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Idreamed of a wedding on the Santa Fe Plaza. A small orchestra was playing on the bandstand, and I waltzed with Captain Dusenberry on the grassy grounds. We were both dressed in white, though I wasn’t the bride. There was more to the dream, but I didn’t remember it after my alarm went off.

The day was crazy busy. The tearoom was nearly sold out; reservations had ramped up that week, possibly in advance of the holiday weekend. I was on the go from 7:00 a.m. on, and only Nat’s assistance enabled me to get away long enough to take my treasures to the bank. I dusted off an attaché case that I hadn’t used since college for the occasion, using it to protect the leather pouch—which I also wrapped in a clean dishtowel—and the box containing Maria’s letters, as well as the thumb-drive of photos.

I had to rent a bigger safety deposit box to contain everything. I winced at the cost, and at the extra time it took, but there was no question about it. These things had to be kept safe. Even more, now, I felt an obligation to consider donating them—or maybe selling them—to the historical museum. They should be appraised, I realized. Claudia Pearson might be able to recommend an appraiser, but it would have to wait. I was leaving town the next evening. On my vacation—the first in over a year.

Returning to the tearoom, I put the empty attaché case in my office and poured myself some tea. I hadn’t told anyone about my find, not even Nat. I would tell them, but I wasn’t ready yet. I was still a bit stunned by it.

Captain Dusenberry’s treasures had waited hidden in my floor for a hundred and sixty years. They could wait a few more days.

 

Friday evening, it was already dark by the time Tony and I left Santa Fe for Ghost Ranch. We’d opted for a quick green chile cheeseburger at Lotaburger on the way out of town, saving our splurge money for the big Sunday night dinner. I sipped what was left of my chocolate malt and nudged the heater up a click as I steered my car into the flood of northbound traffic, a river of red taillights flowing into the darkness. Commuters, mostly, on their way home. Fewer cars were driving into Santa Fe.

“Why is it called Ghost Ranch?” Tony asked.

“I don’t know. I thought you would.”

He shot me a mischievous look. “You’re the native.”

“So are you. And you’re the cop. Don’t you ever have to deal with stuff north of town?”

“Not that far north. That’s Rio Arriba County. Not my jurisdiction.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, it’s an Anglo tourist place,” Tony said as he reclined his seat a notch and shifted to get comfortable. “I figured you would have looked it up.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” I took one long, gurgly pull at the remains of the malt, then put the cup down. I was tempted to respond to the “Anglo tourist” remark, but I didn’t want to start this weekend with a disagreement. “I’m sure someone there can tell us. Some ghost story.”

“Yeah.”

Also, Tony was right. The book Nat had given me had filled in my knowledge. Ghost Ranch had been a dude ranch in the early 20th century, and it was primarily patronized by Anglos at that time. Rich Anglos from “back East,” specifically. White folks looking for adventure in the “Wild West.” Georgia O’Keeffe didn’t precisely fall into that class, because she was looking for solitude rather than adventure, but she had stayed at Ghost Ranch, fallen in love with the scenery, and cajoled the ranch’s owner into selling her a rather remote old adobe ranch house on the property. She’d spent several years there (when she wasn’t in New York), and painted a bunch of paintings of the surrounding landscape. This was the area through which we’d ride on our horseback tour.

Ghost Ranch was now owned by the Presbyterian Church, and operated as a retreat and education center. Still, admittedly, patronized mostly (but not exclusively) by Anglos. Habits of thought and attitude were slow to change. Even though everyone was welcome, New Mexicans tended to think of it as a place for Anglos. A tourist place.

Well, so we were tourists in our home state this weekend. So be it. 

Traffic remained heavy until we were past Española, then dwindled to nearly nothing. Now I noticed the moon—full, or nearly so—riding over the Sangre de Cristos to the east. Being busy driving, I hadn’t noticed it rising. Our destination was to the northwest, so we were angled away from the mountains a bit, toward some other mountains and bluffs and cliffs. Bathed in moonlight, they were silent and majestic. I remembered the book about O’Keeffe saying she’d climbed onto the roof of her Ghost Ranch house every evening to look at the sky.

