Fox River (12 page)

T
he Horseshoe Bar and Grill wasn’t known for its cuisine. The menu was limited, the cook indifferent. Christian had never eaten anything that tasted better than the steak sandwich and French fries Peter ordered for him.

He’d lost the fine art of ordering for himself. When confronted with even a limited menu, he’d frozen. After nearly nine years of having the Commonwealth of Virginia decide for him, the menu had seemed as incomprehensible as a neurosurgery textbook.

Sensing his dilemma, Peter had recommended the steak sandwich; then he had ordered a round of beer for everyone. Christian was on his second now while they waited for frozen cheesecake to defrost.

“Feeling any better?” Peter asked.

Christian drew rings in the condensation on his mug. “Yes. Thanks.”

“Everything’s happened too fast.”

Christian tried to smile, but he was out of practice. “Or not fast enough.”

“Nine years not fast enough,” Mel said.

“It’s going to take you a while to adjust, son,” Peter said. “You have to give yourself time. Don’t expect too much right away. Ease back in.”

Mel polished his glasses, then held them up to the bare incandescent bulb hanging over their table. “Which brings up what you plan to do. You haven’t had much time to think about it, but it must have crossed your mind.”

“I need to get a job and start paying Peter back for everything he’s done.”

“You given any thought to what sort of job?”

“Bertha Petersen might help me find something. And I finished my degree while I was behind bars. Maybe there’s a job out there for an ex-con with a degree in biology.”

“I have a job for somebody like that.” Peter, who seemed as at ease in the honky-tonk Horshoe Bar as he did astride a prize hunter, leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. “I want you to come home, Christian. I need you there.”

Christian had been fairly certain Peter would offer him a job, and he had been just as certain he would refuse. But he hadn’t expected Peter to say that he
needed
him. He was unprepared, and suddenly unable to answer.

“Christian, opening hunt is less than a month away, and the Mosby Hunt needs a huntsman. I’ve tried a couple of men but haven’t found anyone who could do the kind of work I expect, and I’m getting too old to do the job myself. We need someone who knows how to breed and train and work with our vet and kennel staff. You’d have help, of course. My whole staff would be at your disposal. But—”

“I can’t.” For a man who couldn’t choose between a steak sandwich and a chicken filet, those two words came easily.

Peter fell silent, but Mel took up the slack. “You’ve had so many offers, Chris, you’ve already settled on something better?”

Christian ignored Mel. “Peter, you don’t need me. There must be a hundred men more qualified to be your huntsman than I am. I haven’t even been on a horse since—”

“I’d be worried about that if you were anybody else, but you could ride before you could walk. Your daddy saw to that. And I taught you to hunt myself. I’ve never seen anyone with better instincts. You were whipping-in before you were fifteen, and half the time you were the one who kept track of the dogs when Samuel began to fail.”

Samuel Fincastle had been the club’s huntsman for almost twenty years. Samuel had died when Christian was in prison, and Christian hadn’t even been able to pay his respects. It had been one more bad moment among many.

“Everything will come back quickly, and you’ll feel right at home,” Peter continued. “Until you do, I’ll cast the hounds myself. You ride along for the rest of cubbing season until you’re feeling comfortable enough to take over.” Peter smiled a little. “I will say I’d hate to have your legs after that first long ride or two.”

“Even if I could toughen up fast enough, what do I know anymore? Why go back in time?”

“You want to know why?” Peter sat back. “Because you taught my son to ride, Christian, when nobody else had the patience. And you sat up more nights than I can count with mares we might have lost if it hadn’t been for you. You were the one who persuaded me to concentrate on American foxhounds to strengthen the bloodlines in our kennel, and you were right, even though nobody else could see it.”

Christian held up his hand. “I was a kid, and that was another life.”

“And since then, and despite everything, you’ve gone on to finish your college degree and administer a successful guide dog program. With all that, you can’t see why I might want you? Why I know I can trust you to work hard, work fair, and help an old man hold on to everything he’s worked for?”

“I don’t see an old man.”

