Full Cry

CHAPTER 41

“What’s the difference?” Xavier angrily countered Marty Howard.

“The difference is your life, the quality of your life,” she fired right back, secure in the righteousness of her cause.

“Marty, I like you. Understand that. I do.” Picasso’s reins were draped over his shoulder. “But I’m going to do as I damn well please. I’m smoking and that’s that. And don’t give me crap about filtered cigarettes or low tar. All that crap. All you do is inhale the tiny fibers from the filters or whatever they treat the tobacco with. I’m better off smoking straight cigarettes. The others are for wimps anyway.” Defiantly, he blew a puff of blue smoke.

“Then at least smoke good tobacco.” Crawford emerged from the trailer’s tack room. “Addictive personalities. You know. If they don’t do drugs, they turn to God. Forgive the cynicism. If they drink and give it up, they smoke. You’re an addictive personality.” He handed Xavier a pack of Dunhill Reds. Same cigarettes he bought for Sam, now lurking on the other side of the trailer since he didn’t want to get into a run-in with Xavier.

“Thanks.” X didn’t think he was an addictive personality.

“How could you?” Marty felt undermined.

“Honey, people will live as they see fit, and you can’t improve them. Besides, I’d rather have him or Sam smoothed out by nicotine than not, wouldn’t you? Life is too short to put up with other people’s irritations. Seems to me our efforts should be directed toward steering young people away from smoking. I don’t think you can do much to change older ones. X is my witness.”

“Lung cancer is hardly an irritation,” she snapped.

“His lungs.” Crawford shrugged.

“What’s Sam got to do with this?” Xavier was now irritated, edgy.

“I buy him a carton of Dunhill Reds each week. A bonus. Keeps him happy. Rather have him smoking than drinking.”

Xavier opened his mouth to say once a drunk, always a drunk, but he shut it, then opened it again. “I’m smoking again to lose weight.”

“There are better ways.” Marty was persistent.

“Tried them all.” He paused. “Although last night Sister mentioned HGH. I went home and looked it up on the Internet. Might work. I’m not going to the gym. Christ, I hardly have a minute to myself now. Foxhunting is my solace, and if I have time for only one sport, this is it.”

Crawford, familiar with strategies to stay young, had his HGH flown in from England, and no one was the wiser for it. “Xavier, get a stationary bike and ride it while you watch the news. Better than nothing. And try the Atkins Diet. I’m serious.”

A rustle from the kennel alerted them to the hounds walking out in an orderly manner.

“Damn.” Crawford tightened his girth.

As Crawford and Marty hurried to pull themselves together with Sam’s help, Xavier walked Picasso back to his trailer, mounting block by the side, and heaved up just as Clay and Izzy rode by.

“Didn’t hear you grunt that time,” Clay said.

“Shut up,” said X.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“If I hear one more lecture from Marty Howard about cigarettes or women’s rights or sugar or Free Tibet, I’ll spit in her face, so help me God.”

“Umm,” Izzy murmured as if in agreement, furtively looking for Dalton. She caught his eye. He smiled, then looked away.

Ronnie rode up. “If you all don’t want to ride in the back of the field, hurry up.”

“X is having a snit.”

“I’m not having a snit!” He breathed deeply, petted Picasso, and said, voice low, “I’m tired of being middle-aged and fat.”

“Nothing we can do about the middle-aged part, but fat, that’s fixable.” Ronnie walked on toward the kennels.

“Come on.” Clay rode next to Xavier. Izzy rode a little behind them.

This Saturday’s fixture was Roughneck Farm. Apart from being full of foxes, Sister and Shaker enjoyed hunting from home because they could luxuriate in an extra hour of sleep. Also, they could load up the pack with the young entry, since, if someone did take a notion, the young ones knew the way back to the kennel. This year’s class had made great progress since September’s opening day of cubbing. The fact that it had been a moist fall greatly helped them enter properly.

Sister figured the day would be start and stop, hunt and peck, since last night was a full moon. Contented, stuffed, most foxes were curled up in their dens, a tidy pile of bones and fur outside the opening. Inky had buried her debris, not an unusual habit, though most foxes kept their own open garbage pit.

