Crazy Like A Fox

CHAPTER 25

“Take your feet out of the stirrups,” Sam, in the middle of Crawford’s enclosed arena, ordered.

Yvonne, one eyebrow raised, lifted her chin, did as she was told. “Bet you thought I’d make an excuse.”

“No. You’re tougher than that,” he complimented her. “Now, relax, shoulders relax, wiggle your toes. There you go. Toes up. Toes down. Feet level. Okay. Now take your stirrups and cross them over the front of the saddle. Now I want you to walk with energy. Squeeze.”

Squire, a kind gelding, moved out a bit. Yvonne, in synch, moved along.

“Hands down, Yvonne. Now ask him to stop. There you go.”

“Can I put my feet in the stirrups now?”

“No. You are going to trot without stirrups along one side of this ring. When you reach the end, stop, and remember, downward transitions take more thought than upward. Ready?”

“You think I’m going to bounce off. I will not,” she declared.

Those first few steps without the stirrups woke Yvonne up. She wasn’t lurching, but she used muscles trotting she never knew she had.

“Whoa,” she softly said as she pulled back, not hard, and the angel glided to a stop.

Hands on hips, Sam called out, “Now, walk up to me. When you reach me, stop and dismount.”

Turning Squire’s head to the center, Yvonne, still no stirrups, walked up to Sam. “May I drop my stirrups now?”

“No. I want you to dismount without pushing off your right foot. You’ll slide a bit but you can do it.”

She did slide off, knees bent a moment, then she stood up straight. “What’s the purpose of that?”

“Just in case you lose a stirrup, you need to function without. Most of us push off when we dismount and swing our leg over. But what if you’ve lost that stirrup? I want you to be comfortable, confident, no matter what. When you can trot for twenty minutes without stirrups, you’ll have your leg.”

“Is that what Tootie calls an ‘educated leg’?” She pulled the reins over Squire’s head and held them, following Sam out of the arena and to the stable.

“No. An educated leg covers a lot of ground. For instance, when you foxhunt, your leg might be on the girth. If ground becomes difficult or you take a downhill jump, you’ll move your leg forward, the amount determined by the challenge. Then there’s turning your horse around your leg. It goes on, but my task is to make you a strong rider, a survival rider. Hunting is about surviving. You encounter obstacles, tricky conditions, sometimes just dumb stuff you would never face in the arena. Like what if you’re going into a jump and the horse in front of you falls, slides right into the jump? Do you pull up going at a canter or do you jump both horse and rider, and the jump, yelling for the rider to stay down? You have to think fast out there, and you have to trust your horse and yourself.”

“Seeing a few hunts, I’m beginning to understand that. Of course, I want to jump. I know it will take time.”

“You’ll get there. A jump is an interruption in your flatwork.” He smiled. “Anyway, lots to do. Next lesson: your first canter. It’s easier than the trot. At least, I think it is.”

“Whatever you say.” She untacked Squire as they were now in the center aisle of the stable.

“How’s everything going?”

“Good. Funny, I’m in my early fifties and I have never lived alone. I quite like it.”

He nodded. “Beveridge Hundred is beautiful.”

“You live alone, right?” she inquired.

“I live on the old home place. It’s behind After All. Gray and I have been fixing it up over the years. He usually spends three days with me and four with Sister or vice versa.” He paused. “I owe my brother everything. He saved my life.”

Brushing down Squire, she looked over his dappled gray back. “How so?”

“I lived down at the train station. Not so bad when the weather was good, but when it rained or snowed, we’d live under the bridge there. If we started a fire, the police would pick us up or chase us off. No one wanted to go to the Salvation Army because of the Bible readings and stuff. I was a drunken bum. I couldn’t stop.” He inhaled. “People must have told you. Everyone knows everything around here.”

She smiled, giving Squire another brush. “Nobody knows everything but, yes, I’ve heard of your fall from grace. Met your aunt at the Old Paradise hunt. Formidable.”

He grinned. “Diplomatic. How very diplomatic. Anyway, Gray picked me up, drove me down to Greensboro, put me in a thirty-day program. I couldn’t get out, couldn’t call, had to face myself. He paid for everything, came and picked me up. I have no one to blame but myself for my fall from grace, as you put it.”

“Doesn’t that apply to us all? My soon-to-be ex-husband—I do like saying that—had everything. Thought he was above the rules, thought he could lie. It’s the same thing. We don’t face ourselves. I finally had to. No, I’m not a drinker, but I had to face that I was living a lie.” She walked around and kissed Squire on the nose. “Why does it take so long?”

