The Spirit Woman Page 8

  “The medal would suffice.” Laura forced a lightness into her tone. Careful, she thought. She’d already said too much. If Robert Crow Wolf had any idea that the evidence was Sacajawea’s memoirs, he would find them himself and publish them first. She said, “I’m completing the biography that another historian, Charlotte Allen, started. I’ve edited the manuscript and I’ve been rechecking the sources she listed in the journal she kept while she was on the reservation.”

  “You don’t say.” The Indian let his gaze roam over the stacks of papers arranged on the table, as if one of them might be the manuscript. A look of disappointment came into the black eyes. “This Charlotte Allen”—the name rolled slowly off his tongue, as if he were trying to place it with a face—“gave you her work?”

  “Her mother asked me to complete the biography,” Laura said. “Charlotte disappeared twenty years ago while she was hiking near Sacajawea Ridge. Perhaps you met her?”

  “Twenty years ago I was in grad school in Berkeley.” He glanced around at the director, and Laura realized the woman had materialized from the archives and was standing at the table behind them, a large cardboard box in her arms. “You meet a historian named Charlotte Allen about twenty years ago?”

  A pink blush came into the woman’s cheeks, like that of a schoolgirl who’d found herself under the scrutiny of the most popular boy in the class. Phyllis bumped against the table and lowered the box. AGRICULTURAL FILES was printed on the side. “I’m afraid that was before my time.” She shivered and threw a glance at the window and the light slipping into grayness beyond. “Imagine getting lost in the mountains in the winter.”

  “Happens all the time.” Robert Crow Wolf turned back to Laura. “How can I help a fellow historian?”

  Laura felt herself beginning to relax. The man had his own projects; she was being silly to think he would want to take hers. “Would you happen to know someone named Toussaint?” she asked.

  The Indian’s eyes went to the window a moment, then he turned in his chair and faced the director. “Phyllis, see if you can get old Willie Silver on the phone.”

  “He must be related to James Silver,” Laura said in a voice thin with excitement. Charlotte had interviewed James Silver.

  “One and only son of,” Crow Wolf said.

  As the director started for the desk, he brought his gaze back to Laura. She felt a stab of pleasure at the acute masculine power in the man’s black eyes. “Old Willie might be able to help you out,” he said. “He’s a proud descendant of Toussaint and Sacajawea.” There was a faint tap-tap noise as the director dialed the number.

  “I envy you, you know,” Robert Crow Wolf went on. “Researching a mystery like Sacajawea, and I’m stuck with delivering a paper next month on how the Indians took to farming.”

  “Willie’s on the line.” Phyllis held up the phone, stretching the knotted cord over the desk.

  Crow Wolf got up, took the receiver, and sat on the edge of the desk. “Willie, old boy. How the hell are you?” There was a half second of silence. Crow Wolf rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Finally he said, “Got a nice lady here wants to talk to you. Teacher down in Colorado writing a book about your famous ancestor.” Another silence. “No, not Jim Bridger. Since when you related to that old trader? The lady here wants to talk to you about Toussaint. You gonna be around tomorrow? Earlier the better? Got ya, old boy.”

  Crow Wolf replaced the receiver. Leaning back onto the desk, he found a Post-it pad and a pen among the stacks of stapled pages and began writing something down. Then he tore off the top page and, handing it to Laura, said, “Here’s the directions to Willie’s ranch up on Sacajawea Ridge. I suggest you get out there before noon, while he’s still sober.” He tapped the pen against the tiny pad. “You’ve got me interested in this project of yours, Laura. I’ll see if I can convince some of the other elders that you’re an honest white woman and they oughta talk to you. Where you staying?”

  She gave him the address of the Mountain House. She had the distinct feeling that her luck was about to change.

