Рита Браун - Puss 'N Cahoots

These things flitted through Harry’s mind as she studied the big black horse, drowsing in his stall.

“Ah.” Jorge smiled. “Big career ahead.”

Harry found it difficult to speculate on how quickly the value of a horse could change after even one show, one big show. “Well, if he wins at Louisville, it goes through the roof.”

“Not this year. Frederick the Great and Callaway’s Senator.” He said no more, for those two horses, fully mature and show hardened, would go head to head Saturday night, the last class, the showstopper class. Charly and Booty rode the two stallions, respectively.

“So if he comes in third, young as he is, that’s a huge victory.”

“Sí.” He nodded. “Sí.”

The rumble of a large diesel engine alerted Harry. She stepped out of Barn Five. The motor cut off. Harry couldn’t see the truck parked down beside the practice ring. She stepped back into the barn and looked at Jorge.

“Feed,” Jorge shrugged.

Tucker and Mrs. Murphy, after ascertaining that no mice or other vermin could be assaulted, also listened as the motor cut off.

“Let’s go,” Tucker called to Mrs. Murphy as Jorge walked back into the barn, Harry following.

Tucker, low to the ground, was fast and agile. Mrs. Murphy loved running with the corgi. Both animals possessed curiosity and stamina. Pewter usually spewed an endless stream of complaints. They were glad she was snoring back at the Best Western.

The dewy grass kept the impression of their pawprints. They stopped at the bleacher bench on the eastern side of the practice arena. For many, watching the horses work gave them clues as to how they might fare in their classes.

“Who are those men hopping out of the back of the van?” Tucker, eyes good in the dark, watched the back of a white horse van with green trim.

Mrs. Murphy walked closer. Tucker followed. “They’re young.” She strained to hear, ears forward, but the only sound was their boots tiptoeing into the oldest barn. “They’re Mexican.”

“What are they doing? Maybe they’re going to steal horses.” Tucker knew humans to be a noisy lot, so if the human animal, especially in numbers, was silent, no good would come of it.

“You don’t need that many people to steal a horse.” Mrs. Murphy wondered what was going on, too. “Come on.” She sprinted toward the barn.

Tucker, bigger than the cat, worried that she’d attract attention. She followed but looked for places to duck away.

Mrs. Murphy sauntered into the barn as though she lived there. She checked out the stalls, and as all were wood she could climb up to get out of the way. Just in case.

However, there were barn cats, who immediately tore after her. She ran, because four cats against one is not a pleasing prospect.

“Scram!” the biggest ginger cat screeched.

Mrs. Murphy shot past Tucker, and the corgi turned to keep up with her friend as the barn cats puffed up, stopped running, and whooped their victory.

“See anything?”

“The men are lined up along the wall. Charly Trackwell gave a roll of cash to Ward Findley. Booty Pollard, with Miss Nasty, is there, too.”

“Guess it doesn’t concern Kalarama or us,” Tucker said.

“Guess not. Odd, though.”

“Twenty men in the back of a horse van?” Tucker was surprised.

“They looked tired and hungry.” Mrs. Murphy wished those barn cats hadn’t appeared. She could have listened to what the men were saying.

Harry was glad to see the cat and dog once they were back at Barn Five. “Where were you?”

“Investigating,” Tucker replied.

Harry shot Mrs. Murphy a hard glance. “See if I let you off your leash again.”

“Pooh,” Mrs. Murphy said but thought worse.

Once Harry and the animals had driven off, Jorge briskly trotted to the old barn, just as the big diesel fired up to back out.

What a gorgeous hair dryer.” Harry laughed as she and Joan drove along the back roads of Shelbyville in Joan’s new Jaguar with its all-aluminum body.

Joan, like Harry, fretted over money. Owning a sports car seemed frivolous, but one day Joan drove into Louisville to run errands and drove out with a richly appointed Jaguar. It was one of the few impulsive things she had ever done. True to form, she suffered a wave of buyer’s remorse the next day, which vanished the moment she slid behind the wheel, inhaled the leather scent, and cranked the motor.

“I lost my mind.” Joan giggled.

“I need to take a lesson from you.” Harry could take being practical to extremes.

“You know what, when you need to let fly, you will. After all, you remarried Fair this spring.”

“And look how many years it took me to do it.” Harry turned as they passed the back pastures of a farm, the tobacco barns well situated to capture the breezes. “I’m surprised he waited.”

“He loves you.”

She turned to face Joan. “I have no idea why.”

“You’re lovable.” Joan smiled. “And men want a challenge.”

“I provided that.” Harry inhaled the thick honeysuckle scent as the long slanted rays of early-morning light reflected off the ground fog in swales over creeks and ponds. She changed the subject. “Did you go to the sheriff about your pin?”

“Yes.”

“Mom know?”

“No.” Joan hugged a curve, marveling at the car’s ability to stick to the road. “She won’t notice for a while, because I don’t wear the pin every night.”

“God, I hope it turns up.” She inhaled again, giddy from the odor. “Will Mom have a fit and fall in it?”

“No. She’ll look down, fight back the tears, purse her lips. It’s worse than being fussed at. The guilt.”

“You majored in guilt, all those years of Catholic school.” The corner of Harry’s mouth turned up.

“I know it! And I still can’t rid myself of it. Makes me so mad. Like this car. I earned this car. I work hard. You know I do, and I love driving this thing, but every now and then I think of the suffering in the world and this wave of guilt washes over me. Well, I’m not going to confession over it. I’m not.” Her voice was determined.

“I think about suffering, too, but tell me, are we all supposed to suffer? Is that what equality means? We’re all dragged down together?” Harry snuggled down in the seat, then sat up straighter. “Any one of those people suffering in the world, if they had the resources, would buy this car. Why spurn happiness? God gave you the chance. You took it.”

“Theology by Haristeen.” Joan smiled, since she could always count on a good discussion with her friend.

“Logic, not theology. There’s precious little happiness in this world. Grab what you can. I don’t mean you take away someone else’s, but grab what comes to you.”

“But that’s it, isn’t it? If I buy this car I’m polluting the atmosphere. I could send this money to, oh, Uganda and help someone.”

“First of all, Joan, that’s bullshit. Industry pollutes more than cars. And even if you drove a hybrid, you might not emit as many hydrocarbons, because you’d use less gas and oil, but it would still contribute to global warming. Exhaust is hot regardless of the fuel. You have to drive. When have you ever seen a bus stop out in the country? Right?”

“Right.”

“Okay. Furthermore, if you send money to Uganda it will wind up in some corrupt official’s pocket. You don’t even have to send it to Uganda; think of the millions that disappeared earmarked for the victims of Katrina. Give to charity you can monitor with your own two eyes.”