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Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Author Note
Discussion Questions
Prologue
THE LEGEND OF SILK MOUNTAIN
Oklahoma Territory, 1895.
This is the way the story came down to me. The way it might have been.
Even before daylight, Leasie awoke to the yawling wind. It rang across the flat plains and scoured the shale rocks on Silk Mountain. It whistled through cracks in the cabin walls so fiercely that she could feel it on her cold cheeks where she lay in bed, cocooned in three quilts. Nothing was safe from the long, prying fingers of the wind. Day and night, it never ceased.
Jacob was already up, dressing on the other side of the curtain that served as their bedroom wall. She heard one boot clunk on the wood floor after he’d laced it, then the other, and the rustle of his coat as he pulled it on. The cabin door opened and sucked the curtain outward, the cry of the wind suddenly close and loud until he shut the door again.
She ought to get up. Jacob would need a hot breakfast when his chores were finished. She lay for a moment longer inside the warm quilts. The cracks of sky in the log walls were getting lighter; the sun would be up soon, but inside the cabin it was still hazy dark. She pictured Jacob forking prairie hay into the pen for their horse, Brownie, and for the mule and the milk cow. Grain was scarce, but he rationed one cup a day for the mash of milk and table scraps he fed the hog. The scrawny pig would become bacon and ham and chops and fatback, meat to last through the next arduous winter.
The last thing Jacob would do before coming in for breakfast was to break ice on the half barrel where the animals drank, and bring a bucket of the water inside. She would have to boil it to make it safe for cooking or drinking or washing dishes. Every two days he hauled water from the river. Come spring, he would try again to dig a well. When they had a well with a windmill, Jacob said, the days would be easier for them both. She pictured the paddles of the windmill spinning in the endless wind.
Leasie rolled to the edge of the bed and stuck her stockinged feet out from under the covers. Jacob had lit the fire in the cookstove before he went out, but its heat never reached the floorboards or the corners. She pulled yesterday’s clothes from the chair next to the bed and dressed herself under the quilts. Three petticoats, for warmth. Her camisole, then the coarse muslin dress, and her apron on top of that. She couldn’t face going out in the cold to the outhouse before breakfast, so she used the chamber pot in the corner and covered it with a square board. Then she laced up her brown boots and ran a brush through her hair, twisting it up behind her head in a vertical roll. It had grown so long that the ends sprouted like a turkey’s tail at the crown of her head. She secured it with the four hairpins she’d laid on an upturned bucket beside the chair.
She ducked past the curtain, leaving the bed to air out before she made it, and set about making breakfast. All the while, the frenzied wind licked around the cabin walls, through the cracks at the window. It curled up from the floor-boards and snaked beneath her skirts. Her feet were already cold inside her boots. She made bacon and biscuits. With yesterday’s boiled water she made coffee. Lots of strong coffee.
Before the biscuits were ready, Jacob came in, riding a gust of wind into the house. Whatever heat had accumulated inside the cabin was sucked out the door. He didn’t even say good-morning, just stood beside the stove and warmed his backside.
Jacob was thirteen years older than Leasie, and sometimes he acted more like a father than a husband. A strict father, at that. She was nearly nineteen; she didn’t need a father. She needed a husband who was soft sometimes, especially in the bed they shared. A husband who would talk to her about something besides the plowing and the crops. Most days he disappeared into the fields after breakfast and she didn’t see him again until supper. She was by herself all day in the tiny cabin, no bigger than one room of the house in Kansas City where she’d grown up. When he came home and she asked him about his day, he would talk about the work that still needed doing, and complain about the lack of rain. Once he’d seen Indians in the distance, on horseback. She questioned him about that, but he didn’t know what tribe they were, or where they were going. Then he’d fall silent, concentrating on his food. He never asked what she’d done all day. Maybe he knew how lonely she was and didn’t want to hear about it.
In warm weather she could spend her time outdoors. She tended a garden, spindly though it was, and washed their clothes in a big iron pot. Sometimes she walked out across the prairie until the cabin was no more than a dot in the distance, then turned around and walked back. If she went too far and lost sight of the cabin, she might lose her bearings and never find it again.
Once, though, she had kept going. She walked all the way to Silk Mountain. Jacob said people called it Silk Mountain because after a rainstorm, if the sunlight broke through the clouds just right, the mountain’s flat top turned silver and shiny. She’d watched for that the first spring, and the second, but she never saw it happen.
There was no way to judge the distance out here, and the mountain looked closer than it really was. It took a long time to get there, and when she stood at the foot of the rocky outcropping that rose so unexpectedly from the grassy prairie, she was disappointed. Up close, Silk Mountain didn’t look like a mountain at all, just a big upheaval of boulders. Still, she would have liked to climb up and look off from its top. But she was already going to be late getting home to start supper.
