Beverly Byrne (25 page)

While
he walked it occurred to Rick that he'd left something out of the question he'd
been pondering. What about love? Wasn't that the best underpinning of a
relationship between a man and a woman? Not for me, he thought. He had loved
Margarita, whose childlike innocence and simplicity had delighted him. She was
dead and he doubted that such a girl would ever again attract him. He was older
and wiser and he wanted different things. As for Amy, that was madness. She was
another man's wife. To Tommy Westerman belonged her gaminlike beauty, the
intensity of feeling that spilled from her dark eyes, and her quick-silver
laugh. "I hope to hell he appreciates them," Ibanez muttered into the
night.

The
Westermans' bedroom was high in the corner of the house that boasted a second
story. One window opened onto a small balcony overlooking the patio and was
curtained by the branches of the gum tree. Amy had pruned them to let in light
and air. Now when she stepped out it was as if she were standing in the very
heart of the tree. If Tommy was away with the range crew, she went to the balcony
each morning at dawn, and remembered the gum's brief season of bloom. She
watched the sunrise, and imagined that she could yet see the tree afire.

By
early June she thought she was pregnant again. She had suspected as much for
some time, and she drove into Santa Fe to see if  Rick would confirm it.

"Yes,"
he told her after a simple examination. "I'm fairly certain. About three
months perhaps."

"I
thought so."

He
cocked his head and studied her. "It's very soon after Kate. You're
looking pale. I wish you had waited."

She
studied her hands and twisted her wedding ring. "Tommy wants more
children."

Rick
gave her a tonic she was to take regularly, and made no further comment. They
left the office together, and Amy was surprised to see the waiting room empty.

"What's
happened? An epidemic of good health?"

"I
wish it was," he chuckled. "No, I go to see my daughter on Thursday
afternoons. My patients know that. "

He
walked with her to the courtyard. His car, a Pierce-Arrow, was being repaired.
Rick remarked that today he'd have to ride horseback to the convent.

"I
have Tommy's flivver," Amy said quickly. "He's away and Kate's with
Maria. I can give you a lift. Unless you'd rather see your daughter
alone."

"No,
I would love you to meet her. I'm delighted." Even as he spoke Rick cursed
himself for a fool. Inviting Amy into the private parts of his life was folly.
He knew it, but he was nonetheless grateful for the pleasure of the moment.

He
took the wheel and they drove west into the foothills. Finally they came to a
small walled convent nestled amid towering spruce trees and topped by a
belltower and a cross. "It's a different world up here," Amy said.

"Yes,
New Mexico is a place of many contrasts."

Inside
they were greeted by soft-voiced, sweet-faced nuns. robed not in black, as Amy
expected, but in dark brown. "We call them
las Carmelitas
,"
Rick explained. "Officially, the Carmelite Sisters of Divine Hope. They
came from Spain about fifty years ago."

They
were shown into a stiff little parlor, with hard-backed chairs and a large
wooden crucifix as its only adornment, and Estella was brought to them.

Amy
thought it an austere setting for a four-year-old, but the little girl seemed
happy enough. She was, however, sniffling and feverish, and Rick diagnosed the
onset of grippe. He gave her some medicine and decreed that she must be put to
bed. A shy young nun, with the face of an angel and an accent that indicated
her recent arrival from Madrid, gathered the little girl into her arms and lisped
small comforting words in the ancient tongue.

"Thank
you, Sister Angelina," Rick said. "I will return in a day or two to
see how she is." The nun dropped a graceful old-world curtsy and carried
the child away.

Outside
Amy said, "You're sure she's better off here than home with you and a
housekeeper?"

"I'm
sure," he said. "Life cannot be kind for a motherless child, but  
las
Carmelitas
are much better than any housekeeper I could provide. My wife
would prefer it like this, I think."

"Did
you love her very much?" Amy asked softly. Then, "Forgive me, that's
an impertinent question."

"Don't
apologize, the pain is an old one. I've learned to live with it. And yes, I
loved her very much."

They
stood for a moment looking at the mountains. I am replacing old griefs with new
ones, Rick thought as they got into the car. Still he asked, "What are you
doing tomorrow?"

"Nothing
unusual," Amy said.

"It's
a holiday, June thirteenth, San Antonio day. I won't have any patients."
He looked at her with a trace of shyness. "I wonder if you would come on
an excursion with me."

Amy's
smile lit her face. Being with Rick was one of the nicest things she knew. It
didn't occur to her that her reaction might not be proper for a married lady.
She had too much unhappiness in her life to question small allotments of joy.
"I'd love to," she said. "Where will we go?"

"I'll
tell you tomorrow. I want it to be a surprise." His smile was as warm as
her own, and his dark eyes danced with pleasure. "We'll have to leave very
early. I'll be at your place an hour after sunup. We won't get back until late.
Will Kate be all right?"

"Maria
is marvelous with her. She'll be fine without me for one day."

The
feast day dawned bright and sunny. Amy waited for Rick by the gate. He drove up
in the repaired Pierce-Arrow and jumped out to help her in. "What's
this?" he asked, spying the hamper by her feet.

"A
picnic. You said we'd be gone all day."

"Marvelous!
I never thought about what we'd eat."

