Read Online Outfoxed by Rita Mae Brown - Free Book Online

direction, I mean.”
    â€œDad huffs. Mother is sympathetic.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œI don’t want to leave here. There’s more opportunities in Richmond but I love it here by the mountains. I’d rather bump along than move there or go down to Charlotte.”
    â€œCharlotte is totally unrecognizable to me.” Sister recalled the small textile town in North Carolina from her youth. “Here I’ve peppered you with questions but I haven’t provided any answers. Can’t, you know. Has to come from you.”
    â€œWell, when Jennifer gets out of college I think we’ll start our own business. Maybe if she really takes over Mom and Dad’s business I could work with her. I’m hoping—” She broke her train of thought and couldn’t quite get back to it.
    â€œWill you go out Tuesday?”
    â€œI’m trying a new horse for Fontaine. Could be a rodeo show.” Cody pulled her cap down again.
    â€œRide in the back of the field, then.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œAnd Cody . . .”
    â€œMa’am?”
    â€œYou can’t drown your sorrows. They know how to swim.”

CHAPTER 10
    Chickens amused Peter Wheeler. He’d built a sturdy chicken coop with a pitched roof, bought steel broody boxes, and built little ladders for them to perch on when not nestled in the boxes.
    He fed them in the mornings, then returned at sundown to count heads, refill the water bucket, pluck eggs from the boxes.
    Long ago he ran cattle, kept a few sheep, had hundreds of chickens, and grew hay as well. He’d always kept four horses, since he loved hunting.
    Children found their way to Peter. Doug Kinser wound up there. The Lungrun children would come after school, as they desperately needed a happy atmosphere. Children walked over from surrounding farms or hitched rides out from town.
    Age wore him down. In his eighties now, Peter had only the chickens left and a well-built harrier named Rooster.
    He’d sold his business, a tractor dealership, for quite a bit of money, so his declining years were not attended by that poverty sadly common among the elderly.
    He stooped a bit but still had thick wavy white hair plus all his teeth.
    Often “his kids” would drive down the country road to visit him. He’d go into town on Wednesdays to see old friends.
    Like many old people, he looked forward to chatting with anyone who dropped in.
    He heard a truck rumble up to the house.
    â€œHey,” a familiar voice called out.
    â€œIn the henhouse,” he answered.
    The door pushed open; Sister hugged him. “You love these damn chickens.” She leaned over. “Hi there, Rooster.”
    â€œHi.”
He wagged his tail.
    â€œImelda, here”—he lifted up a plump chicken—“has turned into my best layer.” He gave Sister the egg basket.
    â€œWish it would stop raining.”
    â€œHas been wet.” He handed her about a dozen eggs as he walked down the broody boxes. “I’ve got plenty. You take those home.”
    â€œThanks.” She reached in, feeling the warm brown eggs. “Peter, has Fontaine contacted you?”
    â€œWants to buy the place. Crawford, too. The numbers go up and up.”
    â€œFontaine doesn’t have money anymore. Don’t let him carry you fast.”
    â€œDo I look like a fool?”
    â€œNo. In fact, you look quite handsome.”
    â€œBullshit. Fontaine says he has investors. Crawford has cold hard cash. Both say they want to save the farm from developers. I say they’re both liars of the first water. What do you say?”
    â€œSuspicious.”
    â€œAnd then some.”
    â€œGood money?”
    â€œYes. Crawford started at one-point-five million and is up to two-point-seven. Fontaine says to give him until November and he’ll come up with three million.”
    â€œJesus.”
    â€œFor a nature conservancy. I asked for papers,