The Apprentice

by Jana Barkley

  As they walked back to the house with Sam carrying Gally, she found it hard to pull her attention away from the falcon on her glove. Unlike her hawk, who seemed bigger and had much larger feet capable of puncturing her glove, Gally looked small, but he was just as heavy. He was denser, she realized. The pectoral muscles used for his intense style of flying would make him weigh more. Chance was all feathers and fluff when she reached up underneath his plumage to feel his keel. This bird was as substantial as he appeared, with little or no fluff to conceal what lay beneath the feathers.

  Back in the yard, Hank instructed Sam to put on her vest and get Chance ready to fly while he took Gally to the mews.

  Rake away: When a hawk veers away from the quarry it is pursuing

  Chapter Twenty

  The little red tail stood tall on his perch as she approached. His behavior signaled he was ready to fly. He stepped up to the glove, and she removed his equipment until he was tethered only by the strap of her glove attached to one of his anklets. Chance slicked down and bobbed his head, ready to get down to business.

  “He looks good,” said Hank, reading the hawk’s body language as she had. “I already set up a surprise for him in the meadow over there,” he said as he pointed and walked on. “Turn him loose, Sam. He’s safe in the yard and all the way out to the field. Let him play ‘follow on’ like he wanted to do last time.”

  Sam took a deep breath as the familiar anxiety twisted her stomach in knots again. Would it always feel this way before she released him?

  She unclipped her hawk and walked next to Hank, extending her gloved arm so Chance had a clear shot to take off. With a quick down thrust, he was up and out ahead of them, coming to land in a cypress with jutting branches. Hank kept moving until they passed Chance.

  “Hold your glove up, but keep walking. When he comes, pull the glove away to encourage him to keep moving ahead of us.”

  Sam was dubious. “Won’t he think I’m not playing fair? I mean, he expects some kind of reward.

  “Today’s reward is up ahead in the middle of the meadow.”

  Unclear, she turned back to see where Chance was. She didn’t have to wait long. His rusty-red plumage was coming in for a landing on her outstretched glove. As instructed, she swept it away from him and saw him counter to land in a nearby tree. She was relieved to see him check for her before focusing on the meadow.

  “Good. Stay here until I get out to that clump of brambles at the far end. When I get there, you start walking around the perimeter of the meadow like you’re trying to flush game. Let’s see if we can get him to follow you through the trees. When you reach halfway, head into the center of the meadow toward the bramble thicket.”

  Hank struck off on long legs to the berry thicket and was there in no time. Sam turned and called Chance with her whistle and outstretched glove. He flew toward her, but this time he landed in a tree next to her rather than on her glove. Chance was a smart cookie and understood what he was supposed to do.

  As she walked around the base of the trees, a glance up at Chance showed her he was interested. It gave her a measure of comfort to know he was still focused on what she was doing. Once she was ten feet ahead of him, she didn’t need to call, for he came on, landing in the next tree, expectant. Checking the bramble mass where Hank was supposed to be, she was surprised to find him nowhere in sight.

  Sam searched the meadow, hoping for some sign. Had she misunderstood what she was supposed to do? Movement in the tree ahead pulled her attention back to Chance. He had flown to another tree. Looking down with avid interest, his intensity told her there was something in the grass below. She ran to the tree and stopped in time to see a small covey of quail flush up and into the grove beside it. So much for Hank’s surprise. Chance exploded out of the tree in hot pursuit, disappearing from view as he flew away from the meadow and into the trees.

  Panic gripped her now, and she whirled around to see she was still alone in the meadow. Nothing to do but follow after her hawk. Leaving the sunny meadow for the dark undergrowth of coastal forest, she crashed through the brush and ran in the direction she thought he had flown. Where the hell was Hank, and why wasn’t he coming to help? Once again, she turned back to search for him. Nothing.

