Chapter Twenty-Nine

Donovan went out at dawn the next day and by noon had only managed to kill one bird and it was so full of shot that it was useless as food. Although he knew that the proper technique was to shoot the bird’s head off, so as to not get shot in the meat, it was easier said than done when a cloud of quail rose unexpectedly before him and he had to get off a shot as best he could. Discouraged and embarrassed, he sought out Carina in the kitchen, where she was stirring a pot of curds.

"It's okay," she reassured him. "They really are hard to get without a dog."

"It isn't that I'm not a good shot, but by the time you find them, flush them out and aim. . ."

"I know."

"And there were at least two others I'm pretty sure I hit, but I couldn't find them once they dropped. I guess that's why they say to use a dog."

Seeing that his hands were empty, Carina handed him a strainer lined with a clean cloth and instructed him to hold it over an empty pan. "More experienced hunters than you have needed a dog to hunt quail. We'll have Amalia kill a chicken or two."

"I hate for us to have to do that." He watched as Carina poured the remaining curds into the strainer, the whey streaming through to the pot below. "Is there no place we can get a turkey? I haven't had one in years and I'd be happy to pay for it."

"The only people I know who raise any sort of birds besides chickens are the weirdos at the God's Candidates compound. We don't have any dealings with them and you in particular wouldn't be welcome."

"Why not? Everyone wants money and mine is as good as anyone else's."

"Not to them." Carina picked up the ends of the cloth and began twisting it, squeezing out the whey. "They're Aryan supremacists and would shoot you on sight."

Donovan laughed. "White supremacists? Out here in Mexican and Indian territory?"

"We didn't always have people like that out here. They turned that way when the economy went bad and they felt like they had to blame someone." Carina set the tightly wrapped cloth of curds on a plate and tied it with twine. "They're alleged to be self-sufficient, although I sometimes wonder. They're also overrun with kids, since breeding seems to be part of their plan. They probably think they can supplant the native population with their own home-grown one. They're absolutely nuts, and that's why we don't have any dealings with them, even though Amalia and I could probably trade with them if we wanted to."

"They're the only ones you know of who raise turkeys?"

"I'm afraid so."

"So where are they, if you don't mind my asking."

Carina looked at him sharply. "Why do you care? I'm telling you, they're crazy. Dangerous-crazy. You don't want to go there."

"How can I avoid them if I don't know where they are?"

"You won't run into them if you stay around here. Were you planning on going somewhere?"

Their eyes met, and Donovan looked away first. He handed Carina the empty strainer.

"I was just curious."

* * *

That afternoon Donovan went out again with the shotgun, but had no luck and was gone until almost dusk. He came in as Amalia and Carina were sitting down to dinner and slid into his spot at the table as though his late arrival was unremarkable.

The women looked at each other, eyebrows raised. Amalia was the first to speak. "I could've used your help this afternoon. We were going to work on the door to the big box stable."

"I must've forgotten." He ladled sweet corn onto his plate.

"Did you get any more quail?" Carina asked.

He shook his head and reached for the beans. "I might head out again in the morning. I think I'm close to getting the hang of it."

Carina and Amalia looked at each other again, but it was Amalia who had words at the ready. "I think you'd do better to spend your time helping around here instead of wasting another day trying to figure out how to kill small birds that aren't worth the trouble."

"She's right," Carina said. "Your skill will get better over time. It would make more sense to practice over the course of the year and plan on having quail next Thanksgiving."

"I was thinking I'd get a rabbit or two instead. I still want to head out early, before the sun's up."

"I guess that's a reasonable proposal. . ." Carina began.

"Oh, please. That's not reasonable at all." Amalia turned on him. "Are you up to something? All of a sudden you've got the hunting bug and it looks pretty strange to me."

"I'm not up to anything," he said, stirring his corn into his beans before reaching for a tortilla. "I don't see why you’re so suspicious just because I want to provide my friends with a nice Thanksgiving dinner."

"A rabbit dinner?" Amalia looked skeptical.

"Why not, since I'm having such bad luck with the quail? It'll save you having to kill any of your chickens, won't it?"

Amalia sat back in her chair with poorly concealed irritation, her arms folded across her chest.

Carina frowned. "I guess you can give it a try. I don't think rabbit is very traditional, but—"

"I want to help. It's not like I'm any good with cooking or decorating. This is what I can do. Isn't Thanksgiving about being thankful for what you have? We can be grateful for rabbits, can't we?"

"I guess I don't need any help with anything in the morning. . ."

"Well, I do," Amalia said, but the look of quiet resignation on Carina's face checked her. "Fine. Get some rabbits. But that's it. After lunch, you're helping me with that box stall."

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