Jacob never said a word while he waited on his meal that evening, and she didn’t tell him she had walked miles across the prairie and thought of never coming back.
She crossed off days on the Montgomery Ward & Co. calendar Jacob brought home from the mercantile store. The nearest settlement lay a full day’s ride to the east, and when he went for supplies, he was gone two nights and three days. She couldn’t go along because somebody had to stay and tend the animals.
On the first week of spring weather in 1895, Jacob put on his cleanest clothes and hitched the horse to the wagon. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said, meeting her eyes briefly before he climbed onto the wagon seat. His eyes were lake blue and always seemed to be looking at something she couldn’t see. He had loaded the rifle and hung it beside the door within her reach. “Don’t shoot nothing you don’t have to,” he said.
That year the weather went from winter to summer with only a week of spring in between. The day Jacob left turned hot and windy. At first she enjoyed being on her own, not having to cook big meals. She worked in her garden, fed the livestock and milked the cow. But that night, lying alone in the drafty cabin with the wind huffing at the door, she heard coyotes nearby, their howling lonesome and eerie. Finally she drifted into frightening dreams and was awakened by the echo of a scream on the wind. She sat up straight in the bed, her heart pounding.
People said the cry of a panther sounded like a woman screaming. She didn’t want to know which one she had heard. She was afraid she was that woman.
What if she became pregnant and had to bear her baby out here alone, no friend or midwife to help her? What if the creatures from her dream were attracted by the sharp aroma of blood and came to devour the child? Leasie didn’t sleep the rest of the night.
The next morning she arose exhausted but with a sense of purpose. She put up her hair and made the bed and cleaned the kitchen. She threw the quilts across the clothesline to air out. The day was even warmer than yesterday, and windier. For miles around her the prairie grass rippled, undisturbed by animal or human. A lone hawk circled high above Silk Mountain.
She thought of writing a letter to her family back in Kansas City, but after the first few words she stopped. That world didn’t exist anymore; there was only this place, and the wind.
Leasie filled the big iron pot in the yard with soapy water and carried a bucket of it to the cabin. She took off her dress and left it outside the door. In her petticoats and camisole, she got down on her hands and knees and scrubbed the wood floor of the cabin. Her knuckles were raw and red. When she’d finished, she left the door open so the floor would dry.
She put both her dresses in the wash water, swishing them up and down, then rinsed them in a separate bucket. Dust whipped across the trampled yard and stung her bare arms. Her wet clothes would get dirty again just hanging on the line, but that couldn’t be helped. She turned the two dresses wrong side out to lessen fading by the sun and hung them on the clothesline next to the bedding.
She dumped the soapy water, poured the rinse water onto her garden and set out walking across the prairie.
It was late morning and the sun warmed her shoulders. She imagined her camisole and full petticoats as a white sundress, like a Kansas City girl might wear to a party. She picked a yellow flower from the knee-high grass and wove its stem into her hair. A jackrabbit startled from the grass and bounded away, and three shiny crows crossed the sky. She saw no people, no houses.
The sun was straight overhead when she reached Silk Mountain and began her climb. Her brown boots wedged in rock crevices and her palms reddened with shale dust where she grabbed on to boost herself up. She had forever, so she took her time.
She was sweating by the time she reached the flat rock at the top. From the ground it looked square as the bottom of a buckboard, but once she’d climbed onto it, she found the south edge was cropped off like a bite mark and it slanted slightly to the west. She stepped over two gaping cracks and stood at the flaking edge of a shale boulder that faced east. The slab jutted over the rocky slope below like the prow of aship.
Her hair had come undone and it whipped around her face. She held it back with both hands and looked across the land in all directions. Somewhere there were towns and people, but here the land was empty and endless and offered no respite from the wind. The only feature besides rolling grassland and a line of trees along the distant river was a rocky ridge, not as high as Silk Mountain, several miles to the north.
Leasie spread out her arms. Closed her eyes. Tipped her head back, and fell forward over the edge.
Only God knows what she thought of in those few seconds, the warm wind ripping past her white skin until she went to ground.
It was days before Jacob found her body. The vultures had found it first.
He didn’t bury her remains on his little homestead, nor on Silk Mountain. For reasons known only to him, he buried Leasie on the slope of that rocky ridge she’d seen in the distance. Later he married a Kiowa woman who’d received ownership of the ridge as part of her tribal allotment. Jacob Youngblood was one-eighth Indian himself, though no one remembers which tribe.
Gradually Jacob and his second wife bought or traded for her relatives’ allotments and the adjoining unassigned lands. They amassed two thousand acres, more or less, that became the original Killdeer Ridge Ranch. His Kiowa wife didn’t live long either, but she bore him three sons. One of those sons was my grandfather.
