Kitabı oxu: «Heart Of The Eagle»

Chapter One

What the hell! He didn’t have time to think, only react. There, coming down the muddied ranch road, was a fully grown golden eagle. The raptor’s wings were outstretched, talons bared as he skimmed the earth toward his prey, a zigzagging jackrabbit. Simultaneously, Jim slammed on the brakes of his Blazer and hit the horn. The eagle was so intent on capturing its prey that it had not seen his truck come up and over the crest of the same road.

The Blazer slewed sideways. The eagle screamed indignantly, its amber eyes glaring as it barely missed the truck and sailed skyward. Jim eased the Blazer to the side of the road, drew in a deep breath and loosened his grip on the steering wheel. He watched the bird for a few moments, puzzled by its actions. Then, grabbing the pair of binoculars he always carried with him, he eased out of the truck. His scuffed cowboy boots sank into the mud and snow on the road. He glanced at the watch on his wrist; he had a few minutes before he had to make the appointment.

Crossing the deeply rutted gravel road, Jim walked to the grassy ledge on the opposite side. He followed the movements of the magnificent golden eagle as it spiraled lazily below the gray clouds that hung like a blanket above the valley. The late April weather was sharp and Jim pulled his sheepskin coat tighter as he halted at the edge of the drop-off that slid into a shallow slope of the valley. Lifting his binoculars, he trained them on the raptor. His mouth pulled into a pursed line as he followed the eagle as it stooped into a deep dive and plummeted into attack position.

Expecting that the eagle had found another quarry, Jim followed the dive. Instead, at the last moment, the eagle exploded into a flurry of braking movements with its seven-foot wing spread, beating countermotions as it slowed down its approach to the outstretched arm of a woman.

What the hell! Twice in the span of five minutes he’d been taken by surprise. The eagle had no jesses or leather straps dangling from its yellow legs to evidence that it was domesticated for falconry. Without realizing it, Jim was holding his breath. As the eagle landed, he saw the woman bend her knees to take the bird’s weight and velocity. She wore a soft leather gauntlet type of glove that extended from her left hand up to her elbow to protect her from the razor-sharp talons of the raptor as it settled on her arm. Jim watched as her entire body absorbed the tremendous impact of the eagle’s landing, the woman nearly dropping to a kneeling position so that she didn’t lose her precarious balance.

Jim felt his heart rate accelerate. Beautiful! My God, they’re beautiful together. Part of it was from the primal beauty of the wild eagle. Part was the thrill of watching the slender woman, who reminded him more of a graceful deer, as she slowly stood to her full height. Even the heavy sheepskin coat couldn’t hide the grace of her carriage. A deer and an eagle. Natural enemies. Now natural partners. The morning…no, the day, was turning out to be one of incredible surprise, and the rare, intrinsic beauty of the moment simply tore the breath from his tense body.

Jim moved his binoculars from the woman and her eagle. There was a black horse standing nearby, ground tied at the far end of the large meadow. Beyond rose the Rocky Mountains, still clothed in snow at the higher elevations. He returned his attention to the woman, hoping that she had turned around by now. His black brows knit as he concentrated on her face. Was it? No, it couldn’t be. Dr. Dahlia Gordon was a staunch opponent of falconry. It couldn’t be her. And yet, Jim could vividly recall that one moment they had met in the past. Dal Gordon had a haunting, expressive face that was imprinted in his mind. Yes, it was her…

A slow smile edged his mouth as he watched her walk with the eagle resting imperiously on her arm. My God, the raptor was huge! A weak streamer of sunlight chose that moment to slice through the leaden clouds and strike the meadow. The eagle’s dark brown body blazed to life in a molten bronze color. Jim watched in appreciation as the sun struck Dal Gordon’s shoulder-length spice-colored hair, bringing more of a flush to her pale features. How long was it? he mused. He had heard Dr. Gordon speak three years before in Washington, D.C. on saving the predatory birds that were being callously slaughtered in the Rockies. Despite the ravages of her recent divorce, she was still one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.

