Free Eye of the Wolf by Margaret Coel Page B

old-fashioned name and a silver ring in her pierced nostril, as if she’d found herself stranded in the twenty-first century and decided to acclimate herself.
    â€œAre you in some kind of trouble, Edie?” he asked, his thoughts already jumping ahead. A pregnant girl, alone, with no one to help her and no money. He could call the pastors at the churches in Riverton and Lander, get the names of families willing to take in a pregnant girl. He could put her in touch with an agency that would arrange for an adoption, if that was what she wanted.
    He realized she was starting to weep. She set her cup on the floor and began patting at the moisture on her cheeks with the back of one hand, and he got to his feet and pulled a tissue out of a box almost hidden in the clutter on his desk.
    â€œI can’t find my boyfriend,” she said finally.
    â€œWhen did you last see him?” He handed her the tissue and sat back down.
    â€œLast Friday when he left for work. He goes to work after we get out of class. We been going to Central Wyoming College.” She blotted her cheeks with the tissue, then began lacing it through her fingers. “Trent’s not like that. Just go off like that and not come home or callme or anything. Sometimes he has to work late, but he always calls me. That’s how he is. We’re really close. And he knows I get crazy with worry, with the baby coming. I get all scared if I don’t hear from him. That’s how I know something bad’s happened to him. He’s gotta be in some kind of trouble.”
    â€œHave you called his friends?” Father John began. Then he reeled off the rest of the logical sequence: Work? Family? There was a steadiness in logic, a way of plodding on that could keep fear at bay.
    She was nodding. Quick, spasmodic movements loosening a piece of the straw hair that fell over one eye. She pushed the hair back. “He showed up for work Friday night, ’cause I talked to his boss. But he didn’t go in on Saturday when he was supposed to get time and a half. Never showed up yesterday, either. All I know is, we went to class together Friday afternoon and everything was, you know, normal. Even if he was in trouble, no way was Trent gonna miss class. It’s all about the Indian wars, and he really got into it, you know what I mean? The teacher is a big history guru I never heard of before Trent convinced me I oughtta sign up for the class. Professor Lambert’s the name, and he’s written lots of books. Trent says nobody knows more about the Indian wars.”
    Charles Lambert, Father John was thinking. Author of the book he’d pulled out last evening. He had no idea that the man was teaching at the local college.
    The girl had realigned herself in the chair. She swallowed hard and went on, “I called a couple of guys from class that Trent likes to hang out with, but nobody was home. Trent wouldn’t just take off, Father,” she said, her eyes flitting about the room. “He really loves me. I mean . . .” Flitting. Flitting. “Me and the baby, we mean everything to him.”
    Father John was quiet. He wasn’t the one that she was trying to convince, he realized.
    â€œWhat did his family say?” he said.
    The girl took a moment, squeezing her eyes against the tears beadingat the corners. “I been calling and calling his folks, and the minute they hear my voice, they hang up. They don’t even wait for me to tell ’em that something bad’s happened to Trent. They told him, ‘Don’t ever bring that white trash on the rez, ’cause we don’t wanna see her.’ They don’t even know about the baby. God, if they knew!” She lifted one hand and started pulling at her hair. “I get so scared thinking about it, sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and I’m shaking and crying, like they’re gonna find some way to get my baby, maybe kill me,