by Renee Simons
At seven o'clock, she knocked on the open door of a meeting room in Town Hall. Elvira whispered something to a portly man seated to her right, who motioned Callie inside. Three men and another woman completed the group at the table. The sheriff sat in an otherwise empty row of chairs. Callie took a deep breath and let it out slowly, welcoming the calming effect it brought. She couldn't afford to give in to jittery nerves. This meeting was too important.
"Evenin', Miss Patterson," the heavyset man said. “I’m Dex Chandler, mayor of this little detour through the Land of Enchantment. Elvira tells me you have some business with us.”
"Good evening, Mayor Chandler. Thanks for letting me speak to all of you.”
After introductions, the mayor asked, "What's on your mind?"
"I'm here to restore The Mansion and turn it into an inn for area tourists."
"We don't get ‘em in Blue Sky, Miz Patterson. Nothin' much to see here, frankly, and even if there was, I'm not sure we'd want a lot of strangers traipsin' around."
"Here, here," said one of the men.
Callie noticed a couple of heads nodding in agreement. Other board members listened without any apparent reaction. She continued despite the lack of encouraging signs.
"I've spoken to nearby artists and crafts people who are forced to compete in existing markets either up north in Santa Fe or down in Albuquerque. If we provided a supportive atmosphere in Blue Sky they would gladly exhibit here. Establishing such a market would give tourists a reason to patronize our galleries and boutiques, spending time and money before moving on to other tourist areas."
"Don't have no galleries or boutiques, either,” another voice countered.
"In the beginning, I'll provide space in The Mansion for graphic arts or sculptures." She glanced at Elvira. "And maybe we could find room in the Mercantile for crafts like weaving, pottery or works in glass. Later on, we could look at other buildings to restore.”
Callie glanced over at the sheriff. His arms had been draped over the backs of chairs to either side of him. Now he leaned forward in his seat with his arms resting on solidly muscled thighs and his hands clasped in front of him. A tiny smile turned up one corner of his mouth. Pleasure sparkled in his brown eyes. Wonder what that's all about, she thought, attributing her wildly erratic pulse to the prospect of finding room for negotiation. His cooperation could be as important as winning over the town fathers. More important, if he had any influence with the rest of his family.
"What if you can't develop a — what didya call it — a market?" The question came from a man whose name she'd heard but couldn't recall.
"My main goal is to restore the building and make it livable again. If we can’t stir up a tourist trade, I'll turn it into an artist's colony. In time, we could add storage and work spaces, maybe even a forge or kilns for potters and ovens for glass blowers.”
"But there's nothin’ here, not like Santa Fe or other cities. What makes you think the artists will choose Blue Sky?"
"The town will provide inspiration for them. Its place in this state’s history and the surviving ruins afford wonderful possibilities for the creative mind. And we'll make them feel welcome. In addition, we can piggyback on the success of other former mining towns that have found a way to bring in new business. Like Madrid has done, or Cerillos.”
"So you think you can get the public to stop, look and stay awhile," the mayor said.
"If we can capitalize on what's already here I believe we can bring new life to the town. And with a carefully planned advertising campaign we can attract the public. That's one of the things I did successfully in my other life."
Callie looked from face to face with a tiny sense of relief. The blank stares had been replaced by something more like interest. Only one woman seemed unmoved.
"Before we vote, I have something to say."
Chapter Two
Callie leaned forward to listen to the woman introduced as Mercedes Gunn. Hard faced and haughty in demeanor, the black-haired woman had stared at Callie with cold gray eyes while she'd described her plans. The very lack of expression had spoken eloquently of her disapproval.
“I’ll be brief. We already have plans for developing the valley, plans that would make your project untenable. Our focus here is different from that of Madrid."
"But it doesn’t have to be," Elvira said, winning Callie's gratitude. "As you all know, folks back there have bought buildings and fixed ‘em up. Now they’re studios and boutiques and the town’s been revived. Why couldn’t we do the same thing here?" She gave Mercedes a look loaded with unspoken meaning. "We can make sure it don't interfere with plans already in the works. Which, by the way, will cause more damage than what she’s got in mind."
Mercedes seemed about to speak. Elvira held up a hand to stop her. “And just suppose our plans don’t work out. Her idea would make a good alternative. In fact, it’s more practical than the pipe dream you all are so eager to go after.”
Mercedes sniffed. “You’ve never been in favor of the project,” she said.
“Because I want to protect what we have,” Elvira countered. “That project of yours would do just the opposite. I’m thinking hers is more in line with what I think should happen here.”
Callie glanced at Mrs. Gunn. Had Elvira's plea changed the woman’s mind? From her stony expression, Callie didn't think so.
Mercedes drew herself up in her chair. "This is fruitless. We have agreed on a course of action and we need to see it through." She rose and glared at each of the people at the table.
