The Way of the Bear


 
 
 
 
 Dedication
 In memory of my brother, Daniel Bernard
 Hillerman, 1964–2022.
 In honor of Santa Fe’s inimitable Charles Milner,
 a fine gentleman and a wonderful storyteller.
 And in loving recognition of Charmaine Coimbra and
 Ruth Esserman, two inspirational women who lived life
 with joy and passion and who taught me more than I
 realized about the value and challenge of creative work.
 I miss you all.
 
 
 Contents
 Cover
 Title Page
 Dedication
 Chapter 1
 Chapter 2
 Chapter 3
 Chapter 4
 Chapter 5
 Chapter 6
 Chapter 7
 Chapter 8
 Chapter 9
 Chapter 10
 Chapter 11
 Chapter 12
 Chapter 13
 Chapter 14
 Chapter 15
 Chapter 16
 Chapter 17
 Chapter 18
 Chapter 19
 Chapter 20
 Chapter 21
 Chapter 22
 Chapter 23
 Chapter 24
 Acknowledgments
 Glossary
 About the Author
 Also by Anne Hillerman
 Copyright
 About the Publisher
 
 
 1
 An unexpected noise, the crack-crack of gunshots, stopped Bernadette Manuelito where she stood and put her instantly on alert.
 She lowered her hand to her weapon and felt her body begin to flood with adrenaline. Instinctively, she flattened herself against the red sandstone cliff face. Her breath came in shallow bursts as she waited for more shots or whatever else came next.
 It was December, Níłch’itsoh, a season when nature rested, calmly settling in for the challenge of deep winter’s long nights. The surprise of the gunshots shattered Bernie’s peace, but the winter evening rolled on as if the blast had never happened.
 The more intently Bernie listened, the more the desert seemed to grow silent. Níłch’itsoh could be the time of great winds, but this evening was windless. She could barely make out the sound of a vehicle moving in the distance. She knew a powerful snowstorm was in the twenty-four-hour forecast. The dry earth would welcome the moisture. For now, anticipation hung heavily in the still air and a frigid, fierce winter loomed ahead.
 Through the darkness a few feet from where she stood, she saw an owl’s slow, gliding flight, its swooping descent, and then the quick ascent with a struggling mouse in its talons.
 The né’èshjaà landed on a rock that jutted from the cliff face, and after a moment she heard its call. The sound reminded her of something Jim Chee’s uncle had told her and Chee years before. He had explained to them that Owl was an envoy of the Holy People. She also knew that many considered owls to be omens of death, and she’d encountered more than enough of that recently in her job as a police officer. For a Navajo raised with abiding respect for the traditional ways, seeing an owl meant it was time to offer a prayer for protection. Bernie took a moment to do that.
 She leaned against the cold stone and reflected on the word Níłch’itsoh and the meaning of the season. For her and Chee, her husband, the days had been filled with strong winds of change, a tornado of turmoil on the job and off. She had come to this special place, the Valley of the Gods in the shadow of the sacred Bears Ears Buttes, in search of a few hours of winter peace.
 Relax, she told herself. She filled her lungs with the dry, frigid air, straightened her spine, ordered her shoulders down from her ears, and rolled her head from right to left and back again to release the tension in her neck. She stepped away from the rock face to look out over the expansive landscape. She took another soothing breath.
 Finally, the stillness which had seemed threatening reassured her. The shots weren’t close and she reminded herself that in rural areas such as this, occasional gunshots were part of the human soundtrack.
 BERNIE HAD NEVER VISITED THE Bears Ears National Monument, so last week when Chee invited her to join him, she’d eagerly accepted. Because Chee had an assignment in Bluff, he had arranged a time to speak with Desmond Grayhair. The hatááłii and leader from the Navajo Mountain community had suggested a spot at the southern edge of Bears Ears, and asked Chee to invite his wife so they could get acquainted. Chee had urged Bernie to go with him to meet the medicine man, gently mentioning that her energy could use some recharging and that Bears Ears was the perfect spot for that. Indeed, the power of Bears Ears as a place to heal was deeply embedded in Diné tradition.
 When they had spoken earlier that afternoon, the old hatááłii had sensed her sadness and, instead of more conversation or a sweat lodge with the women, suggested she take a quiet walk among the imposing red stone monoliths of Valley of the Gods. Bernie agreed. She wanted a heart-stirring place to watch the sun set, to hike, to think, to begin to figure out what came next for her. She needed a new plan, a map for the future, because what she thought would work clearly hadn’t.
 Earlier that afternoon she had left their motel in Bluff, wanting plenty of light for her explorations, and driven herself to the beautiful Valley of the Gods while the medicine man, Chee, and other men participated in a sweat lodge ceremony. The valley sat at the edge of the expansive Bears Ears landscape—more than a million acres in southeastern Utah’s San Juan County. Bernie welcomed the opportunity to have some time alone and to see this special place, an area some people called a miniature Monument Valley, a reference to the Navajo Nation geological park forty-five minutes to the south. The area’s beautiful sandstone buttes and forms were similar to those of Monument Valley, each uniquely eroded. The formation called Lady in the Bathtub made Bernie smile; it didn’t take much imagination to see the profile of a woman with her hair piled atop her head sitting in the stone tub with a towel supporting her neck. It looked to Bernie as though the person in stone was enjoying a