The Birdman's Daughter

The Birdman's Daughter
Cindi Myers

As a wife and mother, Karen McBride wonders if she'll ever discover what her own spirit requires to feel whole. When her father, the formidable champion bird-watcher, Martin Engel, suffers a stroke, Karen rushes home to Texas to take care of the man who always seemed to have more love for winged creatures than his own family.And now here she is–her children nearly grown, and her rock-of-a-husband, Tom, angry with her for not giving more of herself. She has the feeling that if she could only connect with Martin, somehow her relationships would all make sense. Is this her last chance to soar free?

Praise for Cindi Myers

“Myers’s ability to portray true-to-life sympathetic characters will resonate most with readers of this captivating romance.”

—Publishers Weekly on Learning Curves

“Delightful and delicious…Cindi Myers always satisfies!”

—USA TODAY bestselling author Julie Ortolon

“Charming. The protagonists’ chemistry and Lucy’s spunk keep this fluffy novel grounded.”

—Publishers Weekly on Life According to Lucy

“The story is rife with insight and irony, and the characters are just plain fun.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub on Detour Ahead

“Ms. Myers will definitely keep readers sighing with delight.”

—Writers Unlimited

Cindi Myers

Cindi Myers wrote her first short story at age eight and spent many a math class thereafter writing fiction instead of fractions. Her favorite childhood retreat was a tree house, where she would spend hours reading, and watching birds. As an adult, she continued this love of both birds and books. She became a journalist, and then a novelist. An avid skier, hiker, gardener and quilter, she lives in the Rocky Mountains with her husband, two spoiled dogs and a demanding parrot. She’s the keeper of numerous bird feeders and avoids math whenever possible. The Birdman’s Daughter is her twenty-second published novel.

The Birdman’s Daughter

Cindi Myers

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

For Daddy

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

PROLOGUE

There are joys which long to be ours. God sends

ten thousand truths, which come about us like birds

seeking inlet; but we are shut up to them, and so

they bring us nothing, but sit and sing awhile upon

the roof, and then fly away.

—Henry Ward Beecher

For a man who’d spent his childhood on the arid plains of west Texas, the jungle was a place of magic. Martin Engel had hardly slept the night before, anxious to be on the trail again, completing his quest. He’d roused his companion on this trip, Allen Welch, from bed at 3:00 a.m. “We’ve got to be there before dawn,” he’d reminded Welch. “We’re going to have good luck today. I can feel it.”

Martin’s intuition was seldom wrong. Some people complained that he’d had more than his share of good luck in his pursuits, but Martin preferred to depend on hard work and experience. Over the years he’d taught himself everything there was to know about his quarry.

Still, there was something mystical about the hunt, a point in every search where he found himself locked in, putting himself on a different plane, trying to think like the ones he sought.

Martin was a birder. Not a backyard hobbyist or vacation afficionado. He was an acknowledged champion, a “big lister” who had seen more different kinds of birds than only a handful of people in the world.

Seven thousand, nine hundred and forty-eight. Today he was trying for seven thousand, nine hundred and fifty. On this trip he planned to clean up Brazil. When he got on the plane to head home to Texas, he would have seen every bird that existed in this country’s jungles and plains. The promise of such an accomplishment made him tremble with excitement.

He and Welch were at the trailhead by 3:30. Welch slugged coffee from a thermos and stumbled over roots in the path, while Martin charged forward, eyes scanning the canopy overhead, binoculars ready. Even at this early hour, the air was thick and fetid around him, the ground beneath his feet spongy with decay. His ears filled with the whirring of insects. Insects meant birds.