A Black Place and a White Place

by Patrice Greenwood

  Too late. He was awake, and with a sleepy groan he sat up, letting cold air into the bed.

  “Time’s breakfast end?” he mumbled.

  “Eight-thirty,” I said.

  “Mm.” He shuffled off to the bathroom.

  I reached for my phone to check the time. Almost eight. Time to rise. We needed to be dressed, fed, and ready to ride by ten.

  The music was fading away, shredding into ghost-like wisps. It had run through my dreams, I remembered, but I couldn’t remember what the dreams were about.

  I got out of bed and bumped up the thermostat, then got out my clothes for the day. Might as well dress in the riding clothes—except for the boots. Sneakers were more comfortable for walking around.

  Outside, the sky was overcast, and the air distinctly cool. I went back for my coat, then matched Tony’s stride as we headed for the dining hall.

  We made it to breakfast with ten minutes to spare. Tony loaded a plate with biscuits and gravy. I opted for eggs and hash browns with a side of fruit.

  The hall was fairly full, but more quiet than usual. The murmur of voices was not augmented by the loud tones of Wesley Roan. I looked around and spotted Lisette and Jeremy seated near the fireplace. No Wesley.

  Tony led me to the nearest open table. I hurried through my breakfast, watching for a chance to catch Lisette near the drinks, but she didn’t get up from her table until she was ready to leave. She and her son turned in their dishes and went out the far door. If she ever glanced my way, I couldn’t tell, because she’d kept her sunglasses on.

  The breakfast line had closed down. Feeling chilly, I went back for seconds on coffee, and sat nursing it while Tony finished devouring his heap of biscuits. A few others lingered over their food and coffee.

  I took out my map to remind myself of how to get to the stables. There were a bunch of buildings between the dining hall and the corrals, but it looked like we could cut through the welcome center and shorten the walk.

  We went back to our room to change into boots and collect hats for the ride. I had brought heavy socks, which I hoped would be enough to protect my heels from blisters on the walk. I seldom wore the boots, so they were still rather stiff.

  I filled my water bottle. Dad had drummed it into me to always carry water in the desert, even on a short hike. Hat and coat, sunglasses in case the cloud cover blew off, and I was ready.

  Tony demanded a long kiss before opening the door. Still tingling, I walked with him to the welcome center. The snack bar was again closed, with a sign instructing anyone who wanted to buy a drink or one of the box lunches on display (sandwich and chips) to go to the trading post.

  “You know what? I’m going to hit the restroom,” Tony said.

  “OK. I’ll wait here.”

  The snack bar had three empty wrought-iron café tables, with chairs. I admired the movie posters on the walls, all from projects I thought were filmed at least partly in New Mexico, maybe here at the ranch. The widescreen TV was not playing its video at the moment. Next to it, I noticed a computer and printer on a small desk. The equivalent of a hotel’s business center, I realized.

  Maybe I could use the computer to look up the meaning of Ghost Ranch’s name. I went over to it and poked the keyboard. It woke up, so I sat in the chair and brought up a web browser. A search yielded the Ghost Ranch website, but I was more interested in the Wikipedia entry. What it told me was illuminating.

  The Archuleta brothers, those cattle-rustlers of yore, were the first people who had lived on the land, in the early twentieth century. They hid their stolen animals up a box canyon, leading the cattle through meandering streams so there’d be no sign of their passing. As if this wasn’t theatrical enough, rumors told of the occasional disappearance of a guest of the Archuletas. They had actually buried gold on the ranch, the spoils of their crimes. They argued over it, and one brother killed the other, then held his brother’s wife and daughter hostage until they told him where the gold was hidden. The women escaped, and men from the community formed a posse, caught the remaining Archuleta brother, and hanged him from a cottonwood on the ranch—one that was still standing, next to one of the casitas.

  Next to my casita, I realized. The Ghost House.

  I swallowed, wondering which of the two cottonwoods was the hanging tree. Not that it mattered.

  The entry added that some people claimed to have heard the voices of a man and woman arguing at night beneath the tree. This echoed what the woman who had checked us in had told me.

