In the Shadow of the Mountains
Page 76
“That would be very nice,” Ramon spoke up. “You decide what you want it to say, and I’ll see that it gets done.”
She studied her handsome Ramon, struck with love at the sight of him standing there surrounded by all the children. There was a time when she thought happiness was only for others, not for herself. Now her heart overflowed with love and joy. She thought how the circle of life goes on forever, how death changed nothing. For every death there was new life. All the children before her were the proof of that. She looked at Sharron and Alejandro, who stood beside each other.
“There has been enough sadness over your grandfather’s death,” she said aloud. “Now is a time to celebrate again…with a wedding.”
Their eyes lit up. “Do you mean it, Mother? We can get married?” Sharron asked.
Irene looked at Ramon, who grinned the handsome grin she had loved for so many years. Both of them were remembering young love…a stolen kiss…the pain of being denied their passion.
“Yes,” she answered. “I mean it, if it’s all right with your father.”
Ramon held her eyes, stepping closer. “Sí, mi querida. It is all right with me.” He folded her into his arms, and for a moment the memory of that young love was rich and sweet and vivid. She was sixteen again, in a forbidden embrace.
Epilogue
1989
Ritter watched the changing signs of Highway 76 carefully as he drove his red, late-model station wagon toward Denver. He was tired, especially after the long, monotonous drive through Iowa and then Nebraska.
“We’re flying next time,” he complained to his wife.
“Oh, Carl, it’s much nicer this way, being able to stop wherever we want. If we want to get a real feel of the West, it’s better to drive. This will be great for the children.”
Carl ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Kids don’t appreciate these trips as much as you think.” He looked into the rearview mirror, spotting fifteen-year-old Tom sprawled among luggage and duffel bags at the rear of the station wagon, holding a small portable tape player and wearing earphones. One foot was wiggling rhythmically.
“They’ll remember—especially once they see the monument,” Betty Ritter told her husband. “Be sure you get on 87 South. It might also be I-25. They seem to be one and the same on the map here. After we head south, look for Highway 6 West. That’s the one the monument is supposed to be on. Six runs right back into Interstate 70, and that will take us farther into the mountains.”
Carl frowned, more confused than ever. The Ritters were from a small town in Kansas, and Carl hated driving in city traffic. He tried to keep his attention on cars that zipped onto the highway on both his right and left sides, more irritated with his wife when she let out a little gasp that startled him.
“Oh, look! There they are! You can see the mountains now.” Betty turned to twelve-year-old Rebecca and seven-year-old Irene, who sat in the back seat playing a game of magnetic checkers. “Look, girls. See the mountains? Give your brother a nudge.”
“Betty, don’t bother them yet,” Carl grumbled. “There’s so damn much smog you can’t see them all that good yet. That’s the trouble, everybody wants to come here. They build their cities and end up destroying all the beauty they came out here for. I’ve heard there was a time you could see those mountains a hell of a lot sooner. They ought to do something about this.”
“I’m sure they’re working on it, Carl. There! There’s I-25 South.”
Carl took the exit, and the red station wagon moved into the southern flow of traffic, Carl Ritter nervously watching the signs while his wife and two daughters gaped out the right-side windows at gray and purple snow-capped peaks that sprawled unendingly beyond the city. Young Tom raised his head long enough to glance at them. “They don’t look very big from here,” he mumbled.
“They’ll be real big when we get up close,” Irene told him.
“Yeah? What do you know, squirt?” Tom lay back again to listen to his music.
The Ritter car joined thousands more that weaved their way along I-25, exhaust fumes adding to the light gray smog that hung over the city, giving a ghostly cast to tall buildings in the distance. Minutes later the highway wound its way amid the skyscrapers, and the Ritter family gawked and pointed, as they got a closer view of downtown Denver.
“Look! That one’s all glass,” Rebecca said. “And it’s not even square. It’s round.”
“So much of the city looks so new, Carl,” Betty said softly. She spotted some older buildings, noting the stark contrast between the old red-brick four- and five-story buildings, and the towering new buildings that rose behind them in an almost threatening pose. Betty pictured them as tall, powerful warriors, ready to crush the old ones in the name of progress.
Now that they were in the heart of town, it seemed there was no smog at all. Betty realized one had to be farther away to really notice it. Here it was sunny, and glass towers sparkled. In the distance Betty caught sight of the golden dome of the capital building.
“This is a pretty city, Carl. It feels kind of funny to see some of those older buildings with the high rises behind them. I’ll bet some of those older ones were here when Bea Kirkland was alive.”
“Could be. I wonder what she’d think of Denver today.”
“I wonder what all the pioneers would think. Oh, I’d love to bring some of them into today and show them what they built.”
