Out Of Hounds

CHAPTER 10

February 15, 2020 Saturday

Hortensia, snug in the big hay shed at Mill Ruins, Walter Lungren’s place, listened to chatter far away. Her ears, sensitive, could hear sounds at a distance, which humans’ could not. The rumble of rigs crunching stone as they rolled down the long drive alerted her to this Saturday’s hunt. Walter put out food for the foxes at Mill Ruins, there were four in constant residence but others passed through. As it was breeding season, many a male shot through chased by James, the old red behind the mill, or Ewald, a younger red, who cleverly made a den under the back porch of the house. He also had another one at a more distant outbuilding. The house den, close to the smells of the kitchen, kept Ewald happy. Sometimes the other foxes would come by to investigate the garbage or whatever Walter threw out, but Ewald snatched up first pick being right there.

The other gray fox, the third on the property, lived acres away in the back, having a den under a large old storage building. All of the dens protected their occupants from the winds, fierce in winter. Each den had more than one entrance. There were other places to tuck in, in case of being caught unawares, that also dotted the large farm.

Yvonne Harris followed the field, driving Aunt Daniella and Kathleen Sixt Dunbar. The “girls,” as they thought of themselves, especially liked Mill Ruins. The large waterwheel, turning, water flying off the paddles, seemed to transport them to another time, maybe a better time, or so they wished.

The mill, heavy gray fieldstone, built after 1790, testified to the wisdom of our forebears. Built to stand for centuries, it did. The two-story structure, grinding equipment intact but unused, had served generations of settlers. Everyone needs grain, corn, wheat, oats. Freshly ground grain also brought in foxes, other creatures, eager for the leavings. Corn kernels spilled being carried into the mill, oats scattered, and ground fine flour dusted the wide-plank floors. All a fox had to do was wait until nightfall, eat what fell on the way to or from a wagon, or wiggle inside. James, the crabby red living behind the mill, constantly reminded Hortensia and Ewald that they were newcomers. He couldn’t do that to Grenville, living in the back at what’s called Shootrough, for his ancestors had lived here since the eighteenth century as well.

Old blood was old blood, whether vulpine or human.

Hortensia thought the whole thing silly. She liked foxhunts. She rarely gave the hounds a run but when the people left they always dropped food, even gummy bears. She loved those gummy bears.

Once the people left, Yvonne slowly driving behind, Hortensia scurried to the trailers. Most of the riders closed their tack-room doors. A few did not, so she could pop in, rummage around. Freddie Thomas usually kept the door open. Hortensia recognized the trailers as well as the humans who owned them. She’d seen them for years. She caught a whiff of the gummy bears. Freddie’s plastic bag proved no match for Hortensia, who sat there being a pig.

Ewald, slinking under a trailer, crawled out.

“Boy, there are a lot of them today. Hey, sweets!”

“The yellow ones are the best.” Hortensia fished one out.

He jumped into the tidy tack room, a regular, heavy horse blanket lying flat in the space of the nose. Curious, he easily jumped up.

“Nothing better than a horse blanket,” Hortensia said.

“People sleep in these things. Some of them have living quarters, but it makes the trailer way too big, I think. Sleeping in the nose must be okay. With blankets a human can keep warm. Hey, mind if I eat a gummy bear?”

“No. Whole bag full.” Hortensia reached in for a grape one, placing it in her mouth. Very ladylike.

A stiff wind gust blew the door shut. The latch clicked.

“Uh-oh.” Ewald pushed the door.

Hortensia scratched at it. “Damn.”

Ewald looked at her then climbed up in the nose again. “At least the hounds can’t get in here.”

“No, but the human can,” Hortensia fretted.

“She’ll be tired. It’s cold today, and bet you Grenville gives them a run. He likes to zigzag, cover rough territory, and see them fall off. Here’s what we do. We sit tight. If we stay perfectly still when she comes back, she won’t even know we’re here.” He slid under the blanket, only his black nose sticking out. “Come on. This is warm. She won’t be back for hours. When she turns her back we can go.”

“You’re more hopeful than I am. I say she opens the door, sees us, and screams.”

“You give the humans much too much credit. The last thing she will expect is two foxes in her tack room. Get under the blanket with me and when the door opens stay perfectly still.”

“I hope you’re right.” Hortensia joined him.

All one could see were two black noses sticking out from under the blanket. One would need to look for them.