Jim lowered the binoculars, a deprecating smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. His light brown eyes narrowed as he watched the woman and eagle. It was a thrill to be undetected and witness the harmony between her and the magnificent predatory bird. Was it her eagle? How had she gotten it? Jim glanced at his watch. It was time to go. Reluctantly, taking one last look at them, he turned and crossed the road to the Blazer. Some of his happiness backwashed. In half an hour he would be facing her and asking her for help. Would she give it? Jim got in, settling the black felt cowboy hat on hair of the same color. His hands tightened momentarily around the wheel as he started the engine. She had to help. Without her, his entire plan would be destroyed.

“Yes?”

Jim removed his hat as he stared across the doorway at a woman in her early sixties who was built like an overly plump pigeon. “I’m Jim Tremain, from the Department of the Interior. I have an appointment to see Dr. Dahlia Gordon at ten.”

The woman’s small mouth puckered. “You mean Dr. Kincaid?” she challenged, eyeing him.

The divorce. “Yes, I guess so.”

“Humph! Dal didn’t say she was expectin’ anyone.” Her blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You got some ID?”

He dug out his wallet, producing the evidence. The housekeeper appeared mollified—to a degree. She reminded Jim of a keg of dynamite ready to go off. Or perhaps a guard dog would be a more appropriate comparison, he thought, smiling to himself.

“I had my secretary call and confirm the appointment two days ago,” he said, trying to smooth her ruffled feathers. “I’m from Denver, the regional office.”

She stared up at him. “Well…I don’t know. She isn’t here right now. And if she was expectin’ someone, she wouldn’t have left.”

Patience, Jim reminded himself. He gave her a slight smile. “I saw her down in a meadow as I drove up here to the Triple K.”

“All right, come on in, Mr. Tremain.”

Jim stepped into the foyer, immediately at ease in the rambling ranch-style home. As the housekeeper escorted him from the cedar foyer, through the living room, which housed a huge stone fireplace, and then to the study, Jim collected his impressions.

“You can wait here. Dr. Kincaid ought to be comin’ back shortly.”

Jim placed his hat on the well-used leather couch, inhaling the scent of the large, brooding study, whose walls were lined with books. “Thank you.”

The housekeeper hovered at the door, her pinched features softening a bit. “Coffee?”

Jim shook his head. “No, thanks.”

“No tellin’ when she’ll get here, Mr. Tremain.”

“That’s all right, I’ll wait.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Have it your way, Mr. Tremain. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.”

His smile was genuine. “Thank you, Mrs….”

“Millie. I’m the housekeeper for the Kincaid family.”

“I see.”

Millie gave him one last predatory look before she left. Jim shrugged out of his sheepskin coat and draped it over the arm of the couch. He drank in the atmosphere of the quiet study, impressed with the titles of the books; most ranchers wouldn’t be interested in Tolstoy or Shakespeare. But someone was and he wondered who. Above the bookshelves were many brilliantly colored photographs of the wildlife that no doubt inhabited the forty-thousand-acre Triple K Ranch. Jim found himself applauding the hanging of photographs of the animals on the walls, rather than their stuffed heads. Yes, the Kincaids were known for their strong conservation efforts, and were longtime friends to the Department of the Interior.

He sauntered out of the study and into an adjoining alcove. More slats of sun were peeking through the overcast as Jim looked out the window at the ceaseless activity of cowboys on horseback and the brown-and-white Hereford cattle they were herding. Ten acres on the south side of the house were enclosed in paddock after paddock of milling animals. It was time for the cows to calve, and Jim spotted more than one wobbly kneed youngster sticking close to its mother.

His sharp hearing caught the opening and closing of a door. The housekeeper’s voice was barely discernible. Jim realized his hands were damp, and he laughed at himself for such an uncharacteristic show of nerves. Turning back to the window, he once again forced his concentration on the scene outside.

In the kitchen Dal shrugged out of her coat, handing it to Millie. “Who did he say he was?” she asked. Her left arm ached where Nar had gripped her. He had been upset about something; otherwise, he wouldn’t have bruised her with the powerful grip of his blue-black talons that could easily have shredded her kidskin gauntlet as well as put puncture holes through the thick sleeve of her sheepskin coat. While she absently rubbed her arm, her sapphire eyes darkened.

