Wild Blood by Nancy A. Collins Read Free Book Online

children to Mother. Since Root Woman doesn’t technically live on the reservation, everyone involved turned a blind eye to what she was doing. Probably still do.”
    â€œYou mean she’s alive?”
    â€œOh my, yes! Root Woman probably delivers half the babies on the reservation, not to mention the Mexicans and other poor folk who live out in the mountains. I haven’t seen her since Mother’s funeral, but from what I hear she’s still in business.”
    â€œDo you think she might know who my birth mother is?”
    â€œIt’s possible. She’s a very old lady now, but she still has her wits about her. She was much like Mother in that regard. Funny, by my estimation she should be a hundred and thirty by now! Mother insisted Root Woman was a good twenty years older than she was, but I’m sure she was simply confusing Root Woman with her mother. There have been Root Women serving as midwives in this territory since before there were white folk. You see, it’s not just a name—it’s a job description. Root Woman—well, I’m a god-fearing Christian lady, but I’ll admit that she’s done a sight more with herbs and folk remedies than most doctors have with needles and pills.”
    â€œWhere can I find her?”
    â€œShe lives off Highway Eighty-Six, about three miles from the Papago reservation. Her shack’s a good half-mile or so down a dirt road. There’s a post with a bleached cow skull that has ribbons tied to it, so folks will know where to turn. You’re not honestly thinking of going out there, are you?”
    â€œYes, I am. Even if she doesn’t know who my mother is, maybe she can tell me whether I’m part Indian, Mexican or whatever. But in any case, I at least know where my parents got my name from.”
    â€œBeg pardon?”
    â€œI always thought ‘Skinner’ was an odd name for them to pick, y’know? All the other kids I grew up with had names like Carlton, Horace, and Jimbo—that kind of stuff. I remember asking Mama why they named me ‘Skinner’ and she said it was a family name. But there weren’t any Skinners on either side that I knew of. But now I realize they weren’t talking about their family, they were talking about mine,” he said, holding up the birth certificate. Typed in the space reserved for the child’s name was the word: Skinwalker.

Chapter Five
    It was mid-afternoon by the time Skinner hitched a ride to Root Woman’s home, perched on the tailgate of a rancher’s truck alongside a bale of hay and a wire cage containing a piglet. The driver, an old man dressed in filthy dungarees and a battered Stetson, had been unwilling to take on a passenger until Skinner mentioned the old midwife’s name and handed him a couple of dollars.
    By the time they reached the turn-off marked by the beribboned cow’s skull, Skinner’s butt was aching, he reeked of baby pig, and he was grateful for the cheap sunglasses he’d bought before leaving Tucson. As the truck came to something resembling a halt, the driver stuck his head out of the window and yelled that it was time for him to get out. Skinner hopped off, waving goodbye as the old man left him behind in a cloud of heat and dust.
    He hoisted his travel bag and trudged down the dirt road in the direction of Root Woman’s shack. He wasn’t sure how he was going to go about asking her about what she knew—and if she was as old as Miss Small suggested, it was possible she might not be able to remember anything anyway. She must have delivered hundreds of babies during her career. Why should she remember one particular birth out of the scores she had overseen?
    You’re thinking negative thoughts again, his inner voice chided. It was funny, but what he always considered his conscience sounded just like his dead father.
    He shouldn’t be so quick to assume the worst. Miss Small had remembered