A field of fifty-nine showed up, formal attire creating a timeless tableaux of elegance. Bobby counted twenty-three Hilltoppers. He asked Ben Sidell if he would mind riding tail along with Sari Rasmussen, who volunteered for gate duty today. Jennifer rode tail with First Flight. Sister liked having someone to close the back door, as she put it. Also, if the field straggled; it wasn’t good. They might turn a fox or, if the pack turned, hounds would have to run through horses. So Sari pushed up the Hilltoppers while Jennifer pushed up First Flight. Much as the girls liked being in First Flight, as close to the front as they could get without offending the adults, these days doing tail duty led to squeals of laughter back in the barn when they recounted what occurred. The tail rider sees everything: the misdeeds, the bobble in the saddle, the split britches, the bad fences.

When the field walks out, a hierarchy lines up behind the field master. For the Jefferson Hunt, this meant that Tedi and Edward rode in the master’s pocket. As the oldest members with colors, they were entitled to pride of place. Also, they rode divine horses, so they could keep up. As the hunt unfolded, this hierarchy altered. Whoever could really ride, whoever was well mounted, could move up without censure, although few ever passed the Bancrofts. Occasionally Tedi would pull back if she sensed someone behind her who was antsy or who couldn’t control his or her horse.

During joint meets, the visiting master, if that master did not hunt hounds, rode with Sister. Guests then rode forward as Jefferson members graciously fell back for them. Again, once the hunt unfolded, if some guests weren’t well mounted, the Jefferson Hunt members could pass them without being considered rude.

The American way of hunting, most particularly in the South, involved manners, hospitality, and strict attention to the pleasure of one’s guests. Hunts in other parts of the country could be equally as welcoming, but the southern hunts believed they performed these services better than anyone. And of course, the Virginia hunts took it as an article of faith that they towered over all other hunts, a fact not lost on other states, nor especially admired.

Many was the time that Sister repented being a Virginia master when she hunted, say, in Kentucky. So keen were those masters to show their mettle that they gleefully rode out in twelve-degree snowstorms, taking three- or four-foot stone fences.

The “By God, I’ll show these Virginia snobs” attitude meant that the Virginians had to ride quite well in order to survive. Yet it was all in good fun. There is not a sport as companionable as foxhunting.

Sister looked over her shoulder at the line of well-turned-out riders snaking behind her as they briskly walked toward the peach orchard next to the farm road.

She remembered hunting in Ireland one fall after she and Ray had been married four years. The Irish rode right over them. She never forgot her first hedgerow jump with the yawning ditch on the other side. That night she thanked God for two things: One, she was an American. Two, she had rented a superb horse who took care of her.

Clay and Xavier whispered between themselves as hounds were not yet cast. Ronnie, riding just ahead, paid no attention. He’d listened to Xavier’s wails of frustration over his poundage every day. Just because X was his best friend didn’t mean there weren’t times when X bored him to tears. He always thought that Dee was a saint, and he envied X his partner in life. Funny, too, for of all the original four friends, X, average-looking, would have seemed to be the last one to attract a marvelous woman.

Ronnie liked Izzy well enough, but she was impressed with her beauty and impressed with money a bit too much for him. His eyes darted over the field today. He’d known some of these people all his life. The newer ones brought fresh ideas and energy, and he had to admit that he learned from them. Pretty much he liked everyone out there, although Crawford irritated him. He wasn’t overfond of Dalton Hill either.

Hounds reached the field across from the peach orchard, the low gray clouds offering hope of moisture and scent. The temperature clung to a steady thirty-nine degrees. The layer of fresh snow had had enough time to settle in, pack down a bit. The going might be icy in spots but mostly, if the horses had borium on their shoes, they should be okay.

A blacksmith charged $105 to shoe with borium, a bit of metal powder put onto the shoes. Some people put caulks in their horses’ shoes, a kind of stud. Some could even be screwed in and then screwed out. Sister hated studs, refusing to use them. Like most horsemen, she had strong likes and dislikes. She had visions of her horse tearing the hell out of himself with studs if he overreached or stumbled, then scrambled, hitting his forefeet with his hind or catching the back of his foreleg. It wouldn’t do.

