Full Cry. The Hunt Ball

“All right. We’ll share.”

Clay bent down and kissed her on the cheek.“You’re the best.”

“Best what?” Her eyes brightened.

“Best master, best person. Best.”

“I don’t know about that, but every now and then the Good Lord gives you a chance to do something for someone else. I wish I could have done for him while he lived but …” Her voice trailed off.

“Yeah. Thing with the Anthonys of this world is you’ve got to cut them loose before they take you down.”

“That’s true.”

“I’ll call Carl Haslip, send half the cost directly to them.” He kissed her again and opened the door of her truck. “Crazy world, isn’t it?”

She smiled.“Sometimes. Mostly, I think it’s us who are crazy. The foxes seem to do all right. Never heard of a fox drunk or at a psychiatrist’s office.”

Clay laughed, shut her door, and then headed for his SUV.

CHAPTER 13

Failure haunted Sam Lorillard. Turning around, he’d constantly bump into ghosts from his past. Hauling a mare up to Middleburg to be bred, he’d pass through graceful brick gates, drive to the breeding shed, and unload the mare. He’d notice that the stable colors were green and yellow, and that would remind him of a stable at the track. Or he’d drive down to the feed store to pick up a small item, passing estates along the way where he’d once worked, disgraced himself, and been canned.

At first the rehab center had felt like prison. When he finally faced himself, he had felt like hell. After weeks of intensive therapy, he began to believe he could do it, he could stay dry, he could fight this curse in the blood. The center then felt less like prison and more like a school to teach survival.

Alcoholism stalked the Lorillards, selecting its victims with savage relish. Rarely did the more phlegmatic succumb to the siren call of gin, bourbon, or vodka, or perhaps those more modern allures, heroin and cocaine. The victims were bright, personable, possessed of talent. Sam’s mother, at the end, had looked like a stick figure. She died not even knowing who she was. Her uncle drank himself to death in his little house. When they finally found his body on the sofa and picked him up to remove him, he’d languished there so long his skin sloughed off.

Generation after generation, one or two more Lorillards battled the bottle, drugs, or pills. Most smoked.

As near as anyone could tell, this proclivity arrived from France with the first Lorillard in 1679. It flourished among both black and white Lorillards. Some overcame it even before the days of clinics, Alcoholics Anonymous, and drug rehab. They learned never to take one drink, not one drop, nor to fiddle with any other substance that made their bodies soar with pleasure, only to be smashed to earth. Those Lorillards showed great strength of purpose. Nowadays when Sam felt that terrible thirst come over him, that parching of the throat coupled with the memory of sweet bourbon and the warm buzz it gave him, he’d remember the family curse.

In Sam’s generation, Timothy Lorillard, white, had owned a large company that produced picture frames. He’d lost everything. Another cousin, Nina Davis, black, went cold turkey after the birth of her first child. She never looked back. Maybe working as a nurse in the local hospital snapped her awake, too.

Sam knew it could be done, and he prayed constantly:“Dear Lord, give me the strength to do some good in this life, what’s left to me.”

Anyone who had known Sam from his drinking days would burst out laughing at the thought of the rebellious man praying. He prayed grooming horses. He prayed while drinking a cup of coffee. He prayed each time he saw his brother; he most especially prayed then because he thought he would kill himself before letting his older brother down. When Gray had endured his divorce, Sam couldn’t help him because he couldn’t help himself. When Gray had broken down and cried because he did love his wife, and because he couldn’t believe the condition of his brother, what did Sam do? He took another drink.

When he felt himself ravaged by guilt, he’d tell himself, “I can’t change the past. The past is past. I can only live in this minute and do the best I can. I can forgive myself. I forgive myself.”

He walked along the railroad track, rails gleaming in the night, ribbons of steel reflecting the sparse streetlights from the raised road above, a chill squiggled down his spine. This is where his brother had finally found him, hauled him up by the collar, threw him in the SUV, driven his drunken ass all the way to Greensboro, North Carolina, to the special place there for people like Sam, people who ran Fortune 500 companies as well as filthy people who sprawled on baggage carts at the station.

The temperature dipped to twenty-nine degrees, signaling the end of the thaw. Ahead, the Chinaman’s hat light hung over the door into the station. The drunks couldn’t go in here; the station master chased them out. The stench of the men offended customers.

Addled as he had been when he used to end up here, Sam remembered the pleasant odd hum of the rails when a train was coming. The vibrations started a mile off. He could hear the hum as the train drew closer. Many times on an unruly horse, his senses had saved his butt. They had saved him even when he hit bottom. He had pulled Rory Ackerman off the track when he fell asleep and a train was coming. Drunk as he’d been, Sam possessed a sixth sense.

That sixth sense now brought him back.

Rory, huddled behind a cart, back to the wind, looked up, blinked.“Sam.”

“How you doin’, man?”

“Doin’,” the large man, coal black hair, heavy beard, shrugged. His eyes, black as his hair, were cloudy. Cleaned up, shaved, Rory would be good-looking, although it was hard to imagine it now.

“Where’re the rest of the boys?”

Rory snorted,“Salvation Army, bunch of goddamned pussies.”

“Been cold. Got to warm up sometime.”

“I’d rather be cold than have the Bible rubbed off on me. They’re down there cleaning up ’cause there’s a service for Tony and Mitch.”

“Hadn’t heard about a service.”

Rory stared up at him.“Why would you? You ain’t one of us no more.”

“I’ll always be one of you,” Sam said with a simple dignity. “I’m not better; I just decided I wanted to live. Wish you would, too.”

“For what?” Rory said this without bitterness or self-pity. “I’m good for nothin’.”

“We’re all good for something.”

“You. You good for horses. You got something. I didn’t even get out of junior high.”

“Some of the dumbest people I know have an education.” Sam laughed.

Rory laughed, too.“Hey, got a smoke?”

“Yeah.” Sam handed him a weed. As Rory fumbled in his pocket for a match, Sam lit the cigarette for him with a two-dollar blue disposable lighter.

“Least you haven’t gone totally pure.”

“I can only give up one vice at a time. Calms my nerves.”

“Yeah.” Rory inhaled, closing his eyes. “What you doin’ here, man?”

“Wondering what really happened to Tony and Mitch. Don’t guess anyone told Ben Sidell but so much.”

“Mmm, he’s okay, but still, he’s a cop.” Rory shifted, turning up the collar of his shirt, an old muffler, caked with dirt around his neck, an ancient down jacket over that.

“You warm enough?”

“Yeah. Worse time is just before sunup.”

“I remember.”

“Mitch and Tony drank some bad shit; that’s all I know. I think they drank it at the same time. Took longer to find Mitch, who was frozen stiff. Like a board.”

“Did you see anyone give them a bottle?”

“No.”

“Were they working? Enough for the next bottle?”

“Yeah. They’d go down to the S.A.—” He used the initials of the Salvation Army. “—shower, shave, get some clothes that didn’t stink, get a job for a day or a week or however long they could hang on.”

“Where?”

Rory shrugged.“Tony was a pretty big guy. I know he delivered feed for some guy over in Stuart’s Draft. He’d catch a ride over. Never said who was driving. He’d stay over there sometimes. Unload furniture for Clay Berry sometimes. Tony mucked stalls with Mitch, too. Mitch knew all the horse people.They’re all the time needin’ someone. ’Cause they get hurt a lot, I guess.” Rory half smiled. “Not you.”

“I’ve bought my share of dirt.” Sam hunkered down to be eye level. “Rory, if you want to change, I can help.”

Rory’s eyes flashed for an instant. “Change for what? Who’s gonna hire me iffin’ I do?”

“If you’re willing to work, I’ll help you there.”

“You saved my white ass once. I never did squat for you.”

“We had some laughs.”

“Yeah, yeah, we did.” Rory softened. “How’d you do it, man?”

“I ran out of excuses.”

“Well, I got a few left.”

“When you run out, let me know.” Sam handed him a folded sheet of paper with his phone number on it at home and at work. Inside the paper was a five-dollar bill. He figured Rory would buy a bottle or two of vile cheap stuff with the money on Monday, but, well, he couldn’t walk away without giving him something.

“Thanks.” Rory saw the money inside the folded paper.

“Oh, yeah, if you think of anything else about Mitch or Tony, let me know.”

“I will. Weird.” Rory stubbed out his cigarette, which he’d smoked down to his nicotine-stained fingers. “Your brother living with you?”

“No. The home place is so bad he can’t stand it.”

“Gray always was the kind of guy who buffed his nails.” Rory laughed uproariously. “Expensive suits. Expensive women.”

“He’s rented a cottage at Chapel Cross. He’s looking for a place. If you do want some help, I got a room for you after.”

A mixture of gratitude and even a flicker of hope crossed Rory’s once attractive features. “You’re okay, Sam. You’re okay.”

“Here.” Sam handed him the rest of a pack of Dunhills, red box.

“Shit, man, you must be living good.”

“My boss has more money than God. He doesn’t mind that I smoke, but he says he can’t stand the smell of cheap cigarettes, so every Monday morning, he puts a carton of Dunhill reds in the tack room. Funny guy. He’s a real hardass son of a bitch, but he has a kind of sweet streak.”

“Who?”

“Crawford Howard.”

“Heard of him. Owns Beasley Hall. Beastly Hall.” He laughed sarcastically. “Guess he does have more money than God.” Rory examined the beautiful pack, a rich red edged in gold. “No filters. Anyone who smokes filtered cigarettes or lights, you know, man, no balls. No balls. I don’t even respect women who smoke that shit. All they get is additives. Worse for them than real tobacco.” Rory said this with some enthusiasm.

Sam smiled.“Yep. You know, if you were a few shades darker, Rory, you’d be a real bro’.”

Rory laughed, a genuine laugh.“Sam, you always were full of it.” Then he stopped and said slowly, “You look good, Sam; you look good. I’m proud of you.”

As Sam walked back to the ancient Toyota, parked up on Main Street, he sent up a little prayer that the good Lord would help Rory find his way. And he prayed for Tony and Mitch. Something wasn’t right, his sixth sense warned.

CHAPTER 14

The mist rose off the earth like silver dragon’s breath. Eighty-two people quietly rode past the old Mill Ruins. Its two-story water wheel slowly turning, the lap of water comforting. Tiny ice crystals clung to the millrace, the straight chute of water feeding the mill.

Thanks to the presence of British photographer Jim Meads, Saturday’s hunt brought out every Jefferson Hunt member not flattened with a cold or flu, as well as cappers from surrounding hunts. Vanity, a spur even to those who deny it, ensured the assemblage dazzled in their best.

To Sister’s surprise, Dr. Dalton Hill was there, well turned out, riding a handsome Cleveland bay that suited him.

Artemis must have had a fond spot for the indefatigable Mr. Meads, because she granted perfect hunting conditions. Light frost glittered on grass, stones, pin oak limbs, and the old vines hanging from trees. As the sun rose, this silvery coating turned to pink, then salmon, then scarlet in early-morning light.

Sister upset people by casting hounds at sunup, but the sun rose at seven-fifteen on January 17, and it would afford Jim spectacular photographs. As Jim had flown in all the way from Wales, she could certainly get everyone’s nether regions in the saddle just as the pulsating rim of the sun crested the horizon.

Sister beheld each sunrise with hope. Today’s promise hovered with the slightly rising temperature, the light frost, the sweet faint breeze out of the west.

As hounds moved past the old mill, the mercury registered thirty degrees. Shaker would cast on the east side of the slopes, hoping for enough warmth that scent might lift off the fields. The temperature felt as though it would climb into the midforties by noon; scent should improve by the hour. The Weather Channel’s radar screen had shown a large band of rain clouds, circling counterclockwise. The first streaky clouds might sneak in from the west by nine o’clock. As further clouds moved in, the scent would— with luck—stay down.

Sister kept a detailed hunting journal. She noted the temperature when starting, the wind, its direction, the first cast and draw, the couple of hounds hunting, her mount, the number of people. She religiously wrote in her journal as soon as she got into the house. She tried to be accurate, to remember each sweep of the hounds. She saved decades of journals. Perhaps years hence, some future master would profit from her attention to detail.

Crawford spared no effort in his turnout. Sam Lorillard, although in an old habit, looked fine. His coat had been cut for him, as had his still serviceable boots.

Walter wore his black swallowtail coat. Other members, ladies with colors, wore derbies with their frock coats. Sister liked that look. Because a shadbelly or a weaselbelly isn’t worn as often as a frock coat, many people didn’t own them, even though they might be entitled to wear them. Shelling out eight hundred dollars for the High Holy Day hunts or those special days with other hunts proved tough on the pocketbook, or too much for those inclined to be tight. So a well-cut bespoke frock, or one off the rack that had been modified by a hunting tailor, always created a smart appearance. The entire Vajay family wore perfectly cut frock coats of darkest navy, which was as correct as black. What a good-looking group they were.

Jim, at six feet four inches and rail lean, had gotten the photographs he wanted as the field filed past the water wheel. He wore sturdy shoes, tough pants to repel thorns, and a much-loved waterproof jacket. Running kept him warm, so he wasn’t bundled up. He was already up ahead, skirting along the side of the farm road. He eagerly snapped away as Shaker, twenty-four couple of sleek hounds, and the two handsomely mounted whippers-in rode by him.

Originally Sister had planned on entertaining the outgoing Jim, but Crawford begged to have him at Beasley Hall. Crawford reasoned that with his servants, and an extra car, Jim would luxuriate in amenities after his long journey. And Sister could always catch up with her favorite former British airman at tea. She gave in. Because she had a political agenda for Crawford, she wanted to make him happy. Crawford took this as a sign that he truly was on track to be named joint-master.

Ronnie and Xavier smiled as they rode past Jim. Even Xavier’s weaselbelly didn’t help him look slimmer. He was disgusted with himself and Ronnie didn’t help matters by asking him when the blessed event would occur.

Ronnie, always in shape, sat his horse smugly, his weaselbelly faded to the best shade of scarlet, his cream colored vest points protruding at the correct length, his fourfold stock tie, so white it hurt the eyes, tied with such aplomb that Ronnie was the envy of all who aspired to such splendor. Ronnie, like many gay men, had a way with clothes.

Try as Crawford might, he looked too flash, though he was perfectly correct in his turnout. Ronnie, however, had pegged it just right.

Clay looked good, too, although not as polished as Ronnie. He had a satisfied smile on his face since Izzy continued to thank him for the 500SL. Nothing like wake-up loving to put a man in a great mood. Izzy had already joined the Hilltoppers.

Sister turned in the saddle, inspecting the long line behind her, snaking through the mist lifting off the millrace. Keepsake, gleaming, felt her turn. He kept his eyes and ears on the pack thirty yards ahead. His powers of smell, not as profound as a hound’s, were good, far better than any human’s. He detected a number of scents and wished Sister could as well. Both human and horse were passionate hunters, but Keepsake felt sorry that his rider’s nose was woefully underdeveloped. Humans couldn’t help it. They had fewer olfactory receptors, and with those pitiful little nostrils, how could anyone suck up scent?

He flared his wide nostrils, being rewarded with the clear but fading odor of bobcat. Bobcats, if hounds get on a line, will give a rough chase. They’ll shoot through the meanest, lowest ground cover. Hounds get shredded with thorns. It usually doesn’t take long for the bobcat to have his fill of it. Since the bobcat is not a sporting animal by nature, he or she then will climb a tree, viewing those below with thick disdain.

Hounds lifted their heads, winding.

Sister noticed, but no sterns moved. She inhaled deeply, smelling the beguiling odor from the pines, the distinctive moist scent of the millrace.

“Why aren’t you going over there?”Rassle, a precocious firstyear entry, asked Dasher.

“Bobcat.”

“Ooh.”Rassle lifted his head higher. This was the first time he’d smelled such a varmint. Had he seen this particular customer, respect would have been his response. The male bobcat, a tight forty pounds, had padded down to the mill to snatch a little dog food. Walter put dog food and corn there and at other spots for the red foxes. For whatever reason, only reds lived at Mill Ruins.

While he could and would run, a bobcat wouldn’t shy from a fight. His fangs, his lightning reflexes, and his frightening claws could reduce animals far larger than himself to a bloody mess.

“Can we chase bobcat?”Ruthie, Rassle’s littermate, inquired.

“If there’s no fox, we can, but,”Asa warned,“you don’tget too close, and you’d better be prepared to go throughhateful briars.”

“How about bear?”Ruthie was curious.

“Well, again, if there’s no fox, but it’s not recommended.” Dasher spoke low.

“And never forget, young ’un, it was a bear that killedthe great Archie,”Cora called back from the front.“Beforeyou were born. I say we leave bear to Plott hounds.”Plott hounds, larger and heavier than foxhounds, were used to track bear. They were slower than foxhounds, possessed deep voices, and never ever surrendered the line once they found scent.

“Hear, hear. ”Delia, Nellie, Ardent, Trident, and Tinsel agreed.

“Any more of this talk and we’ll be accused of babbling.Sister will get really upset with Mr. Meads here,”Diana wisely noted.

Even though they were not yet at the first cast, they were expected to move along quietly, focused on business. Shaker, hearing the chat, glowered at them, saying nothing. He wasn’t a huntsman to chide his hounds unless he felt they were doing wrong and would do so again. The invigorating early morning lifted the pack’s spirits. If they had a few words to say, he’d overlook it, but not encourage it.

They reached a small pocket meadow, perhaps ten acres. The slope eastward glistened as a light vapor lifted off the warming frost.

Shaker put horn to lips and blew“Draw the Cover”— one long blast and three short ones.

“Lieu in there! Lieu in there,” Shaker called, his voice light and high, as hounds associated higher notes with happiness and excitement. Low notes among themselves, a growl, generally signaled discipline or disagreement.

“I’ll get him first,”Dragon bragged.

Cora ignored him, nose to the swept-down grass. The coldness tingled. The competing scents of rabbits, the bobcat, and deer all lifted into her amazing nose. The other hounds, noses down, read the pocket meadow. A gaggle of turkey hens had pecked their way through not an hour ago, then flew off as the bobcat came too close. The deer, a large herd, an old doe in charge, moved west to east. A few dots here and there signaled crows had touched down, but for what reason neither Cora nor the other hounds could discern. In warmer weather, the hounds could identify other scents, even insects. No insects in this weather, no pungent earthworm trails. A lone beaver had waddled along the edge of the meadow before turning back to the creek, which fed the millrace.

The hounds carefully moved over the pocket meadow.

Rassle was so enchanted with the bobcat scent that he wandered a little too far to the east, where the meadow sloped downward. He stopped in his tracks. His stern flipped back and forth furiously: fox! Indeed, a fresh fox track, too. Rassle had never before found a line on his own, and he was just first year, but he’d been to the fox pen enough, and he had watched the big kids do their job. With astonishing confidence, the young tricolor let out a rip.

“Red! Big red!”

Cora flew to him. She put her nose down.“He’s right.”

The others quickly came to Cora, and Asa called,“Showtime!”

Marty leaned over to Crawford.“I just love that hound’s voice,” she whispered.

He nodded, having no time to reply because the hounds shot out of the meadow. Sister, never one to get left behind, shot with them.

Shaker tried to stay up with his lead hounds, Cora and Dragon, but as they’d gone into heavy woods, he skirted the thick part, emerging on an old deer trail. He squeezed Gunpowder, moving as fast as he could.

Betty on Magellan today—a big rangy thoroughbred given to her by Sorrel Buruss—rocked in his long fluid stride. She covered the left side, the creek side. Shaker, trusting her, figured if there was going to be rough or tough duty, it would be there.

“Ride to cry,” Shaker told his whippers-in if they couldn’t see the pack.

Sybil was getting it, though, and the more she whipped-in, the more she appreciated what a difficult, exhilarating task it was. She felt as though she had the best seat in the house.

“Tallyho!” Betty sang out as a big bushy-tailed red dog fox burst from the heavy woods into a cutover track that Walter hoped to turn into pasture this spring. Betty didn’t recognize the thick-coated fellow. She reasoned he wasn’t a local, so to speak, and she was correct.

No fool, the fox knew the cutover would make for heavy going for the horses and slow down the hounds, since they were sixty to seventy pounds heavier than he.

Betty, appreciating his guile, galloped to the old logging road, hoping to keep him in sight. He dashed through the cutover, twenty-five acres of slash, nimbly leapt over the old coop in the fence to the next, large meadow.

Magellan loved to jump and he took off farther back than Outlaw, Betty’s quarter horse mount. She got left behind, her hands popped up.

“Sorry, Magellan.”

