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  Liv had talked to proprietors of other falconry outfits around the country and learned that experienced master falconers could make $400 to $750 per day from winegrowers, refinery owners, farmers, ranchers, and other commercial operators. She’d obtained the equipment, registered the new company with the Wyoming secretary of state, filed the tax forms, set up a website, and had already begun marketing Yarak, Inc.

  The classic falconry definition of yarak was a Turkish phrase describing the peak condition of a falcon to fly and hunt. It was described as “full of stamina, well muscled, alert, neither too fat nor too thin, perfect condition for hunting and killing prey. This state is rarely achieved but a wonder to behold when observed.”

  “It sounds like a stupid idea to me,” Dudley said.

  “That’s why I hate explaining a business plan to a bureaucrat who’s never worked in the private sector in his life.”

  Dudley narrowed his eyes and set his jaw.

  He said, “I know what’s going to happen to you. You’ll either be back here or you’ll be dead. I’m okay with either one.”

  Nate reached out and pulled the sets of documents closer and spun them around. He said, “One of the greatest and most mystical things about falconry is that when you release a bird to the sky—even a bird you’ve worked with for years and years—you never know if it’s going to come back. Eventually, that falcon may take off and it’s the last you ever see of it. Years of work and dedication are released to the wind. There’s satisfaction in the partnership, but no certainty. If you’re a person who needs certainty, falconry isn’t an art you should try to master.”

  Nate signed the papers and shoved them back to Dudley, who sat back, screwed up his face, and said, “I’m not sure I understand a word of what you’re saying.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Nate said, holding out his hands. “Get the key.”

  —

  AS NATE PASSED BY the armed security guards manning the metal detector in the entry lobby, they nodded at him in a way that suggested they knew much more about him than he knew about them. He nodded back. He was aware from several disparaging remarks from Dudley that a kind of unwelcome (by Dudley) legend had grown about Nate among certain types. Nate had never fostered any admiration or following, and he didn’t plan to start now. But those security guards seemed to admire him in a way he found uncomfortable.

  He was wearing the same clothes he’d worn when he was taken into custody months before: jeans, heavy lace-up boots, a T-shirt under a gray hoodie, a canvas tactical vest. A leather falcon jess bound his hair into a ponytail.

  When he pushed through the double doors of the vestibule’s entrance and stepped outside, his senses were overwhelmed. The sky was cloudless and the spring’s high-altitude sun was intense. The air smelled of leaves budding out, pollen, and car exhaust. He could hear birds chirping, motors racing, and a light din of traffic from downtown.

  Idling on the street in front of the Federal Building was a white panel van. A graphic of a peregrine falcon in full-attack stoop had been painted on the side over the words YARAK, INC., lettered in a rough stencil format. In script beneath the graphic it read: Falconry Services and contained a website address.

  Liv was at the wheel, and when she saw him come out of the building, her grin exploded. It seemed bright enough, he thought, to cast shadows.

  He waved hello, then walked around the back of the van and jumped into the passenger seat and shut the door.

  “You are a sight for sore eyes,” she said, still beaming. “I’ve been dreaming of this day.”

  Liv wore jeans, knee-high boots, a T-shirt, and a blazer with a sheer violet scarf. She looked good.

  Nate overlooked that and said, “We need to talk.”

  She shook her head defiantly and pulled away from the curb.

  The golden dome of the state capitol building reflected the harsh afternoon sun. Nate thought: Thank you, Governor Rulon. You did me a solid. But he knew to expect a call someday from the governor’s people. Rulon was wily and he’d expect something in return.

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” she said.

  “Liv . . .”

  “Forget about it. I know you. You’re going to try to convince me that I’m in danger being close to you. That we should go our separate ways for my own safety.”

  Nate nodded. He said, “It’s a matter of time before Templeton finds me. When he finds me, he’ll find you. I can’t risk losing you. You deserve a better life.”