Peter’s expression was strained. “I’m sixty-two going on a hundred. I’m slowing down, and I need somebody I can count on.”

Christian had never heard Peter ask for help. Peter was always the one who offered a hand. Christian still wasn’t sure this wasn’t a ploy to get him to accept more assistance.

“Maybe you don’t want to go back to Ridge’s Race?” Mel said. “Maybe that’s too close to what happened? Too scary?”

“Trust you to put all the cards right out on the table,” Peter said dryly.

“What’s the point of bullshitting around about this? Christian wasn’t exactly a local hero, was he? It takes time for people to change their minds after something like this. People don’t want to believe they could have been that wrong.”

“I’m still sitting here,” Christian told the two men. “I might not be able to order a sandwich without breaking a sweat, but I can speak.”

“Well, am I right?” Mel demanded.

“Yes and no.”

“I’ve always said diplomacy was a lost art. Maybe not.” Peter made room at the table for the cheesecake that a man with hairy arms slid across to them.

Christian caught his before it sailed to the floor. He tried to remember when he’d last had a dessert that overlapped the edges of an ordinary saucer.

“Christian?” Mel glanced pointedly at his watch.

“I’ve gotten pretty good at watching my back and even better at ignoring things that don’t concern me. I can think of another reason to go back to Ridge’s Race.”

“If you’re thinking you can pick up your life where you left it…” Mel warned.

“Nothing like that.” Christian knew better than to think that anything in Ridge’s Race would be the same, or even that he might want it to be.

“Then what?” Mel dug into his cheesecake.

“I want to know exactly what happened to Fidelity.”

Mel’s mouth was full. “We know what happened to Fidelity. Karl Zandoff killed her. What else do you have to know?”

“Nobody’s actually placed him at the scene.”

“He placed himself there,” Peter said. “Which is all that really matters now. What’s the point of looking further?”

“Until somebody else can put him there, people will still wonder, won’t they?”

“Who cares?” Mel said.

“Because I’m wondering. I want to know what happened to her.” His voice rose. “I want to know how Zandoff managed to do this when nobody even remembers him being in Loudoun County. I want to know how he chose Fidelity, how he knew when she would be alone, how he caught her unaware.” Christian slapped his palm against the table. “I want to put it completely to rest. It’s all I’ve thought about. I have to know so I can move on.”

The other two men were silent. Finally Peter spoke. “Christian, this is a matter best left to the authorities. The Florida cops aren’t going to let you anywhere near Zandoff. And no one here is going to appreciate you poking around in police business. The fact that they put you in prison when you weren’t guilty will be enough for them to live down. Let them gather the details in their own way.”

“At least I have what’s left of the rest of my life. Fidelity doesn’t have that. We were friends. She was the first girl I kissed. Maybe she was spoiled rotten, but she had a good heart. She didn’t deserve to die, and now she deserves to be put to rest. Really put to rest.”

Peter put his hand on Christian’s arm. “Not by you.”

Even though Christian knew Peter was right, he also knew he couldn’t sit back and let the rest of the story unfold without him. He just wouldn’t rub Peter’s nose in it.

“I want you at Claymore Park,” Peter said. “But not if it’s going to make things worse for you or anyone else in Ridge’s Race. I want you to heal. I don’t want you reopening wounds.” He paused. “Come home with me, son. I lost my boy, and you lost nine years of your life. Let’s see if we can help each other a little.”

Christian was not Peter’s son, but something in Peter’s eyes told him that Peter hoped Christian might be able to fill a little of the hole left by Robby’s death. Peter had stood beside him through his nightmare, and now it was time for Christian to stand beside Peter.

He gave just enough of a nod to get the job done. “I’ll come, but I won’t guarantee I’ll be exercising anything except your most docile mares until I’ve got my legs back.”

Peter clasped Christian’s arm, then picked up his glass. “A toast to a new life and the new huntsman of Mosby Hunt.”

Christian and Mel lifted theirs in answer. The resulting tinkle of glass against glass reminded Christian of Fidelity Sutherland’s laughter.

“It’s been a difficult night,” Jake said as he and Maisy finished up the dishes.

