Winter's Child by Margaret Coel

toward the vacant chair, as if Belle were about to materialize.
    â€œI’m not sure how to do this.” Shannon took a chunk of bread, set it on a plate, and studied it as if she might unlock its mystery.
    â€œButter first.” Wilbur pulled a piece of bread apart, lathered on a slab of butter. “Honey next.” He held the bottle of honey over his plate and let the golden liquid drizzle over the bread. “Then, good eating.”
    Shannon had followed along. She took a bite of the honeyed, buttered bread and sat back, a look of contentment flowing over her like water. “Oh my gosh,” she said. “Nothing like this in Boston.”
    Father John helped himself and bit into the warm bread. Fry bread always came with the memory of the first time he’d eaten it: a brush shade at the Sun Dance, temperatures hovering around a hundred degrees, a little breeze stirring the cottonwood branches that covered the ceiling and three walls, the Fast Pony familygathered around, proud of the family’s fry bread recipe—no one could make it like Grandmother—waiting for his confirmation. Like Shannon, he had realized how much he had been missing. Odd how such memories crowded him lately. He had an urgent sense that he should capture every experience, keep it safe so that he wouldn’t forget.
    Then came the whoosh of the front door opening. A stream of cold air shot through the kitchen, and the door clacked shut. Belle Horn, younger than her husband by a few years, clutching a brown bag of groceries, walked into the kitchen, and Father John got to his feet. “Good to see you,” he said as the woman set the bag on the counter. She turned and took his hand. A handsome woman, on the stout side with a strong grip, broad shoulders, and shoulder-length black hair streaked with gray.
    â€œNo way was I going to miss this.” She let go of his hand and turned to Shannon. “I’m Belle, the better half.”
    Shannon started to get up, but Belle placed a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t let me interrupt. Keep on talking about whatever you were discussing.”
    â€œI was just about to ask how our guest likes the rez.” Wilbur kept his eyes on Shannon, took another bite of bread, and washed it down with coffee. Now would come the polite preliminaries, before the conversation moved to the topic that Shannon, Father John knew, was eager to talk about.
    Belle pulled a carton of milk out of the bag and set it in the refrigerator in a slow, relaxed motion. She hadn’t missed anything important. Then she hung her coat on the back of the vacant chair, sat down, and helped herself to the fry bread, switching her gaze between her husband and Shannon.
    Father John tried to give Shannon another look. He hadn’twarned her about the polite preliminaries, but she was sipping at her coffee, eating her fry bread. Nodding and smiling at Wilbur Horn. She liked the rez fine. Wide spaces that go on forever. She’d never seen so much space and so few people. “Beautiful,” she said, and Wilbur and Belle grinned. Oh, this niece of his had an instinct for fitting right in, picking up the reins, and riding along.
    Shannon looked over at Belle. “The fry bread is delicious. Thank you for making it.”
    Belle smiled and shrugged. After all, it was what she did, saw to it that guests were fed, like any other woman on the rez.
    After a few minutes on weather, the snow expected tonight, Wilbur said, “I understand you’re writing a report on my great-grandparents.”
    Great-grandparents. Shannon glanced over at Father John, something new in her eyes. They were a pair, weren’t they? Part of each other’s lives, Lizzie and John Brokenhorn.
    â€œYes.” She turned back to Wilbur and told him she was researching the lives of Lizzie and her sister, Amanda, both captured by the Plains Indians. “I’m looking for the details. Personal stories that