Well, New Mexico skies were amazing. The brightness of the moon washed away most of the stars, even as it painted the land in light you could read by.

We passed the Abiquiu Inn, brightly light and nestled among tall, leafless cottonwoods that reached skeletal branches toward the moon. Its parking lot was full of cars, mostly SUVs. A large, cubic building that I didn’t remember stood to the north of the inn; the new Georgia O’Keeffe welcome center. Abiquiu proper—including O’Keeffe’s second home and studio—was on the left, up a hill, a short distance farther along the highway. The road that led to it began opposite a large convenience store: Bode’s. After that, a whole lot of empty scenery for a while.

We drove past Abiquiu Lake, but didn’t get much of a look at it. Much lower than the road, and frequently obscured by mesas or hills.

I almost missed the gate to Ghost Ranch on the north side of the road. It wasn’t lit, but it was tall, and the cow’s skull logo caught my eye just in time to slow me down for the turn. A cattle crossing sign just inside the gate had been augmented with a tiny, cartoon UFO, which gave me a chuckle. The road was unpaved, and the smell of New Mexico dust began to seep through the heater into the car. I drove slowly, wary of potholes, but the road was actually broad and even, well-maintained. It rose steadily; we were driving into the hills.

A light shone out ahead, from a building up on top of a hillside to the left. I stopped in a broad, graveled parking lot that fronted the hill, looking up toward a long, low building reminiscent of a ranch house. We got out and climbed a number of irregular steps to where the comforting porch light welcomed us outside a set of double doors.

The place seemed deserted. We stepped inside and looked around at bulletin boards, two closed office doors, a closed “Trading Post” gift shop, a closed snack bar. Straight ahead there were restrooms, which I was grateful to see, and just to the left inside the front door a brightly lit room with a reception counter. I poked my head in.

“Evening!” a blonde woman about my age said, looking up from a book. She was white as could be and looked nothing like a ranch hand—Protestant, probably, since that church owned Ghost Ranch. She wore jeans and a pretty sweater with geometric patterns in cream, gold, and blue. Also a name badge that I couldn’t read this far away. She got up and came forward to the counter, smiling. “Rosings?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Come on in, I’ll get you checked in.” she said, typing on a computer keyboard. “You’re the last ones tonight. Glad you made it.”

Financial details were exchanged. I noted the name badge bore the Ghost Ranch cow skull logo and said “Debbie, Guest Services Specialist.” Something about her demeanor convinced me that Debbie was probably a Presbyterian. Along with the keycode to our room, she gave us a map of the grounds, including a confusing number of buildings and the starting points for several hiking trails.

“You’re in the Ghost House,” she said, drawing on the map with a highlighter. “It’s just up the road right here. There’s a parking space for you right nearby.”

“The Ghost House?”

“That’s right. Oldest building on the ranch. There are some photos and displays on the public side of it—that’s open all the time, but don’t worry, nobody’ll bother you. And it’s on the walking tour at 11:30 in the morning. That’s free to guests, so be sure to catch it.”

I had opted to pay more for a room with a private bathroom, preferring not to share bathrooms in the more dorm-like lodgings. When I’d called to make reservations, the person I talked to had said I’d reserved the last available room with a private bath that weekend. They had not informed me of its name.

The Ghost House. My luck.

“Are there any ... actual ghosts, in the Ghost House?” I asked.

The woman smiled. “Depends who you talk to. Legends, sure. It was built by the Archuleta brothers, the first people to live here. Colorful legends—you’ll hear all about them on the tour.”

“Legends, but no hauntings?” Tony asked.

She blinked at him. “Well, some folks say they hear voices outside the house at night. But I’ve never heard them.” She looked at me. “Don’t worry, nothing dramatic’s ever been reported.”

“Oh,” I said. “Good.”

Tony gave me an amused glance. “Think the Captain’ll be jealous?”

I shot him a repressive look, and tucked the map into my pocket. 

We returned to the car for a drive that was extremely short indeed. In fact, we might as well have walked, but it was better to park close to our room, which turned out to be on the north end of the Ghost House. The south end was lit by a bright porch light illuminating a charming courtyard inside an adobe wall. A hand-carved wooden sign on the portal labeled it “GHOST HOUSE” in spooky lettering, and another sign nearby announced, “ALWAYS OPEN.”

