Calamities, like buzzard birds, arrive in flocks.
Kier Wintripp killed the motor and let the wilderness quiet settle over him. Outside the warmth of the truck, in the gray November dawn, the mountains were dressing themselves for winter, the storm smoothing their wrinkles with the white velvet of snow. Kier knew the mountains well, knew what grew in each microclimate, when it bloomed, what you might eat, and what you would not, the resident birds and migratory visitors, the mammals, the invertebrates, the tracks of all, the habits of each, and their place in the order of things. As winter swept the mountains, sap drew back into the ground, growing things began a silent renewal, and wildlife went from fat to slim in sleep or struggle as the forest awaited the plenty of spring.
The wind-driven snow covered his windshield quickly, obscuring the white stucco medical clinic that might have been snatched from a suburb of San Francisco and set on this low-lying shoulder of Wintoon Mountain. Behind it, the wildness of the mountain's rocky pitches and forested slopes contrasted sharply with the manicured grounds around the building.
Kier was late, and he would have preferred to avoid setting foot in the Mountain Shadows facility altogether. Although he supposed it was becoming more commonplace all the time, surrogate birthing in exchange for a fee bothered him. That Tilok women were doing it regularly troubled him even more. Still, he knew his family needed him, so he stepped out of his pickup and started down the breezeway that led into the sprawling complex where his niece, Winona, was about to give birth. As Kier understood the arrangement Winona supplied only the womb.
A gravely injured old rottweiler, hit by a tractor, had made Kier late. He was able to save the animal, but at some cost to the quality of its life. Using the latest surgical techniques and stainless-steel fastenings to hold the bones in place, Kier had closed the many wounds with more dissolvable sutures than he cared to count. He had left the grateful owner, given his hands a quick scrub, and driven to the Mountain Shadows clinic as fast as conditions permitted.
The clinic was in fact a small hospital, a surgicenter and a walk-in primary care facility all rolled into one. It was touted as a charitable effort, serving three Native American tribes and the nearby community of Johnson City. It was an exceptional clinic given that there weren't 20,000 people in the whole county, and Johnson City didn't swell to a population of 3,000 except in the summer.
To either side of the entryway, a trickling stream splashed over stones meant to look river smoothed. The stone was artificial, the water pumped and chemically sterilized. A large ceramic bullfrog adorned the edge of a tiny pond. Just through the main entrance was a spacious lobby with a receptionist's desk flanked by cubbyhole offices used for filling out forms and admitting patients.
Kier walked through the lobby with a barely perceptible nod, as if he knew where he was going. Two male physicians in green scrubs turned out of another corridor and walked in front of him for a hundred feet or so. They were apparently arguing over a golf score.
The place had almost no scent, which Kier found disorienting. To the ultrasensitive nose, hospitals usually had the occasional pungent sting of alcohol, the ammoniac aroma of industrial-grade disinfectants, the genuine-article piss smell from all the urine-filled plastic bags, and the lemon-peppermint odors of chemical deodorizers used to mask the first three. Powerful electrical filters, such as those in Mountain Shadows, tended to leave only the faint scent-like that of a hot router in cherry wood. A good whiff of a dirty diaper would have been refreshing to Kier.
Without much effort, he found the maternity nurse's station. Shuffling papers and moving charts, the busy charge nurse barely noticed him at first. She wore a dark green sweater over whites, the various layers of polyester stretched tight across a belly that had seen its own births, and had been hostage to long stints of a sedentary life.
After a moment, she did a quick double take. Kier knew what she saw, and he could read in her face what she thought. With his dark eyes and jet-black hair braided down his back, Kier had the general mien of the Tilok people. The rest of him looked more European, the nose narrower and the face less round. The nurse's glance went to the turquoise stones, silver, and feathers that adorned his braided hair and cowboy hat. Cowboy boots pushed the jeans-clad man to over six feet, four inches.
"Say, you're Kier Wintripp, aren't you? The veterinary doctor?"
He nodded.
"Winona told us to look for you. Room Six down there. She just got back from recovery. She gave birth by cesarean just over an hour ago."
"I didn't expect it would be that fast," Kier said.
''The baby was breech and had the umbilicus wrapped around its neck. Couldn't be helped." She pointed down the corridor to the right. "They rushed her straight to surgery."
Kier followed where she had pointed. The floors were gleaming, the walls without a mark and tastefully adorned with watercolor wilderness scenes. In the hallway, Kier passed a defibrillator and brand-new stainless-steel medicine carts.
Before he entered Winona's room, he heard the commotion.
''I want to see the baby just once." It was Winona, sounding stressed.
"It's awful, just awful." His sister's voice.
As he came through the door, Kier's mother sounded only slightly calmer. "Honey, we've asked them."
His mother smiled at him, and for just a second, the exhaustion departed her body. She looked back at Winona, whose dark hair hung down around a face taut with anguish.
"What's wrong?" Kier asked.
"They won't let me even look at the baby. Not even for a second."
