Free The Spirit Woman by Margaret Coel

they?”
    Vicky slid two plates out of the cabinet. Then she gathered knives and forks and napkins from a drawer and carried the stack into the dining room. The phone on the counter started ringing as she set the table. She reached over and picked up the receiver just as Ben was about to grab it. “Hello,” she said, sensing his eyes burning into her.
    â€œBen there?” The woman’s voice was tentative and uncertain.
    Vicky gripped the receiver hard a moment, feeling shaky at the confirmation of the old fears. Then she handed it across the counter. “One of your girlfriends,” she said.
    Turning toward the kitchen, Ben cupped the receiver between his neck and shoulder. “Who’s this?” A long pause. “I told you, I’ll talk to you later.” He wheeled around and dropped the receiver into the cradle. “One of my girlfriends? Is that what you think?”
    Vicky went back to arranging the table. Knife here, fork there. Napkins folded with corners meeting precisely. Suddenly Ben was next to her. “I want an answer, Vicky,” he said, taking her arm.
    She moved along the table, disengaging herself. “What am I supposed to think? A woman calls you here. My secretary tells me her friend has been asking about you at the Highway Lounge.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter.”
    The quiet exploded between them. After a moment he said, “What do you want of me? Do I have to swear never to talk to another woman? I deal with women all the time.” He nodded toward the phone. “That was Cerise at the ranch.”
    â€œThere’s a woman working at the ranch?” Vicky didn’t try to hide her skepticism.
    â€œThe bookkeeper, Vicky. The goddamn bookkeeper. She was calling about this month’s statements. Do I have to explain every time I talk to another woman?”
    Vicky blinked and looked away. In the sliding-glass doors that led to the patio outside, she could see the faintest trace of two figures—a man, a woman, and the dark space of the table between them. She had the sensation of floating backward through time. Another house, other explanations, other women. Only the glib justifications that cast her as the doubting, mistrustful wife were the same. She had known then—and she knew now: if she wanted her family together, if she wanted Susan and Lucas close by, this was the way it would be. She was no different from Alva Running Bull, willing to look away from the bleak reality hurtling toward her like an eighteen-wheeler coming down the highway. The realization gave her a sickening feeling.
    She locked eyes with him again. “Can we eat?”
    â€œNot until this is settled.”
    â€œIt’s settled.”
    He reached along the table and ran his fingers gently over her cheek, pushing back a strand of hair. “No more jealous outbursts?”
    She managed a nod. Blinking hard at the tears starting behind her eyes, she sank onto the nearest chair and waited while Ben brought the steaks, a bowl of salad, and a loaf of French bread to the table.
    He took the chair across from her. “Alva Running Bull come see you today?” he asked, holding out the plate of steaks, waiting while she lifted one onto her own plate.
    The question caught her by surprise. Her clients, the problems they brought to the office—they were confidential. She never discussed them. Even an inadvertent slip could set the moccasin telegraph humming. Before she could say anything, Ben said, “Lester drove out to the ranch today to see me. The man doesn’t want a divorce. Neither does his wife.”
    Vicky had been about to take a bite of steak. She set the fork down. “That’s completely inappropriate.”
    â€œYou could discourage her.”
    â€œI can’t discuss this.”
    Ben sliced a piece of meat and brought it to his mouth. After a moment he said, “Divorce is ugly business. Look what