  Fear turned to fury as she swore and plunged into the copse of pine and myrtle. Twenty feet into the grove, her panic squelched to silence at the small tinkle of bells. Chance’s bells. She stopped still and focused. There it was again, in the underbrush to her left.

  At the base of a small scrub oak, she caught her first glimpse of him on the ground. He was footing something in the debris of pine needles and leaves. A whistle and tap of the glove with her hand caught his attention, but he returned to footing what he had captured on the ground. Unsure, she walked up to him and was relieved when he didn’t fly away. He had a thick twig caught in his foot, but nothing else.

  “Looks like he tried to catch something. Maybe a mouse.”

  Hank’s voice shocked her already raw nerves, and anger flushed hot across her face. She chose not to face him. When she could find her voice, she said, “He took off after some quail.” But you weren’t there to see it, were you?

  “Give him the glove and pick him up, Sam.”

  She did so, and Chance let go of his clump of sticks and pine needles, riding the glove up as she stood.

  Hank started to stride away and leave her alone again.

  “Where are you going?” She could no longer hide her irritation.

  He stopped and turned, those icy eyes boring into her. “What’s got you in a tizzy?”

  Unable to find words, her face flushed hot.

  “Your bird was chasing game. I’d have thought you’d be happy.”

  “But—”

  “I’m going back to hide in the damn thorn bushes again so I can pull this frozen rabbit. That is, if you think you can get him back in position and head toward it.”

  Where in the hell had this surly son of a bitch come from? Maybe it was the morning’s mixed emotions, which had been out of control from the moment she pulled up to his place, along with the fear she was losing her hawk, but try as she might, Sam couldn’t contain the tears welling up in her eyes. She dropped her gaze and nodded. Any thoughts of attraction or friendliness with this man melted away. Just get through this, Sam, and then get out.

  Chance was content to rest on the glove until they reached the meadow. Then up he flew to the closest tree, searching the grass for more goodies. One thing she was learning about her red tail was if something worked well before, he’d repeat the same behavior over and over again.

  She struck out straight for the bramble bush, hoping Chance was paying attention. There was a rustle in the brambles, not five feet away from where she stood, and a furry shape burst from the thicket and darted for the clearing. This was the surprise, a frozen jackrabbit on a string pulled by Hank from somewhere in the copse of trees.

  Chance’s bobbing head caught her attention. It took only a split second for him to decide he wanted to chase the fleeing rabbit. Off he swooped and landed on the ground three feet away from it. Hank must have expected this, for the rabbit stopped and lay there. Sam saw he had tied some chunks of meat to the rabbit’s frozen head, something Chance would recognize and go for.

  Chance balked at the large mammal that outsized him until he recognized the meat. He flared his wings, and stepped sideways. Then with a tentative hop, he reached out and footed the head. But when the rabbit pulled forward a few inches, he jumped back, and then rushed forward with gusto to grab the head and the raw meat. Binding to the rabbit, like he did to his lure when he first understood it contained food, Chance mantled over his “catch” and picked at the meat.

  Hank appeared in the opening to the meadow. “Walk in slowly and offer him a small tidbit with a whistle so he knows you’re not going to take it away from him, like you did with the lure.”

  Avoiding Hank’s expression and trying not to read anything into his tone, she kneeled d
own with a tidbit extended and watched Chance cover his treasure with outstretched wings. A light blow on the whistle, however, made him pause and snatch the tidbit from her. Then he went back to eating. Sam felt stunned. The scene in the trees had left her numb and unsure of what to do.

  Hank was on his knees next to her. Though his voice was no longer edged with irritation, she fought the urge to pull back.

  “We’re trying to make him think this is his kill. So let’s pretend he did kill this jackrabbit.”

  More tidbits and the whistle each time reassured him the catch was his. When he had finished eating the meat and Sam had clipped onto his anklet to secure him, Hank talked her through pulling the rabbit away.

  “Throw your lure out just far enough, so he has to let go of the rabbit to get it.” His voice was calm, the other Hank she had been starting to like quite a lot. She couldn’t allow herself any pleasure this time.

