Wife of Moon by Margaret Coel Read Free Book Online

last night. She’s dead, Vicky.”
    Vicky lifted herself to her feet. She’d known Denise and T.J. all her life. She and T.J. had been in the same class at St. FrancisSchool. Denise was a few years behind, but after she and T.J. were married, they’d been like family. They knew why she’d had to leave Ben. They’d understood, even though she’d never put it into words. One summer, at a powwow, T.J. had pulled her aside and, the tip of his finger tracing the bruise on her cheek, said, “How long you going to put up with it, Vicky?” It had helped her find the strength to leave.
    And it was T.J., she was certain, who had tried to get the business council to hire her to file a request with the BIA for a new environmental impact study on the proposed methane drilling. Afterward, when the Gazette had reported that a firm in Cheyenne would be advising the tribe, T.J. had called. “Damn it, Vicky.” He spat the words down the line. “You were best for the job. The council has gotta start trusting our own people. So what if you’re a woman?”
    â€œWhere’s T.J.?” Vicky was at the coat tree, pulling on her coat, barely aware of having walked across the office.
    â€œOver at Vera’s. He’s been calling all morning.”
    â€œBetter reschedule today’s appointments,” Vicky said, scooping her bag off the desk and starting back across the office.
    â€œWant me to call T.J. and tell him you’re on the way?”
    â€œHe knows I’ll come.” Vicky pulled the front door shut behind her.
    Â 
    FROST TRACED THE reservation, like white moss clinging to the brown prairie and outlining the stalks of wild grass and clumps of brush that flamed gold and vermillion in the October sun as far as Vicky could see. The wind had picked up, knocking at the sides of the Jeep and sending little clouds of dust swirling across Highway 287. She squinted against the glare of the sun on the windshield and tried to wrap her mind around the impossible.
    Impossible that Denise Painted Horse was dead! When was it that she’d run into Denise at the grocery store? Last week? Vicky had beenhurrying down the aisle, pulling items into her cart, when she’d heard a familiar voice calling her name. She glanced around and saw Denise coming at a run behind a half-filled cart.
    â€œI’ve been meaning to call you, Vicky.” Denise had thrown a nervous glance behind her. There was no one else in the aisle. “I have to talk to you.”
    â€œWhat is it?” Vicky had asked.
    â€œNot here.” Another glance along the aisle. “I’ll call you.”
    She’d never called.
    Vicky felt herself squinting now against the moisture welling behind her eyes. She should have called Denise. Why hadn’t she called? Chances were that Denise had some legal question. Something about her job at Fort Washakie School, or about one of the field days she was always planning for her students—her kids, she called them. They’d wanted a family, she and T.J., but it hadn’t worked out, Denise had once confided. T.J. had thrown his energies into politics, and she’d thrown her energies into her students and her passion for teaching them about the Old Time, so that they’d know their own history, she said, and be proud.
    Once—ah, Vicky could picture her at the powwow, watching the dancers coming into the arena—she said that she wished she’d lived in the Old Time, when Sharp Nose was chief, and the people lived free on the plains.
    â€œWhy?” Vicky remembered asking. “You’d like butchering buffalo? Traipsing across the plains looking for wild vegetables and berries? Cooking all the meals and looking after the children and putting up the tipis and taking them down when the village moved? The women did all the work and catered to the men.”
    â€œSo what’s different?” Denise had thrown her head back