RMBrown - Outfoxed

by Outfoxed (v1. 0) [lit]

  “Which is exactly why we aren’t domesticated. Domestication is for weak hearts. You can’t do what you want when you want; you have to do what the human tells you. I hear, though, that the food is quite good.”

  “And good medical benefits, too,”his wife, Mary Vey, added. She paused a moment.“They’re getting closer.”

  “Following my old trail. Well, let’s give them something to talk about back in the kennel. Damned if I want them digging out our main entrance.”He grabbed a fresh chicken wing, feathers still on.“Comet, get the rest.”

  The two males, mouths full of pieces of chicken, walked out the oval entrance to their den.

  “Want me to drop them?”

  “Throw them all around.”Butch dropped bones, feathers, a cock’s comb, and a neck in a wide semicircle around the den entrance.

  They casually sauntered back into their snug quarters with four escape routes, one of which hung over Broad Creek, as hounds drew closer.

  The pack in full cry charged upon Butch’s den within seven minutes.

  “Chicken!”Dragon squealed as he grabbed the feathered wing.

  “My favorite,”yelped another hound.

  Archie, with difficulty, resisted the temptation to grab a piece of chicken. He headed instead to the den opening, cocked his head to listen.

  Cora joined him.“I know they’re in there and they’ll burst out laughing the minute we leave.”

  “You’re right,”Butch sang out to taunt her.

  Archie turned to exhort the rest of the pack to start digging even though he knew he was sitting over tunnels and other escape routes. But it was too late. Shaker Crown was upon them.

  “Leave it!” he bellowed. He then blew three successive short and sharp toots on his horn, which was his signal that he wanted his whips in immediately. Jennifer came up from behind, Douglas galloped up, and Betty rode in from her position.

  Without a word, the mother and younger daughter dismounted, rushing toward the hounds as Sister and Cody trotted up. They, too, dismounted, each human grabbing a hound and pulling the chicken out of its mouth or even reaching into the mouth to pry out the bones.

  They knew that chicken bones could splinter in a hound’s intestine.

  Fifteen minutes of frantic work removed the danger.

  Humans and hounds, muddy, stared at one another.

  Shaker, voice low and stern, chastised them: “How could you? Archie and Cora were the only two hounds doing their job.” He turned on his heel and mounted up. The hounds, heads hanging, were both mortified and enraged, since they could hear the tittering in the den.

  Sister walked over to the den. “Gray. This den has been occupied by grays since I first hunted this territory as a child. Maybe I ought to come back out here and drop them a fixture card.”

  “They know the schedule.” Betty laughed.

  Douglas swung onto the saddle. “They do know.”

  “I expect they do.” Sister turned to Lafayette, leading him to a log. She stepped on the log, then lifted up lightly as everyone mounted up. “Well, let’s call it a day.”

  Shaker quietly said, “Come along, hounds.”

  As the small band rode away, Diana, drawn by an overpowering curiosity, snuck back to the den.

  “I’ll get her,” Doug volunteered.

  “Don’t rate her, Doug. She’s going for the fox and she’s young,” Shaker ordered.

  “I won’t.” Doug knew better than to crank on a young hound, but he cheerfully took the advice. Some people couldn’t stand to be told what they already knew but Douglas was an easygoing fellow.

  Diana scurried to the den opening, spread her front paws far apart, and stuck her head down the entrance as far as it would go. To her surprise, Inky was coming out to see the pack leave. They touched noses.

  This surprised Diana. She jumped back and sat down blinking. Inky did the same thing. Then the smallish black fox crept up closer to the entrance to get a better look at the hound.

  The two looked at each other. Then Inky, hearing Douglas, ducked back in.

  “Diana. Come along,” he sang out to her.

  She hurried to him but thought to herself,“They’re like us. They’re dogs.” She’d only smelled fox. She’d never seen one before.

  Douglas soon joined the others, the rain beating down on them in sheets.

  “Thought you said this would clear up,” Betty, riding next to Sister, complained.

  “I thought it would.”

  “You say that every time the weather gets filthy. ‘Oh, it will pass.’ ” Betty mimicked Sister’s voice, an amber alto.

  “It does pass.”

  “In two days or two weeks.” Betty laughed.

  Cody rode over to Douglas. They were on the hounds’ left. Jennifer was on the right as Sister and Betty now brought up the rear.

  “Hi,” Cody said.

  “Hi,” he replied.

  They rode along, water spilling over their cap brims.

  “You aren’t very talkative.”

  “I think you’re making a big mistake,” he replied.

  CHAPTER 5

  The world was wrapped in silver-gray. Fontaine couldn’t see the town square from his office window at Mountain Landscapes, the rain was so heavy.

  Marty Howard buzzed him. “Mr. Buruss, Mrs. Arnold is here to see you.”

