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CHAPTER ELEVEN

Walden, Colorado

T HREE HUNDRED AND forty miles south of Saddlestring, Sheridan Pickett learned quickly from the woman behind the counter at the gas station as well as the motel owner that residents of Walden and Jackson County referred to themselves as “North Parkers” and that they were not to be confused with the woke elites (many of them new residents) from Denver, Boulder, Aspen, or even nearby Steamboat Springs.

This was tough country—high, wild, and lonesome—and just barely over the Wyoming border. The town of Walden itself had barely six hundred people, and it was the only incorporated municipality in the county. North Parkers lived at over eight thousand feet in elevation and were rimmed to the west by the Park and Sierra Madre ranges, south by the Rabbit Ears Range and the Never Summer Mountains, and east by the Medicine Bow Mountains. The tops of those mountains were already white with snow.

In late October, the location reminded Sheridan strongly of where she’d come from, with its single main street consisting of saloons, shops, eclectic restaurants, and muddy four-wheel-drive pickups parked diagonally against the curb. The busiest enterprise in town seemed to be the wild-game processing facility, with elk hunters lined up along the street with dead animals, antlers bristling from the beds of their trucks. The lone grocery store was located so far out of town that it didn’t seem connected to it. A tall and magnificent granite courthouse stood just off the main drag, indicating that at one time somebody had very high hopes for the future of Walden.

She could clearly see that old courthouse when she opened the curtains of her window at the Alpine Motel and fed pieces of road-killed jackrabbit to the five hooded falcons she’d transported to Colorado in her SUV. Two prairie falcons, two red-tailed hawks, and a sleek female peregrine made up her flight of birds.

The raptors were all hooded with leather masks and they stood up straight while grasping the backs of motel chairs with their talons. She’d spread newspaper on the linoleum beneath them for their white squirts of excrement.

*

T HE OWNER OF the Alpine Motel, who had introduced himself as DeWayne Kolb, had white muttonchops and reading glasses poised on the end of his bulbous nose. He wore baggy jeans and a faded red union suit top. He’d been obviously fascinated by both Sheridan and her cargo when she entered the tiny lobby to check in.

“Hello,” she’d said. “Your sign says you allow pets.”

“Well, it depends on the pets,” he answered. “You’ve got to be careful these days. A friend of mine told me he had to fly across the country sitting next to a lady with her emotional support ferret.”

A talker, Sheridan thought.

“I have five birds of prey,” she said.

“Birds of prey? Like eagles or something?”

Sheridan detailed the species of the raptors and introduced herself as a master falconer from Wyoming. She said the birds were well-behaved and wouldn’t do any damage to the motel room.

“You don’t look old enough to be a master anything ,” Kolb said with a smile.

“That’s where you’d be mistaken,” she said.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said. “Truly. I’ve never met a master falconer before.”

“Well, now you have,” Sheridan said. “So can I rent a room here?”

“How many nights will you need it?” he asked. “I’ve got a group of hunters coming in next week that will take all of my rooms.”

“Maybe four nights,” she said, handing over her new Yarak, Inc. credit card. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

He ran it through his machine. “I’ll charge you for four nights, then. If it turns out to be fewer, I’ll back the charges out.

“It would be a pleasure hosting a master falconer in my humble motel,” Kolb said, sliding a registration card across the counter. “It’s pretty much just elk hunters here this time of year. I’m afraid they come in at all hours and leave early in the morning. They can get kind of rowdy, so I hope they won’t disturb you.”

“I’m used to being around elk hunters,” she said as she filled out the form and handed it back to him. Sheridan felt no need to explain that she had spent her formative years surrounded by hunters, fishermen, and landowners of all stripes. They’d shown up at her house at any time of day.

“Wyoming,” he said while reading the card. “Lots of folks around here wish we could become a county in Wyoming instead of Colorado. There’s a serious movement to convince Wyoming to annex us and get the libtards in Denver to set us free.”

“I see,” she said. She’d learned from her father to steer clear of local political movements.

“About the only thing we North Parkers have in common with those people are our green license plates and the income tax we have to pay,” he said. “Colorado isn’t the place I grew up in anymore. We’ve been flooded with people from other states, and it’s disgusting. I went to a Broncos game last year against the Steelers, and half of the stadium was wearing black and gold and waving those stupid Terrible Towels. And the worst part was they were new residents.

“That’s probably more information than you wanted on day one among the North Parkers,” he said.

She smiled to herself. He was correct.

“Can I ask what you’re doing here? With all those falcons?”

