The Story Teller Read Online Free PDF

worried because he doesn’t answer his phone?” A picture was forming in her mind: a handsome young Arapaho man in the big city, where the temptations were mighty. Todd may have a fiancée on the reservation, but other young women, beautiful and available, were in Denver.
    “It’s not what you think,” Annemarie said, fear and impatience in her expression. “We’re getting married in September. This isn’t about us. When he was here last Saturday—”
    “He was here last Saturday?” Vicky heard the sharpness in her tone. Turning abruptly, she walked to the Bronco parked at the curb. She was losing precious time. She’d probably get a speeding ticket on the way to the airport, might even miss her plane, all because she had given Annemarie her attention, when she should have backed up Laola, whose instincts, on this occasion, were better than her own. She flung open the door and slid onto the burning seat.
    Annemarie held the door and leaned down. “Todd was stressed-out. I mean, he’s supposed to be finishing up his thesis, but he drives up here. Didn’t call or anything. Just shows up Saturday night.” She stopped, drew in a shuddering breath. “He said he couldn’t stay,that he had to get back to Denver, that something was going on.”
    “Did he say what it was?” Vicky jammed the key into the ignition and gave it a quick turn. The engine growled into life.
    “He wouldn’t tell me.” Her voice was a whine. “He said I didn’t want to know, and if anybody asked, I was to say I didn’t know anything. He said it could be dangerous.”
    Drawing in a long breath, Vicky shifted in the seat and gave the young woman her full attention. “You haven’t talked to him since?” It was a statement, not a question.
    Annemarie ran her fingers under her eyes and looked away. Bringing her eyes back, she said, “I don’t know if he got back to Denver okay.”
    “If he was in some kind of trouble, why did he come here?” Vicky asked.
    “To see Father John over at the mission,” Annemarie said, as if it were obvious.
    Vicky heard the catch in her breath at the mention of the pastor at St. Francis Mission. She glanced away: the wide stretch of Main Street, the cars and trucks lumbering by. How many cases she and John O’Malley had worked on together: getting some kid out of jail, helping somebody through a divorce, a funeral. She was the lawyer; he, the counselor. A good team. She had never met a man like him—sure and strong. In the last three years she had grown to care about him more than she had wanted, more than she could acknowledge, more than was possible. He was a priest. He had obligations and vows, which he meant to honor. A month ago he had left St. Francis Mission.
    The news had flashed across the moccasin telegraph in tones of abandonment—as if he had abandoned the people. And the search for an explanation had begun. The emergency calls from dying parishioners, the constantstream of troubles. Who called a priest except someone in trouble? The chronic lack of funds, the worry, the sadness. It was too much for one man. And through all the explanations, guilt had nagged at her, a constant companion; she knew why he had left. She had allowed her feelings to drive him away.
    She tried to concentrate on what the young woman was saying, something about Father John not being back from Boston yet. Yet. The word jolted her and made her acutely aware of the space she was occupying, the heat enveloping the car, the sun slanting through the windshield. She had never expected to see him again.
    Trying to ignore the jumble of feelings, she glanced up at the young woman. Tears were welling in Annemarie’s eyes. “Did you call Todd’s grandparents?” Vicky asked. Doyal and Mary Harris had lived in Denver as long as she could remember.
    Annemarie shook her head. “They’re old. I didn’t want to worry them.”
    Vicky understood. It was a sign of respect not to worry old people. She pulled a small pad and