This gave me dubious feelings about our privacy. However, the door to our room was around the other end of the building, unassuming and easy to overlook. It was guarded by two gigantic cottonwoods, and marked with another hand-carved sign that said “STEP DOWN” (no handicapped access, apparently). The imposing keypad lock was the only comparatively modern-looking thing about the place. Tony punched in the code, and we carried our bags inside, dutifully stepping down the four inches from the threshold to the floor.

We found ourselves in a small bedroom with a double bed, on which two sets of towels had been left. Adjacent was a tiny bathroom. A wooden dresser stood against the wall opposite the bed. I opened a second door to the left, hoping for a closet, and instead finding another room, similar-sized, containing nine mismatched straight-backed chairs and no table. The chairs were obviously stashed here for storage purposes, although they were arranged in a circle around the room and could have been used for a small meeting. This room had two windows overlooking the walled courtyard to the south and the road to the east, and a small kiva fireplace in one corner, its opening blocked by a particle board insert. No fires allowed, probably at the insistence of some insurance company. Both rooms featured fairly simple and rather dated Southwestern décor, and were haunted by that familiar dusty smell that inhabits old buildings. A polite note on the dresser reminded us that there was no maid service.

A bit rustic, yes.

There was an ancient tube television in the room with the chairs, which surprised me, as the website had indicated there were no televisions. A small sign taped to the bottom of the box stated that DVDs were available from the library, and I saw that the TV had a built-in player. Curious, I switched it on, and was rewarded with a screen full of snow.

“You want the top two drawers or the bottom two?” Tony called from the bedroom.

“Top, please.”

I went back there to stow my clothes in the dresser. I had brought a nice dress for our fancy dinner on Sunday. I found a hook on the back of the bathroom door and hung it there. Once I was unpacked, I sat on the bed and lifted the curtain to look out the window, the bottom of which was barely two feet above the level of the ground outside; the building was partially bermed into a hillside. Or maybe the hillside had gradually begun to swallow the old house. Through the window I saw the bases of the two cottonwoods, and just beyond them, a deer, grazing contentedly, bathed in moonlight.

“Tony!” I called, sotto voce.

He joined me, and we watched the deer until it ambled away, hidden by the trees. Bright lights marked other buildings to the east, and the moonlight illuminated the road that led to them. I took out my map and identified the Agape Worship Center, the Library, and the Dining Hall, where we’d be served the breakfast that was included with our room, and additional meals for a modest fee.

Perhaps the most interesting thing about this place was the silence.

Santa Fe wasn’t a booming city, but it did have traffic noise and whatnot at a low level most of the time. Ghost Ranch, well away from the highway and miles from the nearest village, was absolutely still.

I liked it. The feeling took me back to summer camp, where I’d first encountered the vast quietude of New Mexico’s mountains. There’d been a river running past our cabin at camp; I could almost imagine hearing it, though there was no river here.

Tony went into the bathroom. I stretched out on my back on the bed and closed my eyes, listening to the quiet. After a moment, a high-pitched yipping, in multiple voices, commenced in the distance, barely audible. A thrill went down my spine; this was a sound I hadn’t heard in years. Coyotes, greeting the moon.

That took me away from summer camp and into the national parks, camping out with Joe and our parents. The coyote calls had sent me crawling into Mom’s sleeping bag, shivering at the alien sound.

Tony came out of the bathroom. I opened my eyes and sat up, gesturing for him to be quiet and listen. He did so, while the ancient plumbing settled down. After a minute he smiled slowly.

“Like on Tio’s ranch,” he whispered. 

I nodded understanding. Tony sat next to me and slid his arms around my waist, nuzzling my neck. The skirling cries stopped, then after a minute they started up again, farther away, just on the edge of hearing.

Tony started kissing my neck, and I stopped hearing the coyotes.

 

Light, indirect and muted, disturbed my sleep. Gradually I woke to an unfamiliar space. Smells of not-my-laundry soap and old-building conflicted with the comfortable smell of Tony. I relaxed, enjoying the warmth of his embrace, letting go of the puzzling place until eventually I remembered. We were at Ghost Ranch.