“You’ll get the hang of me,”he kindly assured her. He was delighted to have her on his back. His former owner, a hard-riding man, possessed okay hands, but he was a squeeze and jerk rider, which upset Magellan. In fact, the less you interfered with the rangy thoroughbred, the better he performed.

The red fox, knowing Betty was there and alone, gave her a show. He had a perverse sense of humor. Also, he’d just visited a vixen, and he felt terrific. He pulled up sharp, sat down on the moss-covered rock outcropping in the meadow. A thin veneer of frost covered the bright green moss.

Betty and Magellan pulled up, too.

“The only reason men wear scarlet is to imitate foxes,” the fellow said.“All humans secretly want to be foxes.”

“Arrogant twit,”Magellan snorted.

To Betty it sounded like barking, but his insouciance made her laugh. She heard hounds in full cry perhaps half a mile back. To her complete astonishment, Jim Meads appeared at the edge of the meadow, stopped, and took photographs of the fox, Betty, and Magellan.

“My left side is my best.”The fox slowly turned to Jim. The silver-haired man, big smile on his face, snapped what he knew would be some of the best hunt pictures he’d ever taken, and he’d taken thousands.

The hounds drew closer. The fox paid not a bit of mind. Only when Cora soared over the old coop, her form flawless and floating, did he bestir himself.

“Ta-ta,”he called to Betty and Jim.

Sister saw only Magellan’s tail and hindquarters as the horse took the stout log jump at the southwestern end of the field.

Hounds streamed over the frost turning to dew, the subdued winter green of the grasses underneath shining through.

Although it was only in the high thirties, Sister sweated underneath her shadbelly. Silk long johns stuck to her skin, a trickle of sweat zigzagged down her left temple. She was running hard. She was going to run harder.

Keepsake, in his glory, would have been only too thrilled to pass Gunpowder. However, he knew to stay behind as huntsman and mount flew over the logs. It irked him all the more since he thought he could outrun Gunpowder. He tired of hearing the gray thoroughbred, a former steeplechaser, deride Keepsake because he was a thoroughbred/ quarter horse cross. Keepsake knew he had the stuff. Not all thoroughbreds were snobs, but Gunpowder was.

The field stayed well together, a testimony to their riding abilities; it would have been easy to get strung out on such a day. The footing started out tight but was getting sweaty in spots.

Ahead, another fence line hooked into the old three-board fence at a right angle. Sister took the log jump, then turned sharply left to soar over a stiff coop. You had to hit that second jump just right, which meant you had to put your right leg on your horse’s the instant his or her hooves touched the earth from the first jump.

Sister knew she’d lose a few people at this obstacle, or they’d go past the second jump and wait for the rest of the field to clear before taking it. If a person misses a jump or his or her horse refuses, hunting etiquette demands he or she go to the end of the line. The exception to this is staff. Should a staff horse refuse a jump, which can happen, the staff person, who always has the right of way, may try again. If he or she can’t get the animal over, a person in the field, usually Sister, gives them a lead. Now and then, even the best of staff horses will take a notion to refuse.

The red flew straight as an arrow, not doubling back, ducking into a den, or even cutting right, then left. He seemed intent on providing the best sport of the last two months. Before Sister knew it, they had run clean through Alice Ramy’s farm. Alice waved from the window. They flew on to the next farm.

Down a large oval depression twenty feet below, with rock outcroppings and roughly forty yards around, the hounds suddenly stopped. This low land rested above a narrow, strong-running creek, part of a mostly underground creek. The somewhat higher ground in this shrubby area was defended by an outraged badger.

Badgers aren’t supposed to be living in central Virginia, but here he was, and he was not happy. The first thing that fanned all twenty-five pounds of his bad mood was a damned coyote who had earlier watched him as he dug into a tempting rat hole. When the rat had popped out the other side, the coyote nabbed him, broke his back, and walked off. Didn’t even bother to run. The badger, not fast, gave chase, hopeless though it was. So he had to settle for a morning meal of mice while he dreamed the gray squirrel chattering above would fall out of the enormous naked willow. Squirrels delighted his taste buds. But that wasn’t bad enough. Not an hour later, an extremely rude fox ducked into his den, beheld the badger with no small surprise, turned around, and blasted right out again.

Now, a pack of hounds, and, worse—people on horseback—were at his front door. Well, he’d tell them a thing or two at the lip of his den, of course. This day had been too much, plucked his last nerve.

“Get out!”

The speechless hounds stood stiff-legged as the badger continued his stream of uncomplimentary conversation.

“What is that?”Tinsel inhaled an unusual odor.

“Only ever seen one other one.”Delia wished Shaker would give them an order.“Badger. They’re powerful.Mostly live farther north, but they’re moving in, I guess.”

Dragon lifted his head: the coyote scent proved stronger, heavier than the fox scent, even though the fox had so recently been there. Dragon wasn’t known for his patience. He walked away from the badger and put his nose down the rat hole.

“Let’s go.”He bellowed, taking off, half the pack taking off with him.

Diana shouted after her brother.“Wait!”

Diana and Cora hurried to the spot. Cora shook her head.“Coyote.”

Shaker knew his hounds. Cora did not follow the half that shot off with Dragon. Instead, she, Diana, Asa, Dasher, and others patiently moved a bit away from the still-fuming badger, casting themselves as good hounds do.

“Here he is. Here he is, that devil!”Asa got a nose full of fox scent first.

He opened, and the other half of the pack went with him, including Tinsel, who’d had the great good sense not to follow the impetuous, arrogant Dragon.

Shaker hesitated a second. Should he blow the errant half back and risk blowing back the hounds he knew to be right, or should he just blow the rapid series of notes— three short notes in succession—three or four times to try and bring the others back to Cora and Asa? He elected the latter, clapped his leg to Gunpowder, blowing as he galloped.

The splinter half bolted on Sybil’s side. She heard the horn moving farther away in the opposite direction, so she knew what her job was. Mounted on Colophon, a purchase in the summer to augment her hunter string, she hit the afterburners. She’d have to draw alongside Dragon, a little in front, and reprimand him. If that didn’t work, harsher measures would.

Luckily, the hounds chased over a meadow, so she wasn’t ducking trees in the woods. Colophon, sixteen hands, a bay thoroughbred and fast, streaked, his lovely head stretched out. Height in horses is measured in hands; one hand equals four inches.

“Dragon, leave it!”Sybil commanded.

“Make me!”he challenged her.

She cracked her whip, which brought the other hounds to a halt, but not Dragon. She again drew alongside the speedy hound, pulled out her .22 pistol with ratshot, and fired a blast on his rear end that he would never forget.

“Leave it!”

“Ow! Ow! Ow!”he shrieked.

His cries of pain at the tiny birdshot pellets—foxhunters called them ratshot—scared the other hounds. If they’d had a mind to disobey after pulling up for the crack of the whip, the thought now vanished.

“Come along.” Sybil said this with authority. They obediently turned, following her.

A mile later, moving at a canter, she heard Shaker again blow the rapid series of three notes, three or four times, on his horn. Of course, the hounds with her had heard long before that.

“Go to him,” she ordered. Those hounds couldn’t get away fast enough. It would be a cold day in hell before anyone in that group elected to listen to Dragon again. Whether Dragon had learned his lesson remained to be seen. His many gifts were sullied by a hard head.

Sister heard the ratshot blast after the whip crack as she thundered along. The crack of the whip, the tip moving faster than the speed of sound, sounded like a sharp rifle report. Depending on the humidity, it could be heard for miles.

Within ten minutes the coyote hunters swept past her, joining the main pack up ahead.

All on, Sister thought to herself. Thank God.

As Keepsake trotted through a wide creek, she noted spicebush all along the banks and realized she was now at Chapel Cross, an estate four miles southwest of her place. They were still running hard.

A dirt crossroads, a small stone chapel on its northeast corner, came into view. The red, now in plain sight, reached his den, snug under the foundation of the church.

The hounds started to dig, but Shaker pulled them off with Betty’s help. Walter and Ronnie rode up to hold their horses at Sister’s bidding. Much as Shaker liked to reward hounds with a bit of digging, it wouldn’t do to have the small Methodist church disgraced.

He blew“Gone to Ground,” praised his hounds extravagantly while noting the tiny red dots on Dragon’s rear end.

“You’ll learn, buddy, or you’ll be drafted out of here,” Shaker said in a low voice to Dragon, and then in a higher one, “Good hounds! Good hounds!”

He slipped his left foot in the stirrup, swinging up in one graceful motion. Betty swung up a little less gracefully, as Magellan was taller than Outlaw. Patiently the thoroughbred waited for her to wiggle herself settled in the seat.

“Be glad she’s lost weight,”Gunpowder said.“Used tobe twenty-five pounds heavier.”

“She’s not bad.”Magellan liked Betty.“I’d put up withtwenty-five more pounds. She’s a hell of a lot better thanFontaine ever was.”He mentioned his former owner.

The field stood; people breathed hard, as did a few horses. And there was Jim Meads, who had shadowed them on foot. Alice Ramy came out of the house when she saw him running. She offered him a ride in her car since the field showed no sign of slowing at that point. The instant he closed the door of her car, they chatted as if they’d known each other all their lives.

Sister thanked her hounds, thanked Shaker, thanked Alice, then turned to face the field.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we have just put to ground a religious fox, and a Methodist at that. I suppose that means he doesn’t dance or drink.

“I myself am not a Methodist, and if any of you are, time to cover your eyes.” She held up her flask. “Lays the dust.”

The field laughed. People pulled out their flasks. The men fastened theirs on the left side of their saddle. Ladies’ flasks nestled in a small square sandwich box on the right rear of the saddle, usually. The ladies’ flasks contained less liquor than the men’s, so the gentlemen gallantly offered their flasks to the ladies first. It never hurts to get on the good side of a woman.

Sister offered her flask first to Betty, then to Walter, who had come up behind her.

“Thank you, Sister.” Walter took a sip, then offered his flask, which contained a mixture of scotch, orange juice, a dash Cointreau, and a secret ingredient he wouldn’t divulge. It hinted of bitters.

Hattie Baker Parrish offered Sam Lorillard her flask, then realized he couldn’t drink it. Sam, by chance, was just behind Xavier.

“Sam, I forgot.”

He smiled.“I brought iced tea.” He lifted his flask to his lips and, as he did so, loosened the reins. A movement behind the church made his horse turn his head, and, in so doing, the flecked foam from his mouth splattered Xavier.

Xavier turned, beheld Sam. His face turned beet red. He took his crop, scraped a white line of sweat off his own mount, flicking it right in Sam’s face. “Yours, I believe, sir.”

“You’re an ass, Henry Xavier,” Sam shot back.

That fast, Xavier—as big as he was—was off his horse, pulling Sam from his. The two started whaling the living shit out of each other; Xavier, bigger, landed more telling blows. Sam, small and slight, bobbed and weaved as best he could, but he was too mad to care about getting hurt, and he landed a few.

Gray dismounted, as did Walter, Ronnie, and Clay Berry. It took Clay and Walter to pull off Xavier. Gray managed to grab his brother’s upper arms and drag him backwards.

“I will have satisfaction!” Xavier struggled.

“Chill,” Walter advised, his voice calm. “Dueling days are over.”

Meanwhile, Meads caught it all on film.

Gray put his hand over his brother’s mouth because Sam had a mean tongue when he felt like it. Anything coming out of his mouth would only make a bad situation worse.

The humans, hounds, and horses observed this drama with great interest, none more so than Sister. As the master, she couldn’t let it slide.

She rode to Xavier.“X, I know there’s bad blood, but I can’t allow this kind of behavior in the hunt field. You are excused. I will speak to you later when we are both in a better frame of mind.”

Shocked, as he had never once been reprimanded, and still angry but beginning to recognize he had done a really dumb thing, Xavier wordlessly remounted. He turned for the long ride back to Mill Ruins. Ronnie, a friend always, turned with him after saying, as was proper,“Good night, Master. Thank you for a glorious day.”

“Good night, Ronnie.”

Sam, head down, Gray still holding his upper arms, now looked up at Sister.“I’m sorry.”

“He provoked it, I know that; but Sam, you, too, are excused. I advise you to ride a good distance behind Xavier and Ronnie or, if you prefer, to ride at a distance from the field because we’re going in. I will speak with you later.”

“Yes, Master.” He bowed his head again. “Good night, Master.”

She nodded to him as Gray looked up at her.“Good night, Master.”

“Night, Gray.”

The brothers waited for the field to move off, then slowly walked behind them.

Walter, abreast with Sister, finally said,“Unforgettable day.”

She smiled.“The phone lines will be burning up tonight.”

Cranking on members wasn’t natural to Sister, but like so many people before her, she had learned that if you are going to lead, you must be fair, firm, and decisive. If a master tolerates bad behavior once, she or he will be certain to see it twice. And if a Board of Governors or the field senses a weak master, mischief multiplies like fleas in summer.

Humans, like hounds, need a strong leader. Sister was strong. She hoped she was fair.

“Thank you for your help, Walter. It could have been worse.”

“You know, I am always glad to help you or the hunt any way I can,” he said, meaning every word.

“If your schedule isn’t too busy this week, let me take you to breakfast, lunch, or dinner, whatever you prefer. I’d like to have your undivided attention.” She smiled, not wanting him to think it would be a difficult meeting. Actually, she hoped it would be positive.

“Tuesday, lunch.”

“At the club or will you be in scrubs? I can meet you close to the hospital.”

“The club. I look forward to it.”

Tedi and Edward winked at Sybil as she rode on the right side of the pack. She’d glanced back at them. They were proud that she had performed so well in a difficult situation.

Shaker complimented her, as did Betty. No one threw compliments around idly on staff. If you heard one, you knew you did a good job.

Cora growled at Dragon,“You are nine miles of badroad.”

He didn’t reply.

“Well, at least we know there’s a coyote here,”young Rassle said.

“I’m not arguing that, Rassle, but you’d better damnwell know the difference between coyote scent and foxscent, and you must try for fox first. We were right behindour fox. You could have thrown a blanket over us all. Wethrew up at the badger den, but he had to be close, scenthad to be hot. It demanded a bit of patience to cast a widenet and pick him up. Obviously, he walked into the creek,but he came out, now, didn’t he?”Cora sounded like a schoolteacher.

“Yes, ma’am.”Rassle listened.

Asa couldn’t resist. He hissed at Dragon,“Pizza butt.”

Humiliated and furious, Dragon kept his mouth shut, a surprise to all.

Cora then raised her voice for a moment, for the benefit of the pack, but especially for the education of the young hounds.“Hounds, we don’t have to think alike. We dohave to think together.”

CHAPTER 15

Three different types of grits, succulent ham, roast turkey, and a joint of beef crowded on the long hunt table, along with salads, breads, hot buttered carrots, squash, and the ubiquitous deviled eggs. The special dessert consisted of a hot glazed donut with a huge scoop of vanilla ice cream plopped in the middle, fudge sauce drizzled over that. This concoction, so much a part of the region, and so delicious, seduced even the most disciplined to cast calories to the wind. Every now and then a body has to go for it.

The breakfast, stupendous even by Jefferson Hunt standards, threw a jolt of sugar, protein, and carbs into hunters depleted by hard riding—apparent on the long walk back to Mill Ruins. More than one set of legs wobbled when the rider dismounted.

The bar, commanded by Donnie Sweigert, much in demand for these affairs, carried standard good liquor as well as a few exotic bottles such as Talisker’s peaty-tasting scotch. There was also the lovely Chartreuse liquor, which a few people poured over their desserts along with the fudge. The Absolut vodka and the Johnny Walker Black disappeared at a fast clip.

The excitement of the hunt and the drama of the fight sent blood sugar and conversation sky high.

The fox Bessie had the run of the house. She moved quite well despite her amputated front paw. But this was all too much. She retreated to the basement, but not before nabbing a tasty bit of ham. She ate half and buried the rest. Walter, realizing he couldn’t control her cache digging, had put down a load of dirt. Every other day while Bessie walked outside for a breath of fresh air, he’d sneak down, dig up her treasures and put them in the garbage. If the vixen minded, she didn’t say.

Even Tonto, the Welsh terrier puppy, now six months old, felt overwhelmed by the crowd. He joined Bessie.

The two canine relatives listened to the revelers upstairs.“Bet there’s no leftovers.”Tonto’s merry little eyes clouded over.

“Has to be some. Chef Ted drove up with an entire truckful of food.”Bessie remained hopeful.

“I don’t know. I didn’t know humans could eat so muchat one time. I thought only dogs gorged.”

Bessie’s special house, wooden with a big overhang, reeked of her special scent. Tonto, accustomed to it, paid it little mind. He himself gave off faint odor compared to other breeds of dog. And terrier though he was, and prone to digging, he was fastidious in his personal habits, which helped keep whatever odor he possessed low.

“Bessie, do you think if the hounds saw you, they’d killyou?”

“Yes,”she said matter-of-factly,“if the pack did. Maybeif just one hound saw me or came upon me, it wouldn’thappen, but a pack gets in a frenzy. Although Walter says he has seen Shaker call hounds off a quarry and it was impressive, I sure wouldn’t want to take the chance.”

The footsteps upstairs sounded heavier.

“Glad this old house has beams the size of tree trunks.” Little Tonto grinned.

“They are tree trunks. Peeled the bark off.”

Tonto peered upward. His eyes weren’t as good as a cat’s, nor even a human’s, but they weren’t awful. He could see better in the dark than a human.“Oh. Old, huh?”

“This section, mmm. 1792. Heard Walter say so.”Bessie tilted her head, ear upward.“Now they’re singing.”

The assemblage, euphoric, gathered around the piano, Tedi Bancroft at the keys, belting out,“Do Ye Keen, John Peel?”

Those who weren’t singing stayed back in the dining room where, as Tonto feared, pickings were slim. Even Chef Ted himself had never seen people eat so much, and he’d catered many a hunt breakfast.

Sister, drinking a cup of tea, listened to Edward Bancroft expound on the conflict between Xavier and Sam.

“… in the bud. You did the right thing.”

“Now I have to make those calls.” Sister looked up at her dear old friend.

“You’re a good master, Janie. Better than good, one of the best.”

“Edward, you flatter me, and I thank you.” She sipped. “Were you surprised at X?”

He nodded his silver head.“We’ve all known him since he was in diapers. He’s not a rash man. He wasn’t even that wild as an adolescent. For Xavier to lose his temper like that, I wonder if there’s more to his past dealings with Sam Lorillard than we know. Ronnie would know.”

“I wonder, too.” She inhaled the bracing fragrance of the tea, a strong Ceylon type. “I’m grateful neither man came to the breakfast. It was tense enough.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“I want to hear X’s reasons. As for Sam, I can’t very well fault the man for defending himself. I am not going to suspend either man, but each will receive a fair warning. If X can’t put a lid on it or if Sam carries on an obvious grudge after this event, then I will ask the board to suspend them for the season. I really don’t think I’ll have to use such drastic measures.”

He shrugged.“I certainly hope not.”

“And I know a tornado of gossip will swirl upwards, ah yes, talk so quickly turns into a gaseous state.” She ruefully smiled. “There will be those who think I should let them settle it without the hunt club’s intrusion, those who think I should throw their asses—excuse me—out now. So it goes.”

“Actually, I don’t think there will be that much second-guessing.” He motioned with his head to those singing in the next room. “They trust you. It takes years to build that trust.”

She laughed.“Well, why are they always fussing then? ‘You go too fast.’ ‘You go too slow.’ ‘Why did you take us over that jump?’ ”

“Who says that? Only the ones who aren’t tight in the tack. If you can ride, Janie, you ride.”

“That’s the God’s honest truth. But you and I grew up when riding was one of the social graces. In the South you learned to ride, shoot, play cards, and hopefully speak a foreign language—French was the one always shoved at us girls. That’s gone. Middle-class people had high social expectations of their children. Now both parents work, and expectations aren’t uniform. Maybe in some ways that’s good, Edward, because if a little girl wants to play soccer instead of learning to ride, she has the choice. I never had much of a choice, although if I wanted to go to the symphony or something cultural, Mother took me.”

“Our culture has fragmented. Part of it is the pushing upwards of people who aren’t WASPs. Maybe part of it is just the change that occurs at any time in history, but I believe, sooner or later, some kind of cultural consensus will emerge. We’ll see more cohesion. I hope so.” Edward, a man of his time, thought long and hard about large issues.

“Just as long as foxhunting is part of it.” She put down her cup and saucer, an attendant smoothly picking it up.

“More, Sister?”

