The Apprentice

by Jana Barkley

  “I was over at the caber toss talking to some kids. They said someone got hurt.” Her gaze fell to Sam’s bandaged hand.

  “Did you get footed?”

  Sam waved her hand as evidence.

  Chelsea sighed in sympathy and stuck out her right hand.

  “I don’t think this will ever go away.” A whitish scar formed a thin, raised line in the fleshy part of her hand between the thumb and index finger. She motioned with her head toward the hawk on her glove. “This one was bent on doing something harsh when I first caught her.”

  Chelsea scanned the falconry display area. “So which bird is yours?”

  “Sam’s not a falconer, Chelse,” said Mary Kate.

  “Oh, I thought you were an apprentice like me.”

  “An apprentice?” Confused, Sam hoped the others would explain.

  “Chelsea’s my apprentice.” Karen said. “I’m her sponsor. She’s in her second and last year. And, I might add, I’m very proud of her.”

  “She’s met all the qualifications.” Mary Kate winked at the girl. “She’s trapped her own bird, trained it, and hunted with it. Sounds like a done deal to me.”

  “What do you hunt?”

  “Pandora’s taken mostly jackrabbit. That’s what we have around here. But other people hunt cottontail, pheasant, or even squirrels. Depends on what’s in your area,” said Chelsea.

  “So, these birds aren’t from one of those places that cares for injured wildlife?”

  “No, they’re not rescues, and they’re not displays,” said Mary Kate, as if she had answered that question a hundred times today. But she smiled at Sam. “These birds are our hunting partners. It’s one of the ways people put food on the table before gunpowder came along.”

  A loud chipping, squawking cry erupted to their left. Sam turned to see the bird that had attacked her flapping its wings, refusing to settle down for the falconer who held it tied to his glove.

  She quelled a tremor of apprehension. “What kind of hawk is that?”

  “That, my dear, is a goshawk.”

  Sam crossed her arms, her good hand coming up to cover her mouth as she watched.

  Mary Kate looked away. “They can be a handful.”

  The man holding the goshawk and the other one called Hank stood toe to toe, arguing loudly.

  “Ralph Stockley,” Karen explained, “is not the best representative of the sport.”

  Mary Kate turned back, tentative but earnest. “We try to educate the public about raptors and falconry at these events, Sam. I hope you know what we’re doing here is a good thing. What happened to you is so unusual—”

  “Mary Kate, I’m fine.” Observing the man called Ralph in his threadbare shirt, filthy jeans, and greasy ponytail, she shook her head. “I hope he takes better care of his hawk than he does himself.”

  “That’s another story,” Karen said as she donned her glove and left to pick up a hawk from its perch.

  Sam followed Mary Kate to the entrance of the exhibit. Her eyes searched for Pandora and found her perched on Chelsea’s glove while the young woman talked to a group of onlookers. The girl’s ungloved hand reached up and scratched the hawk’s chest underneath its feathers, but the powerful predator tolerated the touch. And when the admirers crowded close, Pandora sought shelter from them by leaning into Chelsea’s chest. Such a powerful bird with feet larger than the goshawk and capable of flying away or attacking these humans, but she chose to cling to Chelsea’s glove. Sam pictured this immense predator flying free and returning to her slender partner, who couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds. It was hard to believe.

  “Sam, you know, if you’d like to come out with us sometime—on a hunt…”

  Sam’s eyes lit up in spite of her usual self-control.

  Mary Kate laughed. “I guess that’s a big yes.”

  Hadn’t the hospital counselor recommended she find activities of a positive nature to fill her days and make her feel like she had something to live for? At the time they’d been empty words. Until this moment, this painful and fascinating moment, her heart had agonized through desperate hours and sleepless nights.

  There had been no warning. Two months before she had gone for a routine physical and blood tests with not a single premonition her life would come to a convulsive stop. So abrupt and unexpected was the news that late May morning she had called in to work and quit. No explanations, no worries over severance pay, no heartfelt goodbyes, just, “I’m done.” Twenty years of a successful marketing career for a radio station were gone in the whim of a moment.

