by Jana Barkley
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“Now that’s the Hank I want,” she purred and pulled him into her body.
Before he knew what was happening, her arms wrapped around him and she kissed him deeply. He should have pushed her back and part of him wanted to. But there was still a large part of him that didn’t and she knew it. She pounced on it like a predator on a weakness and made good her attack.
When she grabbed him, he felt his arousal grow hard and insistent. Pushing her back against the truck he crushed himself against her and explored her mouth in hard, demanding kisses. What the hell was he doing? He could take her right here in the parking lot, and she’d like it. She’d called him out here to do exactly this while her worthless husband sat sulking in some hotel room up the road.
His hands found their way to her thighs and began to hike up her skirt. This is going to happen, he thought, until another image distracted him.
The image of a blonde ponytail and outraged face from earlier that week was suddenly all he wanted to think about. His body responded in kind and Tasha sensed the lag in his desire.
“Hank, don’t stop,” she urged.
He pushed himself away from her and stood back. Sam had the balls to stand up to this bitch. Why the hell shouldn’t he?
Tasha glared, outraged.
Finally he found the presence of mind to speak. “Get in the Goddam truck.”
“Fuck you,” she screamed, flailing out at him with her fists, but he deflected her blows easily.
“Either you get in that truck or I’m gonna leave you here,” he said, oozing calm and confidence. It was amazing how much self-control he was finding now.
Tasha fought and babbled nonsense until she collapsed crying. He loaded her into the passenger side and then drove her to the hotel without another word. Once there, he dragged her upstairs to the suite she said was hers and banged on the door.
A groggy Grant opened the door with a jerk but soon backed down when he saw who was there with his wife. It was obvious he had been drinking too. Hank had always puzzled over why a good-looking woman like Tasha had chosen such a chubby, indolent piece of shit like Grant Marshall. He knew it was the money, but the thought of the two of them sleeping together was unimaginable.
“So Prince Charming came to save the lady again, did he?” he sneered. Tasha wailed and pushed through the door past him.
“Did you leave her there?” Hank asked, eyes ice cold and his fists clenched.
“Of course not. You know she went there looking for you.”
“I haven’t been back there for years,” he said.
“Well she got you there anyway, didn’t she?” Grant snarled.
Hank took a menacing step forward and the other man backed up.
Hank looked him dead in the eyes and then past him to see Tasha staring.
“It won’t happen again. Do you hear me?” he said, looking long at each of them.
Then he turned and strode away. He could still hear Tasha screaming and the sound of objects smashing in the room as he opened the door to his truck. Lights went on in several of the rooms next door, but he didn’t stay around to watch. Tasha would feed on the drama.
The moon hung low over the western ocean as he headed for home, feeling lighter than he had in years. He’d escaped this time with his integrity intact and some good old-fashioned common sense. And he realized it was quite something to feel responsible to another human in the right way, to care about disappointing someone who had good expectations of him. A pair of curious but cautious blue eyes that held some deep secret but often sparkled mischief played in his mind’s eye. He smiled as he drove into the early light of sunrise.
Weathering: Perching a hawk out of doors to expose it to sun and fresh air
Chapter Twenty-Two
“How’s the weather lookin’ where you’re at?” Mary Kate’s voice crackled on the poor cell connection as Sam drove through the Sierras.
“Clear so far. But it’s supposed to change sometime tomorrow. Colder, maybe snow.”
“Well, I’ll be rollin’ into the hotel sometime around noon. Save me the bed by the window.”
Sam smiled. “Not a problem. See you then.”
Mary Kate had suggested they share a hotel room to save costs. This was the annual field meet that the state falconry club threw. Falconers from all over California, as well as a good many from out of state, made the annual trek to wherever the meet was being held that year. This year, they were headed back to the upland desert near the Nevada border. Lots of game was available—jack and cottontail—and local farmers with ponds on their land had been courted and persuaded to open up their properties to those wanting to hunt their falcons on duck. The meet lasted for four days and was an opportunity for all falconers to fly their birds in new territory. At the banquet on Saturday night, game pins were given to every falconer whose hawk or falcon took prey. There were other events that Sam wanted to see, as well. A lure flying competition and the sky trials, in which Hank was considering flying Gally, were at the top of her list.
Her greatest hope, though, was for Chance to take his first head of game. He was close, and he’d pulled fur on a couple of wild jacks in the past week, but no catch. Hank told her it would be any day now—that this was normal. The little hawk was building his skills and confidence with each flight. If he missed, she dragged the frozen rabbit for him again to keep him confident, although the poor thing was beginning to look worse for wear. She laughed as she remembered her son’s face when he stopped by one Saturday and found a whole jackrabbit in the freezer, staring at him as he opened the door.
There was more game in the desert than in the industrial fields at home, so Hank wanted her to hunt Chance every day until he caught something. The more slips, or flushed game, you could put under a young hawk, the sooner it figured it out and committed to tackling the prey. This was his perfect opportunity.
