Well, it was a good thing her father hadn’t gotten wrapped up in the ostrich scheme. Besides, according to everything she’d heard, the damn things were not only stupid, they were vicious. “Like six-foot turkeys with an attitude,” one of her clients had said. There were already enough things with “attitudes” in their lives; the Talldeer family didn’t need to cope with giant birds too.

“Mom has a hot prospect for that white elephant—the earth-sheltered place in Mannford,” Robert continued. “An artist; told her to show him everything weird, so long as it had land, a view, and privacy.”

“Sounds good, but is an artist likely to go for that?” she asked dubiously. “You think he’s ready for a one-lane gravel road with a twenty percent grade?”

“He picked Mom up to go look at it in a Bronco with a lot of mud on it,” Robert said. “I’d say so. He was wearing snake-boots, too. I think he knows what he’s going to go see.”

That sounded promising; maybe all artists weren’t crazy. She’d seen the place; it had an impressive view and with the addition of a windmill for electricity it could be completely self-sufficient. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing for an artist.

Mortgage. Twenty percent, office space. She’d thought about the place too; wonderful view, and for someone with her interests, it would make the perfect place to detox from the modern world. With ten acres, she could have had a dozen real sweatlodges out in the woods and no one would ever know.

But it was no place for someone who had to make a living in the city. At least an hour away in good weather, and during the January and February ice storms, you wouldn’t be able to get out without a Land Rover and chains.

“Listen,” Robert said, “Mom left a note in case you called and she wasn’t home. Can you pick up some of those good glass crow-beads and the porcupine quills at Lyon’s downtown? Dad’s adding to his dance gear again.”

“Who’s going to mess with the quilling?” she asked, aghast. Porcupine-quill embroidery was not quite a lost art, but it was one even their ancestors had gladly abandoned in favor of using glass beads. “Not Mom—”

“Nope. He is. Says he’ll just have to put on a dress and do it himself.” That was the perennial joke; when her father wanted something particularly difficult done for his costume, and her mother swore she didn’t have the time or inclination, her father then said he’d have to “put on a dress to do women’s work.”

“He isn’t really going to do it this time, is he?” she asked, giggling. “Remember the time he got as far as Mom’s closet?”