  Laura worked through the rest of the afternoon, reading the oral histories again, story after story told by an old woman about the scarcity of food when the expedition crossed the Rocky Mountains; the roots she had dug to help feed the soldiers; the rough waters that had tossed the boats about at the mouth of the Columbia; and the fish that had washed out of the ocean which was, she said, as long as from the door of her log cabin to the hitching rack outside. Laura studied each story, searching for some clue, some small piece of information that could have sent Charlotte Allen to the man she’d called Toussaint. At one point she realized that Robert Crow Wolf had left, and she and the director were alone. Darkness was lapping at the window.

  She returned the oral histories to the carton, then gathered up her notepad and bag and slipped into her coat. She thanked the director on the way out.

  Highway 287 shone white in the headlights ahead as Laura drove south across the reservation. Except for the few stars twinkling overhead and the smudge of moonlight, the sky was black. After several miles, the lights of Lander flashed on the horizon. Another couple of miles and the neon lights of convenience stores and gas stations were passing outside her window. She turned into a fast-food drive-in and ordered a hamburger, then continued east into a neighborhood of houses from another era, a quieter, less stressful time, she thought. At a white Victorian on the corner, she slowed into the driveway and parked next to the garage in back. Clinging to the brick wall was an outside stairway that led to the rooms perched above, like an afterthought.

  Tense with cold, she hurried up the stairs, holding the hamburger bag in one hand, fumbling in her purse for the key with the other. Her fingers curled around the cold metal, and she jammed the key into the lock and pushed open the door.

  The instant she found the switch, the light from a faux Tiffany fixture flooded the round table near the window. Charlotte Allen’s manuscript sat in a neat stack, just as she had left it. In the shadows beyond the table stood an upholstered chair and a dresser with a television perched on top. Most of the room was taken up by a double bed, the flowered comforter trailing onto the worn green carpet. Against the far wall, next to the door that led to the bathroom, was a closet-sized kitchen.

  She dropped the hamburger on the table and tossed her coat and purse onto the bed. After she’d retrieved a soda from the miniature refrigerator, she turned on the TV and sat down at the table, angling the chair so that she had a straight view of the nightly news. A feeling of sadness hit her like a blast of cold air as she opened the bag and took a bite of the hamburger. Was this the way it would be? She, always alone?

  She forced herself to concentrate on what the beautiful blond newscaster, cloned from a hundred others, was saying. The FBI was close to an identity of the skeleton found last week near St. Francis Mission on the Wind River Reservation. According to a spokesman, the skeleton was not ancient, as was originally suggested by tribal elders. Lab reports confirmed that the skeleton was a Caucasian female around thirty years old who was buried about twenty years ago. The death had been ruled a homicide.

  Laura set the hamburger down, staring at the screen, all of her senses on alert. A familiar feeling washed over her—the feeling that often came when she was doing research and had picked up strands of information that suddenly came together. Charlotte Allen was in her early thirties; she’d disappeared twenty years ago. Could it possibly be?

  She shrugged the notion away. Charlotte had disappeared in the mountains, miles from St. Francis Mission. It couldn’t be Charlotte.

  Laura was about to take another bite of the lukewarm meat when the footsteps sounded on the stairs—a slow, steady ascent. She sat motionless, wondering if the sound came from the television. There was a loud, firm knocking. She mentally ticked off the people who knew she was here. Only a few. She wasn’t expecting any of them.

  The knocking came again, impatient now, crashing over the television noise. Laura got to h
er feet and pushed back the flimsy white curtain at the window. On the stairway landing was the large, shadowy figure of a man.

  She stepped over to the door and slid the chain into the channel. Leaning into the tiny crack at the frame, she called, “Who’s there? What do you want?”

  12

  “Let me in, sweetheart.” The voice came like a painful memory floating uninvited into her consciousness. “I’m turning into the iceman out here.”

  Laura slid the chain free. Her hand trembled. Her legs felt weak and unattached as she opened the door and watched Toby Becker stride in, boots stomping the carpet, shoulders rolling, so that tiny snow crystals flew into her face like sand blowing in the wind. He had on blue jeans and the bulky red ski jacket he always wore to campus on cold days. The tips of his brown curly hair fanned over the thick collar as if it were a pillow.