  Tony joined me. “Bored?” he asked.

  I closed the browser and stood. “No. I wanted to know why our casita is called the Ghost House.”

  “Did you find out?”

  “Yes.”

  I told him the story as we went out the back door and down a set of rough, earthen steps, then up a long slope toward the stables, passing another block of dormitory lodgings. It sounded even more lurid as I recounted it.

  “Huh,” was Tony’s only remark.

  Yeah.

  I was glad I had not just heard that story as I was trying to go to sleep on our first night here. It lent a dark edge to the rather wholesome image of Ghost Ranch. I couldn’t decide if I was glad I now knew the history. I decided to forget about it and admire the scenery. That was what I had come for, after all: O’Keeffe’s landscapes.

  This morning, the colors of the cliffs were muted by the overcast sky; a different palette, equally varied but softer, more pastel. Shadows in shades of gray instead of black. The same view, yet different. No wonder O’Keeffe had been fascinated with this area.

  By the time we reached the stables, I had unzipped my coat and stuffed my scarf in a pocket. Several cars were parked near the corral, and a number of horses under saddle were tied around the inside of the fence, looking bored.

  Voices led us to the barn, where the red-headed cowboy was chatting with half a dozen guests, including Lisette and Jeremy. He paused to greet us, his gaze passing over me with a flicker. No leer today, possibly because of Tony’s presence.

  “I’m Ted,” he said, very politely. “You all ridden before?”

  “Yeah,” Tony said, as I said, “Yes.”

  “I need a deputy trail boss to bring up the rear. My partner’s out sick this morning.”

  Tony didn’t quite roll his eyes. “Sure,” he said.

  “You ridden a lot?” Ted asked.

  “Used to work my uncle’s ranch.”

  “OK, great. I just need you to sign this waiver—you, too, ma’am,” he added, handing each of us a clipboard with pen attached on a string.

  While we filled out the paperwork, Ted continued chatting up the others. I recognized some of them from the studio tour: the three middle-aged ladies and the silent, short-haired woman. Most had some experience on horseback, but not a lot. From the sound of it, even my summer-camp background put me in the “pro” category. Tony and I were the only New Mexicans in the group.

  I handed Ted my clipboard, then looked toward Lisette. She still wore a tailored, quilted jacket, dark glasses, and a headwrap that reminded me of a hijab. I couldn’t tell if I actually caught her eye, but I gave her a friendly nod. She nodded back, then turned away, saying something to Jeremy. He rolled his eyes—with the eloquence only a child could express—and stuffed his phone and earbuds into the pocket of his hoodie.

  Ted lined us up along an empty section of fence, then took us one at a time to make the acquaintance of our mounts, listen to a story about each one, and finally achieve the saddle with the aid of a mounting block—something my camp friends would have scoffed at. The process was laborious, so while the second guest was being mounted I turned to Lisette.

  “Everything OK?”

  She pursed her lips, and her head moved slightly toward her son. “There was a discussion last night.”

  Jeremy flashed an indignant look at her. “It was a fight. You had a fight. Why don’t you just say it?”

  “That’s enough,” Lisette said, in a col
d voice I hadn’t heard from her before.

  Jeremy subsided.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, feeling my cheeks grow hot. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  Lisette dismissed this with a tiny shake of her head. “It’s nothing new. Unfortunately.”

  Ted approached, holding a sheet of paper which he glanced at. “Your third gonna join us?” he asked Lisette.

  “Apparently not.”

  “All right, then. Let’s get you two in the saddle. You a boss rider, son?” He said to Jeremy.

  Jeremy’s expression showed his contempt for this cajolery. If Ted noticed, he hid it well. He led the boy over to a pinto and gave him the capsule lesson.

  Tony had strolled a few steps away. I doubted he’d missed a word, but he could be discreet. I looked at Lisette with a rueful smile.

  “Maybe your husband just didn’t want to ride.”

  “I know he didn’t. That’s not the issue. We did argue last night, and he stormed out.”