“Oh, thank you, no.” As the white-coated server left, she turned her attention back to Edward. “We’re old, Edward. Our memories encompass things the young can’t even imagine, such as being expected to dance, shoot, ride. And yet … and yet—” She burst into the biggest infectioussmile. “—I feel young. I feel better than I have felt in years.”

He put his arm around her shoulder.“Honey, you’re a twelve cylinder engine that’s been running on six cylinders since 1991.”

Startled, she said,“What?”

He kissed her forehead.“How long have we known each other?”

“Good God, Edward.” She thought. “Forty years. More.”

“More. Time is jet-propelled. I saw how you handled Ray Jr.’s death in 1974. You grieved, then in time you came back to us in spirit. You had Big Ray and the two of you pulled each other along. But when Big Ray died in 1991, who was there to pull you along? Who was there to say, ‘Sugar, it will be all right. We’ll get through this’?” She started to say something, but Edward held up his hand. “I’m not saying you moped around. You carried on. That’s your nature. And Archie’s and Peter’s deaths were blows. But remember, I knew you before all those losses, just as you knew me before Nola died,” he said, referring to his beloved daughter. “Such blows take something out of us even as they give us depth and heart, more heart.”

Quietly, she replied,“Yes.”

“For whatever reason, your other cylinders have fired up again. I’m happy for you.”

“And I’m happy to have such a good friend.” She hugged him.

As she looked for Walter to thank him for the breakfast, Jim Meads touched her arm.

She turned around.“Jim. I hope you’re having a good time.”

“Wonderful, Master. I’ll have proofs for you to look at tomorrow.”

“That fast?”

“Now, I don’t know how I should take a lady calling me fast.” He winked.

Clay Berry, back to Jim, twisted slightly.“Fast. Is it beautiful horses and fast women, or fast horses and beautiful women?”

“Clay, you should know.” Sister laughed, as Clay was known to stray off the reservation.

“Oh, I took your silver fox fur out of storage. You forgot to pick it up this winter, and I know you’ll want it. In fact, I put it in your truck.”

“Thanks. I did forget. This hunt season has been jam-packed, and I think I’d forget my head if it weren’t attached to my body.” She then said to Jim, “I’ll come by tomorrow morning if that’s a good time.”

“Perfect.”

An animated group of people blocked the front door. As Sister picked up her fleece-lined Barbour coat from the low coatroom, she turned around, bumping into Dr. Dalton Hill, who was searching for his coat.

“Splendid day, Master.”

“I’m happy you could join us. That Cleveland bay you were riding is a handsome fellow.”

“Yes. One of Mr. Wessler’s breedings. A friend over in Green Springs, Louisa, lent me the horse. I think I’ll rent him for the season.”

“You’ll be here then?”

“Yes.” He wasn’t a warm man, but he was proper. “I’m teaching at the university for a semester. My partner is keeping up the practice in Toronto. We take turns when opportunities like this arise.”

“How do you like the university?” Locals always referred to the University of Virginia as “the university.”

“Quite, quite beautiful.”

“Dr. Hill, do you hunt with any of the hunts in Ontario?”

He drew himself up to his full height, five foot eleven inches, good shape.“Toronto and North York, founded in 1843. Oldest hunt in Canada. And it’s my good fortune to go out with Ottawa Valley, founded 1873, and London Hunt, founded in 1885. Did you know there are eight hunts just in Ontario Province?”

She did know, but elected to murmur,“It’s in the blood.”

“Ah … yes.” Took him a moment.

“While it is not to say we are the same … just that we share many of the same disciplines and pleasures. If I didn’t live in Virginia, I would certainly consider myself lucky to be in Canada.” She wasn’t indulging in flattery.

“Thank you.”

“As I recall, your specialty is endocrinology. You must treat unusual cases.”

“Yes, and the medicines and technology are changing at warp speed.” He didn’t use medical terms, which was thoughtful. “If I can get a patient in time, in childhood, often a humiliating condition like dwarfism can be cured or tempered. Mrs. Arnold, in the next ten years, you and I willsee breakthroughs that are miraculous.”

“I see you love your work.”

“I do. I always liked science, but science in the service of healing, of improving the human condition.”

She paused before returning to the subject of hunting.“You can reach so many hunt clubs within an hour and a half or so of Charlottesville. You’re in a perfect spot.”

“I can see that. I’ve rather struck up a friendship with Walter. I’d like to continue with Jefferson, if that can be arranged, and cap with the others. And I assume there will be joint meets.”

“Of course. Are you a member of a recognized hunt?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we have a buddy program—that’s my term. If you’re a full hunting member, say of London Hunt, you can join us for half price. Many hunts in central Virginia have instituted this type of program. The bells and whistles might be slightly different, but the point is to pull together. Who can afford full memberships at all these hunts, and one can only cap three times in a season. It’s working quite well.”

“Virginia has more foxhunting clubs than anywhere in the world, I believe.”

“For a single province—” She used the Canadian term. “—we do. To live here as a foxhunter is to be in nirvana.” She smiled broadly.

“I would like to avail myself of your program. To whom do I write the check?” Dr. Hill didn’t waste time as he slipped his checkbook out of his Filson tin cloth packer coat.

Surprised, Sister replied,“I’ll give it to Ron Haslip, our treasurer.”

“Very light rider.”

Sister realized Dr. Hill knew a little something about riding.“Yes, he is, was, light on a horse since childhood. I notice you have a Filson tin coat. Ever notice how foxhunters usually wear Barbour coats or the Australian coats? Every now and then, I’ll see one of these.”

“Indestructible. I wear the tin cloth pants, too, during pheasant season. I bought this coat twenty-five years ago when I visited Seattle the first time. I had just finished my residency, and the trip was my present to myself.”

“You have an eye for quality.”

He smiled slightly.“Well, I hate squandering money. Buy the best, then you weep only once.”

She laughed appreciatively.“I’m looking forward to seeing you in the hunt field.”

“I’ll arrange my schedule to come out as much as possible.”

As she left Mill Ruins, she wondered if Dalton Hill had a wife. He hadn’t said anything. The ladies of Jefferson Hunt would ferret out this information in no time.

She also reflected on the persistence of hunting in the English-speaking world. Piedmont Hunt, outside of Upperville, Virginia, was founded in 1840, the oldest organized hunt in the United States. But colonists had hunted from 1607 on. And they did so in Canada, in Australia, in New Zealand, and in India under the raj. She thought the English language and hounds were intertwined, from Beowulf and beyond to today. Curious yet somehow comforting, satisfying.

Later, as she checked the hounds, the horses already snug, thanks to Jennifer and Sari, she watched Darby, Doughboy, and Dreamboat, firstyear entry.

Shaker came out of the feed room.“What do you think?” “Well done, thou good and faithful servant! I haven’t had a second to catch up with you. I hope you ate something at the breakfast. What a show Walter put on.”

“Stuck my head in. That turkey with the herbed dressing was something.”

“Sybil did a good job today.”

“She did. I asked her how she rated the hounds. She said she first called out Dragon’s name since he was in the lead. He ignored her. She then used her whip. He ignored her, so she hauled out the ratshot. Gave the other mutineers something to think about.”

“They weren’t a hundred percent wrong.”

“No, they weren’t, but when I blow them back, they’d better come.” He spoke with conviction.

“Let’s take Dreamboat and Darby on Tuesday. Oh, Doughboy, too. They ought to be all right. We can take Dana, Delight, and Diddy on Thursday.” She mentioned the girls from the same litter.

“Those girls are high, boss. Let’s just take two.”

“All right. Thursday put in Diddy and Dana, and then we’ll see if Delight can handle a Saturday. She’ll have steady eddies all around her.”

“You sure did the right thing back there at Chapel Cross.”

“Thanks.”

He nodded, she thought, then said,“Shaker, how bad was I after Big Ray died?”

Surprised, he answered,“You held up.”

“Mmm, well, I said to Edward that I feel fabulous, that I feel young again, and then he said that I’ve returned to myself.”

Shaker kept watching the gyps.“He’s right.”

“The funny thing is, I don’t know why. But I think you’re kind of coming back, too.”

“Me?”

“It’s good.”

“Yep.” He did feel different.

Neither one mentioned why they thought they were happier. Perhaps they didn’t yet know why.

CHAPTER 16

“Atrocious. Can you believe it? Fifty million Americans can’t read or understand anything above the eighth-grade level.” Marty Howard, chair of the Committee to Promote Literacy, warmed to her subject as Sister and Jim examined his photographs.

Crawford had flown to New York on business, which meant Marty had center stage, an unusual and pleasant experience for her.

Jim, although living in Wales, was an Englishman to the bone. He said,“How can someone get through school without learning to read and write?”

Marty, admiring his photos with Sister, replied,“That’s just it, twenty-nine percent of American students drop out of high school. Drop out. Do you know what the drop-out rate is in Japan?” When he indicated that he did not, she jumped right in. “Five percent. And in Russia, poor torn-up Russia, the drop-out rate is two percent. Something is dreadfully wrong with our schools.”

Jim, without looking up from the dramatic photograph of Xavier taking a swing at Sam, said wryly,“Maybe Americans should go back to teaching reading, writing, and arithmetic instead of self-esteem, right?”

Sister, not terribly interested in education, politely listened as this conversation raged on. Her attitude was that if you wanted to learn, you would. If you didn’t, you pretty well deserved what happened. If 29 percent of Americans wanted to drop out of school, they could push brooms, dig ditches, or suck up welfare. After performing these exciting tasks, if they had a lick of sense, they might want to learn to read.

She didn’t feel it was her job to be nanny to the nation. People made their own decisions. If they made bad decisions, they had to live with them, and sometimes so did she. We all bump up against one another. But in her heart of hearts, Sister really believed that some people are born stupid. One couldn’t introduce a new idea or a provocative thought into those thick skulls even with a crowbar.

Marty, on the other hand, truly believed that with ameliorative agencies, plus her own good works, life could be made better for some. Imbued with a Protestant drive for self-improvement, and a perfect society, it was her duty to do these things. She did them well.

“Sister, what do you think?” Marty inquired.

“The photographs are wonderful.”

“No, about illiteracy.”

“Marty, you are a dynamo of organization. That group is fortunate to have you, and I would be most happy to write a check. You know how much I admire your good works.” While not wanting to lie, Sister, being a Virginian, did not feel compelled to tell Marty what she really thought about the issue. Find the positive, and, in this case, it was Marty herself.

Jim left Marty with a fat book of proofs for club members. They could order those photographs they wanted.

Sister, her checkbook fetched from her worn Bottega Veneta purse—a favorite given to her by Ray before he died—wrote a check for five hundred dollars to the Committee to Promote Literacy. Another check to Jim for the photographs she’d selected.

He’d fly back across the ocean tonight, and she already missed him. They had managed a bit of time to visit, and she had laughed herself silly. Jim was a tonic to her. His deadpan sense of humor never failed to lift her spirits.

“Marty, I know it’s working hours, but do I have your permission to have a word with Sam before I leave?”

“Of course.” Marty fretted a moment. “I feel terrible about what happened yesterday, but it wasn’t his fault.”

“Not yesterday, but there are years of bad blood—not just with Xavier, but with many people in the club.”

Jim folded his hands.“One thing to straighten yourself out, another to pay back the damage.”

“He can’t.” Sister held up her hands, palm upwards. “That’s the hardest part of life, I think.”

Marty, ever eager for a discussion of substance, sat down as she pushed more scones toward her guests.“Meaning one cannot make amends, achieve closure?”

Sister stifled a laugh.“Marty, there is no closure. That’s a made-up word. Whatever happens to you, whatever you’ve done to others, yourself, to the wide world, in general, sticks with you like chiggers.”

“Oh, Sister, you can’t mean that!”

“I do. The past doesn’t go away. It’s in your head; it’s in your heart. What’s hard is finding the balance. Recognizing that you can’t, say, in Sam’s case, pay back the money, restore the damage to the sullied marriages. All you can do is ask forgiveness. A few people truly will forgive you; most won’t. They’ll turn their backs and try to forget it and you.”

“Or strike back.” Jim drank his tea with pleasure. Marty, for an American, brewed a decent cup of tea.

“Yes.”

“But that solves nothing!” Marty exclaimed. “That just keeps the pain alive.”

“Marty, I respect that opinion, but I don’t agree. Hurting someone who has hurt you is deeply satisfying,” Sister responded. Then she thought to herself that hurting whoever killed Anthony Tolliver would satisfy her.

“Sister, that is unlike you. I’ve never seen you hurt anyone.”

“Oh, I have. I hurt my husband. In the main, I haven’t tried to hurt people. That doesn’t blind me to the fact that revenge is sweet. There’s no longer justice through the court system—perhaps there never was. Whoever has the most money and can keep the case going all the way to theSupreme Court, if need be, has the advantage. If you take justice into your own hands, it is sweet. Someone makes you bleed, you make him or her bleed. Even steven.”

“Brutal.” Marty shook her head.

“But real.” Jim had a clear idea about things like this. In his worldview, nations behaved as childishly as individuals. Airmen like he had once climbed into jets and risked their lives to try to redress the latest cycle of revenge, greed, territorial expansion.

“Can’t we improve? I have to believe we can.”

Sister inhaled the buttery scent of the scones, the tang of the hot tea in its expensive old Dresden china pot, covered with a knitted cozy.“In fits and starts. I mean, Marty, in the Western nations we no longer employ child labor from sunup to sundown six days a week. That’s improvement, but what are children doing in Asia or Latin America or parts of Africa? In Africa, they cut off women’s clitorises. Pardon me, Jim. I hope I haven’t ruined your appetite.”

“Nothing ruins my appetite, Master. You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve seen,” he answered jovially.

“What I’m saying, Marty, is that one place moves ahead, say, with respect to child abuse, but perhaps slides back in literacy; another place works their children to death, but everyone can read. It’s a jumble of contradictions, pain, and outrageous injustice, yet there is beauty in the world. I can’t make sense of it, and I no longer try. I just live the day I’m in.”

Marty cupped her chin in her right hand as she sat at the table. While such a posture would upset anyone who had suffered the rigors of cotillion, it was her table, and it was more comfortable than always having her hands in her lap.

Jim spoke up.“In many ways I think life was better at other times than it is now. Not in terms of medicine, but people were closer to one another.”

“Give me an example.” Marty’s eyes opened wider.

“England from 1815 to 1914. I don’t think it was good for those people chewed up by industrialization, but for farmers, the middle classes and above, life was pleasant. Now you turn on the telly and see body parts.”

Sister, mindful of the time, gently said,“If there is an answer, I know you will find it, Marty. And I know that Crawford will support your efforts. He is a generous man. And I hope you do find the answer because I’d like to know it.” She smiled. “But, honey, I’ve been on earth longer than you. Maybe it’s made me a touch cynical.”

“You could never be cynical,” Jim said gallantly. “I’m the same age as you. We have seen a lot in our time, and I, for one, just look at people and governments and wonder what dumb thing they will do next. Sometimes it’s funny, most times it’s not. At least in your country, you don’t have class warfare. What do you think the Labor Party is all about? It’s class warfare. So bloody stupid.”

“You’re right, Jim, we don’t understand. I’m not sure an American can understand, but just because we don’t have class warfare doesn’t mean we can’t be as bloody stupid as the Brits.” Sister laughed.

“You two!” Marty sighed.

“Birds of a feather.” Jim laughed.

“Flock together,” Sister finished. “Marty, don’t take it all so seriously. A little levity might not add years to your life, but you’ll certainly enjoy them more. I’m not saying you shouldn’t be involved in your projects. It’s wonderful that you care so much but, well,don’t care too much.And you know why? Because none of those people you are trying to help cares about you. If one or two got to meet you, they might, but you need to take care of yourself. You know what I think about? When you’re in an airplane and the stewardess runs through her number about seat belts and exit doors, remember the part when she talks about air, about losing oxygen? Okay, the yellow umbilical cord drops out of the overhang with a plastic oxygen mask on it. The stewardess tells you to put on your mask before you put on your child’s mask, right?”

“Right.” Marty nodded.

“That’s what I’m saying. Put on your oxygen mask first. And now, after that piece of unsolicited and probably unnecessary advice, I’m going down to your stable.”

Marty watched Sister walk through the slush down to the extravagant stable. Sister didn’t seem like a selfish person. She had always thought of the tall older woman as generous and kind, but what Sister had said to her seemed selfish. She would need to think more on these things. Instead of diminishing her feelings for her master, their conversation only made the older woman moreintriguing. It occurred to Marty that there was a great deal to Sister that she didn’t know.

As Sister reached the racing barn, she marveled at its organization. The hunting barn was well run, too. Fairy Partlow was no slouch. Sam had transformed the beautiful racing barn into a true horseman’s stable. The twenty-four-stall stable was built with a cross-center aisle in the middle, two wash stalls on each side, and a huge feed room. In the cross aisle, Sam had a long scale; each day he would have his assistant, Roger Davis, weigh each horse on the scale, recording its weight in his logbook. Also in the book was each horse’s food for the day, turn out, work notes if they were breezed or jumped. Medical notations were there, too, as well as in an extensive color-coded file for each horse in the big oak file cabinets in the cavernous tack room. This information was also entered daily into the computer. Crawford adored technology: buying the latest, the fastest, the most expensive stuff. Sam took no chances. He used the computer, but everything was duplicated in the hard-copy files. He found it a lot easier to grab a color-coded file than to sit down and punch it up on the computer. Sam was middle-aged.

He smiled when he saw the master.

“Sam, this place runs like a clock.” She glanced at the large railroad clock on the tack room wall.

Sam had just been double-checking the files on Cloud Nine, the timber horse he had purchased for Marty.

The paneled pecan-wood walls—unusual for Virginia— bore gilt-framed photographs of past great chasers. As Crawford was only now entering the game, no photographs existed of his winners, but he had felt the walls needed something. In time, his winners would grace these walls. Encased in Lucite on one wall were his racing colors: red silks with two blue hoops on the chest and three on the sleeves, and a red cap with a blue button.

“Please sit down.” Sam stood as he motioned to the leather club chair.

The tack room was so large that the big sofa, two club chairs, and a large coffee table took up only one corner. The carpet, red and blue stripes, mirrored the silk colors.

Sam sat opposite Sister.

He offered refreshments, but she’d already drunk so much tea she was afraid her kidneys would float away. As this barn’s bathroom had a big shower, makeup mirror, and toilet, she didn’t worry too much about her kidneys. In many barns, if you had to go, you used a stall, same as the horses.

“Sam, I know you didn’t provoke the fight yesterday; I’m here to tell you that, and to tell you I am genuinely happy you are back in the hunt field. This is a good place for you.”

“Thank you.”

“As you know, you’ve made enemies, you’ve disappointed many people. Some of them, like Xavier, boil over. It’s not really like him, and, of course, I’ll talk to him, but I was wondering if you could help me?”

“How?”

“Exactly what did happen back there in, was it 1987?”

“Yes.” Sam looked away, out the big picture window, then looked back. “I was out of my mind on booze and drugs, and I stole from him.”

“He says you cost him a lot of money.”

“I did. I made purchases at the feed store in his name and used stuff myself or sold it. I sold tack out from under him and lied that it was being repaired. I stole money from the kitty and said it had been lost. I wrecked his new F350 Dually and said it had a bad U-joint.”

“And?” Shrewdly, she pressed on.

“I slept with his wife.” Sam exhaled. “That was worse than the money.” He leaned forward. “When someone works as hard as Xavier, it’s easy to jive him, jam him. He’s tired when he comes home. If everything looks good, he doesn’t dig up the dirt for months and sometimes even years, but Xavier kept his own books. He figured it out sooner rather than later.”

“But that wasn’t really what set him off, was it?”

“No, it was his Dee.” The lines around his dark brown eyes deepened. “I guess they went into couples therapy or something, because they’re still together. By that time I was down the road at the next place. They handled it better than most. The other women I slept with screamed about being played or their husbands beat me up, and the whole county watched the show.” He stared at her. “I have never told anyone about Dee, but you asked, and I know I can trust you. I expect one or two other people know, though. People can’t keep their mouths shut.”

“Thank you.”

He tipped back in the deep chair.“You’d be amazed at how many bored women there are out there. They feel ignored by their husbands. Translates into feeling unloved. It was just all too easy all those years.”

“I’m not surprised.”

He blinked, his shoulders rising.“I guess not. People confide in you.”

“Well, I have my eyes wide open. And I don’t rush to judgment.”

“I know.” He compressed his lips. “Would it be easier for you if I didn’t hunt? I can put Roger on some of these guys—Fairy, too—although she’s got her hands full with the hunters. I like chasers to hunt a bit, the greenies.”