Christian’s freedom hadn’t remained a secret for long. Bard had come by just as they finished supper to demand once again that Julia return to Millcreek where he could keep her safe.

Maisy wondered exactly what Bard wanted to protect her from.

“What a welcome for Christian.” Maisy dried the last plate and set it in the cupboard.

“Not the best,” Jake agreed. When Julia refused yet again to go back to Millcreek, Bard had made it clear he intended to warn Christian to stay away from his family. Nothing any of them said had made an impact on him.

“He’s been unfairly imprisoned for nine years, and now he has to come home to Bard Warwick at his worst,” Maisy said.

“That’s not all he’ll come home to, is it?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“He has Peter Claymore. He has
you.
”

She didn’t answer.

“You’ve written him every month since he was sent away.”

“How do you know that?”

“I live with you, remember?”

“You’ve never said anything.”

“What was there to say? Except that you’re a wonderful, warmhearted woman.”

“I don’t mind hearing it.”

“I don’t mind saying it.” He kissed the top of her head. “You’ll be going to see him, won’t you?”

“You know me so well.”

“Maisy, just be careful. You can’t make everything right.”

“I know that.”

He patted her ample behind and left the room.

Maisy joined Julia in her bedroom once she was sure her daughter was settled for the night.

“Doing all right?”

Julia grimaced. “I’ve just been thinking about Bard. He feels threatened by the whole scenario. He’s only comfortable if he knows exactly what’s going to happen next. And no one knows that, do they?”

Privately Maisy thought Bard was unhappy because he didn’t have complete control over the situation. “I hope you realize he can’t keep Christian away from the two of you no matter what he does. Callie will run into him. It’s inevitable.”

“I have to take this one step at a time.”

“Are you up for another chapter?”

Julia’s real answer was clear in her expression, but it was a testimony to her love for her mother that she nodded. “I guess I could use something else to think about right now.”

“I’m happy to oblige.” Maisy settled herself in a chair while Julia got into bed. “Are you enjoying the story so far? I didn’t go on too long about Louisa’s trip to Virginia, did I?”

“As a matter of fact…”

“You’re not enjoying it?”

“No, actually, I’m, well, surprised.”

Maisy laughed. “Why?”

“It’s interesting. You haven’t written anything else, have you?”

“Oh, I’ve been dabbling for years.”

“You never told me.”

Maisy considered that. “I suppose it’s because writing means more to me than anything else ever did. Maybe the things that mean the most are the things we don’t talk about.”

“Are we talking about you now, or me?”

Maisy shuffled her pages. “Let’s talk about Louisa and her introduction to hunt country. Just lie back and forget about everything else for a little while.”

“You never ask for too much, do you?” Julia closed her eyes.

M
y first glimpse of Sweetwater was across a pond shaded by weeping willows. Azaleas in every shade of pink lined the brick driveway to the house, and rhododendrons in bud peeked from the lush canopy of an evergreen forest. The house, of the same maroon brick, sat on a gentle rise, held proudly erect by columns as thick as the trunks of the magnolias and maples gracing the sweep of emerald lawn.

Annie had prepared me. As we traveled, she had told me tales of the men and women on nearby estates. They were far more interesting than most people of our class, vital, exuberant and sometimes overwhelmingly rich. We would visit them, Annie had promised, each and every one. There were teas, yes, and dances, but we would also go to races and horse shows, and take long companionable canters through the woods. Fox hunting was an autumn sport, but we might help walk the Fox River hounds, if we were so inclined. The pack was housed at Fox River Farm, the personal property of a man named Ian Sebastian, who was the finest horseman in Virginia. We would ride there after we rested.

Although I didn’t have Annie’s zest for horses, the social whirl seemed to be made expressly for high-spirited young ladies. As we disembarked from the carriage and started toward the house, I could feel the mantle of expectations that had been laid on my young shoulders slipping away.

Sweetwater’s stables were a revelation to me, well scrubbed and marvelously efficient. The head groom, a man called Major, prided himself on producing the finest overall mounts in the county. For champion hunters, though, Annie explained, a rider had to look toward Fox River Farm. “Our horses go the distance, but Fox River horses win the prizes and the fox.”

