Trophy Hunt by C. J. Box Page A

falconry. Nate had shown her the tools of the sport, such as leather hoods, jesses (strips of leather attached to their talons so he could hold them upright in his hand without them flying away), and lures made of duck wings or leather, which could be swung in a circle by a string to draw the birds’ interest. He had given her old books to read about the ancient sport, mostly written by dead Scotsmen. Some of the books had old black-and-white photos in them. What got Sheridan, though, was that in the old photos the only thing that looked authentic and real were the birds themselves. The falconers in the pictures were from another age. The men (she had yet to see a photo of a woman falconer) wore silly hats with short brims, and baggy knee-length pants, and they were smoking huge, drooping pipes that made her want to laugh out loud. They reminded her of Sherlock Holmes, except fatter. Luckily, Nate looked nothing like that.
    She stood dutifully still, as Nate had instructed, and waited for him to break from the opposite tree line as he had said he would. He said he would come out once the birds had been successfully released to the sky and after they had climbed to the right altitude.
    I t had been six days since the mutilated cattle had been discovered on the Hawkins Ranch, and Sheridan noticed how something that had been a family thing—the dead moose in the meadow—had now become thesubject of discussion not only in town but also in school. Her sixth-grade teacher, Mr. Morris, had even asked her to remain in her desk after school so he could ask her about it. Since she had thought his request was related to a history research paper she had practically copied off of the Internet, she had been relieved to find out he was only interested in the moose and the cows.
    Sheridan had thought it was cool that her teachers asked her about things like this; things that her dad was in the middle of. She told Mr. Morris about finding the moose, and what the animal looked like. He asked about the cows, and she was coy, as if she knew more than she was telling, which she didn’t. She wished she had paid more attention to her mom and dad when they had been discussing it at dinner, but she didn’t say anything to Mr. Morris about that.
    S he heard the sharp snap of branches breaking, and looked around. Nate Romanowski emerged from the dense trees on the other side of the opening. Sheridan studied him. Nate’s movements were liquid and rangy and had a cautious, feline quality about them, as if he were ready to pounce on something or somebody in an instant if he had to. He was tall, with wide shoulders, and had a long, blond ponytail. His sharp, green eyes engaged hers. She had never encountered a stare like Nate’s. He was strange in that when he looked at her, his eyes never wavered. He was so direct. Sometimes, he unnerved her with his stare and she looked away. She had learned that he meant nothing by it. That was just the way he was.
    For some reason, he was slowly shaking his head.
    “Do you want me to go?” she asked, thinking that perhaps she had done something wrong.
    “No.”
    She noticed that he had tilted his face skyward. She followed and looked up. As she watched, the once-distant black specks were becoming more pronounced. The two peregrines he had released where diving back down.
    “Why are they coming down?” Sheridan asked, thinking—hoping—that the birds were diving toward unseen prey.
    Nate shrugged. “I don’t know.”
    “Did I do anything wrong?”
    Nate looked across the clearing at Sheridan. His voice dropped apologetically. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You were perfect.”
    “Then why are they coming down?”
    Nate took another step into the clearing.
    Nate said, “I’ve never seen this happen before.”
    “You haven’t?”
    “No,” he said so softly that she barely heard him. “I’ve had them take off when they saw a rabbit or something in a different clearing, or I’ve had birds fly