As she watched Shaker cast hounds into the field, a wave of envy swept over her. Shaker was right. Once you hunt the hounds, you never want to go back. Still, she was a sensible woman. He was a gifted huntsman, and Jefferson Hunt was lucky to have him. She’d content herself with leading the field.

Trident picked his way over the snow. Trudy, Tinsel, and Trinity were out, along with Darby, Doughboy, Dreamboat, Dana, Delight, Diddy, Ribot, Rassle, and Ruthie.

Cora hoped the youngsters would keep it together. She, like Sister, felt good about their progress. A day like today could be tricky. The conditions seemed favorable, but the full moon last night generally made for a dull hunt. Cora hoped they could pick up a visiting red dog fox.

Nellie, Diana, Delia, Dasher, Dragon, Asa, Ardent, and the other veterans, like a scrimmage line sweeping forward, moved over the terrain.

Back in the house, Raleigh and Rooster were furious because Sister locked their dog door to the outside. Both dogs would shadow the hounds if they could, and they had no business doing that. Golly relished their misery.

“Maybe we’ll pick up Grace?” Trident said.

“Too far for her on a cold night like last night. She’s over there at Foxglove by the water wheel.” Asa had a fondness for the small red.

“What about Aunt Netty?” Ribot inhaled rabbit odor.

“Figure that any scent you get will most likely be dog fox,” Delia instructed Ribot. “The vixens sit because they know the dog foxes will come to them. If you do get a vixen’s trail, chances are she hunted a bit; you’re picking her up going back to her den, especially now.”

“Then why did we get long runs on vixens in late October?” Ruthie puzzled over this.

“The young fox entry, so to speak, left home to find their own dens. Don’t you worry over that now,” Delia instructed. “I’m telling you what I’ve learned over the years, though if there is one thing I have learned about foxes, it’s to expect the unexpected. For all I know, Ruthie, a vixen will show up and give us a ripping go today. They are peculiar creatures, foxes.”

Nellie, another old girl, giggled. “That’s what Shaker says about women: They’re as peculiar as foxes.”

“Hasn’t said much like that since he took a fancy to Lorraine.” Ardent laughed.

The hounds laughed with him. If the humans heard, it would have sounded as though they were letting their breath out in little bursts.

Dragon, although pushing up front, was subdued. He kept half a step behind Cora, off to her right. For her part, next time he challenged her, she’d kill him. She was the head bitch as well as the strike hound, and she was in no mood to put up with any more bad behavior.

They pushed through the field heading east, toward After All Farm.

“Not much.” Ardent caught a faint line. “It’s Comet.”

“Let’s follow it, Ardent. Might be all we’ll get today. If we’re lucky, it will heat up.” Cora trusted Ardent completely.

The hounds moved with Ardent as he turned northward. The scent warmed but remained faint until they crossed over the thin ice, breaking it, on a small feeder into Broad Creek.

“Better. Better,” Asa called, and hounds opened.

Bare in the winter light, old silky willows, some fourteen feet high, dotted the path of the stream. Lafayette picked his way through the trappy ground, took a hop over the stream, trotting after hounds who were moving steadily but not with speed.

For twenty minutes, hounds pursued this line until they wound up at the base of Hangman’s Ridge. Scent turned back along the edge of the farm road, heading back toward the peach orchard. Hounds took the half leap off the road, sunken with time and use, up into the peach orchard.

Betty, out in the open field on the left of the road, wondered if the fox might be close by. She was in a good spot to see him break cover.

Sybil, on the right, was at the edge of the peach orchard. Hounds moved through, baying stronger, moving at a faster trot. They cleared the orchard, crossed the grassy wide path separating the peach orchard from the apple orchard, then plunged into the apple orchard. They began a leisurely lope, Cora square on the line, but she no sooner reached the halfway point in the apple orchard than she turned a sharp left.

Betty intently, silently watched.

Shaker, on Showboat, followed. The scent was stronger now.

Comet, bright red, crossed the open field, glancing at Betty. He moved to the easternmost edge, jumped on the hog’s back jump and from there to the fence line. Balancing himself, he carefully walked northward for one hundred yards, jumped off the fence line on the far side, and slipped into the woods.

