4 
4 The sound of a car interrupted us, and we stepped apart instinctively, though it turned out the car wasn’t visible. Probably on the entrance road, down below the mesa.
“We could walk back on the road,” Tony said.
“Boring. Let’s go back the way we came.”
“OK.”
The sun was warm now, and I tied my superfluous sweater around my hips before we started back for the narrow trails. I had drunk more than half my water, so I began rationing it. Cautious sips. I was starting to get hungry, too. I’d be ready for lunch by the time we got back.
Tsk. Should’ve brought some nuts, or gorp, and extra water. I could imagine my brother Joe frowning in disapproval.
Well it was a short hike, and we knew that. And we weren’t the only ones out here. I dismissed phantom Joe back to New York, where he belonged.
Oh. I’d have to invite him to the wedding.
I grimaced. His visit at Christmas hadn’t been entirely fun. He’d shown some attitude where Tony was concerned, and while I’d told him in no uncertain terms what I expected in the way of courtesy, I knew that old habits, and old attitudes, die hard.
Mom would have smoothed things over. I missed her, and wished she and Dad could have come to the wedding.
“Getting tired?” Tony asked from behind me.
“Sorry,” I said, picking up my pace. “I was wool-gathering.”
Shaking away the sadness, I looked up toward the cliffs, their layers of red and gold brilliant in the morning sun. They were easier to admire from this direction, and I could see some of the ranch buildings as well. Other trails crawled all over the hillsides, every which way. I spotted half a dozen other hikers scattered across the mesa on various trails.
By the time we reached the Staff House, I was ready for a big glass of something cold. We continued past it to the dining hall, where a few early-birds had lined up outside the cafeteria door, which was not yet open. In the dining hall itself, coffee and tea were always available. We walked on toward our room, and I sighed gratefully to be back inside, out of the sun. I splashed some cold water on my face and brushed my hair, then changed my boots for more comfortable sneakers.
A loud thump made me look up sharply. Tony was in the bathroom.
“Was that you?” I called.
He stepped out, frowning. “No.”
A tinkle of distant laughter—a woman’s laugh—made the frown deepen.
I tiptoed (as much as one can in boots) to the doorway of the second room. Outside the window on the south side, several people were listening to a tour guide. Two teens, a boy and a girl, were sitting at one of the patio tables, and the boy was leaning his chair back on two legs. Beyond them, a thin woman with straight, cropped auburn hair and a dour expression looked in through the window at me.
I pulled the door closed. Henceforth, I’d keep the curtains in that room drawn. I glanced toward the window by our bed. Those curtains were closed, but now I felt self-conscious.
“We must make the bed,” I said.
Tony gave me a quizzical look. “You never just throw the covers over it? Even on weekends?”
“Humor me,” I said, fluffing my pillow.
With two of us, it was easy to tidy the bed. I didn’t insist on its being picture perfect, but as it was the most comfortable piece of furniture we had, I preferred that it be presentable. When I was satisfied, I picked up my purse and cautiously opened the door. The walking tour had progressed to the library, up the road. Tony and I locked our room and headed for the dining hall.
The line was now moving, and delicious smells were emanating from the kitchen. Lunch was green chile cheeseburgers, with a veggie burger option. I chose the real thing, and added a salad from the salad bar. Out on the condiments table were two kinds of dessert: chocolate pudding and Jell-o. There was also a soup bar in one corner of the hall that smelled interesting. Wishing there were trays, I served myself a bowl of tortilla soup and promised myself a dessert later. With hands full, I looked for a place to sit.
The football fan and his family were at the far end of the hall, near the wall of river rock. I could hear Football Fan’s voice over all the other conversations in the room. He was debating the relative merits of the Texans and the Cowboys with the same middle-aged Anglo guy, who today was sporting a Cowboys T-shirt and a ball cap with an American flag on the front, worn backward over his buzz-cut.
Suppressing a wince at the violation of flag etiquette, not to mention everyday etiquette, I looked at Tony. “Want to sit outside?”
“Sure.”
