Firebird (The Flint Hills Novels) Read online

  Firebird

  by

  Janice Graham

  FIREBIRD

  Reviews & Accolades

  "Graham is an astute chronicler of sentiment and motive... (her) dexterous storytelling pulls at the heartstrings."

  – Publishers Weekly

  "Lyrical... Firebird tells us what we want to hear about true love transcending life and death."

  – Kirkus Reviews

  "Firebird is the debut of a major writer. A tender and beautifully written adult love story."

  – Mary Higgins Clark

  "Pure enjoyment."

  – People Magazine

  "Firebird will leave you burning for more."

  – Cosmopolitan

  Also by Janice Graham

  Sarah's Window

  Safe Harbour

  The Tailor's Daughter

  Romancing Miss Bronte

  (as Juliet Gael)

  ISBN: 978-0-9896853-0-6

  By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  Copyright © 1998, 2013 by Janice Graham. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Cover design by Sarah Pearson

  eBook design by eBookPrep www.ebookprep.com

  Thank You.

  To my cherished friends, Tom and Nancy Baker

  Author's Note

  Firebird was originally published in 1998 by Penguin, Putnam. The advent of eBooks has given the author the opportunity to bring it back to life, and she has consequently made significant revisions to the text, with the idea that she's improved a little as a novelist over the years. She's developed her characters more fully, and she's polished the purple prose, although the author feels that eliminating it altogether would take away from the book's heartfelt sentimentality and originality. The story remains the same.

  Chapter 1

  So far as we know, no modern poet has written of the Flint Hills, which is surprising since they are perfectly attuned to his lyre. In their physical characteristics they reflect want and despair. A line of low-flung hills stretching from the Osage Nation on the south to the Kaw River on the north, they present a pinched and frowning face to those who gaze on them. Their verbiage is scant. Jagged rocks rise everywhere to their surface. The Flint Hills never laugh. In the early spring, when the sparse grass first turns to green upon them, they smile saltily and sardonically. But as spring turns to summer, they grow sullen again and hopeless.

  Death is no stranger to them.

  —JAY E. HOUSE

  Philadelphia Public Ledger (1931)

  Ethan Brown was in love with the Flint Hills. His father had been a railroad man, not a rancher, but you would have thought he'd been born into a dynasty of men connected to this land, the way he loved it. He loved it the way certain peoples love their homeland, with a spiritual dimension. He had never loved a woman quite like this, but that was about to change.

  He was, at this very moment, ruminating on the idea of marriage as he sat in the passenger seat of the sheriff's car, staring gloomily at the bloodied, mangled carcass of a calf lying in the headlights in the middle of the road. Ethan's long legs were thrust under the dashboard and his hat brushed the roof every time he turned his head, but Clay's car was a lot warmer than Ethan's truck, which took forever to heat up. Ethan poured a cup of coffee from a scratched metal thermos his father had carried on the Santa Fe line on cold October nights like this, and passed it to the sheriff.

  "Thanks."

  "You bet."

  They looked over the dashboard at the calf; there was nowhere else to look.

  "I had to shoot her. She was still breathin'," said Clay apologetically.

  "You did the right thing."

  "I don't like to put down other men's animals, but she was sufferin'."

  Ethan tried to shake his head, but his hat caught. "Nobody's gonna blame you. Tom'll be grateful to you."

  "I sure appreciate your comin' out here in the middle of the night. I can't leave this mess out here. Just beggin' for another accident."

  "The guy wasn't hurt?"

  "Naw. He was a little shook up, but he had a big four-wheeler, comin' back from a huntin' trip. Just a little fender damage."

  She was a small calf, but it took the two men some mighty effort to heave her stiff carcass into the back of Ethan's truck. Then Clay picked up his markers and flares, and the two men headed home along the county road that wound through the prairie.

  As Ethan drove along, his eyes fell on the candy-pink hair clip on the dashboard. He had taken it out of Katie Anne's hair the night before, when she had climbed on top of him. He remembered the way her hair had looked when it fell around her face, the way it smelled, the way it curled softly over her naked shoulders. The thought helped him forget about the dead animal in the bed of the truck.

  As he turned off on the road toward the Mackey ranch, Ethan noticed the sky was beginning to lighten. He had hoped he would be able to go back to bed, to draw his long, tired body up next to Katie Anne's, but there wouldn't be time now. He might as well stir up some eggs and make another pot of coffee because as soon as day broke he would have to be out on the range, looking for the downed fence. There was no way of telling where the calf had gotten loose; there were thousands of miles of fence. Thousands of miles.