While Hortensia and Ewald snuggled in, Grenville, true to form, waited at woods’ edge. Hounds walked on the left side of the farm road while he observed on the right side. To reach him all would need to take a stout coop. He wasn’t worried. He could thread his way through the woods, giving everyone fits. He liked to hear the “Ommph” when someone hit the ground.

Giorgio, nose to the ground, moved slowly. He’d hunted here over the years, knowing that often Grenville left a signature on pastures. However, he needed to draw the pasture he was on, not the one across the road. Had to obey his huntsman.

Yvonne stopped to watch. “A lot of people out today.”

“February is great if you can take the cold,” said Aunt Daniella, short heavy coat on, her legs wrapped in a plaid throw.

Kathleen, in the back, learning about hunting, asked, “This is an old fixture. They must know where the fox is.”

“Yes and no.” Aunt Dan watched as Tootie disappeared into the woods on the left side.

“Sister, Weevil, and Betty, especially Betty, know where the dens are. Tootie does, too, because she started hunting Mill Ruins when she was at Custis Hall. But knowing where the dens are doesn’t mean the fox was out, may not be scent.” Yvonne had learned a lot in the last year.

Ribbon, her Norfolk terrier, sat in her lap, keen to see everything.

Grenville waited for hounds to reach the woodline across the farm road then he trotted into the open pasture, sat down, and waited.

The field passed on the road. Then Second Flight passed. The sheriff was riding tail that day and he noticed a flash of red.

Counting to twenty he called, “Tally-ho!”

Ben turned Nonni in the direction of Grenville, now heading into the woods. His cap off, arm outstretched, he said nothing. Betty, already in the woods, jumped back out, saw Ben, then waited. Tootie stayed where she was.

Weevil jumped the coop in the corner, crossed the road, jumped the coop into the right pasture. Sister, on Rickyroo, stopped, for she and the field were in the middle of the farm road.

Rickyroo’s ears swiveled. Grenville waited for Weevil to clear the jump then he tore off into the woods.

Ben kept his hand and hat steady as Betty also held out her cap.

Weevil, seeing the direction, put hounds on what he hoped was the line. It was.

Not a second of being tentative, all opened, leaping over, under, and through the three-board fence. Weevil took the coop in that fence line.

Sister thought staying on the road paralleling the hounds might be the best choice. It was, but that road dropped soon enough, footing slippery. She slowed a little.

“Well,” Yvonne muttered.

“They’ll all back up at the stream crossing,” Aunt Daniella predicted. “Wait. If we hear hounds going away we can cross the stream, too. Shouldn’t be too high. But if not, I’d sit tight.”

Although the stream flowed rapidly thanks to the rains and snow meltoff, the depth was only a foot. There had been times when the water rose higher than that. All the riders splashed through easily.

Yvonne crept down as the last rider, Ron Haslip, crossed, riding tail for Second Flight, which he didn’t want to do but Bobby Franklin was desperate to give Ben Sidell a day up front.

“All right, girls.” Yvonne put her vehicle in low gear just in case. “Any predictions, Aunt Dan?”

The older woman opened her window, a slash of cold air right on her face. “Wind is shifting. More westerly to east than coming right down from the northwest. He’ll run with the wind at his tail.”

“Why?” Kathleen asked.

“Blow scent away from the hounds. If Weevil turns his hounds into the wind, the scent will carry. Foxes know this, so if their scent gets picked up they’ll zigzag to confuse the hounds. Then, too, if there’s a stiff wind they’ll use it to blow their scent yards away from its original path. They are cunning creatures.”

“Tootie says the only creature that understands scent is the fox,” Yvonne repeated her daughter’s wisdom.

Kathleen noted, “People seem to find a buddy or a group they stick with.”

“Sometimes that’s due to the athletic ability of their horse. A person on a fast or long-strided horse will usually ride with like horses. Otherwise they’d need to be rating their horse,” Aunt Daniella explained.

“I would have never thought of that,” Kathleen confessed.

“All kinds of stuff going on out there. You can see Carter next to Buddy. Both on 16.2H, or thereabouts, Thoroughbreds. They’ll stay up front.” Yvonne was learning a lot from Tootie and Sam.

“Buddy travels a distance to hunt here,” Kathleen noted. “He certainly pays attention to what I have in the shop when he’s here.”

Aunt Daniella smiled wryly. “Kathleen, he’s paying attention to you.”

A few moments passed then Kathleen said, “Doesn’t seem like it. He only chats about the pieces.”