He opened the nearest door for me and I found a shady seat at one of the picnic tables on the long, south-facing portal. In summer time it might be too hot there at midday, but in January it was pretty pleasant. It was also blissfully quiet; the few other people outside kept their voices low.
Tony sat across from me. I glanced at his orange Jell-o and quirked an eyebrow.
“Don’t judge,” he said, and spooned up a bite right then.
“I’m not. Childhood favorite?”
“Oh, man, we lived on the stuff. Mama made two batches every day in summer time.”
Jell-o was cheaper than ice cream. I kept that reflection to myself.
Tony had two sisters. I pictured his mother, a young widow, with two teens and an almost-teen to feed. It must have been tough.
I went back for a tall glass of iced tea, and picked up a bowl of chocolate pudding on my way back.
“Do you think your mom might like to do my hair for the wedding?” I said, as I settled in again.
Tony, who had just taken a huge bite of his burger, chewed thoughtfully for a while. “I know for a fact,” he said when he’d swallowed, “that she’s hoping you’ll ask.”
“Oh, good. I didn’t want to presume, but I thought ...”
“Yes. And don’t even suggest paying her. She’d be offended.”
“Well, OK.”
The cheeseburgers were tasty enough, though not as good as Blake’s. The soup was excellent. I ate my salad and drank my tea, enjoying the view and the peaceful atmosphere. Apart from the voices of those around me, the chatter of the birds in the trees, and the sound of an occasional car going by on the ranch road, it was beautifully quiet here. I felt myself relaxing. Something tight in my gut—of which I hadn’t been aware—was slowly unwinding. It felt good.
I had finished my burger, salad, and soup, and was ready for pudding. “Think I’ll get some coffee,” I said. “Want anything?”
Tony shook his head, mouth full of Jell-o.
“Be right back.”
I collected our empty dishes, leaving my pudding behind. Dropping the plates at the dishwashing window, I walked over to the coffee and tea station and encountered Mrs. Football Fan, who was browsing the teabags, pulling out each drawer and inspecting the bags in foil pouches, though the drawers were labeled with the varieties they contained. She was dressed in tight jeans, a pale gold sweater, and a long overshirt printed with black and white zig-zag designs in a vaguely tribal-looking style. She glanced up at me, and I gave her a smile.
“Not your favorite brand?”
She did a slight eyeroll. “Not even close,” she said in a low voice. It wasn’t a mumble; her diction was perfect, reinforcing my impression that her education had included substantial “polish.”
“I’m a tea drinker, myself, usually, but coffee sounded good with chocolate pudding.”
She turned an interested look on me. “Tea drinker?”
“Yes,” I said as I filled a mug with coffee. “Actually, I brought a little kettle and some loose tea, so I could make it in my room.”
“I wish I’d thought of that.” She sighed as she selected a teabag, put it into her cup, and added hot water from the coffee machine. Steam rose from the cup, a good sign—most coffee makers didn’t get water hot enough to brew tea.
“I could make you some, if you’d like,” I said. “I brought plenty. I’m Ellen, by the way. Ellen Rosings.”
Again the appraising gaze. “That’s kind of you,” she said, and set down her cup to offer a hand. “Lisette Roan.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking hands. Her grip was feather-light, her skin soft and a bit cold. I noticed her manicure was perfect: a subtly-frosted plum.
“Is this your first visit to New Mexico?” I asked.
She hesitated briefly, then said, simply, “Yes.”
“Well, I hope you’re enjoying it. And I meant it about the tea. I’d be happy to make you some.”
“Perhaps later.” She gave me a brief smile, then picked up her cup and walked toward the back of the hall.
Standoffish, or just shy? I knew I sometimes gave the impression of snobbery when I was simply feeling timid. I took my coffee back to the portal, where Tony was looking at his phone.
“Expecting a call?”
He looked up as I resumed my seat. “Nah, just killing time.”
“You’re not bored, are you?”
“No.” He put the phone down and made a show of admiring the view.
I ate a bite of pudding. It was made fresh, not spooned from a can, and tasted as wonderful as chocolate pudding could be without being pot de crème. A sip of coffee complemented it nicely.
“Good food here,” I remarked.
“Yeah. Not fancy, but good.”
