Probable Claws

by Rita Mae Brown

  “They nearly won.” Yancy felt that time acutely.

  “Until we pulled together. And we have Washington.” Sam spoke the name with reverence.

  “Sam, you always give me much to think about.”

  “We live in a tumultuous time.” He paused, finishing the last of the magical lamb chop. “By the way, I was surprised that you paid a thousand dollars against your loan.”

  “Hemp. My hemp crop proved lucrative.” Yancy knew he was interested in that.

  “Ah. Have you been down to the river yet? New warehouses for hemp, for tobacco, much in demand. I heard Ewing Garth is betting on apples and installed an orchard. New. Not really yielding much yet. Too young. He is uncommonly shrewd.”

  “He spreads the risk. Tobacco land in North Carolina as well as south of the James. Some hemp and so much hay. He has large tracts of established fields. He does not reveal his holdings, but it is rumored in Virginia that he owns eighty-eight thousand acres.”

  “An impressive man.” Sam’s eyes followed Deborah as she carried a package back through the tavern.

  “Very. His elder daughter is also impressive. She inherited her father’s brain.” He paused. “Beautiful girl. Her younger sister, Rachel, is also beautiful but it’s a softer beauty. She is much like her own mother, excels at gardening, setting a good table, putting people at ease, and I’ve heard she’s been helping her husband set up St. Luke’s Church. Funny, isn’t it, how we can be so different from our brothers and sisters while retaining qualities in common?”

  “Yes.” Sam considered his sister, much like him in her focus on the practical, on getting ahead. “It’s the older sister I wish to talk about. She breeds good horses, does she not?”

  “Yes. She has the eye and she memorizes bloodlines.”

  “And will she race this spring, do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Talk to her. Convince her there’s money to be made.” Sam paused. “A great deal of money. I can arrange a betting network.” He held up his hand. “But no one will know that you and I are behind it. A percent will flow to us regardless of who wins. See to it, Yancy.”

  “There will be money for the winner?”

  “Of course. Think of England, the races there. Those who bet on the winning horses will reap a handsome sum. The betting agents, their tickets stuck on their bet boards, should make some money. But we will make the most. We take a percent from each agent, we sell tickets to the race, too. We run the race in pairs per horse and we charge an entry fee. In other words, we can’t lose if the right horses are running.”

  “Where?” Yancy simply asked.

  “The Levels by the James.” Sam smiled.

  That would be the only level thing about this proposed contest.

  8

  December 31, 2016

  Saturday

  The rich twilight blue seemed to make the falling snow even whiter. The silence, broken only by the horses munching in their stalls, promised purity, a time to think, a time to cleanse. Harry strolled down the center aisle checking on everyone. Shortro, a young gray, lifted his head from the feed bucket, looked at her with soft brown eyes, then returned to the delicious food.

  Mrs. Murphy and Tucker kept Harry company. Pewter remained in the warm tack room. Why be cold?

  The possum, curled up in his luxurious hay bale, snored slightly. The great horned owl, nesting in the cupola, also closed her eyes. Tonight was a night to stay indoors.

  Harry turned the stove down to the pilot light, checked her notes on the desk, and slipped out of the tack room, closing the door behind her, Pewter in tow.

  The little family used the small side door at the corner of the stable. Harry knew pushing open the huge double doors with the snow on the ground now would be difficult. As it was, enough snow had fallen in the two hours she was in the barn that she needed to put her shoulder on the door to push it open. The new snow piled up on the old snow.

  “I’ll be digging that out tomorrow morning.”

  Once inside the house, the kitchen felt wonderful. She refreshed the fire she’d built in the living room, checked the propane heater in the bedroom, quite a large room. Thank heaven they’d installed the fireplace last summer. A regular fireplace commanded the center of the room. During a night like this one would prove to be, Fair would build a fire there but neither one needed to feed the fire anymore. That propane fireplace in the corner kept them warm.

