Homeward Hound

by Rita Mae Brown

  “It’s not an unreasonable fear, Sam.”

  “I would never do that, not after what Rory and I went through. It would break his heart if he knew his death sent me back to the bottle.”

  “Yes.” She said this with feeling. “There are promises we make to the dead. I promised your mother I would watch over you and Gray, grown men that you were, when she passed. She was so sweet. I’d fret over her. She believed there was good in everybody. It’s a wonder she wasn’t cheated daily. The Good Lord protected her.”

  “I often wish I was more like her.” He drank a tonic water with a wedge of lime.

  Aunt Daniella enjoyed her usual bourbon. She drank in front of him even right when he came back from rehab. She swore he had to get used to it or he’d never go to a party again and what fun was that?

  “To change the subject, how is Yvonne doing, really?”

  “Long leg, natural rhythm. If she sticks to it she’ll be pretty good. After all, Tootie got her athletic ability honestly.”

  “M-m-m.” She returned to Rory. “Sam, I think about Rory, I do. Gregory Luckham is still out there, I expect. He came as Ronnie’s guest.”

  “Right.”

  “Could Ronnie be in danger?”

  CHAPTER 15

  Ronnie, standing next to Sister Jane, held Pokerface by a lead rope under the lights of his small barn.

  “I didn’t notice it until I pulled him out to refresh his trace clip.”

  She moved to Pokerface’s right side where a semicircular arc of fur was marked.

  Running her fingers over the fur, Pokerface flinched slightly. She said, “No cut. More like his fur was slightly clipped.”

  “Trimmed. Could a spur have done that?”

  “Go get a pair.” She took the lead rope while he darted into his small, immaculate tack room. Everything of Ronnie’s was immaculate.

  Returning with a polished pair of hammerhead spurs, he showed his friend. She ran her thumb over the edge.

  “Not exactly sharp as a blade, but let’s see. I’ll hold him.”

  Ronnie, spur edge facing outward, moved to the good boy’s side, swept the spur along it.

  Pokerface flinched slightly. “Hey.”

  “Good fellow, I won’t do it again.” He took the lead rope from Sister, who examined where the spur rubbed against Pokerface’s fur.

  “Faint. Of course, anytime anything sharp, a branch, a spur, touches his ribs he’ll flinch but I can see a faint mark.”

  “If Gregory came off with great force, the mark would be deeper than what I just did. At least that’s what I think.”

  “I’ll put him in his stall. You fetch a treat.”

  She walked the 16.2-hand fellow a few steps, slid open a stall door, top half iron railings so Pokerface could see out. Ronnie walked inside as she turned the horse around.

  “Your fave.”

  Pokerface, polite, swept the two delicious Mrs. Field’s cookies out of Ronnie’s opened palm.

  “Hey,” Corporal in the next stall complained.

  Ronnie, trained by his horses, stepped into Corporal’s stall with two cookies for him.

  The humans retired to the tack room. The barn shut up for the night, wind rattling the large doors to the outside.

  “Would you like a drink? We can go up to the house.”

  “No thanks. I’ve got to get home. Tomorrow we’ll hunt from After All. I hope this wind has died down by then.”

  He took out a bottle of water for himself and sat in a small but cozy chair facing Sister, who sat in its mate.

  “Well, you can always stay in the covered bridge.” He smiled.

  “I can never look at that bridge or walk through it without thinking how useful covered bridges were in the past, not for protection against the weather but for ‘romance.’ ”

  “Never thought of it.” He unscrewed the bottle cap.

  “Well, that explains everything.” She teased him, then became a bit somber. “How well did you know Gregory?”

  “Ben asked me that, too. I knew him as a client of our firm. A very important client, and he was a foxhunter so I thought to kill two birds with one stone.” An uncomfortable expression crossed his face. “Under the circumstances, that was the wrong thing to say.”

