by Jana Barkley
It reminded Sam of her father telling her how gifted she was with the horses and all their pets over the years, as if she knew what each was feeling. She had always considered it a gift, but she had to admit she’d squandered it. Marriage and a high-profile marketing career, along with an upper middle-class home and place in the community to maintain as Mark’s wife and Jason’s mother, had taken front seat in her life. When her marriage had failed, she had to wonder why she’d thought that was all there was to life. It held little meaning for her now. How sad it took the threat of death to make her stop and seize what was important to her again. But did she still have it, the ability to feel into animals?
Lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t been listening to the conversation. She noticed two people leave the table to go to the kitchen. It was her chance, so she moved in and took a seat, nodding to the others who acknowledged her. She knew he was aware of her, but he chose not to make eye contact. Color rose in her face, infuriating her as it always did.
Stewing in her own mixed feelings, she noticed he was no longer talking but scrutinizing her while his friend talked. She fought the girlish urge to look away and nodded instead. He was impassive as he stared at her, and then turned his attention back to the other falconer.
He wasn’t going to give her the time of day. What in the hell had she been thinking? She was about to slink away when Mary Kate sat down opposite her. Hank threw her a squinty-eyed smirk, causing the falconer with whom he was conversing to turn and greet her.
Mary Kate was up to something. Sam tried to shake her head when Mary Kate’s eyes met hers, but there was no stopping the woman.
When the other falconer pushed away from the table to get a drink, Sam’s heart began to thud. Mary Kate was fearless.
“Hey, Hank,” she said, “Sam needs a sponsor. Who do you think would be a good fit for her?”
Again, she fought the rising color in her face. Mary Kate would have none of it, though, and Hank was eager to give his opinion.
“Seeing how the two of you get along so well, why not you?”
“Yeah, I thought so, too, and we both agreed we’d be up for it, but…” She frowned, and Sam saw Hank raise a dubious eyebrow. He didn’t trust her, either. “You and I both know a sponsor’s got to be close in case of emergencies.”
He nodded but stayed silent, ignoring Sam as if she wasn’t in the room. He wasn’t going to help her out, but Mary Kate wasn’t one to squirm in her own juices. She was playing with him, and he knew it.
“Sam lives in the Bay Area. That’s over two hours away from me.”
“Karen and John are not more than an hour away.” He sat back, his arms crossed in challenge to her.
The silence dragged on. Damn, he was stubborn, and Mary Kate was making her feel like a helpless child. Unable to endure the discomfort, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a worn business card on which she’d written her home phone number.
“Excuse me, Hank.”
His piercing blue eyes were on her in an instant, and Mary Kate sat forward, mirthfully stunned.
“I believe Mary Kate is suggesting I ask if you wouldn’t mind being my sponsor. You live closer to me than anyone else in this group, and though I realize it’s a big commitment for both of us, I’m willing to make the sacrifice if you are.”
He didn’t move, just looked at her.
“Here’s a card with my phone number. I no longer have to work, so my schedule is wide open. If you think you’d be willing to take me on, I’m at your disposal. And thanks for the great hunting experience today.”
Hank still hadn’t moved, and Mary Kate was squirming in her seat like a grade school girl. After a moment, Sam stood and thanked them both again for the invitation to the meet. She planned to excuse herself and say her goodbyes to Mike and the others, but Hank’s voice stopped her.
“Any apprentice I take on has to follow one hard and fast rule.”
Sam froze for an instant and then reseated herself.
He was still staring at her with his arms crossed. Something had shifted, though, and his focus went to the tabletop, giving her the impression he was deep in thought. “And that rule is—we always do things my way.” His eyes caught hers on those words, challenging her.
Sam didn’t recoil, nor did she jump to attention like a good soldier. She held his gaze and responded, “Of course.”
“Even if you don’t understand why I want you to do something a certain way. Even if it doesn’t make any sense to you at all.”
She worked hard not to smile, although amusement played madly with her insides. “Yes,” was all she could muster with a straight face.