  “That’s nice,” she said, guiding the van north through the blocks of old Victorian homes that once belonged to absentee cattle ranchers who had ranches in the north. The buildings were now law offices or the headquarters of associations.

  She said, “I’m not going anywhere. This is a partnership, remember? We’re going straight and we’re doing it together. We’re putting Mr. Templeton behind us and we’re getting right with God and country. It’s a new chapter in our lives. This is where the outlaw falconer and the formerly wayward sister from Louisiana join forces. We’re going to be normal together like we talked about. So save your breath.”

  He moaned.

  “Forget all that and think about this moment,” she said. “You’re out of jail and back among the living. This is what we’ve been waiting for.”

  “I wish it felt better,” Nate said.

  She reacted as if he’d slapped her, and he quickly tried to explain. “It’s not you,” he said. “I’d rather be here with you right now than with anyone on earth. But I thought I’d feel free on this day—emancipated. Instead, I feel like a eunuch.”

  He lifted his arm to show her the monitor. “There’s one on my ankle, too. They’re tracking every move I make, so they can swoop down on me if I stray or if Templeton finds me. And they didn’t return my weapon.”

  “That was part of the agreement,” she said, patting the center console. “But nowhere on that paper did it say I couldn’t carry.”

  Nate opened the console to find a deadly looking snub-nosed revolver.

  “It’s a Smith and Wesson Governor,” she said. “The man at the gun store said it’s very versatile and a real stopper. You can load it with .410 shotgun shells, .45 ACP rounds, or .45 Colts. Or you can mix and match—three shotgun shells, three bullets. I thought you might like it, and I think even I could hit something with a shotgun shell at close range.”

  “Interesting choice,” Nate said. He was proud of her.

  “Look over your shoulder,” she said.

  He turned. There were no seats in the back of the van. His two peregrines and the red-tailed hawk stood erect and hooded in wire cages on the floor. They looked healthy and still. The ability raptors had for remaining still for hours and then exploding into furious action was a trait Nate had always admired.

  A large plastic cooler—no doubt containing dead rabbits and pigeons for feed—was behind the cages. Falconry gloves, lures, and whistles were packed in translucent boxes that had been fixed to the interior side wall of the van. On the other wall was heavy winter clothing and a small desk that would pop down for communications and bookkeeping.

  “Just like you described it,” Nate said. “You did a great job.”

  “We’re open for business,” she said with a grin. “In fact, there’s some news on that front.”

  He waited.

  “Our first job,” she said. “It came this morning. A rancher in northern Wyoming named Wells needs to chase starlings out of his horse barn.”

  “So that’s where we’re headed?” Nate asked as they cleared the city limits and merged onto I-25 North.

  “Only as far as Casper tonight,” she said, looking over and crinkling her nose. “We have a reservation at a hotel—the honeymoon suite. You and I have some catching up to do.”

  Nate sat back and smiled.

  She said, “Those bracelet monitors can
’t hear us, can they?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I don’t want to scorch some bureaucrat’s ears tonight.”

  8

  The next day, as they drove north on I-25, near the gnomish dryland formation known as the Teapot Dome, Nate pressed the send button on the BlackBerry that Dudley had given him. His call went straight through.

  A woman answered.

  “This is Nate Romanowski,” he said.

  “I know who you are.”

  “Okay, well who is this?”

  “That’s not important.”

  “How about I call you Olga, then? That’s a good Soviet name.”

  “Hmph.”

  Her voice was calm and businesslike, and she clipped off her words. There were no background conversations going on or ambient noises. She sounded to be in her mid-fifties, he thought, but it was only a guess. He imagined a hatchet-faced woman with short hair wearing a headset with a computer monitor in front of her. She was divorced but had two adult children who never called her. She’d worked for the federal government all of her life and she knew how many days she had left until retirement. She vacationed in Florida for three weeks every year, but never got tan.

