The door opened, and Shaker stepped through.“Draw list for tomorrow?”
“Haven’t done it yet. Did you do yours?”
“Yes.” He placed his list on the desk then spoke to Walter. “I’m not sitting around.”
“Give it another day, Shaker. Really. I’m not worried about your ribs. The concussion worried me even though it wasn’t bad. But give it another day.”
“Who’s going to hunt hounds tomorrow? I need to go out.”
“You and Lorraine can be wheel whips. I’m not taking any chances with you. If you miss tomorrow, well, it’s not great, but if you miss the rest of the season, the best part of the season, I’ll be one step ahead of a fit,” Sister reminded him.
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Shaker sat on the edge of the desk.“For Chrissakes, people get their bell rung all the time.”
“They aren’t fabulous huntsmen. And how do you blow the horn when you’re galloping?” Sister hoped the compliment would somewhat mollify him.
“Practice. It’s a good idea to go out with an empty bladder, too.”
“I figured that out.” She laughed. “I’ll hunt the hounds tomorrow. God willing, nothing awful will happen. Let’s take steady eddies, no young entry. Make it easy for me. Tuesday, you’ll be back in the saddle and all will be well.”
“No, what’s going to happen is you’ll love hunting hounds, and we’ll have a fight,” Shaker grumbled.
“I will love hunting them. I loved yesterday even though I had butterflies, but you’re the huntsman and huntsman you’ll stay.” She swiftly ran her eyes down the draw list, dogs on the left side of the page, bitches on the right, firstyear entry, young entry, and even some second year with a different-colored mark before the animal’s name. It was a good system. “I’ll get back to you on this.”
Up at the house, Sister asked Walter about Shaker’s injuries as she heated water for tea.
“This is the third time you’ve asked since yesterday.”
“I’m sorry. He’s very dear to me, even if we fuss.”
“He hit hard. He can wrap up his ribs. I want a few more days for his head. By the time I saw him, he was in pretty good shape from the concussion, but you always want to be careful with a head injury.”
“Thank you again for seeing him. I guess we could have sent him to the ER, but I trust you; I don’t know who’s in the ER.”
Walter smiled.“Thank you for your confidence, but the team down at the hospital is very good.”
She poured tea. Walter liked dark teas, as did she.“You don’t know much about foxhounds; I don’t know diddly about medicine. What really is an endocrinologist?”
“Someone in the right field at the right time. It’s the study of ductless glands. So it’s really the study of the thyroid, the pituitary, and the adrenal glands, basic human chemistry.”
“Lucrative?”
“Very. If you have a child whose growth is stunted, you’d go to an endocrinologist. Menopause—think of the money there with the boomer generation. It’s a growing field that will benefit from the constant advancements just in thyroid studies alone. Pretty amazing.”
“Would an endocrinologist have more ways to make illegal money than, say, yourself?”
“From medicine?” Walter’s blond eyebrows rose. “Uh, well, Sister, any crooked doctor can make a fortune. Prescribe unnecessary painkillers, OxyContin, mood elevators, Percodan, Prozac. If you’re less than honest, it’s easy, because, of course, the patient wants the drugs.”
“What about cocaine or heroin?”
Walter couldn’t help but laugh. “You don’t need a doctor. You can get that on the street.”
“It’s really easy to get coke or marijuana?”
“As pie. Easy as pie.” Walter sipped the restorative brew. “Our government, the FDA, I could list agencies as long as my arm, and I’ve got long arms, make the mess bigger and bigger. Some drugs are classified as dangerous; others aren’t. I could kill you with caffeine. There’s a hitof caffeine in this tea. Sister, I could kill you with sugar or salt. Americans are literally killing themselves every day with salt and sugar. We are so hypocritical when it comes to— what’s the term?—illegal substances. You’ve got people making policy based on their version of morals instead of, well, endocrinology. And I’m serious: I could kill someone with caffeine. I’m a doctor; in order to save lives, you have to know what takes those lives. Any doctor worth his salt, forgive the pun, can kill and make it look perfectly natural. But as I said, why bother? Americans are killing themselves.”
She drummed her fingers on the kitchen table.“Mmm.”
“Why this sudden interest in endocrinology?”
“Dalton Hill’s speciality. He’s paid his associate membership; he’s been hunting pretty consistently. Good rider.”
“Bought that Cleveland bay.”
“Yes.” She frowned a moment. “Obviously, he has money.”
“Right.” Walter smiled. “He’s an endocrinologist.”
She smiled back.“What do you know about him?”
Walter shrugged.“Leave of absence from the Toronto hospital, teaching this semester, and he’s brilliant. That’s what I hear.”
“Do you like him?”
A long pause followed her question. Walter cleared his throat.“Not really.”
“Cold.”
“More or less. He’s thawing a bit, thanks to your geniality and the hospitality of Virginians in general.” Walter thanked her as she refreshed his tea. “He’s recently divorced, which is why I think he’s teaching this semester. A chance to get away. Clear the head.”
“I’ve been curious about him.” She smiled again. “Can’t have too many doctors in the field. Wish we could get the entire hospital staff to hunt.”
“You wouldn’t want that. We’ve got some first-class fruitcakes.”
“And the hunt doesn’t?”
They laughed.
“Back to hounds,” Walter said. “Can you breed for the task? By that I mean, can you breed an anchor hound?”
“We could be here for weeks on that one. Well … yes and no. I have noticed certain characteristics passing in certain of my lines. For example, Delia, mother of Diddy and those firstyear entry, comes from my D line. D hounds are consistently steady, and they enter and learn fairly quickly. On the other hand, I’ve observed that my R line can be brilliant, but it seems to skip a generation. Rassle, Ruthie, and Ribot are brilliant. Their mother wasn’t; she was just there. Her mother was outstanding. Like I said, the answer to your question is yes and no.”
“It’s fascinating.”
“And highly addictive.” She reached for a sugar cookie. “The more you breed, the more you want to breed, and you drive yourself onward with the dream of perfection.” She sighed. “Well, humility goes a long way. And even in the great crosses, the golden nicks, you still must cull.”
“The hard part.”
“God, yes. I think a youngster won’t work for us, I draft him to a good pack, he’s terrific. Now some of that can be because he’s in, say, a newer pack. He’s not overshadowed by Diana or an upcoming Trident. He becomes a star. But you never truly know until they hunt for you or for someone else.”
“This is going to make me think.” Walter laughed.
“You think plenty. Now you’ll be hunting, watching in a new way. You’ll be singling out hounds, observing young entry, seeing who contributes. The slow days are the best days to learn about the hounds. You see who really works. Might be dull for the run-and-jump crowd, but those slow days offer the best lessons a foxhunter can get.”
“I’ve never had a bad day hunting.”
“A bad day’s hunting is a good day’s work.” They laughed again and she changed the subject. “I’ve learned to trust my instincts hunting on and off a horse as well. I’m unsettled about Donnie’s death. And the deaths of Mitch and Tony.”
“Do you think Donnie wanted to burn out Clay?”