Free Cat on the Scent by Rita Mae Brown Page A

this will blow up in my face. Even though we've drifted apart, I know I have a good wife but . . . I can't seem to help myself. And the strange thing is, I don't feel guilty.”
    Herb poured a small glass of port, Dow's 1972, for Archie and for himself. Port and a fine cigar were the perfect finish to an evening. He'd sworn off cigars, missing them terribly, but he still enjoyed his evening glass of port. Stashed away in his small wine cellar he had a bottle of Cockburn's from 1937. He was saving it for a special occasion but he could never figure out what would be that special.
    He held the glass in his hand, admiring the ruby color, which came to life as the firelight flickered through it. “Archie, we've known each other a long time.”
    â€œYes, we have.”
    â€œHow old are you now?”
    â€œForty-three.”
    Herb sipped, leaned back in his chair, and thought awhile. “Ever think how wine is made?”
    â€œPeasants step on grapes.”
    Herb laughed. “I guess we could say the grapes are bruised and tortured, but out of this suffering, combined with time, comes a liquid of refinement and comfort. I enjoy port, you know. I've got bottles ranging from the recent—say ten years ago—all the way back to 1937. Port improves with age. Men do, too. You're being bruised now.”
    â€œExcept I'm the one committing the sin.”
    â€œYou hurt yourself more by sinning than you hurt anyone else. Some people never realize that. You're at a vulnerable age.”
    â€œYeah, youth is checking out . . .”
    â€œAnd leaving no forwarding address.” Herb laughed. “It's a hard time for both men and women. Takes us differently, though. So many marriages break up.”
    â€œI don't want to lose my wife.”
    â€œThen you'd better lose the other woman.”
    Sweat poured down Archie's face. “I know that. Each time I see her I tell myself, this is it . . . break it off and then . . .”
    â€œYounger?”
    â€œA little,” Archie admitted.
    A rueful smile covered the minister's expansive face. “You've heard that feminist joke, ‘When God made man she was practicing.' I don't think of myself as a feminist but I agree with that one.” He paused. “Arch, there's not a man alive who hasn't been torn between two women at one time in his life. And I expect there isn't a woman alive who hasn't been torn between two men at one time in her life. Pray for guidance. Consider what has drawn you to the other woman and what has drawn her to you. There may be answers there that surprise you.”
    â€œShould I tell Aileen?”
    â€œI can't answer that.” He shook his head. “I don't know.”
    Archie drained his glass. “Crazy time.”
    â€œYou've ruffled a lot of feathers lately. I always say it's easy to be an angel if no one ruffles your feathers.”
    Archie carefully placed his glass on the coaster. “Everybody wants something, don't they?”
    â€œMost times, yes. Quid pro quo makes sense in the business world but it has no meaning in the spiritual world. God's love is unconditional.”
    Archie smiled weakly. He wanted to believe that but he didn't. No matter, talking to Herb had helped him. He now felt he could sort this out somehow, over time.
    As Herb opened the door for Archie and waved good-bye he noticed how cool it was. May could be tricky.

13
    Mrs. Murphy loped along fields swallowed in darkness, skirting the creek dividing Harry's land from Blair Bainbridge's picturesque farm. She wanted to visit the 911 Turbo. The humans hadn't given her enough time to thoroughly inspect the car.
    A movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention, about fifty yards away, a swaying in the bushes along the upper creek.
    She stopped. In a split second she whirled around, blasting for home as fast as she could run. She heard the quick swish of the spring grasses behind her. Longer strides than hers were