  “Not to me. Did you suspect Gregory might be more than a foxhunter? Say, a man on the down low? You have the radar, or is it gaydar?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t have it, whatever you call it. I took him at face value, a middle-aged man, good looking, driven, obviously successful. Big career, I think he also made good investments. I knew he was married but he didn’t talk much about his wife and children. Some men do. The few times he mentioned Liz, it was complimentary.”

  She folded her hands in her lap after unzipping her thin but warm parka. “I’m always a little suspicious when people constantly bring up their spouses. It’s one thing if you know them, but when you don’t I figure it’s parading heterosexual credentials.” Then she laughed. “Why bother? None of us will ever catch up with Aunt Daniella.”

  “She’ll outlive us all.” He, too, adored the old lady. “I’ve gone over in my mind, over and over, did I miss anything? I can’t see that I did but when the little arc on Pokerface caught my attention, I wondered.”

  “Show it to Ben. He’ll know better than we do.”

  “I will. My relationship with Gregory was business and you know I wanted him to enjoy a terrific hunt in fabulous territory. I’m worried about the pipeline. Soliden is keeping their cards close to their chest, which makes it worse. Realtors are up in the air. Potential sellers and buyers are up in the air. Maybe considering expensive material improvements to their property if it’s in the line of fire has to hold off. Or why buy until you know the final route? Too many big questions. This hurts more than Realtors or those with houses on the market.”

  “The ‘No Pipeline’ signs certainly had to reach him.”

  “He didn’t mention them.” Ronnie sank a bit deeper in the chair. “God knows there are enough of them and they’re big. Thought it would help especially if he saw Tattenhall Station, Old Paradise, Chapel Cross, everything near the crossroad.”

  “It’s impressive territory.”

  “If I can steer a client toward a less destructive path, less publicity, I’ve helped my client and protected land. Once the pipeline is done it can’t be undone, Sister. And if I can divert the pipeline, better yet get Soliden to use existing rights-of-way, our law firm will benefit enormously.”

  “Yes it will. Those damn pipes burst. There is no foolproof system for conveying anything liquid or gas under high pressure for hundreds, thousands of miles. We all know that, but we also know this country does not need to be batted around by OPEC. If, indeed, the gas would be used on our shores, not shipped to China.”

  Ronnie shrugged. “I’m doing what I can with what I have and given the wildly shifting international situation, who knows? Just Saudi Arabia alone, who knows? Those were, I should say, critical issues that the CEO of Soliden must consider. The wrong call, billions! Billions!”

  “Needs a crystal ball.”

  “Anyone doing business with other countries does. Can you imagine being a car manufacturer? Parts are made all over the world. The public is fickle. SUVs and trucks for a couple of years, a spike in gas prices, they sit on the lot with the dealers paying monthly interest on every unsold vehicle. Gas prices drop. Sedans sit on the lot. If I can steer Soliden toward, shall we say, a more neutral path, suggest just who their interest and market is, plus competition, I have served our client well. This is about more than profit.”

  “I respect anyone trying to make a go of it.” She unfolded her hands, leaning toward him. “Ronnie, maybe this has nothing to do with the pipeline. Soliden does business overseas. Doesn’t Soliden have a small position in British gas
companies?”

  “Does. But I doubt anyone from Britain came here to kill him. This has to be something or someone close.”

  “That seems likely. Maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree. Not that I wish harm on a man I met but once, it’s Rory’s death that keeps me awake at night. I can think of no reason why he was killed unless it was bad timing.”

  “Me, too.”

  As she drove away in her one-year-old Tahoe, already getting beat up, Corporal and Pokerface observed the lights snaking down the drive.

  “You couldn’t see anything, right?” Corporal asked.

  “Like I told you when I came alongside you at the trailers, I couldn’t see, my eyelashes were stuck with snow.”

  “Mine, too. Never hunted in anything like that storm. Couldn’t hear. The only way I knew you were behind me was your nose was on my flank.”

  “Couldn’t smell either. All that snow blowing up my nose. I felt him go, I told you that when I got in. Just felt him ripped right off me, but I couldn’t see or smell who was there.”

  “We were single file. No one to bump into us. I don’t much care but it bothers Ronnie. I like it when he’s happy,” Corporal said.