  The old clapboard farmhouse, elegant in its simplicity, had a fireplace in most of the rooms. The walls, stuffed with horsehair, proved the old way of insulating worked. But the windows, handblown, couldn’t keep out the cold. Harry thought it would be sacrilege to remove them. The cold air seeped under those windows no matter what. As to the attic, when they were first married, Fair insulated that space. All in all, considering that the house was built in 1834, it testified to the wisdom of her ancestors.

  The twilight deepened to Prussian blue, the snow looked like a curtain. In the distance to her right she saw diffuse headlights, heard the truck. Fair pulled into an old shed that served as a makeshift garage. No point digging out his truck. He walked from there to the house, stopping to look skyward.

  Then he reached the porch, stepped inside, stomped his boots, took off his cowboy hat, shook it, opened the door. “Honey, I’m home.”

  “We know,” Pewter replied.

  Tucker bounded up for a pet, Harry for a kiss.

  “How bad are the roads?”

  “Snowplows are out,” he answered. “It’s coming down so hard they won’t be able to keep up with it. Coop’s working tonight, isn’t she?”

  “She is. I worry about her on New Year’s Eve no matter what. This makes it worse.”

  “Sensible people will stay home.”

  She smiled. “Fair, it’s New Year’s Eve. Will anyone young be sensible?”

  “I sure hope so.” He draped his arm around her shoulders. “I don’t mind staying in. Susan and Ned always have their New Year’s Eve party at Big Rawly with her grandmother and mother, but surely they’ll cancel. It’s off Garth Road, a ways back, and no one is going to plow the private road.”

  As if reading his thoughts, the phone rang.

  “Susan.”

  “Oh, Harry, I’m canceling. But you know in all the years my family has held their New Year’s Eve party I think they’ve only canceled maybe three times. ’ Course when granddad was alive he’d go outside and do whatever needed to be done or he’d call someone. I’m sorry.”

  “Well, it will be a quiet way to start 2017. We’ll make up for it somewhere down the road.”

  “I think so, too. Ned and I texted everyone except for Mom and Grandmother. Called them and I’m calling you. Have you made any New Year’s resolutions?”

  “Not yet. Have to think about that. You?”

  “Yes. I’m not going to watch the news in 2017. Just makes me crazy.”

  “Hey, that’s a good resolution.” Harry smiled. “Maybe I’ll borrow yours.”

  “Well, Happy New Year, Sweetie.”

  “Back at you.” Harry hung up the old wall phone, told Fair Susan’s resolution.

  “She’s got a point there. How about if we sit in front of the fire? I’ll make you a light hot toddy. For the season.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll have chicken and catnip. For the season,” Pewter meowed.

  Fair, seeing an upturned gray face staring intently into his own, opened the cupboard dedicated to pet treats, distributed bacon bits.

  “It’s not chicken and catnip but it’s not bad.” Pewter stuffed her mouth.

  “Good way to celebrate.” Mrs. Murphy also grabbed bacon bits.

  Tucker chewed on a large bacon strip, too big for the kitties. Conversation could wait.

  Harry stoked the fire, threw on another log, settled into the old sofa as Fair joined her with the promised hot toddy.

  “You, too?”

  He nodded. “Cold night. Hot drink.”


  Shoulder to shoulder, watching the flames jump, listening to the crackle and pop, they put their stockinged feet on the old coffee table.

  “This old house has welcomed one hundred and eighty-three New Year’s,” Harry mused. “Some were hopeful and I’m sure some were not. I can’t imagine what they felt in 1859.”

  “Mmm, all that tension. It exploded soon enough.” Fair knew his history. “Do you think countries go in cycles?”

  “I do. Seneca and a lot of the Romans thought so. The Stoics. I’m not as clear on my philosophy as I should be, but they wrote a life cycle for nations, for people. There’s nothing new. New technology, but nothing new about people or cultures. They rise and they fall.”

  “Sobering.”

  “I guess. It’s the way of the world. Every now and then I’ll go back through the family Bibles, the birth dates, the death dates, the notes. I am proud of my people. They worked hard. Some thought backward, I guess, others were forward-thinking, but they did their duty; they knew life promised you nothing.”