“Beats me. These horses in the barn are smarter than we are. They live in the moment, have no illusions, and trust their hearts. Horses are emotional and sensitive.”

“That means he likes my kisses.” Yvonne laughed.

“Well, yes, but he’d like you even more if you gave him a Mrs. Pastures cookie.” He pointed to the feed room where a bucket hung on the wall overflowing with the expensive cookies.

Naturally, horses, like cats and dogs, like the costliest food best. For people, it’s Louis Roederer Cristal.

She fetched a few cookies—what a happy horse, as she led him to his stall. “Do you want me to turn him out?”

“No, we just switched to our winter schedule. Inside at night. Outside during the day.”

Yvonne slid the stall door closed. The top of it was bars so horses couldn’t reach out and nip you, but lots of air and light flowed in. The nipping is often a pay-attention-to-me move. However, if it’s directed at another horse, harsh words can be spoken.

She slid her hand in her britches pocket, pulled out a fifty-dollar bill, handed it to Sam.

“Yvonne, that’s too much. I only charge twenty-five dollars.”

“Oh, I had a good time, but I can feel my inner thighs.”

He laughed. “Yes, you will. Tell you what, this means you’ve paid for two lessons.”

She started to argue but Sam spoke again. “How about after your first hunt, we’ll go celebrate? A twenty-five-dollar lunch.”

“Will I make it before the end of the season?”

“Easy.” He smiled.

“What about the clothes? I don’t want to embarrass my daughter.”

“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. If you’re willing, I’ll drive you up to Horse Country in Warrenton.”

Having seen his car, she smiled. “Deal, but you can drive my car.”

He laughed. “Deal.”

Sam swept out the aisles. Yvonne had told him she’d gotten what she wanted from Vic Harris. He could only imagine the sum but Sam didn’t much care. He liked her. She was game.

He hung the broom up on the wall in the small implement closet, brushed hay off himself, hopped in his aging truck, and drove to Aunt Daniella’s.

She was out the door before he could knock on it. She pointed to Mercer’s car, hers now, a BMW 5 Series. Sam climbed in, fired her up, and off they drove to Harris Teeter, the high-end supermarket.

He rolled the cart while she tossed stuff in, including a few items for him.

The shelves, crammed with foodstuffs, forced decisions. Actually, Sam liked the Food Lion in Lovingston better. The produce was so fresh and the lighting so good. The produce at Harris Teeter was fresh, too. Food Lion, a little less expensive, irritated Aunt Daniella. She remembered when it was mostly for poor whites and poor African Americans. She was not going in. So Harris Teeter it was, with stops along the way as she visited with everyone. Given her age, she knew everyone.

A jar of sweet gherkins in her hand, she looked down the length of the aisle.

In a stage whisper she said, “Alfred and Margaret. Let’s roll right on over.”

Sam did as he was told.

“Why, Margaret, how lovely you look.” Aunt Daniella complimented her as she nodded in recognition of Alfred.

“It was so good to see you at Old Paradise. I hope you come out more often. Tom Tipton was so happy to see you.” Margaret held a jar of Jif peanut butter in her hands, which Alfred took from her, placing it in the cart.

“Tom Tipton can talk a tin ear on you.” Alfred laughed.

“Can, but he was a good man in his day. You were in your very early twenties as I recall, Alfred. You rode with Jefferson Hunt.”

“Did.”

“You’ll be surprised to know I spoke with Wesley Carruthers.” She beamed, a hint of malice in her voice.

He looked at her as though she was crazy, then replied, “I see.”

“Perhaps he will call on you.” She smiled, then rolled away.

“Dad, who’s Wesley Carruthers?” Margaret knew nothing.

“Old foxhunter.” Alfred clamped his mouth shut.

Of course, Daniella was losing it, but why Weevil? What was going on in her brain? Puzzled, Alfred pushed the cart.

In the next aisle, Sam, who had heard a bit about the museum video from Gray, cocked his head. “Aunt Dan, what are you up to?”

“Revenge. Revenge for myself and for Weevil. Alfred told tales about Weevil. He’s what, twelve years younger than I am? As I recall, when I was in my middle thirties, Alfred was just busting twenty and so arrogant. A DuCharme, you know. He figured that as I was a lady of color—the description in those days—I would be eager to sleep with an FFV, First Family of Virginia. I was not and would not. Course, now he probably can’t even get it up. Revenge.” She smiled broadly.

“Aunt Daniella,” Sam spoke in wonder.

“Oh, Sam, I may forgive, but I never forget.”