“Any idea why he was up there?”
“No, unless he was poaching traps or set them himself. Or followed me.”
Coop gave clear orders. “Go home. Keep a gun with you. If anyone comes down your driveway and you don’t know who it is, call me and don’t open the door.”
“Roger.” She clicked off the phone, madder than before.
Once in the house, she hung up her rifle, took out the .38 Ruger from the side kitchen drawer. Mostly the revolver was there to scare off any marauder sniffing at the horses. Fortunately, that rarely happened, but one had to consider everything, especially if the food supply became scarce. Now it was plentiful.
She put her head in her hands as she sat at the kitchen table, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.
Mrs. Murphy jumped up on the table and rubbed Harry’s hands with her sides.
Tucker, at her feet, promised, “We’ll take care of things. Don’t worry.”
“My fangs and claws are deadly.” Pewter sounded tough.
Twenty minutes later, Cooper drove down the driveway, parking near the back door.
“Cooper!” Tucker announced.
Harry stood up as her friend pushed through the now-closed-in back porch door. Harry opened the kitchen door.
“Not a damned thing.” Coop nearly spat.
“I hope I did wing him.” Harry grimaced. “You might as well sit down and have a cup of coffee or tea. I could use one.”
“Yeah, but I can’t stay long.” She dropped in the ladder-back chair, noticed the flintlock pistol on the counter, stood back up and picked it up. “The revolver and this. A pistol-packing momma.”
Harry, now at the stove, half laughed. “Well, the gunsmith showed me how to clean the flintlock when I went in to pick it up, said it was in perfect condition. He also said that at close range it was as deadly as any other pistol. He encouraged me to take up flintlocks. Said I would really like target practice. I had it out on the table to study it.”
“We got a bit of a break today. The truck driver. Turns out, his wife found a key to a U-Stor-It. She drove to the unit, opened it, and there were cages in there, ropes, rawhide strings. Not a lot but the Louisville police called us.”
“So this does have something to do with animal contraband? Who would have thought of this?”
“It isn’t the first criminal activity that pops into your mind but it is becoming a big business. Also, if people are killing eagles, say in the west, people in other states tend not to notice. Has to be close to home.” She paused. “You think someone is illegally trapping up there?”
“Yes, there is so much territory all you need to do is keep moving your traps. That way you lose your risk of being caught, being figured out because of routine. There’s tons of game up in the Blue Ridge. Big bucks, songbirds, raptors. The kind of stuff MaryJo told us about a couple of meetings back.”
“Right.” Cooper sipped her coffee as Harry downed tea.
“I either interrupted him or, the worst-case scenario, he was coming for me. This is the second time I’ve been shot at. I don’t much like it. If he was coming for me, he had a rough idea of my schedule.”
“You’d think he would have the sense to lay low or clear out.”
“Maybe he can’t,” Harry replied.
April 3, 1786 Monday
Rose sunlight filled the breakfast nook at Big Rawly. Maureen and the late Francisco had added Caribbean touches to the interior of the large house. For the breakfast room this took the form of interior shutters the length of the huge windows. When the sunlight became too strong, one closed the shutters but tipped the louvers for a bit of light. The color, a soft petal pink, added to the charm. A low fire gave off heat in the ornate fireplace.
Maureen, glad of the warmth as she swept into the room, flicked her right hand behind her, lifting up the silky morning robe as she sat down on a painted chair.
No sooner had her bottom brushed the chair than a young house girl brought in steaming chicory coffee, followed by another young woman bearing bread, jams, butter.
The lady of the house had taken the precaution of only allowing average-looking women to serve. No more raving beauties.
She reached over her plate, then noticed a light blue envelope, her name emblazoned on the front in Jeffrey’s bold, attractive script. Picking it up, she ran her fingernail under the sealed back, carefully lifted it out, and read.
“Henry!” She bellowed.
The older, thin fellow appeared. “Yes, Missus.”
“When was this put on my plate?” she demanded.
“I don’t know, Ma’am.”
Slamming the envelope down, she shouted at him, “Get me DoRe, get me DoRe right now.”
Sheba sidled into the room.
Maureen pointed a finger at her before she could speak. “Pack my valise this instant. Do you understand?”
“What dresses—”
“The emerald-green and the shell-pink and gray cloak. Now! Now, are you deaf?”
Sheba shot out of the room.
As Maureen shoved the envelope between her bosoms, they could easily hold paper, she nearly ran for her closet, then stopped because she needed to see DoRe first.
“He may be crippled, but he can still move!” She rapped the table with her knuckles, then headed for the porch and side door since she figured he’d come up that way.
—
While she waited, John Schuyler heard hoofbeats drumming up the long Cloverfields driveway. Young, light, Milton Fahrney charged toward John and Catherine’s house, skidding, dismounting before the horse—one of Maureen’s good blooded ones—had stopped. John was hardly three steps out the door, going to work again on the back bridge. Charles, hearing the commotion, rose from his desk to look out the window.
“Mr. John, begging your pardon,” Milton breathlessly apologized, handing him a light blue envelope.
John took the offered missive, opened it. “Good God.”
Catherine reached for the letter, which he gave to her.
She, too, exclaimed, “He’s lost his mind.”
John asked, “Did Mr. Holloway send you?”
“Yes, Sir, he did.”
“Does Mrs. Holloway know you are here?”
“No, Sir, I left before sunup.”
Catherine, seeing the horse’s heaving flanks, told the young fellow, “Take this horse to Jeddie and Ralston. Let them cool him out. Then you go to the kitchen in the big house and tell Bettina and Serena that I’ve sent you. Eat a good breakfast. Go on now, the horse needs attention.”
“Yes, Miss Catherine.” He bowed to her, took the reins, walking the horse down to the stables.
“What now?” She grasped her husband’s forearm.
“He’ll get killed.” John’s color drained a bit. “He’ll get himself killed unless I can get there in time to delay or stop this.”
“If he left at sunup, he’s no doubt down by the river now. I expect he’ll go by river. He isn’t going to drive a cart or coach and he won’t be riding. If he had, Milton would have mentioned it, I think.”
“Yes, yes.” John rubbed his chin. “If I leave now, I may be able to reach Richmond an hour or two behind him.” He reread the letter.
“Two days?”
He nodded. “Perhaps a day and a half if the current is strong, but that brings up other problems. At least I know where he’s headed, I think.” He took a deep breath. “He’s a fool but he asked me to be his second. I must do what I can.”
“Darling, I’ll pack a few things. You go on down and tell Barker O. to drive you on down to Scottsville. And I’ll have Bettina put together a basket.” She disappeared back into the house as John trotted over to the barn.