Рита Браун - Outfoxed

“Woman trouble.”

“What woman?”

Shaker reached for another puppy. “Same one.”

“Oh no.” Sister sighed. “I thought that was all over.”

“If she could let go of the shot glass—” Shaker shrugged.

“In the blood. Bobby’s brother. Drove himself right into a tree the day he graduated from high school. Drunk as a skunk.”

“Bobby can put it away when he wants to. . . . He can hold his liquor, though.”

“True. Old Man Franklin loved his bottle, too. A lot of things pass in the blood.” She held a bright tricolor puppy in her lap. “Good and bad.”

“Girl’s beautiful.”

“Her sister, too. Course Betty was a great beauty when she was young. She’s put on a pound or two. Says it fills out the wrinkles.” Sister smiled, for she loved Betty.

“I guess.” A light red stubble shone on his chin.

“If any of us approached romance rationally, it would never happen and that would be the end of the human race.”

“Wouldn’t be such a bad thing.” He smiled sardonically. “I married one woman and woke up with another.” He referred to his dreary marriage, which had ended many years ago, although the scars remained visible.

“For all our faults humans are marginally amusing and sporadically talented. I don’t think any of these beautiful puppies will paint Night Watch. ”

They sat in silence in the puppy wing of the kennel. The grown hounds were asleep in the adult wing, so it was quiet except for the patter of rain.

Sister spoke again: “I met with Fontaine Buruss.”

“Thought you might.”

“Time.”

“Naw.” He shook his head.

“I said that at sixty but it truly is time at seventy. We need a smooth transfer of power here over the next couple of years.”

“Won’t be smooth with Fontaine.”

“There are precious few candidates. At least the man knows hunting enough to know what he doesn’t know.”

“He’s an empty-headed peacock.”

“Don’t hold back.” She laughed.

“He is. Cock of the walk. Doesn’t know a damn thing about hounds.” Since Shaker’s whole life was hounds, that was his basis for assessing other foxhunters.

“But you do. One of my conditions, should I choose him, is he either stays out of the kennel or he shuts up and learns.”

“But he can’t learn. He’s too interested in how he looks.”

She knew there was a lot of truth in Shaker’s assessment. Men judged other men differently than women judged men. They were harsher. “Crawford Howard.”

“If that goddamned Yankee winds up as joint-master, I’m leaving. He knows less than Fontaine and he can’t ride a hair of that horse of his.”

“Fortunately, the horse is a saint. But if he were joint-master with me, he wouldn’t bother you.”

“The sight of him would turn my stomach. He thinks he’s a bleeding genius because he built strip malls in Indiana and Iowa. He made money and that’s all he’s done.”

“He plays the stock market and makes more. We need money.”

“That’s a fact.”

“What if I made them both joint-masters? There’s a strong current of support for Fontaine in the club. I can’t ignore that, nor can I ignore our financial dilemma. We need a businessman. We need someone who can think ahead. Crawford has that ability, Shaker. I can’t see my way out of this. I might have to make them both joint-masters.”

Shaker reached down, putting another puppy in Sister’s lap. “They’ll kill each other.”

CHAPTER 7

The Garage, an after-hours club in an abandoned garage, drew a young crowd on Saturday night. The music was good, the drinks were watered, and drugs were sold in the parking lot.

Bored, Doug sat at a small round table wondering why he bothered to go out. He’d downed two martinis and knew, given the weather, that drinking a third and driving those twisty country roads home wouldn’t be the smartest choice. He left money on the table and walked for the door just as a wet Cody Jean Franklin dashed in.

“Doug. Don’t go. I just got here.”

“I can see that.”

“Have I ever told you what beautiful green eyes you have?”

“In first grade.”

“Buy me a drink?”

“No.”

She tossed her long black hair. “Why are you so pissed at me.”

“One word: Fontaine.”

“That? Don’t be silly.”

“You’re sleeping with him, Cody. I know you.”

“Maybe you just think you do. I could care less about Fontaine and I’m not sleeping with him.”

He grabbed her forearm, his grip tight. “Don’t lie to me.”

Coolly she said, “Let go.”

He released her arm as though it were on fire, brushed by her, and walked outside.

Livid, she ran after him.

Doug had opened the door of his truck by the time she reached him. They were both soaked.

She slammed him against the side of the truck and kissed him hard. He put his hands on her shoulders, intending to push her away, but instead he kissed her back.

“Cody, don’t do me like this.”

She whispered in his ear, “Dougie, life’s full of secrets. Some are even worth keeping. Trust me.” She kissed him again. “Let’s go to your place.”

“Where’s your car?”

“Jen dropped me off. I saw your truck.”

He leaned his forehead against her forehead, flesh cool in the wet night. “Don’t lie to me, Cody. I’m taking you home.”

“Great. You can stay at my place.”

“I’m taking you home. Period.” He unlocked his truck. They both got in, the seats wet from their drenched jeans. “As long as you’re fucking around—”

She flared up. “I’m not fucking around.”

“Let me finish.” He turned on the motor and the heat. “As long as you’re doing drugs I’m not getting involved.”

“But we are involved.”

“Were. We broke up Memorial Day. One gram of coke and half a bottle of Absolut. Christ, I’m amazed that you lived.”

She slunk down in the seat, staring out the window.

CHAPTER 8

By Sunday the streams, creeks, and rivers hovered dangerously near their banks. The rain slowed to a drizzle. The sun, trying to break through the clouds, cast an ethereal glow over the morning.

Crawford Howard worried about the water as he crossed the arching stone bridge leading out of his property. A hurricane in ’97 washed away the bridge and he’d rebuilt it to the tune of seventy-five thousand dollars. Stonemasons commanded exorbitant fees, especially in collaboration with engineers. They vowed the bridge would withstand everything except a hurricane of Force 5, the worst of the worst. Crawford had no desire to find out if that was true. The water, boiling and muddy underneath the bridge, appeared to mock human planning.

The arched bridge with its large keystone provided a symbol for Crawford. Opposing forces, lined up against one another, held everything in place, made the bridge strong. It reminded him of Elizabeth I’s statecraft, playing the great continental powers off one another while England grew stronger. He admired farsighted people. Bismarck was another favorite, as was Peter the Great, although Peter was a touch too emotional for Crawford, who considered himself supremely rational. It was one of the reasons he was an Episcopalian. One should worship in a civil and controlled manner. Evangelism was for the unwashed.

Then, too, the power in most towns gathered at the Episcopal church. A spillover might be Lutheran or one or two might even be Catholic, always regarded with slight suspicion, of course. Lutherans were also suspicious because of the manner in which they’d broken from the Church of Rome. Crawford thought Luther might have tried more negotiation and less passionate denunciation. He could see no reason why Lutherans weren’t members of the Anglican Church. After all, it was English whereas the Catholic Church was Roman. That would never do. Too much color and incense for Crawford. Besides which, the Italians perfected corruption and ill-advised business practices.