The Apprentice

by Jana Barkley

“I see the long wingers have got their game faces on,” Mary Kate observed.

  At the judges’ table, a bunch of them were talking with animation, gesturing toward the pigeons and interacting with the club president, who was getting ready to talk to the crowd on a bullhorn.

  “Wrangling for better positions, I guess,” she added.

  Hank grunted.

  “Why aren’t you up there in the fray? Shouldn’t you be reserving your pigeon or schmoozing with the judges?”

  “I already pulled my number.”

  “And?”

  “He’s 15,” Sam told her.

  “How many birds are flying?”

  “Fifteen,” Hank said flatly.

  “Lord, you expect me to hang around for that?” Mary Kate was in rare form, and Sam couldn’t stop laughing. “All for some frickin’ dog and pony show?”

  “You don’t have to stay,” Hank responded in a long, slow drawl. Sam had noticed this was the tone he used with Mary Kate when he was baiting her.

  “Yeah, like you’d ever let me live it down. I leave and Gally puts on the flight of his life. No, thank you.”

  Stoop: The steep dive, usually of the falcon,

  from a substantial height

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The club president spoke through the bullhorn to welcome everyone and called out the first participant.

  “First up today is Dave Conejos with a gyr/peregrine tiercel, bred by Denny Scott.” He dropped the bullhorn and stepped back with the group of people over by the judges’ table.

  “So give us the lowdown, boss,” Mary Kate prodded.

  “It’s the tiercel Dave flew yesterday, the one that caught a duck.”

  “Guess he didn’t need to rest for the day.” Mary Kate raised her eyebrows at Sam.

  Hank didn’t say anything, but a little smile played on his lips. He glanced down at Sam and leaned closer to explain what was happening.

  “Dave’s gonna walk out into the field past the white marker they’ve posted out there. Then, when he’s ready, he’ll un-hood the falcon and the timer will start. He’s got fifteen minutes to complete his flight.”

  Sam could see Mary Kate doing the math in her head: fifteen flights at fifteen minutes apiece. She sighed comically.

  “Who are those people out in the field with him?” Sam asked.

  Hank shrugged. “Friends, or just interested people.”

  “Not the judges?”

  “No, the judges stay put at the table.”

  She thought about it for a moment. “How do the birds react with so many people around? Does Gally mind a crowd?”

  “I guess we’ll see,” was his noncommittal remark. “Personally, I prefer a little space when I fly my bird.”

  Like everything else in his life, she thought with amusement, but her humor faded at the thought of Hank on his new ranch with all the solitude that beautiful valley could afford, far away from the Bay Area and from her. He didn’t need anybody. If only she could be so impervious—especially to him.

  “Here we go,” he said.

  After the usual mute and a couple of rouses, the tiercel took to the sky, pumping up and around Dave in a classic fashion to reach a higher pitch above.

  “Good. This is what you want to see,” Hank told her, “the bird mounting in a cone shape over the falconer.”

  As the falcon flew higher, he got smaller and smaller, specking out of view to the naked eye. Hank had brought his binoculars but hadn’t used them, yet.

  “Looks like he’s set at that height,” he said, then glanced at Sam to see she was confused.

  “The bird doesn’t look like he wants to go any higher. It’s a shame, ʼcause he’s gonna need extra height to chase a pigeon.”

  “How high is he?”

  “About a thousand feet, I’d guess. Good height for hunting ducks, but for these racers—well, let’s see what happens.”

  When the bird circled around and pumped away into the wind, the falconer opened his vest. A flash of grey and white streaked up and out. It was all the tiercel needed to fold up and dive with a speed that made Sam gasp.

  “It’s a good pigeon,” said Hank. “I’m afraid the pitch wasn’t enough.”

  The falcon’s stoop missed wide, forcing the bird to swing out and move into a chase. The pigeon stalled and the falcon raced past it, turning back to mount up in the air again. The falcon was not finished, but it was a done deal. The pigeon was too fast at evasive maneuvers for the falcon to catch in a direct pursuit. As the pigeon flew away, Dave brought out his lure and called the tiercel in.

