The Hounds and the Fury by Rita Mae Brown

rubies and diamonds.”
    “You’d have to.”
    Freddie, possessed of a good sense of humor, laughed at Sister’s good-natured jibe. “Good as he is that way, Crawford’s a brute to keep her from her friends.”
    “Once a man takes a position publicly, he rarely backs down or seeks a compromise. It’s a particular failing of the gender, I’m afraid, and Crawford is more pigheaded than most.”
    “You don’t think women can be stubborn?”
    “I do.” Sister’s silver hair gleamed in the light. “But with great effort, especially from friends, most women can be brought around to seek a compromise. Maybe I’m making too much of it. I’m upset with Crawford, obviously, and I adore Marty. I miss her already. She was the most P.C. person in the hunt, and even though I often thought she was to the left of Pluto she made me think.”
    Jason Woods, intent in conversation with Walter, turned his head. Both Freddie and Sister noticed his classic profile simultaneously.
    “Divine.”
    “I’d have to agree.” Sister smiled. “But surely you’ve met him.”
    “In passing. There’s never been enough time to talk, and I was usually stuck with my tick of an ex-boyfriend.”
    “Jason seems to have a refreshingly low opinion of monogamy,” Sister remarked.
    “These days so do I.” Freddie laughed.
    If a male stranger had beheld these two women together, he would have first fixed his gaze on Freddie. At thirty-four, lithe and voluptuous, she’d send the blood south. Eventually his eyes would shift to Sister. Standing there, completely unself-conscious, the older woman burst with raw animal energy. Maybe his blood wouldn’t head south, although it would have when she was younger, but even a man half her age would be drawn to her. The energy would pull him—and it pulled women, too, in a different manner.
    Some creatures possess this magnetism. Secretariat had it. Archie, Sister’s late anchor hound, had it. You just
had
to look at him, the way you had to look at Sister.
    Freddie wanted to be like Sister, but she was too concerned with her effect on others. Beautiful as she was, this made her vulnerable. She needed praise to feel feminine, to feel good. Sister woke up in the morning feeling good. If people liked her, fine. If they didn’t, well, there were six billion people on earth. There ought to be someone out there they liked.
    “I heard your parting with Mick was stormy.”
    Freddie pursed her lips. “I vented to all my girlfriends, and now I’m ashamed of myself. I should have kept my mouth shut.”
    The wind rattled the windowpanes. A downdraft sent spark showers flying up in the fireplace and glowing on the firescreens.
    Jason made his way to the two women.
    “Ladies.”
    “Jason, you’ve met Freddie Thomas before, I believe.”
    “That has been my pleasure, but”—he inclined his head toward the lovely woman—“she was always guarded by a two-toed sloth.”
    Freddie and Sister burst out laughing.
    “You haven’t been out hunting,” Jason remarked.
    “I’ve been so busy this season, I haven’t been out once.”
    “Freddie has reached that critical juncture in her practice where she needs to either take a partner or partners or cut back on work so she can enjoy life—which of course means foxhunting.” Sister leaned toward Freddie. “I mean it.”
    Freddie was a certified public accountant. Gray thought highly of her.
    “I’m sitting at the crossroads being a big chicken.” She sighed in agreement.
    “If you don’t get off the crossroads you’ll be squashed. Listen to the sage of Roughneck Farm,” Sister teased.
    “Funny, my image of accountants is of someone dull. I was wrong.” Jason assiduously avoided staring at her cleavage.
    “I love accounting. I get to study businesses from the inside. I guess I’m a little like Sonny Shaeffer.” She nodded toward the florid-faced banker. “I know a little bit about every business, but perhaps not enough to run one.”
    “Freddie,