The Apprentice

by Jana Barkley

“I think…it’s a barn.”

  “Needs a few build-outs—some stalls over there for the horses, but overall it’s in good shape.”

  “Hank—”

  He grinned at her.

  “Come this way,” he said, striding past her through the door and up to the house. She ran to keep up with him.

  A note was taped to the front door handle, made out to Hank. So, he did have some business there. He fished in his coat pocket, pulled out a single key, and inserted it into the lock. The door’s old-style lock opened with a click, which made Sam feel she was about to enter a Midwest farmhouse from the fifties, like the one she’d lived in when she was a child back in Illinois. No wonder it had felt familiar. This house was older, but it was modern in all the right ways, from beautiful hardwood floors to modern appliances and a charming, wide-open stairway ascending to the bedrooms. She felt as if she had stepped into another person’s world of family dinners, late-night vigils around the kitchen table, and holiday get-togethers in the large family room. Then she remembered the realtor’s sign. That Hank had a key also told her what he was contemplating.

  “What made you want to look at this place?” she asked, daring to venture into Hank’s quiet exploration of the house. They had come back down the stairs and were standing in front of the large picture windows.

  He shrugged. “I’ve been wanting to find another place in the country for a while. There’s too many people and not enough land to fly the birds where we live.” He took her by the arm and led her closer to the window.

  “You see the valley out there, the one you thought was so beautiful?”

  She followed his gaze.

  “That’s a thousand acres of prime grazing land. Imagine what could be done if you let it go fallow, if you turned it into a habitat for pheasant and chukar and rabbits.”

  She understood him, now, and caught the image with enthusiasm. Wake up in the morning, do your chores, eat a little breakfast, and then go fly your birds on your own property. No driving an hour or more to find a field destined to be torn up and developed.

  “It would be the ideal place for a falconer to live,” she said, unsure of what else to say.

  He led her back outside and locked the door. The front porch on this house made it easy to envision warm summer evenings spent watching the sun go down behind the mountains in front of them.

  They drove back in silence, and Sam saw the valley with new eyes. She could envision Hank living out here, and the euphoric feeling of spending the afternoon with him clouded. Knowing Hank would be leaving the Bay Area left a chasm inside her she found impossible to see her way through. It was one thing to be attracted to a man she could never allow herself to get close to, but it was another to grieve over losing him.

  “So, when are you moving?” Her voice was quiet, but she attempted to sound interested.

  His look was sudden, searching. She had to pretend to watch the scenery out the passenger side window.

  “It depends on if I can buy this place. I may not have to sell the house I’m living in now, but if I do, it should fetch a hefty price, considering the coastal location. However long that takes, I guess.”

  “It’s a beautiful ranch, Hank,” she said sincerely. “I can see you there.”

  He looked back at her. “You’re very quiet, Sam. I don’t like this.”

  It was the first time he had addressed her state of mind like someone who knows and cares about you would do. It threw her for a moment, and it warmed her as well.

  “It’s so sudden,” she said with an embarrassed laugh. “But life is full of changes when you least expect it, isn’t it?” She smiled in his direction, avoiding his eyes. “I’d be happy for you, Hank, but I’d miss you.” She tried not to color as she realized the truth behind the statement.

  “It’s not like you’d never see me again,” he said. “You’d always be welcome to come up and go hunting—you and that crazy friend of yours.”

  “Mary Kate would lose her mind out here.”

  Longing sat dense and heavy on her heart and made it hard to think past the feelings muddled up inside her. So this was how it would play out. She would lose him before she could get closer to him. She wouldn’t even feel this way if she’d been smarter about guarding her heart. She could be dead in a year, she reminded herself. So what did it matter? Aiming those words at the tenderest part of herself, Sam caught her breath and forced herself to relax. She was lost in their silence for many moments before she noticed he was watching her.

  Something sparked in his blue eyes as they met hers. He turned back to the road. “Yep, I’m looking forward to leaving the Bay Area. But then, you know me. Not the one for hanging out downtown.”

  She had no doubt about that.

  “Not that I judge folks with their suburban homes. You’ve got a beautiful house, to be sure,” he said, sounding stranger than she had ever heard him, as if he was worried about offending her by lumping her into the suburban sprawl he hated.

  For the first time, Sam wished she did not have to return to the million-dollar home of her previous life. She sighed, surprising herself with the sound of it, and felt his unspoken reaction.

  “I’m just realizing how much that place isn’t me, anymore. Hasn’t been for quite a long time.”

  She gazed at the sage flats speeding by her window. Detached and alone, she braced herself to come back to the Sam who had left the ordinary world to embark on this grand adventure of falconry. Maybe she would move too, if she got that far. But whatever she did, it would be alone. As long as she kept her secret, she would always be alone.

  When they got back to the lodge, she would have gone back to her room to hide the feelings eating her heart out on the ride home, but their friends met them at the weathering yard and made her promise to get together later. During this exchange, she held a tight control on herself, sporting her infamous smile that said everything was great in life. The sun was setting, and she was thankful for the dim light that would hide the cracks in her armor.

