pop them out any second, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“That’s exactly what I was worried about.” I looked at the ceiling of the diner. “Thank you, God.”
“So now what?” Tom asked, tossing his napkin into his empty basket.
“I know,” Bernie said. “Let’s go to Lanesboro. It’s just down the road. The sheriff said she wants us to stick close for a day or two, but she didn’t say we had to stay here in Spring Valley.” She polished off her last French fry after swiping it through a puddle of catsup in her basket. “I know the others went on out to bird some more, but I just don’t think I have the energy to hike another mile or two. Besides, Lanesboro has all those cute little shops. They even have a hat emporium.” She pushed her chair back from the table. “And a winery. Something for everybody.”
She looked apologetically at Shana. “No wine for you, though.”
“Actually, I think I want to lie down for a while,” Shana said. “I have some more calls to make … arrangements.”
“Well, of course, honey!” Bernie reached across the table to pat Shana’s hand where it lay on the plastic red-checkered tablecloth, clutching a damp tissue. “Come on. I’ll walk back with you and sit with you while you lie down. You boys just entertain yourselves for the rest of the afternoon. We can talk again at dinner.”
Tom and I watched the two women walk out the door, Shana obviously waddling now, with Bernie virtually clucking at her like a mother hen.
“Do you think she’s going to sit on Shana and stuff her under her feathers?” Tom asked.
“I doubt it,” I replied. “Even if she wanted to, there’s no way Bernie could stuff that much Shana under anything. It’s hard to believe she’s only got twins in there.”
“Twins that aren’t going to meet their father,” Tom added sadly. “Shana’s quite a trooper, isn’t she?”
I took a final gulp of water from my glass and tried not to think about Shana’s babies growing up without a dad. “Yes, Tom, she is.” And then I decided I couldn’t think about Shana, her babies, or Jack anymore right now. “So, how shall we spend our afternoon, birding buddy of mine?”
He didn’t hesitate. “We look for that Bobwhite, Bob White. And I know just where to start.”
Twenty minutes later , I was pretty sure that, despite his confidence, Tom didn’t have a clue where to start, because he was driving east from Spring Valley instead of south. Back in 2003, the last confirmed sighting of a wild Northern Bobwhite in Minnesota had occurred in Beaver Creek Wildlife Management Area, less than three miles from the Iowa border. When we’d stuffed ourselves into Tom’s ancient Honda, I’d assumed that was where we were heading.
“Okay, I give up,” I said. “Where are we going?”
We passed a mileage sign to Lanesboro.
“It’s the hat emporium, isn’t it? Darn that Bernie, she hit your hot button, Tom.”
Tom laughed as he took a left, and we headed north on County Road 80 to the little burg of Wykoff. The scenery was pleasant—the rolling hills and scattered tree groves of Fillmore County. More than 150 years ago, the area just past Wykoff had a big swath of upland deciduous forest, filled with four types of oak tree, elm, basswood, ash, maple, hornbeam, aspen, and birch. Nowadays, farms have appropriated much of that space, but some pretty pockets of the old forest still remain and can be seen along some of the lesser-traveled back roads.
Like we were doing now.
My head hit the roof of the car as Tom’s Honda sailed up out of a surprise pothole.
“Sorry. My shocks aren’t as good as they used to be,” he apologized.
“Tom, your shocks haven’t been good since I’ve known you, which is about a decade.”
He patted the dashboard lovingly. “Yeah, but this is the birdmobile. Nothing stops this baby when I’m on the chase.”
“And exactly what are we chasing again?”
Tom pulled a crumpled