  “Me, too, but I do wonder why there?” Pokerface admitted.

  “I don’t know, but that place has hidden secrets for hundreds of years.” Corporal half-closed his eyes as the wind whistled outside.

  CHAPTER 16

  Sun on frost turned the silver to pink, then gold. Jefferson Hunt at ten A.M. gathered at Close Shave, north of Chapel Cross by six miles. One turned right at the chapel and continued until seeing a hanging sign, CLOSE SHAVE. A man’s lathered face adorned the sign.

  Terrain, rough toward the west, rolled nicely by the road. Trailers parked in a neat row alongside the farm road. The solid brick house, in the distance, seemed impervious to harsh weather. Just a big old brick block but it had stood not quite as long as Old Paradise, started in 1812, Beveridge Hundred following in 1820. By 1825 money fluttered on pastures, streets, everywhere. Close Shave started during those good times then endured some tight ones, hence the name Close Shave. The Elliotts dug the first chunk of earth up for the brick house and it stayed in the family until after World War I when the line petered out. Owned now by the Winsetts, the fixture was secure or as secure as any land holding could be.

  Sister nodded to Shaker, who cast hounds straight up toward the north. The sun rose higher, the frost began to melt on high ground, good conditions.

  Trident, the pack kleptomaniac, stopped to pick up a deer antler.

  “Leave it,” Shaker sternly commanded.

  “Bone is good for my teeth,” Trident sassed.

  “Don’t piss him off. We’ve just started. Drop the antler,” Diana ordered, fangs bared.

  Trident, as though in excruciating pain, dropped the antler.

  Audrey, young, moved quickly, nose down. Her littermate, Angle, joined her.

  The older hounds observed the youngsters but chose not to follow too closely. They were young. No one opened. Then Angle did.

  Pickens hurried over to check. “Red. Don’t know who.”

  In the blink of an eye, scent warmed, bursting into hound noses. They sang out at once and the walk turned into a flat-out gallop.

  Charging north, a three-board fence line ahead, ground still more frozen than not, Sister and Matador jumped the simple coop, the easiest jump to build.

  The field, small this Thursday, January eleventh, followed.

  The fox running straight turned left, or at least his scent did. No one viewed. Another jump appeared, another coop. Up and over. Betty, on the right, kept her eye on a line of woods. Were she a fox she would have ducked in there. Tootie, on the left, all open, kept up as speed increased. Weevil, in the rear, didn’t want to crowd hounds, but he didn’t want to slacken the pace either.

  The red male fox, well ahead, ignored the woods, cut sharply left, and ran for all he was worth toward Chapel Cross. Hounds, now stretched to their fullest, presented a beautiful sight over the golden ground, frost sparkling on the west side of small hills, swales. The cold air prickling in lungs human, horse, and hound.

  Running, running, running, they reached the crossroads within twenty minutes. Were it not for the fences, the jumps, the occasional obstacle, this flat-out run would have taken fifteen minutes.

  Then poof. Nothing. Hounds whined searching for the scent, the cross glittering on the top of the chapel to their left across the road.

  Sister and the field halted, glad to catch their breath.

  For all the decades Sister had hunted, she still muttered to herself, “How does he do it?”

  Shaker, quietly sitting, giving his hounds time to work it out, pushed his cap back up on his head as he was sweating. Wiping his brow, he then patted on the neck Kilowatt, another of his horses, a gift to the hunt from Kasmir. Kilowatt, a talented Thoroughbred, was barely winded, but then that’s why one rides a Thoroughbred, provided they’re in condition.

  Finally the huntsman rode over to his Master. “Damned if I know.”

  “Let me ask Kasmir if he minds if we go behind Tattenhall Station. There’s no point in doubling back. We would know.” She was right because the hounds would have told her.

  Acknowledging, smiling to Alida, Freddie, Walter, Margaret DuCharme, out today, another doctor, Bobby, and Sam, she stopped before Kasmir.

  “Madam.” He touched his cap with his crop, always correct.