“Jim Tremain. From the Department of the Interior. I thought you said you wanted to rest, Dal. No more travel, no more lectures. Just to rest from that…that awful divorce,” Millie said, sputtering.

Dal touched her brow. The divorce. Six months of freedom from a daily hell. She still wasn’t herself. Inwardly, she wasn’t ready to meet anyone. Not yet. “It’s all right, Millie. You know me, no memory.”

“Humph! That’s ‘cause of that no-good ex-husband of yours. Runnin’ you into the ground like he did.”

“That’s over now, Millie,” she began tiredly, not wanting to discuss it ever again. Dal glanced down at herself; she didn’t look very presentable in her blue jeans and long-sleeved white blouse, with her hair in tangled disarray about her shoulders. Compressing her full lips, Dal touched her hair. God, Jack had beaten her down so far, she even forgot to tend to herself beyond the most necessary of tasks needed for daily survival. “Well, Mr. Tremain is going to see me the way I am,” she muttered to the housekeeper. “I don’t remember the appointment. But that’s nothing new. Where did you say he was?”

“In your brother’s study. Like some coffee and a freshly made roll?”

Dal touched her ribs. She ought to eat more, she knew. Her brother, Rafe, was on her constantly to regain the lost weight. “No, just coffee, Millie.”

“I’ll bring it in to you, lamb.”

Managing a smile of thanks, Dal headed toward the south wing of the ranch house. The cheerful crackle of a fire soothed her sudden raw-nerved feeling. How could she have forgotten an appointment? Especially when she had refused to see anyone over the past six months? Running her slender fingers through her cinnamon-colored hair, Dal stepped into the library.

Her irritation with herself was torn away as she came to a halt. A man dressed like a wrangler rather than a businessman stood with book in hand. It wasn’t his appearance as much as the aura surrounding him that caught Dal completely off guard. The cougarlike leanness to his body shouted of someone who braved the elements regularly—and won. Her eyes moved up his tightly muscled frame, taking in the faded blue jeans that emphasized his long thighs and narrow hips. Unconsciously, she licked her lower lip. The pale-blue long-sleeved shirt emphasized the powerful breadth of his chest and shoulders. Her heart began an uneven pounding as her gaze met and held his. Clear, light brown eyes flecked with gold gently held her in check. A tremor passed through Dal and suddenly she felt panicky. This man, whoever he was, was affecting her on levels she had thought were destroyed long ago.

She didn’t want to admit that she was drawn to his large, intelligent eyes, which smoldered with some unknown emotion in their honey-colored depths. Or was she attracted by the harsh, chiseled planes of his face, which made him appear hawklike? Immediately, in her chaotic thoughts, Dal thought he resembled Nar, her golden eagle: dangerous, beautiful in a breathtaking male way and excruciatingly masculine. Was it the deep tan and his softly curled black hair that made him look dangerous to her? She was perplexed. It was only April in Colorado and no one had seen enough sun to get a tan yet.

Was he Indian? No. Part, perhaps? Yes, as evidenced by the high cheekbones and the oval-shaped face, which was completed by a mildly stubborn chin. Her gaze fell to the hands that cradled the leather-bound book; long, tapered hands that were large knuckled and almost artistic looking. Hands that held the book so gently that Dal found herself wondering what it would be like to be held by him.

What an idiotic thought! She upbraided herself, giving herself a mental shake for the scattered feelings that this stranger evoked in her. With a slight, embarrassed smile, Dal said, “I’m Dr. Dal Kincaid.” She watched as he placed the book back onto the shelf and turned to take her hand.

“Jim Tremain, doctor. I’m the regional supervisor with the Department of the Interior.” Her hand was slender and the fingertips cool to his touch. She was just as tense as he was, he realized. Did it show on him as obviously as it did on her? The nervous gesture of her tongue caressing her full lower lip sent an unbidden tremor through him. Jim released her hand, thinking she was like a delicate-boned bird. And then his eyes narrowed as he began to drink in her present condition: she was far too underweight, with dark smudges beneath her luminous blue eyes. The flesh across her cheekbones was stretched with fatigue and appeared almost translucent. Jim found himself wanting to hold her, to tell her that everything was going to be all right….