“Ah well, his wife died two years ago. They married out of college. I suspect he has no idea how to date now.” Aunt Daniella took a breath. “I knew them both. He’s a good fellow. Took good care of Sophia. Men have a much harder time, you know?”

Buddy Cadwalder, tall and lean, did want to know Kathleen. Furniture gave him a reason to talk to her, overcome his shyness. Kathleen, polite and warm, seemed to have no interest in him, while other women threw themselves at him. This made her all the more fascinating. Being a man of a certain age, he wanted to make the first move but wasn’t sure of himself.

Before Kathleen could comment Yvonne said, “Feathering. Just a few.”

“That devil will make them work. He knows the territory. He knows the hounds. He’ll make fools out of them,” Aunt Daniella predicted.

Grenville, comfortably ahead of the speaking pack, trotted along the stream, heading east. Hounds picked up scent but it wasn’t hot. They knew they were on but the wind at their backs created difficulties, blowing scent away from them.

Pickens, a younger hound but not a youngster, nose down, stopped a moment. “Bobcat.”

Diana and Dreamboat came over, touched the earth, then Dreamboat pronounced, “Not long ago.”

“We need to stick with the fox. It’s Grenville. He’s easy to track but once he decides to run, he’ll do crazy things,” Dreamboat counseled.

Grenville crossed back and forth over the stream, easily done, then he headed up through the woods to the Shootrough part of Mill Ruins. Broomstraw, golden and tough, covered the old abandoned pasture at the top. A rutted farm road ran alongside this, finally emerging onto a two-lane state road rarely traveled back here. A few round hay bales covered in plastic sat in two rows on the good pastures. Walter had rehabilitated the pastures on the sunny side of this part of the property, cutting good hay. The rest stayed broomstraw, which gave skunks, groundhogs, rabbits, foxes, and turkeys cover. Turkeys had been there early in the morning, for the soil was scratched to bits especially under the odd large sycamores, hickories, and black gum trees dotting the various pastures.

Walking out of the broomstraw, Grenville heard the hounds behind him. Picking up the pace he ran in the middle of the rutted road. He could hear Yvonne motoring toward him but from a ninety-degree angle. The nose of her expensive SUV would pop out of the farm crossroads in a few minutes. He decided to go in the other direction, straight for the row of hay bales.

Weaving through the hay bales he rubbed against them. Scent would be heavy. Then he climbed to the top, surveyed the countryside, leapt down, ran to a car so old it was abandoned in 1954. He walked through the insides, what was left of them, then he shot out, making straight for his den in the big storage building back there. Having time to dig entrances and exits, he was never far from a quick duck down thence upward inside, to enjoy whatever Walter had parked in this faraway building.

Hounds worked their way across the stream, back and forth, then threaded their way through the woods, emerging into the broomstraw. Working steadily they kept moving, crossed the rutted farm road just as Yvonne drove out from the crossing farm road. She stopped the car, cut the motor.

Hounds didn’t bother to look, they were so intent.

“It’s a clear track but fades in and out,” Trooper remarked.

“Wind. Not strong but tricky. It’s not staying still.” Taz inhaled deeply.

“Shifting. I wouldn’t be surprised if we get some wind devils. You never know back here. The lay of the land, with all those swales just over the ridge there, works to his advantage,” Pookah sagely added.

Once at the hay bales they spoke louder, for scent was stronger.

Pickens jumped up on the hay bales, walking along the top rows. “Been here.” Then he jumped off, moved faster, all with him, and they streamed to the large storage shed.

“He does this all the time. I hate it. Can’t get him out.” Thimble ran for the large building, found the entrance he used, began digging furiously, a plume of dirt erupting behind him.

“You’ll never get me,” Grenville tormented him.

“That’s what you think,” Thimble threatened.

Weevil rode up. “Good hound. Leave it, Thimble.”

Thimble looked up, disgusted, but he stopped digging.

“Come along.” Weevil knew Grenville had his fun.

Pickens followed his huntsman, as did the others.

The tails on the back of Weevil’s cap, down, for staff wore their caps tails down, fluttered a bit. Weevil looked up, studying the sky. February played tricks. That being the case he thought all was well. The wind, not stiff, didn’t carry moisture, so with that belief he pushed down the farm road, away from the storage shed.

The creek meandered, little loops here and there, as it was an old, old creek. Young waters run straight. Following the creek, which now ran close to the farm road, he headed south.