  Chance bolted for the lure, trying to drag the rabbit with him, but Hank had a firm hold of it by the legs. The little hawk let go and jumped for his lure, giving Hank enough of a moment to stash the rabbit in the back of Sam’s vest. Her muscles stiffened at the touch of his hands on her back as he worked with her vest.

  So different from the last time she had done this with Hank, when she’d been so happy to get her hawk back. With Chance secured to her glove, she struck out for the truck. Hank was in step with her easily on his long legs. The silence was suffocating, but better that than a repeat of what had happened back there. Just thinking about the panic of losing Chance with Hank nowhere to be found, followed by his sarcasm, made her flush hot again.

  “Are we going to talk, or are you going to stomp off in a snit?”

  Sam caught her breath in outrage, then turned and went to her truck, taking care to be calm as she put Chance away in spite of her desire to hurl something. The hatch slammed shut, and she turned to face Hank in the middle of his yard.

  “What’s got you so angry?” His arms were crossed and he was squinting at her with those cool blue eyes. Even so, he kept his tone calm, much like he would with an upset raptor. Realizing this made her angrier, but she held onto herself.

  “Well, those comments about me having a fit or being in a tizzy sure weren’t appropriate.”

  “No. Before. Something set you off.”

  Sam turned her head sideways, at a loss for words, hands on her hips like an outraged teenager. God, how she hated feeling this way. He wasn’t even going to let her address his sarcasm. He was calling her on her fear when she couldn’t find him and then got angry with him. Her face burned as she took a moment to breathe.

  “Where were you?” She asked in a quiet, subdued tone, refusing to make eye contact.

  “What! Where did you think I was?” He was surprised.

  “I don’t know,” she said, exasperated. “All I saw was my hawk disappearing into the woods, and you weren’t anywhere around to ask for help.”

  Hank’s face softened. He shook his head. “You didn’t see me dive behind those Goddam brambles?” He watched her, his eyes questioning but with an edge of mirth.

  His humor threw her off balance.

  “I guess I was watching Chance most of the time,” she said.

  He took a step closer to her, and the tension of their earlier face-off dissolved.

  Sam felt like a fool. She hated to come across as foolish with any man whose opinion she valued. Twenty years in the radio industry had taught her to strike like a barracuda and take no prisoners on the emotional plane. Any sign of weakness with her male cohorts would have been fatal. Now, it all seemed to be slipping away.

  “I panicked when he flew off.” Her tone was stubborn and unsure. “I didn’t know what to do.”

  “You did what you were supposed to do: follow your bird.” He shook his head again and uncrossed his arms, shoving his hands into his front pockets. “You’ve gotta stop second-guessing yourself.”

  All the morning’s uncertainty and fear of loss threatened to bring the tears back, but she locked them down, swallowing hard.

  “Come inside.” It wasn’t a request, though his voice was gentle. His hand on her arm guided her forward, and she complied.

  He sat her down at the table and started a fresh pot of coffee. Sam had to admit it felt good to sit down and relax.

  She watched him make coffee, noting how well he fit in this worn but homey cottage. Why did he have the power to wind her feelings up so?

  She noticed a trickle of blood on his forearm. “You’re bleeding.”

  He glanced down and shrugged.

  “Guess that’s what happens when you climb through bramble bushes,” she said.

  Hank laughed.

  “Thank you,” she said, meaning it.

  He paused for a moment, and then continued on with his coffee making. They spent an hour going over the setup for the slip and how encouraging it was Chance was gamey enough to chase quail. After a few minutes, it was obvious there were no hard feelings over the misunderstanding.

  Late in the afternoon, as Sam drove home, the events of the day troubled her. Her protective threshold, which was supposed to keep others from knowing about her sickness, had come close to falling apart. And she had been vulnerable on many levels. Today would be a lesson in self-control, she promised herself, and drove on toward home.

