made outsiders surly.
When Warren finished, Harry returned to the flooring. âMind if I ask how much this stuff costs?â
âEight dollars a square foot and nine fifty for the antistumble edge.â
Harry calculated, roughly, the square footage before her and arrived at the staggering sum of forty-five thousand dollars. She gulped. âOhâ squeaked out of her.
âThatâs what I said, but I tell you, Harry, I havenât any worries about big knees or injuries of any sort of this stuff. Before, I used cedar shavings. Well, what a whistling bitch to keep hauling shavings in with the dump truck, plus thereâs the man-hours to fetch it, replenish the supply in the aisle, rake it out, and clean it three times a day. I about wore out myself and my boys. And the dust when we had to work the horses insideânot good for the horses in their stalls or the ones being exercised, so then you spend time sprinkling it down. Still use the cedar for the stalls though. I grind it up a bit, mix it in with regular shavings. I like a sweet-smelling barn.â
âMost beautiful barn in Virginia.â Harry admired the place.
âMouse alert!â
Mrs. Murphy screeched to a stop, fishtailed into the feed room, and pounced at a hole in the corner to which the offending rodent had repaired.
Tucker stuck her nose in the feed room.
âWhere?â
âHere,â
called Mrs. Murphy from the corner.
Tucker crouched down, putting her head between her paws. She whispered,
âShould I stay motionless like you?â
âNah, the little bugger knows weâre here. Heâll wait until weâre gone. You know a mouse can eat a quart of grain a week? Youâd think that Warren would have barn cats.â
âProbably does. They smelled you coming and took off.â
Tucker laughed as the tiger grumbled.
âLetâs find Mom.â
âNot yet.â
Mrs. Murphy stuck her paw in the mouse hole and fished around. She withdrew a wad of fuzzy fabric, the result of eating a hole in a shirt hanging in the stable, no doubt.
âAh, I feel something else.â
A piece of paper stuck to Mrs. Murphyâs left forefinger claw as she slid it out of the hole.
âDamn, if I could just grab him.â
Tucker peered down at the high-quality vellum scrap.
âGoes through the garbage too.â
âSo do you.â
âNot often.â
The dog sat down.
âHey, thereâs a little bit of writing here.â
Mrs. Murphy withdrew her paw from her third attempt at the mouse hole.
âSo there is. âDearest darling.â Ugh. Love letters make me ill.â
The cat studied it again.
âToo chewed up. Looks like a manâs writing, doesnât it?â
Tucker looked closely at the shred.
âWell, itâs not very pretty. Guess there are lovers at the barn. Come on.â
âOkay.â
They joined Harry as she inspected a young mare Warren and his father had purchased at the January sale at Keeneland. Since this was an auction for Thoroughbreds of any age, unlike the sales specifically for yearlings or two-year-olds, one could sometimes find a bargain. The yearling auctions were the ones where the gavel fell and peopleâs pockets suddenly became lighter than air.
âIâm trying to breed in staying power. Sheâs got the bloodlines.â He thought for a moment, then continued. âDo you ever wonder, Harry, what itâs like to be a person who has no blood? A person who shuffled through Ellis Islandâoneâs ancestors, I mean. Would you ever feel that you belong, or would there be some vague romantic attachment, perhaps, to the old country? I mean, it must be dislocating to be a new American.â
âEver attend the citizenship ceremony at Monticello? They do it every Fourth of July.â
âNo, canât say that I have, but Iâd better do it if Iâm going to run for the state Senate.â
âI have.
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