  “I’ll be right there.” Surprised, he pressed the disconnect button on his intercom, stood up, and checked himself in the mirror. He straightened his charcoal-gray tie with the small fuchsia squares; then he strode into the small well-appointed reception room, beaming, hand outstretched. “Sister, what a pleasure to see you on such a wicked day.”

  She smiled. “You’re a fair-weather foxhunter.”

  “I certainly was today. Come on in.” He winked at Marty, her blond hair in a long braid down her back. “Bring Sister a steaming cup of coffee.”

  “We were just discussing that. We were also discussing you giving me Tuesday mornings off so I can hunt. I’ll work late Wednesdays,” Marty said, happy to have Sister standing there.

  “Two against one. Not fair.” Fontaine, black hair razor cut to perfection, tan despite the season, wagged his finger at his good-looking secretary. Each time he thought of the distress he caused Crawford Howard, he laughed silently. Fontaine lightly cupped Sister’s elbow, leading her into his office, a hymn to eclecticism.

  She sat on the burgundy leather sofa. “Fontaine, I’ll get to the point.”

  “You usually do, Mother Superior.”

  “First, you didn’t fix the coop you smashed.” She held up her hand as he started to apologize. “I know what happened there. But you wrecked it. You fix it. Those are the rules. Now as to the situation that caused it, talk to me.”

  The rainy weather affected his energy. He got up to pace on the other side of a coffee table inlaid with granite. He thought moving around would wake him up. “Chalk and cheese. Simple as that.”

  “I understand that.” Marty lightly knocked on the door, bringing in half-coffee, half-cream, Sister’s favorite midday drink. “Oh, thank you, Marty. By the way, I think Cochise is going very well. You’ve worked wonders with that stinker,” she said, referring to Marty’s horse.

  “He just needed time. He’s only six, you know.”

  “Yes. They learn at different rates of speed, just as we do.”

  “Whoops, there’s the phone.” Marty hurried out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  “Let’s stay on line, Fontaine.” She used a foxhunting phrase referring to keeping on one line of scent.

  He finally sat across from her in a leather chair, a burgundy that glowed against the taupe walls filled with exquisite hunting prints in old gold frames. Fontaine’s family had left him the prints. “I can’t abide that man. I’d use stronger language but not in the presence of a lady, a grand lady.” He smiled, his even teeth a testament to good genetics.

  She gratefully swallowed her coffee, the warmth chasing the chill she�
�d taken that morning. Then she put the mug down, composed herself, and said, “Yankees are what they are. However, he contributes to the hunt. He contributes to every charity in town, even the AIDS foundation, and most of our friends won’t give them a penny. He rubs my fur the wrong way, too. He’s loud, given to voicing many opinions, and he divorced one of the best women God has ever put on this earth. For nothing, I might add, but then you know all that. The truth is—we need him.” She drew in a deep breath, which seemed harder than usual, the air was so heavy. “For all his faults, I think his heart is in the right place, except for the episode with Marty.”

  Fontaine weighed his words. “I can only address what I see. He uses money like a club or a wedge, depending on the circumstances. He pours money into Jefferson Hunt because he thinks he’ll soon be joint-master.” Fontaine, being a Virginian, could not say that he himself wanted to be joint-master. That would have been social suicide. He had to wait for Sister to bring up the subject and she had remained ominously silent for the last three years. He knew that she knew that he wanted the job.

  “That’s obvious. Another problem.”

  “You are the master. You’ve been the master for forty-some years. I grew up hunting behind you, Sister. You know I will support you whatever.”

  “I do know that. It’s one of the reasons I’m here. I remember you walking out puppies when you were no bigger than they were. You know hunting even if you are a wimp when the weather turns a little, oh, damp. But a few words. Take a couple of lessons. You’re getting sloppy in the saddle.”

  Fontaine, vain about his riding ability, blushed. “I hadn’t realized—”

  “No more on the subject. Just do it. Next, hound walk at least once a week.”

  “I will definitely make time.”

  “Money. Do you have anything left?”

  He grinned. “Not much. I’m not a businessman, Sister. I’m just not.”

  “I know.” Sympathy played on her even, delicate features. “We live in a time where money is the only value for most people. It wasn’t that way when I was young and that isn’t the nostalgia of an old woman. The golden calf is the true god now. I hate it and I can’t do anything about it. Some would say you’ve squandered your inheritance but you gave to friends, to family. You were not and are not an unfeeling man.”

  Not expecting this, he quietly said, “Thank you, Sister.”

  “And I appreciate that you haven’t drawn out Crawford in public despite your antipathy. You can be hotheaded.”

  “I can’t promise I won’t deck him.”

  “Well—who knows what tomorrow will bring. Fontaine, I’m seventy—”

  He interrupted. “And beautiful. Truly, Sister.”