Tempting though it was to follow the fox and have her own personal hunt, Betty patiently waited for the lead hounds to appear. Three minutes later, they broke from the apple orchard. Four minutes later, the bulk of the pack pressed behind Cora, Dragon, and Dasher. Betty could now see Shaker cantering through the snowy lane between apple rows. As the lead hounds drew even with her, she turned Outlaw and kept with them about ten o’clock off of Cora’s twelve o’clock. The field, slushy in parts, demanded a tight seat.

Hounds, much lighter than a twelve-hundred-pound horse, easily negotiated the terrain. They climbed over the hog’s back, then stopped.

“Hold hard,” Sister commanded.

The field reined in behind her, a few bumps here and there, a few curses muttered under someone’s breath.

“I can’t find him. All I have is the scent on the hog’s back,” Ruthie, excellent nose, barked.

“Keep calm, Ruthie. Foxes don’t disappear into thin air much as they want us to think they do,” Diana reassured her.

The field fanned out to get a better look, Clay and Izzy together—unusual because Izzy usually rode in the back with her gal pals. Sam Lorillard kept well to the rear and couldn’t see a thing. Gray, too, couldn’t see anything in the middle of the people, but he thought it unwise to go too far out in the field for a look in case the hounds turned. Those people craning their necks could be standing right on scent, ruining it for hounds if enough of them tore up the snow and the earth underneath.

Hounds milled about for two or three minutes.

Ardent suggested they move along the fence line in both directions with a splinter group going ahead from the hog’s back in case the fox had managed to make a big leap of it.

“Have to be really big,” Delia mumbled.

“Who is to say he didn’t hitch a ride. Target once rode on Clytemnestra’s back,” Cora said. “That’s one story, anyway. None of us ever saw it, but he sure did lose us last season back in the apple orchard and we had him, had him fair and square.”

“We’d see tracks. We’d smell the vehicle.” Dragon had no time for speculation as he moved right along the fence line.

Tinsel, moving left along the fence line, eager, got a snootful of fox scent. “He’s here!”

Dragon, turning left in midair, raced to the young hound. “It’s Comet, all right.” Hounds opened, their voices a chorus of excitement.

Sister waited for Shaker to clear the hog’s back, then she took it as the field followed.

The scent line—a magic trail of pungent delight—curled just above the snow. The temperature, forty-two degrees now, allowed it to lift off, releasing the musky aroma.

The hounds passed through the woods as Sister found the old deer trail. Moving at speed, the dips and rises in the earth barely registered in Sister’s brain. Her only thought was to keep hounds in sight and not crowd Shaker, blowing as he rode, encouraging his pack.

A ravine cut crossways. The fox cleverly dipped down, using the rocks to foil his scent. He didn’t go all the way down into this steep cleft in the earth. Hounds overran the line, yelped with frustration, and then began the patient process of returning to where they first lost the scent to look again.

Darby surprised everyone by examining the first bunch of rocks, some large and smooth covering twelve square feet, little crevices packed with blue ice. He picked up the line, charging up out of the ravine. He was so intent on his task, he forgot to tell the others.

Ardent watched him, ran over to the rocks, checked it out, then he, too, picked up the line. “Here we are, buddies. Here we are.” He called up to Darby, “Wait for the pack, Darby. Can’t go off on your own like that, even when you’re right. Steady there, fellow.”

Darby slowed as Ardent caught up to him. Within seconds Dragon, Dasher, and the lead hounds drew alongside.

“Good work,” Cora praised him. “Smart to wait.”

Darby, grateful to Ardent for saving him a tongue-lashing from Cora, put his nose down, lifted his head, and let out a song of happiness.

Hounds ran back through the woods, back under the fence line while the field searched for the closest jump, then back through the large snowy field, back to the base of Hangman’s Ridge, where the fox disappeared. No scent. No anything. No tracks.

“This makes me crazy!” Tinsel wailed.

“He’s around,” Trident said with conviction.