  “He left?”

  “He does it now and then. He’ll be back.”

  She didn’t sound as if she looked forward to this. I felt such pity for her, but I sensed she didn’t want it.

  I wondered if small talk about O’Keeffe and pastels and drawing would be any comfort, but before I could try it, Ted returned and took Lisette over to a palomino. The horse tossed its head restlessly. Ted laid a hand on its neck, and a moment later Lisette did the same.

  Four horses remained at the fence. The mounted riders were standing in line where Ted had placed them. Most looked afraid to move. As I watched, Ted led Lisette’s horse into the line behind her son.

  It was my turn. My mount was an undistinguished liver chestnut. Not even a star or a sock; just a brown, brown horse. Ted introduced him as “Chui” and gave me more than I wanted to know of his life’s story, then supervised my mounting with the block, ready to correct any gross errors—an opportunity I did not give him.

  He led Chui into line behind Lisette’s mount, then returned to Tony. I could hear them chatting, though I couldn’t see them without craning around in the saddle. Ted apparently took Tony at his word; he didn’t bother with the mounting block. Tony mounted at the fence and joined the string behind me.

  The last two horses were a roan and a gigantic bay. Ted turned the bay out into an adjacent corral, still saddled but without its bridle, and returned to mount the roan. The bay meandered over to a manger and began lipping at the hay.

  “All right! Let’s get a move on,” Ted yelled, riding to the front of the string. He called out cheerful reminders to keep the line closed up, hold the reins loosely, and lean a little forward. The horses plodded sleepily after him. They knew the drill, well enough to be bored by it. A couple of them flicked envious ears toward the big bay enjoying his early snack.

  The first five minutes were spent negotiating a route away from the ranch buildings. We soon turned onto a trail worn deep into the ground, evidence of the long history of this activity. A small hope that Ted would open up to a trot once we were away from the buildings faded. We continued across a mesa at a snail’s pace. Deadly dull. I kept an eye on Lisette, watching for any nervousness. Horses could smell uncertainty, and a cranky horse would take advantage of it to divest itself of its rider. Fortunately, Lisette’s confidence had apparently earned her mount’s respect.

  Now and then Ted shouted something over his shoulder. Unfortunately, I was too far back to understand him. This boded ill for my learning anything about O’Keeffe on the ride. I felt sorry for Tony, who was even farther from the narration, but then, he wasn’t too interested in what Ted had to say. He was just happy to be in the saddle.

  The sky remained pearly gray. The air was still, which was good, because the horse’s hooves were raising plenty of dust. The lightest breeze would make it worse.

  You are here to have fun, I reminded myself.

  Seeking evidence of fun, I gazed around at the scenery. We were headed roughly northwest, skirting the cliffs at a good viewing distance, across a mostly barren, slightly hilly landscape. Scrub sage and an occasional juniper or piñon were the largest plants in view. The trail we followed was a good half inch deep in dust from the twice-daily passing of horses. Our mounts could have traversed it in their sleep. Perhaps they were.

  As we crested a hill, Ted halted us and called our attention to the cliffs. Still too far to catch everything he said, I caught enough to know that he wasn’t making any startling revelations. “Sandstone” and “vista” were the only words I was sure of. Chimney Rock was visible to our right. I gazed at the cliffs, trying to recall an O’Keeffe painting that featured this particular view.

  While in residence at the ranch, she had done many, many paintings of what she referred to as her back yard, or her front yard, depending which way you were looking. Front yard, I decided. The back yard was to the south, where the distinctive flat-topped hump of Pedernal rose above the plateau.

  The string moved forward again, descending a short, steep slope into an arroyo. I leaned back as I had learned to do on many a trail ride, to help the horse balance as it descended. A startled yelp from the front of the line drew my attention; Ted had already moved to aid a less experienced rider, his hand hovering above her mount’s reins while she recovered her balance on her skittering horse. It had descended the last few steps rather quickly, I deduced.