  A round of applause broke the crisp silence they’d become accustomed to, and everyone began to move around, searching for some elusive warmth.

  “Not a bad start,” said Mary Kate.

  Hank nodded. “He’s a good hunting bird. That’s what counts, not this show.” He cast a sideways glance at Sam as he said this and pushed his bare hands into his coat pockets. “If their falcons don’t go as high as needed or if they don’t get into position the way they’ve been trained to do, some of these falconers won’t release the pigeon.”

  “That’s no fun for the audience,” Mary Kate commented.

  Hank scowled. “You don’t want to reward lazy behavior. The chase is a reward. If your bird thinks he can catch something from a lower pitch or work less hard, then he’s gonna do it. Billy Ingram did that one year. The crowd was screaming for him to release the pigeon when the falcon was at fifteen hundred feet, and it would have been a great flight to see.” He grinned at the memory. “But he’s used to taking his bird up higher and longer, making it wait for the flush in the field. His falcon hunts sage grouse, and those giants can’t be taken without a super-high pitch.”

  “So, if he’d served his falcon a pigeon then,” Sam said, working it out, “he’d reward the wrong behavior.”

  “And maybe ruin a good game hawk. You should have heard the crowd moan and complain when he just lured the bird in at the end of his time allotment.”

  The bullhorn brought her attention back to the field. “Next up, Grant Marshall with his gyr/peregrine tiercel, Talon.” Hoots and applause erupted around them. Talon had a following.

  Hank inclined his head toward the field. “This should be a treat.”

  As much as Grant and Tasha tried to mess with him, either out of fear or jealousy, Hank could still appreciate a great falcon. Sam admired him for that.

  “This bird is rangier when he mounts, but he’s bigger,” he said. “He’s got a lot of gyrfalcon in him, and those large monsters need to eat up the sky.”

  She smiled in confusion.

  “Watch how he mounts up,” he said, leaning in. “He’s gonna stair-step up, back and forth in great swaths of sky, instead of circling up in a cone pattern the way peregrines are prone to do. A lot of the desert-type falcons, like gyrs and prairie falcons, fly that way.”

  “Isn’t that a fault?”

  “Not if he takes a super-high pitch. He’ll recover points for pitch.”

  A group of five people headed out, including Tasha, who walked close to her husband.

  Following Hank’s lead, Sam focused on the small group of people around Grant. The falcon roused after the hood came off, his black and tan speckled feathers a beautiful sight. Grant held up his arm, and the bird took a moment to scan the horizon, taking in what was around, behind, and to the sides. Then he was off in a rhythmic pumping of wings, rowing powerfully upward well over a thousand feet with ease.

  As Hank had predicted, the falcon flew out in a straight line, gaining altitude, then turned and pumped back in the opposite direction with speed and agility in a stair-step fashion.

  Mary Kate whistled in approval, able to enjoy and appreciate the beautiful bird in spite of her vociferous complaints before. Hank grinned his appreciation.

  “How high is he?” Sam asked when she almost couldn’t make out the tiny form.

  “He’s specking out,” he said. “Gotta be at least fifteen hundr
ed feet.” For the first time, she saw Hank use his binoculars to scan the sky. Their heads were craned back so far her neck started to hurt and she had to stop looking until Hank’s animated voice startled her.

  “Get ready. Watch the pigeon.”

  Grant let the pigeon slip out of his vest, and the bird flapped away in speedy retreat from the people on the ground.

  As the pigeon mounted, she saw a black blur dropping out of the sky like a missile. So did the pigeon but too late. With a blast of feathers and a whack that resounded on the open plain, the falcon hit his target and swung up in a large arc to miss the ground and remount. The pigeon, though stunned, took to the wing again and flew for its life in a straight line until it saw the falcon in hot pursuit. It stalled and swung up in an impossible arc, but this falcon seemed to be no stranger to pigeons and their tricks. Each stall and turn the pigeon made was shadowed by the dark falcon, and the energy of the crowd was high with anticipation. The racer ducked out after a final dive from the falcon, and it was clear the chase was done and the pigeon had survived to fly another day

  Hank’s eyes narrowed and he stepped forward. Sam followed his gaze and saw the falcon was continuing to chase the pigeon in a straight line, headed out of the valley. It was stunning how much sky the falcon could eat up in a matter of seconds.

