Outfoxed Page 8
CHAPTER 16
“Why do I have to do it? I don’t see why,” Jennifer, just a shade shorter than her older sister, argued.
“Because I said so.” Cody slipped her arm through her sister’s arm. “Come on.”
However, before they were out the door an irate Betty was pounding up the front steps. “Just where do you think you’re going?” She pointed at Cody. “You were supposed to take her to school.”
Betty pushed both her daughters through the door, slamming it behind her.
“Mom, I can explain,” Cody started.
“In a minute.” Betty held up her hands for silence, turned her bright blue eyes on her youngest. “Well, miss?”
“I got tired so I crashed with Cody.”
“And I just won the lottery.” Betty was having none of it.
With a slow step the young women moved toward the sofa. There’d be no getting out of this.
However, Cody tried. “Mom, why is Dad supporting Crawford Howard for the joint-mastership? Crawford doesn’t know anything about hunting.”
“Since when have you been interested in the politics of the Jefferson Hunt?” Betty plopped onto the chair facing the sofa.
“Curious.”
“Yeah.” Jennifer picked up the theme.
“Crawford will put the club on a financially secure base. Right now that’s crucial. Sister knows enough about hunting for ten masters. What we need is money or an angel.”
“Crawford could write checks.”
“Cody, no one is going to write out thirty to fifty thousand dollars a year above and beyond the annual budget simply to help the club. That kind of commitment demands a joint-M.F.H. behind his name.”
“Fontaine is a better choice.” Cody brushed back her black hair, which had fallen in her eyes.
“Fontaine can’t keep his dick in his pants.” Jennifer sniggered.
“Mom, they carry on like that in Washington all the time. If presidents can do it, why not Fontaine?”
“This is Virginia, not Washington.” Betty’s jaw jutted out.
Her girls stared at her. There was no rejoinder. Another quiet sigh escaped them.
“Cody and I overslept. It’s my fault. I didn’t set the alarm like I said I would,” Jennifer explained.
“Lame.” Betty crossed her arms over her impressive chest.
Cody thought to herself that a lame excuse was better than no excuse, but the weight of the lies, at first so gossamer thin, bent her shoulders. She’d lied about herself since high school and now she was lying for Jennifer. While these fabrications might solve the problem temporarily, they only seemed to worsen it long term. Cody knew the only reason she was still acceptable at Jefferson Hunt was that she could ride. Her beauty attracted men. Her problems eventually repelled them, except for Doug. She studied her sister. In Cody’s eyes, Jennifer was more beautiful than herself. Where her hair was black, Jennifer’s was a rich seal brown and her light-coffee-colored eyes made her so warm, approachable. Cody’s eyes were beginning to betray hard living.
“Mom, I’ll go to the principal. This is my fault.” Cody squared her shoulders.
“That’s noble of you. However, we aren’t leaving this room until I get the truth. And if I don’t, Jennifer, you are coming home with me and you’re grounded, and I mean grounded for the next month. No allowance. No parties. No hunting. Zip.”
“Mom!”
“That’s right, Mom,” Betty shouted.
“I didn’t feel good, so I came here. It was closer than home.” Jennifer stretched out her long legs, crossing them at the ankles.
Betty wordlessly looked to Cody, who finally said, “She was—”
“High.” Betty cut in. “Do you think I’m blind? Jennifer, we went through this last summer. You promised you’d stop but”—she weighed her words—“that’s proved beyond your powers.”
“Mom, it wasn’t so bad. I mean this is the only time since June. Since last time. Really. I just felt like it. I was stupid. It won’t happen again.”
“What amazes me is that you are seventeen years old and you can find dope or whatever you call it these days and the police can’t. We’re beyond apologies, Jennifer. We’re going into a treatment program.”
“No.” Jennifer’s face turned crimson.
“And if you know what’s good for you, Cody, you’ll cough up the money and go in, too.”
Cody pinched her lips together.
“You can’t do this to me!” Jennifer jumped up, towering over her medium-sized mother.