  “Not a current attitude.” He sipped his drink.

  “Fair, we had a frontier. We could always go west until we hit the Pacific. I think attitudes began to change. We started to look inward. Industrialism began to affect everyone and everything. Cities grew large then huge.”

  “Now that you mention it, you’re right. Once we hit the West Coast there was no longer an escape valve.”

  “You know, honey, we’re just too big. Too many people. We’re starting to get in one another’s way.”

  “How about China or India? Talk about getting in one another’s way.” He jumped slightly when a log popped loudly. “Sounded like a gunshot.”

  “Did.” She laughed then changed to a more somber mien. “Hearing that gunshot, a pop like the log…I’ve grown up with rifles and guns, I know the sound, but to hear a pop then see Gary crumple. I can’t get it out of my head.”

  “I wish I could tell you something helpful. I hope in time the memory will fade. Sometimes I think all the violence in the media, news, films, TV stuff, I feel like we’ve been narcotized to violence. It makes me wonder why violence is entertainment, you know?”

  “I do, Sweetie. We’ve had friends die in car accidents, some to cancer far too young. Central Virginia is not a particularly crime-ridden area but stuff happens here. This was a friend, someone I admired and liked. It haunts me,” she said.

  They sat in silence for a while.

  “Coming down harder.” Fair glanced out the window.

  “It’s so dark.”

  “The light reflects out a bit. This storm is bigger than the weatherman predicted.” He sighed. “Life in and by the mountains. We have our own weather system.”

  He drew her closer to him. “Can’t get cold if I’m close to you.”

  She smiled. “Flatterer. Have you made any New Year’s resolutions?”

  “No. I should but I never keep them.” He smiled sheepishly. “One year I vowed to go regularly to the gym.”

  “I never could figure that one out. You’re in great shape.”

  “My work keeps me pretty fit, so does farming, but there’s muscles you don’t use, and I never stretch. I figured the gym would keep me limber. Oh, then there was the year I promised to read Remembrance of Things Past. That lasted two chapters. Better to forget the whole thing.”

  She put her head on his shoulder. “My resolution is to live every moment. No plans for the future. Live in the here and now. Be grateful for you, this farm, my friends, my four-footed friends. Be grateful for my health.” She snapped her fingers. “Could be gone like that.”

  Harry, five years out from breast cancer, felt she was cured, but she no longer took health for granted.

  “Good resolution. I’ll try it, too.”

  Harry rose, stirred the fire, walked to the window. “I can barely see the ornamental cherry tree by this window. Must be coming down two or three inches an hour.”

  “I’m sure The Weather Channel will know.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No. I’ll be hungry in the morning,” he replied.

  “I hope we have power in the morning. All it takes is one car to skid off the road, take out a pole.”

  “Maybe that will happen on the other side of the county, not our side.”

  “Yeah, sure.” She grinned, continuing to look out the window. “Hope all the foxes, deer, bear, birdies are tucked up.”

  “You know they are. They’re smarter about the weather than we are. Come on and sit back down. I miss you already.”

  She snuggled next to him. The cats each claimed a lap, Tucker flopped in front of the fireplace.

  * * *

  —

  Cooper, snug in a large county SUV, parked in the lot where Routes 250 and 240 separate, one going straight into Crozet and the other veering slightly south of that. Fortunately, there wasn’t much traffic. After a few hours of this, her shift about to end, she turned for home, driving west on Route 250. Sheriff Shaw told her not to worry about getting the car back to the station. Just take it home, come back out in the morning.

  Heading down 250 she passed the small shopping center with Harris Teeter and the BB&T bank, kept going. As she kept heading west, she noticed across from Legacy Market and the BP station, a car halfway down the road. She called in the site. It would need to be towed off the road. She put on her flashers, got out, pulling on her jacket, took out her flashlight. No one in the Toyota Yaris, brand new, too.

  Eager to get back in the county SUV, she called out, “Anyone here?”