A wooden footbridge arced over the water perhaps six feet wide at that point, wide enough for a horse or human, since many humans on foot would not have been able to jump six feet as a long jump. Truly it wasn’t that wide but the banks could be slippery and a child would not be able to span it with a leap.

Weevil on HoJo nudged the Thoroughbred across the creek. Hounds, forward, noses down, moved with deliberation. The thin water vapor hovering over the creek might intensify scent.

An old deer trail wound up, for the land rose a bit.

Yvonne couldn’t go farther, as the farm road became impossible, deep ruts for decades.

“Hounds are headed for Birdie Goodall’s,” Aunt Daniella informed her. “The only way there would be to go out Mill Ruins, turn right, turn right again at Clinton Corners, way in the back there, and go down maybe two miles. A little white sign will hang on an old post. ‘Goodall.’ ”

“God’s little acre?” Yvonne laughed, using the phrase from the play.

“No, Birdie keeps it pin-tidy but it’s not convenient. The old home place of the Goodalls still stands. Never was a Goodall had a gift for money but they work hard and Birdie manages Walter’s medical office, the one he shares with the other doctors. If you sit still I am betting our fox will come back. This way we can warm up.” She lifted a flask with the Jefferson Hunt insignia engraved on it, reached again in her bag, pulling out Jefferson cups.

“I like the way you think.” Kathleen took the cup handed to her.

Yvonne ran her window down a bit to hear. Even though opened only a crack the cold air slipped in, wafer thin. She, too, was offered a libation.

“Ah.” Aunt Daniella smiled, for hounds opened loud enough for them to listen.

The whole pack together ran down the rutted farm road, which widened just enough for them but not enough for riders to gallop more than two abreast.

Reaching a garage, slate gray with red trim, they stopped. The front door to the garage was open, the house within walking distance but not particularly convenient. Hence no car was parked safely in the garage. It sat instead next to the house, under one of those roofs propped up on four legs. Why people used these things was anyone’s guess. Snow and rain easily blew onto the vehicle from the open sides.

Sister held up far enough from the house so as not to be a nuisance. She figured maybe Birdie just didn’t want to walk to the bigger, wooden garage except when a terrible rain or snowstorm was predicted. Then the car would be protected, except one would need to dig it out. Then again, it didn’t matter where you parked a car in a snowstorm, you had to dig it out eventually.

Pansy circled the garage, followed by Dreamboat. Not a tendril of scent assailed their noses. The fox didn’t go to ground. He had vanished, just vanished.

Weevil rode to the edge of the garage, looking inside to see if by chance the fox had climbed onto a shelf. Not a thing.

Well, they’d had another run, short but still good music.

“Come along,” he bid his charges as they turned back to Shootrough.

Leaning over HoJo’s side, Weevil checked for tracks. Raccoon tracks dotted the creekside once he again reached it, but nothing else. Yvonne and her passengers sat on the road. Upon hearing Weevil’s call, then seeing him cross, Yvonne backed up to a spot where she could turn around to park by the side of the farm road.

Weevil passed the storage shed, reached the intersecting farm road, and turned for the big mill itself, two miles off. The day would try the patience of all the giving saints.

Betty and Tootie shadowed him as the field walked far enough behind the hounds, so as not to disturb them.

As the temperature dropped people flipped up the collars of their coats, which protected your neck a bit. If a hunter wore a four-in-hand tie, wider and often thicker than a thinner tie, that helped cut cold. Sister, long in the tooth and wise in the ways of keeping as warm as possible, except for her feet after an hour, wore a cashmere stock tie. Since it wasn’t fuzzy it looked like a conventional stock and blocked the wind.

Heading back onto the trail flanked by thick woods, Barrister, two years old, a young entry, stopped, tail flipping. “Hey.”

Diana checked. “Let’s go.”

This fox, not anyone they knew, had walked in the middle of the farm road, which was helpful of him.

“Okay, girls, bottoms up.” Yvonne shifted into drive.

The ladies held on to their empty glasses except for Yvonne, who handed hers to Aunt Daniella.

Young and strong, the healthy red heard the commotion so he stepped on it, as did Yvonne. She had to crawl behind the last flight, while the fox ran through the creeks between the two hills, charged up the western one, took the big coop in the corner, then ran for all he was worth to the mill itself, now a mile distant, but given its size, visible.