  Chance popped right up to her glove as if to say, “Where have you been all day?” He was still a little fat, but he was a lot cleaner from his bath. She risked holding him closer to her chest, and when he did not reject this intimacy by leaning away or bating, she buried her nose into his neck feathers and drank in the smell of him. He had started letting her do it, and she did it then to quell the need that consumed her. Green grass, wild summer oats, and sometimes the smell of something smoky, like a long-ago burned-out campfire: it was how he smelled. Always.

  She glanced up to see the weathering yard gate open and headed toward it until she saw it was Hank who had opened it for her. His eyes searched her face, taking in every expression. How was she to hide from such a man? She rallied in her tried-and-true fashion and smiled as she passed.

  “See you later,” she said, not waiting for a response. Their closeness from spending the day together was gone, leaving her adrift in a cold chasm of loss. Reason had come home, and she encouraged its cold embrace for as long as she could until solitude found her alone in her room, as did the tears.

  Pitch: The height at which the falcon waits above the falconer for game to be flushed

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The alarm was set to go off at five a.m. so they’d have time to dress and eat before leaving for the sky trials. It was four-twenty, and Sam lay awake as she had for the past half hour. In the dark and the soft solitude it offered, she could think. All her life she’d found her thoughts clearest in the early hours of the morning. This morning her thoughts and feelings revolved around Hank.

  He’d been different last night when their friends had decided to gather in Sam and Mary Kate’s room to share single malt scotches. It was a tradition from past meets, so each year, they all brought different selections to sample. It was a great way to socialize, and she felt lucky to be included in this close-knit group. The hawking stories were outlandish at times, and she was surprised to find herself contributing to th
em. Most touching was they considered her one of their own now, and they listened when she spoke.

  Hank sat in a chair across the room from where Sam was sitting cross-legged on her bed. He seemed at ease, but whenever she dared to steal a glimpse at him, she found his eyes locked on her, and she’d had to turn away.

  Sometime before midnight, Hank declared they all ought to get some sleep for the sake of those going to the sky trials in the morning. As usual, Mary Kate complained about the early rising, but Sam knew she wouldn’t miss it this year for any reason. Hank got up to leave with the rest of them, and then stopped and turned back to walk up to the side of the bed, surprising Sam with his directness. She remembered how tentative his voice was, as if he wasn’t sure of her response. “Would you ride with me in the morning?”

  She had melted inside, losing the battle to keep him from that tender, hungry part of her, and nodded. His smile and the resulting warmth in his eyes grabbed her with the potency of a lover’s embrace. “Good,” he said, “I could use your help.”

  She had been lying in the dark for almost an hour with the purpose of taking her heart in hand and choosing one true course of action. But with all of the mental gymnastics she’d put herself through, she was no closer to taking control of the situation than when she’d started. If she told him the whole truth, about hiding her illness from him, it was not very likely he would want to stay her friend, or her sponsor, for that matter. Sure, it would bring closure to the unending stress of having to hide her secret, but it would also make the possibility of losing Chance a reality. Hank might react in anger at her deception, and she would lose a friend, but he might agree to let her keep hunting Chance as long as she was healthy enough to do so. But she knew first-hand how angry he could get, and—having seen how hard it was for him to forgive once he had been crossed—it was frightening. That Hank, the betrayed and wounded one, might have no qualms about yanking her permit and ending her pursuit of falconry altogether. In his own mind, he would do it for the good of the bird, and she would be left alone, separated from what she loved most in life.

  The alarm sounded and she was plunged back into the alternate reality of her lie. There were no happy endings for her.

  Breakfast with Mary Kate in the restaurant helped her past the emotional beating she had given herself in the wee hours before sunrise. Gazing out the window at the sage flats, sheets of evaporating steam rising off them in the warming rays of the rising sun, she felt the need to get out there and put some space around herself.

  That was how he found her when he came to sit next to her at their table. “Nervous?” Mary Kate winked at him.

  He threw her a scowl and leaned over to ask Sam if she was ready.

  She asked Mary Kate, “Are you coming with us?” It occurred to her safety in numbers would give her unruly emotions a nice buffer.

  “Naw, I’ll drive. I might have to sneak out before it’s over. I’ll see you two there.”

  “Let’s go,” said Hank, all business. His mind was on what lay ahead for him and Gally. As they walked through the empty lobby, she observed his tall, lanky form and thought what a good man he was, and how he didn’t deserve to be in the position her lie had put him in. Shaking off these thoughts, though, she determined she would be a support to him, however she could.

  They headed north on the highway. Sam figured they were going back to the same area, as Hank had presumed they would.

  “How do they judge the sky trials?” she asked, then countered, “or would it be too distracting for you to explain it right now, since you’re flying today?”

  Hank laughed loud and outright, making her blush.

  “I just thought…” she said, her voice feeble, and then she too laughed.

  “You don’t have to treat me with kid gloves, Sam. I’m not a prima donna, and neither is Gally.”

  He looked over and gave her a warm smile. Returning his attention to the road, he explained.

  “The falcon’s flight is judged in several segments. From the time the hood is removed until the pigeon is served, the bird’s speed in mounting is measured in feet per minute.”

