Read Online The Spirit Woman by Margaret Coel - Free Book Online Page B

hint of reluctance in the motion, he thought. And then he thought he was only imagining it because he didn’t want their time together to end. He didn’t want her to leave.
    â€œWill you talk to Alva before you leave?” she asked. He had to readjust his thoughts to bring the reality into focus. He was the one leaving. “You are going away, aren’t you?”
    â€œSo they tell me,” he said, a steady, matter-of-fact tone. He had to look away from the regret in her eyes. It was good he was going, he told himself. It would be good to teach and study again, to fill his mind with other things, he told himself.
    â€œWhen do you leave?”
    He brought his gaze back to hers. “Next Tuesday. The new pastor has already arrived.”
    â€œYou mean the Harley?” The hint of amusement flashed in Vicky’s eyes.
    â€œThe Harley,” he said.
    She glanced away. “So that’s it, then.”
    Her words gave him a sense of uneasiness. Had she been holding on to some vague hope that things might be different? He dismissed the notion. She was back with Ben. “My boss has decreed it so.” He got up and walked her across the office and into the corridor. Then he remembered she’d parked in front of the museum. “I’ll walk you to the Bronco,” he said, turning back for his jacket.
    â€œNo,” she called after him, her tone almost cheerful. “I can find my way.” The sound of the door opening and closing reverberated through the thick walls.
    He stepped over to the window. She was hurrying along Circle Drive, a slim figure in black, a shadow moving through the snow. He sat back at the desk and dialed Howard Elkman’s number.
    â€œHello?” The gravelly voice on the other end.
    He told the elder about the report on the skeleton.
    â€œYou sure the fed’s telling the truth?” Howard asked.
    Father John said he was sure.
    There was a long pause, then: “I’ll tell the other boys.”
    Father John had just hung up when the phone started ringing.
    â€œFather O’Malley,” he said into the receiver.
    â€œOkay, Detective O’Malley. What do you know about the identity of the bones?” It was Gianelli.

9
    T he odor of seared meat and the sound of grease popping against metal filled the living room. Vicky closed the front door, tossed her briefcase on the sofa, and shrugged out of her coat, which she laid next to the briefcase. In the kitchen, she found Ben at the stove, a fork poised over two bloodred steaks in the frying pan. He gave her a sideways glance. “Dinner’s about to be served,” he said.
    Vicky stood motionless at the counter that divided the kitchen from the small dining alcove. The scene was surreal, nonsensical— ho:ho:ke: —like a crazy dream where none of the fragments fit together. Ben Holden in the denim shirt and blue jeans and cowboy boots he wore on the Arapaho ranch, descended from warriors and Arapaho chiefs—this was the man standing in her kitchen cooking dinner. “I don’t believe my eyes,” she said.
    Ben flipped the steaks before setting the fork on the counter and slipping an arm around her waist. He pulled her toward him. “Told you if you came back to me, I’d make dinner for you.” He leaned over and kissed her neck, her cheeks, and finally her lips. His mouth was soft on hers, and she found herself struggling against the familiar rush of warmth and the urge to melt into his touch that burst through all bounds of reason, of what was sensible and orderly and right, and left her not knowing who she was or what she wanted.
    She ignored the questions in his eyes as she stepped back, freeing herself. She said, “I’ve brought some work home to finish tonight.”
    Ben turned back to the steaks, disappointment outlined in the hunch of his shoulders beneath the denim shirt. “Lawyers have to eat like everybody else, don’t