“It might make it easier, Sam, but it wouldn’t make it right. The hunt field is open to all who pay their dues and respect the ethics of hunting. That means hounds have the right of way, you do not turn a fox,ever, ever, ever,and you do as the landowners bid you. When you swing up in the tack, your mind should be on hunting. Whatever else is going on in your life is left behind. You don’t have to like everyone in the hunt field, but you can’t express it while hunting.”

He nodded, knowing the ethics as well as any true foxhunter.“Yes, ma’am.”

“Xavier knows the rules of the road as well as you or I. I can only surmise that years of pent-up emotion affected his reason. As I said, I will speak to him.” She drew in a deep breath. “Sam, I don’t want to remove anyone from our club, and I do think this can be ironed out. Hunting is such a joy, a religion in a way. Nothing should tarnish that. If you drop down to nuts and bolts, people pay a lot of money for horses, trailers, trucks, tack, you name it. They should have a peaceful experience, if not an exciting one. Depends on the fox.” She smiled.

“Good one yesterday.”

“Yes, I didn’t know that fox. Usually I do.”

“Sister, you study the game trails. You know where the fox is, the turkeys, the deer. People don’t realize how much thought and knowledge goes into your job. Of course, there are masters who don’t know these things.”

“All serve, even those who stand and wait.” She slightly misquoted Milton.

“Would you like to see the new timber horse?”

“Love to.”

They walked outside into the cold air, down the long aisleway, stopping in front of a freshly painted stall. The nameplate read“Cloud Nine.”

“Nine’s her barn name.” Sam leaned over the opened top of the Dutch stall door. “16.2 hands, incredible stride once she gets into it. Tucks those front knees right under her, just folds ’em.” He imitated her form over fences.

“When she retires, she’ll be the perfect field hunter, right? I always think the timber horses are more careful than the brush ones.”

“And look at that engine!” He pointed to her hindquarters. “The ones that have heart, you can teach them. They’ll respect those solid jumps in the hunt field, even if they’ve been sliding through the brush ones. Bet we win, then in a few years you can hunt her.” He laughed. “No way can Marty or Crawford handle Nine. Too hot. Too forward.”

The brush fences for national steeplechase races at one time actually were brush, but now the manufactured fences had artificial brush set in. The horses jumped over or through it. If their hooves touched the brush, judges heard aswish, swishsound. The problem with the brush horses is they could get accustomed to dragging their hooves, not picking them up neatly like the timber horses. Can’t be dragging hooves over a three-foot-six coop or a stone wall.

“When’s her first race?”

“Maybe end of March in Aiken; I’ll need to work with her some more. If I don’t think she’s ready for South Carolina, then I’ll run her at My Lady’s Manor in Monkton, Maryland, in mid-April.”

“She looks the part.” Sister walked back to the truck, Sam accompanying her. “I see a lot of empty stalls. Knowing Crawford, they’ll be filled within a year, and you’ll have three more people working for you.”

“That’s the plan.”

“It’s exciting.” Sam opened her door for her, and she stepped up into the driver’s seat.

“Heard my big brother had lunch with you and talked himself silly.”

Sister blushed.“Did he tell you that?”

“He did.”

She drove into town, whistling the whole way. Then she realized she hadn’t spoken to Jim about his photographs. She dialed Marty’s number and luckily got Jim.

“Mr. Meads.”

“Master,” he said, a smile in his voice.

“Those photographs you took where X and Sam are flailing away—our own Taylor and Holyfield—could you not make those public?” She paused. “Although, I expect people would buy them.”

“I understand.”

“Well, I will buy every shot of same.”

“There’s no need of that.” His clipped accent and warm voice were reassuring.

“Oh, Jim, I know that. But I do want them for my files. And just in case I need to lord it over those boys.”

“You’ll have them next week. Five-by-seven or eight-by-ten?”

“Mmm. Eight-by-ten.”

“Good then.”

CHAPTER 17

Monday—catch-up day—found Sister cruising along roads she’d known since childhood, yet she always found something to capture her imagination.

She crossed the railroad tracks, smack in the middle of the working-class section of the small town. The men who built the railroads lived in neat clapboard cottages, constructed by the railroad. They’d hop a hand-pumped car to move themselves down the tracks. This particular line ran through the Blue Ridge Mountains and then the Alleghenies as it headed west into West Virginia and Kentucky, with branches cutting north into Ohio.

Squatting alongside the tracks were the redbrick buildings of Berry Storage. Smaller square brick structures were attached to the original four-story building.

The first structure, built in 1851, was a woolen mill. During the War Between the States, the mill ran at full capacity. After 1865, nothing was running. Twenty years passed. Although abandoned, structures were built to last for generations, centuries.

The mill cranked up again, thanks to an influx of outside money. The fortunes of the woolen mill reflected the roller coaster of capitalism.

By the time Clay Berry purchased the mill in 1987, it had again been abandoned. Because no one wanted the old place, Clay bought it for a song—a good thing since that was about all he had in the world.

Clay’s father was a lineman for the phone company; his mother worked at the old Miller and Rhoads store. He envied Ray Jr. and Ronnie their position. Xavier, from a solidly middle-class family, had less than young Ray or Ronnie’s people, but more than Clay. Both ambitious, Xavier and Clay became close over the years.

Clay worked like a dog, securing a loan on the building and turning it into a storage warehouse. Over the years he added cold storage, cleaning of expensive furs, shipping households overseas. He added more buildings to accommodate the different demands of his business. Sister was proud of Clay. He was a good businessman, sensitive to the fact that he was dealing with people’s precious possessions even if he, himself, thought they were junk. Over time he developed a sharp eye for quality in furniture, rugs, and furs, although he preferred stark modern things.

The cell phone rang in the truck. Sister pushed the green button.

“Yo.”

“Boss, that damn Rassle dug out of the yard, taking all the firstyear entry boys with him.”

“I’ll be right home.” She paused a second. “Tell me where you’ll be.”

“I think they headed toward Hangman’s Ridge.”

“Great,” she replied sarcastically. “I’ll go slow on Soldier Road just in case. And then I’ll park at the kennels and find you.”

“Better you find them. I am pissed.”

“Me, too, but we’ll get them. See you soon.” She pressed the End button, picked up speed for home.

When she and Big Ray built the kennel, they cut a two-foot ditch, laying in a thin wall of concrete so the hounds couldn’t dig out. But that was close to forty years ago. She wondered if part of that deep inner core had crumbled. This might be a long day and night.

It had already been a long day. When she called on Xavier, she was surprised at how emotional he became, which exhausted her.

“That man put me through hell.” Xavier’s voice trembled as he thought of Sam.

While she sympathized, and she did, she reminded him of the rules of hunting.

He agreed, promising to keep a lid on it. He did say one unnerving thing, which was that when Sam had lain about the train station, among the flotsam and jetsam of broken lives, Xavier had wished the son of a bitch had died there. Too bad he didn’t get run over by a train or fall in front of a car or drink whatever crap Mitch and Anthony swallowed.

“He doesn’t deserve to live.” Xavier finished his line of thinking.

“Xavier, that’s not like you,” she said calmly.

“I’m not as good a person as you think I am.”

A wound that deep—to the heart and to the pride of a man—leaves a scar if it heals.

When she left, she hoped he could keep his anger in check. She loved him. He deserved every consideration. Some masters would understandably be tempted to ease Sam Lorillard out. People who are dear to the master or who write big checks to hunt clubs or who work hard usually receive special consideration. But in the field, no. She firmly believed in the principles of the hunt. On the back of a horse, you leave your troubles behind. On the back of a horse, your hunting knowledge and riding ability count, not your pocketbook.

She hardly adored every single person in the field, although she liked most. When Big Ray was joint-master, she had to ride next to some of the very women he was seducing. But when the hounds opened, thoughts of Ray’s sexual peccadilloes scooted out of her brain. The ride back to the trailers would get her, though. She’d notice the color in the latest flame’s cheeks, the size of her bosom under a well-cut hunting coat, the length of her leg, the turn of her nose. Sister had to hand it to Big Ray, hehad never picked a bad-looking woman. But then, he also had to ride back with her paramours, although like most women, she had been clever at hiding her extracurricular activities.

These days she had to laugh at herself. A young person hunting with her, such as Jennifer or Sari, saw an older woman. They could never imagine that fires scorched through anyone over forty. She still had some fire left, as did Xavier; although his, at the moment, fanned out in rage.

Some people never had that fire, not even in their twenties. They never slept with the wrong person or with too many people, never did anything silly, dangerous, or ill advised. To hear tell, every man and woman running for office in the United States had lived life as a blooming saint.

How else do you learn except by being foolish?

She pondered these things while hurrying along the outskirts of town, passing a trailer park, before breaking free into the open country, true home. The fields, sodden, cast a gray pallor. The trees stood out black and silver, green if a conifer, against the deep blue sky. She noticed a thin outline over the Blue Ridge, powder blue since the snow hadn’t melted that high up. The line looked as though drawn by a metallic gray pencil. Snow clouds would soon enough be sliding down the Blue Ridge, catching a little updraft from the valley below to move ever eastward. These clouds weren’t moving fast.

Sister turned on the truck radio. The weather report on NPR said snow would be starting in the valley in the early afternoon, turning to rain by the time it reached Richmond. The precip, as they dubbed it, would last a day, possibly longer, as it was a stalled front.

Sister believed national characteristics had been formed by weather. An Italian couldn’t be more different from a Swede.

Her character had been formed by the four distinct, ravishing seasons of central Virginia. Expect the unexpected, the weather had taught her. She’d also learned to plan ahead; violent snowstorms or those exotic green-black thunderstorms could knock power out for days.

She pulled in at the kennels, then drove back out, following Shaker’s tracks. They turned down the farm lane, past the orchard, then headed to the wide-open fields that lapped up on Hangman’s Ridge, already swathed in low clouds. A sprinkle of snow dotted her windshield.

She cut the motor, pulled on her heavy jacket, and stepped outside.

The tinyclick, click, clickof icy little bits struck the windshield.

Little snows turn into big snows, meaning little ice bits, tiny flakes, often turn into big flakes, big storms. She peered upwards. Oh, yes, this was going to hang around.

She listened intently. She heard the three long blasts on the horn. The air, heavy, changed sound. He was probably a half-mile off to her right, near the ridge.

She heard a splatter, and three hounds appeared.

“Darby, Doughboy, and Dreamboat.Goodhounds. Were you going back to the kennel?” If she punished these young ones, it would do more harm than good. When one young entry digs out, it’s sure the others will follow, thinking the whole thing is a romp.

“We saw a bear!”Darby, wide-eyed, reported.

“Big!”Doughboy repented leaving the kennel without the humans and without the pack.

“All right, kennel up.” She dropped the tailgate, and the three gracefully leapt up. She marveled at the power of their hindquarters. In her territory, a hound with a weak rear end wouldn’t last three seasons.

She shut the tailgate, hearing the latch catch, then climbed back in the cab and opened the sliding-glass window so she could talk to the three hounds. This kept them interested. She didn’t want anyone jumping out.

Back at the kennel Raleigh and Rooster greeted them, having come out through the dog door in the house.

“Hi,”the two house pets called.

“Boys, you can help,” she called the two to her. “Walk along with me and be my whippers-in.”

Raleigh loved this task. He accompanied most hound walks. He quickly moved to the right side of the three, leaving Rooster the left, an easier side since it bordered the kennels.

Rooster sternly said,“You creeps shouldn’t leave thekennels.”

“Rassle dug out. No one said stop.”Dreamboat defended them.

“You’re supposed to know better.”Raleigh lowered his head, now eye to eye with Dreamboat.“You’ll never makethe grade acting like a dumb puppy. Do you want to bepart of this pack or not?”

“We do!”The three whimpered as Sister opened the gate into the draw yard.

“Then you’d better behave,”Rooster warned.

Sister shut the gate behind them. She put out a bucket of warm water. It would be a few hours before it would freeze. She didn’t want to put the hounds back in their firstyear boys’ yard. They’d go back out the hole.

She, Raleigh, and Rooster walked back to the truck to head out and find Shaker when she heard the horn closer now, then, faintly, his light voice,“Come along, lads, come along.”

She trotted out to the farm lane, her boots squishing with each step, the snow turning from bits to tiny flakes. She could just make out Shaker down by the orchard.

“Got three ‘Ds.’ ”

“Good. I’ve got Rassle and Ribot.”

Within minutes, they had joined up. Rassle and Ribot got a tongue-lashing from Rooster and Raleigh.

Shaker put the two boys in the draw yard with the others, then he and Sister walked back into their yard.

She bent over.“Wall’s fine. Not crushed.”

“Dug under it. That’s a lot of work. You know, we’ve had enough of a thaw that they could do it.” He stood up, peering upwards. “Well, from the looks of it, that’s over. Ground’s tightening up as we stand here. I’ll fix this with stone.” He sighed. “They get bored sometimes,but boy, they really had to work to get under your concrete barrier.”

Sister folded her arms across her chest.“Well, I hate to say it, but we’re going to have to hot-wire the bottom here. Keep it hot for a week or two and see if that does the trick. If it does, then we can turn it off.”

“Yeah.”

Neither Sister nor Shaker liked using a hot wire with such young hounds, but Rassle, full of piss and vinegar, was going to have to learn the hard way. If he didn’t learn fast, the others would start digging. Monkey see, monkey do.

“Why don’t I fill this back up while you get on down to the hardware store?”

“I can fill it up. Easy if I use the front-end loader.”

“Shaker, I think you’re a better judge of what kind of wire we need than I am, but I don’t think we need one of those boxes that works off the sun. Not much sun in the winter.”

“Have to, boss. Can’t run a wire into the kennels. The boys will chew it right up, and you’ll have Virginia-fried foxhound.”

“Ah, I forgot about that.”

“They’ve got better solar collectors than they used to.” He headed back out of the kennels over to the equipment shed. There were always two dump truck loads of crushed rock, plus one load of number-five stone behind the equipment shed. If potholes in the road were promptly filled, the road lasted a lot longer.

Shaker filled the front-end loader with stone, drove back to the boys’ yard, and dumped it in the hole. Sister stomped it tight with a heavy tamper.

“Boss, this is no job for a lady.”

“Who said I was a lady?”

CHAPTER 18

Only a handful of riders followed hounds on Tuesday, January 20, at the old fixture called Mud Fence, so named because in the eighteenth century, the enclosures were red clay and mud.

The snow continued, light and powdery—which was unusual since snow in this part of the country is generally heavy and sticky. This dreadful viscous snow then stuck to horses’ hooves, turned slick as an eel under tire wheels. This snow felt like a bracing morning in the Rockies. The cold, however, could cut right to the bone.

The moon, one day shy of full, often presaged how much game would be moving around. According to the moon cycle, this should have been a decent enough morning.

However, the foxes at Mud Fence proved lazy as sin.

Shaker cast hounds into the westerly stiff breeze. Hounds worked diligently. Doughboy, Darby, and Dreamboat settled with the pack, and Sister kept her eye on the youngsters. Shamed by their great escape, they yearned to redeem themselves.

Behind her, Walter, Xavier, Clay, Ronnie, Marty Howard, and Dalton Hill composed the field. Most days, when the weather turned bitter, Tedi and Edward valiantly rode forth, age be damned, but this morning Edward had felt as if he were coming down with the flu, so Tedi stayed home to tend to him. The last thing anyone needed was the flu bug making the rounds.

Bobby led the Hilltoppers on weekends and Thursdays. Tuesday, often a big fence day, kept many people at home, regardless of the weather. No Hilltoppers showed up today.

Since Betty was now whipping-in full-time, Bobby ran Franklin Printing on Tuesdays. Thursdays they didn’t open until one, but they stayed open until nine. In return for Bobby’s support of her whipping-in, Betty covered Mondays and Wednesdays so he could go to meetings, run errands, or even play nine holes of golf. Because they now had seven other employees, managing people was almost as important as the printing work itself.

As the snow fell, Betty, again on the left side, wasn’t thinking of the shop. She saw a shape ahead. Outlaw snorted. Hounds, to her right, remained silent. As she drew nearer, she observed a large doe still alive although shot, most likely at the end of deer season, which was the day after New Year’s. The animal’s leg dangled uselessly; gangrene had set in. Betty, a hunter herself, knew game could get away from even an experienced hunter. If it left no blood trail and did not crash through woods, a clever deer could elude a good hunter, though the good hunter would keep pushing. No responsible person wanted an animal to suffer.

One of the problems in central Virginia during deer season was that so many men came in from Washington, D.C., or other cities. Dressed in cammies, toting expensive rifles, black smudged under their eyes, they usually didn’t know as much as they thought they knew. They might be able to shoot, but their tracking skills left much to be desired.

Betty quietly pulled out her .38 and crept closer to the doe, whose poor head was hanging. When the deer turned to look at her, Betty fired. She hit the doe right between the eyes. The suffering animal’s legs folded up like a lawn chair, and she went down with an exhalation of air.

Outlaw jumped sideways, not from the report of the gun, but from the fall of the doe.

Betty patted her best friend’s neck and whispered, “Outlaw, if I’m ever that bad off, do me in. It’s the coup de gr?ce.”

Sister heard the shot, peered to see if any of her hounds had broken. They had not.

Shaker pulled the pack to the right, away from where he had heard the shot. They drifted down a low rolling bank, then dipped into a steep, narrow ravine. There might be a chance at scent here. The hounds eagerly worked the area but again nothing. As young entry had not yet developed the patience of the male hound and, therefore, could be more easily tempted by the heavy scent of the other game or a bad day, Shaker paid special attention to the D boys.

Though the signs had been promising, this was a blank day. Sister waited for a check, then rode to Shaker.

“Let’s not frustrate hounds or ourselves, Shaker. We’ve been out two hours, and there’s not a hope in hell the temperature is going to rise enough to help us.” She squinted in the snow. “Funny, we often get our best hunts in the snow.”

“That’s what makes foxhunting, foxhunting. You never know.” He raised the horn to his lips, the rim icy cold, and blew three long notes.

When he removed the horn, a bit of skin came with it.

“Smarts, doesn’t it?” Sister smiled.

“If I smear on Chapstick, I can’t blow this blessed thing.” He stared at the offending instrument as the hounds came back to him. “All right, come along.”

Sybil hove into sight at the right edge of the narrow ravine. She turned her horse, Colophon, to follow back, as did Betty, now a ghostly figure wrapped in white, standing on the left.

Back at the trailers, Betty told them what had happened. All country, they understood, though no one liked it.

Sister knew swift death was a good death. The longer she lived, the more adamantly opposed she was to keeping people alive, breathing cadavers. When her time came, she prayed the gods would be gracious. Then again, she hoped her time receded at least until she clocked one hundred. Life was too glorious.

Xavier’s voice, rising, drew her attention to the trailers where he, Ronnie, Clay, and Dalton passed around a thermos of hot coffee.

“You have to say that. You’re a doctor.” X swallowed the warming coffee.

“I say it because I believe it,” Dalton coolly replied.

“Well, I don’t.” X bordered on belligerent. “Once a drunk, always a drunk. Sooner or later, they all slide back. They’re worthless.”

Clay spoke up.“Not entirely worthless.”

“Why?” X turned to Clay.

“They can serve as a horrible example.” Clay’s answer eased the tension.

“I heard you and Sister buried Anthony Tolliver.” Ronnie finished his coffee, using a mug with the Jefferson Hunt logo on it.

“Oh, that.” Clay shrugged.

“You wasted your money on Anthony Tolliver?” X was incredulous.

“He didn’t waste it,” Dalton quickly replied.

“The hell he didn’t. The county would have put that old souse in the ground. Actually, he was probably pickled. They could have dumped Anthony back at the train station, and no one would have noticed a thing.” X laughed.

“He occasionally did the odd job for the company.” Clay’s face reddened; X was irritating him. “And Sister would have paid for the entire thing. Not right. I owed him something, I guess. Or her.”

“Why would Sister Jane care about an old alcoholic?” Dalton asked.

“School.” X exhaled, then realized Dalton needed more information. “They’d gone to grade school together and through high school. I reckon she’s one of the few people left in the county who knew him before he became a drunk.”

“Loyal,” Dalton simply said.

“That she is,” Clay added. “Dalton, we all grew up with Sister and her son. In fact, X, Ronnie, and I were Rayray’s best friends. We know Sister right well.”

“She wasted her money, too.” X twisted the cap back on the thermos, now empty.

“You’re kind of a hardass today.” Ronnie looked straight into X’s eyes.