Hounds milled about, confused. Diana noticed a thin trickle coming off the side of Hangman’s Ridge, a trickle spilling over black jagged rocks. Underneath that was a mass of elongated blue ice that looked like icicles had melted a little, then refroze, creating this imposing mass. The fox had gotten under the trickle, following it down, water washing scent away.

By the time she picked up his trail Diana knew Comet had put a half-mile ahead of her. But still, scent is scent. She opened. Hounds moved around the base of the ridge, moving southward and then turning west into the long floodplain that Soldier’s Road bisected.

The field became strung out, thanks to the footing, which had tired some horses more than their riders realized. They’d been pushing through the snow for an hour and a half now. Even Jennifer couldn’t keep them all together; Bobby Franklin soon overlapped the rear of the First Flight, which was their problem not his.

Sister raised her crop over her head then let it fall. Cloud Nine, quite fit and with a marvelous ground-eating stride, opened up, passing stragglers, passing through the middle of the field, finally coming up behind the knot of hard riders behind Sister. He passed Izzy, who was falling behind. Came alongside Marty and Crawford, both doing quite well. Cloud Nine stretched out, and Sam figured, why fight with the horse? He was moving out, loving it, and at least there were no bottlenecks. He hoped he could rate the big thoroughbred if he needed to. They had been working on that.

But Picasso had other ideas, flattening his ears as he heard Cloud Nine come up. Clay moved out of the way and up, hearing the hooves behind him. Ronnie, better mounted and really a better rider, asked more of his horse and got it, moving up until he was next to Edward.

Walter fell back a little, figuring Rocketman didn’t need to get into a race. Then, too, this was his first season with this horse, and he wanted to know him better.

As Cloud Nine came alongside X and Picasso, the paint let out an ugly cow kick. Kicking is bad enough, but a cow kick—which is to the side—is nasty. The hooves, packed snow dislodging in a squished clump, shone dully in the cloudy light. Picasso just missed his target.

“Idiot!” X, his face dark, looked at Sam. “You’re a groom. Stay to the rear!”

“You don’t fool me, you fat pig. I know you and Clay will cream the insurance money. Cream it like you creamed Mitch and Anthony,” Sam spat back, his voice loud.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Sister turned, hearing the commotion. “Hark!”

This had no effect on the two as Sam bumped Picasso, like a ride off in polo, before the massive paint could kick out again. Then Sam moved ahead of Xavier, but not before X caught him around the neck with his thong, choking him, yanking him clean off his horse.

Clay, the strain too much, lost it when he heard Sam’s brazen challenge to X. He didn’t stop to separate the two. He blew past Tedi and Edward, came alongside Sister, reached down with his left hand, and grabbed Lafayette’s reins.

“Hey!” Lafayette hollered.

Sister, cool, dropped the reins. “I’m sorry it was you, but I thought you’d take the bait.”

Clay twisted in the saddle to hit her across the chest with his right hand, but he had to swing across his own chest. He couldn’t get a square blow. Sister squeezed Lafayette to go faster. He was a faster horse than Clay’s, but Lafayette, head turned toward Clay, couldn’t lengthen his stride.

“Steady, steady,” Sister spoke to her beloved horse.

Dropping her stirrup irons, she swung both legs back, then up for momentum, reached forward with her hands, using Lafayette’s neck for balance. She half stood, both feet now in the middle of her saddle. Then she leapt over behind Clay.

Clay dropped Lafayette’s reins, but the beautiful gray kept running alongside, calling to hounds, “Cora! Diana! Delia, Nellie, hounds, stop, stop! Sister needs you.”

Nellie, at the back, heard him. “Hold up, hold up!” She bellowed for all she was worth.

The hounds slowed. Cora turned to see Sister, behind Clay, one arm around his neck, the other straining forward for the reins, which she couldn’t reach.

Savagely, Clay elbowed her. Her legs were so strong she didn’t weaken her grip on his horse even though she had no stirrups.

Tedi and Edward, on fast horses, moved close to the battling pair. The field watched in horror as their master clung to Clay and the horse.

She jerked Clay hard around the neck; his hands came up, and his horse skidded, hind end going out behind him, sliding along the snow. The two humans rolled off, fighting.

