Jennifer. Weâre going into a treatment program.â
âNo.â Jenniferâs face turned crimson.
âAnd if you know whatâs good for you, Cody, youâll cough up the money and go in, too.â
Cody pinched her lips together.
âYou canât do this to me!â Jennifer jumped up, towering over her medium-sized mother.
Betty rose but Jennifer pushed her back onto the chair.
Cody shot from the sofa, grabbing Jennifer. âDonât touch Mom, Jen.â
âSheâs a fucking saint?â Jennifer snarled.
âSheâs our mother and sheâs a lot closer to it than weâll ever be. Donât touch her.â
âFine.â Jennifer hauled off and socked Cody instead.
Cody, bigger, stronger, and smarter, ducked the next punch, stepped inside a roundhouse swing, and with the back edge of her hand chopped Jennifer hard in the throat. Both of Jenniferâs hands went for her throat. She choked and Cody grabbed the back of her collar, dragging her to the sofa.
Looming over the coughing girl, Cody said, âYouâre going to treatment.â
Betty never imagined her younger daughter would attack her. The corroding effect of drugs even when one wasnât on them shocked her. She would have died herself before lifting a hand against her own mother.
Jennifer started bawling. She choked a few times, then snarled at Cody. âYou hurt me.â
âYou hurt yourself,â Cody fired back. âMom, how much is the treatment program?â
âI donât know. Central Virginia Hospital has an outpatient program. I hear itâs good. Cody, we canât afford to send you. Youâve been out on your own and you need to do this for yourself.â
Jennifer bellowed, âWhat am I going to say to my friends? Iâm in drug rehab. Mom, this will ruin me. I wonât have any friends.â
âThen they arenât really your friends.â Betty raised her voice. âAnd Iâm not worried about your friends. Iâm worried about you.â
âYou canât tell me what to do.â A flash of defiance illuminated Jenniferâs eyes.
âAs long as youâre under my roof, youâll do as I say. Weâre going to Central Virginia.â
âNow?â Jenniferâs voice dropped, betraying fear.
âNow. Cody?â
âIâm coming.â
CHAPTER 17
At five-thirty in the morning the frost covered the ground like a silver net. The few leaves underfoot would soon give way to blankets of maple, oak, hickory, gum, sycamore, and poplar. Fall, a bit late this year, was about a week away from peak color. Flaming red edging the green of the maples stood out against the dawn light, as did the yellow oak leaves.
Shaker divided hounds in the kennel. Those who would be hunting that day were placed in a draw run. Excited to be chosen, they tormented those left behind with boasts of how good the dayâs hunt would be.
Hounds remaining in the kennel were deemed unfit or unready for many reasons. A bitch going into season would be put in the hot bitch pen until her estrus passed. A hound footsore from Tuesdayâs hunt would be left in the kennel. A hound having difficulty mastering his or her job would be held back lest he or she distract the other hounds from their task. Hounds under two years or a year and a half, depending on development, would be left in the puppy runs. Dragon languished in sick bay. Although he was recovering rapidly, his left eye was swollen shut.
Shaker patiently explained to his charges the reasons for their missing the party. He double-checked everyone, making certain plenty of fresh water was available and that they had eaten their breakfast.
The hounds to hunt wouldnât get breakfast until their return. Full hounds run slow or sit down and throw up. No one minded delaying breakfast if it meant theyâd hunt. They pricked their ears, waved their tails, hopped around in
C. J. Cherryh
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