Kier pondered for a moment. "I'll ask them to let you see the baby," he said. "But just for a couple of minutes. Then we have to let the baby go. He's not one of us."
"I want to see him." She grasped his hands.
"We'll try," he said, seeking to comfort her. "When they bring you this baby I want you to tell yourself something, and I have to hear the words out loud."
"What?"
"I want you to say: 'He's beautiful, but he belongs to someone else.' "
"Okay. Okay."
"I want you to swear I'll hear those words."
"I said okay. Can you stay with us?"
Kier nodded. "But I have to leave sooner than I'd like. The Donahues have an Arab mare that's due to foal. Jack's out of town, and with Claudie ill, and the storm coming in, she needs me there."
"But you'll get the baby?"
He nodded again.
Kier knew Winona needed closure following this bizarre process. He wasn't sure it would help, but after inducing a young woman to carry a baby for money the clinic could bend a little. Now, with the cesarean, Winona might never have a normal delivery. Anger flared inside him as he approached the nurse's station.
"I am sorry to trouble you. I am here to discuss my niece's request to see the baby for a minute," he said to the charge nurse.
"Your niece didn't say a minute, but the answer's the same. It's against policy." She whispered, "And you don't really want to do this to her."
"It'll only be for a few minutes."
"I'm sorry, I'd really like to help you, but it's against the rules."
"Sometimes it's better to break the rules. This might be one of those occasions."
"I know who you are and how much influence you have with the local community and the Tilok tribe, but we don't break the rules for anyone, Dr. Wintripp."
"I understand. Perhaps I could speak with the person in charge of this hospital?''
"That's the administrator, Mr. Hanson."
"I would like to see him."
"He's with a very important visitor."
"Who is that?"
"The president of the company that owns the clinic. Mr. Tillman."
"I would still like to see him."
"I'll see if the head nurse can make an appointment with the administrator some time this week."
Kier looked in the woman's eyes. "It would be a great kindness if you could tell me how to find him now so that I could work out my niece's problem."
At that moment a nurse with a clipboard hurried toward them from the surgical wing, whispering, "They're coming, they're coming."
Kier looked back at the charge nurse, who glanced nervously to the side, not meeting his gaze. The four staffers around them looked bewildered, as if they were contemplating hiding in the closet.
A small swarm of people and a flashbulb-popping photographer appeared. They surrounded a tall, physically powerful man whose narrow waist and bulky upper body were ill-concealed by his L.L. Bean outdoor wear. Kier assumed this man to be Mr. Tillman. He didn't look the doughboy executive that Kier had imagined. The man's presence, his leathery face, black wavy hair, and hooked nose, the primitive intensity of his gaze, looked anything but soft and corporate.
Kier stepped into the group's path, his sheer size slowing them to a near stop.
"Mr. Hanson?"
A short, balding man with black glasses stepped forward. "I'm Mr. Hanson. The clinic administrator. Can I help you?"
Kier appraised Hanson and the rest of the entourage, noting that Tillman watched him with interest. If Kier had to guess, he would have said that Tillman knew who he was. He addressed Mr. Hanson directly. "I'm Kier Wintripp. My niece is a surrogate mother. She just delivered. We believe it would help her to show her the baby for five minutes, then we'll give the child back."
"We can't let surrogate mothers start telling us how long they want the baby," Hanson said. "It's not their baby. They only carry it."
"A deviation from that policy might be a good thing in this case. I believe it would help my niece, and it would solve some potential problems for all of us."
"I'm sorry. We don't deviate," Hanson said. "Excuse me," Tillman interrupted, "I'd like to understand what you mean?" Tillman's voice was deep and smooth. "I mean following the policy risks disrupting our peace." "Maybe you could explain that for me." "Well, two thousand Tiloks might take a sudden interest in your clinic, and they might all happen to show up at once, making their arrival look remarkably like a demonstration. Of course, the press from miles around would come. That would generate news articles, I'm sure, about the wisdom of surrogate mothering and things of that nature."
"What exactly do you want, Mr. Wintripp?"
"Five minutes of the baby's life in the arms of the woman who gave birth to him."
"We can't give in to this," Hanson protested. Tillman gave him a sharp glance, and he quit talking. "Five minutes. Then the child goes back to the nursery, and you're out of my hospital."
"I'm out of your hospital when I'm through visiting my niece."
Tillman's jaw set hard. Kier could tell he was accustomed to having his way. "We can work something out," Tillman said, quickly regaining his composure.
''It's settled then," said the charge nurse, appearing relieved. "Come with me, please."
Kier followed, his body strangely alive with adrenaline. In moments, a woman with a surprised expression had brought the baby into Winona's room. Kier stood to the side, avoiding his mother's gaze. He knew that Winona was about to partake in one of the emptiest moments of her life. Motherhood and the hope of a shared future were supposed to be the reward for the hard work of birth. Greenbacks and five minutes with someone else's child would have to be enough for Winona.