Tony was awake, I realized. He was holding too still to be asleep. I slid my hand under his shoulder, which set him in motion, kissing me hungrily, sliding limbs languourously. He unceremoniously moved me where he wanted me, then made delicious love to me until we were both sated.

I became aware of a bird singing outside, somewhere nearby. Tony’s stomach gurgled as if in reply.

“Hungry?” I asked.

“Mm-hm.”

I kissed his collar-bone, which happened to be within reach. He kissed my forehead, then rolled out of bed and plodded into the bathroom. I heard the shower turn on.

Sighing contentedly, I stretched, then got up and fetched my robe from the dresser. The air was chilly, making me wish I’d thought to bring slippers as well. I pulled on a pair of socks (I’d brought extras of those), and peeked through the curtains, looking for the bird, but didn’t spot it.

I showered while Tony dressed, then we walked up the dusty road to the dining hall for breakfast. The view beyond the (admittedly rustic) buildings was spectacular. To the north, a high mesa ended abruptly, with a pair of stone pillars of white rock, carved by wind and rain, standing just to the left of the main cliff. One pillar was a bit larger than the other. I was certain that every male who saw that pillar had specific thoughts about what it resembled, hopefully private. Tony kept his private, for which I was grateful.

We’d been directed to enter the dining hall by a small door on the north, which turned out to lead to a cafeteria style food line. We turned in our breakfast tickets and helped ourselves to scrambled eggs and toast. There was also oatmeal, cold cereal, and a yogurt bar. The food wasn’t fancy but it looked fresh and well-prepared. Emerging into the dining hall proper, Tony and I discovered a long, tall table bearing assorted condiments, where we ladled green chile sauce over our scrambled eggs. We found seats at one of the long dining tables set diagonally across the room, each formed from three or four large rectangular tables. Except for the diagonal placement, this arrangement also rang summer camp bells.

The room was big enough to host a couple hundred people, I thought, though not all of the space was filled, and stacks of chairs and folded tables against the wall at the far end implied a full house was not expected. The dining tables currently set up would seat at least fifty, but there were nowhere near that many in the hall. There might not be that many visitors here in January.

The east end of the hall featured a massive floor-to-ceiling wall of river rock, which totally overshadowed the actually-not-small fireplace set into its center. To the south, the cinder block walls were interrupted at intervals by tall windows that let in a flood of daylight, softening the otherwise industrial look of the hall. Interspersed with the windows were several doors leading out to a large covered portal, where picnic tables provided extra seating. Too cold now, but might be nice at lunchtime.

“I didn’t see any napkins,” Tony said, putting down his plate next to mine. I gestured toward the paper towel racks at intervals along the table.

“Oh,” he said. “A bit rustic.”

“Yeah.”

“Coffee,” Tony added, and got up, making a beeline for the drinks counter against the kitchen wall. Racks of mugs and glasses stood beside a variety of machines for dispensing juice, water, and of course, coffee. I waited until he got back, then went over to investigate the array myself.

No tea, no milk. Very rustic. But wait—there was cold cereal on the cafeteria line. There had to be milk.

I looked around until I spotted a second, smaller drinks station in between two of the windows on the south wall. This had a coffee machine and a small refrigerator with cartons of milk (including non-dairy milk), half-and-half, and cream. On the other side of a partition were a rack of mugs and a small metal chest of drawers, like a modern apothecary chest, containing a fairly decent selection of teas, albeit in teabags. Conventional black teas, chais, herbals—not bad, but I had brought a small electric kettle and some leaf tea with me, so I could make myself a decent cuppa later on.  I would have to borrow a mug from the dining hall, as there were none in our room. Meanwhile, I opted for coffee with a generous dollop of cream.

Tony was tucking into his eggs when I returned. I was hungry, too. I spread jam on my toast, looking around the hall at the other visitors.

There were perhaps two dozen of us, not counting those still in the cafeteria line. Most were Anglos, and most of these looked like out-of-staters. Something about the way they carried themselves, and the way they dressed, just said “not New Mexican.”