Sam’s second and third sessions of chemo had plummeted her energy to alarming levels. Dr. Franco, who had expected this, prescribed a couple of medicines to keep her from getting anemic and to help produce more red blood cells. So far, her autoimmune system was cooperating, and vanity or not, she was thrilled she still showed no signs of hair loss. The nausea was stabilizing, too, which surprised her, for she thought it would get worse after that first session. Leave it to her to be unusual. But she was starting to get fatigued faster, especially in the field. Before, she could march on oblivious to burrs and brush, thanks to her brush gaiters. After an hour now, she was winded and weak. The new medicines had to make a difference, but Sam knew she wasn’t one hundred percent. It was something she planned to monitor and hide that weekend.
From the stories her friends had told her, most falconers were in the field by dawn. Some came in midday to eat if they hadn’t eaten in the field, and then they went back out until the sun went down. If their birds caught early, they came back and perched their feathered hunting partners out in the weathering yard to preen and bathe. Then the falconers socialized out by the yard, sharing field stories and talking to each other or the general public, who always found out and came by to admire the birds. If she found herself too tired after hawking, she would try to hang out by the weathering yard. Hank had given her the perfect excuse when he told her he wanted her to spend some time there to meet others and learn about their birds.
Her interactions with Hank were better since their last misunderstanding. The memory of what happened still embarrassed her, and she shrugged it off with distaste, trying not to imagine how she must have come across. When he’d called to ask where she’d like to go hunting and invited her back to his place, she’d made some excuse about another obligation that would keep her closer to home. The thought of venturing back to the ocean-side cottage to hawk with him again meant stepping back into his territory, with all the sights and sounds of a home life to lure and tantalize her. It was too much. He did not seem offended, but he’d hesitated before replying,
and she’d thought she discerned a subtle change in his voice. That slight hesitation still bothered her, making her wonder if he wanted her back at his place, intimating he liked having her there.
She shoved the thought as far away as she could. It didn’t, and shouldn’t, matter.
The beauty of the open valley floor stunned her as she rounded the edge of the summit. Crisp, blue sky with no sign of clouds went on forever, its immensity bordering on the sublime, and the weight of its presence connected her more to the sky than to the ground beneath her rolling tires. The descent took her out of the pine forest and into the sage desert with its clear, limitless prospects.
The sound of rousing feathers from behind pulled her gaze to the rearview mirror, where she could see the top edge of Chance’s box. Now it was his turn to hunt wild and free in this great, open country. The image of Chance down on a black-tailed jack or even a cottontail made her anxious to get hawking.
The Sagebrush Lodge was not impressive as conference centers go. It resembled a roadside motel, but larger. Sam had spent years attending telecommunication shows and conferences held at five-star hotels; she grinned at the contrast with her current surroundings.
She must have arrived early, for she found a parking spot near the lobby, next to several vehicles with falconry club bumper stickers. A small thrill of excitement reminded her of her first hunt with strangers, which had pulled her into this new lifestyle. Farther down, she saw Hank’s black SUV and was reassured to know there was a familiar face around somewhere.
Though the exterior of the buildings seemed dingy, the interior was the epitome of hunting lodges. A warm fire crackled in the rustic lobby, and everywhere she turned, the walls sported deer and elk head trophies. The weather up here could be harsh, so she figured the inhabitants spent most of their energy on making the interiors of their shelters warm and inviting. It felt good to get away from the thirty-degree bite the wind had today, and even better knowing this roomy lobby would be here to greet her after a day’s hunting in temperatures that could go below twenty degrees.
Near the fireplace stood a group of people. When a tall woman in their number laughed, Sam recognized the voice and paused on her way to the front desk. Tasha was dressed impeccably, like she had been at their first meeting, and the group of men circling her enjoyed themselves talking and laughing in return. Sam shook her head in amazement. The woman was already holding court. Before she could turn to head to the registration desk, the sight of a tall blond man sitting in an overstuffed leather chair by the fire grabbed her. He hadn’t seen her yet, she was sure, and with an unexpected urge to remain unseen, she walked straight to the front desk.
Hank was natural with this group of people. With her. Sam hated feeling this way. In her old world, she had been the one in Tasha’s spot—the one who drew the crowds and had the energy to keep people connected to her. Strange how life had changed her role and made her an outsider peering into a world of unique people drawn together many years before. As all comparisons did, this one left her prey to her own insecurities.
“How was your drive?”
The warm surprise of his voice next to her made her flush. She smiled when she saw he was in a good mood, but then wondered if it was because of Tasha. She turned back to the desk clerk to avoid his eyes.
“Beautiful. It’s good to be up in the sage desert again.”
“Yeah, we should see a lot of game this week.” He leaned on the counter to her right, settling in with no apparent plans to leave her side.
The desk clerk gave her a key to Room 14. Hank leaned over to see the number.
“Good. I’m two doors down. Room 16.”
The conversation at the fireplace escalated in volume, and Sam turned to see what the ruckus was. Another familiar face had joined the group, and hand shakes and hugs went around.
Turning to Hank, she found him studying her. “So when are we planning to hunt?” she asked.
The corners of his mouth turned up. Because of the habitual pause he took before speaking, he always gave her the impression he weighed his words before saying anything.
“We can go this afternoon if your boy’s ready.”
“I think he’ll be at weight in another hour or so.”