“I’m in the bird abatement business,” Sheridan said. “We get hired to help get rid of problem species.”

“Interesting,” Kolb said. “Your falcons chase away bad birds?”

“Something like that.”

“Who are you working for around here, if I may ask?”

“A man named Leon Bottom.”

Kolb’s eyes got wide upon hearing the name. He asked slyly, “Have you ever met him?”

“No. Why?” In fact, it was Liv who had set up the job.

Kolb shook his head. “I’m not one to gossip, but I think you’ll find him kind of … unusual.”

Sheridan tried to discern what he meant by that, but Kolb deliberately looked away. She’d already pegged the motel owner to be a local gossip, despite his disavowal. If Walden was anything like Saddlestring, half of the town would know about the twenty-something female master falconer staying there by sundown.

“A place like this tends to attract all kinds of different characters,” he said.

“That,” she said, “isn’t unusual to me.”

As she opened the door from the lobby to go get her falcons and gear, Kolb said, “If you need anything while you’re here, I want you to know that even if the lobby is closed up, I’m here twenty-four seven. All you have to do is pick up the room phone and dial zero.”

She turned. “Is there something I should be worried about?”

“Nothing like that,” Kolb said quickly. “It’s just that the town is a little rambunctious this time of year. Lots of out-of-state hunters drinking whiskey and carrying guns and whooping it up. They might get a little frisky seeing a young woman on her own who looks like you, if you catch my drift. Plus, my brother is the chief of police.”

After a long pause and wondering if she should be grateful or offended, Sheridan thanked him for the room.

*

S HERIDAN TOOK A moment on the way to her Acadia to send a text to her mother and Liv saying that she’d made it and found a room and she would touch base with the client as soon as she could.

Moments later, her phone vibrated with an incoming call. Sheridan guessed that it would be her mother, but it was Liv Romanowski.

“So you made it,” Liv said.

“I did.”

Sheridan could hear Kestrel jabbering in the background and visualized the toddler being cradled on Liv’s hip while she made the call.

“I’ll let our clients know you’re on-site,” Liv said.

“Thank you.”

There was a beat before Liv said, “Sheridan, I know this is a really tough time for you. I hope you’re doing okay.”

Sheridan smiled. The sentiment affected her more than she would have anticipated. “I’m doing okay,” she said.

“I know what it’s like to be a young woman alone in a strange place. It’s important to keep your guard up and that you be alert. This job isn’t all-important, and I know how smart you are. So if you feel uncomfortable at any time, for any reason, I want you to come straight back here.”

“What about …”

“Nate?” Liv said, finishing Sheridan’s thought. “Don’t worry about Nate. I can handle him.”

“Is there something I ought to know that I don’t?” Sheridan asked. “About our client?”

“Nothing I haven’t told you. I’d never send you on a job if it felt wrong to me. But I’ve never met this man and he’s located in a pretty remote area, from what I understand. So all I’m saying is to be professional and polite, but also on alert.”

“I get that,” Sheridan said. “Thank you.”

“No worries,” Liv said.

“Kiss Kestrel for me.”

“I’ll do that right now,” Liv said. Sheridan could hear the kiss over the phone.

*

S HERIDAN HAD LEFT Twelve Sleep County on the day after Clay Junior’s memorial service, which had been held in a tiny cemetery on the hillside that had been there since the founding of the Double Diamond Ranch in the 1880s. She’d found the affair equal parts sad, uncomfortable, and bewildering. People she’d never met—most of whom were Clay Junior’s relatives or family friends—had been cautious around her.

What did one say to an almost-fiancée? And how did that almost-fiancée respond when she knew in her heart that the inevitable wedding was never to be?

For the most part, Sheridan had kept her head down and stayed close to her mother and dad. Her emotions that day—and since—had been all over the map. Clay’s shocking demise had opened a lane for her to proceed in life without him, and she felt horribly guilty for thinking that. Clay’s father held her and cried and said that as far as he was concerned she would always be a part of the family, as if that had ever really been her goal in life. After all, she was perfectly happy being a part of her family.

As the peregrine crunched the hollow leg bones of the road-killed rabbit, Sheridan admitted to herself how grateful she was to be away from Saddlestring, Clay Junior’s memory, and all of that. She needed a break from it and she welcomed an out-of-state bird abatement assignment.

Before she left, Liv had presented her with the Yarak , Inc. credit card to use for gas, lodging, and other expenses. It was the first time she’d ever had a company card, and she’d vowed not to abuse it.