  * * *

  Ethan Brown had met Katherine Anne Mackey when his father was dying of cancer, which was also the year he turned forty. Katie Anne was twenty-seven—old enough to keep him interested and young enough to keep him entertained. She was the kind of girl Ethan had always avoided when he was younger; she was certainly nothing like Paula, his first wife. Katie Anne got rowdy, told dirty jokes and wore sexy underwear. She lived in the guesthouse on her father's ranch, a beautiful limestone structure with wood-burning fireplaces, built against the south slope of one of the highest hills in western Chase County. Tom Mackey, her father, was a fifth-generation rancher whose ancestors had been among the first to raise cattle in the Flint Hills. Tom owned about half the Flint Hills, give or take a few hundred thousand acres, and, rumor had it, about half the state of Oklahoma, and he knew everything there was to know about cattle ranching.

  Ethan had found himself drawn to Katie Anne's place; it was like a smaller version of the home he had always dreamed of building in the Hills, and he would tear over there in his truck from his law office, his heart full and aching, and then Katie Anne would entertain him with her quick wit and her stock of cold beer and her soft, sexy body, and he would leave in the morning thinking how marvelous she was, with his heart still full and aching.

  All that year Ethan had felt a terrible cloud over his head, a psychic weight that at times
seemed tangible; he even quit wearing the cross and Saint Christopher medal his mother had given him when he left for college his freshman year, as though shedding the gold around his neck might lessen his spiritual burden. If Ethan had dared to examine his conscience honestly he might have eventually come to understand the nature of his malaise, but Katie Anne had come along, and the relief she brought enabled him to skim over the top of those painful months.

  Once every two weeks he would visit his parents in Abilene; always, on the drive back home, he felt that troubling sensation grow like the cancer that was consuming his father. On several occasions he tried to speak about it to Katie Anne; he ventured very tentatively into these intimate waters with her, for she seemed to dislike all talk about things sad and depressing. He yearned to confess his despair, to understand it and define it, and maybe ease a little the terrible anguish in his heart. But when he would broach the subject, when he would finally begin to say the things that meant something to him, Katie Anne would grow terribly distracted. In the middle of his sentence she would stand up and ask him if he wanted another beer. "I'm still listening," she would toss at him sweetly. Or she would decide to clear the table at that moment. Or set the alarm clock. Mostly, it was her eyes. Ethan was very good at reading eyes. He often wished he weren't. He noticed an immediate change in her eyes, the way they glazed over, pulled her just out of range of hearing as soon as he brought up the subject of his father.

  Occasionally, when Ethan would come over straight from a visit to Abilene, she would politely ask about the old man, and Ethan would respond with a terse comment, such as "Well, he's pretty grumpy," or "He's feeling a little better." But she didn't want to hear any more than that, so after a while he quit trying to talk about it. Ethan didn't like Katie Anne very much when her eyes began to dance away from him, when she fidgeted and thought about other things and pretended to be listening, although her eyes didn't pretend very well. And Ethan wanted very much to like Katie Anne. There was so much about her he did like.

  Katie Anne, like her father, was devoted to the animals and the prairie lands that sustained them. Her knowledge of ranching almost equaled his. The Mackeys were an intelligent, educated family, and occasionally, on a quiet evening in her parents' company when the talk turned to more controversial issues, such as public access to the Flint Hills or environmentalism, she would surprise Ethan with her perspicacity. These occasional glimpses of a critical edge to her mind, albeit all too infrequent, led him to believe there was another side to her nature, one that could, with time and the right influence, be brought out and nurtured. Right away he had recognized her remarkable gift for remaining touchingly feminine and yet very much at ease around the crude, coarse men who populated her world. She was the first ranch hand he had ever watched castrate a young bull while wearing pale pink nail polish.

  So that summer, as his father lay dying, Ethan and Katie Anne talked about ranching, about the cattle, about the land; they talked about country music, about the new truck Ethan was going to buy. They drank a lot of beer and barbecued a lot of steaks with their friends, and Ethan even got used to watching her dance with other guys at the South Forty, where they spent a lot of time on weekends. Ethan hated to dance, but Katie Anne danced with a sexual energy he had never seen in a woman. She loved to be watched. And she was good. There wasn't a step she didn't know or a partner she couldn't keep up with. So Ethan would sit and drink with his buddies while Katie Anne danced, and the guys would talk about what a goddamn lucky son of a bitch he was.

  Then his father died, and although Ethan was with him in those final hours, even though he'd held the old man's hand and cradled his mother's head against his strong chest while she grieved, there nevertheless lingered in Ethan's mind a sense of things unresolved, and Katie Anne, guilty by association, somehow figured into it all.