A burst of shouting from inside the dining hall had Tony on his feet in a second. He went to the nearest window, then his tense stance relaxed.
“It’s that guy—”
“Football Fan?”
“Uh-huh.”
Tony remained at the window, still on half-alert, listening. The voices argued on, but at a lower volume. Finally a stomping tread preceded the emergence of the guy with the execrable flag hat, his face nearly as red as the stripes, from the door at the end of the hall. He continued to the road, where his angry steps raised little puffs of dust.
Tony’s eyes narrowed as he watched, and I wondered what he was thinking. Determining the likelihood that the guy was armed? Evaluating risk of violence?
Sympathizing?
I sighed, turning back to my dessert. The coffee was now lukewarm, and I drank a big swallow before it got any colder. I savored the last of the pudding, then got up to take my dishes inside.
Tony came back to the table. “I’ll get that,” he said, taking the pudding bowl and stacking it with his empty Jell-o bowl. He held out a hand for my coffee cup, but I kept it.
“I’m getting seconds,” I said.
Tony frowned, opened his mouth, then shut it again and headed into the hall, keeping in front of me.
Oh, my. Was this chivalry? Kind of gave me a warm feeling.
I glanced toward the back of the room. Football Fan has settled down, now that his shouting partner was gone. No doubt everyone in the room was relieved.
I glimpsed his wife—Lisette, I reminded myself—saying something to her son, who was seated beside her. Too far away to read her expression, but her body language was tight, controlled.
I fetched myself a half-cup of coffee and gulped it down, since Tony was waiting on me. I wanted the caffeine, because I felt inclined to take a siesta, and I knew we didn’t have time.
“When do we need to check in for the tour?” Tony asked as we headed back to our room.
“Twelve forty-five.”
Roughly half an hour. The bus would pick us up at the Georgia O’Keeffe Welcome Center by the Abiquiu Inn. The drive over there wouldn’t take long; we had a few minutes to relax. I sat on the bed and glanced at my phone in case there were any urgent messages. There weren’t, so I put it down and lay back. Then I got up, went to the Room of Many Chairs and closed all the curtains before returning to the bed.
Tony took out his phone and looked at it, then glanced at me and put it back in his pocket. He started pacing the room. I watched him for a minute, then decided to offer him some diversion.
“Want to go a little early and look at the gift shop?”
“Sure,” he said.
I collected the tickets I had printed out, tucked them into my purse, and decided to leave my sweater behind. It was a pleasant day, and we’d be inside for a lot of the tour. My long-sleeved shirt would be warm enough.
We locked up and hopped in the car, and in a few minutes we pulled into the parking lot at the Abiquiu Inn. Quite a few cars were there, but I found the last empty parking space near the welcome center and tucked my car into it.
The Georgia O’Keeffe Welcome Center—a giant, gray cube of a structure—could not have been more different than the sprawling adobe complex of the Inn. Though it was winter, the bare-branched cottonwood trees still provided a soft backdrop for the Inn. The welcome center had no such visual relief.
We went in and gave our names to the receptionist, who invited us to watch a short film about O’Keeffe in a small room off the lobby. Tony shrugged when I asked if he wanted to see it, which I interpreted as interest that was marginal at best. He was looking at his phone, scrolling the screen, by which I deduced that there was cell connectivity here.
“Let’s look at the shop first,” I said.
The gift shop was full of books, posters, calendars, little gifty-things, and of course, prints of O’Keeffe’s artwork. I browsed the books, and looked over a shelf of dishes including teapots, along with a stack of square canisters of tea labeled “Hu-Kwa,” which rang a bell. I picked one up and looked more closely; ah, yes—a famous Lapsang Souchong. I considered getting a canister for Kris, filed it under “maybe,” and continued browsing. If I bought anything, I would wait until we got back so I didn’t have to carry a package around on the tour.
Tony had settled by the books, and was looking at his phone again. I pretended not to notice.
The entertaining aspects of the gift shop exhausted, I collected Tony and headed back to the lobby, where we admired some historic photos displayed on the walls, and poked our heads briefly into the movie room. By then, it was almost time to get on the bus, and I drifted toward the front doors with Tony in my wake. Before I got there, the doors burst open and in came Football Fan and family.