At six feet tall and 150 pounds of lean muscle, Sister was a formidable opponent. But Clay was six two, middle-aged, and 200 pounds. He was getting the better of her, but she refused to let him go. He reached into his pocket with his right hand, brought out a trapper jackknife, and flicked it open. He rammed his knee in her back and then brought the knife to her throat with his right hand, clasping her with his left arm.

Before he could cut into the jugular, Dragon, the strongest hound, hit him sideways. Eighty pounds of fury knocked Clay off Sister. The knife slid across her throat, blood spurting over her white stock tie, sprinkling the snow as she sank down on one knee, hand to her throat.

“Kill him!” Cora screamed. The entire pack swarmed Clay, tearing through his breeches, biting clean through his expensive Dehner boots, gouging his hands as he instinctively covered his own throat.

Shaker blew them back. They refused to obey. He galloped up, dismounted as Betty and Sybil came in. He saw blood on the snow and wanted to kill Clay himself.

“Leave him. Leave him! ” The pack obeyed with outraged reluctance.

Clay, although badly torn, lurched for his mount, who had scrambled to his feet and was standing still. As Clay vaulted for his horse, Gray, riding faster than he had ever ridden in his life, caught up to Clay, leaned over, and knocked him down.

Walter jumped off Rocketman before his horse even stopped, tearing through the snow to Sister, blood seeping through her fingers as she clutched her throat.

Betty and Sybil took their cues from Shaker, who was standing stock-still. Walter was a doctor. If he needed them, he’d ask. Meanwhile, the pack, snarling as they watched Clay stumble toward his horse again, needed to be held in check.

Gray turned. As he did, Edward rode up. The two men got off their horses and grabbed Clay. Without a word Edward put his crop across Clay’s throat, tying his hands with the long thong so that if he moved he’d choke himself.

Dalton Hill and Isabelle could be seen in the distance, riding for all they were worth to reach the trailers.

Ben Sidell didn’t bother chasing them. He plucked out his cell phone, giving his officers the particulars.

Sam and Xavier stopped beating the crap out of each other. They crawled up on their horses and rode up to the debacle.

Ben arrived.

“Surface cut, thank God,” Walter said to Ben as he tenderly untied Sister’s stock tie, rewrapping it around her neck as a bandage.

“Jesus Christ, Sister, you a rodeo queen or something!” Ben cursed out of admiration and relief.

She nodded, and Walter put his arms around her. She couldn’t speak.

Tedi, also on foot now, having handed her reins to Ronnie, came over to see if her dearest friend needed help. She stopped a moment, the picture of Walter embracing Sister filling her with emotion. Tears spilled over her cheeks.

To herself she thought, A son has come home. To Sister she said, “Janie, Janie, let me help you home.”

“I can ride back,” Sister croaked. Her throat hurt from the cut and from the fight. She half whispered to X and Sam, “Thanks boys, well done.”

“My God, you’re a hardhead.” Tedi threw back her head, laughing as the tension leached out of her, laughing because they were still alive.

“Good hounds,” Shaker’s voice trembled with emotion.

“We want to go to Mom,” Diana implored Shaker.

The pack inched toward Sister. Shaker, knowing them as he did, walked on Showboat to his master.

“I can still kill him!” Dragon sang out.

Cora came up to Sister, looking up at the woman. “You okay?”

That did it. Tears flooded, and Sister knelt down as her hounds gathered around her, kissing her, rubbing up against her. Lafayette bowed his head as he, too, nudged her.

“The best friends, my best friends,” Sister cried, hugging and petting each hound.

By now everyone in the field was crying, even Xavier and Sam. Xavier looked at Clay. A lifetime friendship smashed, but another saved. He sobbed. He had at that moment realized how much he loved Sister, as did Ronnie.

“Sister, why don’t we walk back to the farm?” Shaker found his voice at last.

She replied in a loud whisper, “I can ride. Walter can fix me up later, right?”

“I’ll ride with her. Looks worse than it is, Shaker.” Walter cupped his hands for Sister’s left boot. Tedi held Lafayette, who nickered happily when he felt her familiar weight on his back.

