Page 42 of Three-Inch Teeth

“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!”

*

LEON BOTTOM 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.

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