  She had come to think of living with this disease as enduring an unwelcome guest, except this guest wasn’t squatting in the spare bedroom—it had taken up residence in her body. The daily energy it cost her to deal with this intrusion was a far cry from what wrapping her life around a new passion would demand. Could she handle both at once?

  The dry July wind blew by, scuttling leaves at her feet and pulling her senses skyward. In the distance flew two large birds—hawks, no doubt—free and at ease as they spiraled hundreds of feet above her and her problems. Sam stared at the aerial ballet as if caught outside of time, surrendering herself to the momentary peace. She released a deep breath and met Mary Kate’s questioning face.

  “Yes.”

  The single word encompassed a new world of possibility reflected back in the light of Mary Kate’s laughing green eyes.

  To Bate: The wild jumping off or attempt to fly away while restrained

  Chapter Two

  Two months earlier

  The 30th floor corner office of Robinson, Hahn and Wright, an influential advertising firm for most of the Bay Area’s FM radio and local television stations, flooded with a rare spring morning sun for San Francisco. Sam rocked back in her chair, relishing the warmth, and let her eyes wander aimlessly over the financial district skyline.

  She was exhausted, and reasoned landing the sale of her life earlier that morning was cause enough to tire anyone out. Twenty years of playing this advertising game, earning a name and reputation for herself and the firm had not been easy, especially after her divorce two years previous. But like everything Sam did, she had thrown herself into the fray of work to deal with that ending. Mark, her ex, was gone, moved to Chicago, and her 22-year-old son, Jason, was the only evidence she’d spent a quarter of a century married to the man.

  She no longer grieved the failed marriage, rather the loss of the gorgeous dark-haired man who had wooed and won her so long ago. A recent Stanford grad whose enthusiasm to succeed at anything he set his hand to made them all fall in love with him, even her parents. He’d been the man of her dreams, or so she thought. Nowadays, she didn’t even daydream—she hadn’t the time or energy.

  Her assistant knocked and came in with messages and mail.

  “Here are the signed contracts you asked for,” she said, laying them on her desk. “Mr. Ellison sent flowers to thank you for all your hard work this past month on his account—”

  Sam snorted. Mr. Ellison just wanted to take her to dinner and God knew what else. Her assistant grinned in complete understanding.

  “And,” she continued, “Jason called to remind you to go grocery shopping.”

  Sam rolled her eyes. “I didn’t think it was possible to feel any more worn out than I do, but that just did it.” She looked at the work remaining on her desk and sighed.

  “Molly, would you please send a thank you card to Mr. Ellison for me—yes, you can sign my name,” she anticipated the girl’s question. “Something basic, not emotional please.”

  Molly grinned and turned to leave. Before she left, she stopped. “Ms. Leyton?”

  “Yes, Molly?”

  “You really look tired. Why don’t you take the afternoon off?”

  Sam’s eyes grew wide with a hint of amusement. It had cost the young woman some courage to venture something so personal, and she could see a glimmer of regret in Molly’s big brown eyes.

  “I look that ba
d, huh?”

  Molly blushed. “I’m sorry, Ms. Leyton—”

  “It’s all right, Molly. It’s this stupid lymph node infection. The doctor’s got me on antibiotics but it’s taking a while to get better.”

  Reluctantly she eyed the paperwork on her desk. Would it be so bad if she left early?

  “Molly, I’m going to take you up on your advice. In fact, it’s Friday, so I expect I won’t be back in the office until Monday morning.”

  “Yes, Ms. Leyton.” She said, reassured.

  “Please, call me Sam.”

  Twenty minutes later as she pulled out of the parking garage in her BMW, she headed for the bridge and home in the East Bay. She drove listlessly, not sure what the hell she’d do when she got home other than sleep. Then of course, she had to stop at the store. A great anguish welled up in her throat and she felt tears form in her eyes.