At first, the snow fell lightly. Jessie Mayfield found herself outside a three-chair beauty shop in a town where the men still went to the barber. Visiting Johnson City was a bizarre experience and a greatly needed distraction. Trying not to think about Frank Bilotti seemed to be the antidote of choice until she figured out some way that thinking about him could be constructive.
Claudie had tried to insist that she visit a local hairdresser, but Jessie wasn't in the mood. She had picked up the groceries for Claudie and her kids, all the way down to the Pop Tarts, and had only one stop left. A prescription for Claudie's shingles waited at the pharmacy, where she could also pick up some cold medicine for Claudie's firstborn son, Bren.
The only pharmacy in Johnson City operated out of an old church. The steep-pitched slate roof, steeple, overhanging eaves, and lap siding gave the building a certain character. Something else about it made it poignant, but Jessie couldn't put her finger on it. Entering through the church's original set of double doors, Jessie saw shelves climbing all the walls, even reaching the point where the ceiling rose at an angle to form the steeple. Not short on merchandise, the place was packed with everything from portable toilets to hot water bottles.
"Can I help you?" a beautiful olive-skinned woman said. She looked part Native American, with soft, well-tended hair that dropped over her shoulders.
"Claudie Donahue has a prescription."
"You must be her sister from New York?"
"Word travels that fast?"
"Around here the trees have ears and the rocks talk."
Jessie's face broke a natural smile. It felt odd because her life was distinctly a frown.
In a corner next to the counter, a dark-haired boy was coloring. It required no imagination to suppose that his mother was tending the store. His eyelashes were long and distinctive. Designed for expansion, his blue overalls were rolled nicely at the ankles, his tiny polo shirt bore stripes that handily complemented the denim. Mom worked on this kid.
Jessie wondered at his place in life: Other than waiting for his mother to finish work, which he did rather well, this child's only job was keeping the crayon in the coloring book. He had no conflicts pulling him in opposite directions, no tests looming on his horizon to determine if he would be judged fit or worthwhile. No conscious possibility of flunking life. That would come later. Jessie gave him a smile-her second of the day. She enjoyed the connection as their eyes met, and she silently wished him well.
As Jessie crossed the street to her Volvo, the snow hurled down in blinding torrents. The keys didn't fit in the car door lock at first-probably due to the overanxious shake in her hands-and it took a minute to make them work. She didn't want to drive back over the mountain in this snow, but she had to get back to Claudie. Besides, where else would she stay in this desolate county but at her sister's?
Jessie had never believed that circumstances controlled people unless people allowed them to. She now struggled to maintain that belief. Frank Bilotti would like nothing better than to put her mind in that vise called fear. The hearings at headquarters in Washington would begin quickly if she decided to bring charges. Then, either she would lose her job and be drummed out of the FBI in disgrace. Or, if the truth wriggled free from all the lies, three experienced agents who had served with distinction would lose their shields. In the latter case, more than a few of her colleagues would hate her, although she knew that her friends-and there were plenty of those-would stick by her. There was a third possibility: All four agents-including Jessie-would be fired and forfeit their good names forever.
Frank had been her mentor, her friend, and her colleague. Having mentored many in her own right, she held that relationship sacred, and her trust had been absolute. Frank had breached that trust in the crudest possible way, and for no purpose other than saving his own professional life. If only it had been just ordinary, gut-wrenching, black-hole-in-your-life adultery, maybe Gail could have survived the traditional humbling. Frank's line might have begun something like: "The wife and I are seeing a counselor." But Jessie's best friend had fallen victim to Frank's demented needs and been publicly vilified.
Jessie's fingers tightened on the steering wheel. She needed to do something with her anger other than drive it down the road. God, if she got stuck while driving over Elk Horn Pass, she could freeze to death. That would be one way to rid her memory of Frank Bilotti. Maybe coming to stay with her sister in the mountains hadn't been a good idea. There was so much silence out here. So many open spaces. You couldn't really hide from your thoughts the way you could at Thanksgiving in New York, knocked around in the crowds like a billiard ball, jostling past the guys with Salvation Army suits on the corner. Instead, she now faced eighteen miles of death-defying driving in blinding snow.
She had no affinity for the mountains, hated bugs, and picnics of every kind, and didn't care for animals large enough that their leavings wouldn't fit in a sandwich bag. So why come to a place you hate? Simple. To help someone you love.
Claudie needed her, and that was a good reason to be here. Jessie hoped that she could deal with her own problems by helping someone else. Grady White, Frank's boss, had told her that it wasn't bad medicine to help others as long as you got around to yourself in the process.
In her own self-analysis, Jessie started out with one major vulnerability: She was frightened to death of failing at anything.
She had spent her early years in upstate New York near the bend in the Willis River. At thirteen, she moved to the Bronx, having personally earned in record time all the merit badges that the Girl Scouts had to offer.
