The Lost Bird by Margaret Coel Page A

imagined it?
    He kept one hand on her shoulder, scarcely believing she was here. No one in his family had visited inthe seven years he’d been at St. Francis. But who would come? Not his brother Mike. Certainly not Eileen, or any of their six kids—he still thought of them as kids. Yet Megan, the oldest, had to be about twenty-five, hardly the gangly sprite of a girl he remembered in his early visits to his brother’s home, before the visits had become so uncomfortable he’d decided to curtail them.
    His visit last spring had been cordial. Perfectly cordial and formal. The youngest kids had trailed into the house—quick hellos, disinterested exchanges. He’d had to shake himself into the realization they were already in high school. The others were away: one in law school, another at Boston College. And Megan, an architect living in New York, engaged to be married.
    “You look fantastic,” he said.
    She gave him a mirthless smile. “Is that because I have red hair and freckles like you?”
    His own laugh sounded forced and uncertain in his ears. “What brought you all the way to Wyoming?”
    “Just a visit.” He caught the false note. Something was wrong. And she had come at the worst possible time.
    As if she’d read his thoughts, she said, “Oh, I know about the murdered priest. Elena told me that it could have been you. Shouldn’t you close the mission and go away?”
    “You sound like my boss,” he said, trying for a lighter tone.
    “You have a boss?” The blue eyes widened in mock surprise. “I never thought of you as having a boss.”
    “I have a lot of them, I’m afraid.” Father John shrugged.
    “So you ignore them?”
    “I do my best. Look, Megan,” he hurried on, “the mission might not be the safest place right now—”
    “Something told me I had to come,” she interrupted. “Now I understand why I was drawn here. Elena said I could stay at the guest house.”
    That explained why he hadn’t seen her car on the grounds. It was parked at the guest house behind Eagle Hall, and she was already settled in. He sighed. “Promise me you’ll be careful,” he said. “Don’t walk around the grounds by yourself at night.”
    “Don’t worry about me,” she shot back. “I’ve been living in New York City for three years. I can take care of myself.” He saw by the way she pulled her gaze toward the dark ridge of mountains in the distance that there was something else on her mind.
    The door squeaked above them, and he glanced around. Elena stood on the landing. “Dinner’s on,” she called. “Come eat while it’s hot.”
    Megan scooped the purse from the table and, brushing past him, started up the stairs. The sun had disappeared, leaving an electric sky of reds and purples and oranges. Shadows had started to gather at the perimeters of the mission grounds, like animals stalking their prey.
    He started after his niece. Walks-On trailed alongside, an easy lope up the stairs on three legs. In the kitchen, the dog headed for his rug. Elena led the way to the dining room. Sometimes he forgot about the hollow, dark space between the kitchen and living room. The last time he’d eaten there was two years ago, when the bishop had come for dinner. Elena had gotten out the mismatched china and yellowed tablecloths, the candles and brass candlestick holders, andtransformed the room into a place of warmth and comfort, like a real home, he had thought.
    He saw that the housekeeper had worked the same magic this evening. Candlelight flickered over the tablecloth and licked at the white plates with tiny tongues of fire. He held a side chair for Megan before taking the end chair close to her. Within a moment Elena set bowls of hot stew in front of them.
    “Please join us, Elena,” he said as she started toward the kitchen.
    The housekeeper stopped. Leaning toward him, she sent him an accusatory glare. “My grandbaby’s birthday party’s tonight. Remember? I told you all about it.” The whisper