  Lisette and Jeremy were doing fine. Their position in the middle of the string kept them safe; their horses didn’t have much opportunity to vary from the routine. A glimpse I caught of Jeremy’s face revealed his disgust with this situation. Ah, well. Maybe once we were heading back toward the stables, he’d get a chance to trot a bit. The horses would certainly be willing, in that direction.

  Chui let out a bored huff as we halted behind Lisette’s palomino. Ted was still calming the startled rider up ahead, talking in soothing tones, touching the horse and encouraging her to do the same. I patted Chui’s neck.

  “Just think about the hay that’s waiting for you when we get back,” I suggested. Chui sidled and craned his head around to give me a sidelong glance. “Yes, but I’m sure there’s more in the barn,” I reminded him.

  Behind me, Tony snorted softly. I thought I heard a chuckle from Lisette. Smiling, I gathered up my reins as the string moved forward once more.

  Ted stopped a couple more times, but mostly just shouted his descriptions over his shoulder. I caught random words: “academy,” “tree,” “skull,” “New York.” They evoked chapters in the biography; I was content to deduce my own narrative based on these recollections. I was thankful for the book, which I planned to continue reading.

  We reached a small, adobe homestead protected by a teetery rail fence and large, unfriendly signs that said “KEEP OUT.” I recognized it as O’Keeffe’s ranch house, her first home at Ghost Ranch (not counting the casitas she had rented early on). She’d bought the house from the ranch’s owner, and had done many famous paintings here. Ted shouted a bit of history at us as we circled past it, and told us that it was not open to the public.

  An ancient, dilapidated ladder made of wooden poles still rested against the house in the courtyard. I knew from the biography that O’Keeffe had climbed onto the roof every evening to watch the sunset. Glancing westward, I admired the distant mountains, picturing the clouded sky lit with raspberry and orange.

  We rode on toward that future sunset, following the trail across flats and through arroyos. Ted continued to narrate. I hoped the people at the front of the string were enjoying it; I had long since given up. The tour was not all I had hoped for, though the scenery was undeniably beautiful. New Mexico at its best.

  On a flat stretch, I took a sip from my water bottle. I was beginning to get hungry. I wished I’d brought some nuts or something in addition to the water. The tour was ninety minutes long, and we were not quite halfway through.

  We made a final stop to admire the red and yellow Piedra Lumbre cliffs—highly recognizable from O’Keeff
e’s work. I actually heard most of what Ted said on this occasion. I didn’t learn anything I hadn’t already known, but it was a nice summing up of the landscape and O’Keeffe’s time in the ranch house. I found myself comparing this area to the sweeping views and the beautiful studio up in Abiquiu that we had toured the previous day. More rustic here, and her life had been austere. Once she moved to Abiquiu, comfort had become a priority, though she remained aloof from the community.

  Tony sidled his horse up beside mine. “You’re not hearing much of the tour guide, are you?”

  “No, but I read the book. I’m fine. Are you bored?”

  “Nah. It’s good to be out in the fresh air. Good to be on horseback. I didn’t realize how much I missed it.” He gave his mount a pat on the neck. The horse nickered softly; they’d made friends. Tony had a way with horses, I realized. I’d never seen him interacting with an animal before, but he was clearly a natural. I wondered if he’d ever had pets, but before I could ask, Ted started the string moving again.

  The trail made a wide swing northward and then back toward the south, so we didn’t have to double back. As we went around the turn, we came within a few yards of a barbed wire fence that had seen better days. Between two haphazard log fenceposts, the top wire sagged under the weight of a large, hand-painted sign that said “PRIVATE PROPERTY – Trespassers will be PROSECUTED to the full extent of the LAW!” It continued in that vein, the words getting smaller the farther down the sign they went. I lost interest.

  Ted led us along the dry bottom of an arroyo that snaked between low hills, giving tantalizing glimpses of the cliffs from different angles. Deciduous trees—cottonwoods and the ever-present invader, Siberian elm—grew in and alongside the arroyo, their branches bare and gray this time of year. I admired them, picturing them in full leaf in summer green, autumn gold.