After that it was a different matter: pimples, hormones, periods, boys, parents who didn't understand, downright ignorant brothers, tears, hysteria, clothes that didn't fit, fights about what to wear, and weird cravings for things she couldn't have-a list too long to remember. And the lost-animal home. Even as a child, it was her credo that she had to be tough and perfect. But something inside her was soft. It came out first with the animals. Incredibly determined, she had created a backyard menagerie of those particularly lucky creatures that fell into her hands before they met the ultimate sanction at the city animal shelter. To support her critters, she got a paper route. The animals went at age fifteen. She swore off loving animals as best she could, and at age sixteen, became a somewhat introspective girl who plunged headlong into the world of computers.
It was only with her MBA that she had a sort of social blossoming. Awkward at first, she learned how to reach out to people. Shortly after school, she wed. She thrived at her first job, at Delphi, a high-tech company, where she soon headed the information technology division.
When Gail, her best friend since childhood, suffered an auto accident that broke multiple bones, almost ruined an eye, and generally made her a nervous, quivering person, Jessie gave up the better part of her "free" time to help her old friend. Just about that time, Jessie's husband, Norman, announced their breakup to their respective families.
Gail was the reason Jessie had joined the FBI. Gail had a job in the public relations department for the Bureau in Washington, D.C. Although Jessie was a computer whiz, and she was more or less happily buried in her work, and had lots of friends, she wanted to do something more creative. Gail, for her part, wanted Jessie for a roommate, now that Norman was history, so she convinced her to join the Bureau, effectively arguing that Jessie could specialize in computer crime-no street work-and match wits with the smartest crooks in the business. There was no end to the personal creativity she could bring to the task of hunting down virus disseminators, techno-terrorists, and other computer criminals.
Jessie surprised herself by going for it-the right thing at the right time, she guessed-turning down two promotion offers from Delphi. A lot of things about making the move were painful, including the sizable cut in pay, and the interminable, but ultimately rewarding, training.
She rapidly formed many good relationships, chief among them the one with her boss, Frank Bilotti. She had known him for three years before he did the unthinkable.
Although Gail had been the initial victim, it was Jessie who was the witness on whom the entire case against Frank rested. Without what Jessie saw and heard, there would be no investigation of Frank Bilotti. What Frank did to Jessie was threaten her career, and what she held most dear, her reputation, in order to force her silence. What he really did was break her heart. Then it was a professional war.
Of course, when the Bilotti thing blew up, Gail had pointed out that it was ludicrous for Jessie Mayfield to leave the dung heap of a bureaucratic mess for the dirt roads and insect-ridden, off-the-grid, back-country living of Wintoon County. This was not a Jessie Mayfield kind of place. There were no hot dog stands, Jewish delicatessens, sushi bars, or theater districts- nothing but her sister Claudie.
When Frank found out that Jessie intended to bring him down, Jessie just purchased an airline ticket, found Gail a good shrink and an extra friend, then hugged her good-bye and said she'd be back in a month. Given the nature of the accusations (word of which had immediately filtered up and down the Bureau's ranks), and despite Frank's flat denials, counter-accusations, and old-boy buddies backing him up, the FBI would have given Jessie a six-month administrative leave of absence if she'd asked for it. As it was, she was taking a month. Until then, Frank could sweat.
As Kier wound his way down from Elk Horn Pass, he felt the four-wheel-drive climb over the billowy drifts and enjoyed the familiar sounds of his truck's heavy-treaded tires compressing new snow. The mindless driving eased his anger at the hell Winona had just been through. Kier had noted, but not remarked upon the infant's dark complexion. It could have been Winona's natural child, fathered by a fellow Tilok. Tilok parentage seemed unlikely, though. Few Indians could afford the reproductive technology of this clinic. It wasn't like the measles or an appendectomy or a normal birth where government dollars or insurance coverage was available. Could the parents have been from some other mahogany-skinned race? Kier wondered. He had been expecting a white child, and this visit had been an eye-opener in more ways than one.
As the grade lessened and the road met the valley floor, a thought occurred to him: He wasn't going to get back over Elk Horn Pass tonight or tomorrow. The snow would be impassable until the heaviest plows got off other jobs and managed to break through. This wild valley, being so sparsely populated, was not a high priority for county snow removal.
Being stuck in Mill Valley would actually come as a welcome relief-a little time off from his veterinary practice in Johnson City. He could stay in his cabin and complete the construction of a bookcase that had been unfinished for months. It all dovetailed with his visit to the Donahue ranch. For a mare in foal, Kier might have sent an assistant into the valley, but the Donahues were as close to him as family.
The evergreens to either side of the roadway were imposing, white cones. Interspersed, from ground to sky, the hardwoods sent out gnarled winter-darkened branches with iced toppings- witches' fingers, the Indian kids called them.
Windblown snowflakes choked the air. In the valley, the new snow would soon melt. But in the high country, winter had arrived. Nearly vertical, moss-bearded granite faces and green, conifered slopes rose thousands of feet from the river gorge that cupped the road on which he drove. According to Tilok legend, the world began here. A little of the coastal California mountain range still belonged to the sovereign nations of the Hoopa, Yurok, and Tilok tribes, but the greater part by far belonged to the U.S. government.