“Well, now that’s settled,” said Mary Kate, “let’s have a drink.”
Hank threw her a look of annoyance, and Sam felt herself start to relax until he spoke again.
“I need to see your mew and equipment. If we have to rebuild something, we’ll have to start on it right away if I’m going to be able to sign off on your facilities so you can get your license in time for trapping season, which starts October first.”
The world was racing, and she was at the front of the roller coaster, eager to be ecstatic and at full-tilt panic all at once. It was happening. She took a deep breath and was thankful for the beer Mary Kate brought her.
“Since you’re leaving tomorrow, I’ll call you when I get home Monday to set up a time.”
Sam nodded and felt relieved when he stood and excused himself. When she was sure he was out of sight, her eyes grew wide and she melted onto the surface of the table. Mary Kate’s giggles didn’t help, either, but she was glad for her friendship.
Sam didn’t sleep much at all on her last night in the small, lumpy bed at the cabin motel. In spite of its other drawbacks, life had blessed her with speedy responses to her requests. But given her portion of it was still suspect, Life owed her.
Mews: Structure used to house a falcon or hawk
Chapter Nine
Remo sat on his portable perch on the front passenger seat, like he always did when traveling, one foot tucked with contentment, unless the truck turned too fast or made an unexpected quick stop. After a few minutes, he’d rouse hard, shaking a fine layer of dust Hank tried valiantly to keep out of his working truck, but never quite succeeded in doing. Then up went the foot again as if nothing had happened. He was a good bird, one of the best investments of time and effort Hank had made. He thought back to when he had first heard about the hawk from his vet, who dealt with every kind of hawk, eagle, owl, or falcon that needed help in the state of California. Hank had driven up to Davis one day with Gally to see Dr. Sanders about a foot injury the falcon had sustained from a hard hit on a duck. While he was there, she got a call from U.C. Davis’s Raptor Center about a Harris hawk that had been left in a box at the door and would have nothing to do with anyone.
Hank offered to tag along with her, and that was how he’d met Remo, short for Remolino, which in Spanish meant Whirlwind. The screaming hawk in the cardboard box was an immature bird, still in his first-year juvenile feathers, and it was pretty beat up. Some falconer had lost his new Harris hawk and was sure to be searching for him.
The vet techs, used to wearing welder’s gloves on both hands and grabbing birds of prey to subdue them for treatment, were at a loss with this tiger. Hank donned his falconry glove and insinuated himself into the situation without asking permission. In a few seconds, he had the small hawk calmed down enough to sit on his glove for Dr. Sanders’ evaluation.
Dr. Sanders pronounced the little guy dehydrated and took him back to her clinic for fluids and a blood test. She also put word out with the California Falconers Association about a lost Harris hawk and notified the Department of Fish and Wildlife. The breeder listed on the band helped them identify who had purchased the bird, but the man who had bought the hawk had died two weeks before. His family had lost the bird by opening the mew, unaware the crafty little Harris would capitalize on their inexperience and escape.
The family had written the hawk off weeks before, so he had been fending for himself in the wild, even though he was captive-bred. This alone made him shine in Hank’s eyes: a captive-bred hawk learning to live and hunt for himself in the wild was exceptional. It said worlds about the amount of hunting and survival experience the little fellow had received. Hank soon made arrangements to get the hawk and put him on his falconry permit.
Hank was no stranger to flying Harris hawks, but this rascal had more game and spunk than any male he’d flown before. His sole drawback, and it wasn’t much of a problem in Hank’s eyes considering his own opinion of such matters, was he didn’t trust women. Most of the vet techs, and even Dr. Sanders herself, being female, had left the hawk with a negative impression of female kind. In his mind, at least, women were the ones who grabbed him, stuck him with sharp things, and plain stressed him out.