  “How did you find me?” she managed. She knew the answer. She’d told the department chair where she was staying.

  “Did you really think you could get away from me?” Toby threw her the indulgent smile that he bestowed whenever she’d disappointed him. She knew his face by heart: the hint of amusement behind the dark eyes, the flare of nostrils in the long, perfectly shaped nose, the way his mouth began to move before he spoke.

  “Just like you, Laura, to land in a place like this. Efficient and cheap.” His gaze flitted from the shabby bedspread to the dresser and television with a formation of airplanes floating across the screen. The announcer’s voice droned above the roar of engines. He took off the ski jacket and threw it onto the bed next to her coat. His muscles rippled through the fabric of his navy-blue shirt, and a wisp of brown hair poked into the V of his opened collar.

  “Hardly worthy of you, sweetheart,” he said. “You deserve a penthouse overlooking Central Park, roses in the foyer, a roaring fire in the fireplace, and champagne chilled on a marble table. You deserve the world, Laura. You’re beautiful.”

  Laura braced herself against the door. “Why are you here, Toby?”

  “I’m dying without you, sweetheart.” As he started toward her she slid along the door, wincing as the knob dug into her spine. He stopped. “Can you try to imagine for one moment, one moment, Laura, how miserable I’ve been? I’ve lost my appetite, can’t sleep. I’m an automaton up there in front of my classes, mouthing words. I don’t even know what I’m teaching.”

  He wagged a finger at her, as if she were a student who’d missed the main point of a lecture. “I haven’t been able to write, Laura. Not one word on my new novel. I thought you understood it’s my most important work yet.” The finger moving, moving. “You’re responsible.”

  Laura fought against the impulse to apologize, assure him that he was a great writer. He must finish the novel. The role she usually played in a scene they had enacted—how many times in the last year?

  She stepped past him and clicked off the television. In the mirror she caught his image, hands dangling helplessly at his sides. If he touched her, she feared she would be lost. “It was always about you, Toby,” she managed.

  “It’s about us. We belong together, Laura. You’re the sun in my sky, the air I breathe. I need you. Give me another chance. Give us another chance.”

  Laura turned slowly. “I gave us enough chances.”

  “It’ll be different this time.” Light reflecting through the faux Tiffany shade gave his face the soft, languorous look she’d seen when she’d turned to him in the middle of the night. “I’m seeing a therapist,” he said. “I’ve had some real breakthroughs. I understand where the rage comes from. Mother, the enabler, and Dad, that SOB. Don’t you see? I’ve simply displaced the rage onto you. Now that I understand, I’ll be able to control it.”

  Suddenly he dropped to his knees. “Please, Laura.”

  “What are you doing?” She had to stifle a laugh. He looked like a clown, walking toward her on his knees.

  “Begging you, Laura. Come back to me.” He wrapped his arms around her legs and started to lift her into the air. “I adore you. I need you.”

  “Stop it, Toby.” She pushed at his head. The thick softness of his hair flowed through her fingers; his breath was warm against her thigh. She jerked herself free.

  “We’ll stay together, you and I.” He was still on his knees. “Walk to classes, write, make dinner, go to bed. You and I, Laura, just like before.”

  “It’s over between us, Toby.” Laura could hear the waviness in her voice. Her breath burned in her chest. “I’m going on with my life and my own work. I have a meeting tomorrow with a man who may be able to get me the critical evidence I need. I intend to finish the biography”—she shot a glance at the manuscript on the table—“and get tenure next year.”

  “Oh, yes. Pocahontas.” He gave a snort that flared out his nostrils.

  “Sacajawea.”

  “Yes, yes, I meant Sacajawea.” He shrugged. “You can work on the biography while I write my novel.”

  “We tried that. Somehow, my time was spent making it possible for you to write.” She stopped herself from saying, And entertaining your friends, typing your notes, typing your endless drafts.

  “Surely you don’t mean the biography takes precedence over our being together.” He lifted his hand and gave a dismissive wave toward the manuscript.

