“Damn, those clouds are rolling in fast,” Shaker exclaimed.
They had hacked to Foxglove to cast hounds. From the kennels Foxglove was two miles on the trails. At the point where they now stood they were halfway between both farms.
“Makes sense to head home.” She smiled at her hounds. “I’m proud of all of you.”
“He’s in the rocks.” Cora wanted to circle back.
“Good girl.” Sister praised her as she turned Lafayette on the narrow path, walking back to the creek crossing. Once on the other side the three humans walked through the forest, Shaker and Sister up front and Doug in the rear.
They hadn’t ridden a half mile when the wind began to whistle. Heavy frock coats, a vest, shirt, and silk underwear kept their upper bodies warm, but their legs began to feel it. Each had learned the trick of slipping a flat heat pack in the toe of their boot, which helped keep their toes from freezing. There was no help for one’s hands, since a rider must feel the horse’s mouth.
Sister wore silk liners under her string gloves but her hands ached in the cold. She didn’t complain about it, nor did Shaker and Doug. Came with the territory.
Their ears began to sting. Snow blew off the conifers. As if the heavens unzipped, all at once the snow fell, fat flakes falling quickly. Within minutes their helmets, shoulders, and backs were covered in snow. The hounds’ backs began to turn white.
“If we cut down into the ravine, we’ll be out of the wind,” Shaker suggested. “It might take a little longer, as it’s rough going, but this wind—” He raised his voice to be heard above the roar.
“Worth a try. Damn, how did this thing come up so fast?”
They picked their way down the folds of the ravine, holly bushes and mountain laurel sharing the banks with hardy firs. Once down in the bottom they followed the creek westward.
“I can’t hear myself think.” Sister bent low to avoid a branch.
Doug looked at the edge of the ravine. The snow spilled over the top like a white-powdered waterfall.
The creek widened into a roundish shallow frozen pool where a small tributary fed into it, ice encrusting the creek bank edges. They halted to allow hounds and horses to drink, as the tributary was still running strong. The water emerged from the other side of the pond, but the ice was closing in fast.
“Funny how you get thirsty when it’s cold. Wouldn’t think so.” Dragon gulped the icy water.
“I’d like bacon-bit kibble right now.” Dasher sighed, taking a few steps into the deeper end of the pool. He’d pushed through the ice crust at the edge of the pond. He felt something odd among the pebbles, metal. He dug at it, moving it closer to the other hounds.
“Whatcha got?” a large tricolor asked him.
“I don’t know but I’m not giving it to you.” Dasher reached down in the water, picking up the object with his mouth.
“I’d let you play with my toy.” Dragon came over.
Dasher didn’t respond or he would have dropped his prize.
Doug dismounted. “Dasher, that’s really special. Let me keep it for you.”
The handsome young hound turned his head away from Doug. Dragon bumped him to see if he could get him to drop the toy.
Sister said, “Dasher, what a good hound.”
He turned around to face her, then slowly emerged from the pool, looking crossly at any hound that looked at him. He would surrender his find to Sister but they’d better leave him alone.
She dismounted also, reaching for the gun that he gave her. “Good hound. Good hound.”
The gun, cold and wet, soaked through her string gloves. “Thirty-eight.” She shook it, then slipped it inside the large game pocket inside her coat. “I’ve got a funny feeling about this.”
“Yeah, I do, too,” Shaker agreed.
CHAPTER 57
The storm raged for one full day. Power cut out. Those that had them switched over to generators, careful to turn off the main switch at their breaker boxes or the poor sod trying to restore power would have a most unpleasant sensation.
The transportation department of the state, playing the averages, which it had to do, didn’t have enough snowplows to open the main arteries, much less the back roads. People dug out as best they could or sat home, eating canned soup off Sterno stoves. The lucky ones who had gas stoves could cook real meals.
Then as quickly as the freak storm had hit, the temperatures rose into the sixties, the sky beamed heavenly blue, snow melting everywhere. The sound of water running into downspouts, across roads, under culverts, into creeks and rivers drowned out other sounds. It was as though the earth were melting. Creeks rose to the top of their banks, overflowing in low-lying areas.
As the snows melted the grass, still green underneath, deepened to a brighter green; the leafless trees seemed to stand out against the color.
Since Crawford Howard owned a Hummer, which suited him better than his Mercedes, he merrily drove everywhere. He surprised the Vanns by bringing them food, as they lived at the edge of the county down a twisting back road. He even delivered ten bags of kibble to the kennel in case chow was low. After a morning of good deeds he emerged from his mud-bespattered behemoth, which he parked in front of Mountain Landscapes. Since Martha had an apartment downtown she could walk to work. With masses of roses in his left arm, he rapped on the door with his right hand.
“Come in.”
He opened the door. “A rose by any other name is Martha.”
“You must have bought out the store—or did you buy the store?” She laughed, rising from the drafting table. “I’d better get a tub.”
“Brought that, too.” He hurried outside, returning with a large round black bowl.
“Oh, they’ll be stunning in that.” Martha took the bowl, filled it with water in the small kitchen in the office, then placed the roses inside, careful to have a few falling over the side. She placed the arrangement in the middle of the coffee table. “There.”
He sat on the leather sofa. “Quite a storm.”
“I love watching the weatherman on Channel Twenty-nine. Even with all the sophisticated radar, satellite photos—they still don’t know what the weather will do. Especially here next to the mountains.”
“Hungry?”
“That means you are.”
“How about a cold Coke?” He went outside again and this time returned with a Harrods hamper basket filled with exquisite sandwiches; cheeses, including Stilton; crackers; fruits; chocolate-covered strawberries; small delicious shortbreads. He carried this largesse with two hands, it was so heavy.
Under his arm he pinned a checkerboard tablecloth, which he now spread on the floor. “Picnic. Wine for you?”
“Oh.” She surveyed the endless array of treats he kept pulling out of the basket. “I’ll have a Coke with you. Let’s save the wine.”
“Goodo.”
As they ate and chatted, Crawford reported on his heroic exploits delivering food, whose vehicles were stuck, the Fishers’ collapsed shed roof.
She remarked that downtown didn’t lose power and she enjoyed watching the snow fall over the rooftops. The Episcopal church steeple was wrapped in white. This was her favorite view from her bedroom window, Saint Luke’s, and for a few hours the snow fell so heavily she couldn’t even see that.
After laughter and chat he leaned toward her. “Martha, do you think people can change?”
“Of course I do.”
“Do you feel that I have changed?”
“In some ways.”
“How?”
“I think you’ve learned that younger isn’t necessarily better.” She suppressed a smile.
He blushed. “Well, yes, but I was hoping you’d see that I’ve become more sensitive, more responsive to others.”