Jacob Youngblood was my great-grandfather; the Kiowa woman called Tia-Ma my great-grandmother. I never knew much about Tia-Ma, but the legend of Leasie was kept alive through the generations. Sometimes I think Leasie was my true ancestor, more than Jacob or the Kiowa woman whose death from influenza was much less dramatic.
Oklahoma gained statehood in 1907 and Jacob married again, a woman named Naomi who helped him build the ranch into a prosperous cattle operation. The ranch passed down to my grandfather, Stone Youngblood, who bought out his brothers, then to my father, J.B. And now to me. My name is Marik Youngblood.
Hard times took a toll over the years, and the ranch isn’t the sprawling two-thousand acres it was a century ago. I left it once, intending to be an artist and a teacher instead of a ranchwoman. But as the saying goes, if you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans. At my father’s graveside on Killdeer Ridge—in the family plot that grew up around Leasie’s bones—I promised J.B. two things, hoping to make up for all the ways I’d failed him. One of those things was to preserve what was left of Killdeer Ridge Ranch and keep it in the family. The other was to find his only heir and grandchild, the daughter I’d given away.
Chapter One
Killdeer Ridge Ranch
Before sunrise, Marik drove her father’s old truck along the white gravel service road that wound up the ridge to the giant windmills. Dust funneled up behind the pickup’s tires, and a chilly wind gusted through the passenger window, stuck permanently halfway open. The pickup’s heater poured warm air on her boots. A preseason thunderstorm had blown through the night before, with plenty of bluster but only a spattering of rain. Spring was weeks away.
She took it slow over a patch of graded ruts, coffee sloshing against the lid of its thermal mug in the console, the arthritic joints of the pickup creaking. Her dad had named the truck Red Ryder, after an old-time hero of cowboy comics. Every time she climbed into the cab to make her morning rounds on the ranch, she caught her father’s scent, though he’d been gone nearly two years.
She was nearing the apex of the ridge where she stopped every morning to watch the sun rise over the ranch and the river valley. Against a blue-gray sky, forty-five giant wind turbines towered above the horizon, catching the first rays of sun in their long white arms. Below them the earth waited in shadow.
The first time she’d seen windmills like these at the White Deer facility in West Texas, their stark beauty and clean design had stopped her breath. Their slow, rhythmic turning sounded like a heartbeat, the mystical pulse of the earth itself. Regardless of storms or heat, the white giants stood inscrutable, heads turned to the wind. These forty-five turbines produced enough electricity to power nearly a million homes, and this was only phase one of the wind farm.
Marik parked Red Ryder at her usual spot on the highest point of the ridge. That’s when she saw it—a dark mass on the rocky ground, something that didn’t belong. It lay at the foot of Windmill 17, where the service road wound back on itself before disappearing behind the low hill.
She leaned forward against the steering wheel and squinted into the predawn light. The blackish mound was about the size of a newborn calf, nearly hidden by last season’s sagebrush and dried yucca. But it couldn’t be a calf; the cattle were in the lower fields now, on winter-wheat pasture. Maybe a runaway trash bag that blew up here in the night? But it looked too solid for a trash bag, and heavy. It wasn’t moving with the wind. She had the sinking impression that whatever it was, it had once been a living thing.
She searched the dusty floorboard for the binocular case. The binocs, too, had been her dad’s. She could see his calloused hands on the metal when she removed the beat-up glasses and got out of the truck. Wind whipped her ponytail and the loose ends stung her eyes. Should have brought a stocking cap. It was always cooler up here than in the ranch yard, where the ground was flat and trees sheltered the buildings. She zipped her jacket and stood on the running board with the door open, steadying her elbows on top of the cab.
The sun had breached the horizon now, and the slim rotors of the windmills cast moving shadows across the land. Next month wild verbena and prairie daisies would thrust up from the rocky soil. But in February the ridge was a tonal study in pale gold and shades of russet brown. She liked to paint it that way, but those paintings were hard to sell. Buyers wanted more color.
She held the binoculars to her eyes and searched the landscape for the alien object. Low brush and shadows obstructed her view, and the lenses of the old binocs were fogged with scratches. She tossed the field glasses on the truck seat and walked down the service road toward number 17.
Gravel crunched beneath her boots. The only other sound was the unhurried soughing of the windmills.
An immense canopy of sky arched cloudless from horizon to horizon. Severe clear, her pilot father would have said. It was the kind of day her grandmother had written about in diaries, a diamond of hope after a long, cold winter. Soon when she walked here she’d have to watch for killdeer eggs at the edge of the road, the speckled eggs perfectly camouflaged among the rocks.
When she drew closer to the dark object lying in the scrub growth, she saw the wind ruffle its edges—like feathers. Her chest closed up. Please, not an eagle. But no other bird would be that large. She left the roadbed and crossed open ground, stepping over clumps of dried timothy and prickly-pear cactus. Another few feet and she stood over the fallen bird. Damn.