Carl thought about a news broadcast he had heard earlier, about how smog from Los Angeles was destroying redwoods and cacti hundreds of miles away, and acid rain was killing all life in pristine mountain lakes. “I’m not so sure they’d be happy to see our idea of progress,” he answered.
“Look, Mom,” Rebecca spoke up. “That building is shaped like a cash register at the top.”
Irene laughed and Betty grinned. “It is. Must be a bank. Just think, girls, all this is the result of a handful of people finding gold in a little creek. I think it’s called Cherry Creek, and it still runs through the heart of downtown Denver. That’s what brought David Kirkland out here.”
“It wasn’t just the gold,” Carl interrupted. “He came here because he loved the Rockies. That’s why they built the monument—not just because he was one of Denver’s founders. His children knew how much he loved the mountains, and they wanted him always to be remembered that way. He’s even buried up in the mountains somewhere. No one knows where his grave is. Only his daughter Irene and her husband knew, and they never told anyone.”
“The Indian daughter,” Rebecca asked.
“Yes,” Carl replied, searching for the sign that would lead him to Highway 6.
Tom had finally taken off his earphones. “How are we related, Dad?” he asked. “I keep getting it mixed up.”
“Well, it’s pretty distant, but we’re related, nonetheless. My great-great-great grandfather was Jake Ritter. He owned a supply store in Kansas. When his brother and his brother’s wife died from cholera, they left one daughter, Beatrice—she was my great-great-great grandfather’s niece. She married a mountain man, David Kirkland, and they ended up striking it rich in gold in the California gold rush. Then David Kirkland came back to this area because he loved it so much. They helped build Denver and the Kirkland name became pretty well known. They were wealthy, powerful people, but the name died out through marriages and deaths and such. Only one daughter survived, and she supposedly married a Mexican man. There’s some big construction company in Denver that’s supposed to be a part of the old Kirkland empire, quite a few other businesses, too, I guess. My family says that at one time the Kirkland daughter and her Mexican husband owned half of Denver. It’s probably just an exaggeration.”
“Am I really named after the Indian daughter?” Irene asked.
“Yes, you are,” her mother answered. “She’s the daughter your father is talking about.”
The station wagon weaved along the highway, other cars snaking their way in and out of exits as people moved along in daily routine
s. They passed Mile-High Stadium, gawking at the white horse that reared a pose to signify the home of Bronco-mania. Carl found Highway 6 and took the exit.
Carl turned left onto a two-lane road dotted on both sides with small industrial buildings, a few houses here and there. Tom took off his earphones and leaned over the backseat, helping everyone else look, none of them sure just what they were supposed to find. The road began to climb. After another mile they found another sign with another arrow, and they turned onto a dirt road that took them into an area surprisingly remote for being so close to a big city. Red rock formations stood out vividly against dark green pines and shrubs. Finally they spotted an opening where a huge piece of granite sat with something carved on it. Nearby was a copper plate on a pedestal.
Carl stopped the car and everyone scrambled out. The spot was pleasantly quiet, in spite of its location. Carl stretched and looked to the east. “Look at that,” he told his wife. She turned to see Denver sprawled out below. “Some view, isn’t it,” Carl commented.
“Yes.” Betty followed after the children, who ran over to the granite monument dedicated to a man who would never seem real to them. Rebecca began reading the copper marker aloud.
“…one of the founding fathers of Denver,” she was saying. “David and Beatrice Kirkland came to Cherry Creek in eighteen fifty-nine…” Her voice dropped as she continued reading to herself.
Carl and Betty walked to the monument, studying the polished surface that held the dedication.
“In honor of David Kirkland,” Carl read, as the children suddenly quieted. “Each day when the mountains cast their shadow over this spot, the citizens of Denver will know that David Kirkland is watching over them. He loved Denver, but his first love was the Rocky Mountains. Now those mountains have claimed their own, and David Kirkland will walk among them forever.
“In loving memory…Irene.”
Even the seasons form a great circle in their changing, and always come back again to where they were. The life of a man is a circle from childhood to childhood and so it is in everything where power moves. Our tipis were round like the nests of birds and these were always set in a circle, the nation’s hoop, a nest of many nests where the Great Spirit meant for us to hatch our children.
—Hahaka Sapa (Black Elk), Oglala Teton Dakota Sioux From “Touch the Earth”
Also by Rosanne Bittner
The Bride Series
Tennessee Bride
Texas Bride
Oregon Bride
Caress
Comanche Sunset
Heart’s Surrender
In the Shadow of the Mountains
Indian Summer
Lawless Love
Love’s Bounty
Rapture’s Gold
Shameless
Sweet Mountain Magic
Tame the Wild Wind
Tender Betrayal
The Forever Tree
Unforgettable
Until Tomorrow
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