“Where’s the damn bus?” said Football Fan in a voice that filled the cavernous lobby. He stormed toward the reception desk, followed closely by Lisette and at a distance by their son, wearing earbuds and staring at his phone as he shuffled after them.
Football Fan began a loud complaint, but Lisette swiftly intervened, and the murmuring voices that followed were indistinguishable. I looked at Tony and found him watching me.
“Oh, boy,” he said.
I sighed.
My faint hope that Football Fan was just escorting his family to the tour rendezvous and wouldn’t actually be accompanying them evaporated when he pushed his way to the front of the line as the small tour bus arrived. Lisette shot me a glance as she followed, half apologetic, half defiant. Resigned, I boarded the bus and took the farthest seat possible from the family, which put me and Tony at the back of the bus.
Tony seemed not to care. He was already resigned to a couple of hours of boredom, I supposed. I, on the other hand, had been looking forward to this tour, and hoped my enjoyment of it wouldn’t be ruined.
Another dozen or so people joined us, filling the bus. I relaxed a bit when it was full, and realized I’d been bracing for the guy with the flag hat to arrive and complete my joy.
The tour guide stood at the front and began his narration as the driver pulled onto the highway. The drive was short, less than a mile to the turnoff that led to the tiny village of Abiquiu proper. The bus swung sharply around and climbed a steep hill. The guide grabbed a support pole and continued talking without missing a beat. He must have done this many times.
Adobe walls hid most of the buildings from view. We passed the village church, which was in the traditional Spanish mission style and impressively large. No doubt many of the parishioners lived in the surrounding hills and the river valley.
The bus drove through a gate in an adobe wall and into a large parking lot. Gardens to the south, enclosed by more walls, were almost as large as O’Keeffe’s home itself, a sprawling group of single-story adobe structures perched atop the bluff overlooking the Chama River valley. I’d read in the O’Keeffe biography that it had once been a convent, and had been long disused when O’Keeffe first sought to buy it from the church, a negotiation that had taken a while.
We left the bus and gathered around while the guide talked about the architecture. Football Fan’s son was still absorbed in his phone, until his father gave him a buffet on the shoulder and ordered him to put it away. This struck me as unlike the father, and I looked for Lisette, wondering if she had asked him to intervene. From her frown, I gathered not.
I was frowning too, I realized. That buffet had been close to a blow. The boy now looked sulky; the glance he shot his father edged with fear.
Disturbing, but none of my business. Nothing had occurred that merited a stranger’s intervention. I shook it off and returned my attention to the guide as he led us into the garden.
“The water comes from the village’s acequia,” he told us, pointing out the small irrigation ditches—more like brick-lined troughs, really—that ran through the vegetable plots and a small orchard. The gardens were impressive. I knew from the book that O’Keeffe had planted them because she’d grown tired of eating canned fruits and vegetables, and because traveling to a grocery in Santa Fe had been unreliable in winter.
How different things were now. Santa Fe was an easy drive today; only the most extreme weather could interfere with travel along the paved roads that had not existed when O’Keeffe came to live here.
The guide led us through a doorway into an enclosed patio, and suddenly we were standing in an O’Keeffe painting. Several paintings, rather—she had painted this place many times. The guide pointed out the small, squarish door that had featured in a number of the paintings—according to one quote, O’Keeffe said she’d bought the house because of that door.
I gazed at that side of the building, taking in the straight lines of roof and walls, the stepping stones that had become abstract little squares in at least one painting, the bright blue of the sky above the pale brown adobe. Of course such sights would appeal to an artist.
For a moment I wished I had brought Julio with me. Maybe I’d give him a gift of this tour, if he seemed interested. He had painted Vi for me, after all.
In the center of the patio stood Abstraction, a large and famous sculpture O’Keeffe had created in her later years, when failing eyesight had limited her ability to paint. Several castings existed.
