“Well, all these girls have to do is produce good foals.” Poptart winked. “Guess not Binky. She’s ancient.”
“We will,” called out Countess Cool, a 16.1-hand liver chestnut, a very eye-catching girl.
“Who are you calling ancient?” Binky snorted.
Harry and Fair sat on the fence line, watching the horses. With Paul de Silva’s help, they’d loaded the mares that represented all of Barry and Sugar’s worldly investments. The cost of the mares plus the stud fees totaled $62,000, a modest sum by the standards of Lane’s End Farm in Lexington, Kentucky, but quite a lot for two young start-ups in Crozet, Virginia.
Paul also packed up blankets, tack, bandages, meds, and even a set of jockey silks. Since Fair and Harry worked all day and Paul’s hours could be somewhat flexible, he’d asked Big Mim if he could go over and pack up. She readily agreed and was touched that he wanted to help. She was beginning to realize that Paul was a good man as well as a good horseman.
Harry would tackle unpacking everything and finding a place for Barry and Sugar’s equipment tomorrow after work.
This evening, the fireflies darting over the creek, she sat on the fence, her arm around Fair’s waist. Emotionally worn, she said nothing, nor did he. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker sat below them. Harry wasn’t one to discuss her emotions, so the silence was natural.
Pewter’s fascination with the new mares lasted for ten minutes, and then she trooped back into the kitchen and stuck her face in a bowl of crunchies, tuna-flavored, her fave. She then curled up on the old club chair in the living room. She had to wedge next to The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire by Edward Gibbon, Volume I, which Harry was rereading. Harry loved to read well-written history, and Gibbon’s prose filled her with awe. Pewter could not have cared less about what happened to the Romans. As far as she was concerned, it was cats that kept the empire thriving for a thousand years. Cats guarded those grain shipments from Egypt. Yes, cats were responsible for the rise of all civilizations.
Mrs. Murphy leaned next to Tucker. The two friends loved each other dearly.
The corgi said, “Think she’ll ever figure it out?”
“What happened to Mary Pat or who killed Barry?”
“No. That she belongs back with Fair.”
“Oh, that.” The tiger rubbed her left paw over her whiskers. “Humans are singularly stupid about love.”
25
The cool damp of the dew tingled underneath Mrs. Murphy’s paws. The Big Dipper, high overhead at two in the morning, sparkled against the night sky.
The tiger cat left everyone asleep in the house. Pewter’s snoring kept her awake, but she probably would have gone outside for a brief prowl, anyway. The scent of rabbits, possums, even the steady slick trails of earthworms in their ceaseless toil beckoned her. She was, after all, a nocturnal creature who had altered her habits to work with her human.
Simon, the possum, shuffled out of the tack room as Mrs. Murphy entered the center aisle.
“Tootsie Rolls.” He triumphantly chewed on the delicacy.
“You’re as bad as Mom. How can you eat that sugary junk?” Mrs. Murphy preferred—craved—meat, raw or cooked, although occasionally she would eat the tender tip of asparagus.
“It’s so-o-o good.” His eyes closed in gustatory pleasure.
The sounds of merriment floated out from the tack room. Mrs. Murphy’s pupils now expanded to give her a terrifying appearance. She tore into the tack room. A convention of mice played with Tootsie Roll wrappers and bits of grain.
Screaming, they scurried for their hole, cleverly hidden behind a small aluminum tack trunk.
“Mass murderer!”
Mrs. Murphy growled at their opening, “Death to all mice!” She sat down and in a more reasonable tone instructed, “Now, listen, you worthless mammals. You promised me you wouldn’t make messes here or in the feed room. Look at this. This is shameful. I’m going to have to kill a few of you and leave your corpses on Harry’s desk here. Otherwise, I’ll be out of a job.”
“You surprised us,” answered the head mouse, Arthur. “We always clean up. And furthermore, we didn’t throw the wrappers around. Simon did.”
“I did,” Simon confessed as he joined the tiger cat. “But I don’t have to clean up, because the mice do it. Anyway, I leave some Tootsie Rolls. I keep up the deal.”
Excited chatter wafted out from behind the tack trunk. A little nose stuck out, tiny black whiskers swept forward, followed by a pair of jet-black eyes. Arthur, an older fellow, spoke. “Mrs. Murphy, there won’t be one wrapper on the floor tomorrow morning, nor will there be a single kernel of grain. Not one.”
“You can start cleaning now.”
He looked up at the beautiful cat staring down at him. “What do you take me for? A perfect fool?”
“I’ve kept my end of the bargain,” Mrs. Murphy protested her innocence.
“That’s true. You haven’t killed one of us in years, but you’ve wreaked havoc among the field mice. If their population drops, you’ll be in here slaughtering us.”
“Don’t be such a drama queen.” She feigned indifference, then with lightning reflexes swept her paw down and snagged Arthur, hauling him up on the tack trunk. “Worm.”
Although terrified, he wasn’t going to beg for his life. Great consternation could be heard from behind the walls.
Simon, not much for killing since he preferred sweets and grain, opened his mouth. Only a squeak escaped.
Mrs. Murphy cackled with glee.
Arthur’s wife, a plump little mouse, hopped up on the tack trunk. “If he’s going, I’m going!”
“Martha, think of the children,” he pleaded.
“You have so many of them, which brings me to my next demand. Slow down, will you? If there are too many relatives here, I’m going to have to cut down the numbers. Harry doesn’t have the money to feed every mouse in the county. My job is to see that she doesn’t waste money feeding the likes of you. You get the gleanings, but show some sense.”
Martha defiantly scolded, “We do not breed beyond the food supply. That’s more than I can say for humans!”
“Harry is the exception that proves the rule.” Arthur hoped to soften Martha’s words, as Mrs. Murphy fiercely loved Harry.
Mrs. Murphy batted Arthur with her other paw. Martha valiantly charged the larger predator.
“You bully!”
That fast, Mrs. Murphy pinned down Martha. To her great satisfaction she had a mouse underneath each paw. “I’ll let you go if you promise a complete cleanup, including the dust balls behind this tack trunk. I don’t care if you made them or not.”
“Agreed.” Arthur wriggled.
“No more babies this year, and no chewing tack!”
“We have never chewed tack!” Martha, indignant, spat.
“See that your good behavior continues.” Mrs. Murphy swatted them off the tack trunk like two hockey pucks. Then she left, Simon waddling after her.
“You are so fast. I don’t think there’s another creature as fast as yourself that isn’t in the cat family.” The gray possum with his hairless pink tail was anything but quick.