Her artist’s eye cataloged the mottled colors—burnt umber, sienna, Payne’s grey. Highlights of gold oak. A golden eagle, she thought, though she’d never seen one this close. She crouched beside it.
The head was bent beneath its body. One wing lay unfurled and obviously broken. Even inert, the hooked talons looked macabre. Those claws could seize a slippery fish right out of the water, or rip apart a small animal to feed the eagle’s young. She touched the bird with the toe of her boot, hoping for movement and a chance for rescue. There was none. The body felt stiff.
From a distant pasture a bull claimed his territory with a wheezy bellow. Above her head, the windmill blades kept up their leisurely whough, whough, whough, whough. She looked up at the turning rotors. The carcass lay right below them, no more than twenty-five feet from the tower base, as if the eagle had simply dropped from the sky. The fiberglass rotors appeared to turn slowly, but that was an optical illusion. Each hollow blade was more than a hundred feet long. The tips of the blades could reach 156 miles per hour and still look slow to the human eye.
Was it possible the eagle had flown into one? She couldn’t imagine that. Eagles’ eyesight was legendary; they spotted prey on the ground or in the water from hundreds of feet above. Nevertheless, if her neighbors found out about the dead eagle, that’s exactly what they’d claim—that the bird had been killed by the blades. Burt and Lena Gurdman had objected to the wind farm from the beginning and had delayed construction of the first phase with their complaints. Folks around here were stoutly protective of the migratory birds that wintered along the river, and Marik had no doubt Burt Gurdman would use the eagle’s death as ammunition for another battle.
The dark feathers glistened in angled sunlight. The bird’s wingspan must be seven feet, at least. Even dead it looked beautiful and strong and utterly wild. Carefully, she rolled it over. Thank God it didn’t have a white head. She was fairly sure bald eagles were still on the endangered-species list, though the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service had recommended delisting several years ago.
She ran her fingers over the satiny breast feathers. “What happened to you, big brother? I wish you could tell me.”
The coming furor rose in her imagination like a bad movie. It was illegal to be in possession of an eagle feather, let alone an entire animal. If he could, Gurdman would use this new argument to stop construction of the last twenty-five wind towers.
Don’t borrow the jack before the tire’s flat. It was her father’s voice, clear as ever in her head. His easygoing ways had endeared him to everyone but had also led the ranch into deep debt. She’d had no idea how deep until his sudden death.
Marik laid an arm across her forehead, shading her eyes from a brilliant sunrise. Her gaze traveled down the slope and across the wide fields near the river.
She saw three choices. She could turn the bird over to a county official or wildlife ranger and meet the consequences head-on. Or she could haul the eagle to the river, let it be found in its usual habitat—but on the opposite bank that was part of the state wildlife preserve. Not on her ranch.
Or she could bury the creature where it lay and keep quiet.
All three options stunk. But when she thought of the impending brouhaha over the eagle’s death, it was damn tempting to go home and get her shovel.
Her battle of conscience dissolved with the growl of tires on gravel. Somebody was coming. The sound drifted to her across the ridge before she spotted the vehicle winding through the switchbacks and up the rise.
Double damn.
Marik straightened her spine and stood beneath the giant turbines, facing into the wind. Waiting for trouble.
A white pickup tacked toward her at a leisurely pace. She had not closed the gate at the main road and, despite the No Trespassing signs, the driver apparently took the open gate as an invitation. The men who tended the windmills drove white pickups, but she could already see this one was a stretch cab and the power company’s gold logo wasn’t painted on the door. None of the neighboring ranchers drove a truck like that, either.
She lost sight of the vehicle behind a rise and then it emerged again on the high ridge. The truck stopped beside Red Ryder and a tall, lean man got out. He wore jeans and low-heeled boots with a quilted vest over his long-sleeved shirt. She didn’t know him. He clamped a wide-brimmed hat on his head and started down the slope toward her with a rolling stride.
His face looked friendly enough until he saw the mound of feathers at her feet. When his eyes fixed on the eagle, all hints of a smile faded away. He didn’t speak as he approached but knelt immediately and put his hands on the bird, turning it over, spreading out the feathers on the underside of the tail.
“Bad news,” he said. “It’s a bald eagle.”
He looked up at her with gold-ochre eyes. She frowned. “There’s no white head.”
“It’s a young one. They don’t get the distinctive white feathers on the head and tip of the tail until they’re at least four years old.”
“How do you know it’s not a golden?” she said, still hoping.
“The feet, for one thing. Golden eagles have feathers all the way to the claws. This one doesn’t. And see that grayish color of the feathers on the underside of the tail? That’s distinctive to a young bald eagle. A golden would have white on the tail, up next to the body.”
“It’s sure big to be immature.”
“Probably a female. They get larger than males. I’d guess it’s two or three years old.”
Perfect. Not just an eagle; it’s the freaking national symbol.