The Spirit Woman by Margaret Coel

after so much time. So you see . . .”
    â€œShe’s not a top priority.” Father John finished the sentence.
    â€œI didn’t say that. She’s been dead a long time.”
    â€œI’m sure her family wants to know what happened to her.”
    â€œYou don’t have to tell me my job.” Gianelli glanced away, then brought his eyes back. “Look, I’ve got four daughters. You think I like the idea of a world where this could happen to one of them? I’m going to do my best to solve this, John, but it might not be enough.”
    Father John got to his feet. “I’ll let the elders know about the report. They’ll still want the woman to have a proper burial, even if she isn’t an ancestor or one of the people. Frankly, so do I. If you get the ID in the next ten days, give me a call.” He put on his cowboy hat and started for the door.
    â€œNext ten days? What’re you talking about?” Gianelli walked around the desk, blocking his way.
    â€œDoesn’t the moccasin telegraph reach Lander?”
    â€œYeah, all the time. I hear everything those Indians think I oughta know. If they don’t want me to know it, I don’t hear it. You going on vacation?”
    â€œI’m going to Marquette University to finish up a doctorate and teach history.” Father John had an odd sense that he was talking about someone else, someone he didn’t even know. “The new pastor’s already here.”
    â€œWhat?” Gianelli looked stunned, as if a tailback had just turned the corner on him. “They can’t send you away. The people need you here, John. I need you to run interference from time to time. You tell that to whoever’s in charge.”
    â€œThe provincial.”
    â€œYeah, you tell him.”
    â€œI’ve already mentioned it.” Father John walked around the man and opened the door. “It didn’t do any good,” he said as he stepped into the hallway.
    Â 
    The snow was heavier as Father John drove north through Lander. It clung to the asphalt unfurling ahead and blew through the branches of the ponderosas. He crossed the reservation under a steel-gray sky and turned into the mission. As he came around Circle Drive, he saw Vicky’s Bronco parked in front of the Arapaho Museum next to a blue SAAB that he didn’t recognize, but visitors were always dropping by the museum. He felt his spirits lift. It had been two months since he’d seen Vicky. She hadn’t called, and there had been no legitimate reason to call her. He parked next to the Bronco and hurried up the steps.

7
    A murmur of conversation drifted through the silence of the old school building, bouncing against the glass-fronted cases with Arapaho artifacts: painted parfleches, beaded moccasins, deerskin dresses, an Arapaho ledger book.
    He followed the voices down the corridor to the library in what had once been a classroom. Vicky was at one of the rectangular tables that had replaced the ink-hole desks. Across from her, huddling inside a white coat, a small, blond woman with the blanched complexion of someone who spent too much time under fluorescent lights. A large brown folder lay on the table in front of her. Standing by a stack of cartons next to the row of metal shelves was Lindy Meadows, the Arapaho woman Vicky had helped him talk into taking the job as museum curator.
    â€œJohn. We’ve been waiting for you.” Vicky glanced up. The slim brown hands were clasped on the table, fingers laced together. The ceiling light shone in her black hair, which fell loosely around the collar of her blue blouse. There was a faint blush in her cheeks, a hint of red in her lips. Her eyes narrowed with intensity the way they always did when she had something important on her mind. It surprised him. There was so little he had forgotten about her.
    â€œMy friend Laura Simmons.” A nod toward the blond woman across the table.