Rounding the corner at the abandoned Murdock homestead, Kier looked up the old road past the leafless maples and into the old orchards that were feasting places for the deer, and ghost places for men-reminders of a time when small farmers populated the valley. They lived a simple life, with no radio, lots of kids, lots of food, hand-me-down clothes, and screen doors to control the bugs.
Even through the fresh snow at the Murdock turnoff, he could see the imprints of multiple, deep-treaded tires. His pickup bounced and fishtailed as it rolled over the big, frozen ruts. Strange. Few vehicles would be heavy or large enough to leave such a calling card. Either a loaded dump truck or water truck had made several trips or, even more unusual, several heavy vehicles had traveled to the Murdock's in a convoy.
Kier considered turning around and investigating, but the snow already covered the valley floor, and he needed to check out the horse. If Claudie was right, the mare would drop her foal any time now.
Six of the eight miles down from the summit, Kier saw the tail of a snow-covered, boxy car just ahead of him. It looked like Claudie Donahue's Volvo, and given the number of cars in this area, it almost certainly was. Strange that she would be coming back from town in this weather, especially with the mare's delicate condition and her own health impaired by a bout of shingles. Kier thought it odd that Claudie didn't pull over to let him pass, since the truck could break a path through the snow for her sedan.
Now the Volvo slowed even more. The blizzard was whiting out everything so badly that maybe Claudie feared she would miss the turnoff. But that wasn't like her. She knew the road as well as anyone.
Kier flashed his headlights repeatedly, signaling for her to stop, and finally she did. He pulled alongside the car, slid across the seat, and rolled down his window, sticking his face into the wind and snow. Her window lowered, and Kier's mouth fell open. This was not Claudie Donahue.
"What do you want?"
The woman behind the wheel had curious brown eyes like brook-shined stones, wet with intensity. Her brown hair was pulled back sleekly to the top of her head, where it cascaded back down in well-coifed curls. Her dark sweater was embroidered with gold thread, and her lapel sported a gold rose pin. She had the look of the city. Nothing this refined had ever arrived in Mill Valley, much less in a blizzard.
For a moment the words stuck in his throat-not so much because of her appeal as at his shock at encountering this creature that didn't quite fit in this world of dirt, trees, ice-covered mountains, barns, manure, and sawdust.
"You going to the Donahues'?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Maybe I could help."
"Didn't know I needed any."
"Well, I'm the local vet, and I'm going there now."
"Oh. Hello." Her face softened slightly. "Well, I guess I'll see you there then. I'm visiting my sister to give her a hand until she gets a little better."
He hesitated, wondering if she knew he ought to go first and break trail. Shouting in the storm felt awkward, especially since they hadn't had any introduction.
Her chained tires dug in and she lurched ahead. Perhaps she felt more secure with him trailing along behind.
And then he knew.
He hadn't been thinking. She was Claudie's sister, Jessie. He knew perfectly well from photos that Jessie was brunette and beautiful.
''A woman from New York City, driving in these mountains, in a whiteout," he told himself, shaking his head.
The most he had heard about Jessie at one sitting was a few years back, when Claudie told Kier her kid sister was joining the FBI, her specialty computer crime. Claudie had been so proud. According to Claudie, Jessie was a tough one, the type who kicked guys in the testicles and smiled.
The arctic cold front was doing its deed in earnest. With the truck's wipers losing the fight against the ice, the Volvo quickly disappeared, then abruptly reappeared out of the storm-at a dead crawl. Kier nearly rear-ended her, swerved, and made a split-second decision to go around the car. Now was his chance-he would lead the way.
To his surprise, the Volvo jumped ahead, moving toward the centerline. It was too late to avoid a collison. Grating fenders sent an ugly feeling through his gut. The Volvo's left rear fender crumpled against the oversize tires of the pickup.
Within seconds, Jessie's fist was pounding on the passenger's side window. He opened the door, and she jumped in.
"I have never had an accident." She said it in a deliberate, clipped way. Her cheeks were red, her dark hair flecked with snow. "Now this."
"I'm Kier Wintripp. Like I said, I was just on my way to Claudie's. It's nice to meet you. And I apologize for the fender."
"Jessie Mayfield." She shook his hand in a businesslike manner.
"I can be of more help if I go just ahead of you," Kier continued. "The truck will pack down the snow, and I know the way."
"I know the way." She paused. "Look, you pulled around without any warning," she said more sharply. "I know I sound angry." Another pause.
Kier decided that whatever she was thinking was a welcome distraction from her anger.
"That's probably because I'm pissed," she said, half laughing. He noticed what on a better day would be a terrific smile.
''Don't be. I crashed into your car. You have a right to yell."
"Wait, wait." She shook her head. "I am not yelling."
He knew he should drop it. But he couldn't resist.