After giving us a few minutes to take in the patio, and take photos, which were allowed outside but not inside the house, the tour guide shepherded us indoors. The house had been restored to its condition when O’Keeffe had left it, with furnishings and fixtures preserved. Rocks that she had collected on hikes and journeys lined the windowsills. The dining table she had designed—little more than a long plank of wood resting on sawhorses—stood beneath the large, white globe of a Japanese lantern, the gift of a friend.
In the pantry and kitchen, jars of herbs and goods from the garden lined shelves to the ceiling. Several teapots stood on one shelf, and I commented aloud on them.
“Yes, O’Keeffe preferred tea to coffee,” said the guide. “She drank it every evening. This was her favorite kind; she had it imported especially.” He gestured to a canister of Lapsang Souchong like the ones in the gift shop.
Aha! Well, now I had to buy some.
Lisette caught my eye across the room and smiled. I smiled back. She seemed more relaxed now, and I realized her husband and son were no longer with us. I verified this by looking at everyone in the group: two couples—one older, one young and Hispanic, three middle-aged white women who appeared to be together, a tall, thin, silent man who reminded me a little of my neighbor Bob Hutchins, and a solitary woman with short hair of a dullish red-brown who looked rather familiar. Maybe I’d seen her in the dining hall at Ghost Ranch.
If I knew Tony, he had probably noticed Football Fan’s absence as well. He seemed unconcerned, so I dismissed a worry that father and son had ventured into some room where we weren’t allowed to go. No doubt the tour guide would be on watch for such transgressions.
A workroom beyond the kitchen was long and low-ceilinged, filled with indirect light from large, north-facing windows. White geraniums and a large jade plant stood by these, enjoying the daylight.
“This plant is descended from one that O’Keeffe kept here. After she moved to Santa Fe, that plant died of neglect, but her dear friend and assistant Juan Hamilton saved some cuttings and started new ones. This came from one of those cuttings, and you can get plants started from this one in the gift shop.”
Ka-ching. I had to have a jade plant descended from O’Keeffe’s. I wondered if they were selling geraniums, too.
The guide led us outside into another little garden, this one for pleasure rather than produce. To the north stood another adobe building, which the guide invited us to enter through a narrow doorway. This, he told us proudly, was O’Keeffe’s studio.
Beyond a short entryway, the building opened out into a long room with huge picture windows to the north, the giant cousin of the sunny kitchen workroom. The indirect light would be an artist’s dream, and the view of the Chama River valley, with long bluffs to the west and the river bosque below, was breathtaking. Even without leaves, the trees of the bosque had a ghostly beauty. In summer, and especially in autumn when the cottonwoods would turn golden, they must be stunning.
More rocks along the window sills here, and just outside stood a large wooden stump also covered with rocks. The guide pointed out work tables where O’Keeffe framed her pictures, and tools she had used. I was less interested in these than in the room itself and its sparse furnishings, which included a lounge chair of a particular style that she had preferred. A small sculpture—another of her famous works, this one early—stood on a glass coffee table.
The guide pointed out O’Keeffe’s private bedroom through a small doorway to the east, but did not allow us to go in. Instead he led us outside, past the rock-covered stump, along the windows to one that looked into the small bedroom. More rocks and a few bits of art were the only decoration. She had pared her life down to necessities, and while she didn’t stint on her own comfort, there were very few superfluous objects in the house.
The little bedroom was a bit of a let-down—a small finish to an extraordinary place. Such was life, however; in her final years, O’Keeffe had produced less and less art. She had moved to Santa Fe not because it was (by then) a center of the Southwestern art world, but in order to be closer to medical care.
The tour was over. I stood looking out over the valley, smelling the familiar scent of sun-baked New Mexico soil and the evergreen esters of piñon and juniper. What a life this remarkable woman had led, much of it in defiance of convention. She had done things that women like myself now took for granted—living alone, conducting her own business, not to mention her ambition to be an artist—but when she had done them she’d been a rebel.
The guide made his final remarks, then headed for the waiting bus, leaving us to return in our own time. Tony joined me and looked over the valley.
“Enjoy it?” he asked.
“Oh, yes! I hope you weren’t bored.”
“No—it was interesting.”
I smiled. “I noticed you weren’t glued to your phone.”
“Yeah, well—no bars up here.”
