Рита Браун - Claws And Effect

Harry and Poptart observed a movement out of the corner of their eyes. The fox had turned, heading back toward the creek.

Harry stopped, turned her half-bred in the direction of the fox, took off her hunt cap, counted to twenty to give the fox a sporting chance, and then said, "Tally Ho."

Jane raised her whip hand, stopping the field. Everyone got a splendid view of a medium-sized red fox rolling along at a trot. He reached the creek, jumped in, but didn't emerge on the other side. He swam downstream, finally jumping out, and he then walked across a log, stopped, checked where the hounds were. Then he decided to put some distance between himself and these canine cousins.

Graham stood up in his stirrups and laughed. He was a man who enjoyed being outsmarted by this varmint. Dennis noticed the First Whipper-In flying along the top of the ridge ahead of the hounds but to the right of the fox. No hunting person, staff or field, ever wants to turn the fox.

The Huntsman watched proudly as his hounds curved back, soared off the bank into the creek, coming out on the other side. Now they had to find the scent, which was along the bank but a good football field or more downstream. The Huntsman jumped straight down the bank.

Laura whispered to Joe, "Think we'll have to do that?"

"You go first." He laughed.

Jane wheeled back, deciding that discretion was the better part of valor. She'd recross at their original crossing site and then gallop along the stream to try and catch up, for she knew the Huntsman would push his hounds up to the line of scent as fast as he could.

Within minutes the hounds sang out. Harry's blood raced. Susan giggled. She always giggled when the pedal pushed to the metal.

They slopped across the creek, jumped up the bank, and thundered alongside it, jumping fallen logs, dodging debris. The path opened up; an abandoned meadow beckoned ahead, a few scraggly opportunistic cedars marring it.

They shot across that meadow, hounds now flying. They crossed a narrow creek, much easier, and headed up the side of a steep hill, the tree line silhouetted against a gray, threatening sky.

Once they reached the crest of the hill, the hounds turned toward the mountains. The field began to stretch out. Some whose horses were not in condition pooped out. Others bought some real estate, mud stains advertising the fact. About half the field was still riding hard when the crest of the ridge thinned out, finally dipping into a wide ravine with yet another swift-running creek in it.

They reached the bottom to watch all the hounds furiously digging at an old tree trunk. The fox had ducked into his den. There was no way the hounds, much too big for the den, could flush him out, plus he had lots of hidden exits if things grew too hot. But the Huntsman dismounted to blow, "Gone to ground." The hounds leapt up, dug, bayed, full of themselves.

The fox moved farther back into the den, utterly disgusted with the noise. Why a member of the canine family would want to live with humans baffled the fox. Humans smelled bad, plus they were so dumb. No amount of regular food could overcome those flaws.

After a fulsome celebration, the Huntsman mounted back up.

"Shall I hunt them back, Master?"

"Oh, why not?" She smiled.

On the way back they picked up a bit of scent but by the time Tally's farm came into view, fingers and toes craved warmth.

Everyone untacked their horses, threw sweat sheets and then blankets over them, tied them to the trailers, and hurried into Tally's beautiful house.

Harry thought to herself, "So far, so good."

45

"Why, the fences were four feet then. We rode Thoroughbreds of course and flew like the wind." Tally leaned on her cane. It wasn't her back that had given out on her but her left knee and she refused to have arthroscopic surgery. She said she was too damned old to have some doctor punching holes in her knee.

Dennis listened, a twinkle in his eyes. The fences were always bigger when recalled at a distance of decades but in truth, they were.

A crowd filled the house: Miranda, Ned Tucker, Jordan Ivanic, Herb Jones, plus stablehands, more lawyers and doctors, and the neighbors for miles around. When Miss Tally threw a hunt breakfast, best to be there.

"Sam," Joe Cramer greeted him warmly. "I didn't have time to talk to you during the hunt. Say, it was a good one, wasn't it?"

"Those creek crossings-" Sam noticed Bruce out of the corner of his eye. "Well, I haven't seen you for some time, Joe. I'm glad you could come on down and hunt with us."

"Yes, Harry invited us," Joe almost said but caught himself.

Cynthia Cooper brushed by, a plate loaded with food, including biscuits drenched in redeye gravy, her favorite.

Bruce joined Joe and Sam. He spoke to Joe. "Forgive me. I know I've met you but I can't recall where."

"Salvage Masters. Joe Cramer." Joe held out his hand. "We rehab infusion pumps, every brand."

"Why, yes, of course." Bruce warily shook his hand. "What brings you to Crozet?"

"Harry Haristeen invited my wife and I to hunt today. You know, February is usually a good month."

Laura glided up next to her husband. "The dog foxes are courting."

"My wife, Laura. Laura, this is Dr. Bruce Buxton and Sam Mahanes, director of Crozet Hospital."

"Glad to meet you." She shook their hands.

"You ride quite well," Sam said admiringly.

"Good horse," she said.

"Good hands." Graham Pitsenberger, smiling, squeezed into the group, the fireplace immediately behind them providing much needed warmth. "Time to thaw out."

"My butt's cold, too." Bruce smiled.

"Sam." Joe held his hands behind his back to the fire. "You know, your infusion pumps are way overdue on a cleaning." Joe just blurted this out in the excitement of it all. He was supposed to say nothing.

Sam paused a moment. "They are?"

"Years."

"I'll look into that. I can't imagine it because our plant manager, Hank Brevard, was meticulous in his duties. I'll check the records."

Troubled, Bruce cleared his throat. "We've had a shake-up at the hospital, Mr. and Mrs. Cramer. You may have heard."

Joe and Laura played dumb, as did Graham.

Sam, jovially, touched Joe's elbow as he spoke to Bruce. "No need to go over that, Bruce. Foxhunting shouldn't be plagued with work troubles. Joe, I'll get out the files Monday and give you a call."

"Here's my card." Joe slipped his hand into his inside hacking jacket, producing a business card printed on expensive paper, really printed, not thermographed.

He'd changed from his hunting coat to a hacking jacket for the breakfast, which was proper. Not that Tally would have pitched a fit. She didn't care if anyone came into her house in a muddy or torn frock or melton so long as they regaled her with stories. She did draw the line at lots of makeup in the hunt field though. Tally felt that hunting favored the naturally beautiful woman while exposing the artificial one.

Sam took the card, excusing himself. As he headed for the bar, Bruce tagged after him.