Tedi turned to the field, her voice strong. “We’re calling it a day. Your master is determined to ride back, so we’ll ride with her.” She paused, searching out each concerned face, then broke into a smile even as the tears ran down her face again. “She’s bullheaded, but I love her.”

Everyone started talking at once as sirens could be heard roaring down Soldier Road.

By the time they reached the kennels, four squad cars had Dalton and Isabelle penned in by the trailers.

Walter insisted that Sister sit down in her kitchen. The girls took the horses even as Sister complained in a hoarse voice that she needed to count her hounds.

“You can do that later.” Walter took charge.

Betty kissed Sister on the cheek. “Shaker, Sybil, and I can handle it. I’ll be up when we’re done. You take care of you, Sister. There’s only one Sister.”

Tedi, Edward, and Gray followed Walter up as Sister grumbled that she didn’t need an escort, she was fine, et cetera, et cetera.

Once Sister was seated on the kitchen chair, Raleigh and Rooster, smelling her blood, whimpered and came over, sticking to her like glue.

“Go lie down,” she croaked.

“If I lick you, you’ll heal faster,” Raleigh promised.

“Ugh.” Golly jumped on Sister’s lap. “Dog licks, yuck. I can do better.” She put her paws on either side of Sister’s neck as Walter unwound the stock tie.

“Golly, you need to get down,” Sister told her.

When Golly wouldn’t budge, Tedi reached over, picked up the cat, and placed her on the floor.

“I’ll get even,” Golly threatened as she joined Raleigh in his bed.

Edward, holding Sister’s black frock, realized the front was sopping with blood. He put the coat in the mudroom, making a mental note to take it to the dry cleaner’s.

Walter unbuttoned the front of her white shirt, also covered with blood. “Sister, you need to take this off. I want to make sure you don’t have other injuries. When your adrenaline gets high like that, sometimes you won’t feel a broken bone for hours.”

Sister looked at Edward and Gray. “I’m not really all that modest, but I do ask you men to remember that Britney Spears doesn’t have anything that I don’t have; I’ve just had it longer.”

They laughed at that, then Edward said, “Gray, why don’t we go to the library? Walter, if you need us, you know where we are.”

“I do.” Walter waited for her to remove her blouse, then gingerly pulled off the long-sleeved silk undershirt.

Tedi watched as Walter felt her ribs, the bones in her neck and arms. “Clay landed a couple of good ones.”

“Yeah, but the frock is heavy.”

“Mmm, you’ll have some bruises.” He pointed to red marks on her chest, a large one on her back where she hit the ground.

Tedi drew closer. “They’ll turn a fetching shade of black, then purple, then burgundy.”

“Peachy.” Sister felt her neck sting where it was cut.

“I’m going to wash this. You’ll feel it,” Walter warned her.

Tedi brought over a bowl of warm water, went into the downstairs bathroom and brought out a washrag and a towel. Sister closed her eyes when Walter washed it, the wound bleeding anew as the caked blood was rinsed off.

“Stitches?” Tedi inquired.

“No.” Walter checked to see how deep the cut was. “She was lucky. Keep it clean. It’s going to continue to seep blood. Wrap a soft gauze around your neck. You clot up quickly enough, but every time you take the gauze off it will seep a little. I’ll bring over some antiseptic.”

“What about Neosporin?” Tedi asked. “She’s got that upstairs.”

“It will help.”

“Oh, just slap Betadine on me,” Sister suggested.

“If you want to walk around with an orange neck, that’s okay by me.” Walter squeezed her shoulder. “Take a long hot bath once we’re all out of here. The sooner you get in the bathtub, the better. It will help the thumps and bumps,” Walter ordered. “And when you’re finished put some ice on that chest bruise.”

“I’ll stay with her,” Tedi offered.

“I’m not crippled.”

“Not yet,” Tedi replied slyly. “And while I’m here, we can indulge in girl talk. You can tell me why Clay attacked you. I’m assuming you knew more about that fire than the rest of us.”

“Couldn’t prove a thing. Clay just flipped his switch.”

“With your help, I’m sure,” Tedi replied. “I’m going upstairs to draw your bath.”