The handful of Hispanics, on the other hand, were probably locals. Maybe some were employees of the ranch. Some wore casual business attire, others wore jeans and denim or flannel shirts, making them look more like ranch hands.

I noticed two men sitting together—a white guy with curly red hair and a stubbly beard, and a younger, wiry Hispanic guy. Both were dressed in jeans and long-sleeved, western-style shirts. The white guy caught me looking at him and leered back. I glanced away.

A family seated in the next row of tables to ours—mother, father and son about ten or twelve years old—were the only African Americans in the hall. The mother caught my interest; her casual clothes were rather stylish, and she moved with a grace that said “finishing school.” Her son was slightly pudgy and glued to his phone. The father was large, equally pudgy, and loud. He wore a leather tour jacket with “Texans” across the back in wide, block letters, with a logo resembling a stylized, red-white-and-blue bull’s head. I’d never seen that logo, but then, I didn’t follow football. If I hadn’t observed them interacting, I would not have paired him with his elegant wife, who shot him a repressive glance as he complained about the lack of televisions in the dining hall. The large cluster of diamonds set in gold flashing on her left hand attested to her husband’s prosperity, if not his taste.

Or was I wrong in assuming it was his prosperity, and not hers? I had trouble imagining why an elegant and independently wealthy woman would marry such a man. An elegant woman in need of support, however . . .

“I give ’em two years, tops,” Tony said, mopping up the last of his chile with a piece of toast.

“Oh?” I was surprised by the comment. Tony didn’t often voice such opinions.

“He doesn’t respect her. Want more coffee?” He stood up, mug in hand.

“No, thanks. I think I’ll make some tea back in the room.”

“We’re hiking, remember.”

“I remember.”

“When’s the studio tour?”

“After lunch. One o’clock. Shall we do the walking tour, if we’re back in time?”

“Mm.” He sauntered off toward the coffee urn. 

I glanced at my watch. Not yet nine, and I wouldn’t mind waiting to hike until it got a bit warmer. I could take or leave the walking tour.

Loud, male voices drew my attention. The black dad was in a quasi-friendly dispute over football with a broad-shouldered white guy in a crisp, green-and-white Western shirt and jeans that looked new. Not caring much about football, I carried my plate and mug to the dishwashers’ station and joined Tony.

“I think I’ll go back to the room and make that tea.”

“I’ll come with you,” Tony said. “We can look at the trail map and pick out a hike.”

He chugged his coffee in three impressive pulls, then took the mug to the washing counter as we passed on our way to the exit. Reminded that I needed a mug, I darted to the coffee bar to snag a clean one. The football dispute was getting louder and less friendly. The nattily-dressed white guy had somehow increased his shoulder breadth and begun to resemble a bull, and his gaze was becoming a glare. The “Texans” fan grinned and kept goading, enjoying the other’s irritation. I glanced around, looking for the elegant wife, but didn’t see her or the son.

Outside, the only argument was between a couple of jays up in the cottonwoods. I breathed a sigh of relief. 

Maybe the Abiquiu Inn would have been worth the extra expense. I hadn’t counted on fellow guests making life uncomfortable. Wasn’t this the sort of place one visited to get away from things like football?

Back at the Ghost House, Tony got out the hiking map while I made tea. I chose to do this in the Room of Many Chairs, where my kettle and tea things would be out of the way. The only electrical plug was the one into which the old TV was plugged. I unplugged it, skeptical of the integrity of its gently-desiccating cord, and plugged in my travel kettle, which I’d filled from the sink. I chose a chair with a solid wood, mostly-flat seat to serve as my table, on which I arranged all the tea things.

I had brought two kinds of tea: Darjeeling and Assam. I went for the Darjeeling, wanting something lighter after the coffee. I poured a mug, added a bit of sugar, then covered the teapot with a cozy and carried my mug to the bedroom, where I joined Tony on the bed, which was still unmade.

Oh, yes. We’d have to deal with that. An opportunity to create policy for future shared housework.

“This is the trail for Chimney Rock,” Tony said, pointing at a dotted line that meandered off westward on the map. “I assume that’s the big rock pillar we saw. Might be a bit steep.”