  “Would you mind if we cast behind Tattenhall? No point doubling back.”

  “Of course.”

  Turning, she remarked to Sam as she passed, “Crawford must be serious about this horse. You’ve been out on him every hunt since New Year’s.”

  Sam inclined his head. “He’s an appendix that I think will suit Crawford better than some speedster.”

  “He keeps up well enough.” Sister complimented the Thoroughbred/Quarter Horse cross, hence the name Appendix.

  “Poco Bueno blood back there along with Icecapade.” Sam cited a strong Quarter Horse line with a fabulous Thoroughbred line.

  Sister’s eyebrows immediately raised up. “If he doesn’t work out, let me know.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Back at the hounds impatiently waiting, she nodded to her huntsman. “Good to go.”

  They crossed the road, passed the distinctive Victorian train station, nudged just up the slight rise behind the station, Kasmir’s simple house in sight.

  “Lieu in.”

  They fanned out, eager, noses down. Reaching the top of the rise, a delicious odor curled into their nostrils. Bam. Off again. This was turning into a terrific day.

  The footing, slippery, kept everyone alert. Hounds flew to the woods’ edge, the heavy woods wherein many a fox had dumped them figuratively and literally.

  Branches smacked them as the field took the narrow path since that’s where the fox had gone. A perfect broad path bisected the middle of these woods but no, this fellow had to take the tough one. A stand of old conifers blocked the light for a moment, a small, ice-covered pond down below. Hounds ran to the pond. The fox had circled it, wisely leaving heavy scent; then he tiptoed through running cedar just south of it, making scent difficult. Foxes knew everything and were not above rolling in cow dung if that’s what it took.

  “Dammit!” Zandy cursed.

  “Stick to it.” Cora, an experienced female, encouraged him.

  Hounds picked their way through the natural, lovely, snow-sprinkled running cedar ground cover notorious for fouling scent. Finally on the other side of this big patch they cast themselves all around it, just eating up time, which, of course, was the point.

  Sister patiently watched, proud of their work ethic. She bred them, trained them with her staff, and loved good hound work. Naturally she loved her hounds best, but she lov
ed anybody’s good hound work, including the night hunters’.

  A whine here and there testified to frustration.

  “Good hounds. Good hounds,” Shaker sang out to them.

  Sister gave a small prayer of thanks that she had changed the fixture for today. It was to be at After All but the Bancrofts changed it due to a loose board in the covered bridge that was being fixed today. They’d hunt from After All Saturday. The fixture, tended over decades, always drew a large crowd. It teamed with foxes who knew every inch of After All, the Old Lorillard and Roughneck Farm as well as Hangman’s Ridge, as all were connected.

  Large fixtures usually provide large sport and that’s what was happening today. Finally, Tinsel’s stern wagged, then Trident’s, antler long forgotten, then Pansy. Soon the pack steadily pushed a faded scent but one warming a bit. It occurred to Cora that this was not the hunted fox, but why spoil it? The hunted fox made fools of them. So hunt what you can.

  Pickens broke into a trot. The others followed. Soon enough they ran through the woods again, bursting out at the edge of Beveridge Hundred where old Misty, sitting in the window of the main house, awakened and gave out a perfunctory bark.

  Skirting the house and the dependency wherein Yvonne was watching, they kept straight ahead. A number of old estates fanned out along the southern road, but this fox wasn’t going there. He was a visiting fox. He turned away, going straight back toward Tattenhall Station using the heavy woods wherein he headed west. Now they really had to fight their way because the paths in the woods ran north and south with only one going east and west. Of course, you had to find it.

  Shaker, right behind his hounds, hit away branches with his crop, as did Weevil. Betty, on the edge of the woods, quite far out, was spared. Knowing the territory, she had the sense not to tie herself up. It’s easier to come in than to run out. Tootie, however, found herself blocked by a gum tree that had fallen across the little deer path she traveled. The tree hadn’t come down all the way so she plunged through the vines, the damn things never die, to get around. By that time hounds were almost on the road.