As we rode toward Fox River Farm she explained. The difference between Fox River and Sweetwater horses, it seemed, was temperament. Ian Sebastian was fearless, a man who could master even the most recalcitrant stallion. He bred for conformation, beauty and intelligence, but Fox River mounts were not for the faint of heart. They ran faster, jumped higher and threw more riders than any others in Virginia. It took a man like Ian Sebastian to master them, and men like Ian were rare. Fox River hunters were in demand worldwide, but only by the most stalwart of riders.

The ride was glorious. The woods were carpeted with trillium and Virginia bluebells, and each hillside promised a new, more spectacular vista. Always, in the distance, the mountains stretched to the sky, but the moment we crossed a creek bed to Fox River, it was as if the world was suddenly under magnification, the sky bluer, the grass as lush as a prairie, the looming mountains taller and more majestic.

“It’s the most beautiful setting in the county,” Annie said. “The air seems purer here. Much of the forest is still virgin, and I’ve often wondered if that’s the difference.”

“Have you ridden through the forest?”

“The hunt comes through the edges. Ian is Master of Foxhounds and knows every tree and creek bed. Without his guidance, a rider might be lost for days.”

We rode for what seemed a long time, and secretly I was growing weary. When we reached a wide stream, bordered on the other side by deep woods, Annie pulled her horse to a halt. “This is Fox River.”

I was disappointed. “It hardly seems like a river.”

“It never was, not like the James or the Mississippi. Most of the water was diverted some time ago into irrigation for nearby farms. This is all that’s left of it. Just a stream now, sadly enough.”

“Is the house far?”

“We still have a ride ahead of us. Would you like to eat here?”

I rejoiced at the chance. The Sweetwater cook had packed a leather pouch that Annie had strapped to her saddle. Inside we found ham biscuits and deviled eggs, dried apples with pecans, and slices of lemon cake, which we dove into with the appetite of healthy youth.

“Where would the stream lead if I followed it?” I was wading by the time I asked the question, my green riding habit hiked to my knees, my boots on the bank above me. Annie was yards away, leading our horses to a patch of pasture just beyond a low rise so they could graze.

“Into the woods.”

That was perfectly clear. Annie had already told me that we would follow the edge of the woods until we saw the house. “Does it stop there?”

“No. It continues through Fox River Farm proper and on into the mountains.” Annie disappeared over the ridge.

A butterfly landed on a wild daffodil at the water’s edge, and as it continued its flight I followed, stepping from stone to stone along the bottom. At its deepest the water came to my calves, and the river stones were round and easy on my bare feet.

I had no fear of getting lost, despite Annie’s warning. There was only one stream, and it would be easy enough to follow it back. The afternoon was warm and the water a pleasant contrast. I was in the woods before I gave the matter much thought.

The forest canopy above my head was a parasol of the most amazing green. Once I’d left the sunshine behind, the air cooled, becoming moist and fragrant with the scents of pine and spruce. Virginia creeper and wild grape vines twined over oaks and maples that were older than our country, and birds rustled in the undergrowth.

The stream diverged, still easy enough to follow, and I chose the right fork.

I don’t know how long I waded. It was a lazy day, and I was grateful to be on my feet again. By summer’s end I would be used to riding for long hours every day, but for now it was spring.

When I heard a crashing sound in front of me, I thought little of it. Noise is amplified in a forest. A mockingbird hopping on a pine needle bed can sound like a horse clip-clopping on a country road. I stopped and waited, but when all was silent, I continued on.

The second time I heard the noise I thought better of going forward. I could no longer see the forest edge or glimpses of sunshine to lead me back. The time had come to turn around and follow the stream to find my horse and Annie. I was preparing to do just that when the tall undergrowth at the streamside parted, and a black bear and two half-grown cubs appeared.

I froze. The day had been enchanted, and I hadn’t given a single thought to danger. Fox River seemed like a kingdom in a fairy tale, and until that moment, I’d felt like a princess.

