“I don’t know if she has.” Doug laid the girth across his knees, scrubbing the underside. “At first I thought maybe he leaned on her, using her parents. He does a lot of business at Franklin Press. Maybe he threatened to take business elsewhere. She feels guilty about what she’s put her parents through over the years. I thought, okay, maybe that’s it.”
“You don’t now?”
“No.”
“It can’t be a sexual attraction.” Sister was incredulous. “She’s not that dumb even if he is handsome.”
“No. He has a hold on her.”
“You think she has slept with him then?”
A sickly look passed over Doug’s handsome features. “Yeah.”
“Oh, Doug, I hope not but if she has, maybe it’s over.”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think she loves you?”
“I don’t know.” His voice dropped.
“Steady on. Whatever is supposed to happen will happen and even if she brings you pain this will lead to the right woman. Maybe not to Cody but to the right woman.” His stricken face brought a swell of sympathy. “Doug, I didn’t know you cared that much. I hope she is the one, truly. If she’s the one you want then I hope it works out.”
“Thanks, boss.” He smiled weakly. “You like her, don’t you?”
“I love her. I’ve known her since the day she was born but I’m afraid for her. She’s been a handful since birth. Betty said she kicked like a mule in the womb. I don’t know what to tell you, Doug. It seems there’s something inside Cody that drives her on like Juno’s fly biting Europa.” She didn’t need to explain mythology to Doug. He loved the Greek myths.
“Maybe people are born like that.”
“I don’t know but I do know you can’t try to satisfy her or anybody. You take care of yourself. You can’t fix Cody.”
“I hope that’s what rehab was about.”
“I do, too.”
“Car!” Raleigh informed them.
“Crawford.” Golly rolled onto her other side.
When Crawford strode through the door Sister couldn’t help but laugh as Doug shook his head.
“How’d you know it would be Crawford?” Raleigh asked in amazement.
“Cats know everything.”
CHAPTER 29
Crawford, narrow-eyed, waited for an invitation from the silver-haired master to sit down. Once he heard that he unzipped his raincoat, the latest, most expensive Gore-Tex model, hanging it on a coatrack by the door.
“Crawford, hand me that sponge as long as you’re standing up?” Sister asked.
He handed her a long, natural sponge before easing himself into the chair Fontaine had just vacated. “Knees. Football.”
Sister pointed to her entire body. “Bones. Life.”
Doug laughed.
“Just wait.” Sister waggled her forefinger at him.
“I hurt now.”
“Where?”
“Where I broke my shoulder blade.”
“Okay. That counts. You can join the aches-and-pains club.” She dipped the fresh sponge into the clear rinse water. “Crawford, I’m all ears.”
“I’m sure you are. I passed Fontaine on Soldier Road. That mouth of his is an inexhaustible motor. He is a person entirely lacking in self-control.” Crawford realized he was going on in the wrong vein. He crossed his arms over his chest. “What did he say?”
“He had words with you, etc. . . .” Crawford glanced from Sister to Doug and before he could say anything she added, “He’s not going to repeat what you say.” She paused and with a malicious little grin said, “But I might.”
At that moment, too self-important, brimming with wounded pride, Crawford sputtered, “I don’t care who you tell. He’s damned lucky I didn’t call the sheriff.”
The blow to his jaw, turning an interesting shade of reddish blue, bore testimony to Fontaine’s aim.
“Did you ice it down?” Doug politely asked.
“Yes. He caught me off guard. If he’d given me fair warning I could have defended myself,” said the man who couldn’t. Crawford, reared in suburban luxury, had never been in a fistfight in his life.
“Fontaine was born with an unfortunate infirmity of temper.” A wry smile played over Sister’s lips as she dipped the clean sponge in a white jar labeled SADDLE BUTTER. A friend sent Sister the tack conditioner from out west and she found it the best stuff she’d ever used.
“What do you mean?”
Crawford evidenced little appreciation for the subtleties of the English language.
“Hothead. Fontaine’s always been a hothead.”
“Oh.”
Sister held out the brow band at arm’s length. “Doug, we dipped this at the beginning of the summer. It still looks good. I’ll just wipe it down with the butter.”
He reached over, rubbing the leather between thumb and forefinger. “Yes. Fine.”
Sister pointed to the tack dripping oil into the bucket. “I need a couple of warmish days before opening hunt or I’m going to soak up all that oil on my breeches. I should have done this at the beginning of September but I never found the time. Time speeds by me like light.” She put the plain, flat hunting bridle back together as she talked.
The deep rich brown of the English leather bore no adornment, no lines cut into the sides, no raised portions, just excellent flat leather. An old friend had made her this bridle before he died. It was his last gift to her—that and a lifetime of friendship. As her hands flew over the supple yet strong leather, she felt the edges which he had minutely beveled.
“Sister, I’ll cut to the chase.” Crawford liked to use expressions he heard bandied about in his business. These were generally sports allusions or sexual allusions designed to make the speaker appear manly and in control. Usually whoever mouthed such stuff was neither, although Crawford was, in a business sense anyway. “I believe Fontaine should be removed from Jefferson Hunt.”
“He has committed no crime which reflects badly upon the hunt.”
“Not true. He simply hasn’t been caught. He is an adulterer and he’s violent.”
“Oh, Crawford.” Sister wrapped the thin chin strap around the bridle in a figure eight. “There’d be no one left were those the criteria. You yourself would fail the test.”
“I never went to bed with Tiffany. Not until I separated from Martha. You may not believe me but it’s the truth.”
The drip, drip of the oil punctuated the silence as Sister thought of a neutral response. “That showed admirable restraint. However, I can’t toss people out of the hunt for being human. Sexual escapades are a common and often amusing human frailty. Besides, Crawford, we have to have something to talk about, otherwise conversation descends to the weather or worse, politics.”
“You are a tolerant woman.”
Before he could continue she shot back, “Masters need to be.”
“Why? Your word is law.”
“My word is law until each year when the board of governors of the club elects their master.”
“As long as you live, you’ll be elected master. You know that.”
“Crawford, if I could afford a private pack I would have one. Believe me. A subscription pack is an invitation for endless political maneuvering and there’s enough maneuvering being a master as it is. Dealing with landowners, for example. Making certain one complies with all Masters of Foxhounds rulings and bylaws. And remember, the MFHA sits in Leesburg. We, in Virginia and Maryland, are right under their noses. You do it right or you get the boot.”
“But you can still remove a member.”
“No, I can’t. Only the master of a private pack can remove someone from the roster. I can remove a member from the field.”
“You could petition the board.” He glowered, which made him look like a middle-aged child angry about having to go to bed.
“No. Fontaine has endangered no one in the field. He has shown respect to master and staff. Whatever his quarrel with you, it’s between the two of you.”