  “A pigeon is served?”

  “They use racing pigeons. It’s rare they’re caught.”

  “How do they do it?”

  “The falconer or a friend goes out in the field with the pigeon in his hawking vest and releases it when the falcon is in position.”

  “The position the falcon takes over the falconer is judged, as well. The best is when a falcon mounts in a cone pattern overhead. Then the final pitch at which the falcon sets itself is taken into account. The higher the pitch, the better for these well-trained racing pigeons. The falcon needs the height to have any hope of getting close when it makes its attack.”

  “How do they measure height? I know you’ve told me how high you think Gally’s gone just by looking, but not everybody is going to be good at judging altitude from the ground, don’t you agree?”

  “They use a laser rangefinder so there will be no questions about pitch. Then they judge the stoop when the falcon dives to strike the pigeon, and the pursuit the falcon makes after the initial strike is missed.”

  “So they assume the first stoop will be a miss?”

  “Not always. And a bird can get additional points for remounted attacks as long as it doesn’t end in a nasty tail chase out of the county.”

  “You think Gally would do that?”

  He shrugged. “Anything’s possible with these birds. Even the old man back there,” he said, referring to Gally in his traveling compartment behind them.

  “I’m excited about seeing this,” she said, noticing the happiness her words brought to his face.

  They pulled off onto the same dirt road they’d taken to get to the lure competition the day before. Looking behind, she saw a caravan of many trucks and cars following them.

  The air was brutal—crisp enough to make her pull on her gloves and hat. In spite of many layers of warm clothing, the cold cut through even her leather boots and made her toes tingle with discomfort. Stomping her feet from time to time helped, but there was nothing to be done until the sun rose higher.

  Hank led her over to where a table was set up and people were milling about. Underneath the table were several carriers holding pigeons.

  “Hank, out of curiosity, what happens to the pigeons after they get away from the falcon?”

  “These are trained homers. Pigeon racers exercise these guys by driving them farther and farther away from home and releasing them. The birds learn how to get back. These particular pigeons have raced in pigeon derbies across the country and have flown under wild hawks and falcons, so they have a trick or two when it comes to evading a raptor.”

  “So the owner of these pigeons will see them again if they get away from the falcon?”

  He nodded and moved on to the table. She doubled her pace behind his long strides to keep up.

  The Marshalls and other people with falcons whom she had seen in the weathering yard were there. As Sam watched from beside Hank, she saw they were drawing numbers to determine the order of flying. This way nobody had an undue advantage as to flying time. If the falconers wanted to swap flying positions, it was fair, but otherwise the flying order held.

  “Yes!” Grant Marshall exclaimed. He had picked a position that suited him. Tasha was there and nodded approval when he showed her the number.

  Sam watched Hank shrug unperturbed when he saw his position.

  “C’mon,” he said, and led her away to a good vantage point from which to watch the event.

  She hesitated to ask but couldn’t help herself. “So, what position did you get?”

  He didn’t look at her. His face was stoic as he surveyed the sage plain over which the birds would fly. He held the paper out to her: Number 15.

  “Is this good?”

  “We’re last, it seems.”

  “Well…?”

  He turned and gave her a grin. “Some people would be unhappy
with it.”

  His silence was maddening.

  “Couldn’t we try to trade positions with someone else?”

  “It’s okay, Sam. Gally’s not a green game hawk. If he has to wait a few hours to fly, it won’t be the first time.”

  He leaned over to her, his mouth right above her ear. “Stop fretting.”

  She colored and smiled. He was grinning as he straightened up to survey the field.

  Close to a hundred people were there, and more vehicles were arriving as evidenced by the ribbon of dust rising up from the road. Several professional wildlife photographers had set up tripods sporting cameras with lenses so large she wondered how they were able to hold them up with any consistency. The long, flat valley, surrounded by snow-covered mountains, would make a breathtaking backdrop for the main attraction, the falcons in their 200-mph stoops. Already the morning sun was brilliant; it reflected off the snowy peaks and whitewashed desert floor, promising warmth to tame the face-numbing cold. A vendor had been hired to haul his trailer out in the middle of nowhere to sell hot coffee and food. Hank said he’d be right back and walked off toward it.

  When Mary Kate’s van pulled up, Sam waved. Her friend was bundled up warmer than she’d ever seen her dressed in the field, and her tiny form under so many layers looked comical.

  “I’ve already frozen my butt off once this week,” she said, trotting up to where Sam was. “I’m not going to do it again if I can help it.”

  Sam nodded at the growing crowd. “There are a lot of people at this event.”

  “More than usual. Most of the dirt hawkers are out chasing rabbits for a last chance to get their game pins before the banquet tonight.” She winked at Sam. “But we don’t have to worry about that, do we?”

  “No,” Sam said with a big grin.

  Hank joined them, holding three cups of coffee in his large hands. “I thought I saw you come in,” he said, indicating the third cup.

  “Bless you, sir.” Mary Kate reached out and rescued a cup beginning to teeter in its awkward position, and Sam took the one he handed her.