Water would not deter a bear. I knew this. And even had I been able to get a leg up into one of the huge trees at the other side, I knew that bears also climbed. Black bears were not the most dangerous of beasts, but mother bears with cubs in tow were a different matter.

At first the mother seemed not to notice me. Her children were rowdy, as children often are, and she cuffed one as I’d often seen children cuffed when misbehaving. Then, as I watched with horror, she spotted me for the first time. She rose to her hind legs and roared, a sound I hope never to hear again.

I had no plan. Plans are for people who are capable of thought. I did the worst thing I could have. I ran. Not through the water, but out of the water and into the woods, where the ground was smoother and some speed possible. I dodged trees and crashed through the undergrowth, making much more noise than the three bears had.

I was afraid to look behind me, sure I’d see her gaining and lose my ability to move. I lost my hat, and my habit caught and tore, but it didn’t slow my progress. The forest grew cooler, damper, more redolent with decaying foliage as I ran deeper into it. Finally, as I was sure my lungs had already burst, I peeked behind me to find that I was alone. The bear had stayed with her cubs.

I crouched behind a stump and waited, too winded to go farther. At last my breath came easier and my heart slowed. I could hear the sounds of the forest around me, but nothing of bears.

I waited there for perhaps an hour. I knew that Annie would be frantic and certain I was lost. At last I stood and gauged my position. I was sure I knew which way I had come, and once I found the water again, I could follow it back to the clearing.

I made several false starts until I remembered to look for signs of my own flight. I had not run as far as I’d thought. With care and in time I was able to find a path back to the creek, pausing for minutes as I listened for the bears before I waded back into the water.

I realized then that my feet were scratched and bleeding. It hadn’t mattered as I tried to escape, but now the stones were hard against them and the water stung. I walked slowly, staying to the far side so I could abandon the stream again if necessary. The first strong rays of sunlight through the forest canopy were like paintings I’d seen of heaven opening. I wanted to drop to my knees in a grateful prayer.

I came out of the forest to find Annie and my boots gone, and the horses nowhere in sight. I called her name, but my only answer was birdsong and the music of the stream.

“Annie!”

The baying of hounds greeted my second shout. Over the rise where Annie had taken our horses four foxhounds appeared, and then a strange black horse. On the horse’s back was a man so magnificent, so perfectly wedded to his mount, that for a moment I believed I was in a fairy tale after all.

His hair was as black as the horse beneath him. His shoulders were broad, but his body was perfectly suited for riding, long, lean, and graceful in a way that had nothing to do with femininity. He examined me in my torn habit, my hair straggling around my shoulders and laden with twigs and dead leaves, my face and arms scratched and dirty. Then he gave a mocking bow.

“Miss Louisa Schumacher?”

I drew myself up to my full height, straightening what was left of my skirt. “Who else?”

He laughed, a deep booming noise that somehow reminded me of the black bear’s roar.

“Have you had an adventure, Miss Schumacher?”

I thought perhaps I was about to have an even greater one. “Will your horse carry two?”

“My horse could carry an army. Can you ride a real horse, Miss Schumacher, not one of those insipid Sweetwater nags?”

“If I can face down a bear, I believe I can ride your ostentatious horse.” I paused and put my hands on my hips. “But not unless I know your name.”

I knew it, of course. I had heard Annie’s stories, and I knew whose property we were on. I examined Ian Sebastian as he introduced himself, then I started toward him.

“My hat and boots seem to have disappeared, my dress is torn and wet, and I smell like the forest floor.”

“Your friend is at my house, gathering reinforcements to search for you. Shall we find her before anyone else has to view this particularly terrifying sight?”

I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. I was young. I was free from my mother’s strict surveillance, and I had survived. I was about to climb on the back of a great black stallion and ride away with the most remarkable man I had ever seen.

Ian Sebastian leaned down to help me up on the saddle in back of him. I’m not certain why, but it seemed perfectly rational that he didn’t dismount and lead me to his house as most gentlemen would have done.

I lifted my arms, then a foot to his stirrup, and in a moment I was floating on air.