Tootie, now in the pasture, hollered, “Tally-ho!”

Betty, also now in the right pasture, caught sight of the fellow speeding toward the mill. Urging on Magellan, her second horse, she moved up to keep him in view. He was breathtakingly beautiful.

Hounds burst onto the left pasture, speaking as one. Then Weevil took the big coop, pushed HoJo, lengthening his stride so Weevil could close with his hounds.

As there was no coop in the middle of the fence, hounds easily wiggled under but Weevil had to hurry to the end of the pasture, where there was another big coop. By the time he was over and Betty and Tootie had also cleared their obstacles, the fox zigged toward the mill then cleverly ran around it to the front, where the big waterwheel slapped, slapped, slapped.

He weaved through the trailers, zoomed up to the house, moved around it, then hit the afterburner to reach the hay shed, where he spied Hortensia’s den entrance, the one on the western side. He skidded right down into it, emerging in the hay shed, where the stored orchard grass and timothy hay bales smelled like heaven.

Hounds bayed outside. Pookah, Pansy, and Baylor, another youngster, dug for all they were worth. The entrance, cleverly angled, yielded no way in.

“Well done,” Weevil praised them.

“Not fair. Not fair, I can get him if I can dig a little more.” Baylor believed this was possible.

“Give it up, kid.” Dreamboat deeply breathed in the fresh fox scent.

Sister rode up to Weevil. “We’re here. Might as well put them up. They did very well on a spotty day.”

Gray rode up alongside of Sister as they walked to the mill. “Not a bad day.”

“No. Not a terrific day, but hounds did well, no one hit the ground. February baffles me. Always has.”

“Was reading in the paper that many of our worst snowstorms hit us in February. Well, sooner or later have to start shoveling.” He noticed the hounds, sterns up. “Happy.”

“They are. They ask for so little and give so much. Same with our horses.”

Gray patted Wolsey’s neck. “Right, old man?”

“Right,” Wolsey replied.

Once at the trailers it seemed colder than when they began. It was. Temperature plays tricks on one and the spray shooting off the paddles made it seem even colder.

Weevil dismounted, as did the staff. “Kennel up.”

The riders, now on the ground, tidied up their horses, removed bridles, tossed on blankets. Freddie Thomas saw to her horse then rubbed her hands. The cold felt so raw.

As hounds stepped up onto the hound trailer, the party wagon built just for them, Barmaid, young, lagged a bit behind.

Freddie opened her trailer door, foot on the running board, stepped into the room, carpet on the floor, her extra heavy jackets hanging on a rack, a saddle rack and bridle holder on the right wall.

Nose peeping out from the blanket, Hortensia waited until Freddie’s back was turned. “Now!”

Ewald wormed his way out from under the cozy blanket. The two foxes blasted by Freddie, Ewald brushing against her leg. She looked down in time to see the red and the gray vault out of her tack room.

Barmaid, door held for her, turned to see the escape. The odor of fresh, very fresh fox reached her nostrils. She took off.

“Foxes!” she squealed, her young voice still high.

“What are we waiting for?” Tattoo shouted gleefully.

The entire pack exploded out of the trailer, with Trinity in the rear, still a bit shy from being kicked. Weevil stood there with the door open, feeling like an idiot, as he didn’t quickly shut it.

Freddie, finally in possession of herself, yelled, “Tally-ho!”

Sister ordered Gray, “Leg up, honey.”

He cupped her left foot in his hand, gave her a lift, then easily swung up on Cardinal Wolsey. The horses were excited.

People stood at the trailers, dumbfounded.

“Betty, Tootie, mount up!” Sister yelled as Weevil, young and lithe, was already in the saddle, passing his master; he could, being the huntsman. The two foxes, not lacking in speed or brains, streaked through the trailers, now passed the house to hit the open space, all pistons firing.

“Follow me,” Hortensia called out.

The two magical creatures, out in the open, vulnerable save for their head start, blasted for the big hay shed.

“I see them! I see them!” Barrister, Barmaid’s brother, babbled with joy.

The “B” ’s, young entry, never knew foxhunting could be so unpredictable. At that moment, neither did the humans.

Freddie, back at the trailers, for she’d removed her horse’s bridle, stared in wonderment then glanced down at her right boot to see a few slivers of red fox fur where Ewald had brushed her.

Others mounted back up but most had horses already tied.

Weevil, right behind his hounds, horn between the buttons of his coat, remained silent. Hounds needed no encouragement.