  “What the hell?” she said out loud, surprised by this random emotional response. She really was tired. But it was more than fatigue, if she was honest. She’d been running the past two years, inundating herself in work to keep any strong emotions or weakness at bay. There was nothing at home she wanted to do, no relaxing activity that held any attraction. She’d done a perfect job of isolating herself from anything or anyone that could touch her.

  After a hasty swipe at the tears, she saw she was driving through the Oakland hills. Without deliberating, she took the next exit and turned left onto a narrow, winding road, overgrown with gigantic manzanita and oaks. Morning light filtered past the oak canopy, which hemmed her in on the two-lane road, inviting her farther in. Verdant and rich, nature had altered this landscape, which Sam suddenly recognized. As if to confirm this realization, a sign up ahead pointed the way to the Rolling Hills Equestrian Center. Strange she’d lead herself here. It reminded her of something her son Jason had said when he’d gotten lost as a five year old at the neighborhood park, and bravely told his parents how he had found them: “Sometimes I follow myself home.” Cute when you’re five. Troubling when you’re 43.

  She’d grown up riding at Rolling Hills, taking lessons, trail riding, and showing. She’d spent every free waking moment of her early adolescent life either in the saddle or mucking manure, and it had meant everything to her. But that was over 30 years ago.

  Pulling up the long gravel driveway in her pristine white BMW, she glanced at her cream-colored suit and heels. Hardly the outfit for this place, but she parked by the barn, got out, and donned her full-length coat. It all looked the same, even the same shade of red paint on the barn.

  Her heels wobbled a little in the gravel, but she carried herself without a care for what the stable boy cleaning the first stall thought as he paused to stare. Four stalls down on the right was where she’d focused her heart and soul all those years ago. Paladin was no longer alive—how could he be? Yet she’d been the first on his back and the only rider who had taken him to the championships for their region in dressage.

  Sam rested her arms on the lower stall door. There was no one inside at the moment, and the stall smelled of fresh wood shavings and alfalfa, two scents she’d always loved. What’s happening here? Perhaps she was having a mid-life crisis and feeling the need to revisit happier times. But did she really want to get her butt back in a saddle again? She loved horses, or had. All animals had held an incredible attraction for her. And to listen to her parents, she had always had a special way with them.

  After Mark had left, she’d forced the idea of a pet away, burying herself in work. His abhorrence of animal fur and odors had kept them pet-less for their entire marriage. Why had she gone along with that?

  “Samantha!” A crisp, elderly female voice yanked Sam around to stand front and center before her.

  Oh, my God, she breathed silently. It was Mrs. Ward, the dragon-lady from her past who had trained and pushed her like no other woman in her existence ever had.

  “Mrs. Ward?” she bit down on the giggle she felt inside. The old trainer still had the ability to yank her strings and make her want to jump. Only this celebrated trainer from her youth was now clearly in her 80s, though still standing tall and poised.

  “You hardly look like you are here to ride,” surmised the older woman with an obvious head-to-toe appraisal of her former student.

  “No.” Sam smiled, shaking her head.

  “Well, not much has changed,” continued the trainer. “Although I have a new warmblood in training.”

  Sam looked at her with affection. Mrs. Ward was recognized as an authority on dressage around the world, having won countless competitions, trained Olympic hopefuls, and judged international horse shows. She followed the elderly woman as she walked from the barn to the indoor riding arena where one of her students was exercising a bay thoroughbred.

  “Does Mr. Ward still ride roping horses?” Realizing too late Mr. Ward might have passed away, she bit her lip and waited for the embarrassing revelation. To her relief, she learned he was alive and well and still able to get in the saddle. Unlike his wife, he was an old retired pro-rodeo cowboy who roped and rode cutting horses to cattle. None of the girls at the ranch taking training from Mrs. Ward were allowed to get above themselves, like some monied and spoiled girls who jumped or rode dressage did. The minute either of the Wards sensed a superiority complex in one of the students, that girl was lined out with chasing the calves into the roping shoot for Mr. Ward to chase with his roping horse. Walking the cattle shoots meant stepping in cow poop and dirtying up those pretty English riding boots. Sam had loved it, every bit of it. And Mr. Ward would invite her into the arena with a twinkle in his mischievous eyes, and have her untie the calf after he and Rusty his old roping horse had subdued it.