  Of course the conversation was being recorded, he thought. Probably by multiple agencies.

  “I’m going north for a job,” Nate said.

  “I see that. What kind of vehicle are you in?”

  “We’ve got the Yarak, Inc. van. I’m not driving.”

  “Who is with you?”

  Nate hesitated. He was sure Olga knew the answer to her question, and he didn’t want to bring Liv into the conversation.

  “My partner,” he said.

  “Olivia Brannan?” the woman said.

  Nate sighed. He noticed that Liv was looking over at him, curious about the conversation.

  “What is the location of the job?” Olga asked.

  Nate covered the mouthpiece on the BlackBerry and asked Liv. She told him what she knew.

  “It’s a ranch outside of Saddlestring,” Nate said. “The HF Bar Ranch. It’s been there for generations and I know where it is, but I’ve never been on it before. It’s a working ranch, but also a dude ranch. From what we know, the wranglers want starlings chased out of the barn before the guests start to arrive this summer so the backs of the horses and the saddles aren’t covered with bird poop. I’m telling you this so you don’t think we’re being lured up there by the bad guys.”

  He could hear her tapping keys on a keyboard.

  She said, “Saddlestring. Isn’t that where Mr. Pickett lives?”

  “It is.”

  “Do we have a problem?”

  “No, Olga. We don’t have a problem. The county itself is nine thousand, three hundred and fifty square miles. That’s as big as New Hampshire. It’s not likely I’ll just run into Joe.” Nate felt his face flush hot.

  “I see,” Olga said. “Special Agent Dudley will be interested in this information.”

  “Tell Mr. Dudley to piss up a rope, Olga,” Nate said. “I signed the agreement. I’ll abide by it.”

  “Noted.”

  “Until tomorrow, Olga,” he said, and punched off.

  Nate dropped the phone on the seat between them and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

  “I’m not going to be able to do this,” he said.

  “It’ll be a process,” Liv said, but she looked worried.

  —

  DESPITE BEING WITH LIV AGAIN, despite the champagne she’d arranged for and the honeymoon suite she’d reserved, Nate had not been able to perform the night before. She’d been patient, alluring, and enthusiastic, but he couldn’t get aroused. He loved her, but something was wrong. He drank too much Wyoming Whiskey and fell asleep, and when he woke up in the middle of the night, he didn’t know where he was. He thought he was back in his cell.

  Liv had held him tight the rest of the night, skin to skin.

  She’d awakened him gently that morning.

  He’d said, “What’s wrong with me?”

  “You’re not yourself,” she assured him. “You’ve been through a lot and your feet aren’t on the ground yet.”

  He told her how he’d thought of her constantly, how he’d fantasized about being with her again. In none of his dreams had it gone like it had in real life the night before.

  He’d said, “I feel like I’ve been emasculated.”

  “Is it because they took away your gun?” she asked.

  “No. It’s because they took away my honor,” he responded. “That’s all I’ve ever had.”

  —

  THE SPRING SKY ROILED with thunderheads, and Nate could see downspouts miles away that looked like Greek columns connecting the high plains to the sky. Small herds of pronghorn antelope grazed on the fresh carpet of green grass, their burnished-copper and white color scheme making them stand out like highway cones. The smell of moist sage was thick in the air, as was ozone.

  “I almost forgot what it smelled like when it’s about to rain,” he said to Liv.

  “Maybe it’ll help bring you back,” she said. “And once you get your birds in the air and you have a job to do, I think it’ll get better. Work is good for the soul. Every man needs work.”

  He nodded, and said, “I knew you were beautiful and smart, but I didn’t realize until recently that you are also very wise.”

  She laughed. She had a great laugh, he thought, an all-out Louisiana low country belly laugh.

  “No one’s ever called me wise before,” she said.

  —

  AS THEY PASSED the town of Kaycee, Nate lifted an imaginary glass and said, “Here’s to Chris LeDoux.”