“I have no use for drunks.”

Clay slapped his old friend on the back.“Lighten up. Everyone has a use.”

Once hounds were chowing down in the feed room, Sister excused herself. Shaker and Betty handled the chores today. Sister rushed to the house to clean up so she could meet Walter Lungrun at the club.

Steam from the shower soaked into her bones, where the cold had settled. Once her fingers moved better, she scrubbed her short gray hair, put on a conditioner for shine, and then rinsed it all out. She toweled down with an audience: Golly, perched in the sink, her fluffy tail hanging over the edge. Raleigh and Rooster sat side by side on the deep pile bathroom rug. She stood on the bath mat, vigorously rubbing her hair, which stood up in little spikes.

Looking in the mirror, she laughed.“All I need is giant hoop earrings.”

“She’s a star.”Golly flicked her tail, half closed her eyes.

The old house had horsehair stuffed in the walls for insulation. The bedroom had a fireplace, much needed as it was on the northwest corner of the house, cold in winter, cool in summer. She and Big Ray broke down and installed new plumbing back in 1989, paying special attention to all the bathrooms, especially this one, while they also insulated with modern insulation. That had set them back fortyfive thousand dollars.

As she wrapped the towel around her waist, she gave thanks that they had done it back then. Were she to pay for the materials and labor now, the cost would be about seventy-five thousand.

They had also installed a second set of two eighty-gallon hot water tanks for this side of the house, with a special pump to create a lot of water pressure. She didn’t mind paying the electric bill on the four big tanks. The house had two separate systems, which she liked. She always had hot water the minute she turned on the tap.

She combed her hair and applied face cream. The indoor heat had dried her skin out. She whipped on a little mascara, no eyeliner. She slapped on skin-tightening cream around her eyes and on her upper lip. It worked. Then she smudged faint violet powder on her eyelids, finishing off with a peachy blusher on her cheeks. She liked being clean and well turned out. She wasn’t vain, not even when she was young and people told her she was beautiful. She had never thought she was beautiful. She had angular features and big light brown eyes, but she was not beautiful. She was, however, sensationally athletic. Nor did she underestimate the lovely breasts that cappedthe whole affair. These days those mounds of pleasure sagged, but not as much as most women her age, thanks in no small part to a life of intense physical activity. Her pecs held them up as best they could.

She critically appraised herself, then leaned down and spoke to Golly, who looked up, whiskers swept forward.“Not bad for an old broad.”

“Not bad at all,”Golly agreed.

Raleigh added,“I love you. You are the most beautifulwoman in the world.”

Rooster, pink tongue curling out, seconded that.“True.”

“You two are so slavish.”Golly snuggled farther down in the sink as Sister stood up straight again. Her cosmetics, lined up on the counter, included three different colors of blusher and an array of lipsticks, tossed in a big glass brandy snifter. This was self-defense; when cross, Golly would knock the cosmetics off the counter. A second line of attack for the cat was to pull toilet paper all over the bathroom and shred it.

The second sink, Big Ray’s, no longer held his implements. Golly might have hunkered down there, but then she wouldn’t have been close enough to be a bother.

As Sister’s hair dried, she ran her fingers through it. “All right, that’s it.”

She sprinted into the closet, yanked out a long plaid skirt, whipped on a pair of high Gucci boots—thirty years old and still fabulous. She slipped a thin belt with small gold stirrups for a clasp through the skirt loops. Then she pulled a cashmere turtleneck over her head and tucked it into the skirt.

She came out, inspecting herself in the long mirror. Checking the time, Sister hurried down the back stairs, grabbed her shearling three-quarter-length coat, heavy but so warm. Outside, she hopped into the truck.

Even with the snow, she was at the club five minutes before Walter.

Under a tall window with a graceful curve at the top, the two caught up. While she had already written him a note thanking him for the fine hunt breakfast, she again told him how wonderful it was.

Finally, after turtle pie dessert, her tea and his coffee steaming, she reached for the handsome young man’s right hand. “Walter, you’re a natural foxhunter.”

Beaming, he squeezed her hand.“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

She laughed.“I don’t know about that, but you love the sport, and you pay attention. That means so much to me. Oh, I know most people are out there to run and jump. Makes them happy. I have no quarrel with that, so long as they respect the hounds. After all, we each take away from our pastimes what wemost need. But the natural foxhunter, the true foxhunter, loves the hounds and loves the quarry. And he knows that if he lived one hundred years, well, he’d still be outfoxed.”

Walter smiled, his large even teeth an attractive feature.“I expect even Tom Firr didn’t know it all.” He referred to an English huntsman from the nineteenth century, reported to be the greatest huntsman of his time.

“You’ve already contributed so much to our club. There are times, Walter, when I turn around and catch sight of you, and I think it’s Ray. If you had the military mustache, you’d be his twin.”

A quiet note crept into his voice.“You know, I often think about Big Ray, how I wished I had known he was my natural father. How strange that neither of us knew until last season, but everyone around us knew.”

“That’s Virginia.” She smiled, glad that something of Big Ray remained and simultaneously sorry that her genes would be washed away. Still, you take what life gives you.

“Dad didn’t know; I’m sure of that.” Walter referred to the man he knew as his father: a hardworking man bested in business many times over, the last time by Crawford Howard. It had destroyed him.

“I’m sure, too. We can both be glad of that, for your father did not live a happy life.” She paused slightly, changing the subject. “My mother used to say, ‘Eventually all things are known, and none of it matters.’ She was a foxhunter. They all were. Lucky me.” She smiled.

“Everyone needs a passion. If it were rational, it wouldn’t be a passion, would it?” He smiled back. “We’re both lucky.”

The waiter put the check on the table. As both were members, he did the correct thing, placing the bill midway between them, rather than assuming the man would pay.

Walter reached for it to sign it, but Sister was quicker and grabbed it.“I asked you to lunch.”

“Sister, let me. You do so much for all of us. I don’t know how to repay you. Allow me.”

“No. Speaking of passion, I’m here because of that passion.” She scribbled her name, club number, then added a tip. “When I look at you, Walter, I am reminded of love. I’m reminded of being young. I’m reminded of how life is one surprise after another, a jumble of emotions, events, but, ultimately, joy.” He sat stock-still as she spoke, her low voice resonant. “I am reminded that I must tend to my passion, for I want others to experience the same sharp grace that I have experienced in the hunt field.” She took a deep breath, reaching for his hand once more. “Walter, I want you to be my joint-master.”

CHAPTER 19

At eight o’clock Tuesday evening, the skies turned crystal clear. The last wisp of noctilucent cloud scudded toward the east. The mercury plunged to twenty-two degrees.

Like most horsemen, Sam Lorillard obsessively listened to the radio weather reports. Before he left Crawford’s, he double-checked each horse’s blanket. For those with a thin coat, typical of many thoroughbreds, he took the precaution of putting a loosely woven cotton blanket under the durable turnout sheet.

Like Sister, Sam believed horses needed to be horses. He kept them outside as much as possible, bringing them in to groom, feed, weigh, and carry on a conversation. Sam liked to talk to the horses. Roger Davis, his assistant, also took up the habit.

Crawford’s thoroughbreds knew a great deal about Super Bowl picks, college basketball, and socks—quite a bit more about socks because Sam’s feet remained cold until the middle of May.

The Lorillard home place, improving now that Sam was back on his feet, had a huge cast-iron wood-burning stove in the middle of the kitchen.

Sam was also trying to improve his eating habits. He hunched at the kitchen table, a heavy leather-piercing needle in his right hand, a workday bridle in his left. The small keepers, which kept the cheek straps from flapping, had broken. He patiently stitched them.

Jabbing a needle through leather hurt his fingers, which ached in the cold. Sitting by the wood-burning stove helped.

His cell phone rang. He no longer bothered with a line to the house, using the cell for everything.

“Hello.”

“Sam,” Rory croaked, “come get me. I’m ready.”

“Where are you?”

“Salvation Army. Thought I’d clean up.”

“Hang on. I’ll be right there.”

Sam hurried to his battered 1979 Toyota truck, which, despite age, ran like a top.

One half-hour later, after a fulsome discussion with the sergeant in charge, Rory left with Sam.

“It’s a three-hour ride. Can you make it?”

A haggard Rory slumped on his seat.“Yes.” He produced a pint of Old Grand-Dad. “This is the last booze I’ll ever drink. If I don’t, I’ll get the shakes. You don’t need that.” Rory took a swig.

A pint was nothing to Rory Ackerman’s system. Sam said nothing about the whiskey, was surprised that he didn’t crave it himself.

The long ride to Greensboro, North Carolina, was punctuated by sporadic bursts of talk.

“Expensive?”

“The clinic?” Sam kept his eyes on the road.

“Uh-huh.”

“Not as bad as some.”

“How am I gonna pay for it?”

“Don’t fret about that now. Just get through it.”

Rory licked his lips after another pull.“You got some secret source of money?”

Sam smiled, the lights from the dials on the dash illuminating his face with a low light.“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Am I gonna work this off for the rest of my life?”

“I told you, don’t worry about that. You and I can work that out later. Your job is to dry out, clean up, sober up, wake up.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rory responded with little enthusiasm.

As they crossed the Dan River, then over the North Carolina line, Rory spoke up again.

“Heater works good.”

“Truck’s a keeper.” Sam smiled.

“Pisses me off that the Japs make better cars than we do.”

“Nah,” Sam disagreed, “not anymore. But if I get enough money together, I’ll buy another Toyota Tacoma. Easy on the gas. And red. I always wanted a red truck.”

“Sure I got a bed?”

Sam nodded. Rory stretched out his feet, not far since the cabs of Japanese vehicles are made for people smaller than Americans.“Been thinkin’.”

“I figured.”

“No. Been thinking about Mitch and Tony.”

“Oh.”

“Day jobs.” Rory glanced out the window at the flat landscape. “They knew something.”

“Like something illegal?”

“I reckon. You know how it is. We work a farm for two days, paint a fence, however long we can hold it together. Anyone who needs someone fast doesn’t mind scraping the bottom of the barrel, rides on down to the train station.”

“Yeah.”

“Loading docks. Once when storms dropped trees over the tracks, we even worked for the C and O, cutting them up. If you talked to all of us, we’ve about covered every odd job in the county. You notice things even if you’re hung over.”

“Mitch and Tony notice anything out of the way?”

Rory closed his eyes.“Brain’s no good. I remember sometimes they’d be flush.”

“You’ll remember when you’re back to yourself.”

He paused, then whistled.“If I can figure it out, I might be drinking the next bottle of Thunderbird enhanced with poison.” He cackled for a second. “Like those wine snobs would say, ‘a floral top note,’ or maybe in this case, a hemlock finish.”

As Sam drove to Greensboro, only to turn around and drive back to get to work by six-thirty in the morning, Sister sat up in bed, wood crackling in the big fireplace. Propped on her knees was a yellow legal pad, much scribbled upon.

Each time Sister would write something else with her Number 1 lead pencil, Golly would bat at the pencil.

“Gotcha.”

“You’re a frustrated writer.” Sister batted back at the cat, who loved this game.

Rooster got up from his bed, walked over, and put his head on the bed, eyes imploring.

“No.”

“Why does she get to sleep up there?”

“Rooster, go to bed, honey.”

“I want to get on the bed.”

Raleigh, disturbed, joined the harrier.“It’s not fair. It’snot fair that that snot cat gets to be up there and we sleepin dog beds. We’re man’s best friend. What’s she?”

“The Queen of All She Surveys,”Golly replied.

“I can’t think. Boys, go to sleep. The dog door isn’t locked downstairs, so you can go out if that’s what this is about.”

Sister usually locked the door at night so Rooster, particularly, wouldn’t hunt. But on a cold night, Rooster had no desire to chase fox, rabbit, or bobcat, hence the unlocked dog door.

“Disobedient dogs don’t get treats.”Golly rolled over to display her stomach, adding further insult to the barb. She fetchingly turned her head, too.

“Smartass cats get tossed over our heads,”Rooster threatened.

“I am so scared I think I’ll pee on the comforter,”Golly purred.

“Then she’ll throw you off the bed,”Raleigh said.

“I can’t hear myself think.” Sister scratched Golly’s tummy while the cat peered down at the dogs. They sighed, gave up, and padded back to their beds.

“One of these days that fat cat will go too far,”Rooster grumbled.

“No sense of restraint, obligation, or duty.”Raleigh put his sleek black head on his tan-tipped paws.“She does nothing to earn her keep.”

Golly righted herself.“Oh, yes I do, you two sanctimonious toads. Dogs are so, so—”She pondered.“—goody.Makes me want to cough up a fur ball. I kill mice. It’s why we have a mouse-free barn and house.”

“Ha! Inky comes in and gets the mice and what she doesn’t want, Bitsy gets. The last time you caught a mousewas an eclipse of the sun.”Raleigh kept his eyes open in case she shot off the bed to attack him.

“You just thought there was an eclipse of the sun. Youhad your head up your ass.”Golly giggled.

That made Rooster laugh, so Raleigh now growled at him instead.

“I am going to throw everyone out of this bedroom and shut the door. I need to concentrate.” Sister’s voice took on thatlisten-to-meedge.

Golly moved to sit behind Sister on the pillow. She peered down at the tablet, covered with names, squares beside some, X’s beside others, question marks by a few.

“Looks complicated.”Golly exhaled through her tiny nostrils.

Squares rested in front of the names of those on the Board of Governors who would oppose her plan. X’s meant agreement. A question mark was just that.

Tomorrow was the board meeting. She would announce her decision concerning a joint-master. After initial shock and some good questions about just what she expected from him, Walter had happily said yes.

Now she had to get this through the board. She had spoken to the people with an X by their name. Bobby Franklin, stepping down as president, was the first person she talked to after Walter. She’d been politicking. She wondered how elected officials did this morning, noon, and night. Guess they liked it.

She had not spoken to the few people with squares by their name, Crawford being one. She knew she’d face opposition. Why give the two people she knew would oppose this plan time to pressure the question-mark people? Better to lay this out tomorrow night and hope the X’s could help her swing the question-mark people right there at the meeting.

As for Crawford, she had a plan so he would be kissed and socked at the same time.

Not for nothing had Jane Arnold been Master of the Foxhounds for over forty years.

As she scribbled, she stopped and then spoke to the dogs.“I think this will work. I’m excited about having a joint-master. Oh, I know there will be bumps in the road. I’ve had my own way here, captain of the ship and all that, but Walter and I will be a good team. Oh, la!” She threw up her hands. “I might be seventy-two, but, I’m telling you, I feel thirty-five!”

“Sometimes she gets simple.”Golly yawned.

“Humans worry about their age. The whole cosmeticsindustry would collapse, plastic surgery would tank if people accepted themselves as they are,”Raleigh shrewdly thought out loud.

“I figure if you can’t bring down a rabbit, it’s time to siton the porch,”Rooster added his two bits.

Thrilled with her plan, Sister checked the clock on the nightstand, picked up the phone, and called Tedi Bancroft to again discuss bringing in Walter.

The two dear friends laughed and chatted. Tedi and Edward thought electing Walter as joint-master was inspired. Sister told Tedi how young she felt, light, elated.

Just before hanging up, Tedi said,“You know, Janie, I think aging is a return to your true self.”

CHAPTER 20

“But look how much money the showgrounds have already generated.” Clay Berry, first year on the Board of Governors, glanced down at his notes. “Surely by next year there will be enough to hire a part-time manager, at the least.”

The board meeting was held the third Wednesday of each month except July. Every member took a turn hosting, a practice that drew them together. Although they hunted together, board members didn’t necessarily socialize. This was not because of personality conflicts, but the group’s interests varied widely. There wasn’t as much time to sit around in one another’s homes as there had been for Sister’s parents’ generation. People worked long hours, even those with money. They ferried their children to and fro, their kids as overcommitted with activities as their parents.

The other factor, true of most hunt clubs, was that members involved themselves in community projects: political campaigns, the Heart Fund, Easter Seals, 10K runs to raise funds for breast cancer research. Let there be a fund-raiser, a ball, a horse show, a trunk show to raise money for a worthy cause, and someone from the Jefferson Hunt would be there or in the chair.

Perhaps foxhunters, by their very natures, possess more animal energy. One can’t fly fences in heat, rain, sleet, or snow for two to four hours without brimming with high animal spirits. This spilled over into many activities. Sister was proud of the good work her members had done for the community. She even believed in a few herself, notably the No Kill Animal Shelter, which was her pet project—her pun.

Ronnie, tough about money, punched numbers into his handheld calculator. He looked up at the faces gathered in Sister’s front room. “Now look, Clay, it’s not a half-pay kind of deal. You know that from your business. There’s payroll, taxes, health insurance—”

“If they’re contract labor, there are no payroll, taxes, or health insurance,” Crawford interrupted.

Xavier folded his hands together.“Ronnie’s right. In order to have someone we can trust, someone who isn’t going to wreck the tractor, who will take some pride in the task, you can’t go with contract labor. I mean, we can’t head on down to the Salvation Army and pluck up one of the winos before a horse show. Either we keep going as we are or—”

“It’s the ‘or’ that worries me,” Walter spoke up. “Right now, the showgrounds are under my umbrella since I’m head of the Building and Grounds Committee. This is our first year, and we’ve been keeping everything together. For instance, the Lions Club left the grounds immaculate.The Antique Auto Club left the grounds immaculate, but grease was everywhere. Jimmy Chirios and I had to scrape down the ring, haul off the oil-soaked sand and bring in a thousand dollars’ worth of twice-washed sand. And we told them not to drive cars in the ring. It’s a sharp learning curve. Much as I’d like a full-time person, we can hold off for another year. Let’s see if the rentals hold up. Right now we’re a novelty in the county.”

Betty Franklin, the newsletter editor, spoke up.“I agree. Actually, I think we’re going to have more and more activity there. The grounds are more beautiful than I expected, and the county has nothing like this. We’ve saved the county commissioners a headache. Not having a showgrounds or fairgrounds has been a sore spot since the old fairgrounds burned down twenty years ago. Every year since then the commissioners would say, ‘Costs too much to build.’ Every year construction costs went up and up. Nothing got done. That we did it is thanks to the Bancrofts for the land and thanks to Crawford.”

“Hear! Hear!” Everyone sang Crawford’s and the Bancrofts’ praises.

Golly, having disgraced herself during dinner before the meeting, perched behind Sister on the wing chair, and cackled.“There! There!”

“I move we table the employee issue, showgrounds, for a year.” Ron moved.

This was seconded and passed.

“Now let me bring up an idea.” Sister smiled. “Actually, it was Ronnie’s idea. You tell them.”

“Why don’t we ask each member to buy a lottery ticket once a month? One dollar. If the ticket wins, they split with the club.”

“Great idea!” Betty Franklin clapped her hands together.

“Who can argue with a dollar?” Her husband, Bobby, president of the club, smiled.

“How do you know they’ll be honest about the winning ticket?” Crawford tilted his head slightly to one side.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Sorrel Buruss, social chair, always the diplomat, quietly said,“It is hoped that anyone who is a member of this hunt has integrity, honesty, humor, and courage. Naturally, we also have feet of clay, but let’s hope for the best.”

“Why can’t members buy a ticket, write their names on the back, and turn it in to the treasurer?” Crawford nodded to Ronnie. “It would remove temptation if someone hit Lotto South’s big jackpot.”

Another silence followed.

“That makes work for Ronnie. It might work, but let’s start with a little trust,” Betty remonstrated.

“Trust is a wonderful thing—” Crawford’s light voice filled the room. “—but removing temptation will yield more results.”

After wasting too much time on this issue, the board voted to trust to luck and the membership.

Bobby Franklin checked off another item on the agenda. Two remained: the election of a president and the election of the master, which was announced on February 14. Whatever board meeting was closest to February 14 before that date was the elective meeting. It usually fell in January. If the membership did not accept the board’s recommendation, people could be proposed from the floor.

The board did not elect new members until the start of cubbing season. Each year three members cycled off the twelve-person board, after having served three years. This provided continuity and also avoided the stress of too much change all at one time. None of the members present, with the exception of Sister and Edward Bancroft, had lived through an upheaval of masterships. The disarray for those two years before Jane Arnold became master left such a bitterness at the time that a huge effort had been made to unite behind Jane. It worked because over time she demonstrated not just knowledge of hounds, game, territory, and wooing landowners, she could get people to work together. She always said she had more patience with animals than people, but being a master forced her to develop patience with people, and to examine other points of view. She felt becoming an MFH was one of the best things that had ever happened to her.

