The Spirit Woman by Margaret Coel Read Free Book Online Page A

“Were you born on the reservation?” he said to the woman’s back.
    The housekeeper turned and looked at Father John. “I expect so,” she said tentatively. It was impolite to ask personal questions.
    â€œWonderful.” Father Kevin gave a series of nods, as if he’d just confirmed an unexpected gift. “A primary source right here under the roof. I’ll want to learn all about your life. Everything you can remember. And don’t worry. This house is much too large for you to take care of alone.” His gaze took in the kitchen and the hallway. “First thing I’m going to do is hire someone to help you.”
    He pushed back from the table and announced that he intended to unpack his boxes, make sure the tape recorder and computer had arrived in good condition. Then he was going to stroll about the mission. “Might as well get familiar with my domain,” he said, a glint of mischief in his eyes.
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    â€œWhat’s he talking about?” Elena plopped down in the vacant chair. The sounds of the other priest’s footsteps on the stairs echoed down the hallway.
    â€œHe’ll probably make some changes,” Father John said. “He’s the new pastor.” The words sounded strange, unreal, like a new phrase interjected into an old melody. He wished he disliked the man: it would be easier. But he didn’t dislike Kevin McBride. There was something infectious about the man’s energy and enthusiasm. He’d have to learn the ways of the Arapaho, but they would teach him, just as they’d taught him. The new pastor was going to work out just fine. Father John felt as if a stone had been laid on his heart. Not my will. Thy will be done.
    â€œI don’t want no help around here.” Elena shoved Kevin’s plate and mug to one side. “I don’t want nobody messin’ in my kitchen and gettin’ the laundry all tangled up. I do just fine by myself, thank you very much. The house looks good, don’t it?” A rising note of panic had come into her voice.
    Father John drained the last of his coffee and got to his feet. He leaned over and patted the woman’s shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Father Kevin hasn’t seen the accounts yet. He won’t be hiring anybody else.”
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    In his study, Father John punched in the telephone number for the local FBI office in Lander. An answering machine came on the line, and he hung up. Gianelli was probably still at lunch. He decided to drive over and catch the agent as soon as he got back to the office.

6
    F ather John parked in front of the two-story, red-brick building that rose into the snow swirling over Lander’s main street. He switched off the tape player and hummed “Ch’ella mi creda” as he jaywalked across the street, dodging a truck. He opened the metal-framed glass door, nearly colliding with Ted Gianelli.
    â€œI was just on my way upstairs to call you.” The agent waved a slim folder. Dressed in dark slacks, starched white shirt, and paisley tie, he might have been an insurance salesman or a realtor, except for the black harness that held a holstered revolver next to his ribs. He stood just under six feet, with thick black hair, intense eyes accustomed to tracking whatever was going on around him, and the relaxed yet alert stance of the outside linebacker he’d once been with the Patriots.
    â€œLet’s go to the office,” he said, starting up the stairs braced against the wall on the left. Father John followed. A familiar melody, “O mio bambino caro,” drifted through the open door off the second-floor hallway. Waving the folder like a baton, Gianelli conducted the music as they walked down the hall and into the cube-shaped office. A stereo cabinet took up most of one wall. Still conducting, he dropped into the chair behind the oblong desk and pointed a remote at the cabinet. The aria faded into