Рита Браун - Probable Claws

“An impressive man.” Sam’s eyes followed Deborah as she carried a package back through the tavern.

“Very. His elder daughter is also impressive. She inherited her father’s brain.” He paused. “Beautiful girl. Her younger sister, Rachel, is also beautiful but it’s a softer beauty. She is much like her own mother, excels at gardening, setting a good table, putting people at ease, and I’ve heard she’s been helping her husband set up St. Luke’s Church. Funny, isn’t it, how we can be so different from our brothers and sisters while retaining qualities in common?”

“Yes.” Sam considered his sister, much like him in her focus on the practical, on getting ahead. “It’s the older sister I wish to talk about. She breeds good horses, does she not?”

“Yes. She has the eye and she memorizes bloodlines.”

“And will she race this spring, do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“Talk to her. Convince her there’s money to be made.” Sam paused. “A great deal of money. I can arrange a betting network.” He held up his hand. “But no one will know that you and I are behind it. A percent will flow to us regardless of who wins. See to it, Yancy.”

“There will be money for the winner?”

“Of course. Think of England, the races there. Those who bet on the winning horses will reap a handsome sum. The betting agents, their tickets stuck on their bet boards, should make some money. But we will make the most. We take a percent from each agent, we sell tickets to the race, too. We run the race in pairs per horse and we charge an entry fee. In other words, we can’t lose if the right horses are running.”

“Where?” Yancy simply asked.

“The Levels by the James.” Sam smiled.

That would be the only level thing about this proposed contest.

8

December 31, 2016

Saturday

The rich twilight blue seemed to make the falling snow even whiter. The silence, broken only by the horses munching in their stalls, promised purity, a time to think, a time to cleanse. Harry strolled down the center aisle checking on everyone. Shortro, a young gray, lifted his head from the feed bucket, looked at her with soft brown eyes, then returned to the delicious food.

Mrs. Murphy and Tucker kept Harry company. Pewter remained in the warm tack room. Why be cold?

The possum, curled up in his luxurious hay bale, snored slightly. The great horned owl, nesting in the cupola, also closed her eyes. Tonight was a night to stay indoors.

Harry turned the stove down to the pilot light, checked her notes on the desk, and slipped out of the tack room, closing the door behind her, Pewter in tow.

The little family used the small side door at the corner of the stable. Harry knew pushing open the huge double doors with the snow on the ground now would be difficult. As it was, enough snow had fallen in the two hours she was in the barn that she needed to put her shoulder on the door to push it open. The new snow piled up on the old snow.

“I’ll be digging that out tomorrow morning.”

Once inside the house, the kitchen felt wonderful. She refreshed the fire she’d built in the living room, checked the propane heater in the bedroom, quite a large room. Thank heaven they’d installed the fireplace last summer. A regular fireplace commanded the center of the room. During a night like this one would prove to be, Fair would build a fire there but neither one needed to feed the fire anymore. That propane fireplace in the corner kept them warm.

The old clapboard farmhouse, elegant in its simplicity, had a fireplace in most of the rooms. The walls, stuffed with horsehair, proved the old way of insulating worked. But the windows, handblown, couldn’t keep out the cold. Harry thought it would be sacrilege to remove them. The cold air seeped under those windows no matter what. As to the attic, when they were first married, Fair insulated that space. All in all, considering that the house was built in 1834, it testified to the wisdom of her ancestors.

The twilight deepened to Prussian blue, the snow looked like a curtain. In the distance to her right she saw diffuse headlights, heard the truck. Fair pulled into an old shed that served as a makeshift garage. No point digging out his truck. He walked from there to the house, stopping to look skyward.

Then he reached the porch, stepped inside, stomped his boots, took off his cowboy hat, shook it, opened the door. “Honey, I’m home.”

“We know,” Pewter replied.

Tucker bounded up for a pet, Harry for a kiss.

“How bad are the roads?”

“Snowplows are out,” he answered. “It’s coming down so hard they won’t be able to keep up with it. Coop’s working tonight, isn’t she?”

“She is. I worry about her on New Year’s Eve no matter what. This makes it worse.”

“Sensible people will stay home.”

She smiled. “Fair, it’s New Year’s Eve. Will anyone young be sensible?”

“I sure hope so.” He draped his arm around her shoulders. “I don’t mind staying in. Susan and Ned always have their New Year’s Eve party at Big Rawly with her grandmother and mother, but surely they’ll cancel. It’s off Garth Road, a ways back, and no one is going to plow the private road.”

As if reading his thoughts, the phone rang.

“Susan.”

“Oh, Harry, I’m canceling. But you know in all the years my family has held their New Year’s Eve party I think they’ve only canceled maybe three times. ’ Course when granddad was alive he’d go outside and do whatever needed to be done or he’d call someone. I’m sorry.”

“Well, it will be a quiet way to start 2017. We’ll make up for it somewhere down the road.”

“I think so, too. Ned and I texted everyone except for Mom and Grandmother. Called them and I’m calling you. Have you made any New Year’s resolutions?”

“Not yet. Have to think about that. You?”

“Yes. I’m not going to watch the news in 2017. Just makes me crazy.”

“Hey, that’s a good resolution.” Harry smiled. “Maybe I’ll borrow yours.”

“Well, Happy New Year, Sweetie.”

“Back at you.” Harry hung up the old wall phone, told Fair Susan’s resolution.

“She’s got a point there. How about if we sit in front of the fire? I’ll make you a light hot toddy. For the season.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll have chicken and catnip. For the season,” Pewter meowed.

Fair, seeing an upturned gray face staring intently into his own, opened the cupboard dedicated to pet treats, distributed bacon bits.

“It’s not chicken and catnip but it’s not bad.” Pewter stuffed her mouth.

“Good way to celebrate.” Mrs. Murphy also grabbed bacon bits.

Tucker chewed on a large bacon strip, too big for the kitties. Conversation could wait.

Harry stoked the fire, threw on another log, settled into the old sofa as Fair joined her with the promised hot toddy.

“You, too?”

He nodded. “Cold night. Hot drink.”

Shoulder to shoulder, watching the flames jump, listening to the crackle and pop, they put their stockinged feet on the old coffee table.

“This old house has welcomed one hundred and eighty-three New Year’s,” Harry mused. “Some were hopeful and I’m sure some were not. I can’t imagine what they felt in 1859.”

“Mmm, all that tension. It exploded soon enough.” Fair knew his history. “Do you think countries go in cycles?”

“I do. Seneca and a lot of the Romans thought so. The Stoics. I’m not as clear on my philosophy as I should be, but they wrote a life cycle for nations, for people. There’s nothing new. New technology, but nothing new about people or cultures. They rise and they fall.”