“We are now coming to the election of a president and a master.” Bobby’s eyes swept over the gathering. “As you know, I am stepping down as your president after serving seven years—seven years that I wouldn’t change for anything in the world. But it’s time for new blood and time for me to make a big decision in my life about whether to expand my business or sell it. Betty and I really need to think about all that. I am grateful to you for allowing me to serve.”

“You’ll still lead the Hilltoppers, won’t you?” Sorrel asked. “You’re so good at it.”

Bobby smiled.“Flattery will get you everywhere, Sorrel. Yes, I will.” He paused a moment, getting even Golly’s attention. “It is customary for the outgoing president to name his successor after convening with the master and to give the reasons why he thinks this individual will be a good president.Of course, nominations will be entertained from the board, too.” He paused again. The gathering sat still; the only ones in the room who knew what was coming next were his wife and Sister. “I have given the matter of who should follow me a lot of thought. One of the greatest things about Jefferson Hunt is that I think any member of this board would be a good president. That says a lot about the depth of our leadership and commitment. But the more I thought about it, the more I kept coming back to one man: Crawford Howard.”

As he said this, eyes widened. No one expected Bobby Franklin to pass the torch to a man he loathed.

“This is more interesting than I thought it would be,” Golly purred.

“Crawford has drive, experience in the world of business. He also has a vision. He’s not afraid to express himself directly and—” Bobby held up his hand and smiled. “—we Virginians can’t always do that. Or at least this Virginian can’t. And I don’t pretend I always like that, butI have learned that when Crawford says something, he believes it. He doesn’t try to ruffle feathers; he tries to get the job done. At this point in our club’s history, I believe that Crawford Howard is the president we need.” He turned to the surprised Crawford. “Do you accept my nomination of you as president?”

Crawford understood that this meant he would not be joint-master, at least not for a while. What a disappointment. On the other hand, this was a chance to prove himself as a leader.

“I accept. And I want to pay tribute to a president with whom I have come to blows, physical blows. Much as we have disagreed, and violently, I have never doubted your commitment to what you believe is best for the Jefferson Hunt. Over time, I have learned to somewhat temper my ways, thanks to your example. Yours are big shoes to fill.”

“Hear, hear!” all spoke.

Bobby patted his ample girth.“Big pants, too.” He laughed at himself. “Do I have a second?”

Edward Bancroft, himself no fan of Crawford’s, who also had learned to work with him and appreciate his acumen, said, “I second the nomination.”

“Are there nominations from the floor?” Bobby waited an appropriate time. “If there are no further nominations, then I move we vote on our candidate for president. Because there is only one, we can do this with a voice vote. All in favor, say ‘Aye.’ ”

“Aye,” came the unanimous chorus.

“Crawford Howard is our new president, term effective as of the February board meeting. Congratulations, Crawford.”

“Thank you.” Crawford stood up. “Thank you all for your confidence in me.” He sat down.

“One last item: the election of our master.”

Before Bobby could continue, Ronnie called out,“I nominate Jane Arnold.”

“Second,” Clay said.

“Any nominations from the floor?” Bobby waited. “All in favor of Jane Arnold continuing in her duties as master, signify by saying ‘Aye.’ ”

Everyone said“Aye.”

Sister smiled.“Well, I guess you’re not tired of me yet. Thank you.” She waited a moment. “As you know, I have been your master since 1957. I hope I die in the saddle, literally. I have never done anything I love as much as being master of the Jefferson Hunt Club, proudly wearing our colors of Continental blue piped in buff, what our forefathers wore when they beat back the British in the Revolutionary War.” She took a deep breath. “And I am sure for some of our younger members, they must think I’ve been master since the Revolutionary War. It’s time to bring along a joint-master, dear friends. It’s time for me to ensure when my day has ended that this club will have a master who knows our hounds, cherishes our heritage, and ensures that our grandchildren and great-grandchildren have available to them what we have had available to us: open land, a respect for all living creatures, an understanding of our place in nature, and a love for the fox, our most worthy adversary.” People held their breath as she then said, voice firm, “I would be grateful to this board if you would elect Dr. Walter Lungrun to serve as our joint-master.”

Silence followed. Then Edward, in his patrician accent, said,“Janie, that is an inspired choice. Walter is young, vigorous, dedicated to foxhunting, and eager to learn. I believe you two will make a wonderful team. I wholeheartedly support this idea.”

“Walter?” Bobby realized the handsome man needed to indicate his willingness to serve, even though Bobby knew what was afoot.

“This is an honor I could never have imagined.” Walter meant it, too.

Betty spoke up.“Yes. Yes.”

Her simple affirmation allowed everyone else to speak at once, but the consensus was favorable, despite the twofold shock. The assembled thought Sister would go through one or two more terms alone, and many feared Crawford’s ambition to be master would, in time, split the club.

“Can we have a vote on this?” Bobby asked.

“I second the nomination,” Ronnie said.

“All in favor—”

Everyone said“Aye” before Bobby could finish his Robert’s Rules of Order drill.

“Congratulations.” Bobby got up and shook Walter’s hand, then walked over and shook Crawford’s hand. “Oh, I forgot,” he said as the board members got up, “any unfinished business?”

“Meeting’s adjourned,” Sorrel called out.

Betty hugged Sister. One by one other board members also hugged and thanked her.

Then they all hastened to the bar or the coffeepot in the kitchen, breaking up into small groups. Everyone congratulated the new joint-master and the new president.

Neatly stacked on her desk were the proofs Jim Meads had sent of all the photographs he had taken at Mill Ruins. Sister had put them out for board members to peruse. Order forms were next to the proofs.

She had prudently taken the eight-by-ten glossies of the fight at Chapel Cross up to her bedroom. She’d glanced at them briefly and thought she’d look at them more closely later.

When the gathering finally broke up, Walter, the last to leave, hugged and kissed Sister.

“Any words of advice, Master?”

She kissed him back.“Produce the pumpkins. Pies will follow.”

Later, snuggled in bed, Golly at her elbow, she congratulated herself on how smoothly the meeting had run. She sighed with relief. Walter would make a fine master. She felt as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders; broad though they were, she had felt the weight of ensuring a proper succession.

She opened the nightstand drawer, bringing out the photos.

“Roll over!”Golly yelled as Rooster snored.

“Golly, you’ll split my eardrums.” Sister petted the spoiled cat with her left hand as she flipped over the photographs with her right. “Those boys meant business.” She studied the scenes of Xavier and Sam. “Hmm.” She peered at one photograph in particular. Dalton and Izzy sat side by side, looking at each other. It did not appear to be the social eye contact of acquaintances. There was heat in that gaze. She rushed through the other photos to see if any more contained a clue to Dalton and Izzy. They didn’t.

“Shut up, Rooster,”Golly again complained.

“Maybe I am reading too much into this.” Sister ignored the cat’s yowl. “But, Golly, I’ve been around long enough to know a carnal look when I see one.”

CHAPTER 21

Turning slowly, the water wheel fed a stream of clear water from the upper pond into the lower pond. Buried beneath the frost line, the pipes stayed clear. That portion above the frost line was wrapped in heat tape. Cindy Chandler hated draining pipes in winter. Her expensive solution worked. It worked for the fish, too; as a constant source of oxygen, freshening water poured into the hole in the ice.

Another warming trend sent fissures throughout the ice in the pond, looking like dark veins. The creeks, running strong, had ice crystals embedded along the sides. Thicker ice, melting, raised the water level.

The earth at ten that Thursday morning had a thin, slick coating as the frost turned to dew. Ground was softening.

Dana and Diddy, eager to make a good showing, opened when they caught scent of Grace. She frequented the ponds nightly, and sometimes even in broad daylight.

Cora chided the two young ones for being overeager. Grace’s line, old, would lead only to her den. Patience might yield a better scent. Cora hoped they’d hop Uncle Yancy. He liked to dash to the rehabilitated old schoolhouse at the edge of Foxglove Farm.

“Isn’t any scent as good as any other?”Diddy inquired, disappointed.

“No,”Cora, nose to the ground, told the firstyear entry emphatically.“If this were a difficult scenting day, I’d advise you to keep on that line, but look, youngster, look.” Cora lifted her head and stared at the lovely house visible about half a mile away.

“I don’t see anything.”Diddy was puzzled.

“Smoke from the chimney. It’s held down and flatteningout instead of rising straight up. See? Like a big paw is pushing it back. That’s good. Then look at the sky.”As the young hound did, Cora continued,“Low gray clouds, akind of dove gray. They’ll hold the scent down for us. Andthe temperature is just about right.”Cora inhaled deeply, the pungent odor of the earth filling her nostrils as the frost melted away.“Forty degrees or close. We will find a hotterline than Grace’s.”

Dana, impressed, asked,“How did you know that linewas Grace’s?”

Cora chuckled.“Well, it’s like being a catcher in baseball. You remember pitchers. And if Asa, Arden, Diana,Dasher, or I pick up a fox scent that we don’t recognize, weare extra attentive. This fox will run in a different pattern.When you’re excited, when scent is scorching, it’s easy tooverrun the line of a strange fox. Now that doesn’t soundso bad, and on a day like today, we’d find it again in a jif.” She puffed out her deep chest.“But on a spotty day, if weoverrun, we could blow the whole hunt. Shaker and Sisterwould know, too. They don’t have good noses—they can’thelp that—but they have very good eyes, and they knowtheir quarry and know us. We have to be on top of ourgame.”

Diddy’s soft brown eyes welled up as she put her nose down again.“Oh, I don’t want to get drafted out. I wantto be a good hound.”

Ardent, behind the girls, hearing the entire exchange, encouraged the two D girls,“Now, now, that won’t happen.You’ll be just fine. Takes a year or two to learn the ropes.And hounds get drafted for different reasons. You’ll befine.”

Dana, nervous about this drafting concept, whispered,“Like what?”

“Too fast. Too slow. Doesn’t get along with others. Notthe right nose for our conditions,”Ardent explained.“ButSister and Shaker are very careful where they draft a Jefferson Hunt hound. We get sent only to good places, and sometimes she’ll send a hound to help another hunt’s breedingprogram and then the hound comes back. Usually she’llsend one of the girls for that, but once she lent Archie to apack in Missouri for a summer.”

“I don’t want to leave here.”Diddy lifted her ears up.

“Chances are, you won’t.”Cora noticed Dragon on her right. His stern stood still, then he began to move vigorously.“We may be in business.”

“Uncle Yancy!”Dragon called out.

Diana, better able than most to deal with her brother’s outrageous ego, loped over, put her nose down, and seconded his call.“Yancy!”

Dragon, already running, pulled the pack with him, all eighteen couple on this promising January morning.

Shaker blew the three short doubled notes in succession three times. When the rest of the pack dropped on the line, he blew“Gone Away”—a long blast followed by two or three short toots, short notes doubled three or four times in succession.

Sister, with the field of twenty-nine, large for a Thursday, felt her heart pound. No matter how many times over the years she heard“Gone Away,” it gave her chills.

She squeezed Rickyroo, a lovely rangy thoroughbred with a big heart who was still learning the ropes. They trotted away from the ponds, down a slick crease in the meadows. Once off that, she moved up to a canter, but before she knew it, speed accelerated.

One of Cindy’s stonewall jumps with a telephone pole on top of the stones loomed ahead. Horses take solid jumps seriously, often sailing over a stiff solid obstacle better than a lower, airy one. Rickyroo, feeling he could jump the moon, pricked his ears forward, lifted off, and landed, sliding slightly.Sister wondered how that footing was going to be for the last riders in the field.

Hilltoppers, only six today, cantered behind Tedi Bancroft. She never minded leading Second Flight if Bobby couldn’t come out that day. She always said she had more views in Second Flight than she did in First Flight.

Edward Bancroft rode in Sister’s pocket today, with Walter behind him; Xavier, Clay, Ronnie, Sam, Gray, Marty, Crawford, Dalton, Alexander Vajay, and the rest of the field fanned out behind them.

Once over the stone wall, they cut into the edge of a parked-out woods—meaning the underbrush had been cleared at least fifty feet in. Pretty as it was, Sister deplored the practice. Thick underbrush brought in game, especially rabbits, who are edge feeders. No self-respecting rabbit will sit out in the middle of a big field or parked-out woods unless there aren’t any predators for a great distance.

Once in the parked-out woods, they hit on a farm trail that petered out into a deer trail. The underbrush, even in winter, tangled on both sides. Old creeper vines, pricker bushes, and endless mountain laurel kept Uncle Yancy from view. Not far off, he was running flat out. He had fallen asleep, awakening only when he heard Cora talking to Diddy. Age was catching up with Yancy, and he had a habit of dozing off on a warm rock, or in a big rolled-up bale or even a stall.

Dragon, quick as Mercury, flew not five minutes behind Yancy. Dragon was determined to catch the old fox, snap his neck, and throw his carcass over his head. Dragon dreamed of such glories.

Yancy at this moment wondered if he could make it to his den underneath the schoolhouse. He zigzagged through the brush, knowing it would slow down the larger, heavier hounds, then he slid into the creek that fed into Broad Creek. Once in the creek, he stayed there for one hundred yards, trotting over the stones, moving downstream, swimming when he had to swim. A fallen log up ahead beckoned. He clambered up, ran along the log, and then landed on the opposite bank.

The hounds moved on both sides of the creek, with Dragon beside himself, foolishly splashing in the creek. Yancy nearly got away with it, but Asa, wise in his years, saw the log, made for it, jumped on it, put his nose down, and sang out a deep resonant note. Then he jumped off and picked up the line, bringing the whole pack right with him.

Diana, steady, anchored the hounds. Dana and Diddy would glance up front to her, or Cora, for guidance.

Bitsy, visiting Cindy’s barn, shadowed the pack when she heard them. The screech owl flew silently ahead. Almost noiseless in the air, prey doesn’t hear an owl until it glances up and those fearsome talons, even on a little owl like Bitsy, reach down and grab it. Bitsy adored Uncle Yancy since both enjoyed gossip.

“Yancy, Yancy, duck into the overgrown springhouse upahead. A quarter of a mile. Hit the turbo.”

The springhouse, once used for the schoolhouse, had fallen into disuse. Its stone intact, the sluice of cold water still ran through, capable of keeping milk, cheeses, and meats cool for a day or two even in the hottest weather. Those children attending the school in the 1870s through the 1940s could put their bottles of milk and lunches in tins in the springhouse or even in the sluice and they would be fresh for lunchtime.

Dragon, gaining on Yancy, surged faster and faster, driven by the idea that he would make a kill.

Yancy tripped on a gnarly tree root pushed up between stones; he rolled over and over. Dragon drew close enough to see him roll. Bitsy drove down, fluttering in front of the sleek hound, baffling him for a moment, just enough time for Yancy to recover.

The old fox ducked into the springhouse, a tidy little hidey-hole in the corner.

Dragon howled at the shut door, the big old hinges black, powdered with a slight coating of rust, holding the heavy oaken door in place. He spun around to the side where the water ran through, flattened and wriggled, tried to get in through the sluice. He was too large. The small den, made by an industrious fox generations past, was well placed. Yancy had sucked way back into the living quarters. He blinked, wondering how many exits there were. If Dragon started digging, would Yancy choose the right exit or wind up in the middle of the pack?

Shaker, up with his forward hounds, swung off Showboat. He couldn’t open the door, so he blew “Gone to Ground” as the slimmer members of the pack crawled in the sluice. Once inside the springhouse, the din was phenomenal. Shaker, pure frustration, was outside with the larger hounds and an irate Dragon.

Betty, riding hard, came in, hopped off Magellan, and the two of them sweated over the big old door, creaking on its hinges.

“Damn. I hope Yancy is okay.”

“Yancy can take care of himself.” Betty had learned to admire the senior citizen over the years. He had a big bag of tricks.

They still couldn’t get the rusted door open.

Walter rode up.“Master, may I help?”

“Of course.”

As Walter was the strongest man in the field, Sister readily gave him permission to move ahead of her.

Walter jumped down, put his shoulder to it. The door gave way, the sound of old iron grating on iron eerie in the deepening gray.

Yancy slithered down a pathway underground that hooked right, in the direction of the schoolhouse. He hoped so anyway.

He popped out. Yes, there they all were: the humans, their sides to him, and no one was looking. He didn’t trust Dragon. He knew the hound might not obey the huntsman. He took a deep breath. Bitsy watched with apprehension. Yancy crept up out of the exit hole, slinking, belly to the ground, toward the schoolhouse. He’d be able to use the woods and then he’d come out into the open pastureswhere he knew he’d have to use every ounce of speed left within him.

Sister, catching movement out of the corner of her eye, saw him. She counted to twenty, considered the circumstances, counted twenty more, then said,“Tallyho.”

Shaker, blowing“Gone to Ground” in the springhouse, didn’t hear. Betty did and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Tallyho. Sister.”

Without a word, Shaker bolted out of there, his hounds following. He vaulted into the saddle, touching the horn to his lips, then thought better of it.“Come along.”

Once the hounds cleared the springhouse, Walter struggled with the door. Shaker blew the hounds to where Sister sighted Yancy. She stood still, horse’s head pointed in the direction in which Yancy was traveling. Her cap was off her head, arm outstretched in the direction, also, the tails fluttering in the strengthening wind.

“Yes!”Diddy caught a scent so fresh it nearly knocked her over.

Within seconds, all were on. A dark coop was nestled in the old fence line between the woods and the pastures. Shaker cleared it first, Sister twenty yards behind. Once in the pasture, they saw Yancy streaking for the schoolhouse, Dragon leading the hounds thirty yards behind him, and the rest of the pack moving up, the young entry showing more speed than Sister had anticipated.

But Yancy had enough of a head start just to make it. He dove into his spacious den, the biggest entrance along the basement of the old clapboard structure. Once there, he flopped on his side, trying to catch his breath. That was a close call. He hated to admit that he was slowing down, his judgment getting sloppy, but it was true.

Overhead, Bitsy shadowed. Sister looked up to see the sturdy little screech owl intently watching the pack. The owl emitted an earsplitting shriek when she landed on the cupola of the roof.

Later Sister reflected on that. There was so much humans don’t know about species cooperating with one another. Just why, she couldn’t say, but that made her think again about the Jim Meads photograph, the one showing a hot glance between Izzy Berry and Dalton Hill.

CHAPTER 22

Snowflakes fluttered down, illuminated by the four large curved lights bending over the long white sign reading“Roger’s Corner.” This convenience store supplied everything from beer to ratshot to Swiss chocolate. Its prime product, however, was gossip.

Located at the intersection of Soldier Road, which ran east to west, and White Cat Road, which ran north to south, the store had run in the black from the year it was founded, 1913. White Cat Road was the last decent north-to-south road before one crossed the Blue Ridge Mountains. Other roads running in that direction were potted or dirt or both.

Roger, a contemporary of Ronnie and Xavier, studied the business under his father. He was the fourth generation to own this store, and was named for its founder. He liked being at the county nerve center.

This Saturday evening, the Prussian blue of the clouds, the falling snow, the gas pumps wearing snowcaps, the light from the sign washing over Roger’s Corner—all combined to resemble an Edward Hopper painting.

Inside Shaker, Sister, Xavier, Tedi, Lorraine, and Sari had each purchased what they needed. They lingered at the counter.

Affable Roger provided hot coffee.“So, good hunt this morning?”

“Ask the boss.” Shaker nodded at Sister, then looked out the window at the snow-covered windshield of the old but strong 1974 Chevy truck with the 454 engine, a real beast.

“Pretty good, thank you for asking, Roger. We hunted at Dueling Grounds, on the flat by the river. Had a large field this Thursday and an even bigger one today: sixty people. By the time we finished, we were blue, but hey, the foxes ran, the hounds did well, and, when we returned to the trailers, we thought we’d done something.”

Tedi, sneaking a cigarette because Edward hated for her to smoke, puffed.“Oh, tell Roger about the lady from where was it?” She paused a moment, a plume of blue smoke curling upwards. “Ah, she was visiting from Wabash Hounds outside of Omaha, Nebraska. Well, she couldn’t have been nicer or better turned out, but they don’t have the kind of thick woods we do. Takes their trees longer to grow, I guess. Our first blast through tight quarters, she feared for her kneecaps. She was a good sport. Took her fences in style, too.”

“When people from the Midwest or the West hunt Virginia, they’re often surprised at how thick the cover is here even in winter. Some of those places are pretty flat, too,” Shaker added to the conversation. “Boss and I drove out one year for the Western Challenge. The terrain ranged fromlow desert to high desert to plains. Mostly coyote.”