“I’m sorry I’m late. Millie told me we had an appointment.” She gave a forced laugh and gestured for him to take the wing chair near the desk. “Lately my memory hasn’t been what it should be. If you’ll take a seat, Millie is bringing us coffee.” Dal touched her breast as she rounded the desk, her heart pounding like a trapped animal. But one look into his eyes and she began to relax. He wasn’t the predator he seemed to be, she thought, relieved. She had been married to a man who had turned into one; that was enough. No, only Tremain’s countenance was that of a hawk. His eyes contained kindness. And understanding. Those two discoveries helped Dal relax in his presence as she walked to the desk and sat down.

Jim waited until she sat down before taking the chair opposite the desk. The tiffany-style lamp suspended over the massive cherry furniture highlighted her spice-colored hair, bringing out strands of nutmeg shot through with gold. He found himself wondering if it was as thick and silky as it looked, lying with a slight curl across her shoulders. “No problem.” He smiled, the stoic planes of his face easing. “As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t have traded my drive up to the Triple K for anything, if you want the truth.”

“Oh?” Her smile was in response to his. He had a wonderfully shaped mouth, Dal thought. Neither too thin nor too thick; his lower lip was full and somewhat flat. She wanted to know if he was Indian, but had the good manners not to ask him.

“I was about three miles from the main ranch house when I crested a small rise and saw this golden eagle heading straight for me.” He watched her blue eyes widen. Did she realize how beautiful she was? Probably not, Jim decided. There was an artless femininity to Dal that couldn’t be bought or worn at any price. She wore no makeup on her heart-shaped face—the red of her lips combined with the blush now creeping across her cheeks all that she needed.

“Oh, my God…Nar!”

“Nar?”

“Yes, the golden eagle. He disappeared over the hill near the ranch road and I lost sight of him. When he came back, he was upset.” She touched her left arm, rubbing it gently to ease the remembered throbbing from her flesh.

Jim crossed his legs, enjoying her sudden emergence from her guarded stance. Her eyes had been lifeless, as if a part of her had been destroyed. Now he saw cobalt sparks in their depths, and breathed easier. She was pale and exhausted looking and it bothered him. “He’s yours?” he asked, a hint of teasing in his voice. “The famous Dr. Kincaid who advocates freedom for all predators, with a golden eagle on her arm?”

Dal felt heat flow up from her neck and sweep across her face. She managed a slight smile. Since Jim Tremain was from the Department of the Interior, he had to know a great deal about wildlife conservation. For a moment, she studied him, searching her memory. A man like him would be hard to forget, and some vague spark of recognition flashed in her mind. Where had she seen him before? “Nar belongs to no one, Mr. Tremain. He’s wild by nature, although he comes to visit me every morning.”

“Call me Jim,” he invited. “And what does the name Nar mean?”

A slight tingle flowed through her. His voice was husky and intimate. She sat up, clasping her hands in front of her on the desk. “That’s Arabic for fire. His plumage, when the sun strikes it just right, becomes like molten fire. I rescued Nar from sure death seven years ago.”

“Tell me about it.”

Dal took a deep breath, finding herself comfortable with a man for the first time in a long while. Jack had made her distrustful of all men and their intentions. All except her brother, Rafe. And now, Jim. Funny, she mused, that she wanted to be on a first-name basis with him, when at all other times she wanted an arm’s length between her and any other male.

“I was with my older brother, Rafe, and we were taking notes on where the nests of the golden eagle and red-tailed hawk were located on the ranch one summer. We came up to the base of a cliff and I spotted Nar floundering in the brush. Apparently something had frightened him and he had fallen out of his nest on the cliff, or else the wind had pushed him out. We couldn’t climb up the cliff to put him back into his nest, so we brought him back here.” Some of the sadness fled from her eyes as Dal recalled that special day in her life.