That was five years ago, but even now the wily Harris hawk would bate from the glove or try to foot the boots of a passing female from his perch if she attempted to interact with him. There was one exception: Mary Kate. She was one of those rare old souls who would have gotten herself labeled a witch in medieval times because of her uncanny way of reading animals—and people, too, for that matter.
Thinking of Mary Kate brought a scowl to his face. Damn her for pushing this. He knew very well Sam wouldn’t have approached him to be her sponsor if that Irish witch hadn’t put her up to it. Not that he thought Sam wasn’t worth teaching. He would never have said yes, no matter how much anyone tried to persuade him, if he’d thought she was one of those idiot wannabes. He couldn’t say why he was uncomfortable taking her on; it wasn’t as if he’d never had apprentices before. But there was something about this perky little blonde. She wasn’t afraid, and she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Stubborn, like he was. That alone bode ill for the relationship.
The closer he got to her town, the more uncomfortable he became. He didn’t like what he was seeing: million dollar homes on fields once rife with wildlife. And when there weren’t overpriced dwellings with miniscule yards eating up every available inch of ground, there were strip malls filled with the trendiest, most unoriginal stores, ones that were the same wherever you drove these days.
“Can’t have too many coffee houses,” he said, scowling at the scenery.
“Utch,” responded the Harris hawk, still tucking one foot.
“This is crazy. If she lives out here, she’s gonna be one of these middle-aged women who wants to try falconry because she’s bored or she wants to impress someone.”
“Utch, utch,” Remo responded while he preened a misplaced feather, and then took assiduous care to tuck it back into his wing.
Hank sighed. He’d noticed her polished nails at the mini-meet and bitten down on the words he’d wanted to say: You’re gonna mess up your manicure, playing with birds of prey.
“Uuuuutch!” Remo complained. He had to plant a foot hard on the perch and grip because Hank had jerked the truck to a stop. A woman with headphones, a designer coffee, and an overweight yellow lab had walked right out in front of him, oblivious to the fact that he wouldn’t be able to slow down without screeching tires.
“Damn yuppies!”
“Uuutch, utch.”
“You got that right, buddy.”
There was a white BMW in the driveway of the million-dollar home bearing the address Sam had given him. Figures, he scowled. A compact SUV, which resembled the one she’d driven at the mini-meet, was parked next to it. There was plenty of room in the driveway for him to pull in next to her, but he chose to park his rig on the street, as if in doing so he was not a part of all of this. Damn, how he hated the suburbs and everything to do with them.
He glanced over at Remo, who was content to sit and hang out, whatever happened. Smiling to himself, he knew what he had planned wasn’t nice. The first time Remo caught sight of this little blonde, especially if she tried to pick him up, he’d throw a shit fit. Not a nice thing to do to a new apprentice. He should be teaching her how to pick up, secure, and handle a bird that was used to people and would cooperate so she could learn from the experience in a positive fashion. Gally would have been a dream in that regard. Well, she’d learn. She’d learn or she’d give up. He didn’t care either way.
As off-putting as the neighborhood was for him, he felt a small sense of relief when Sam met him at the door, dressed like a human being: blue jeans, hiking boots, and a sweatshirt. At least she didn’t have to be perfectly coiffed all the time like some girly types. Her golden blond hair was pulled up into a ponytail that spoke of function rather than fashion. In spite of his sour mood, he was surprised by how much younger she appeared with her hair that way. She smiled and was polite, but she was nervous. Something made him feel like a heel for what he had planned for her with Remo. Yet his harder, more experienced self knew there was more to learn in falconry from difficulty than ease. And she’d get plenty of difficulty in the days to come just being involved in the sport, no matter who her sponsor was.
Sam offered him something to drink, but he declined and followed her out to the back yard. First impressions didn’t help out here, either, when they consisted of an immaculate yard with a designer swimming pool. It was all he could do to fight the image of some home and garden magazine interviewer talking to Sam about the intriguing little hawk decoration on the lawn. This was all so contrary to how he saw falconry he almost left. Grinding his teeth, a bad habit his dentist was trying to get him to stop, he followed her, head down, to the back of the yard.