  “Lure him back, Marshall,” Hank muttered under his breath.

  After a few moments, when the falcon was out of sight, Grant finally pulled his lure and whistled. The crowd waited, but nothing happened. Binoculars went up all around them, falconers and non-falconers alike searching the sky.

  “There he is,” said a voice next to them.

  Spectators turned their lenses to the end of the mountain range.

  “I’ve got him,” said Hank. “He’s still playing with that bird over the rise. Come on back, big guy,” he urged, as if the falcon could hear him. Then, after a few more tense moments, he dropped the binoculars and sighed.

  “Those gyrs are pretty stubborn. He didn’t want to let the pigeon go.”

  Sam saw the Marshalls running back toward the crowd. “What are they going to do?”

  Hank rubbed his face with a hand and stood for a moment, watching them. “They’re gonna get the telemetry out and go look for him.” He turned to search the crowd. Others were moving into action. “Wait here. I’m gonna see if they need some help.”

  He moved forward on his long legs with amazing speed, and Sam saw Tasha and Grant look up at him with appreciative glances. He and some other falconers conferred and then moved toward their truck. Something had been decided, and he trotted back to them.

  “I’m gonna get my receiver and help them search. Are you two okay waiting here?”

  “Of course,” she assured him. It was all he seemed to need, and he turned to hike off toward his SUV. The Marshalls’ truck was already kicking up dust as it sped off down the dirt track; Hank and another falconer followed in their vehicles.

  “Don’t worry, kiddo,” Mary Kate assured her. “He’s got a long time before Gally’s supposed to fly. This falcon is pretty special.”

  Gone was the Mary Kate who had nothing but ill to say about long wingers and their prima donna falcons. Sam didn’t know how the Marshalls handled their birds, but if it was anything like the way she and her friends did, those game hawks were part of the family. She said a silent prayer, hoping they would find Talon and bring him home. And she certainly didn’t feel slighted because Hank had run to the rescue. It was what falconers did for each other, because the next time, it could be your bird who went missing, and you’d appreciate all the help you could get to find it.

  The sky trials continued. The women refilled their coffee, relishing the movement of walking up and down the edge of the field to generate some warmth. It was almost an hour and a half later when a cloud of dirt announced the approach of vehicles. Sam worried Hank would miss his turn to fly Gally, but her fears were relieved when she saw his SUV at the head of the caravan.

  Her ready smile and greeting was replaced by the wild thumping of her heart when she saw Tasha slip out of Hank’s vehicle. The tall woman came around to his side, and before he knew what she was doing, she wrapped her arms around him in a long-lasting hug—too long for Sam’s comfort. Whether it was the unexpected shock of seeing how well the two of them fit together, hinting at their former intimacy, or her medications and this damnable disease working on her system, she couldn’t fathom. All she could feel was the rush of blood to her face and the desire to move. But the sudden flush left her unsteady and light-headed.

  “Hey, girl,” Mary Kate said with some concern. She followed Sam’s gaze. “Good Lord.” Her voice trailed away.

  Sam turned away, but not before catching Hank’s glance. She couldn’t look at him, not without betraying how entangled her heart had become.

  Mary Kate’s attention was back on Sam, and she tried to put an arm around her. But the last thing Sam wanted was to call attention to herself.

  “I’m all right,” she said, slipping away from her. “I think I need to sit down somewhere.” She headed off down the field.

  “I’ll go with you.”

  They walked out to a couple of boulders and sat down.

  It wasn’t long before Hank found them, but Sam kept her eyes on the airborne falcon making passes in front of them.

  “Did you find him?” Mary Kate asked, and Sam glanced over to check his response.

