Рита Браун - Puss 'N Cahoots

Mr. Thompson ventured to query, “Any prediction for the five-gaited?”

Paul slapped him on the back. “If Point Guard doesn’t win this time, he’ll win every year after.”

As the first class wrapped up, Ward’s client snagged third, the huge yellow ribbon in his hand, a giant smile on his face. Third at Shelbyville meant something.

Ward ran down to the gate as the gentleman rode out, and he said, “Well done, Mr. Carter, well done. You keep riding like that and you’ll be in the blues in no time.”

Mr. Carter, widowed two years ago, was too happy to speak. Without being fully aware, the last of his grief leached away in that moment. Life does go on.

They passed Booty leading a client out of his barn. Ward waved. Booty waved back, although clearly he was distracted.

Miss Nasty sat in her cage, but not for long. The instant she saw Booty’s back, she undid the little lock with a client’s hairpin she’d fashioned for the task.

Humans, in their arrogance, believe they are the only higher vertebrate to make and use tools. Obviously they spent little time with their monkey cousins, nor did they observe ravens and blackbirds, who displayed similar abilities.

Miss Nasty swung open her cage door and lifted her little ecru-and-black-striped skirt to step out. She leapt over to the tack room, swung up on a saddle rack, perched on the saddle, and fiddled with a broken board. She slid it open, revealing a cubbyhole behind, no doubt originally made by enterprising mice. The Spikes of Shelbyville’s fairgrounds slaughtered them mercilessly if they could catch them. Miss Nasty reached in, feeling around. Out came Joan’s pin. She hopped down, rubbed it on a grooming rag, then neatly pinned it on her bodice, which was ecru without black stripes. She walked into the changing room, grabbed her straw boater, ribbons trailing down the back, and clapped it on her head. Miss Nasty was ready for life.

Charly also walked alongside a client for this second class. He had farther to go coming from down below the in-gate, which was one reason he reserved that barn each year. He thought the long walk helped the rider and horse focus. The young lady up top wore a cerise coat and a dashing black derby, her hands poised in the correct position, showing off beautiful kid gloves.

Charly’s hand, still wrapped in Vetrap with the sky-blue ice pack, hung by his side. He walked on the right of the horse so he could use his left hand. More than anything he had to keep the swelling down or he wouldn’t be able to pull on his gloves for the last class.

Boxes overflowed with people and color. Pinks, yellows from lemon to cadmium, all manner of reds, purples, lilacs, sky blues, greens from electric lime to soft shades—every color of the rainbow appeared on the human form.

The crowd had settled into deep enjoyment. Perhaps all would be well.

Frances told those in her box that bad things happen in threes so they’d be fine.

Renata, not riding, as she promised, had changed in the dressing room into a dress. She sat between Frances and Joan in the front row. She wore white, which offset her tan, her flashing teeth, her lustrous eyes. Keeping it simple—a good pair of emerald and diamond earrings, one divine marquise diamond on her hand—drew attention to her commanding physical assets. No wonder the woman was a movie star.

Harry, not beautiful but attractive, never minded being with beautiful women. Her sturdy sense of self-regard served her well.

Paul sauntered back, free of Mr. Thompson at last, to sit in the rear of the box just behind Fair and Harry.

“Mr. Hamilton, please take my seat,” Fair offered.

“No, no, you drove a long way and I’ll be up walking about.” He smiled genially. “First class was good, and this one is shaping up.”

Joan turned. “Daddy, after the class tell me what you think of that gray.”

“Donna Moore’s horse?” Paul mentioned a famous horsewoman—a colorful personality, too.

“Yes.”

The folks in Kalarama’s box focused on the gray as the gelding swept by.

Back at the hospitality suite, Mrs. Murphy and Pewter waited with Cookie for the humans to return when the ring was tidied and fluffed after their class. The two cats smoldered with anger. They had been placed in a large dog crate. True, they had extra food treats, fresh water, and a small dirt box, but this hardly offset the insult.

Cookie, on the other hand, snored in the little sheepskin bed next to the cage.

“How can she sleep at a time like this?” Mrs. Murphy groused.

“Jack Russells are a law unto themselves. I don’t understand anything they do,” Pewter said.

As the cats grumbled, they were surprised by Ward ducking into the hospitality suite. He looked around, then left. They heard him walk down the barn aisle, greet Manuel, then leave.

Within five minutes, Harry, Fair, and Joan returned during the brief interlude between classes.

Renata, trailing fans, ducked in shortly afterward.

Harry let the cats out of their crate.

Cookie opened one eye, then fell back to sleep.

“Did we miss anything?” the two cats asked Tucker.

“Good classes.”

“Where’s that disgusting monkey?” Pewter irritably inquired.

“Haven’t seen Miss Nasty. If she shows up, that ought to enliven the evening,” Tucker replied. “We’ll see if she’s a blowhard or not.”

Just then Booty came into the barn. “Anyone see Miss Nasty?” He avoided Renata’s eye.

“No,” everyone answered.

Booty, without further comment, left.

Harry idly mentioned to Fair, “Stopped by the jewelry booth before I came to the box. They sold that ring I loved. Good thing. Now I’m not tempted.”

“That’s one way to look at it.” Fair had locked the ring in the glove compartment of his truck last night.

Joan left to join Larry as they both helped a client from Illinois, who would ride next. Joan checked out her habit, while Larry double-checked her tack. The extra attention pleased her before competition, so she’d put in a better ride.

As the group fanned themselves and drank something cool, Booty was popping into Charly’s barn. “Seen Miss Nasty?” He carried a chilled bottle of Jacquart La Cuvee Nominee 1988 champagne along with two long fluted glasses.

“Get out of here,” Charly growled low.

“Hey, I was wrong. I’m really sorry.” Booty sounded semisincere.

“Get out.”

Booty turned to leave and nearly collided with Ward heading into Charly’s barn. “He’s in a black mood.”

“You have that effect on people.” Ward breezed right past him.

Booty said loud enough for Ward to hear, “You’re gettin’ too big for your britches, Ward.”

“Shut up, Booty,” Ward called over his shoulder, assuming Booty wouldn’t follow him inside.

Charly looked up at Ward; he and Carlos were grooming a muscular gelding who’d be in the fourth class, junior exhibition five-gaited stake.

Charly winced as he tried to use his hand. “Damn the INS. I need hands, literally.”

“I can see that.” Ward reached up to fasten the throatlatch on the bridle, since Charly couldn’t use his fingers on such a small buckle. “Had a thought.”

“That’s scary.” Charly’s humor was returning.

“Can someone really find instructions for making a car bomb off the Internet?”

“Yes, and I can show you. After the show.”

“I’m not asking for it now, but you are the person who knows about these things and”—he didn’t sound accusatory, just factual—“you had incentive.”

They both looked at the doorway at once, because Booty had walked back in. He held up one hand, two glasses between his fingers, bottle of powerhouse champagne in the other. “Wait, Charly, before you blow up.” Neither Charly, Ward, nor Carlos moved. “I was wrong. Renata nailed me. I was wrong to make up something like that about her. I want to win this class, and I lost my compass, kind of.”