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the old woman who had known him so well, had spent every day in his house, had loved him like a son.
    “Oh, Vicky.” Elena pulled back and swiped at her eyes with a thick wad of tissues. “He was a good man. He didn’t deserve to die out in the road like a dog.”
    “Where is he?” Vicky heard her own voice, distant and disembodied against the sounds of grandmothers coming through the door, the hushed conversations in the living room, and people shuffling through the hall to the kitchen.
    Elena nodded toward the closed door on the other side of the entry. “You’ll wanna go in the study,” she said. “Chief Banner and that fed, what’s his name, Ted Gianelli, are gonna want to see you.”
    Vicky gave the door a soft knock before pushing it open. As she stepped inside, the room seemed to fall away: the desk with papers and books tumbling over the surface and the Bureau of Indian Affairs police chief perched at one corner; the bookcases stuffed with books and folders; the pair of blue wingback chairs with the FBI agent sitting in one, a polished black bootswinging into space. She shut the door and leaned back, holding on to the knob to keep from sliding to the floor, her eyes locked on the man across the room, the light from the lamp shining in his reddish-blond hair. John O’Malley.

4
    F ather John crossed the study and grabbed Vicky by the shoulders, fearing she would crumble to the floor. She was in shock. He knew the signs from too many trips to emergency rooms: face leached of color, eyes shiny with pain.
    She stepped into his arms and buried her face against his chest. He was dimly aware of Gianelli and Banner on their feet beside them as he ran one hand over the silk of her hair, the curve of her head, his own breath mingling with the smell of her—the faint smell of sage.
    “I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair, struck by the inadequacy of the words. He led her over to the nearest wingback and eased her down onto the cushion.
    “I’ll get some water.” Banner’s voice sounded behind them, followed by the click of the door opening, closing.
    Father John perched on the armrest, one hand on Vicky’s shoulder, aware of the rapid pace of her breathing—in-out, in-out. He was stunned by her grief. He’d had no idea she was close to Father Joseph. She must have known the priest when he was herebefore. She couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old, a second-grader in the mission school. But her family might have adopted the young priest. It often happened. An Arapaho family taking pity on a man stationed far from his own people, inviting him to dinner and birthday parties, making him part of their family. There was so much he didn’t know about her, he thought, a lifetime of people she had loved.
    The door creaked open. At the periphery of his vision, Father John saw the bulky frame of the police chief: the dark blue uniform trousers and dark blue shirt, the outstretched hand holding a glass of water. Vicky took the glass and raised it slowly to her lips. Banner stepped back toward the agent, who stood at the side of the desk, both hands stuffed into the pockets of his suit pants, red tie hanging limply down the center of his starched white shirt. The other men were like him, Father John thought, helpless at the sight of grief.
    Vicky tilted her head and looked up at him with an intensity that brought the warmth into his face. She said, “I thought it was you.”
    The words hit him like the sting of buckshot. He got to his feet and walked back to the window. Outside a band of light lingered over the mountains, and faint streaks of yellow and red traced the dark sky. He tried to steady himself, regain his equilibrium. The pain and grief he’d seen in her eyes were for him! He had never imagined, never intended . . . 
I have done this all wrong
, he thought. They could be friends, that was all. He knew his own weaknesses. He had never wanted to snare anyone else in them, and the