Betty rose but Jennifer pushed her back onto the chair.
Cody shot from the sofa, grabbing Jennifer. “Don’t touch Mom, Jen.”
“She’s a fucking saint?” Jennifer snarled.
“She’s our mother and she’s a lot closer to it than we’ll ever be. Don’t touch her.”
“Fine.” Jennifer hauled off and socked Cody instead.
Cody, bigger, stronger, and smarter, ducked the next punch, stepped inside a roundhouse swing, and with the back edge of her hand chopped Jennifer hard in the throat. Both of Jennifer’s hands went for her throat. She choked and Cody grabbed the back of her collar, dragging her to the sofa.
Looming over the coughing girl, Cody said, “You’re going to treatment.”
Betty never imagined her younger daughter would attack her. The corroding effect of drugs even when one wasn’t on them shocked her. She would have died herself before lifting a hand against her own mother.
Jennifer started bawling. She choked a few times, then snarled at Cody. “You hurt me.”
“You hurt yourself,” Cody fired back. “Mom, how much is the treatment program?”
“I don’t know. Central Virginia Hospital has an outpatient program. I hear it’s good. Cody, we can’t afford to send you. You’ve been out on your own and you need to do this for yourself.”
Jennifer bellowed, “What am I going to say to my friends? I’m in drug rehab. Mom, this will ruin me. I won’t have any friends.”
“Then they aren’t really your friends.” Betty raised her voice. “And I’m not worried about your friends. I’m worried about you.”
“You can’t tell me what to do.” A flash of defiance illuminated Jennifer’s eyes.
“As long as you’re under my roof, you’ll do as I say. We’re going to Central Virginia.”
“Now?” Jennifer’s voice dropped, betraying fear.
“Now. Cody?”
“I’m coming.”
CHAPTER 17
At five-thirty in the morning the frost covered the ground like a silver net. The few leaves underfoot would soon give way to blankets of maple, oak, hickory, gum, sycamore, and poplar. Fall, a bit late this year, was about a week away from peak color. Flaming red edging the green of the maples stood out against the dawn light, as did the yellow oak leaves.
Shaker divided hounds in the kennel. Those who would be hunting that day were placed in a draw run. Excited to be chosen, they tormented those left behind with boasts of how good the day’s hunt would be.
Hounds remaining in the kennel were deemed unfit or unready for many reasons. A bitch going into season would be put in the hot bitch pen until her estrus passed. A hound footsore from Tuesday’s hunt would be left in the kennel. A hound having difficulty mastering his or her job would be held back lest he or she distract the other hounds from their task. Hounds under two years or a year and a half, depending on development, would be left in the puppy runs. Dragon languished in sick bay. Although he was recovering rapidly, his left eye was swollen shut.
Shaker patiently explained to his charges the reasons for their missing the party. He double-checked everyone, making certain plenty of fresh water was available and that they had eaten their breakfast.
The hounds to hunt wouldn’t get breakfast until their return. Full hounds run slow or sit down and throw up. No one minded delaying breakfast if it meant they’d hunt. They pricked their ears, waved their tails, hopped around in circles.
He had backed up the hound van to the draw run the night before. He had only to open the door into the draw run and the hounds would race down the chute to the opened door of the van. This saved time because without a draw run a few hounds, overexcited, would zoom past the van.
He walked outside the kennel to light his pipe. Shaker wouldn’t smoke near his hounds. Their noses were so sensitive that smoke bothered them. He wanted those noses sharp for the hunt.
He read somewhere that dogs in general hear six times better than humans and that a human has about five million scent receptors whereas a hound has over twenty-two million. Whatever the numbers, hounds heard and smelled more than a human could imagine. He thought about that sometimes, about how dull our world would seem to a creature with broader, sharper senses.
What must it be like to see through the eagle’s eye or the owl’s?
