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started out friends.
    Although my tribe holds to the old traditions, no one thought anything of letting us spend time together.”
    “Why not?”
    “I was—I am pretty shy. I’ve never had the type of 47

    face or fi gure that men notice. Besides, Ben was in his late thirties, I was seventeen; he was old enough to be my father, so we were basically unchaperoned.
    “We kept it our secret for months. Before he went back to South Dakota, he promised to come back. He promised we’d be together.” Abita gazed at the wall, lost in the past. “A month went by and I hadn’t heard from him. I was mad, especially when I found out I was pregnant a few weeks after he left.
    “I didn’t know who to call, what to do, and I didn’t have any money, so I did nothing. When it got back to us he’d been murdered, then I was scared to death.
    Nothing like that had ever happened to me before, or to anyone I’d known.”
    Some might say death is death, but violent death opens up a whole diff erent set of questions and problems.
    “My family found out I was pregnant and sent me away. I’d intended to give the baby up for adoption, until I learned more Indian babies were up for adoption than there were Indian families who could adopt. After Jericho was born I knew I could never give him up.”
    Kevin set a box of Kleenex on the table between us.
    Abita dabbed her eyes.
    I didn’t know what to say. I’d fi gured she’d tell me a sob story about how my brother had done her wrong.
    Not once had she played the “poor me” card. She didn’t 48

    seem to be living in sorrow and self-pity either.
    “Abita, after keeping Jericho a secret for three years, why are you in South Dakota now?”
    “Curiosity.”
    I blinked with confusion.
    She added hastily, “Back to the ‘coincidence is fate in disguise’ school of thought. Th
    ere’s a master weaver
    from Norway who hosts classes every couple of years. I applied, but didn’t count on getting in. It seemed like a sign when my application was selected.”
    Th
    e weaver she spoke of was highly sought after to teach seminars all over the world. Abita must be a tal-ented weaver to be asked to study with a master at such a young age.
    “How long will you be here?”
    “A couple of weeks.”
    “Where are you staying?”
    “In a dorm at the business college in Rapid City.
    Th
    ere are other women in the program who also have children so there’s even daycare.”
    Th
    rough the tightness in my throat I asked, “Have you contacted the Standing Elk family?”
    “No.”
    “Do you plan to?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “You should. Th
    ey have a right to know about Jericho.”
    49

    Shy Abita disappeared beneath a shrewd gaze. “Does the right to know extend to your father?”
    Th
    at fl oored me.
    Abita unfolded from the chair. “I should go.”
    “Hang on.” I rifl ed through my purse for a business card. I neatly wrote down my home and cell phone numbers on the back. “You will come back? Stay in touch?” I asked as I handed her the card. What I really meant was: you won’t take the one link I’ve got to Ben and vanish?
    “When I can. Th
    e schedule is tough and when I’m
    done with classes I’ve have to take care of my son. I’m not used to being away from him for so many hours at a time during the day. It’s all very . . . strange.”
    “And I’ll bet it makes for a long day,” Kevin said.
    She smiled at Kevin. “It does.”
    Jericho ran into the kitchen. “Can I have ‘nother marshmallow?”
    I crouched down. “Do you promise to come back and visit me if I give you one?”
    He nodded warily.
    “Okay. Open your mouth and close your eyes and you will get a big surprise.”
    He giggled and squeezed his eyes shut, only peeking once.
    I popped two marshmallows in his mouth.
    He chewed. Swallowed. Grinned. His sticky hands 50

    slapped my cheeks. “You’re funny.”
    Jericho turned and ran. Abita chased after him, tossing out, “Th
    ank you for the hot chocolate.