Free The Lost Bird by Margaret Coel Page A

res. Whatever it was, a lot of people was sick with bad stomachaches, and a lot of new babies died.”
    The older woman gazed across the small living room, into the shadows. “Rayleen lost a boy. Lots of families lost babies, even though most of the women went to that fancy clinic in Lander ’cause they was so worried. That doctor that went off and got famous ran the clinic. You know, Jeremiah Markham.”
    Vicky nodded. It was a source of local pride that Jeremiah Markham, the baby doctor, had gotten his start in Lander. Was there a book rack in any store, any airport, that didn’t stock the books he’d written—
Let’s Deliver Healthy Babies
or
Your Infant’s Health
or
The First Weeks of Your Infant’s Life
? A new mother who didn’t keep a Markham book on her bed table? Only a few weeks ago she had seen Dr. Markham interviewed on television. A stately, grandfatherly man with wavy white hair and a commanding voice, exuding the wisdom and kindness that had made his books so popular. Markham had left Lander years ago, but the clinic he’d started was still open. She had met the director, Dr. Roland Grace, on several occasions.
    “With all that sickness goin’ around, people was in a panic,” Aunt Rose was saying. “Everybody wanted to make sure the pregnant women got the best care possible. So anybody had insurance went over to the Markham Clinic. There was some families didn’t haveinsurance, I remember. We took up a collection so they could go to the clinic and not have to stick with the Public Health Service doctors. We wanted to make sure they got real good care. That’s why I know, any girl got pregnant, the people did everything for her and that baby. No way did we let any babies go.”
    Vicky thanked the old woman. What Aunt Rose said had only confirmed what she knew, what she had told Sharon David. She let herself through the door with the usual good-byes, the promises to come again soon, the promises to take care of herself.
    “You promise to think about what I told you about Ben,” Aunt Rose said.
    Vicky gave her aunt a smile and pulled the door closed behind her. Then she hunched her shoulders against the wind as she made her way across the dirt yard in the darkness to the Bronco. The last was a promise she had not made. She would not think about Ben. She had other matters to fill her mind. Tomorrow she would call Sharon David and suggest she take her search to another reservation. She would have to return the movie star’s check. Tonight, she wanted to talk to a woman named Lucy Travise.

8
    T he bi-level house hugged the ground, like a shadow splayed on the earth. As Vicky turned into the dirt yard, her headlights shone on the pale green siding, the cement steps, the little stoop. A faint light filtered through the curtains in the front windows. Red reflectors of a truck gleamed in the darkness at the side of the house. She parked behind the truck and slid out into a gust of wind that felt as if it had swooped down off a glacier. The clack of her heels on the steps mingled with the staccato thumps of rap music coming from inside.
    Just as she was about to knock, the door swung open. A young man in his twenties stood in the slant of light. Arapaho, by the narrow face, the finely honed cheekbones, the little crook in the nose. There was a familiar look about him. She tried to place him in one of the clans, but she couldn’t find the right one.
    She said, “Is Lucy Travise here?”
    “Who wants to know?” The tone was insolent, challenging. The music pounded behind him.
    “My name is Vicky Holden. I’m a lawyer. I have to talk to Lucy.”
    The young man’s eyes bored into her. “I know you. You used to be married to my uncle.”
    Oh, God, Vicky thought. He had probably eaten at her table when he was a kid, played with Susan and Lucas. The clan she’d been searching for was her ex-husband’s. She forced a smile. “Which nephew are you?”
    “James.”
    The nephew she’d once forbidden