What he saw was the gray giving way to the first streak of pale pink. The clear sky promised a spectacular day, but not for hunting. Those raw days when the smoke from the chimneys hangs low, those are good hunting days. Today scent would evaporate rapidly. However, there was no wind, hardly even a lick of breeze. That would help. He’d have to drop hounds on a line fast and hope for a burst. Whatever line they’d get wouldn’t last too long unless, of course, the fox moved along the creek bed.
He sucked contentedly on his briar pipe, a Dunhill of great antiquity given him by his father. Lights were on in Sister’s kitchen. No doubt she was already on the phone with a member who needed to know right that moment what Sister Jane thought about wearing Prince of Wales spurs or could the member show up in a running martingale, even though it was improper?
Shaker knew he had not the patience to be a master nor the money. He’d worked his way up to being huntsman, getting the horn when he was thirty-one, no small accomplishment. In his mid-forties, he had no money other than what he earned and that wasn’t much. His benefits, housing, truck, standing in the community pleased him, but most of all he loved what he did. He loved it more than money, more than anything. In the end even more than his ex-wife, who when he turned forty bedeviled him to think about his future, take a job where he could make some good money. Sheila never understood him but then maybe he didn’t understand her. Women seemed to need security more than he did. He asked for a fine day’s hunting, each hound on the line, and he lived one day at a time.
He could hear Doug in the stable. Having a good professional first whipper-in made the huntsman’s life much easier. Shaker’s horse would be tacked up and loaded on the van. He could rely on Doug to get ahead of the hounds, an assignment that took a brave and good rider.
Although young, Doug would carry the horn someday. Shaker had known Doug since he was in grade school. He’d come to the kennel and tag after Shaker and Sister Jane like a hound puppy. There wasn’t much love or stability in Doug’s childhood. He found both at the kennel.
The back door opened and closed. Sister Jane, dressed except for the barn coat she was wearing, waved good morning.
Raleigh ran ahead. “What a day.”
“Morning, big guy.” Shaker ran his palm over the glossy black head.
Sister beamed, breathing in deeply. “If we can’t get up a fox, we’ll have a perfect trail ride. Not that you won’t find a fox.” She winked.
“I’m beginning to think the fox finds us.”
“There is that.”
“And who had called this morning, ass over tit?”
“Only Ronnie Haslip. He can’t find his tweed jacket. I told him the day would warm up fast. He can ride in his shirt and vest. For whatever reason that seemed to satisfy him. He said he’d called everyone but couldn’t find an extra coat and he’d go straight up to Warrenton to Horse Country and buy a coat after the hunt. He worries more than his mother and she was world-class.” Sister Jane laughed. “Oh, the Franklin girls are in rehab.”
“Heard yesterday.”
“As Raymond would say, ‘The shit has hit the Franklin fan.’ ” She admired the lacy pattern of the frost. “Wouldn’t he just love today. He took credit for every bright, low-humidity day we had.”
“Direct line to Great God Almighty.”
“That’s what he said.” Sister laughed, remembering her husband’s sacrilegious streak. Raymond liked nothing better than pouncing on someone who touted the Bible. She herself thought one worshiped best outdoors. “Do you ever miss Sheila on a day like today?”
Accustomed to her sudden direct hits, the curly-haired man shook his head. “No.”
“Not even on a full moon?”
“Well”—he smiled—“maybe then.”
“Good.” She smiled triumphantly. “It won’t do for a man to be too independent of women.”
“I have you.”
“Ha. My solemn vow is to fuss at you. Think of it as marriage without the benefits.”
“Long as I can fuss back.” He patted her on the back.
“Deal.” She leaned into him. She’d known Shaker nearly as long as she had known Raymond. She knew his virtues and his faults. She loved him for himself as well as for his talent.
“Rodeo?”
“Yep.”
They turned to enter the kennel, to load up the hounds. Doug was already loading the horses.
The phone rang in the kennel.
“Jefferson Hunt.” Shaker listened, then handed it to Sister Jane, his hand over the earpiece. “Crawford.”
“Hello.”