And she wondered what DeWayne Kolb had meant when he said her client was “unusual.”

*

T HE N EVER S UMMER Ranch owned by Leon Bottom was located eight miles west of Walden on a rutted gravel road that wound through swampy bottomland and eight-foot walls of willows. Sheridan drove to it while glancing down at the navigation feature on the screen of her phone in her lap. Through breaks in the willows, she noted both modern multimillion-dollar second homes of newcomers in the meadows above the bottomland and ramshackle homesteads littered with rusted-out pickups and farm machinery that no doubt belonged to hardscrabble old-timers. Mountains framed the valley on three sides.

Again she thought, Just like home .

As she bounced over the rough road and her SUV pitched from side to side, she spoke soothing nonsense to the hooded peregrine, the only falcon she had brought with her in case she needed to provide a demonstration. Although most peregrines she’d flown had dispositions that were as steely as an assassin, this one was young and a little agitated by the rough road.

“It’ll be fine, sweetie,” she cooed to the bird. “It’ll all be just fine …”

Sheridan passed under an ancient archway that leaned to the left. Although some of the elk antler tines that made up the lettering were missing, she read:

NEV_R _UM_ER _ANCH

*

T HE RANCH HEADQUARTERS itself was a collection of aged stone and log buildings scattered across a sagebrush bench framed by timbered foothills. Abandoned vehicles and a rusty Sno-Cat bordered the two-track road on the way to the main house, which was a three-story gabled structure that was higher than it was wide, despite the vast acreage all around it to spread out.

Sheridan had seen similar homes high in the mountains before. They were constructed so that if the snow got so deep on the surface, the residents could conceivably access and exit the house through the second—or third—levels. She’d also seen old outhouses constructed with the same thought in mind.

The only hints at modernity at the Never Summer were the two vehicles parked at odd angles in the ranch yard and the multiple small television and internet satellite dishes mounted to the top side of the headquarters building.

She parked between a four-wheel-drive pickup and an older-model Honda Civic and turned off her engine. The peregrine instantly settled down once they’d stopped. Sheridan cautiously opened the door and stepped out.

Immediately, she sensed that something was seriously amiss. Then she realized what it was: the quiet.

A slight breeze rattled the leaves of cottonwoods bordering the ranch outbuildings, and a red-tailed hawk screeched from miles away.

*

H ER BOOTS CRUNCHED on the gravel as she approached the solid front door of the house. She climbed wooden steps to a veranda and knocked on the door. Nothing.

After a full minute, she made a fist and banged on it. A beat later, she could hear someone inside call out, “I’m coming. Just hold your horses.” It was a harsh older female voice.

Sheridan stepped back and tucked her hair behind her ears. The door cracked open about three inches and a single light blue rheumy eye looked out.

“What do you want?”

The woman was shorter than Sheridan by half a foot, with cat-eye glasses and tight gray curls in her hair. Her mouth was pursed into a look of disapproval, highlighted by the web of wrinkles that framed her lips. The small hand that gripped the side of the door to keep it open looked to Sheridan like a talon.

“Hi there,” Sheridan said, mustering a smile. “I’m here to see Leon Bottom.”

“I asked you what you wanted,” the woman said. Not friendly.

“I’m with Yarak, Inc. We’re a bird abatement business out of Saddlestring, Wyoming. Mr. Bottom contacted our office about some problem birds here on the ranch. The arrangements were made for me to come here and look it all over and try to fix the problem.”

The old woman’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Sheridan felt a little flustered because she had assumed she’d be welcomed instead of questioned.

“Where did you say you were from?” the woman asked.

“Saddlestring, Wyoming.”

“And what did you say your name was?”

“Yarak, Inc.”

“No, your name.”

“Well, I didn’t say. But I’m Sheridan.” She held out her hand.

The old woman didn’t reach out to take it. Her watery eyes were unblinking, and they slowly painted their way from Sheridan’s face to her boots. Then out to Sheridan’s Acadia and license plate, then back to Sheridan’s face again.

Sheridan felt a strange chill run through her. She couldn’t help but think there was something oddly familiar about this woman she knew she’d never met before. Sheridan was good with recalling faces and names. There was something about this woman’s eyes and her mannerisms that set off a set of internal alarm bells. Had she encountered her somewhere before? Did she recognize this old woman from a dream, perhaps?

The woman spoke and Sheridan didn’t hear what she said. “Sorry, what was that?”

“I said, what is your last name?” the lady asked.