Hortensia reached the hay shed, slid into her entrance like a baseball player belly down trying to steal third. Immediately behind her, Ewald also skidded to safety. Thank the fox in the sky that Hortensia’s den was so close.

Hounds crowded around the opening.

“There’s gotta be a way,” a frenzied Barmaid yelped.

Diana said, “Good work, pup. No way we can reach them.”

Weevil dismounted. Betty hurried up, taking HoJo’s reins while he blew “Gone to Ground,” to everyone’s delight.

“What good hounds. Barmaid, my clever girl.” He rubbed her head then called each hound by name for a pat and praise. He could linger, for the day was done. Taking HoJo’s reins from Betty, he and Hojo walked on foot back to the trailers, hounds close to Weevil, thrilled to be close to their huntsman, and high from the wild event.

In the hay shed, Hortensia and Ewald caught their breath while Reuben, who had sought refuge there, cocked his head. “Close call.”

“I’ll say,” Ewald replied, then turned to the gray vixen. “Thank you.”

“If I were you I’d stay until the last trailer leaves. We’ve had enough adventure for the day.” She then looked at the handsome red. “Who might you be in my den?”

“I had to hide. I’m Reuben.”

“Where is your den?” Hortensia asked.

“I don’t have a permanent den yet. I’m still looking. Right now I live above the creek, under an old dead tree, at Kingswood. There’s no one there. No other foxes, no humans. Squirrels.”

“There are many good places here and there’s a lot to eat. Tomorrow I can show you what’s here, and this is a big place. Kingswood is falling down.”

He smiled, dipping his head, which was vulpine good manners.

Ewald added, “The old red at the Mills, James, is bossy and a crab but as long as you leave him alone, it’s not so bad, but he wants the mill all to himself. Say, you didn’t by any chance see us jump out of the horse trailer, did you?”

“No, but I heard the ruckus.”

Both Ewald and Hortensia eagerly told their story, which involved a human who couldn’t smell and who had left a bag of gummy bears in her open trailer tack room. Every detail was expressed: the tastes of the different colored bears, the round tin of shoe polish, the coats hanging up, the wind blowing the door shut. It was a good story.

As there was so much food at Mill Ruins, another fox wouldn’t create problems. In fact, another fox could add to the hounds’ confusion.

It was also a good story back at the trailers when staff finally got the still excited hounds loaded. Barmaid wanted to check out Freddie’s trailer but she finally did get on. Freddie, meanwhile, regaled whoever was around her with Ewald brushing her as he escaped.

Finally, the people made it to Walter’s breakfast, everyone laughing, beside themselves with what had happened.

The bar saw a lot of activity. Aunt Daniella, in a chair, bourbon in hand, announced in all her nine decades she had never seen anything like that, never.

Kasmir and Alida, with Yvonne, Ribbon in her lap, and Kathleen, covered the event then Yvonne inquired, “Anyone read this morning’s paper yet or see the news?”

They shook their heads.

Yvonne filled them in. “One of the workers at Showoff Stables was found murdered. Found at twilight by a Central Electric repairman up in the box.”

“Did they say who it was?” Alida wondered.

“Next of kin has to be notified first,” Yvonne answered.

The conversation moved on, as no one thought a worker at Showoff Stables had anything to do with them.

“It’s an impressive place,” Kasmir noted. “Carter, have you shown Gigi your jewelry yet?”

“No. You know, often when I hold the old jewelry from families, not all of them needing money, by the way, I wonder who wore the rings, necklaces, bracelets, pins? Jewelry is so personal and it’s not all women’s jewelry, men have rings, watches, of course, and for some even a bracelet. Whatever I’m holding in my hand was expressive of someone’s personality, their years,” Carter mused, grateful to be inside. “My work can be enjoyable. I see so much.”

Buddy stood in the group.

“Marion Maggiolo gets a lot of the equine jewelry, studs, cuff links, wonderful stuff.” Kathleen had seen Marion’s jewelry case.

Carter spoke up. “When I go to England, if I see old equine jewelry I text her. It really is her market. To hold that jewelry, to see the workmanship, makes her want to get the stuff.”

Buddy joined in. “I’m glad she doesn’t sell furniture. She’s too good at what she does.” He paused. “Kathleen, you have that good eye.”

“Thank you.” Kathleen smiled.