“Sister Jane, might I have a few words with you after the hunt today?”
“Of course, Crawford, but you have to survive it first.”
CHAPTER 18
The massive stone ruins of an old mill perched over the fast-running creek. Broad Creek, swift moving and ten yards wide on Sister Jane’s property, was twenty to thirty yards wide in places at Wheeler Mill, which was eight miles south of her place. The raceway remained intact two centuries later. The men who built this mill intended for it to last.
As a courtesy to Peter Wheeler, too old to maintain his property, the hunt club, once a year, cleaned the raceway of branches or any other floating debris, bushhogged the trails, and repaired jumps. The stone fences rarely needed fixing, having been constructed in 1730, same as the mill.
The Wheeler line would die with Peter. Speculation as to the disposition of his estate intensified with each pass-ing year.
An early riser, the old man sat on a director’s chair in the bed of his truck, having been hoisted up by Walter Lungrun, who’d arrived early.
When Sister saw the young doctor she breathed in sharply. He reminded her of her husband. Walter—tall, blond, wide-shouldered, and square-jawed—was handsome without being pretty, just as Raymond had been.
Upon seeing Sister, Walter walked over, tipping his hat. “Master, good morning.”
Shaker stared at him as though seeing a ghost, then returned his attention quickly to the hounds.
Before he could say his name Sister smiled. “Dr. Lungrun, you are most welcome. I’ll try and scare up a fox for you. Is this your first hunt?”
“When I was in college and med school I hunted a few times. May I try first flight?”
“You may. If you make an involuntary dismount I’ll keep going, you know, but whoever is riding tail today will pick you up.”
“I’ll try not to embarrass myself.” He clapped his black cap back on, tails up.
Only staff could hunt with cap tails down.
Sister surveyed the field. Twenty-five people on Thursday morning at seven. Opening hunt was two weeks away. Each hunt the field swelled as people, presumably in shape, eased back into the routine of foxhunting.
The regulars were out in full force except for Jennifer and Cody Franklin.
“Folks.” She motioned for them to ride over to her. A few we
re frantically searching for the last-minute ties, gloves, and girths back at their trailers. Shaker and Doug had unloaded the hounds, who were being wonderfully well behaved. “First flight with me. Hilltoppers with Fontaine. Will you do us the honors, Fontaine?”
“Of course, Master.” He touched his hat with his crop. Much as Fontaine hated missing riding up front, he knew he was being given a position acknowledging hunting sense and better yet, this was done in front of Crawford Howard. Of course, Fontaine’s knowledge of the territory didn’t mean he possessed the much coveted hound sense. But to lead Hilltoppers, Fontaine didn’t need to have it.
“Ralph, will you ride tail?” she asked Raphael Assumptio, known as Ralph, a middle-aged man, strong rider and better yet, competent in a crisis.
“Glad to.” He, too, touched his cap with his crop.
“Huntsman.”
Shaker, holding his cap in his lap as was proper, nodded, put his cap on, and said, “Hounds ready?”
“You bet!” came the chorus.
Lafayette turned his head. “Ready to rock and roll?”
As Sister patted his gray neck, the other horses neighed in anticipation.
Shaker stuck to his plan, dropping the hounds where he thought he’d hit a line along the creek. Flecks of frost clung to the sides of the creek and overtop the banks, but across the pastures the light frost had already transformed into sparkling dew.
He moved along on the farm road paralleling the creek bed. He glanced back, smiling when he saw old Peter Wheeler, hand cupped to his ear, waiting to hear the hounds, which when in full cry were music to his ears.
Peter hadn’t long to wait because Dasher called out, “Over here.”
As this was Dasher’s first year, the other hounds weren’t quick to honor him. His litter mate Diana respected him, though, and she trotted over, putting her nose to the earth. “He’s been here.”
On hearing both Dasher and Diana, Cora thought she might double-check their work. “For real. Come on. I say he’s fifteen minutes ahead of us.” She touched the earth again. “Maybe twenty.”