"And
drink," she said, indicating a bottle of red wine.

They
drove west on deserted dirt roads that cut across a broad and featureless
plateau. The morning was still, not yet too hot, and full of promise.
Contentedly they shared silence. At one point they stopped at a small roadside
restaurant for an early lunch. "We can save our picnic for later,"
Rick said.

They
ate quickly, then resumed their journey. At length they came to a landscape of
crags and scarps tumbling into a wide valley. "This is Chaco Canyon,"
Rick told her. "And what you see are the deserted pueblos of the Anasazi,
descendents of the earliest people in this corner of the world. You may have
heard them referred to as Basketmakers."

Amy
stared around her in astonishment. It was early afternoon. The air was clear
and brittle, and the sun rode high over fantastic cliff dwellings scattered
across a dark. stony landscape. Rick stopped the car near one free-standing
cluster of buildings. "Pueblo Bonito," he said. "Come."

The
pueblo was built of neat sandstone slabs, laid with precision and an artist's
eye. It rose many feet into the sky and had its back to a cliff, but did not
lean against it. Access to the upper floors was by ladders. Some looked new and
safe, others as if a touch would cause them to fall to dust.
"Archeologists are working to restore it," Rick said. "They've
been at it since 1896."

"It
must be a formidable undertaking," she said softly. "It's huge."

"They
say in its heyday Pueblo Bonito housed twelve hundred people in eight hundred
rooms and covered close to three acres."

She
arched her neck and twisted her head to look at the great semicircle of
prodigious effort surrounding them. "When did they build it?" she
asked. "And where have they gone?"

"It
probably was started around the year 750, and reached its peak soon after 1200.
As to where the builders went"-he shrugged-"that is New Mexico's
greatest mystery. The Basketmakers achieved all this, and suddenly, for no
reason we can discover, they packed their things and left. There is no evidence
of fighting or destruction, no mass burials to signify an outbreak of plague or
disease. There is only what you see. "

They
walked through small square rooms with hard-packed earthen floors and simple
rectangular doors looking out to the courtyard and the dazzling sun. In some
places the restoration was incomplete and the skeleton of the pueblo showed. It
was constructed of pine timbers topped with peeled branches and split bark. The
covering of earth that finished each floor was four inches thick. The whole
layered assembly provided the ceiling of the room below.

"They've
had to stop work here now," Rick said. "The war."

"But
they'll continue when the war is over, won't they?" It pained her to think
of this magnificence left to fall once more to ruin.

"I
hope so. I dream that one day many people will come to Chaco Canyon. America
can never be strong unless it understands all the different roots that make up
the whole." He grinned and looked a bit embarrassed. "It's getting
late, past time for philosophy. The
kiva
will have to wait for next
time."

Reluctantly
she followed him back to the car. "What is a
kiva
?"

"Next
time," he repeated.

When
they were driving once more Amy asked, "Are you saying that this is where
Diego and Maria and all the other Pueblo Indians came from?"

"Yes.
Many places like this. Pueblo Bonito is only one site. When they left, for
whatever reason, they settled along the Rio Grande. I think it was water they
were seeking. Maybe there was a year-long drought. Maybe that's why they
deserted the cliffs for the river."

"It
sounds logical," she said. "I'll bet you're right."

He
glanced at her and hesitated for a moment. "While we're on the subject of
water-is there any point in asking if you can talk to your husband about this
current business?"

Amy
took off her hat and let the breeze ruffle her hair. "What business?"

He
shot her a quick look. "Don't you know?"

She
shook her head.

"Tommy's
got Lopez working on breaking the treaty that gives rights to the waterhole to
the two ranches adjoining yours. If he succeeds, they're finished. That's one
of the reasons I wanted to show you Pueblo Bonito. Because whatever you manage
to achieve out here, if you can't get water, you're doomed."

Amy
felt suborned. She'd thought he only wanted to share with her something remarkable
and beautiful. Rick seemed to read her thoughts. "It wasn't the main
reason I brought you here," he added. "I enjoy seeing all this
through your eyes."

"Thank
you for saying that."

"I
mean it. But I meant the question too. Can you talk to your husband? There's
always been enough water for all three ranches. Why must it change now?"

"I
don't know. But I have no influence over Tommy any more. Partly it's his leg.
He's always been at a disadvantage because of it. Now he can ride as well as
any man, better than most. On a horse he's totally mobile for the first time in
his life. Somehow he's drunk with that freedom."

"I
understand."

 "Sometimes
I do too. Other times I'm not sure." He didn't answer because there was
nothing he could say. The silence between them grew awkward. To fill it Amy
began telling him of Africa and Jericho and her girlhood. Rick listened quietly
and didn't interrupt until they came to a good place to stop and picnic.
"I'm starved," he said. "How about you?"

"Ravenous.
"

It was
early evening. The fierce heat of the day had spent itself, and left behind the
comforting warmth that preceded the chill of night. Amy unpacked the hamper.
She'd brought ham and potato salad and cornbread, and ripe juicy tomatoes and
tangy pickles. "What a feast!" Rick exclaimed. Then he was too busy
eating to talk. "
Estupendo
," he said finally. "In other
words, magnificent."