The mew was immaculate, like everything else in this well-kept yard, and it was painted to match the house. He couldn’t fault her on any of it: the safety chamber, the spacing of the vertical galvanized steel bars in the windows. He nodded in approval, and Sam relaxed.
Hank inspected her other mandatory equipment. “I can sign you off today once I’ve shown you how to make your jesses, leash, and indoor perch. You can get that done while you wait for your falconry license to come in the mail. Say a prayer or two it comes by October first so we can get you out trapping early.”
“What happens if we don’t?”
“Well, it means getting out later. Trapping season lasts until January thirty-first, but there are other difficulties with a late-trapped bird, namely behavior. They’ve been on their own a little longer than the October and November catches, so they’re more set in their ways. It’s harder to teach them to hunt the way you want them to.”
They went back into the house and stopped at the kitchen table. The kitchen spoke of warmth and family, and Hank was more comfortable in this part of the house.
“I’m going to give you a swivel and the leather for the hawk’s anklets and jesses today, and you’re going to make them.”
“Today?” It wasn’t a complaint. He could tell by the way she smiled, which caught him off-guard.
“Do you have an old sheet or shower curtain we could lay down on the kitchen floor, about here?”
“Uh, yeah, sure.”
“Why don’t you get that and set it up while I go to my truck.”
He could tell she wanted to ask him a million questions, but she just went to get the sheet.
Make-hawk: A seasoned, well-trained hawk flown with a young hawk to teach it to hunt
Chapter Ten
When Hank returned to the kitchen, Sam was waiting at the table. “Is this okay?” She motioned to the large faded sheet spread out on the floor next to where they had been sitting at the table.
“Perfect.” Hank plopped his gearbox down, which was an old fishing tackle box with lots of tiny compartments for lures and hooks. Now the compartments were filled with all sorts of swivels, snaps, grommets, rings, bells, bits of leather and cord, tubes of glue, pliers, knives, scissors, and about anything you could think of that was necessary for working with leather.
“Be right back,” he said again. Two minutes later he walked in with an indoor perch in one hand and Remo on the other. Setting the perch in the midd
le of the sheet, he deposited Remo onto the perch and tied him to it.
“Do you have your glove, yet?”
“Yes, right here.” She pulled out a brand-new, dark-leather glove, sporting the label of a popular falconry product manufacturer.
Hank shook his head. In the old days, they’d had to make all of their own gear: gloves, hawking bags, hoods, everything. When you became a falconer, you also became a jack-of-all-trades. Though falconry was over four thousand years old, the modern version of the gear had not been around long.
“Have you greased that up, yet?” He asked as she handled the beautiful new glove. She shook her head. “The place that made that fancy glove also sells stuff to soften and seal leather. You can start with that, but you can also learn how to make your own grease.”
Next, he set her to work measuring and cutting leather, gluing pieces together, and greasing them up to make them supple. By the end of an hour, she’d made a set of anklets, a pair of slitted mews jesses, and a leash. They weren’t too bad.
While Hank spent the next fifteen minutes reading the paperwork he had to fill out and sign for her to submit to the Department of Fish and Wildlife to get her license, the room became quiet. After a while, he noticed how still she sat, focused on Remo. Gazing over the tops of his cheap, dime-store readers that had slipped down his nose, he asked, “What is it?”
“I don’t think he likes me.”
Well kudos to her. Maybe she was intuitive with animals. He glanced back down at the paperwork and suggested, as if a casual afterthought, “Why don’t you put your glove on and pick him up like I showed you.”
Sam didn’t move. “Do you think he’d put up with that from me?”
“Suit yourself. You’re going to have to do it sooner or later. Might as well start now.”
Sam continued to sit still for a moment, and he wondered if they were going to have their first head-butting session. But she stood and donned her glove.
“Harris hawks are curious, aren’t they? Like dogs and horses can be sometimes?”