"Claudie will understand. Blinding snowstorm. You pulled ahead unexpectedly while I was trying to go around you. To break trail."
"I was trying to get to the middle of this disappearing road, and you neglected to explain that you should go ahead when you stopped me."
"This is no big deal," Kier said. "You're just not used to driving on mountain roads in a snowstorm."
"I'm from New York. It snows every winter."
He stared at her, somewhat amused, somewhat stumped.
She stared back. "My sister calls you the James Herriot of Wintoon County. Says you tame mean dogs just by looking at them. Even tame shrews. So where did that soothing personality go?"
"By not looking at them. I just don't challenge dogs."
She opened the door and stepped into the snow.
"Ever try it on people?"
"I treat most anything. If your shrew has a problem, you could call for an appointment."
She shut his door firmly.
"A cougar attacked Dawn. She's bleeding and won't let anyone near her. She's crazy with fear and dilated like she's going to foal."
Nothing about this day would be easy. At the Donahue ranch, Claudie was waiting for them in front of the house in the full blizzard.
She glanced from Jessie to Kier, seemingly unconcerned about the fender of her Volvo. Even in an emergency, she had those mother's-bliss eyes, now slick with tears.
"Where is she?" Kier asked.
"We put her in the paddock near the woods where she wouldn't be bothered. Ever since that new law where nobody can shoot the cougars, they've come around. But usually they stay away from the big animals." Claudie drew a breath, visibly shaken. "I'll bet she's up the pasture a long ways."
"Just let me get a few things."
Kier pulled a big nylon bag from his truck. In seconds, they were in the old barn, Jessie following. They passed eight stalls that opened onto the paddocks, and walked out into the storm. In the far corner of the paddock, the soil was broken and the electric fence ripped apart.
''Normally, I'd chase her on another horse and rope her, but she's about to foal," Claudie said. "I didn't know what to do."
Kier walked quickly to where the mare had tussled with the cat, trying to read what had happened.
"Swollen and slow," he said. "She looked wounded to the cat.. easy prey." Kier shook his head. "In her condition, she won't run far. You two can use the truck." He looked at Jessie. "I assume you don't ride horses."
"Just have that look about me, huh?"
It took Kier a few minutes to saddle a horse in the barn. He then took a second horse and clipped a lead rope onto its halter.
"Why are you bringing Shaman too?" Claudie asked, referring to the haltered horse. "You'll see."
Jessie was both attracted and repelled by this man. In her current frame of mind it was a relief to find anything attractive about any man. Probably the stories she had heard, the healing stuff, influenced her perceptions. He was also handsome and more masculine than a leather tobacco pouch. Now, sitting in his truck she had studied him; the fade of his jeans, and that they were clean; the deep brown of his heavily oiled boots; his leanness-no part of his belly hung over his belt, and his smart-looking khaki shirt.
Now watching him ride in a bulky overcoat, his hat cocked low, leaning into the wind, he looked like a vision from the old West. After a couple of hundred yards, Jessie and Claudie drove up to a barbed-wire fence. They got out and walked to where Kier knelt over tracks in the snow. The flakes were beginning to dance and swirl. Drifts were deepening.
"I doubt she crossed this fence. So she was probably shunted to the far corner," Claudie said.
"Yup." Kier followed the tracks down the fence line. "Damn."
He knelt again at a muddy spot where the snow mixed with soil. There was a cougar track right amongst the mare's hoofprints. A splotch of blood had congealed on the snow.
"He's still after her."
Kier opened a compartment on the truck and removed a large canvas bag, which he handed to Jessie. Grabbing the saddle horn, he vaulted onto the horse and, in one smooth motion, snatched back his medical bag.
"Catch up with me," he said, leaving at a dead run.
Jessie and Claudie didn't have to drive far. Around the next stand of trees, Jessie saw Kier in the distance, standing next to his mount, watching the silver-gray mare against the fence. Coming right to the foot of the mountain, the oak-dotted pasture made a natural funnel defined by the terrain. The cattle scattered in response to the activity, then banded together in the far corner of the pasture, perhaps smelling the blood or the big cat.
Kier left his medical bag by a lone oak, then swung out of the saddle and hung from the side of his horse with one foot in the stirrup, his body facing his mount's rear. From what she could tell, Kier was approaching the mare while leading the other horse. The wounded mare tossed her head and began moving away down the fence.
Kier stopped.
As they neared the scene, Jessie could see the lather and blood covering the panicked Dawn. Nostrils flaring, the horse panted wildly, intermittently making a high-pitched, squealing noise. Jessie could even see the newborn colt beginning to emerge, a dark spot that appeared to be the colt's forelegs.
Kier waved at Jessie to stop the truck.
Now Jessie saw the blood on the mare's flanks and a horrible wound on her nose. On her belly a deep, bloody furrow ran between many smaller gashes. Jessie gasped. What looked like greenish viscera protruded from the deeper belly wounds. Blood dripped thickly from more places than she could count.
