.”

She smiled. “You’re a fair-weather foxhunter.”

“I certainly was today. Come on in.” He winked at Marty, her blond hair in a long braid down her back. “Bring Sister a steaming cup of coffee.”

“We were just discussing that. We were also discussing you giving me Tuesday mornings off so I can hunt. I’ll work late Wednesdays,” Marty said, happy to have Sister standing there.

“Two against one. Not fair.” Fontaine, black hair razor cut to perfection, tan despite the season, wagged his finger at his good-looking secretary. Each time he thought of the distress he caused Crawford Howard, he laughed silently. Fontaine lightly cupped Sister’s elbow, leading her into his office, a hymn to eclecticism.

She sat on the burgundy leather sofa. “Fontaine, I’ll get to the point.”

“You usually do, Mother Superior.”

“First, you didn’t fix the coop you smashed.” She held up her hand as he started to apologize. “I know what happened there. But you wrecked it. You fix it. Those are the rules. Now as to the situation that caused it, talk to me.”

The rainy weather affected his energy. He got up to pace on the other side of a coffee table inlaid with granite. He thought moving around would wake him up. “Chalk and cheese. Simple as that.”

“I understand that.” Marty lightly knocked on the door, bringing in half-coffee, half-cream, Sister’s favorite midday drink. “Oh, thank you, Marty. By the way, I think Cochise is going very well. You’ve worked wonders with that stinker,” she said, referring to Marty’s horse.

“He just needed time. He’s only six, you know.”

“Yes. They learn at different rates of speed, just as we do.”

“Whoops, there’s the phone.” Marty hurried out of the room, closing the door behind her.

“Let’s stay on line, Fontaine.” She used a foxhunting phrase referring to keeping on one line of scent.

He finally sat across from her in a leather chair, a burgundy that glowed against the taupe walls filled with exquisite hunting prints in old gold frames. Fontaine’s family had left him the prints. “I can’t abide that man. I’d use stronger language but not in the presence of a lady, a grand lady.” He smiled, his even teeth a testament to good genetics.

She gratefully swallowed her coffee, the warmth chasing the chill she’d taken that morning. Then she put the mug down, composed herself, and said, “Yankees are what they are. However, he contributes to the hunt. He contributes to every charity in town, even the AIDS foundation, and most of our friends won’t give them a penny. He rubs my fur the wrong way, too. He’s loud, given to voicing many opinions, and he divorced one of the best women God has ever put on this earth. For nothing, I might add, but then you know all that. The truth is—we need him.” She drew in a deep breath, which seemed harder than usual, the air was so heavy. “For all his faults, I think his heart is in the right place, except for the episode with Marty.”

Fontaine weighed his words. “I can only address what I see. He uses money like a club or a wedge, depending on the circumstances. He pours money into Jefferson Hunt because he thinks he’ll soon be joint-master.” Fontaine, being a Virginian, could not say that he himself wanted to be joint-master. That would have been social suicide. He had to wait for Sister to bring up the subject and she had remained ominously silent for the last three years. He knew that she knew that he wanted the job.

“That’s obvious. Another problem.”

“You are the master. You’ve been the master for forty-some years. I grew up hunting behind you, Sister. You know I will support you whatever.”

“I do know that. It’s one of the reasons I’m here. I remember you walking out puppies when you were no bigger than they were. You know hunting even if you are a wimp when the weather turns a little, oh, damp. But a few words. Take a couple of lessons. You’re getting sloppy in the saddle.”

Fontaine, vain about his riding ability, blushed. “I hadn’t realized—”

“No more on the subject. Just do it. Next, hound walk at least once a week.”

“I will definitely make time.”

“Money. Do you have anything left?”

He grinned. “Not much. I’m not a businessman, Sister. I’m just not.”

“I know.” Sympathy played on her even, delicate features. “We live in a time where money is the only value for most people. It wasn’t that way when I was young and that isn’t the nostalgia of an old woman. The golden calf is the true god now. I hate it and I can’t do anything about it. Some would say you’ve squandered your inheritance but you gave to friends, to family. You were not and are not an unfeeling man.”

Not expecting this, he quietly said, “Thank you, Sister.”

“And I appreciate that you haven’t drawn out Crawford in public despite your antipathy. You can be hotheaded.”

“I can’t promise I won’t deck him.”

“Well—who knows what tomorrow will bring. Fontaine, I’m seventy—”