Free Hotspur by Rita Mae Brown

did.” Sister picked up the wood bits at her coop. “The gray looked healthy.”
    â€œLot of people don’t like running a gray,” Doug said.
    â€œI love getting on a gray. Love to start my puppies on a gray,” Sister enthusiastically said, her voice rising a little. “They’ll give you a good run—but in circles or figure eights. More contained. For the young ones, that’s a help.” She thought for a moment. “You know, cubbing is harder than formal hunting in the sense that you’ve got to give the youngsters, hounds, and foxes positive experiences. The leaves are on trees and shrubs. It’s difficult to see. More to handle, I guess is what I’m trying to say. Kind of like the preseason in football.”
    â€œStill can’t believe she came up here like that.”
    â€œAlice?” Doug spoke.
    â€œNo, Aunt Netty.” Walter took the extra planks, un-planed oak, heavy, and slipped them on the back of the pickup.
    â€œA lot more pleasant than Alice.” Shaker dropped his hammer into his tool belt. “Alice never was strong on social skills and they’re really rusty now.”
    A loud moo and the appearance of a large Holstein heifer, her calf in tow, captured their attention.
    â€œThat damned cow.” Shaker took off his ball cap, wiping his brow with his forearm.
    â€œI’ll walk them back.” Sister reached in the bed of the pickup, retrieving a small bucket of grain kept there for just such events.
    â€œI’ll walk with you,” Walter eagerly volunteered.
    â€œBest offer I’ve had in years.” She smiled.
    â€œWhen you two are done flirting, tell me, boss, how do you propose to get home?”
    â€œYou’re going to pick us up at Cindy’s barn in a half hour.”
    Shaker nodded in agreement as he and Doug climbed into the old Chevy pickup.
    â€œCome on, Clytemnestra. Come on, Orestes,” Sister called, shaking the bucket enticingly.
    Clytemnestra followed and kept pushing Sister for the bucket. Once on the woody path, Walter broke off a thin branch and used it as a switch. Orestes stuck with his fat mother. Both were terribly spoiled and mischievous.
    Out of the woods, they passed the lovely schoolhouse that Foxglove Farm’s owner, Cindy Chandler, had restored.
    â€œCan’t keep this cow in. She opens gates, crashes fences. Bovine wanderlust.” Sister slapped Clytemnestra’s wet nose as the cow nudged her again.
    â€œPicture of health.”
    â€œRaymond and I used to run cattle. Very cyclical business. Don’t know if I’ll ever go back to it.”
    They walked in silence for a while, punctuated only by Clytemnestra’s mooish comments, the loud swish of her tail.
    â€œDo you think Guy killed Nola?” Walter asked. He’d been in his teens at the time and remembered little of it.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œIt’s strange. On the one hand I’m glad Nola was found and on the other I’m not.” Walter took the bucket from Sister, handing her the switch.
    â€œI think we all feel that way. I try not to trouble myself with things out of my control,” Sister said. “I can’t do anything about the past, but maybe I’ll be able to do something to help.”
    â€œCount me in.” Walter growled at Clytemnestra, who balked at going back through her pasture gate.
    â€œI do count on you, Walter. I do.”

CHAPTER 8
    Roger’s Corner, a white frame convenience store, commanded the crossroads of Soldier Road, the road heading west from town, and White Cat Road, an old wagon road heading north and south. Far in the distance, a thin turquoise line rimmed the mountains. A first-quarter moon accompanied by a red star hovered above the last bright strip of twilight.
    Roger, now in his middle forties, ate too much of his own pizza heated in a revolving infrared glass case. On the shelves, Snickers, Cheez-Its, Little Debbie cakes, and