  Three years had passed since then, and everyone just assumed they would be married. Several times Katie Anne had casually proposed dates to him, none of which Ethan had taken seriously. As of yet there was no formal engagement, but Ethan was making his plans. Assiduously, carefully, very cautiously, the way he proceeded in law, he was building the life he had always dreamed of. He had never moved from the rather inconvenient third-floor attic office in the old Salmon P. Chase House, which he had leased upon his arrival in Cottonwood Falls, fresh on the heels of his divorce, but this was no indication of his success. His practice had grown shamefully lucrative. Chase Countians loved Ethan Brown, not only for his impressive academic credentials and his faultless knowledge of the law, but because he was a man of conscience. He was also a man's man, a strong man with callused hands and powerful legs that gripped the flanks of a horse with authority.

  Now, at last, his dreams were coming true. From the earnings of his law practice he had purchased his land and was building his house. In a few years he would be able to buy a small herd. It was time to get married.

  Chapter 2

  Ethan pulled the string of barbed wire tight and looped it around the stake he had just pounded back into the ground. The loose end of wire smacked him across the cheek near his eye and he flinched. He caught the wire with a gloved hand and finished nailing it down, then he removed his glove and wiped away the warm blood that trickled down his face.

  As he untied his horse and swung up into the saddle he thought he caught a whiff of fire. He lifted his head into the wind and sniffed the air. But he couldn't find the smell again. It was gone as quickly as it had come. This was not the burning season; perhaps he had only imagined it.

  He dug his heels into the horse's ribs and took off at a trot, following the fence as it curved over the hills. The copper-colored grasses, short after a long summer's grazing, stood out sharply against the solid blue sky.

  From the other side of the fence, down the hill toward the highway, came a bleating sound. Not another one, he thought. It was past two in the afternoon, and he had a desk piled with work waiting for him in town, but he turned his horse around and rode her up to the top of the hill, where he could see down into the valley below.

  He had forgotten all about Emma Ferguson's funeral until that moment when he looked down on the Old Cemetery, an outcropping of modest tombstones circumscribed by a rusty chain-link fence. It stood out in the middle of nowhere; the only access was a narrow blacktop county road. But this afternoon the side of the road was lined with trucks and cars, and the graves were obscured by mourners. The service was over. As he watched, the cemetery emptied, and within a few minutes there were only the black limousine from the mortuary and a little girl holding the hand of a woman in black who stood looking down into the open grave. Ethan had meant to attend the funeral. He was handling Emma Ferguson's estate and her will was sitting on top of a pile of folders in his office. But the dead calf had seized his attention. The loss, about $500, was Tom Mackey's, but it was all the same to Ethan. Tom Mackey was like a father to him.

  Ethan shifted his gaze from the mourners and scanned the narrow stretch of bottomland. He spied the heifer standing in a little tree-shaded gully just below the cemetery. To reach her he would have to jump the fence or ride two miles to the next gate. He guided the mare back down the hill and stopped to determine the best place to jump. The fence wasn't high, but the ground was treacherous. Hidden underneath the smooth russet-colored bed of grass lay rock outcroppings and potholes: burrows, dens, things that could splinter a horse's leg like a matchstick, all of them obscured by the deceptive harmony of waving grasses. Ethan found a spot that looked safe but he got down off his horse and walked the approach, just to make sure. He spread apart the barbed wire and slipped through to check out the other side. When he got back up on his horse he glanced down at the cemetery again. He had hoped the woman and child would be gone, but they were still standing by the grave. He didn't like the idea of chasing the calf right past Emma Ferguson's gravesite while her family was still there. Nor did he like the idea of having an audience if his mare should balk and send him flying into the barbed
wire. But he had to get on with his day, so he settled his mind and circled his horse, moving her into place for the jump; he paused to focus on the fence, then with a cry he dug his heels into her flanks and she thundered down the hill. At just the right moment, he felt her pull her forelegs underneath and with a mighty surge of strength from her powerful hind legs sail into the air.

  * * *

  The woman looked up just as the horse appeared in the sky and she started. It seemed frozen there in space for the longest time, a black, deep-chested horse outlined against the blue sky, and then hooves hit the ground with a thud, and the horse and rider thundered down the slope of the hill only a short distance from the cemetery fence.

  "Maman!" cried the child in awe. "Tu as vu ça?"

  The woman was still staring, speechless, when she heard her father call to her from where he stood by the limousine. "Annette!"

  She turned around.

  "Let's go," he ordered in a pinched voice. It was his annoyed voice. She'd kept him waiting. Over her mother's grave, she'd kept him waiting.

  Annette took one last look at the black casket. Good-bye, Mama. I won't be back. I'm sorry. She clasped her daughter's hand and they walked together to the limousine.

  Chapter 3

  Often father Colt would say when we urged him to leave Kansas with us, "I had as lief lay my bones in Kansas as in any other place"; and so it has come to pass. But to think of a death in Kansas, in that wild though beautiful country—to be laid away in a rough box, in a grave marked only while the mound looks newly made, away from all kindred and friends who would drop on it a tear or plant on it a flower, seems to me horrible in the extreme.