  “You do have a way with women.” She lowered her eyes, then raised them, a gesture that had drawn men to her since she was a child. “I can no longer put off preparing for the future of the hunt without me. I hope I can hunt as long as Ginny Moss of Moore County Hounds, still whipping-in at ninety, but nonetheless, I must do something I have never wanted to do: I must take a joint-master.” Fontaine held his breath as she continued. “You are one of us. You are known throughout the state by other masters. You’ve hunted with other hunts in other states. You’ve participated in many Masters of Foxhounds Association functions. You’ve chaired committees on public land use. You’ve made connections in Richmond and in Baltimore, too. You’re politically astute, as was your mother, god rest her soul. You have a good sense of what it takes to keep a hunt going although believe me, you never know until you’re master. But Fontaine, you also have drawbacks. You are a philanderer of the first order.” She again held up her hand. “I’m not judging. You know what Raymond used to say, ‘Men have balls. They have to use them.’ That’s when I brought out the frying pan. At any rate, that caused problems. Messy problems. And you have little money to throw into the pot. Am I right?”

  He gulped. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Now I must ask you something directly. I am sorry to do this but circumstances compel me. Have you had or are you having an affair with Marty Howard?”

  Relieved, he said, “No.”

  Her black eyebrows rose. “Why?”

  He laughed. “Chemistry. And no matter what you may think of me, Sister, it wouldn’t have been sporting. She was devastated during the separation and divorce.”

  “I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t.” She laughed with him.

  “I deserve that.”

  “Sorrel”—she named Fontaine’s wife—“is an unusually tolerant woman.”

  “Oh, Sister, we married too young. She’s my best friend. We have an arrangement. Rather European. I would not end my marriage for anything in the world. I value her and I love her. Can you—?”

  He didn’t finish because she knew the next word was “understand.” She finished her coffee, then simply stated, “Of course I understand. It’s eminently civilized. And you have two small children to consider. As long as you and Sorrel”—she accented the “el,” which was the proper way to pronounce the name—“can bring stability and comfort to one another, I applaud you. I am only telling you it is something one must consider. You may be rational about such liaisons but that doesn’t mean the women will be when things have run their course. Or their husbands if they find out. There’s no point in mincing words. Too much is at stake, Fontaine.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “You should be my joint-master but I must consider everything.”

  His face drained of color, then grew flushed. “Yes. I do understand.” His heart was beating wildly and he told himself it was a pastime. Why should he care so much? But he did. To be joint-master, serving with Sister Jane, would be a crowning achievement for Fontaine.

  “Here’s the hard news. I need you and I need Crawford Howard. Each has what the other lacks. If I chose two joint-masters, could you swallow your distaste and work with him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, you’re honest.”

  “I would be proud to be your joint-master. I would give it everything I’ve got. You know how much I love hunting.”

  “You didn’t love it this morning.”

  “You’re right. I was a wuss. A wimp. A candyass. But I do love hunting.”

  “I know you do.” She softened. “You know our history. You know the struggles we’ve had to breed the kind of hound suitable for our territory. You’ve seen the ups and the downs for much of your life. That continuity is vital for the club, especially now that we’ve tipped over into the twenty-first century. I still can’t get used to saying it or writing the year.”

  “Me neither.”

  “I ask you to keep this to yourself no matter how much you want to discuss it.”

  “Have you spoken to Crawford?”

  “No, I have not. I will do so this week and then I have to sit down and make a decision. By opening hunt.”

  “November sixth.”

  “Three weeks away and it still feels like opening night on Broadway.” She beamed. “But I must. The club needs time to adjust to the joint-masters. We need those transition years while I’m still strong.”

  “May it always be so,” he fervently prayed.

  “I can’t live forever, Fontaine, but I’d like to. Keep this under your hat. I will come back to you. Depending on Crawford’s response, we may need to sit down together, the three of us. Fontaine”—she reached for his hand—“think this through. I need you. Loyalties are already dividing concerning you and Crawford. We need a united club. That’s another reason why I must make this decision now.”

  “Sister, I promise I’ll think about this. And I’ll think about my own feelings toward Crawford. I’m not perfect but I can change.”

  She squeezed his hand, then rose to leave.

  CHAPTER 6

  The winds shifted from the south, bringing in even more moisture, but at least the rains scaled back to steady precipitation instead of a deluge.

  Landowners called asking Sister Jane
not to chop up their fields, so she canceled Saturday’s cubbing. The landowners had more to fear from the trailers churning up the fields than from the horses.

  She hated to cancel any hunt but decided not to grumble. She walked down to the kennels to play with the puppies.

  Shaker joined her. Puppies were like people. The more you put into them, the more you got from them, the big difference being that puppies were more fun.

  Sister and Shaker had worked together for twenty-two years as master and huntsman. They’d become so accustomed to each other, so relaxed when together, they could and did say anything to each other.