Joe stopped speaking. He thought maybe he had said too much.
Joe was well aware of the fact that by keeping the Miller's weasels and not reporting their existence, he was breaking more regulations and laws than he could count. And he knew that what he was planning to do with the creatures could probably land him in a federal prison. He could be accused of playing God.
It could be construed as scandalous behavior by the Defenders of Nature-an offense worthy of at least a death sentence. He didn't try to justify his reasons, even to himself. He was playing God, after all. He was making a judgment simply because he thought it was the right one, and one that might somehow benefit his daughter.
"How long can we do this?" Sheridan asked. "Help the Miller's weasels, I mean."
"As long as you want to," Joe said. "As long as you feel it's important to you."
"They might be ready in a couple of weeks," Sheridan said, holding back a tear.
She was admitting something. "We probably won't have any snow after that."
Joe told her about where he would want to transplant the animals. He had found a small, protected valley high in the Bighorns miles away from roads or trails.
The valley lay in a natural elk migration route, and it was filled with mule deer. It was about 10 miles from the perimeter of the Miller's Weasel Ecosystem.
She sniffed and asked him if she would ever see them again.
"This summer," Joe promised, "you and I will put the panniers on Lizzie, and we'll horse pack into the mountains together. I'll take you to where the weasels are if you promise never to tell anyone about it."
"Of course, I promise," she said. "I can keep a secret."
He laughed.
"I know you can."