Suddenly, Sheridan decided that the woman must doubt that she was who she said she was or who she was with. Like DeWayne back at the motel, the old woman was having trouble believing that someone so young and female could be a serious person. Sheridan had gotten somewhat used to it when she heard it from men, but it was extra annoying when it came from a woman.

She quickly dug out one of the business cards Liv had had printed recently and handed it through the opening in the door.

“My name is Sheridan Pickett,” she said. “And as you can read, I’m a master falconer. Just like I said.”

At that, the woman simply glared at her with what looked like terror. Her old pursed mouth opened for a second before snapping shut.

Then the old woman stepped back without another word and pushed the door closed tight.

Sheridan was flummoxed. What had just happened?

Behind her, a man called out, “Greetings! Welcome to the Never Summer Ranch!”

*

L EON B OTTOM WAS unusual, all right. He was short in stature with an exceptionally long face mounted on a pencil-like neck. His proportions were such that a photo of him would make him appear six foot six instead of five foot five. He was dressed in all black: black jeans, pointy black cowboy boots, a black silk scarf knotted around his neck buckaroo-style, and a black snap-button cowboy shirt decorated with swirls of white embroidery. On his head he wore a black cowboy hat with the brims folded up tight against the side of the crown that appeared much too small for him.

He looked to Sheridan like someone had drawn a cartoon based on the description “drugstore cowboy.”

“You must be our falconer,” he said, showing her a mouthful of straight but yellow teeth. “I’m so glad you made it.”

She introduced herself again and handed the man one of her cards.

“I suppose you’d like to see the barn,” he said. “The one filled with a million pooping starlings.”

“Yes,” she said. “I’d like to see it.”

“Follow me.”

Sheridan did. As they walked shoulder to shoulder toward the massive old barn, she said, “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“When I arrived I expected a pack of dogs to come greet me,” she said. “I’ve never been on a ranch before in my life where there weren’t any dogs.”

“That’s very perceptive,” Bottom said. “I’m sure you’re right. I brought my dog with me out here, a little terrier named Juno. He would have rushed out to greet you except a wolf ate him three weeks ago. Did you know we have wolves here in North Park?”

“Yes,” she said. Voters in Colorado had agreed that wolves should be reintroduced to the state several years before. She wondered what DeWayne Kolb had to say about that.

“So I’m not getting any more dogs,” Bottom said.

As they passed by Sheridan’s car, Bottom peered inside and saw the peregrine and asked, “You can do all this with only one falcon?”

“I left the others in town,” she said. “I’ll bring out as many as I need.”

“Where are you staying?” he asked.

“The Alpine.”

Bottom grimaced at the name. “That man doesn’t like me. Plus, he’s a gossip. I’d suggest you steer clear of him.”

Sheridan nodded, more to acknowledge her client’s advice than to abide by it.

“And I see you met Katy,” Bottom said as they neared the barn.

“If Katy is the woman who slammed the door on me, then yes, I met her.” Then: “I’m sorry. Is she your mother?”

Bottom chuckled. “No, she’s not my mother, but she’s been with the family for over forty years. Katy Cotton. Can you believe she’s seventy-six years old? And yes, she can get a little cantankerous, especially with strangers.”

Sheridan bit her lip, not wanting to say more. Especially about the odd feeling of familiarity she couldn’t shake.

*

“I’ VE OWNED THIS ranch for three years, but this is the first time I’ve spent much time on it,” Bottom said, sweeping his arm around to indicate the whole of it. “It’s one thing to visit for a couple of weeks in the summer, and a whole other thing to actually live here. This ranch is aptly named.”

“Where did you come from?” Sheridan asked.

“Michigan,” Bottom said. He spit out the word. “My whole family is from Michigan, multiple generations of us. But when our governor locked us down because of COVID and decided we couldn’t buy garden supplies— garden supplies— I knew I’d had enough. I looked to find a place in Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, or Colorado where I could feel free again, and I bought the first place my broker showed me: the Never Summer Ranch. Before that, I’d never even heard of Walden or Jackson County.”

“Interesting,” Sheridan said. And familiar, she thought. “What did you do back in Michigan?”

He smiled and said, “My family owns a multilevel marketing company. Have you ever heard of Bottom Balm?”

“I think I have.”

“Or maybe Bottom Shampoo, Bottom Soap, or Bottom Sunscreen? That’s us. No one ever forgets that name, is what we always told our sales associates.”

“I kind of thought it was a joke,” Sheridan said.