At the oak tree, the women climbed out of the truck, watching, riveted to the delicate dance before them. Every time Kier's horse stepped toward the mare, the wounded creature would begin moving up the fence.
"It looks bad," Jessie said.
"It's worse than that," Claudie said. "From what I can see, the cat grabbed her nose with his paw, sank his teeth in her neck, raked her flank. I think she's lost a lot of blood."
Jessie suddenly realized why Kier was hanging off his horse: By doing so, he remained almost invisible to the wounded mare. Guiding the two horses to the mare's left side, Kier stopped them along the fence a good thirty feet from her. He steadied the two horses, now skittish at the smell of blood, and kept them tight together.
Still the mare sidestepped away.
Kier moved the two horses again, at least ten feet back, giving Dawn even more room. The mare still tossed her head, but this time she took a few nervous steps toward them. Kier remained stock-still, stuck to the side of his horse. Again the mare came toward them, then stopped. It seemed she would come no closer.
Stepping down from his mount, Kier let his horse drift away, so that he came into full view of the mare. He stood square to her, focusing all his attention on her now. He raised his arm and pointed at her and began chanting loudly in Tilok.
The mare pawed and snorted. She backed away at first. But after a minute, she turned sideways, flicked an ear, then released a breathy squeal of pain. Another contraction came hard. The moment the mare flicked the ear down, Kier's chanting grew softer, and he turned sideways to her as if singing to the horizon-as if he were ignoring her.
As the two horses with Kier calmed down, the mare neighed, rolled her eyes, and stepped closer. Now, she was perhaps twenty feet away. Seconds ticked by. Wearily, she pawed the ground, wobbling as if she might go down. Whinnying sounds followed breathy squeals in time with her contractions.
Kier's chanting grew louder again, and he once again turned squarely and pointed at her, fixing his gaze on her. The mare threw her head and backed up. Still Kier pressed her, even stepping forward, his arm locked, finger aimed. Again she moved away, breathing hard, frightened, pitiful. Finally, her ear cocked and she turned her flank to Kier. He also turned sideways, crooning softly, seeming once again to ignore her altogether.
To Jessie it seemed almost as if Kier were in a trance, unconcerned, unaware of the emergency to his side. Then she noticed his feet; like the minute hand on a clock, they moved in almost undetectable increments. The two horses at his sides just naturally drifted with him. They were almost to the mare when she closed the gap by taking two steps toward them. Kier slipped the lariat off the saddle horn.
"God, this should be on TV," Jessie whispered. "What are the words?"
Claudie shook her head. "Some weird Tilok chant." She shook her head. "As long as it works."
Now Kier moved to the mare, stroking between her eyes. His chant became softer yet as, slowly, he moved to the side of her neck and slipped the lasso over her head. With the rope around her, the mare seemed to calm completely, as if she knew it was futile even to think of running. Gently, Kier tugged her down into the snow so that she lay on her side. In an instant, he was on his knees, stroking her neck and motioning the women forward. Claudie came with the medical bag, while Jessie hung back, knowing instinctively that it would not be good to crowd the injured mare.
With each contraction, Dawn let out an almost human groan. Now a third of the way out of the womb, the glistening wet colt thrashed its forelegs to aid in its own birth. It appeared a spindly, delicate thing as it came through the stretched membranes.
Using large metal hemostats, which looked to Jessie like needle-nose pliers, Kier set about probing the deep ugly wounds on the mare's neck. He pinched off the larger blood vessels, all the while chanting to the horse. Next, he did the same with the fissurelike wound in her belly. Finally, he moved to the colt and helped it slip from the birth canal.
Jessie watched his face while he worked, the calm concentration as his hands constantly moved, touching the mare, stroking her as she released her foal.
At last Kier looked to the women and nodded. Claudie breathed a sigh.
"I need to get back to the kids," she said. Then Jessie felt Claudie's hand on her shoulder.
"You should be more careful about letting that stallion get to the mare in the springtime. This is the wrong season for delivering a foal."
For the trip back to the barn, Kier had the foal on a small pile of straw in the bed of the pickup. The mare, no longer bleeding, would follow her foal at her own pace. The other two horses, now in halters, with their saddles and tack in the truck, would instinctively return to the comfort of their stalls and paddock.
"That stallion's like a lot of men," said Claudie. "Just one thing on his mind."
"I don't know any men like that," Kier said.
He sat next to Jessie, relaxing his legs, aware that her thigh was touching his. He sensed that she was nervous about the contact. Claudie was completely spread out on the passenger side, perhaps oblivious to her sister's situation. Perhaps not. They crossed over Wispit Creek on a small bridge. He took in the pleasant fragrance of Jessie's hair and secretly enjoyed the way she tossed it to keep it out of her eyes. After helping Claudie out of the truck, he offered Jessie a hand.
"You're trying to decide if I'm a human being or a cop?"
"No. I think that's your question."
He walked to the back of the truck to lift out the foal. Its wobbly legs went in every direction as Kier carried him into a hay-covered stall in the barn.