“He was nothing but a fuzzball of gray down. When I dismounted and went over to rescue him, he sat perfectly still. I had expected him to try and escape when I leaned down, but he seemed to realize I wouldn’t hurt him. There was instant trust and it hasn’t stopped to this day.”

Jim nodded, enjoying her sudden warmth when she talked about the eagle. What had nearly destroyed her? She appeared tentative, almost frightened. Why? “You have no jesses on him, I noticed.”

“No. I think it’s wrong to keep a hawk or eagle tied to a block, only to fly them against game. It’s a cruel form of imprisonment, to me. Nar comes and goes as he pleases. He usually comes to greet me every morning if I happen to be here at the ranch. Even during those six years when I was married and away, Nar would fly over.

“So this eagle imprinted and adopted you as his mother?” he said, making a guess.

Dal looked at him closely. He knew a great deal more about predators than she had given him credit for. A knock at the study door erased her next question.

Millie came in bearing a tray of freshly made cinnamon rolls glazed with butter and two mugs of steaming coffee. She handed each of them a mug and a plate with a roll, then left, but not before giving Dal a stern look that said, “you’d better eat that roll or else….”

Dal laughed softly. “I think Millie has decided we’re both underweight and need to gain a few pounds.”

Jim grinned, inhaling the spicy aroma of the roll, and suddenly felt hungry. “You definitely need to put on some weight, doctor.”

“Call me Dal. Everyone else does.” And then her heart banged at the base of her throat. Why had she said that? Because, her heart responded, Jim Tremain is trustworthy. Nervously, Dal picked at the roll, not really hungry, only wanting to camouflage her unexpected friendliness with a man who was a total stranger.

The next few minutes were spent in silence as they tackled their cinnamon rolls. Dal poured cream and sugar into her coffee, noticing that Jim drank his black. Then, wiping her hands on a napkin, she returned to business.

“So, what does the Interior Department want, Jim?”

He put his plate on the tray and stood up, coffee mug in hand. Some of the hardness returned to the planes of his face as he studied her. “I know this is probably going to be painful to discuss, Dal.”

Her arched brows moved downward. “What is?”

Jim took a sip of his coffee and set it on the tray. Typical of any cowboy, he allowed his hands to hang loosely on his hips. “Five years ago you and the department started a project to bring goshawks from Canada to nest here in the Rockies.”

“Yes, and it’s been a success.”

Jim nodded. “A little too successful, it seems, Dal.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Triple K has a high number of hawks and eagles that are natural to this area.”

“We have red tails, golden eagles and Cooper’s hawk.”

“Plus the goshawks.”

Dal nodded, resting her chin against her hands, watching him. She felt the sudden shift in energy around him. His walk belied the tension in him as he crossed the oriental rug that lay in front of the desk. His mouth, once relaxed with the corners softly turning upward, was pursed. Dal felt her stomach knotting. “I’ll be going to the high country in another month to check on all the predator sites, plus log in the new nests,” she said.

Jim turned, pinning her with his now umber-colored eyes. “I don’t think so, Dal. It could be dangerous at that time.”

She lifted her chin, eyes flaring wide. At first she started to smile and then she saw he was serious. “What do you mean, dangerous?”

“The FBI has been working closely with the government of Canada on a group of poachers who have been stealing goshawk, peregrine, red-tail and golden eagle eggs from northern Canada.”

“All right, go on.”

“These poachers are a multinational band of men and women who know predatory birds well. Not only that, but they’ve got outlets for the stolen eggs, or eyesses, over in the Middle East. As you know, falconry is a major way of life for the sheikhs and princes of those kingdoms. And now, they have a penchant for the types of birds I just mentioned, to train them into falconry.”

Dal nodded grimly. “Falconry is popular in Europe, also.”

Jim halted. She looked vulnerable to the point of fragility. What would she do when she found out the rest of the problem? “The demand is on an upswing. You know there’s a black market for exotic or imported hawks and falcons. Some people will stop at nothing to acquire a unique specimen—much like the first kid on the block with a new car. The Middle Eastern clients are willing to spend any amount of money to get these eggs or the resulting hatched eyesses. If a prince is seen with a golden eagle, then every one of his noblemen wants one, also. The demand becomes astronomical and creates lucrative blackmarket rings that operate against the law to acquire the birds.