“It was,” Bottom said. “But it worked. And when my parents decided to retire, Bottom, Inc. went to us kids—my brother, my sister, and me. It got real ugly fast, and they weren’t unhappy to see me move west.

“I always wanted to be a cowboy,” Bottom said, “but it’s even better to be a rancher, you know?”

“I understand. So how does Katy fit in?”

“Katy raised me, my brother, and my sister. She was more a mom to us than our actual mother. She cooks, cleans, and looks after everything. She jumped at the chance to come with me. She had no real family ties in Michigan after her husband died five years ago, and she told me she had roots out here and wanted to get back.

“So,” Bottom said, “lucky me.”

“She doesn’t seem to be enjoying it,” Sheridan said.

Bottom laughed and said, “Maybe you just met her on a bad day.”

*

S HERIDAN HAD NEVER seen so many starlings in one structure in her life, she told Bottom. It was truly unusual to find so many problem birds packed together like that in every crevice and on every rafter. There were thousands of them, and the cacophony of noise was numbing. The floor of the barn was white with bird excrement, and the entire building smelled of it.

Sheridan had to shout to be heard. “You probably know that European starlings are an invasive species in North America.”

“I didn’t know that,” Bottom shouted back. “I just know they’re obnoxious.”

“Individually, I really like them,” Sheridan confessed. “They’re beautiful birds and they’re really smart. But the trouble starts when they mass up by the hundreds, which is the situation you’ve got here.

“Not only that, but they displace native birds and they can carry diseases,” she said. “They can contaminate water and livestock feed, and their excrement is full of bacteria and parasites. They are not good birds to have around in this kind of number.”

“Do you think you can chase them away?” Bottom asked her.

“I’m sure of it,” she said. “But I’ll need all my falcons to do it.”

They stepped outside the barn so they could talk normally.

Bottom said, “I’ve tried everything I can think of to get rid of them. I tried to smoke them out, scare them with fireworks. I’ve shot a hundred of them with a pellet gun. Nothing seems to work. And then I heard about your bird abatement company.”

She said, “I’m glad you did. Starlings are either too stupid or too arrogant to be scared away. But there’s one thing they’re terrified of.”

Sheridan explained that the imprint of a falcon in flight was hardwired into the tiny brains of the species from the moment they hatched. They knew instinctually that falcons could, and would, kill them with ease. Whether in the wild or from the glove of an experienced falconer, starlings knew that their only defense was to flee.

She said, “Once I put my birds up, those starlings might all leave at once in a big black cloud. Or it may take a couple of days.”

“That would be wonderful,” Bottom said. Then, hugging himself, he said, “I knew it would work. I’m so brilliant .”

Which was what a man used to great wealth might say, she thought. He didn’t praise the plumber for unclogging his toilet or the electrician for getting his lights to work again. Instead, he praised himself for calling the plumber or electrician.

She also thought that Liv back at Yarak, Inc. HQ knew what she was doing by sending Sheridan south instead of Nate. Nate might have twisted Bottom’s ears off and fed them to his birds by now.

*

“Y OU KNOW YOU can stay with us here on the ranch,” he offered as they walked from the barn toward Sheridan’s SUV. “We have four empty bedrooms in the house and I can deduct the rent from your fee. There’s no need to waste your money with Kolb in town.”

She thanked him for the offer and didn’t say that there was no way she wanted to share a house with Katy, whoever she was. Or Leon Bottom, for that matter.

“I’ll be back tomorrow with the full flight,” she told him.

“This I want to see,” he said enthusiastically. While he said it he actually rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “A black cloud of starlings flying off to Nebraska, or some such place. This I really want to see.”

Then: “I’m glad you said it might take a couple of days to get rid of them all. I have an appointment with my banker in Fort Collins tomorrow that I can’t miss, but I’ll be back tomorrow evening and around the second day.”

Sheridan knew that Fort Collins was a hundred miles to the east over the top of the mountains on Poudre Canyon Road. She was used to people driving distances like that for daily business transactions.

“I can’t trust the local bankers,” he said, as if she’d asked him for his reasoning on why he used an out-of-town bank. “When I get back, I hope you don’t mind if I watch?”

“I don’t mind,” she said. “But give me lots of space. The falcons get jittery if there are people around they don’t know.”

“I’ll be sneaky,” Bottom said, crossing his heart. “I swear it.”

*

T HERE WAS A note on Sheridan’s windshield, pinned against the glass by the wiper blade. Scrawled in old-fashioned cursive was:

Go away and never come back.

Sheridan had no doubt who had written it.