Outfoxed by Rita Mae Brown Page B

jacket. I told him the day would warm up fast. He can ride in his shirt and vest. For whatever reason that seemed to satisfy him. He said he’d called everyone but couldn’t find an extra coat and he’d go straight up to Warrenton to Horse Country and buy a coat after the hunt. He worries more than his mother and she was world-class.” Sister Jane laughed. “Oh, the Franklin girls are in rehab.”
    â€œHeard yesterday.”
    â€œAs Raymond would say, ‘The shit has hit the Franklin fan.’ ” She admired the lacy pattern of the frost. “Wouldn’t he just love today. He took credit for every bright, low-humidity day we had.”
    â€œDirect line to Great God Almighty.”
    â€œThat’s what he said.” Sister laughed, remembering her husband’s sacrilegious streak. Raymond liked nothing better than pouncing on someone who touted the Bible. She herself thought one worshiped best outdoors. “Do you ever miss Sheila on a day like today?”
    Accustomed to her sudden direct hits, the curly-haired man shook his head. “No.”
    â€œNot even on a full moon?”
    â€œWell”—he smiled—“maybe then.”
    â€œGood.” She smiled triumphantly. “It won’t do for a man to be too independent of women.”
    â€œI have you.”
    â€œHa. My solemn vow is to fuss at you. Think of it as marriage without the benefits.”
    â€œLong as I can fuss back.” He patted her on the back.
    â€œDeal.” She leaned into him. She’d known Shaker nearly as long as she had known Raymond. She knew his virtues and his faults. She loved him for himself as well as for his talent.
    â€œRodeo?”
    â€œYep.”
    They turned to enter the kennel, to load up the hounds. Doug was already loading the horses.
    The phone rang in the kennel.
    â€œJefferson Hunt.” Shaker listened, then handed it to Sister Jane, his hand over the earpiece. “Crawford.”
    â€œHello.”
    â€œSister Jane, might I have a few words with you after the hunt today?”
    â€œOf course, Crawford, but you have to survive it first.”

CHAPTER 18
    The massive stone ruins of an old mill perched over the fast-running creek. Broad Creek, swift moving and ten yards wide on Sister Jane’s property, was twenty to thirty yards wide in places at Wheeler Mill, which was eight miles south of her place. The raceway remained intact two centuries later. The men who built this mill intended for it to last.
    As a courtesy to Peter Wheeler, too old to maintain his property, the hunt club, once a year, cleaned the raceway of branches or any other floating debris, bushhogged the trails, and repaired jumps. The stone fences rarely needed fixing, having been constructed in 1730, same as the mill.
    The Wheeler line would die with Peter. Speculation as to the disposition of his estate intensified with each pass-ing year.
    An early riser, the old man sat on a director’s chair in the bed of his truck, having been hoisted up by Walter Lungrun, who’d arrived early.
    When Sister saw the young doctor she breathed in sharply. He reminded her of her husband. Walter—tall, blond, wide-shouldered, and square-jawed—was handsome without being pretty, just as Raymond had been.
    Upon seeing Sister, Walter walked over, tipping his hat. “Master, good morning.”
    Shaker stared at him as though seeing a ghost, then returned his attention quickly to the hounds.
    Before he could say his name Sister smiled. “Dr. Lungrun, you are most welcome. I’ll try and scare up a fox for you. Is this your first hunt?”
    â€œWhen I was in college and med school I hunted a few times. May I try first flight?”
    â€œYou may. If you make an involuntary dismount I’ll keep going, you know, but whoever is riding tail today will pick you up.”
    â€œI’ll try not to embarrass myself.” He clapped his black cap back on, tails