"What did you mean by that?" she said as she followed him to the barn.''Do you have something against federal agents or just women?"
"How long have you been worried about it?"
"I'm not worried about it."
''Am I right that shoving people around, shootouts and the like doesn't detract at all from your personhood?"
She stood openmouthed. "Well, that's hardly-"
"Good, then I guess it's not a problem."
Instinctively he knew that she cared what he thought of her. He hadn't figured out why. Maybe it was the reason he seemed to be talking so much. As the women stood in the doorway, watching the storm, the mare arrived. With the women looking on, and holding lights, he began the tedious job of dressing the wounds.
An hour later, his back hurting, he joined Jessie and Claudie at the barn door. The snow had grown alarmingly deep already.
As he reached for his bag, he looked over his left shoulder and across the barn to a head peering around a pile of five-gallon plastic containers. Kier looked into the dark eyes of Turtleneck, the Donahues' pet llama. As always, Kier silently cussed his failure to save the animal's mother. Tentatively, the young creature walked across the board floor, coming to see Kier.
She was a pleasant diversion from all the troubles of the day. He stripped off his rubber gloves, stroking the rich woolly coat of her back, and in turn she offered her nose and nuzzled his hand. Knowing that she was being weaned from the bottle, Kier hummed a Tilok chant and let her suck on his finger. The furling tongue felt like caterpillars.
Jessie came over. She too began petting the llama. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, Kier noticed a nervous little smile. He would wait for her to speak. Evidently she had the same idea, because the llama was basking in the quiet chant and all the attention.
She cleared her throat. He remained impassive, saying nothing as he rubbed the llama between its eyes.
"I guess maybe we didn't get off on the right foot," she finally said.
"Why is that?"
"Well, the fender. And I guess you don't much care for FBI agents."
"How do you feel about them?" he asked. "That's like asking how I feel about postmen. Some good, some not so good." She looked at him, apparently expecting some sign of agreement or understanding. He studied the llama's limpid eyes.
"Well, for example, how do you feel about Indians?" she asked.
"About like that. Some good, some not so good."
"So do you think maybe we could start again?"
"You gonna be a postman or an Indian this time?" She breathed as if to speak, then paused, unsure. He gave her a rare smile. "I'm more or less just kidding you."
"Oh." She looked nonplussed. "Well, it certainly worked."
"Look, I'm pleased to meet you." He extended his hand. "I think women as attractive as you make me nervous. To be honest."
Jessie shook his hand gamely. "Will you be staying for a while? I mean with the blizzard and the pass and everything? Claudie and I would like some company. I'm visiting over Thanksgiving, trying to help Sis with all she's got going. This shingles is a weird disease. Anyway, will you stay?"
"Really, I ah… well, I think I better go. I have a cabin, and I have a little building project there." He was amazed and irritated at how nervous he felt. Leaving sounded good and bad all at the same time. "Actually, I've gotta be on my way."
"Okay," was all she said. But it was at that moment that he realized something was wrong. Maybe it was the way Jessie said the word, the shrug of her shoulders, or her tone when she had asked him to stay. Or maybe what was unconscious had just become conscious. He felt as though he had just kicked a helpless creature.
Claudie was coming back through the doorway to check on her horse. Or her sister. Kier wasn't sure which.
"Hi, how you doing?" Jessie said to Claudie, taking her arm. Jessie seemed confident, soothing, and strong. Perhaps he was imagining things. Never in a single day had he had so many catastrophes.
Things would get better, they always did. Perhaps things were actually not so bad. The foal would survive, and the mare would recover. He doubted Winona would be doing any more surrogate mothering. She could work in his vet clinic.
Kier was bidding Jessie and Claudie farewell, still thinking about Jessie, when it happened.
It started as a barely audible roar, but turned into shrieking thunder. The air seemed to compress; even the storm seemed to still. Incredibly bright light flashed overhead, streaming through the falling snow.
Concussive shock waves sent a rolling vibration through the barn, and a series of muffled booms shook the air again. Kier allowed his awareness to expand as his body absorbed the reverberations. He looked everywhere and nowhere, marveling at the intensity of the light. On the wind he smelled kerosene, pungent and foreign.
Then the cold silence of a winter pasture reclaimed the Donahue ranch. Turtleneck had disappeared behind a haystack.
"What in the name of heaven-" Claudie began.
Kier's heart picked a slightly faster rhythm, but his calm remained. Separating things in his mind, like untangling a snarled line, he knew that the explosions, the light, the roar, and the odors had been man-made. No natural phenomenon could account for what he had just experienced.
"That sounded like a jet crashing," said Jessie.
"Like jet engines near full throttle," Kier agreed. "Before the impact."
"Oh my God," Claudie breathed.
Kier squinted into the blizzard, which showed no sign of letting up.
"I'm going," he told them.
"I'm coming too," said Jessie just as quickly.
Kier knew it would only waste time to argue with her.
"Suit yourself," he said and ran into the storm.