Blood Trail

“Does Mom know?”

Sheridan hesitated. “I don’t think so.”

“Does Dad?”

“Maybe.”

“Oooooh,” Lucy said, smiling wickedly. “Let me guess.”

“Lucy . . .”

“I think I know.”

“Just do whatever you have to on the computer and leave me alone.”

Lucy turned with a smirk.

“Before you get going, do one thing for me,” Sheridan said. “Google the name Klamath Moore. I’ll spell it.”

The search produced dozens of entries. Lucy clicked on the top one, which turned out to be Moore’s organizational website. There was a photo of him—he was tall, fat, with a flowing head of hair like a rock star— surrounded by Hollywood celebrities on a stage. Behind the stars was a big banner reading STOP THE CRUELTY— LIVE AND LOVE LIFE ITSELF.

“Bookmark it,” Sheridan said. “I’ll read it later.”

SHERIDAN PUT her pajamas on and got ready for bed while Lucy did her homework, a paper on global warming assigned by her fifth- grade science teacher. As she printed it out, Lucy asked her sister, “So, does Nate Romanowski write back?”

Sheridan considered lying, but Lucy could read her face. “Yes, he does.” She knew her face was burning red.

“What does he say?”

“He’s schooling me in falconry. He’s the master falconer and I’m his apprentice.”

“Hmmm,” Lucy said smugly, tapping the edges of her report on the desk to align the pages. “That’s interesting.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing, it’s just interesting.”

“Knock it off.”

“And knowing this probably means a lot of rides when you get your car.”

“I’d rather have a falcon than a car, if I had to choose,” Sheridan said. “I think I’d like to start with a prairie falcon, maybe a Cooper’s hawk.”

That set Lucy back. “God, you’re weird.”

Sheridan shrugged.

“Sherry, you’re in high school. The boys like you—you’re a hottie on everyone’s list. If you start walking around with a stupid bird on your arm . . .” Lucy was pleading now, her hands out in front of her, palms up. “People will think you’re some kind of nature girl. A geek. A freak. And they’ll think of me as Bird Girl’s little sister.”

“Could be worse,” Sheridan said.

“How?”

“I could, like, I don’t know, like goats or something. Or emus. You don’t understand. Falconry is a beautiful art. It is known as the sport of kings. Think of that: the sport of kings. It’s ancient and mysterious. And it’s not like the birds are your pets. You don’t just walk around with them on your arm like a pirate with a parrot on his shoulder. God, you can be so juvenile sometimes.”

Lucy took a deep breath to reload when there was a knock on the door. “You girls all right in there?” said their dad.

“Sure,” Sheridan said, “come in.”

He stuck his head in but didn’t enter, his eyes moving from Lucy to Sheridan and back, knowing he’d interrupted something. Sheridan noted the sparkle of gray in his sideburns she’d recently noticed for the first time. He was excited about something, motivated. There was a glint in his eye and a half-smile he couldn’t contain, the look he got when he had a purpose or a cause. “Better get going,” he told Lucy, who was notorious for extending her bedtime, “no stalling tonight.”

After he’d left, Lucy picked up her report in her most haughty manner. “There may not be any more falcons left if the earth keeps heating up,” she said, “so you might as well get that car.”

“Do you realize that what you just said makes no sense at all?”

Lucy rolled her eyes.

“Good night, Lucy.”

“Good night, Sheridan.” And over her shoulder as she skipped out of the room, “Nature Geek. Bird Girl.”

7

THE PROBLEM with my route back at night through the forest is an elk camp that has sprung up on the trail. Three canvas wall tents, four cursed four-wheel ATVs, the detritus of hunters in a campsite: chairs, clotheslines, a firepit ringed with pots and pans. I am grateful they don’t have horses who could whinny or spook at my presence and give me away. Because of the canyon walls on both sides, the only way to proceed is through the