I verified this by taking out my own phone, then shot a few pictures of the valley and the house. I wanted some durable memories of this lovely, interesting day. Hoping to get a picture of the gardens, because I hadn’t been taking pictures at the beginning of the tour, I strolled back to the gate and snapped a few over the wall. Gazing into the oasis of green, I pictured O’Keeffe walking through the orchard, picking an apricot or a plum from the trees.
A familiar loud voice jarred me out of my reverie.
“Get on that bus! You’re lucky I don’t ground your ass!”
Football Fan and his son were coming toward us from the village end of the parking lot. The boy protested, “I didn’t go in there until you did!”
“Yeah, but you the one got us kicked out!”
“But the sign said—”
Football Fan aimed a clout at his son. This time the boy ducked. His father grabbed him by his jacket and shoved him forward, almost pushing him into Tony.
“Out of the way, Pedro,” the man said, glowering.
My heart stood still for a second. Tony, stone-faced, stood his ground. Football Fan frowned, but pulled his son away, propelling him toward the bus.
I exhaled in relief, looking at Tony. There was cold fury in his eyes, then he noticed me and shook it off.
“Jerk,” he said, turning his back on the bus.
I looked for Lisette. She was hurrying toward the bus, a stricken expression on her face.
Anger settled in the pit of my stomach; I was certain now that Football Fan was physically abusive toward his child.
Most of the others on the tour had already boarded the bus. The few who remained wore grim faces; they had noted Football Fan’s behavior. The short-haired woman gazed after Lisette with narrowed eyes, her mouth a thin line. Tony and I boarded, brushing past Football Fan who had claimed the front row, supposedly reserved for handicapped passengers. We found seats in the back, and soon the bus started off on the brief journey back to the welcome center.
The tour guide gave us a wrap-up speech during the drive. I confess it didn’t register; I was worrying about the boy and his mother. Nothing I could do, except continue to be vigilant. Tony openly watched the father and son, sharing the front row while Lisette had taken a seat in the row behind them. Except for once leaning forward to say something in a low voice to her husband, who ignored her, she sat rigidly silent.
The family were first off the bus, and to my relief they headed for the parking lot rather than going into the welcome center. I returned to the gift shop and collected two tins of O’Keeffe’s favorite tea and a tiny jade plant: no more than a couple of leaves in a little two-inch pot; no wonder I hadn’t noticed them the first time. It being January, the calendars were all on sale. I waffled between a wall calendar and a weekly planner, then decided to get both. What the heck. They were discounted, and filled with beautiful O’Keeffe art. In fact, I grabbed a second planner as a gift for Nat, then carried my haul up to the register to check out. The clerk put my purchases into an elegant gray cloth shopping bag and tucked some tissue paper around the jade plant’s pot to protect it.
Tony was waiting in the lobby, and swiftly pocketed his phone as I emerged from the gift shop.
“You’re allowed to look at your phone,” I said.
“I’d rather look at you,” he said, taking the bag out of my hand.
“Thanks.” I dug my keys out of my pocket and unlocked the car. “Would you mind keeping hold of that so it doesn’t tip over? There’s a plant in there.”
Tony peered into the bag. “OK.”
He tucked it between his feet in the foot well. I drove back to Ghost Ranch at a leisurely pace. The dashboard clock said 2:37. I’d have time to relax with some tea, unless Tony was hot for another hike. I hoped he wasn’t; it was warmer now, and I was a little tired.
“Mind if I leave you alone for a couple hours?” he asked as I parked the car. “There’s a game on.”
I smiled. “Not at all. You sussed out a TV?”
“There’s one in the cantina,” he said, gesturing up the road. “It’s just past the dining hall.”
“A cantina? That’s a surprise! Does it have a bar?”
“I think it’s more of a meeting room, actually,” Tony said. “This place doesn’t have any bars.”
“Of any kind,” I added.
“Ha, ha.” Tony unlocked our room. “Do you want to come, too?”
I shook my head. “Not really a football fan. Speaking of which—if that man is there...”
“Don’t worry. He’s not worth the trouble,” Tony assured me, though he looked a bit stony. “You sure you won’t be bored?”
