Just as the field came out by the upper pond, Iggy came into view.
Sister, seeing him, did not make the mistake of an overenthusiastic field master. Her task was to follow the hounds, not the fox. She didn’t cross the huge expanse of snow-covered pasture to get on terms with him. That would have cut off her hounds. She stuck behind the hounds, which she could finally see as they launched themselves off the bank to land next to the lower pond, the waterwheel paddling away.
As “Tally-hos” sounded behind her she fought the urge to turn and tell them she wasn’t an idiot, she might be old but she wasn’t blind, she had seen the fox. Better yet, hounds, heads down, were on. No need for “Tally-ho.” Well, it was a large field. Not everyone knew her, as many were cappers. She pressed on, wondering how people can foxhunt yet remain ignorant. That flew out of her mind as she launched off the upper bank, a tidy drop jump onto the slick surface by the lower pond.
That would part a few riders from their mounts, thereby enriching the club bar. Off you go, and a bottle must be produced at the next hunt. If a junior you had to deliver a six-pack of soda.
The music, spine tingling, swelled, and she now saw Shaker come out of the woods followed by Tootie, Val, Felicity, and Pamela.
Jumping off the upper bank, Bunny also beheld her students. She’d get to the bottom of this when the hunt was over. What were those girls doing behind the huntsman? She was going to skin them alive.
Iggy, in the open now, treated everyone to a view as well as an appreciation of his blinding speed.
The pace began to tell. People fell behind. Gray, riding in the middle of first flight, moved up behind Tedi and Edward, who rode right up behind Sister. He didn’t feel it was proper for him to ride with Sister on days when there were large fields. It would smack of favoritism. When fields were small, he’d be close.
As Sister thought, five people came a cropper on the drop from the upper bank to the lower. Ronnie Haslip, a good rider having a bad day, broke his collarbone. Walter stayed with Ronnie, sending Jason forward in case anyone else went down hard.
“I’ll ride back to the trailers with you,” Walter offered. “Or if you want to stay here I can drive up here for you.”
“It’s only my collarbone. Tie my arm up with my stock. Hurry, Walter, hurry.”
Walter unpinned the long white four-fold tie and wrapped it around Ronnie’s shoulder, careful not to make it too tight as he looped it under Ronnie’s forearm resting across his chest.
“There.”
“Give me a leg up, Master.” Ronnie grinned.
Walter, strong as an ox, practically lifted the lighter man up and over onto the other side.
They lost ten minutes but caught up with the field in time to see Iggy dart under the schoolhouse.
Bobby put the hilltoppers just to the side of first flight so they could see everything.
Ben Sidell, riding with Bobby, felt his cell phone buzz in his pocket. He’d pick up the message later.
Shaker, blowing “Gone to ground,” effused over his pack. “Picking up the right scent, what good foxhounds. What good hounds.”
“We were good, weren’t we?” Diddy’s tail flipped like a windshield washer.
“I made you look good.” Iggy laughed. “Hey, I’m one smart fox. I live under a schoolhouse.”
Cora called back, “Okay, Professor.”
This would be his name ever after: Professor.
Shaker walked over to Showboat. The footing was slick as an eel. He slid, nearly falling flat on his face. Tootie held Showboat’s reins.
“Thank you, Tootie.”
“Thank you. I’ve never had so much fun in my life. Thank you.” Tears filled Tootie’s eyes.
He took the reins, patted her hand, “Tootie, neither have I.” He swung up, then said to the other girls, “You all can go back to Sister now.”
“Thank you.” They beamed and rode past Sister, all smiles, and joined Jason, Walter, and Ronnie at the rear.
“Let’s pick ’em up.” Sister would have searched for another fox had the footing been better.
They’d had a bracing day, been out for two hours. Best to stop.
The clouds reached them at last, the only clear sky being a thin, brilliant, blue stripe in the east. Pines rustled. Branches started to sway.
By the time they reached the trailers, the first snowflakes were dotting their velvet hunt caps.
Val, on hearing of Ronnie’s mishap, volunteered to cool out his horse. He offered her money, which she quite properly refused. She wanted to help. Tootie took care of Moneybags for Val.
“Mr. Haslip, if Coach lets me, I’ll drive your rig home and do everything. I’d like to do that. I’m really a good driver.”
“Thanks, honey.” He melted at the sight of the girl, even though he was gay. Val was breathtaking. “I think Walter will drive and leave his horse here with Mrs. Chandler.”
“Well, if that doesn’t work, I’ll do it.”
Jason strode over. “All right, Ronnie, let me get you up in the tack room.”
He, too, melted at the sight of Val, but most men are wise enough to not dally with minors.
Ronnie stepped into the tack room. Jason untied the makeshift sling.
Ronnie, feeling the pain once the adrenalin of the chase had worn off, joked, “Hey, at least you don’t have to cut off my boots.”
“I’d never do that,” Jason joked back.
Sister stuck her head in the trailer tack room. “Need a belt? Say bourbon and branch?”
“When it’s over.” Ronnie grimaced as Jason wiggled the coat off his left arm.
Sister stayed outside, holding a flask carrying Woodford Reserve mixed with 25 percent pure water.
Ronnie unbuttoned his shirt with one hand. What hurt was having Jason pull over his head the silk and cashmere long-sleeved undershirt he wore on the nasty cold days. Tears ran down his eyes. The cold hit his lean naked torso, and he shivered.
“All right, Ronnie.” Jason felt the collarbone. “Not my specialty, but it’s a poor doctor who can’t set a bone.”
Walter joined Sister at the tack room door. Val worked on Ronnie’s nice mare. She didn’t want to see the bone being set. People in pain upset her, made her feel helpless.
“Ronnie, with those abs you ought to be a cover boy.” Sister made light of the situation.
“Right.” He gritted his teeth as Jason put his right hand on one side of the break, left on the other, then snapped the bones back.
“Oh, shit,” Ronnie blurted out. He nearly crumpled.
Jason put his hand under Ronnie’s elbow, helping him to lean on the raised section in the tack room, the nose of the trailer.
Walter stepped in. “May I?”
“Sure,” said Ronnie, lips white.
Walter lightly ran his fingers over the collarbone. “Good job, Jason.”
“What’d you expect?” Jason smiled. “Ronnie, as you probably know, it doesn’t do much good to set a collarbone. Keep it in a sling. That’s the best advice I can give.”
“He’s broken that left collarbone twice before.” Sister handed up the flask. “First time was at our hunter pace when he was twelve.”
“You didn’t give me bourbon and branch then.” Ronnie’s color was returning.
“I would have if your mother hadn’t been hovering.” She noticed his shiver. “Boy, you aren’t going to get that pullover back on. I don’t have anything I can give you.”
“I have an old flannel shirt in my bag,” Walter said. “Better than nothing. It’ll be six weeks before you can get a sweater on.”
“Three,” Ronnie resolutely replied.
Jason pulled a Montblanc ballpoint pen out of his coat pocket. He produced a prescription pad, for he’d first gone to his own trailer and changed coats, picking up the pad, too. “I’m giving you a prescription for 800 Motrin. Take one in the morning. One at night. It’ll help.”
“Thanks.” Ronnie took the small white paper.