  “Who?” Liv asked.

  “He used to live here,” Nate said. “Chris LeDoux was a championship professional rodeo cowboy and a country singer. He’s a Wyoming icon. Garth Brooks sang a song that mentions him called ‘Much Too Young to Feel This Damn Old.’ Joe and I always salute his memory whenever we pass by.”

  Liv took a deep breath. She said, “Speaking of Joe, there’s some bad news.”

  Nate looked over, concerned.

  “His daughter April was found beaten and left for dead outside of Saddlestring,” Liv said.

  Nate sat up immediately. His first thought was to remove the Governor out of the console and strap it on, agreement or no agreement.

  “They caught the guy who did it,” Liv said.

  “Who was he?”

  “Some local weirdo,” she said. “From what I read about it, the case is pretty much open-and-shut.”

  Nate said, “I can only imagine what Joe and Marybeth are going through. They dote on their daughters. I never knew April that well, but Sheridan is my falconry apprentice.”

  Liv told him the few facts of the case she’d read in that morning’s Casper Star-Tribune.

  Nate said, “I’d like five minutes in a room with that guy. I’d guess Joe would say the same thing.”

  “Except Joe’s on the right side of the law,” Liv said.

  “He is. Man, I’d like to be able to see him and Marybeth,” Nate said. “I’d like to tell them I’m thinking about them.”

  “We’ll be in the general area,” Liv said, nodding toward the Bighorn Mountains that had risen on the horizon to the west. “I know you’re not supposed to make contact with him. But what if he makes it with you? Like if some little bird let him know you’re working on the HF Bar Ranch for a few days?”

  Nate smiled. “And who would that little bird be?”

  “Gee, I have no idea,” she said with a wink.

  —

  IT WAS AN HOUR before dusk when Nate and Liv drove the van under the ancient pole archway decorated with whitened antlers and a hanging wrought iron sign that indicated they’d arrived at the historic HF Bar Ranch
in the Bighorn Mountains. Gates made of weathered pine poles had been swung open, and the chain that had locked them together hung from the top rail of the left-side gate.

  The van left the pavement and climbed through dark pine forests and open alpine meadows bursting with wildflowers on a gravel corduroy road. Rain had swept through the foothills in the previous hour, freshening the air and darkening the roadbed. Moisture glistened on the tips of pine needles like tears.

  From the looks of the sky to the north, another thunderhead was on its way.

  For the first time since he’d walked out of the Federal Building the day before, Nate began to feel good. Whether it was the smell of the pine-rich mountain air or simply being in Liv’s company, he felt his equilibrium start to level out.

  The ranch road wound through groves of pine and aspen. Deep in the shadows of the trees, there were still crusty log-shaped snowdrifts from the winter. Mule deer grazed on spring grass that had grown from the benefit of sunlight shafts through the canopy. At least one set of tire tracks glistened in the muddy road on the way to the ranch. No doubt the tracks had been made by whoever had unlocked the gate for them, Nate thought.

  The trees opened onto a sprawling ranch headquarters: a main lodge, wings of guest cabins, a network of roads and trails that spun off from the center like spokes on a wagon wheel. Liv parked in front of the lodge near a sign that said LOBBY.

  There were no cars, trucks, or ranch vehicles to be seen, and the lower-floor windows of the lodge building were covered by weathered plywood.

  “It doesn’t look like there’s anyone here,” Liv said, leaning forward so she could see the top-floor windows of the lodge. “Why would they board it up like that?”

  “Snow,” Nate said. “It gets deep up here. It doesn’t look like anyone has been here to open it up yet. So who are we meeting?”

  “I guess he’s the caretaker,” Liv said. “John Wells. I didn’t get a lot of detail from him.”

  “Where’s this horse barn?” Nate asked, looking around. It made sense that the barn wouldn’t be too far away from the lodge and cabins, since guests needed easy access to it for daily trail rides.