“What’s the Western Challenge?” Lorraine asked.

“All these hunts in the West get together for two weeks. Each day, unless it’s a travel day, you hunt with them and watch their hounds work in their territory. At the end, the best pack gets a cup,” Sister explained.

“You can drive nine hours before you get to another hunt,” Xavier said. “The spaces are incredible. Course the Bureau of Land Management owns most of it, which is to say the federal government.”

“Is that good or bad?” Young Sari felt comfortable enough to speak with the adults. Since she had proven herself in the hunt field, the adults no longer thought of her as a teenager, but simply a young foxhunter.

“Depends. In some places the BLM preserves and protects the land. In other states, it’s a struggle. If you get a warden on a power trip, he can make life miserable for everyone out there,” Xavier told her. “Now I’ve never attended the Western Challenge, which I really want to do, but Dee and I go out to Wyoming and Montana for two weeks in August. I love it out there.” He paused. “Ronnie and I are going to try and do the challenge this year.”

“God, you and Ronnie in the trailer for two weeks.” Tedi rolled her eyes. “Strains credulity.”

“Strain more than that.” Shaker laughed.

“I know.” Xavier laughed. “We’re the odd couple. He is so fastidious and I’m, well, I’m not as sloppy as Ronnie says, but let’s just say I’m not anal.” He winced. “Wrong choice of words.”

Everyone laughed except Sari, who didn’t get it.

“Can’t wait to tell Ronnie you said that.” Roger leaned on the counter with one elbow.

“You will, too.” Xavier feigned mock horror.

Roger put his other elbow on the counter.“When we played football in high school, Ronnie was fast and tough. Always had the girls around him. Dressed better than the rest of us.” Roger shrugged. “Guess you just are what you are, but Ronnie has made me ask a lot of questions. Funny, I’m grateful to him.”

Shaker simply said,“I don’t get it.”

“You wouldn’t.” Sister raised an eyebrow.

He raised the palm of one hand.“I’m not looking to pick a fight. I just don’t get it. How can any man not go crazy for a woman? Look, Xavier, I like the heck out of you, but I don’t want to kiss you.”

Xavier laughed.“Dee says I’m a good kisser.”

“Braggart.” Sister now laughed.

Tedi stubbed out her cigarette, feeling mellow from that delightful hit of nicotine.

“Gentlemen, I’m old enough to be your mother. By virtue of that, I can say what I think. What I conclude from my long and eventful life is that our knowledge is constricted by ideology and religion. We don’t know why anyone is heterosexual, much less homosexual. But I know this: to deny love is to deny life.”

Everyone looked at her.

“You’re right.” Lorraine smiled at her.

“Tedi, I’ve never heard you speak like that.” Xavier put his arm around the lovely lady.

“Well, for one thing, Edward isn’t here—not that he reins me in, but let’s just say he guides me away from controversy. Oh, when we first married, and he was running the company, we’d have to entertain, and, well, I was raised a Prescott. Prescotts speak their minds. Poor Edward. He’d say after one of those affairs, ‘Honey, I don’t think they’re ready for you.’ ” She grinned. “I just smoked a cigarette and now I feel glorious. Glorious!”

They laughed.

“Shorten your life.” Roger winked.

“Aren’t you sick of it?” Xavier smacked his hand against the counter. “Everyone tells you what to do and how to do it! Bad enough the government robs us at every turn, but now we have the health Nazis.”

Lorraine, a more serious type and not a foxhunter, demurred.“But Xavier, it has been proven that cigarette smoking can cause lung cancer.”

“And caffeine will put you over the edge,” Xavier replied.

“Sugar rots your teeth. I could go on. Given Sari’s young years, I’ll leave out all the sexual fears and propaganda. I mean, bad enough we got off on Ronnie.”

“What was that?” Roger cocked his eyebrow. “Got off?”

“You are twisted.” Xavier punched him.

Roger shied away from the second punch.“Hey, who’s twisted? But I’m with you, X. People gotta do what they do. If smoking eases the nerves, hey, smoke. If bourbon at six takes the edge off a rough day, sip with pleasure. We all need a little help.”

“Foxhunting,” Sister firmly spoke.

“That’s her answer to everything.” Shaker laughed.

“But it’s true.” Color flushed her cheeks. “When are you most alive? Hunting.”

“That’s true,” Tedi agreed.

“For us,” Xavier amended the sentiment.

“Everyone needs something that pushes them physically and mentally. Safety numbs people.” Shaker, having seen a fair amount of danger in his work, believed this.

“That’s why you see people in their eighties and even nineties in the hunt field. Not only did they stay healthy from the sport, they get up in the morning and can’t wait to get out there. Unless the good Lord jerks my chain, I intend to go to my nineties.” Xavier patted his girth. “Better lose a little weight first. Dee keeps reminding me. She works out. I intend to, but, well, those donuts look so good. You know the rest.” Xavier laughed.

The phone rang.“Roger’s Corner.” His head came up; he looked at the gathering. “Thanks.” Roger hung up the phone. “Clay Berry’s warehouse is on fire. That was Bobby Franklin.”

“Jeez,” Xavier’s mouth dropped. “The water will turn to ice. Oh, Jesus. Guys, I’ve got to get down there.”

“Is he insured with you?” Shaker asked.

“Yes. Maybe we can help get stuff out of the warehouse.”

Shaker turned to Lorraine. He had planned to make supper for her and Sari, just to prove he could.“Lorraine, I’d better go.” Then he asked Sister, “Will you take Lorraine and Sari home?”

“Of course. Then I’ll come down.”

“No.” Shaker’s voice deepened. “I mean it, boss. We need you in one piece. I’ll call you.”

Tedi called Edward on her cell, then she, too, left.

Driving down the snowy road, Lorraine asked,“Sister, would you mind taking me back to the farm? Alice is home, so she’ll be able to feed her cats and chickens. Shaker will be exhausted when he gets back. I’ll fix supper.”

“I don’t mind a bit. It’s a wonderful idea.” She was grateful Clay had brought her her silver fox fur coat. In the great scheme of life, that coat was a paltry thing, but she loved it. It’s funny how one becomes attached to objects. Big Ray bought her that coat for her fiftieth birthday.

“I hope they can stop the fire. There’s so much in those warehouses,” Lorraine fretted.

“Let’s hope it’s in one of the small satellite buildings. Poor Clay.” Sister felt a creeping dread, but she attributed it to the fact that she’d just driven past Hangman’s Ridge. In this tempestuous weather, she thought she heard a howling from atop the ridge. The wind plays tricks on you like that sometimes.

CHAPTER 23

Flames shot into the night sky, an eerie sight with snow falling. The heat was so intense that Shaker and Xavier couldn’t get within fifty yards of the small brick building.

As the firemen worked in both bitter cold and searing heat, Shaker found Sheriff Ben Sidell.“Sheriff, anything I can do?”

“No. They’ve contained it. Thanks to George’s quick thinking, they saved the big warehouse,” Ben said, referring to Fire Chief George Murtagh.

“Bad night for it.”

Ben pulled the collar of his coat up higher around his neck.“Don’t guess there’s ever a good one. They keep coating the big warehouse with water on this side; ices right up and then melts again. Weird.”

“Any idea?”

“No, George said he won’t know much of anything until he can get the fire out. The building passed inspection, but the wiring is old. All it takes is one mouse to bite the wrong set of wires.” Ben stared at the men holding the hose. “You know, it’s warmer nights I dread the most. There are more fights, stabbings, and murders in summer when it’s so bloody hot out. I know if I get a call on a bitterly cold night, someone’s kerosene stove blew up or someone hit a patch of black ice.” He sighed. “Either way, usually someone’s dead.”

“You can smell the furniture burning.” Shaker wrinkled his nose.

“This one closest to the railroad tracks has furniture being shipped out. Clay said it was loaded. Next shipment was Tuesday.”

“Anything I can do for you?”

Ben’s eyebrows rose for a moment. “No. Thanks for asking.”

Shaker walked over to Clay and Xavier.

“Sorry, Clay.”

“Shaker.” Clay’s eyes welled up. “Thank you for coming on down.”

“X and I kind of hoped we could pull stuff out.”

Clay shook his head.“Wooden crates, wooden furniture, upholstery, pffft.” He threw up his gloved hands. The furniture and valuables had been packed in wooden crates.

“Sister wanted to come down, but I told her to go home.”

This made Clay’s eyes tear up again. “God bless her.” “Is there anything I can do?” Shaker asked.

“No.” Clay shook his head. “This stuff will smolder for days.”

“Izzy okay?” X asked.

“Crying her eyes out. I told her we’d be fine.”

X’s deep voice deepened more. “There will be a lot of upset people, but we’ll do all we can. As soon as I can, I will cut a check to replace the building. I don’t anticipate problems with the carrier. They’ll send someone down, but that’s protocol these days.”

“You know, I’m not there yet.” Clay bit his lip. “I’m glad you are, but I can’t think that far ahead.”

“Don’t worry.” X meant it. He was a successful man because he backed up his word. He really did care about the people who insured through him.

As Shaker walked back to the truck, the wind shifted slightly in his direction. Tiny red and gold sparks flew upwards as white flakes fell down. He inhaled smoke carrying the unmistakable odor of flesh. He’d smelled that once before as a young man. An old house had burned down, its owner having fallen asleep in bed with a lit cigarette.

He returned to Ben.

“Ben, there’s meat in that building.”

Ben raised his eyebrows.“Come with me.” Shaker led Ben to where he had picked up the scent; the wind was still blowing in that direction. “Take a deep breath and you’ll cough. Smoke burns the hell out of your throat.”

Ben inhaled, coughed, but he smelled it.“Wonder if Clay had any kind of refrigeration unit in there.”

“Talk to George first. I mean, that’s what I’d do.”

Ben nodded.“You’re right.”

Ben headed toward the busy fire chief as Shaker climbed into the old Chevy, turned over the motor and sat to let the engine run a minute. If anyone was in there, he or she was burned to a crisp. Who would be in the storage house? He hoped it was a raccoon. A big one might give off a powerful odor if killed or burned.

Shaker headed out of town. He called Sister on his phone, installed in the truck.

Sister asked,“You okay?”

“Nothing for me to do. Clay’s holding up. X’s real calm. That helps him, I guess. Ben sent me home.” Shaker listened to the crackle on the phone as he drove through a patch of bad reception.

“Strange. When I drove by Hangman’s Ridge, I—” She stopped herself. “Well, that place sometimes presages bad tidings.”

“See another ghost?” This was not said in jest, for once she had seen a ghost there. A year later, he had, too, even though he hated to admit it.

The souls who had been hanged on the huge oak on top of the ridge, sent to justice since the early eighteenth century, were unquiet. Many had seen or heard them; even Inky skirted the place if she could. Being a fox, her senses were far keener than a human’s. She had seen more than one ghost—all men—necks unnaturally stretched.

“I just heard howling, but it’s windy. Picking up.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, uh, forgot what I was going to say.” She hadn’t actually, merely changed her mind.

“Alzheimer’s?”

“Halfzimers,” she fired back as she hung up.

She had been going to ask him if he wanted her to bring Sari up to the main house so he could be alone with Lorraine. Then she realized the supper was a surprise, and, also, Sari looked up to Shaker. Removing her from the picture wouldn’t be fair. If romance was going to blossom, there was time for that. Sister didn’t have to put a log on the fire. She repented of that image the moment she thought it.

CHAPTER 24

After that Sunday’s church service many hunt club members gathered at the grand, modern Berry residence. Clay’s wife, Izzy, graciously met everyone at the door and invited them in. Despite their travails, she served coffee, tea, cakes, and cookies.

Betty, who used to think Izzy was nothing but a gold digger, actually warmed to her thanks to this ordeal.

The dreadful news, depressing everyone, concerned the charred body found in the burned storage unit. Shaker spared people the details of his picking up the scent. Ben Sidell also kept his cards close to his chest.

The situation was distressful enough without people hearing what a burned corpse looks and smells like. The corpse at the morgue would be, they hoped, identified through dental records. Dr. Larry Hund was usually called to solve any mysteries involving teeth.

Marty, balancing cup and saucer, leaned over to whisper to Tedi,“Does Clay have enemies who hate him enough to commit arson?”

“It would appear he does,” the elegant Tedi responded, the Hapsburg sapphire gleaming on her third finger.

“Awful.” Marty shook her head.

Sam Lorillard briefly paid his respects. Knowing how close Clay and Xavier were, he didn’t stay more than fifteen minutes.

Gray, always a calming presence, brought the hostess a mimosa. So busy tending her guests, she’d forgotten herself. Sister watched him, blushing slightly when he smiled at her.

Dr. Dalton Hill was there, which made Sister warm a little to him. As he was getting to know people better, he became less stiff. The fact that he expressed sympathy for a hunt member, new though he was, impressed her. Foxhunters should stick together.

Walter, five inches taller than Ben Sidell, leaned on the fireplace mantel to the right of the fire screen. He asked the sheriff,“Gaston working?”

“Mmm.” Ben nodded that the county coroner was on the case, then took a step away from the fireplace to get away from the heat.

“Pathologists always have the right answer—a day late,” Walter said with a rueful smile, stepping away with Ben.

“Not your thing, Doc?”

“No. I like contact with people. I want to help. We live in such a cynical age, probably, it sounds corny, but I genuinely want to help and heal.”

Ben smiled up at him.“Me, too.”

“Neither of us will ever run out of business,” Walter replied.

“Gentlemen, may I intrude?” Sorrel Buruss joined them.

“You’re anything but an intrusion.” Walter bowed slightly to the lovely widow, now cresting over that forty-year barrier.

“Xavier’s been so tireless. On the phones half the night, this morning. The investigator for the carrier, Worldwide Security, is flying down from Hartford tomorrow. X wants Clay to get up and running as fast as he can.”

“X is a good man to have in your corner,” Ben agreed. His cell phone beeped. “Excuse me.” He walked away from the group and listened intently. “Thanks, Gaston. I’ll be right down.” Then he returned to Walter and Sorrel. “Walter, would you like to come on down to the lab with me?”

Walter knew what he meant.“Of course.”

Sorrel knew, too. Prudently, she asked no questions but observed the reactions of others as the sheriff and Walter left together.

One by one, the well-wishers left.

Sister—Rooster and Raleigh in the truck front seat— drove home. The plowed roads remained slick in spots. The sun shone, and the whiteness dazzled.

Not a churchgoer, although she grew up an Episcopalian, nature was Sister’s church. Looking at the mirrored ponds, ice overtop, the dancing tiny rainbows glittering on snow-and frost-covered hills, the churning clear beauty of Broad Creek as it swept under Soldier Road—these things gave her a deep faith, an unshakeable belief in a Higher Power, or Powers. Sister wasn’t fussy about monotheism or the intellectual comforts of dogma. To see such beauty, to observe a fox in winter coat, to inhale the sharp tang of pine as one rode fast underneath, to listen to Athena call in the night, to feel the earth tight underneath giving way to a bog festooned with silver, black, and beige shrubs shorn of raiment, such things convinced her that life was divine.

Even later when Walter called to inform her that the still unidentified corpse had not died of smoke inhalation, her faith in God’s work remained undiminished. Of all God’s creations, the human was the failure. Still, she hoped, in good moments, that with effort and a dismantling of grotesque ego, we might join the rest of nature in a chorus of appreciation for life itself.

She fed the dogs and put a bowl of flakey tuna on the counter for Golly.

“Pussycat, would you kill another cat for tuna?” Golly, purring, lifted her head, small bits of red tuna in her whiskers.“No. I’d box his ears though.”

Sister stroked Golly’s silken fur as the cat devoured the treat.

Then she slipped on her old Barbour coat over a down vest and walked outside. The sun set so early in the winter, the long red slanting rays reaching from west to east over the rolling meadows. Her horses nickered as she passed. She looked at the broodmare, Secretary’s Shorthand, wishing the animal had caught. Secretary looked bigger than usual, but the vet had done an ultrasound two weeks after breeding, and again five weeks after the breeding. It seemed she was not in foal. But sometimes ultrasound doesn’t give the right information. Horses can fool people. Secretary was a muscular, good-looking chestnut, and Sister desperately wanted a foal from her.

She rapped on Shaker’s door.

“I know it’s you,” he called.

“ ’Tis.”

“I don’t want any. I gave at the church today.” He opened the door, then noticed her face. “What?”

“Shaker, the burned body’s cause of death was not smoke inhalation. He was dead before the flames got him but they aren’t certain yet just what happened.”

“Come on in.”

The two sat. Neither could imagine what was going on. After exhausting all theories, Sister brought up Tuesday’s hunt. It was to be held at Melton, a charming old farm.

“If the wind is up, I say we make a beeline for the hollow. If not, let’s draw counterclockwise. What do you think?”

He stretched his muscular legs.“If I draw counterclockwise, from the house, you mean from the house, right?”

“Right.”

“We’ll go down the farm road and then turn right. Well, that meadow is pretty open, gets the morning sun. Could get lucky. Courting time.” He loved fox breeding season.

“I noticed.”

“Don’t start. We’re just friends.”

“That’s what they all say.” Her voice was warm. “I’m glad you have someone you can talk to, enjoy.”

“Sari’s a great kid. Wants to learn everything about the hounds.” This was the way to Shaker’s heart, as well as Sister’s. “And Lorraine knows some of the girls by name now. At first, Lorraine wouldn’t touch a hound. She was too timid, but now she goes right in. Too bad Peter Wheeler’s not still with us. If she could have gotten in the truck with Peter, I think she would have learned more than if she was riding.”

“Boy, that’s the truth.”

“Oh, that ass Crawford called me. Says we need a flyspray system in the kennels for summer and he’ll pay for it. Jesus, boss, why’d you let him be president?”

“Because if I didn’t, the club would split into two factions concerning a joint-master. The larger faction would be against him, the smaller one for him, and you and I would be well acquainted with the misery.” She paused. “Leave the politics to me, Shaker. My job is to kiss toads and turn them into princes.”

He wrinkled his nose.“You’re right. You’re right. I would never do it.”

“What you do, you do better than anyone else. So what did you say? I hope you were civil.”

“You’d have been proud of me. I said, word for word, ‘Crawford, thank you for the offer. You do so much for the club. But the chemicals will be bad for the hounds’ noses. That’s why we have those big ceiling fans everywhere, keeps turning the air, and we don’t have too much of a fly problem.’ That’s it, verbatim. How can people hunt and not know anything about a hound’s nose?” He clapped his hands together.

“Because they hunt for other reasons, and that’s fine. In any hunt field, and I don’t give a damn what hunt it is, you can count on your fingers the people who have hound sense. Those are the ones who get the most out of hunting, I’m convinced.”

He dropped his arms over the overstuffed chair arms.“I was worried when Sybil came on board that she wouldn’t have hound sense, even though she can ride like a demon. But she’s stepped up to the plate. Give her one more year. Still makes some stupid mistakes out there. I’ve got to break her of going after one hound if the hound splits off, which thankfully doesn’t happen too often. I don’t know why it’s so hard for someone to recognize the pack comes first.”

“She’ll get it. On the other hand, there’s Betty Franklin, a natural. And who would have thought years ago when, in desperation, we asked her to help us just because she had the time? Betty wasn’t even that good a rider, but by God, she worked on it.”

His eyes lit up.“I thought you were crazy. But you know, I watched her in the summer on hound walks. We were lucky we had that summer together. We knew Big Ray wasn’t going to be with us much longer, and he was a damned good whipper-in, despite his ego.” Shaker crossed one leg over the other. “Gave Betty time, and she really showed me a lot. She knew to get around them instead of going after them if a puppy squirted out, and the thing that impressed me the most, the most,” he slapped the chair arms, “she could read their body language.”

“You’re born with it. I believe that. Like a sense of direction. You’re born with it. One can be taught the basics, but some people come into this world with more. I don’t know what we’d do without Betty.”

“Rock solid.”

“Well, you know how I feel about whippers-in. If I have to hear them, something’s wrong. Nothing worse than hearing some fool rate hounds, crack whips, and charge around like a bronc rider.” She grimaced.

“Boss, sometimes you have to hear them.”

“Not much.”

He smiled.“We’re on the same page. The best staff work is like the best team in any sport. They make it look easy.”

These two friends and coworkers talked for two more hours about hunting, hounds, other great hunts they admired. Left alone, their shared passion ignited and reignited ideas, thoughts, and much laughter.

CHAPTER 25

Plan your hunt, then hunt your plan. Every master and huntsman has heard this advice. Of course, the fox could care less. A good huntsman adjusts to the curves thrown by that prescient fox. An even better master doesn’t criticize when the hunt is over.