“Shall we hike in the other direction?”

“Okay.” He peered at the map again. “Interesting name on this one.”

He pointed to a trailhead that on the east side of the map, labeled “Matrimonial Mesa.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, of course, we must hike there.”

Tony glanced up at me with a grin. I leaned back and sipped my tea.

“We could elope,” he said blandly.

“Nat would throttle me. She’s already designated herself my substitute parent. She’s looking forward to making a big fuss.”

Tony grimaced slightly.

“And then there’s Gina. She’s my maid of honor, and if I skip out on her, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“It was just a thought,” Tony said. “I’m gonna change my shoes.”

I fetched myself a second cup of tea, then watched while he put on a pair of battered hiking boots. “Did Angela tell you she’s going to be my bridesmaid?” I asked.

“Uh-huh. Thanks for asking her. She’s jazzed.”

“She called me something ... mieta?”

“Probably ‘manita’.”

“Yes, that was it. What does it mean?”

“It means sister, kind of.”

“I thought sister was hermana.”

“Yeah, manita is kind of like sister and best buddy rolled into one.”

“Aww!” I felt myself blushing. “I’m honored. I really like Angela.”

“She likes you too. You done?”

I finished the last swallow of tea. “Yes. Let me wash up.”

“You remember your boots?”

“Yes. Both kinds.”

Hiking boots for this morning, boots with a heel for the trail ride. I didn’t have actual cowboy boots, but I had some high-rise leather boots with a half-inch heel, which was the important thing. A heel to keep the foot from slipping through the stirrup, and a shoe sturdy enough (one hoped) to protect the foot should a horse’s hoof happen to come down on it.

Ah, summer camp memories! I was happy to recall being told that horses actually dislike stepping on humans. (Too squishy.)

When I had tidied and put away my tea things, I put on a pair of thick socks and my hiking boots. Tony, impatient to go, began scrolling through something on his phone. I grabbed a sweater; stuffed my phone, wallet, and keys into the pockets of my jeans; and picked up my water bottle and hat.

“OK,” I said, joining Tony by the door.

We stepped out into a beautiful morning. The early chill had faded, and the sky was a brilliant turquoise above sandstone cliffs to the north, and east, and the more distant bluffs to the west. To the south, beyond the highway and Abiquiu Lake, was the mesa called Cerro Pedernal, made famous by O’Keeffe’s many paintings of it.

Birds chattered and argued in the trees as we headed back toward the dining hall, then struck east across an open field. I put on my hat—a plain, round, brimmed one of black straw—to ward off the bright winter sun. Tony had donned a Capital High Jaguars gimme hat and shades. He pulled the hiking map out of his back pocket, and consulted it to learn where we needed to go to find the right trailhead.

The map showed only the start and end of the Matrimonial Mesa trail, and they were some distance apart. Who knew what might go on between them? The starting point was behind a long, dorm-like building marked “Staff House” on the map. As we headed around one end of it, a man in a western shirt, chaps over jeans, and a cowboy hat came out of one of the doors.

It was the red-headed guy from the dining hall. He grinned. I looked away.

The trail crossed a wide, dry riverbed that made me grateful we were not here in flash-flood season, and climbed up the far bank onto a steep hillside. A makeshift wooden ramp, perhaps twenty feet long and covered with asphalt paper, offered dubious assistance for reaching the top of the hill. Tony went up it like a mountain goat. I climbed more slowly, not trusting the footing on what felt like a forty-five degree incline. I was grateful that my boots had a decent tread, or I’d have been slipping. 

Tony reached out a hand as I neared the top, and squeezed my fingers as I joined him. “You good?”

“Yes,” I said, adjusting my hat, annoyed that I was slightly out of breath. I climbed up and down stairs a lot during business hours, but that long, steep slope was more than I was used to.

“Good,” Tony said.

The trail continued upward at a much more reasonable slope, went over the shoulder of the hill, and twined down the far side. Here, away from the river bed, the landscape was more dry, with mostly piñon and juniper. Anything deciduous looked dead at this season.