  “Please leave, Toby.” She stepped past him and opened the door.

  He got to his feet, his eyes hard on hers now, as if he were trying to decipher the meaning of his dismissal. Then he grabbed the jacket from the bed. “You think I don’t have anything better to do than drive all the way up here to see you?” His tone rose to an angry pitch. “I should be working on my novel, not groveling to some ungrateful bit—” He tightened his lips over the word. Still keeping his gaze on her, he walked past and out the door.

  As he started down the steps he turned back. “You’re still my woman, Laura, and you know it. I’m not going away. I’ll be here as long as it takes for you to come to your senses.”

  Laura felt shaky, slightly nauseated, when she crawled into bed. She’d watched the black BMW back out of the driveway and dart out of sight past the Victorian, weak with a sense of emptiness. People could change. Vicky had taken her ex-husband back after all these years, and Toby was seeing a therapist. He’d driven all the way to Wyoming to beg for another chance. He was filled with remorse. What more could she ask?

  She snatched pieces of sleep from the night, floating through a jumble of dreams. She was treading through a mountain wilderness, snow blowing through the ponderosas, the dark-haired woman walking ahead, always ahead. Suddenly the woman stopped and turned back. Who are you to come for my story?

  Laura sat up in bed, her heart banging hard. She felt cold with perspiration. What was she doing here? So far from home and her own life—a life she could share with Toby. Chasing after a phantom, a spirit. After all, it was another scholar who had discovered the memoirs.

  But that scholar was dead, she told herself, and the biography was hers to finish. She would be the one who would first publish the memoirs. Her reputation would be firmly established. Everything was going just as she’d hoped. She was making contacts on the reservation, and sooner or later she’d find Toussaint.

  Laura settled back against the rough sheets. From outside came the sounds of voices and car doors slamming. She tried to ignore the fear moving like a shadow at the edge of her consciousness. Toby was gone now. Everything would be fine.

  He would be back. She couldn’t get the nagging voice out of her head. He knew where she was staying.

  13

  Laura sped through the northern reaches of the reservation, gobbling up the miles, the foothills flashing by outside her window. The sun angled overhead, compressed between puffs of clouds. At the junction of 287 and 26, she veered west, closing in on the mountains. She felt as if she were floating in space, Toby part of the unsettling dreams, nearly forgotten in the bright morning light. He had left, she kept reminding herself. Surely it would be final no
w, the breakup. Surely he’d go back to Boulder and forget about her.

  Ahead on the left was a wide dirt road, just as Robert Crow Wolf’s directions indicated. She swung onto the road and started climbing around the mountain slope, the ponderosa branches dancing in the wind outside her window. As she came around a curve she saw the gray ranch house, the sloping roof outlined against the sky. She turned through the opened gate of a barbed-wire fence and stopped near the front stoop.

  As she lifted herself out a large, round-shouldered man in blue jeans and fringed brown leather jacket came around the corner of the house. Somewhere in his sixties, she guessed, with a reddish complexion and tufts of gray hair that dropped beneath the rim of a black cowboy hat.

  “Hello,” she called. The wind brought her words back to her. “I’m looking for Willie Silver.”

  He came forward, milky dark eyes taking her in. “You must be that professor lady Crow Wolf called about.”

  “Laura Simmons.” She thrust out her hand and went to meet him. A gust whipped the front of her coat back and sent a chill running through her.

  “Come on in,” he said, shaking her hand. She flinched at the tightness of his grip. He ushered her to the front door and into a narrow living room with a sofa, a couple of chairs, and a table scattered about, as if they’d been dropped from overhead. Newspapers, food-crusted plates, and beer cans toppled over the tops and trailed onto the floor.

  “Excuse the mess,” the man said. “My woman took it into her head to go off somewhere a week ago.” He cleared a stack of newspapers from an upholstered chair, the cushion stained and ragged at the edges. “She’ll be back. They always come back. Have a seat.”