Full Cry (16 page)

“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 a
swish, swish
sound. 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 first-year 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, he had 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 tiny
click, click, click
of 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.
Good
hounds. 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 the
kennels.”

“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 make
the grade acting like a dumb puppy. Do you want to be
part 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?”