Free Riding Shotgun by Rita Mae Brown Page A

I just meant that inherited wealth surely solves a lot of life’s problems.” She paused a moment. “Then again, I never did know any of them that were truly happy. There.”
    “Ought to last the hunt anyway.” Hunter handed her Reebok’s reins. “If you hold him for a minute I’ll go get the mounting block.”
    “Hunter Blackwood, you’re a perfect gentleman, just like your father.”
    “Thanks, Miss Ericson.” He carefully placed the mounting block, painted with Jefferson Hunt’s colors, on Reebok’s left side, placed the reins over the gelding’s neck and walked to the right side where he put his left hand in the right stirrup iron to make certain the saddle would be rock steady for Roberta. He kept his right hand on the reins behind the bit until she was up and settled.
    Reebok whinnied.
    “He’s ready to hunt this morning.” Roberta loved the little fellow. Most foxhunters love their horses. In many cases they love the animals more than their spouses, the horses proving more reliable.
    Hunter turned to make sure Bill Dominquez and Mosby were getting along. Laura had them ready to go.
    “Wish we could whip today.” Hunter enviously sighed.
    Laura lowered her voice. “We’ve got to baby-sit.”
    His voice brightened as his sister came up next to him. “Miss Ericson is better than Harleyetta. Oh, well, Mom always makes us work in the field on Saturdays. Weekdays we can whip.”
    “You can. I’ve got algebra class at nine in the morning this year and they couldn’t change it.”
    “I forgot about that. You could tell Mom you don’t want to work on Saturdays.”
    “Nah.” Laura glanced around to make certain everything was done and they could mount up.
    “Sometimes I wonder what Mom’s going to do when we’re gone. She can’t make it alone.” He grabbed a rag and wiped the dust off his boots then wiped off his sister’s onceshe swung onto Go To. “I think about it a lot, you know. Like maybe I should bag college and stay here and work.”
    “You can’t do that. You’re going to be a veterinarian and then you’ll make good money.”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Hunter, come on. You’ve got to go next year. Besides, Mom would kill us if we didn’t go to William and Mary. Deyhles always go to William and Mary.”
    “Yeah. Yeah.” He squeezed her toe.
    Harleyetta astride Gypsy, a 16.2-hand mare, walked in circles since the mare wouldn’t stand still. Binky clambered aboard Whiskey, the perfect name for his horse. Even though Harley was mad at him, she’d cleaned his horse and loaded it on the trailer. The two humans didn’t speak to one another. The horses did, neighing away and nosing each other.
    Before convening the group, Cig checked her pockets. In the left pocket of her heavy melton jacket she carried a tiny flashlight, Kleenex, and a small folding toothbrush in a square plastic case. In her right pocket she carried fifty dollars, some change, and a small sharp pocketknife. Inside she had a small red moroccan-bound notebook made by Smythe of England with a tiny pencil inserted in a loop at the spine.
    In her canary vest she carried her driver’s license and her Virginia hunting license. She also carried Motrin.
    Usually she carried a pistol loaded with ratshot but today she’d absentmindedly left it back at the barn.
    Nothing she could do about it. She stood up in her stirrups. Everyone was just about ready.
    “Gather ‘round,” Cig called out.
    Binky warned Harleyetta through clenched teeth, “You keep your trap shut. All you do is stir up trouble.”
    “I feel guilty.”
    “You had nothing to do with Blackie’s death,” he whispered fiercely. “You kept your mouth shut for a year. Keep it shut forever. It’s October twenty-second. You’re having a flashback.”
    “I know that, idiot, but I feel guilty. This secret is making me sick.”
    “You’re sick with or without secrets.” He rolled his eyes.
    “Why even talk to you? You don’t have any feelings. What if