  Wedded: When a hawk prefers to chase only one type of quarry

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Hank dragged himself out of a fitful sleep, well aware the phone ringing next to his bed was something he should refuse to answer. It was two in the morning if the bedside clock was right, and he clenched his fists and swore. He had to answer it—it could be an emergency with his family back east. But of course he damned well knew it wasn’t.

  “Hello,” he barked out, not attempting to hide the heavy huskiness in his voice in order to let the caller know he’d been sound asleep. There was a brief silence and again he swore under his breath. “Hello!”

  “Baby, is that you?” came the sweet, tipsy voice on the other end.

  All evening before bed he’d been uneasy, as if some part of him knew what lay ahead in the small hours of the morning. Was it possible they were still connected on some obscure, intangible level?

  “Tasha, it’s two in the morning,” he said.

  The sweetness left her voice, and he heard a sob.

  “Where’s your husband?” he asked, subduing the ire he wanted to unleash through the phone. Anger was no good. She was thoroughly drunk.

  “Back at the hotel, I guess,” she said, sounding lost and afraid.

  He knew better. Tasha was rarely afraid. But she knew how to make him feel guilty. His eyes had adjusted to the dark of his bedroom and he took a deep breath before rolling out of bed.

  “I guess it would be stupid to assume he knows where you are,” he said.

  “I don’t need him,” she shot back, then said more sweetly, “I want you.”

  “Where are you?” He’d been through this dance too many times before to admonish or try to reason with her. All he could do was go get her and take her back to her husband.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” she giggled.

  “It’s too late to play games, Tash,” he warned, “Tell me where the hell you are.”

  She heaved a dramatic sigh then said, “You know where.” Then she hung up.

  He didn’t hang up the phone. He smashed the receiver down and almost ripped the damned thing from the wall but thought better of it since he’d have to add fixing that to his already full to-do list in the morning. His head began to throb and he cursed her for doing this to him again.

  How many times had he come to the rescue like this, worried sick about her. Now he didn’t give a damn. He threw on his dirty work clothes from the day before, ran hasty fingers through his disheveled hair and stomped out of the cabin to his truck.

  The coast highway was deserted this time of night, and a pale, enormous moon hung heavy in a clear sky. It was one
of those giant, autumn moons just past full that lit up the night like an abstract dream world. The surf was calm tonight, so different from the rage that fueled him forward.

  Thirty minutes later he skidded into the parking lot of the tavern called The Wharf, a place the two of them had frequented years ago when she’d lived with him. So beneath her tastes now. He scowled and slammed the gearshift into park, yanked the keys out and stalked into the bar.

  She was sitting laughing hysterically next to two men at the end of the bar as if they had told her the world’s funniest story. When she saw him she waved and called him over.

  “Here’s my guy,” she gushed, leaning on him and then reaching up to plant a big kiss on his mouth.

  Hank grabbed her by the wrists. “It’s time to go home,” he gritted out.

  “No,” she wailed, struggling in his firm grip.

  The two men at the bar started to stand as if to interfere, but one steely look from him and they both backed down, one of them raising his hands. “Don’t look at us, buddy. She’s your wife.”

  “Like hell,” he said, grabbing her around the waist and half walked, half dragged her outside to the truck.

  “Let me go,” she snapped, but he didn’t listen or respond.

  “You’re hurting me,” she complained and he reluctantly released her. Tasha leaned back against his truck. The look of abused outrage was replaced by the flirtatious grin he knew so well. She loved to play people.

  “Where’s Grant?” he asked, standing back with his arms crossed, refusing to let her touch him.

  “Where’s Grant? Where’s Grant?” she mimicked him in a child’s voice. “Can’t you ever come up with anything better than that?”

  He simply stared.

  “Fine,” she said, “Back at the hotel.”

  “The Sandpiper?”

  “Yeah.” She went from completely deflated to provocative flirt in a heartbeat.

  Tasha started to saunter away, but he grabbed her and pushed her back into the side of the truck.