  The wind drowned out her voice. The snow fell so thick, so fast. She could barely see her hand in front of her face. Nonetheless, she walked along the roadside on both sides in both directions for fifty yards. Nothing. She couldn’t even make out the lay of the land. If anyone had turned off the road, she’d only see them if she came right up on them.

  She called as she walked. No response.

  Finally she gave up, returned to the SUV, gratefully opened the door.

  There had been a few accidents. She hoped it wouldn’t be hours before a tow truck showed up. Luckily Jason Harvey, down on Route 151, just finished up a small mess at the 151 and 250 stoplight, took the call, headed east on 250 for Cooper.

  She saw the tow truck, whispered, “Thank you, Jesus.” She got out of the car.

  “Hey, Jason. Happy New Year.”

  “You, too, Coop,” he called out the window as he maneuvered the big tow truck to hitch up the Yaris.

  “While you’re lining that up, let me check the glove compartment. I should have done that in the first place.” She opened the door, nothing locked, read the papers, flashlight in hand.

  The new vehicle belonged to Enterprise Rental, rented by Henrietta Bolander, address in Church Hill, Richmond.

  Coop trained the beam on the front seat, nothing there. Then she checked the rear. Nothing. The keys, still in the ignition, had a button to unlock the trunk. She figured she’d better check it. So she pressed it. The trunk lid popped open.

  Walking around she shone the light.

  “What the…?”

  Gary Gardner’s file books were stacked in the trunk. She wasn’t entirely certain as to the number of files he had in the first place, but the trunk was full of them. Wearing her gloves she opened one box. Papers. Building codes.

  “Jason, take this and impound it, will you? Lock it up and give your dad the key. I’ll pick them up from him tomorrow or whenever the roads are okay.”

  “All right.”

  “It’s not exactly county policy but I don’t want to take a chance with this car.”

  “What’s back there. Gold?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered honestly. As she climbed back into the car, she noticed all the lights went out. Total darkness except for her headlights and those of Jason’s tow truck.

  She wondered if she should have put the file boxes into her SUV, then realized they should be fingerprinted first as we
ll as the trunk. Who was to say when the power would come back on?

  Well, that was life in the country, but she knew it would be a long, cold night.

  9

  January 1, 2017

  Sunday

  Snow curled off the snow blade, a white cascade. A large blade attached to the 80 HP John Deere tractor handled the eight to ten inches of snow from last night. The snow stopped but the mercury edged ever downward and the sky remained dark gray. The depth varied according to wind exposure. Fair needed to go over the long drive twice, clear out the path to the barn. Then he went out on the road, no traffic, performed the same clearing for Cooper, who rented the old Jones place. That farm, two miles from Harry, was considered a close neighbor in the country. No lights shone in the kitchen, the electricity was still out. Horse chores done, Harry slowly followed her husband in her 1978 Ford F-150. Old, no computer chips, you had to turn the hubcap centers to lock the wheels in four-wheel drive, the gearshift was in the center of the cab. Thanks to an extra low gear, almost a creep gear, she churned through the snow. She could pretty much get through anything with the old truck. Also the ground clearance was helpful. Even with plowing off two inches, snow packed in places, stuck to the roads.

  Parking near Coop’s back door, she moved the cats, who were grumpy about it, to grab two large shopping bags filled with food. She put them on the snow for a moment, lifted out the cats. Tucker had already jumped down. She waved to her husband, who waved back.

  Knocking on the door, the four waited. The temperature wouldn’t budge off twenty-two degrees, Fahrenheit. Well, it was better than below zero.

  The door opened. Cooper, in a heavy sweater, smiled. “Happy New Year.”

  “Happy New Year. I figured you worked late last night. Brought food. You can heat the casserole on your stove.”

  “Thank God for gas.” Cooper eagerly took the two bags as Harry unburdened herself of a few layers of clothing.

  A fire heated the room. All the old houses built before electricity had fireplaces. With a steady wood supply, a person could still get through winter without other sources of heat. The trick was keeping the fire going.