“Good. We’ll hit the field then.” He nodded toward the entrance. “Let’s get him set up in the weathering yard and then get some lunch.”
“Sure.” It felt like having the old Hank back again. If things could stay this way, she’d be fine with him all week. A glance up told her not to hold on to that hope; Tasha was headed their way.
“Hey, handsome, let’s go get some food,” she said, sidling up to him and ignoring Sam.
It figured. Sam turned to pick up her registration papers and key.
“Where’s the weathering yard? I’ll meet you there,” she said to Hank.
Hank stared at Tasha in blatant confusion.
“We’re all eating in the restaurant before we go out. C’mon,” the tall brunette prompted again, trying to take his arm.
“Sam and I have some chores to do,” he said, and then turned and placed a hand on Sam’s arm to turn her toward the door.
“Tash, leave it alone. He’s a grown man. He can join us later.” The speaker was a chubby, dark-haired man in his forties, also well dressed, who called from the fireplace. The man was already drinking a beer and seemed a bit piqued at Tasha’s absence from their group.
Hank’s face was stone as he guided Sam out the front door. She turned back to see the man who had called out to Tasha walk over to her, but she brushed him off and stalked into the restaurant.
The crisp chill of winter air outside was refreshing after that moment. Sam took a deep breath and pointed to her SUV. “That’s me.”
Hank walked over and lifted the back hatch, as if he’d done it many times. Seeing her bow perch and bath pan, he pulled them out.
“Get Chance, and I’ll show you the weathering yard.”
Stashing her room key in her pocket, she donned her glove and pulled her red tail out. Chance whipped his head around, wide-eyed, in typical raptor fashion, scanning his surroundings as if making ready to find the best vantage point to fly to. Once he’d done his reconnaissance, he checked in with her to see all was well, then settled in on her glove.
“He’s looking good,” said Hank. He reached in to feel the hawk’s keel under his breast feathers. Chance stiffened and turned his head to Sam, but he didn’t move. When Hank withdrew his hand, Chance relaxed and gave a small rouse.
“He feels good. A little sharp, but good. This cold weather will strip the weight off him. If he catches today, let’s let him crop up. If not, we’ll increase his daily portion of food to give him a boost.”
The weathering yard was a rectangle of lawn that had seen better days due to freezing temperatures and remnants of snow still obvious in the sage bordering the area. It was fenced off, and spots were marked with paint to show the falconers where to drive their perches into the ground, quite a task considering the ground was frozen. Sam was thankful for Hank’s strength when it came to pounding the perch into the hard ground. After filling a bucket with ice-cold water and pouring it into Chance’s bath pan, Hank stood back and watched as she tied the hawk to his perch.
Chance was nervous, perched out in this new locale. Already there were several Harris hawks and some beautiful, large falcons perched there. He bated when another person walked into the yard, but jumped back up to his perch after a moment.
“He’ll adjust.” Hank was unconcerned and waved for her to follow him as he moved farther into the yard.
“The yard has a warden to monitor the birds’ safety at all times. If a bird is tied too long and it can reach another, the warden reties it. And if someone uses the wrong equipment, the warden will make the falconer change it out before they come into the yard.” He stopped a moment, and then motioned her closer to show her something on a Harris hawk.
“Look here,” he said. “You see what’s holdin
g that bird to his perch?” He waited in silence for her to see what he saw.
Sam studied the anklets and jesses. They seemed normal. Scanning down to the swivel, she caught what he was referring to. The leash was tied to the perch, but the leash was clipped to the swivel with a spring clip. Clips were illegal and the cause of many lost birds. Hank had given her the lecture about clips a month ago, and she didn’t own a single one as a result.
“It’s clipped to the perch, not tied.”
“Bingo.” He waved to a man leaning against the fence, talking to several people Sam didn’t recognize. “Locals,” Hank said. “They probably read about the falconry meet in their paper and came to see the raptors.”
The man sauntered over and shook Hank’s hand, giving Sam the impression the two of them knew and liked each other.
“Tom, this is Sam.”
Tom smiled at her and shook her hand.
“Her red tail’s over there.”
Tom nodded, as if making a mental note to keep a good eye on that one.
Hank stepped closer to Tom and pointed to the Harris hawk with the illegal clip. Tom stood with his arms crossed for a moment and then rolled his eyes. Shaking his head, he stepped back and searched the yard.
“Dang. The bird was here before I was.” Fishing around in his pocket, he pulled out a regular leash without a clip. He turned around again, calling, “Who owns this Harris hawk?” There was no response.
“Okey-doke.” He leaned down to the male Harris and reached out to take him on the glove. “You get to borrow a leash today, fella. And when I see your human, I’m gonna kick his ass.” The little hawk “utched” but cooperated in typical Harris hawk fashion while the new leash was installed and then tied to the perch properly. Tom untied the clip leash and stashed it in his pocket.
Hank shrugged and turned to Sam. “The rules for the weathering yard are posted by the gate. It says, ‘no clips.’” He nodded at Tom, and then moved off with her toward the falcon end of the weathering yard. “Now you know how that damn gos got loose at the games and landed on your hand.”