“When she retires, she’ll be the perfect field hunter, right? I always think the timber horses are more careful than the brush ones.”
“And look at that engine!” He pointed to her hindquarters. “The ones that have heart, you can teach them. They’ll respect those solid jumps in the hunt field, even if they’ve been sliding through the brush ones. Bet we win, then in a few years you can hunt her.” He laughed. “No way can Marty or Crawford handle Nine. Too hot. Too forward.”
The brush fences for national steeplechase races at one time actually were brush, but now the manufactured fences had artificial brush set in. The horses jumped over or through it. If their hooves touched the brush, judges heard aswish, swishsound. The problem with the brush horses is they could get accustomed to dragging their hooves, not picking them up neatly like the timber horses. Can’t be dragging hooves over a three-foot-six coop or a stone wall.
“When’s her first race?”
“Maybe end of March in Aiken; I’ll need to work with her some more. If I don’t think she’s ready for South Carolina, then I’ll run her at My Lady’s Manor in Monkton, Maryland, in mid-April.”
“She looks the part.” Sister walked back to the truck, Sam accompanying her. “I see a lot of empty stalls. Knowing Crawford, they’ll be filled within a year, and you’ll have three more people working for you.”
“That’s the plan.”
“It’s exciting.” Sam opened her door for her, and she stepped up into the driver’s seat.
“Heard my big brother had lunch with you and talked himself silly.”
Sister blushed.“Did he tell you that?”
“He did.”
She drove into town, whistling the whole way. Then she realized she hadn’t spoken to Jim about his photographs. She dialed Marty’s number and luckily got Jim.
“Mr. Meads.”
“Master,” he said, a smile in his voice.
“Those photographs you took where X and Sam are flailing away—our own Taylor and Holyfield—could you not make those public?” She paused. “Although, I expect people would buy them.”
“I understand.”
“Well, I will buy every shot of same.”
“There’s no need of that.” His clipped accent and warm voice were reassuring.
“Oh, Jim, I know that. But I do want them for my files. And just in case I need to lord it over those boys.”
“You’ll have them next week. Five-by-seven or eight-by-ten?”
“Mmm. Eight-by-ten.”
“Good then.”
CHAPTER 17
Monday—catch-up day—found Sister cruising along roads she’d known since childhood, yet she always found something to capture her imagination.
She crossed the railroad tracks, smack in the middle of the working-class section of the small town. The men who built the railroads lived in neat clapboard cottages, constructed by the railroad. They’d hop a hand-pumped car to move themselves down the tracks. This particular line ran through the Blue Ridge Mountains and then the Alleghenies as it headed west into West Virginia and Kentucky, with branches cutting north into Ohio.
Squatting alongside the tracks were the redbrick buildings of Berry Storage. Smaller square brick structures were attached to the original four-story building.
The first structure, built in 1851, was a woolen mill. During the War Between the States, the mill ran at full capacity. After 1865, nothing was running. Twenty years passed. Although abandoned, structures were built to last for generations, centuries.
The mill cranked up again, thanks to an influx of outside money. The fortunes of the woolen mill reflected the roller coaster of capitalism.
By the time Clay Berry purchased the mill in 1987, it had again been abandoned. Because no one wanted the old place, Clay bought it for a song—a good thing since that was about all he had in the world.
Clay’s father was a lineman for the phone company; his mother worked at the old Miller and Rhoads store. He envied Ray Jr. and Ronnie their position. Xavier, from a solidly middle-class family, had less than young Ray or Ronnie’s people, but more than Clay. Both ambitious, Xavier and Clay became close over the years.
Clay worked like a dog, securing a loan on the building and turning it into a storage warehouse. Over the years he added cold storage, cleaning of expensive furs, shipping households overseas. He added more buildings to accommodate the different demands of his business. Sister was proud of Clay. He was a good businessman, sensitive to the fact that he was dealing with people’s precious possessions even if he, himself, thought they were junk. Over time he developed a sharp eye for quality in furniture, rugs, and furs, although he preferred stark modern things.
The cell phone rang in the truck. Sister pushed the green button.
“Yo.”
“Boss, that damn Rassle dug out of the yard, taking all the firstyear entry boys with him.”
“I’ll be right home.” She paused a second. “Tell me where you’ll be.”
“I think they headed toward Hangman’s Ridge.”
“Great,” she replied sarcastically. “I’ll go slow on Soldier Road just in case. And then I’ll park at the kennels and find you.”
“Better you find them. I am pissed.”
“Me, too, but we’ll get them. See you soon.” She pressed the End button, picked up speed for home.
When she and Big Ray built the kennel, they cut a two-foot ditch, laying in a thin wall of concrete so the hounds couldn’t dig out. But that was close to forty years ago. She wondered if part of that deep inner core had crumbled. This might be a long day and night.
It had already been a long day. When she called on Xavier, she was surprised at how emotional he became, which exhausted her.
“That man put me through hell.” Xavier’s voice trembled as he thought of Sam.
While she sympathized, and she did, she reminded him of the rules of hunting.
He agreed, promising to keep a lid on it. He did say one unnerving thing, which was that when Sam had lain about the train station, among the flotsam and jetsam of broken lives, Xavier had wished the son of a bitch had died there. Too bad he didn’t get run over by a train or fall in front of a car or drink whatever crap Mitch and Anthony swallowed.
“He doesn’t deserve to live.” Xavier finished his line of thinking.
“Xavier, that’s not like you,” she said calmly.
“I’m not as good a person as you think I am.”
A wound that deep—to the heart and to the pride of a man—leaves a scar if it heals.
When she left, she hoped he could keep his anger in check. She loved him. He deserved every consideration. Some masters would understandably be tempted to ease Sam Lorillard out. People who are dear to the master or who write big checks to hunt clubs or who work hard usually receive special consideration. But in the field, no. She firmly believed in the principles of the hunt. On the back of a horse, you leave your troubles behind. On the back of a horse, your hunting knowledge and riding ability count, not your pocketbook.
She hardly adored every single person in the field, although she liked most. When Big Ray was joint-master, she had to ride next to some of the very women he was seducing. But when the hounds opened, thoughts of Ray’s sexual peccadilloes scooted out of her brain. The ride back to the trailers would get her, though. She’d notice the color in the latest flame’s cheeks, the size of her bosom under a well-cut hunting coat, the length of her leg, the turn of her nose. Sister had to hand it to Big Ray, hehad never picked a bad-looking woman. But then, he also had to ride back with her paramours, although like most women, she had been clever at hiding her extracurricular activities.
These days she had to laugh at herself. A young person hunting with her, such as Jennifer or Sari, saw an older woman. They could never imagine that fires scorched through anyone over forty. She still had some fire left, as did Xavier; although his, at the moment, fanned out in rage.