I lifted the shopping bag. “I have amusements. And I might take a shower.”
“Great.” He tossed his hat onto the dresser, then caught me around the waist.
I hastily set down the bag so I could return his embrace. He kissed me breathless, grinned, and headed for the door. “See you in a bit.”
“Have fun,” I called as the door closed.
Football.
I shrugged. It was good to have some alone time. We really didn’t need to be joined at the hip.
Really. We didn’t.
Come on, Ellen. Who was just wishing for some down time?
It was partly worry. Football Fan had offered Tony a pretty bald insult, and I knew how angry Tony could get. But I had to trust him. He had excellent discipline, I reminded myself. He’d be all right.
I put the kettle on and spread my purchases out on the bed, admiring them. I wasn’t sure how much water jade trees liked—I’d have to look it up—but the soil seemed awfully dry so I gave it a little water and set it on a chair in the Room of Many Chairs, saving the tissue paper for the trip home.
Should I brew some of the Lapsang Souchong? I decided I wasn’t up for it, and instead got out the little tin of Assam that I’d brought. Lemon would have made it a perfect afternoon refreshment, but alas I had only a bit of raw sugar.
I hadn’t noticed any lemon in the dining hall. There was the snack bar in the visitor center; maybe I could snag a slice of lemon there. I turned off the kettle, which hadn’t yet boiled, and grabbed my sweater.
A path led between the south side of the Ghost House and the O’Keeffe Cottage (even smaller than the Ghost House), up the hill toward some of the other “casitas” and older ranch buildings, and along the hilltop to the welcome center. I thought that would be preferable to walking down the road and up the long, uneven steps. As I came around the west side of the Ghost House, where the public entrance was, I decided to go inside just for a minute.
While the walled courtyard was spacious, this part of the old house, just like our part, was small, with narrow, rectangular rooms and thick adobe walls. The main room was the largest, and probably the oldest. To the south, with a step down, was a smaller room with its long dimension at right angles to the main room. In one corner was a kiva fireplace, blocked. Maybe the only fireplace on the ranch that wasn’t blocked was the one in the dining hall.
I went back to the main room, where the walls were covered with historic photos of various buildings around the ranch and of Arthur and Phoebe Pack, early owners who had made Ghost Ranch a successful dude ranch and eventually left it to the Presbyterian Church. I did not read all of the captions, but those I read enlightened me somewhat.
The Packs were not the first owners. In fact, the first people to live on the ranch land were the Archuleta brothers, who had built the adobe house I was standing in, and who had been notorious for rustling cattle.
Charming.
I glanced at the other captions, looking for an explanation of the Ghost House’s name, but didn’t find one. I decided this was enough history for now. I wanted my tea.
Emerging, I looked eastward across the courtyard wall, toward the big, open field. If there had been many children here I would have expected to see them playing there, but Lisette’s boy was the only child I had seen at the ranch. I wondered if he liked football.
The Superbowl was coming up, wasn’t it? So the games this month would be exciting and important to enthusiasts. Of whom my fiancé was apparently one.
Beyond the field were two long, single-story buildings that I recognized. The one on the north end was the Staff House, where Tony and I had found the trailhead for our hike. As I looked at it, a man in cowboy duds came out of the building. He was not the red-headed cowboy; he was a little shorter, a little more barrel-chested. I couldn’t tell at that distance, but something about his shape made me think he was the redhead's partner. He started toward me, which made me nervous until I remembered the map, which showed the stables west of the welcome center.
Welcome center, yes. I hastened up the path, and saw that it branched. One side continued up to a small parking lot surrounded by several casitas, each with more than one door. I followed the other branch to the left and along the hilltop to the main building.
The snack bar was closed, and I saw no sign of lemon there. In the dining area, which had some wrought-iron patio furniture, was a widescreen TV against the wall, playing a video about Ghost Ranch for an absent audience.
The trading post was open, staffed by a solitary cashier—an older man in a plaid shirt and jeans, bored and maybe a little sulky at having to work during The Game, which was playing without volume on a small TV by the register. The shop’s only other occupant was Lisette Roan, standing in front of a rack of chips and candy, staring blankly at the array.