Tuesday, a small field followed hounds at Melton, a new fixture southwest of what the Jefferson Hunt called the“home territory.” Wealthy new people, eager to make a good showing, spent a great deal of money rehabbing the old place. Many jokingly called Melton “Meltdown” behind their backs. The attractive owners, Anatole and Beryle Green, in their late thirties, rode today with Hilltoppers.

The small field kept moving.

Shaker knew he’d drawn over a fox in heavy covert, but he couldn’t push the creature out. When first hunting hounds as a young man, he would have wasted far too much time trying to bolt the fox. Wise in the ways of his quarry and hunting, he now kept moving.

Half the D young entry hunted this morning. The other young entry stayed at home. They’d go on Thursday if conditions looked promising.

Sister, Tedi, Edward, Walter, Crawford, Marty, Sam, Gray, Dalton, and Ronnie composed First Flight. Bobby Franklin had only three people. Izzy Berry rode with Bobby to give herself a break from the crisis. Clay would be out next hunt, she said.

The temperature hovered in the low forties, the footing— slick on top, still frozen underneath—kept the riders alert and wary. What made this Tuesday difficult, apart from footing, was the strange stillness. Not a flicker of breeze moved bare tree limbs. As frost melted on the branches, the droplets hung like teardrops.

St. Just, the large crow, flew overhead. His hunting range covered half the county, less to do with the food supply than his relentless nosiness. Unlike Athena and Bitsy, St. Just rarely swooped down on prey. He would alight and walk on the ground, his gait rocking him from side to side. He’d pick up in his long beak anything that looked delicious. If taste disappointed, he’d drop the offending item. Most country people put out seed for birds in winter. He visited those feeders that he felt contained the better grade of seeds, thistle, tiny bits of dried fruit. One kind soul even put out desiccated grasshoppers.

One of St. Just’s distinguishing features, apart from his vibrantly blue-black coat, was his burning hatred of foxes, and of all those foxes, Target had earned his special venom after killing St. Just’s mate.

The crow alighted on a drooping, naked, weeping cherry branch, an ornamental tree flourishing at the edge of the covert, thanks to a bird eating the seeds of another cherry tree miles away, then depositing them here.

“Cora, Cora,”he cawed.“Visiting red heading back toMill Ruins. He crossed the old retaining walls at the pumphouse.”Having said that, he lifted to higher altitudes.

Diana, hearing this, asked Cora,“If we don’t get theresoon, the scent will be gone.”

Young Diddy asked,“Why can’t we just run over there?”

“Because Shaker, Betty, Sybil, and Sister will think we’rerioting. We have to find a way to swing Shaker to ourright,”Cora informed her.

“Oh.”Diddy now had another rule to remember. This hunting stuff was complicated.

“Well, we can feather, but not open and move that way,” Diana sensibly suggested.“We aren’t lying. We aren’t rioting. We haven’t opened. Once we pick up the scent, then we can open. Shaker will never know. Humans can’t smella thing.”

“Hmm.”Cora considered this, then spoke, low, to the pack.“Follow Diana and me. Feather. St. Just swears a redisn’t far, moving east from the pump house. I think this is our only hope of a run today. Don’t open unless you reallysmell fox. Dragon, did you hear me?”

Indignant, Dragon snapped,“I do not babble.”

“Well, you do everything else,”Cora snapped right back, then put her nose down.“Follow me. We have to move quickly. Noses down, of course, and feather. It willgive Sister and Shaker confidence.”

Darby, nose down, whispered to Asa,“Is it true, reallytrue, that humans can’t smell?”

“ ’Fraid it is, son. Can’t run either. Now if the scent isstrong, mating scent, and it’s a warm day, the scent can riseup, then even a human can catch it. Of course, by then it’sover our head, so it won’t be a good day’s hunting.”

Doughboy, ears slightly lifted, questioned,“But if theycan’t smell, how do they survive?”

Ardent supplied the answer.“Totally dependent on theireyes. Their ears used to be okay, but the last two generations of humans, according to Shaker, have lost thirty percent of their hearing or worse before forty, which is like sixor seven years for us.”

“Why?”Delight couldn’t imagine such a thing: no nose and bum ears.

“Decibel levels. They’ve destroyed their hearing by turning up rock music, rap music. Just fritzes ’em right out.” Delia could see they were nearly out of the heavy covert. The pump house was up ahead.“Don’t worry about humans. Worry about getting a line. If we can run a fox on aday like today, young one, we’ll be covered in glory.”

Dragon bumped Dasher. His brother, outraged, snarled and bumped him hard right back. Dragon bared his teeth.

“Settle!”Cora commanded.

Neither dog hound would be so foolish as to cross the queen of the pack. She wouldn’t hesitate to take them down, and Asa and Ardent would be right with her. The two angry brothers would then sport more holes than Swiss cheese.

Diddy, hearing the snarls, swerved to the right. Although young, she couldn’t help but push up front with her marvelous drive and good speed. Heartening as this was to observe, Cora kept her eye on the gyp. In her first year, it would be easy for her to make mistakes. But Diddy couldn’t keep herself in the middle of the pack where she’d be carried along by the tried and true hounds.

However, at this moment, Diddy’s drive and position saved the day. She moved forty yards from the pack. Sybil on the right noticed this, carefully moving ahead of the hound in case she needed to push Diddy back. Anticipation is half the game. If you can prevent a hound from squirting out, it’s far better than searchingfor the hound if she doesn’t come back to the horn. And it’s a foolish whipper-in who abandons the whole pack to turn one errant hound. Sybil also read Diddy’s body language; the youngster wasn’t going to bolt.

Suddenly Diddy stopped, rigid, her stern straight up in the air, nose glued to the ground not five yards from the crumbling stone retaining wall.

“What do I do? What do I do?”Diddy thought to herself.“If I’m wrong, Cora will let me have it, but … butfox, this is a fox!”She took a deep breath, her nostrils filling with the fading but unmistakable scent of a red dog fox pungent in courting perfume. Working up her courage, she said in a faltering voice,“Fox.”Then she spoke with a bit more authority.“Fox, fading line.”

Cora lifted her head, raced to the young hound, put her nose down. Under her breath she praised Diddy,“Goodwork. It’s Clement, a young red.”Then she kept her nose down and spoke in her sonorous voice,“Get on it. Fadingfast!”

The pack flew to Cora, opening as they trotted on the line. They crossed the other retaining wall, found the line again, and kept moving, not running flat out as scent was too thin. Better to keep it under nose than pick up speed, overrun, or lose it altogether. The hounds understood scent.

Sister might not be able to smell squat, but she knew to trust her hounds. Aztec pricked his ears, his own nostrils widening. He wanted to run.

“Steady,” Sister said in a low voice.

“But I know they’re on!”Aztec trembled.

Sam, on the new timber horse, Cloud Nine, realized he was going to need a tight seat if they took off. Tedi, hearing the snorting behind her, and possessing a keen sense of self-preservation, reined in for a second as Sam passed. No point in getting run over. She just hoped Sam wouldn’t be on a runaway. Even the best of jockeys endure that at one time or another.

Once on the far side of an overgrown meadow, not yet tidied up by the Greens because it was far from the house, Nellie paused. Two scent trails crossed. Both were fox. If she called out, the youngsters might come up, get confused. She made an executive decision, pushed straight ahead on the stronger line, believing it was Clement’s. If not, the humans would never know the difference.

A few yards from the convergence of scents, she let out a deep, deep holler.“Heating up. Come on!”Then she moved up from a brisk trot to a long, loping ground-covering run.

Sister and Aztec, happy to be moving out, kept the hounds in sight. Usually Sister would be a tad closer, but the footing was going from bad to worse.

A simple in and out, two coops placed across from each other in parallel fence lines, beckoned. Aztec hit the first perfectly, which meant the second was effortless. He didn’t have to add a stride or take off early. Sister loved this young thoroughbred’s sense of balance; he knew where his hooves were, which can’t be said of every horse. He might do something a little stupid because he was still green, but he was smooth and careful.

Everyone made it over the coops, while Bobby Franklin lost ground opening two red metal farm gates, one crooked on the hinges.

Clement, hearing hounds, knew he was still a long way from his den. He’d been so intent on visiting the vixen, he hadn’t paid attention to potential hiding places should trouble appear. He put on the afterburners, hoping to put as much distance between himself and the lead hounds as he could. That would give him time to think. St. Just shadowed his every move, signaling to Cora what was going on ahead. His cawing brought out other crows, themselves no friend to foxes. Soon the sky, dotted with fourteen crows, added to the panorama of startled deer, disturbed blue jays, and extremely put-out squirrels, chattering filth as hounds, horses, and humansroared under their trees.

When a run becomes this good, the pace this fast, the hell with footing. Sister moved her hands forward, crouched down, and hoped Aztec wouldn’t lose his hind end on an icy patch.

On occasion it occurred to her that she could die in the hunt field. She didn’t much mind, though she hoped it wouldn’t be until she’d cleared her one hundredth birthday, which she envisioned as a five-foot log jump.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Sam Lorillard struggling with Cloud Nine. He finally got the big gelding straightened out, prudently pulling him back, forcing him to follow the others. The horse, accustomed to conventional trainers, wanted to be first. If he was going to win races, he needed to be rated. This was a good time to learn.

Tedi, Edward, Walter, Dalton, and Gray kept snug in Sister’s pocket. Crawford, Marty, and Sam fell farther behind with Ronnie in the middle between the two groups.

Ronnie saw Clement charge over the next hill. Hounds were far enough in front he need not worry about lifting their heads.

“Tallyho!” He hollered, taking his cap off and pointing in the direction in which the fox was traveling.

Sybil saw him, too. Sister did not, but she knew Ronnie knew his business. She pushed a little closer to the tail hounds, Delia and Asa, perhaps five yards from the main pack.

A large fallen walnut, as luck would have it, had crashed into the old coop in the next fence line. The branches fell forward of the coop so the massive trunk, its distinctive blackish bark, added a new look and height to the coop. Sister saw Shaker practically vault over it.

Aztec sucked back for an instant. Sister hit him with the spurs and clucked. Aztec knew if he refused it made for trouble behind him, but this jump might bite.“Well, itlooks funny,”the horse grumbled before sailing over.

Behind, Cora and Dragon with Dasher and Diana couldn’t see the fox.

“You’ll chop him!”St. Just screamed with triumph.

Clement’s normal arrogance evaporated. He now ran for his life, running for the covert up ahead. Maybe he could foul his scent in there somehow.

He made it, flying by a pile of dirt about eighteen inches high. Farther into the underbrush, thinned by the weight of the snows and frosts now, he smelled a cache of deer meat.

He was smack in the home territory of a female mountain lion. A cave or rock den had to be close by. If he could find it, he’d duck in. Better to face one lone female than a pack of hounds.

He didn’t worry about young. Usually lion cubs are born midsummer.

As luck would have it, a huge rock formation in a slight swale of forest jutted out ahead. He leapt into the opening, large enough for the mountain lion and therefore large enough for hounds, one by one.

Awakened by the cry of the pack, the mature lioness weighed a well-fed two hundred pounds. She was just rising when the medium-size red fellow, all of seven pounds, invaded her home.

Panting, he looked up at her, crooning in his best voice,“How beautiful you are!”

Vanity is not limited to the human species. She blinked.“And who are you?”

“Clement of Mill Ruin, son of Target and Charlene, theirsecond litter from last year. I confess, I’ve ducked in here tosave my skin, but I had no idea I would find such a beautiful mountain lion. How could I have missed you? I thoughtI knew everyone.”

“My hunting range doesn’t overlap yours. Game is sogood down here, I and some of my relatives came downout of the mountains. And …”She stopped a moment; the fur on her neck rose slightly.“Impertinent slaves!”she said of the barking hounds.

Before the words were out of her mouth, Dragon blasted into the cave. He skidded to a halt as both the lioness and Clement stared at him.

The rest of the pack piled in after Dragon, except for Cora, Diana, Dasher, Asa, and Delia. They knew what was in there.

Even Cora couldn’t stop the young entry.

Enraged at this trespassing, the lioness stood. She could leap twenty feet without undue effort. She bared her fangs, emitting a hiss.“Get out!”

Clement, too, bared his fangs, puffing himself up as best he could.

Shaker dismounted, handing Hojo’s reins to Betty. Sister didn’t know if a bear was in there or a mountain lion. She’d been running so hard she’d missed the telltale signs, the piles of dirt kicked up by the big cat’s hind legs to mark her boundaries, the slash marks on the trees much higher than those of a bobcat.

She couldn’t hear the hiss because the hounds were bellowing.

Shaker pulled out his .38. He didn’t want to kill any animal, but he had to protect his pack.

He put his horn to his mouth and blew the three long blasts. The smarter hounds turned to emerge from the opening, one by one. Shaker quieted them. Dragon, alone, remained inside. The hissing could now be plainly heard followed by a terrifying growl.

Hojo was brave, but shaking like a leaf. Mountain lions and horses rarely formed friendships. Hojo wanted out of there.

Outlaw, a little older and a quarter horse, said,“Hojo,Shaker’s a good shot. If he has to, he’ll kill the lion. We’resafe.”

Hojo rolled his eyes.“They’re so quick.”

“Dragon, come to me.” Shaker called outside the opening.

Hackles up, Dragon slowly, without taking his eyes off the mountain lion, backed out. She advanced. As Dragon made it out, the big cat stuck her head out, beheld the audience, and emitted a growl that turned blood to ice water.

“Tedi, get the field back,” Shaker said calmly.

“Janie, come on,” Tedi firmly ordered her old friend.

“I’m not leaving my huntsman, Betty, or the hounds. Now, go on.”

Reluctantly, Tedi moved the field back.

Shaker quickly mounted, not taking his eyes off the lion, who seemed content to scare the bejesus out of them.

In a steady voice,“Come on, come on, foxhounds. Good hounds.” Shaker turned, trotting off.

Betty, back on Outlaw, kept on his left side. Sybil was on the right. She’d stayed a short distance from the den in case hounds bolted. As Shaker and Betty had been on foot, this was a prudent decision.

Sister watched the mountain lion, whom she faced at a distance of thirty yards. She wanted to make certain the animal wasn’t going to chase them. She cursed herself for not carrying a gun. A mountain lion can bring down a deer at a full run. If the deer has enough of a head start, it will outrun the lion, but for a short distance, the speed of the mountain lion is startling. This powerful animal could easily bound up to one of the staff horses and attack. Sweat ran down her back and between her breasts.

“Let’s get out of here.” Sister turned Aztec as the pack drew alongside her. They continued to trot. She glanced over her shoulder to see the beautiful cat still standing in her doorway, now a red fox sitting next to her.

Dragon, not a scratch on him, bragged,“I denned thefox. I stared down the mountain lion.”

“Idiot!”Cora cursed.“You could have killed half thispack.”

“But I didn’t,”he sassed.

That fast Cora turned, seized Dragon by the throat, sank her fangs into him, and threw him down hard. He fought back.

“Leave it! Leave it!” Shaker commanded.

Cora leapt up. Dragon, too, quickly got to his feet, blood trickling down his white bib.

“I will kill you one day if you don’t listen,”Cora growled low, almost a whisper.

The young entry, frightened of the lioness and blindly following Dragon, were now scared to death of Cora. They avoided eye contact with the head bitch.

“The fox was in the den!”Dragon coughed.

“Yes, he was,”Asa sagely replied.“Scent was hot, so hotnone of us paid attention to the other scent. But, Dragon,when we reached those rocks, even a human could smellthe lion. You were wrong.”

“My job is to chase foxes, put them to ground, kill themif I catch them.”Dragon coughed again. Cora had hurt his throat.

Cora whirled on the handsome dog hound.“Do you want me to shred you right now? I don’t care if I do get thebutt end of a whip!”

Dragon shut up.

The pack trotted all the way back to Melton. Everyone had had quite enough for one day.

As Sister dismounted, she noticed Dalton, on the ground already, holding the reins of his horse as well as the reins of Izzy’s horse. She properly dismounted, stepping high a few times as her cold feet stung when she touched the earth.

Dalton slipped a halter over Izzy’s mount, then over his own horse’s head. There was nothing improper in their exchange, yet there was a tension, an electricity.

Later, propped up on three large pillows, down comforter drawn up, a fire crackling in the bedroom fireplace, Sister had two American Kennel Club dog books, one from 1935 with the breed standards corrected to 1941 and the latest from 1997.

Few foxhunters showed their hounds at AKC events. Foxhunting was a life’s work. Showing bench dogs was, too. Who had time for both? A foxhunter must breed apackof solid, intelligent, good hounds. The show dog person need breed onlyoneoutstanding specimen, though as any show dog person can tell you, that’s a life’s work, too. The show people load their charges in minivans or big SUVs to travel around the country securing points toward their dog’s championship.

Sister didn’t consider bench shows empty beauty contests unless the breed, any breed, had fallen away dramatically from its original purpose. Irish setters came to mind. Today’s gorgeous mahogany creatures striding in front of judges often diverged sharply from the Irish setters used in the field.

Fortunately, English and American foxhounds never achieved the popularity in the bench show world that cocker spaniels, German shepherds, collies, Labradors, and others did. Foxhounds remained relatively consistent. The breed standard in her revised 1941 book proved no different from the one in 1997, except she thought the 1941 version easier to read.

The first American foxhound registered with the American Kennel Club was Lady Stewart in 1886. The photographs in each AKC volume displaying the American foxhound further confirmed the consistency in the breed standard. Hounds from her kennel looked like the two examples except they had scars from thorns; some, her D’s, had a broader skull than was deemed just right.

For a foxhunter, their shows, none of them associated with the AKC, took place all over the country, culminating in the Virginia Hound Show at Morven Park, Leesburg, the last weekend in May. Over a thousand hounds were shown, the ultimate for many being the pack class, a test unimaginable in the show bench world. A pack of hounds, led on foot by their huntsman, usually with two whippers-in, negotiated a course. The pack that operated as a pack, exemplifying the old expression“You could throw a blanket over them,” usually won. And beauty counted. Those packs where the individuals most resembled one another had a better chance than those where a small lemon-and-white hound worked with a big tricolor and some Talbot tans. Nonetheless, a good pack was a good pack even if Goliath and David ran together. If David could keep up and Goliath didn’t poop out early, a master could be very proud. But even to a casual observer, a pack of uniform size and conformation had a better chance of hanging together than one with variety.

Sister knew, as did all who breed seriously, that it ultimately comes down to their minds. The most beautiful hound in the world is worthless if he or she won’t hunt. The hound with the most drive in the world is useless if he or she won’t listen, if he or she wasn’t “biddable.”

Sister’s task was to breed an entire team of such outstanding individuals. Each year, this team would change: old hounds needed to retire, young hounds needed to learn the business and settle into their position. She could never rest on her laurels, but she could take justifiable pride in her pack.

Which is why she continued to study AKC shows, read and reread the standards, hunt behind other packs, whether American, English, Crossbred, or Penn-Marydels, as well as enjoy the deep music of the night hunters, casting their Walker, Trigg, Maupin, or Birdsong hounds.

A good hound was a good hound.

She loved hunting with Ashland bassets, learning each time that pack pushed out its quarry, each time a whipper-in quietly melted nearer to a covert to keep an eye on a young entry.

Virginia abounded in beagle packs: from Mrs. Fout’s pack, where one must be mounted and escorted by a child, to the more common type of packs, where one followed on foot.

When the opportunity arose, Sister was there, following, boots often squishing with mud, face torn by thorns. She didn’t feel a thing. The sounds of a pack in full cry spiked her adrenaline to such a pitch that she usually didn’t know she was bleeding until someone pointed it out to her back at the trailers.

Anyone who knew Jane Arnold knew she loved hounds. She’d go out with coon hunters and adored the sleek black-and-tan coonhounds, redbone hounds, even the ponderous bloodhound, king of all dogdom in terms of scenting ability. There was no hound on earth from which a foxhunter couldn’t profit by observing. Even dachshunds left to their own devices will return to their original purpose, which was to hunt quarry in dens. The dachshund packed a great deal of courage in that elongated body.

Sister, every three years or so, would make the pilgrimage to the Westminster Dog Show in New York City. Much as she liked watching all the breeds, her heart having a special place for Irish terriers and corgis—dogs she had had as pets in her lifetime—it was the hounds that enraptured her. Every year, like other hound people, she would pray it wouldn’t be one more prancing poodle, one more adorable terrier that this year would carry off the coveted Best in Show, that it would be a hound.