on the moccasin telegraph,” he said, shaking his head. “‘’Twas strange, ’twas passing strange.’”
“Not if somebody wanted the mission sold before the people found out about it,” Father John said.
“The question then appears to be what do you intend to do about it, my boy?” The old man eyed him fromthe center of the office, a teacher expecting the right answer.
Father John was turning over the options in his mind. After a moment he said, “I intend to make the acquaintance of Eden Lightfoot, the new economic development officer on the reservation. Obviously he supports this, or the Arapaho business council wouldn’t consider it. I’ll have to try to change his mind.”
But first he intended to talk to Vicky Holden. If anyone had heard about St. Francis Mission being sold, it would be the Arapaho attorney. She had the pulse of the reservation. He pulled the phone toward him and punched in her number. He knew it by heart.
7
V icky Holden aimed the Bronco through the silent streets of the Lander neighborhood she had called home the past three years. The headlights picked out the cars and pickups parked at the curbs and turned the snow-packed streets the pale yellow color of butter.
She turned into the driveway of the brick bungalow she rented, her mind on the divorce agreement she’d hammered out this afternoon with the attorney representing her client’s husband. She hadn’t gotten everything Mary Featherly wanted or deserved, but sometimes the best possible agreement had to be good enough. She intended to look it over again tonight. And there were three or four phone calls she still had to return.
One from John O’Malley. Probably about this morning’s article in the
Gazette.
She exhaled slowly into the quiet. The only time the pastor at St. Francis Mission called was when there was some kind of trouble. She would call him first, she decided, then scramble some eggs for dinner before getting to the rest of the work in her briefcase.
Darkness settled over the Bronco the instant she flipped off the headlights. She grabbed the briefcase and floppy black leather bag off the seat and stepped outside. Rather than walking up the sidewalk, which shehad shoveled early this morning, she crossed the yard, watching the clouds of snow rise and scatter in her footsteps. Walking through snow always took her back to the times she and her brothers and sisters—cousins in the white world—had romped in the snow until they turned numb with cold and then had jostled one another around the stove in Grandmother’s kitchen, giggling and laughing themselves warm. Snow made the earth fresh and new.
Just as she stepped onto the wooden porch, she heard the footsteps. She whirled about. A large shadowy figure came up the sidewalk. She was fully aware of her surroundings as if everything had been caught in a freeze frame: light filtering through the darkness from the houses across the street; shadows of cars and trucks at the curb; the porch light on next door; the muffled sounds of a TV. Would the neighbors hear if she screamed?
“Who are you?”
The man in a cowboy hat and sheepskin coat stopped at the edge of the porch. “Ben.”
She leaned back, aware of the doorjamb against her spine, her heart catapulting in her chest. Her ex-husband, dropped from the sky, out of nowhere, out of the past. “You scared me,” she said.
“I’m sorry.” Ben placed one boot on the porch, but made no move to come up.
“Why are you here?”
“We’ve got to talk.” He still didn’t move. “I could use a cup of coffee. I’ve been waiting in the truck two hours.” He nodded toward the street, and she felt a wave of anger at herself as her eyes followed. She had driven by the truck, but she’d been so preoccupied with her own thoughts she hadn’t noticed anyone in it. She’dlived in the white world for almost eleven years, yet she still didn’t have the hang of it—watch your back, stay alert.
“Just say what
“Not if somebody wanted the mission sold before the people found out about it,” Father John said.
“The question then appears to be what do you intend to do about it, my boy?” The old man eyed him fromthe center of the office, a teacher expecting the right answer.
Father John was turning over the options in his mind. After a moment he said, “I intend to make the acquaintance of Eden Lightfoot, the new economic development officer on the reservation. Obviously he supports this, or the Arapaho business council wouldn’t consider it. I’ll have to try to change his mind.”
But first he intended to talk to Vicky Holden. If anyone had heard about St. Francis Mission being sold, it would be the Arapaho attorney. She had the pulse of the reservation. He pulled the phone toward him and punched in her number. He knew it by heart.
7
V icky Holden aimed the Bronco through the silent streets of the Lander neighborhood she had called home the past three years. The headlights picked out the cars and pickups parked at the curbs and turned the snow-packed streets the pale yellow color of butter.
She turned into the driveway of the brick bungalow she rented, her mind on the divorce agreement she’d hammered out this afternoon with the attorney representing her client’s husband. She hadn’t gotten everything Mary Featherly wanted or deserved, but sometimes the best possible agreement had to be good enough. She intended to look it over again tonight. And there were three or four phone calls she still had to return.
One from John O’Malley. Probably about this morning’s article in the
Gazette.
She exhaled slowly into the quiet. The only time the pastor at St. Francis Mission called was when there was some kind of trouble. She would call him first, she decided, then scramble some eggs for dinner before getting to the rest of the work in her briefcase.
Darkness settled over the Bronco the instant she flipped off the headlights. She grabbed the briefcase and floppy black leather bag off the seat and stepped outside. Rather than walking up the sidewalk, which shehad shoveled early this morning, she crossed the yard, watching the clouds of snow rise and scatter in her footsteps. Walking through snow always took her back to the times she and her brothers and sisters—cousins in the white world—had romped in the snow until they turned numb with cold and then had jostled one another around the stove in Grandmother’s kitchen, giggling and laughing themselves warm. Snow made the earth fresh and new.
Just as she stepped onto the wooden porch, she heard the footsteps. She whirled about. A large shadowy figure came up the sidewalk. She was fully aware of her surroundings as if everything had been caught in a freeze frame: light filtering through the darkness from the houses across the street; shadows of cars and trucks at the curb; the porch light on next door; the muffled sounds of a TV. Would the neighbors hear if she screamed?
“Who are you?”
The man in a cowboy hat and sheepskin coat stopped at the edge of the porch. “Ben.”
She leaned back, aware of the doorjamb against her spine, her heart catapulting in her chest. Her ex-husband, dropped from the sky, out of nowhere, out of the past. “You scared me,” she said.
“I’m sorry.” Ben placed one boot on the porch, but made no move to come up.
“Why are you here?”
“We’ve got to talk.” He still didn’t move. “I could use a cup of coffee. I’ve been waiting in the truck two hours.” He nodded toward the street, and she felt a wave of anger at herself as her eyes followed. She had driven by the truck, but she’d been so preoccupied with her own thoughts she hadn’t noticed anyone in it. She’dlived in the white world for almost eleven years, yet she still didn’t have the hang of it—watch your back, stay alert.
“Just say what
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