“Basically what’s been happening is that such a group is active in North America and has been supplying falcons and eagles to these countries. Like jewel thieves, they’re professionals. Many times they’ll send in a team of three people: two who are mountain climbing experts to scale the cliffs to get the eggs or nestlings, and a third member who’s an expert on spotting nests, or is familiar with the nesting habitat of a given area. They fly in by helicopter and ferry out their stolen goods. Or, they may go into an area posing as hikers on a pack trip. They’re ingenious and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police have been close to capturing them, but they’ve always eluded them at the last moment.”

“And they’re operating in the States, too?” Dal asked.

“Yes. Five months ago, information pinpointing certain predator nesting areas was found to be missing in Washington,” he said, watching her closely. “Information that was in a computer to which only a few knew the access code. The maps showing locations of these birds, their nesting habitat and exact location were taken, Dal.”

Her brows drew down. “That means the locations on the Triple K are open for poaching?”

“Those and several other key areas in Wyoming and Montana.”

She pushed her fingers through her hair in an aggravated motion. “Damn these people! If it isn’t the ranchers shooting these poor birds, or sheepmen poisoning them with meat, we have poachers to contend with!” Her voice took on an anguished edge. “Where is it all going to end? My God!”

Jim put his hands flat on the surface of the desk, holding her gaze. “There’s more, Dal.”

“How can there be?”

“Your ex-husband, Jack Gordon, is suspected of paying the government employee who took the information from the computer. Not only that, but evidence leads us to suspect he will mastermind the U.S. connection to the international poaching ring this year. The FBI has been following this case closely, and photos of Jack Gordon with key members of this ring were taken down in the Virgin Islands early this year. With Gordon’s knowledge and skill as a trapper of exotic birds, the poaching would be a piece of cake if he chooses to get involved in it.”

Dal blinked once, a gasp escaping as she stared at him. She felt as if someone had hit her in the chest, leaving her heart aching with a blinding jolt of pain. Pain that she was trying to get some distance on and forget. And then Jim Tremain blurred before her eyes as tears silently ran down her drawn cheeks.

“Here,” Jim said, placing a linen handkerchief in her hands. He rose, unable to stay that close to her and not reach out and touch those tears that were falling.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered and then turned away, unable to absorb the pain so apparent on her suddenly waxen features. He walked toward the door and opened it. He felt stifled and helpless to do anything for Dal. As he turned back toward her, he saw her wiping the last of the tears from her cheeks. She looked like hell.

Dal controlled her breathing, willing back the rest of the tears that wanted to fall. She was vaguely aware of Jim moving toward the liquor cabinet. An avalanche of conflicting emotions ripped through her: anger over what Jack had done and then anger at Jim Tremain for dredging up a part of her life that she wanted to forget.

“Drink this,” Jim offered quietly, putting a shot glass filled with apricot brandy in front of her. “Go on….”

Wordlessly, Dal took a hefty gulp, the brandy burning all the way down. But it staunched her tears and steadied her roiling emotions. “Thanks,” she murmured, setting the glass down.

“I’m sorry. I know you were recently divorced.” Jim’s mouth worked into a grim line as she lifted her head and looked at him. “I had a choice: come to you for help or let the FBI start crawling all over the place trying to capture Gordon and his counterpart. I came to you for help because you know the location of all these nesting areas. No one knows predators like you do.”

Dal gave him a mirthless smile. “Certain two-legged predators, Mr. Tremain. The feathered variety, not the human ones.”

Jim steeled himself. Now it was Mr. Tremain and not Jim. She was on the defensive again, but he couldn’t blame her. He kept his husky voice low and steady, as if calming a frantic horse. “My men and I will take care of the other two-legged predators. If you can act as guide, we’ll set up a trap that will capture Gordon and his people.”

“Am I a suspect, Mr. Tremain?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Jim steadily met her blue eyes. “Given your record of conservation of predators, doctor, I felt you were innocent.”

“So someone didn’t think I was?”

He met her cool smile. “The FBI considers you questionable. If you want to know.”