  Hank’s gaze went right for her face, but Sam saw the solid wall there again, the one that shut out anyone from knowing his feelings when he didn’t want them to.

  “Had to drive over the rise several miles, but we found him.”

  “Where’s Grant?” Mary Kate asked, and something about the question made Sam think she was digging.

  Hank squinted. “He took Talon back to the lodge to put him in the weathering yard.”

  “If you want, I can give Sam a ride back if Tasha’s riding with you.”

  A dark cloud threatened to explode in his worn face, and Sam was thankful it wasn’t aimed at her. Why the hell was Mary Kate pushing him?

  “What does Sam want?” he asked, a deeper question in his eyes. He wasn’t shut down to her, and if she weren’t mistaken, the possibility of disappointment lurked there as he awaited her response.

  Her voice sounded small and choked. “No.” The acknowledgement in his eyes gave Sam a rush of relief.

  “Tasha can get her own ride.” He scowled at Mary Kate.

  Before Sam understood what was happening, he stepped in front of her and held out his hand. She took it without thinking, and he led her away toward his truck. It felt like a gesture of ownership, and her best intentions gave up in resounding defeat. She yielded to the warmth of his touch and walked close to him, as if she belonged nowhere else but there.

  “She wanted to come back to the sky trials,” he said, his voice gruff. “The rest of it—what you saw—”

  “It’s none of my business, Hank.”

  He hadn’t let go of her hand as they were walking. He squeezed it. “Remember what I told you a couple of nights ago about all this.”

  She had no protection against the effect his words had on her. His steel-blue eyes were earnest. He dropped her hand when they reached the truck, and she stole a few precious moments to watch him. He looked like a man who’d had a close call. Questions screamed in her mind: why was it so important to him for her to believe he and Tasha were through? A wretched hope tormented her: she wanted him to feel what she was feeling. It was enough to make her turn away and pretend to watch the field.

  “How many more until we go?” he asked, breaking into her thoughts.

  “I think they’re on Number 14 now.”

  Hank glanced up to see the falconer starting his walk out to the field to begin his flight.

  “Good. Just in time.” He called Sam up beside him.

  “Open the black box,” he said, pointing. Inside were the telemetry receiver and transmitter.


  Hank pulled on his falconry bag and loaded it with Gally’s food for the day and his lure. Then he opened the rear compartment in front of them, stepped the hooded falcon up onto his glove, and brought him out. Gally’s head, even though hooded, bobbed up and down, and he began to pick at Hank’s glove.

  “You see that?” He glanced her way, grinning. “He’s telling me he’s ready to fly. I don’t even need to weigh him at this point.”

  Hank fastened the transmitter to Gally’s leg, beeped it up, and then turned to her.

  “We’re ready,” he said.

  Ring up: When the falcon pursues her quarry upward in a spiral

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Sam started to follow him to the judges’ table and then paused, wondering if she should stand back. He took a few steps and turned around. Seeing she was hanging back, he gave a head jerk and a crooked smile, beckoning her forward.

  Sam trotted up next to him.

  “I can’t talk to you from back there.” He looked amused.

  Six more pigeons remained in the crates under the table. Hank crouched down to examine them and then pointed to one. Another falconer who was waiting nearby reached in and pulled it out.

  “Would you open up the flap on my game bag?” he asked Sam. He placed the pigeon inside and indicated she should close it.

  “Gerard’s on deck?” asked the president. Hank nodded.

  The current falcon was making its final passes at the released pigeon and would be finished any moment. Sam felt her stomach roil in nervous apprehension, as if she were the one getting ready to fly a falcon in front of all these people. For someone as averse to crowds as Hank was, she admired his calm self-possession. Considering it, she realized he didn’t view the morning’s flight as any different from a flight he’d make with Gally at home. He was always training and conditioning his falcon and was unconcerned about what people thought of him. He glanced over and caught her watching him, and the smallest smile betrayed itself on his face, making her turn away with a grin. They were close again, and she thanked the universe for this moment.

  A tall figure stepped in between her and Hank, and Sam was forced to move out of the way.