Through many more ups and downs, we gradually ascended the mesa. I kept expecting to reach the usual flat-topped bluff crowning cliffs of sandstone or maybe basalt that defined my idea of a mesa. Instead, the trail ran along spines of rock so narrow I had to concentrate on my footing and not give in to  the temptation to glance at the surrounding landscape. One wrong step would mean a tumble down a steep, rocky decline.

At the top of one hill the trail diverged, offering a choice of spines to traverse, and a flat space ten feet or so across where we could stand and rest a moment without risk of vertigo. I looked up at the cliffs to the east, much higher yet than where we stood, a medley of reds, oranges, and golds topped with a dark fringe of evergreens. The bluff toward the north that terminated in Chimney Rock was mostly white, probably composed of tuff that had once been volcanic ash rather than the rich, organic mix of sandstone that had once been a sea-floor.

I pointed toward the white mesa. “Makes me think of the White Place.”

Tony gave me a look. Though I couldn’t see his eyes through his shades, the eyebrows displayed skepticism.

“O’Keeffe’s White Place. One of the places she liked to paint. It’s more to the east, though, I think. But the rock looks similar.”

“Oh. Are we going to go there?”

“We could. It isn’t part of Ghost Ranch, but it’s not too far. If we have spare time we could drive over.”

Unlike the Black Place, which was over a hundred miles to the west and not easily accessible. It might even be on private land. The biography told of O’Keeffe and a friend driving across country in O’Keeffe’s Model-A Ford to camp in solitude at the Black Place. That was decades ago, of course, but I had the impression it was still not reachable by developed roads.

Tony glanced at the white mesa and took a swig from his water bottle. Reminded, I drank from my own. My father’s hiking advice from years ago echoed: always hydrate, even if you don’t think you need to.

“Which way?” Tony asked, indicating the branching trail. 

One branch headed eastish, toward the spectacular cliffs, diving steeply and then ascending again. A couple of ridges over I saw three people hiking that way. I looked along the other branch, which was more level and ran southeast. To the south was Pedernal, and a little west of that I saw a glimpse of water—a corner of Abiquiu Lake.

“Let’s try this one,” I said, preferring the trail that ran more horizontally.

“Yeah. I think that’s going to connect us with the other end on the map.” 

Tony led off along the new spine. I refrained from admiring the view until we paused again.

We had reached the broad, flat mesa top I’d been expecting. The ground spread before us, dotted by trees. A ramada stood perhaps fifty yards away, and a dirt road proceeded beyond it. This was the part of Matrimonial Mesa that was actually big enough to accommodate a wedding.

“OK,” Tony said, nodding toward the ramada. “That must be where people get married. And that road probably connects with the entrance road.”

I nodded and took a drink of water. “Would have been easier to get here by car,” I remarked. 

“Yeah, but that’s not the point.”

“True.”

Driving, we would not have walked across heart-pumping spines of rock, and the landscape would have had less impact through the windows of a car. Also, we would not have had any exercise.

“I wonder who got married here first,” I mused. “The name must have been because of a wedding.”

Tony shrugged. “Or a lot of weddings. But you’re right—‘matrimonial’ is a fancy Anglo word. I bet it was the original owner of the ranch.”

I found myself feeling slightly offended, but let it go. I did have a partiality for fancy Anglo words.

I strolled toward the ramada, curious. There was no information posted there; it was merely a shelter. Merely a suggestion. Sort of like our engagement—though being here, alone together, was making it all feel a little more real.

I toyed with the idea of getting married here. The setting could hardly be more magnificent. I wasn’t really interested in a “destination” wedding, but this wasn’t Hawaii or Las Vegas, requiring an expensive hotel stay. Our friends and family could come here for the wedding and be home that night, if they wished.

But was this stark place, this dusty mesa top, really where I wanted to exchange vows with Tony?

He stepped into the ramada beside me, slipped his arm around my waist, and surprised me with a kiss.

“Oh!”

He grinned. “Just practicing.”

“Well in that case, allow me to assist.”

I wrapped my arms around his neck and invited a much more thorough kiss. Tony obliged.

“Better?” he said after a moment.

“Yes. But I think you should keep practicing.”