"What a beautiful bird," Sheridan said.
"Peregrines are the ultimate hunters," her dad said. "They're not the biggest falcons, but they're the fastest and the most versatile. They used to be endangered, but now there are lots of them."
She was entranced.
And when the peregrine came back, flared, and lit with a graceful settling of his wings just a few feet away from them, she felt as if something wild, and magical, had happened.
Her dad lowered the other grouse to the ground in front of the peregrine. The little bird, darker and somehow more cocky and warlike than the red-tailed hawk, gracefully tore into it.
"I think I'd rather learn about these falcons than play basketball," she heard herself say. In the pickup, as they drove from Nate Romanowski's place in the pre-dark of winter, Sheridan realized just how cold she was. Her teeth chattered as she waited for the heater to warm up. Seeing the falcons had made her forget about the cold, forget about how late it was getting.
She noticed that her dad's cell phone, clipped to the dashboard, was turned off, and she mentioned it.
"I forgot about that, damn it," he said, turning it on. Her dad rarely cursed.
Almost immediately, it rang and he grabbed it quickly. She watched him. His expression seemed to sag, then harden, as he listened.
"I can't believe she said that."
"Is it Mom?" Sheridan asked. But she knew it was.
"I'll be home in half an hour, darling. I'm so sorry this happened. And I'm sorry you couldn't reach me."
Sheridan was concerned. His voice was low, and calm, and very serious. But she knew that inside, he was hustling. Eighteen The next morning dawned gray and cold, and there was a bulletin on the radio that said a stockman's advisory had been issued for Northern Wyoming. For their first day back to school, the girls were dressed in clothes they had received for Christmas. Because the girls had become used to sleeping later in the morning over the break, Joe and Marybeth had trouble moving them along so they would be finished with breakfast and ready to go when the bus arrived.
"Christmas is over, ladies," Joe told them. "Back to work we go."
Marybeth was quiet, her eyes tired. She had spent most of the previous night awake and crying about her encounter with Jeannie Keeley. Joe had held her, and shared her rage and frustration. Both Joe and Marybeth were painfully aware of the fact that this might be the last "normal" breakfast with the three girls for a while. And both were determined to see it go smoothly. Neither Marybeth nor Joe had said anything to April, or Sheridan and Lucy about Marybeth's encounter with Jeannie Keeley the afternoon before. But April seemed prophetic, and was acutely alert. Throughout breakfast, her eyes darted furtively from Marybeth to Joe, as if trying to pick up a signal or read a glance. Just as Maxine always seemed to know when Joe was going to go out of town, April seemed to sense instinctively that something was afoot. Sheridan and Lucy, rubbing sleep from their eyes, were oblivious to the morning drama.
After they'd gathered their coats and backpacks, Joe ushered all three girls outside to meet the bus. As the bus doors opened, April turned and threw her arms around Joe's neck and kissed him goodbye. Joe couldn't remember such an open display of affection from April before. When he returned to the house, it was obvious that Marybeth had seen them from the front window, and she was wiping away tears again.
Before they could talk about it, the telephone rang. Marybeth picked the receiver up, and as she listened, Joe watched her face turn into an ivory mask.
"Who is it?" Joe mouthed.
"Robey Hersig," Marybeth answered in a sharp voice. Joe could not hear the county attorney speaking, but he could tell what Hersig was saying by Marybeth's reaction.
"Robey, I appreciate you letting us know," Marybeth said, and hung up the phone. She looked up at Joe and her eyes were flat and distant. "Robey said that Jeannie Keeley got a judge down in Kemmerer to issue an order for April's return. The judge issued the order last week, and Robey just got a copy of it. He's going to fax it to us."
Kemmerer was a small town in southwestern Wyoming. Joe was puzzled. Why Kemmerer?
"Robey says the judge is a loose cannon, some kind of a nut," Marybeth continued, still eerily matter-of-fact. "He said the order could probably be overturned in court, but until that happens we're obligated to hand over April if Jeannie wants her."
Joe stood still, his eyes locked with Marybeth's.
"Joe, Robey says that if Jeannie comes for her and we don't turn her over, that we could be charged."
Joe shook his head, as if trying to shake away the news.
Her mask cracked and she broke down, and he welcomed her into his arms. "Joe," she asked him, "What are we going to do?" After Marybeth regained control and seemed to hammer her emotions into the armor of icy resolve, she left for work at the library. Joe, frustrated, spent the day in the field. There was plenty to keep him busy, as always, and he threw himself into it in a barely controlled frenzy. Better to work himself hard physically, he thought, than to sit and contemplate what was happening at home.
He loaded his snow machine and mounting ramps in the back of his pickup, drove up the Crazy Woman drainage as far as the road was plowed, then chained up and continued until he reached a trailhead. He backed the snowmobile down the ramps with a roar, then raced across untracked snow up and over the mountain. In the drainage below was a designated winter elk refuge, and he cruised down through it. Because of the deep snow, most of the elk that normally would have been there had moved to lower ground, even though a contractor had dropped hay for them. Instead of using the refuge, though, the elk were eating Herman Klein's lowland hay, as well as the hay of other ranchers in the valley. Joe didn't particularly blame the elk, but wished they would have stayed around. The few elk that were present on the range were emaciated. He could tell they weren't likely to last through the winter. The storms and the coyotes would get them. They stood dark and mangy, looking pathetic, he thought.
He fought a totally uncharacteristic urge to challenge them with his snowmobile, to charge at them and watch them run. Instead, he turned back and raced up the mountain he had come down, flying though the trees with a recklessness that both frightened and exhilarated him.
He stopped short of his pickup and tried to collect his thoughts. He noted the elk population of the winter range-seventeen sick and starving animals-in his notebook. He would check the other ranges throughout the week, and compile a report for Terry Crump. Joe expected to find the same depressing results in the other refuges as well. A lot of elk were going to die this winter, he concluded. He couldn't protect them. Too damned many would die of winterkill. One thing had crystallized in Joe's mind during his breakneck rush up the mountain: He needed to talk with Jeannie Keeley. He drove toward Battle Mountain and the Sovereign Citizen compound but was stopped by a sheriff's-department truck that was blocking the road. The Blazer was sidewise on the plowed one-track, its front and back bumpers almost touching the walls of snow.
Joe slowed to a stop as Deputy McLanahan emerged from the Blazer and walked toward his truck. McLanahan raised a hood over his head as he approached. A short-barreled shotgun was clamped under his arm.
Joe rolled his window down.
McLanahan's damaged nose was a grotesque blue-black color and there were half-moons of dark green under his eyes. He looked worse than Joe remembered.
"Where are you heading, game warden?"
The way McLanahan said it, "game warden" sounded to Joe like "son-of-a-bitch."
"Patrolling," Joe said, which was not quite accurate. He had intended to go to the compound to see if Jeannie Keeley had returned. And to advise Wade Brockius that April should not be the pawn in the bitter game Jeannie was playing.