“It’s nice to see you, Aunt Daniella, and Yvonne out there. You must see things we don’t.” Carter spoke up as Buddy didn’t know what to say next to Kathleen.

“I do but I don’t know what I’m seeing.” She laughed at herself. “Lucky I’m with the girls.”

“You must be good at it. You’re driving a new, three-horse Sundowner.” Yvonne named his horse trailer, as Tootie had explained to her the various brands.

“How observant.” Carter smiled. “Ladies, I don’t have to pay rent on a store. I do not have any employees, nor do I have an employer. Marion has to be at the top of her game. Look how big her store is and loaded with pretty much the best of everything. I can carry my inventory in my pocket.”

Kathleen nodded in affirmation. “I hate to think what the rent on the 1780 House would cost me. Harry left me a wonderful store, living quarters upstairs and a good business.”

“But you give the store flair.” Buddy worked up the nerve for a personal compliment, being rewarded with a genuine smile.

“I don’t know how you can run a retail business. I couldn’t do it. I don’t have the patience,” Yvonne confessed.

Carter looked at Yvonne. “Neither of us has to predict fashion, but you had to show it off walking down the runway in New York. You had to have hated some of that stuff.”

Yvonne, still buzzed from the day’s events, laughed. “I had to wear some things, rags that I wouldn’t have used to clean the car. Fashion is a ruthless business. Look what happened to Halston or Yves St. Laurent. Poor Halston. He gets bought out then, in essence, paid not to create. Well, I’m not really creative, but when we were married I ran the media business with Victor. I began to understand the power of media for good and for evil.”

“You could still command the runway.” Carter flirted a little.

“Yvonne, he’s right. Oops, let me grab our host. I’ve got to find out where he bought the coffee.”

“He made it,” Yvonne informed Kathleen.

“Made it?” Carter’s dark eyebrows knitted together.

“He buys coffee by the burlap bag. Goes down to Shenandoah Joe’s and tests what they have then orders a bag. He and Alida entertain a lot. Plus he bakes, as you may know.”

“A man who bakes.” Kathleen held her chin lightly. “That’s a real recommendation.”

Buddy smiled at her. Now he knew what to bring to the store. Something freshly baked. This would take some thought.

“Before we all go our separate ways, when summer comes please come out with me on my boat. Sailing the Chesapeake is relaxing. It’s funny what happens when you leave the shore. You leave your troubles behind. It’s a forty-foot boat, has a cabin and a kitchen,” Carter invited them.

“Are you moored near where Crawford keeps his boat, that big sailboat? If you’ve been to his house you’ve seen the photo in the hallway,” Kathleen mentioned.

Carter smiled. “That is more of a ship. He’s got radar, a captain, a crew. Can you imagine the expense? He is moored down in Hampton Roads. He likes to go out the mouth of the James River and into the Atlantic. My boat is powered and more modest.”

“A forty-foot boat wouldn’t be described as modest,” Yvonne noted. “However, not having to fiddle with sails seems like an advantage to me.”

“People who sail love it. It’s like foxhunting, a passion,” Kathleen posited. “Not that I know that much about either activity, but I am absorbing foxhunters’ dedication.”

“Everyone needs something that makes them happy, something not driven by profit. Well, ladies, I am glad we could share the day, me on horseback, you all in the car. Best I get back home, but don’t forget a day on the Chesapeake?” He slightly bowed then turned to go.

“No one can fault his manners,” Kathleen remarked.

“As long as he doesn’t try to sell me jewelry, I’m fine.” Yvonne smiled sardonically.

One by one, the thrilled hunters finally did leave, driving back to their barns and homes, filled with wonderment at their unique experience.

Weevil and Tootie left early to take the hounds to the kennels.

Gray left with his brother to see the new mare at Crawford’s, the stunning Sugar.

Sister drove the trailer while Betty rode shotgun. As they pulled into the Roughneck Farm driveway off the old state road, another sign was tacked to a telephone pole: “Stop Bloodsports.”

Next to this, side by side, a large photo of a youngish man, big black letters underneath the photo: “Elect Jordan Standish.”

Sister slowed. “What the hell is this?”

“I have no idea but I bet we find out.”

In the kennel, everyone fed, boys in their side, girls in theirs, Weevil and Tootie finished up their chores.

Barmaid snuggled next to Tootie on the raised bench, warm air from the overhead vent, but not too warm, wafting over the girls.

Barmaid licked Tootie then put her head on Tootie’s back. “This is the best day of my life.”