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Lola thought. Proportionally, more Indians than any other ethnic group volunteered for military service, a warrior tradition dating back to the first World War, even though all the Indians living within the United States didn’t get the right to vote until 1957. Send-offs and homecoming ceremonies for soldiers, Marines, and the rare sailor were common occurrences on the Blackfeet Nation. Lola covered them all for the Daily Express , thankful for each story that involved anyone completing a tour of duty without serious physical injury. The mental toll on those who returned—that was a matter she had yet to explore.
    â€œFirefight?” she asked. “Or IED?” The questions were automatic, based on her own years in war zones, where the roadside bombs known in military jargon as improvised explosive devices seemed to claim as many casualties as actual battle.
    â€œNeither,” Delbert said. “They say—”
    Pal’s doughnut fell from her hand. A mushroom cloud of powdered sugar puffed up from the table. “Never mind about that shit they say.”
    Margaret opened her mouth. Lola shook her head at her. Delbert and Pal seemed to finally have strayed into the dangerous territory they’d been avoiding.
    â€œYou go on and eat all of that doughnut now,” Delbert said. Concern sharpened his voice. Pal picked it up, took another squirrel-sized bite, and changed the subject. “Delbert lives down the hill,” she told Lola. “On the reservation.”
    Lola thought of the house she’d seen just before the turnoff to the two-mile gravel road that led up and over a series of hills to Pal’s place. It was a typical Bureau of Indian Affairs shoebox, and just about as sturdy, barely a step up from a trailer, with a cone of tipi poles rising beside it. “What reservation?”
    â€œWind River. Arapaho and Shoshone. Historic enemies, assigned together to the same reservation. Maybe somebody thought they’d finish each other off.” Pal made a coughing sound that could have been a laugh. “Delbert here’s Shoshone. There’s about three times as many Arapaho as Shoshone.”
    â€œBut we’re tougher.”
    Lola looked again at Delbert’s nose, the cauliflower ears. She was willing to bet he’d gotten the best of his opponents.
    â€œLadies’ll be making the flowers,” he offered.
    Once again, Lola was forced to ask.
    â€œWhat flowers?”
    â€œFor the graves. They decorate them fresh for the holiday. Might be Mike won’t get any flowers, though.”
    Lola feigned interest in her doughnut, trying to disguise how badly she wanted to hear more about Mike.
    â€œEnough about the cemetery!” Pal banged her hand onto the table, smashing her own unfortunate doughnut. Bub, alert to the burst of food scent, shot to Pal’s chair. Pal swept the doughnut’s remnants to the floor, where Bub hoovered them up. Breakfast was clearly over. Delbert pushed back from the table and headed for the door. One of his legs worked better than the other.
    Lola hurried after him. “Nice to meet you, Mr.—” She needed to fix his name in her brain.
    â€œSt. Clair. Delbert St. Clair.”
    She held out her hand to him again. Delbert’s fingers shook in hers. His eyes were moist.
    â€œMake sure she eats,” he said. “She tells me she’s fixing herself dinner every night. But there’s barely anything to her.”
    Lola thought of the empty ravioli tins and the full trash can, as though Pal had dumped the cans’ contents after a single taste. “Yes,” she said. “She’s fixing dinner.” He hadn’t asked whether Pal actually ate it.
    â€œYou take care,” he told her.
    But he looked toward Pal as spoke.

SIX
    The trip from the ranch to town took half an hour. Lola gasped anew whenever the pickup crested another rise and the horizon leapt away, mile after treeless mile