  The teenage girl riding the bay reminded her of herself, and Mrs. Ward grunted in approval as the rider and horse passed by the rail where they stood.

  “Does that horse remind you of someone?” asked the trainer.

  Sam smiled, knowing she was referring to her old horse, Paladin. “He sure does.”

  “What are you riding these days?” asked Mrs. Ward.

  Sam’s face clouded over. “Nothing right now,” she demurred, watching horse and rider circle in front of them again.

  “Well, Samantha, that is a shame. You were quite skilled back then. I thought you would make an excellent horse trainer. You have the gift.”

  Sam looked hard at her former trainer, stunned by this admission from someone she’d respected, but been terrified of, growing up.

  “Perhaps I did,” she said.

  They were interrupted by a loud series of barks as two leggy, joyous pointers came galloping from the house and to the arena.

  “Now settle down,” ordered Mrs. Ward in her best commanding voice, and both hounds dropped to their bottoms in the dirt, waiting for the release command to come. The tails on both dogs wagged so hard, even though they were sitting down, they started sending up dust flurries.

  “That is enough of that,” barked the trainer and they sprung up and over to the two women.

  “Off!” roared the little woman when one of the pointers leaned into Sam’s immaculate coat and work clothes. They both subsided but soon they couldn’t help themselves and Mrs. Ward gave up trying.

  “I apologize, Samantha. You will be covered in dog hair from head to toe. But you should not have worn those beautiful clothes to the ranch. You know better than that.”

  Sam laughed out loud and bent down to pet one of the squirming hounds, who in turn leaned into her, thwacking her hard with its long tail. “That’s all right, Mrs. Ward. I could use some dog hair right now.”

  The older woman actually cracked a smile and ordered the dogs away to the barn. She walked with Sam to the car, and once there, turned her cool grey eyes onto her and declared, “It is never too late to start again.”

  Sam froze, took in the intensity of her former mentor’s gaze, and let its meaning wash over her. Then the moment broke and Mrs. Ward said lightly, “Come back to ride sometime. Let me
see if you still have a good seat.”

  Again tears tried to make their way into Sam’s eyes but she’d die before crying in front of anyone.

  Mrs. Ward waved backward as she walked regally back through the barn.

  It wasn’t until Sam had returned to the freeway she realized she felt happy. And she realized what had been missing. Animals. Her love for and rapport with animals had been her gift. A slow softening took place in her heart as she drove, and she enjoyed the tears trickling down her face this time.

  So what was she going to do? Start riding again? Maybe. She’d worked hard enough the past twenty years, putting in hours that had paid dividends for her career but not her soul. She played with images of getting another horse, boarding it at Rolling Hills, and having Mrs. Ward whip her back into shape.

  Sam went to the grocery store, filling her cart with food for her hungry son who was home from college for the weekend. But even as she went through the motions of shopping, her mind whirled with the sweet possibilities of having a horse, or even a dog. Some creature she could connect with the way she had before. And not just any animal—something she could train and invest that lost part of herself into.

  Pulling up next to her son’s Jeep in the driveway, she waved when she saw him come out to help her unload.

  “Someone’s hungry,” she teased.

  “Yeah, well I knew I’d better say something or we’d be ordering in pizza again.”

  “Did you bring your laundry?”

  He looked sheepish and nodded. “Thanks, mom.”

  “Go on,” she goaded him into the house, and started putting groceries away.

  “Oh, your doctor’s office wants you to call.”

  Sam frowned. “I don’t have an appointment. Probably the lab results.” But her smile returned as she repeated Mrs. Ward’s last words in her mind: It is never too late to start again. It had been so long since she’d felt this happy. Glancing at her son, she decided to talk with him about it.

  The phone rang as Jason went to the car for the last load. Sam looked at the caller ID and saw her doctor’s number. She picked up the receiver before it could go to message.