Cooper took the silver disk, so worn the outline of the woman stamped on it could hardly be seen. “It’s cool.”
“It’s for good luck. It’s a… what’s the word, Mom?”
“A talisman,” Jenna supplied.
“A talisman,” Lil repeated. “For good luck.”
“We’ve got to get on.” Sam gave Cooper’s shoulder a pat. “It’s a long drive to Rapid City.”
“Safe trip, Mr. New York.”
“I’ll write,” Lil called out. “But you have to write back.”
“I will.” Clutching the coin, Coop got into the car. He watched out the back, as long as he could, watched the island in front of the old house shrink and fade.
He didn’t cry. He was nearly twelve years old, after all. But he held the old silver coin all the way to Rapid City.
3
THE BLACK HILLS
June 1997
Lil walked her horse through the morning mists along the trail. They moved through high grass, crossed the sparkling waters of a narrow stream where tangled vines of poison ivy lurked before starting the upward climb. The air smelled of the pine and the water and the grass while the light shimmered with the delicacy of dawn.
Birds called and chattered. She heard the burry song of the mountain bluebird, the hoarse chee of a pine siskin in flight, the irritable warning of the pinyon jay.
It seemed the forest came to life around her, stirred by the streams and slants of misty light sliding through the canopy of trees.
There was nowhere in the world she’d rather be.
She spotted tracks, usually deer or elk, and noted them on the tape recorder in her jacket pocket. Earlier she’d found buffalo tracks, and of course, numerous signs of her father’s herd.