The mayor removed the cigar from his mouth and peered up at Mrs. Gunn. "What about her idea to turn the place into an artists' colony?"
"She’s a stranger here. My forefathers helped settle this town. I'll not have any part of what she’s touting."
In keeping with Gram's instructions Callie would disclose her own "forefathers" when the time was right. It occurred to her she played a waiting game on more than one front.
"So you abstaining, Mercedes, or what," Dexter asked.
"Only a coward abstains. You may record my vote as a resounding No." She looked around the table again, then picked up her purse and left.
"Despite Miz Gunn's opposition, I'm gonna suggest a compromise, Miss Patterson. You start by getting the building and grounds in shape. If the repairs and such are up to code, we'll give you a multiple occupancy permit. Let's first see how your artists work out. Leave the rest go for now." He took one final draw on the cigar and ground out the ash in a tin pie plate. "How's that strike you?"
His approach wasn't quite what she’d in mind, but…. “It's a reasonable place to begin,” she said. “And those other plans I've been hearing about?”
"That's one of the things we need to discuss." He looked around the table. "A show of hands, please. In view of a lot of question marks, I’m thinking we should be hedging our bets. So do we want to consider Miz Patterson's proposal? Aye?"
All the hands went up except for one man.
"What about you Abel? You voting yes or no?"
The man stared down at the table for a long time. When he looked up at Dexter, his gaze slid off to the side and a spot of color stained each cheek. "I'll have to abstain on this one, Dex."
"What's gonna happen when we vote on the real thing? You gonna abstain then, too?"
Abel returned Dexter's cynical appraisal. "I'll ford that creek when I get there."
Is he friend or foe, Callie wondered.
"Record the no vote of Mercedes Gunn, please, Madam Secretary, and the abstention of Abel Texiera." He looked at his wife, winked and turned to Callie.
"We'll discuss your proposal. Then we'll take a vote and let you know what we decide. If you get approval to proceed, we'll issue the building permits and arrange for periodic inspections. Mind you, all this is contingent upon whether our own project works out, as well as you striking a bargain with the Morenos for the land." He glanced at Luc Moreno. "Better hope his folks do the right thing."
The sheriff arched one raven-dark eyebrow as he faced Callie. "Depends on a person’s idea of what’s right."
She took no comfort from the response and Dexter grimaced as he glanced at her. "Looks like you got one big mountain to climb." He stubbed out his cigar. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we have a discussion waitin’."
Callie nodded and went outside where the day had faded into dusk. She hadn't achieved everything she'd hoped for, but she'd made a start and knew what her next move would have to be. That felt good. As she reached down to retrieve her helmet from the back of the bike a silky voice sounded from behind her.
"Your idea's a good one, but it's been done," Luc Moreno said.
Her senses throbbed with an emotion she chose to call anger. She turned and answered calmly, "Has it?"
"There's a place up north like the colony you described, but with a bronze foundry, a glass works and a gallery."
"I've been there. It's wonderful, especially the sculpture garden, but we need something for people down here who are producing other forms of art. And we ought to make them accessible to the public."
"'Accessible' meaning affordable?"
"Exactly. By keeping our overhead lower we could feature high end, low end and everything in between."
"That sure is practical."
Callie caught a gleam of admiration in his dark eyes. Probably just my imagination, she thought. But the same smile that had turned up the corners of his sensual mouth … she stifled the thought. When had arrogant become sensual? She took a deep breath and regrouped.
"The practical approach has always worked for me in my business. Why can't it work here? Folks just need a willingness to make adjustments."
He shook his head. A lock of thick dark hair fell forward and covered one equally dark eyebrow. Was he as unaware of the rakish effect as he seemed?
"I don't know if you'd get the artists to go along. Once they factor in the cost of materials and the time it takes to produce a saleable creation, they may not want to cut as fine a line as you might like."
"I've been a freelance designer for most of my professional life,” Callie said. “If anyone can factor and still make a profit, I can. I'd be happy to pass along what I've learned."
"So, you're an artist?"
"A graphics designer."
He grinned, an echoing smile lighting the eyes that had turned soft and velvety as melting chocolate. Callie's heart fluttered erratically. Apparently, charm and inflexibility could exist in the same handsome package, making caution doubly important.
"An artist by any other name is still an artist," he insisted.
"What do you have against artists?"
"Nada, nothing, but we're not talking art here. We're talking business. I have doubts about this venture you're so eager to introduce to our sleeping pueblo."
"Doesn’t the fact that I've run my own firm for five years carry any weight?"
"You have experience, no doubt, but things are different where you come from. What works back there may not out here. Our folks don't respond to eastern high pressure tactics."
Callie felt her cheeks grow hot as both her temper and temperature began to rise. She tried to remain calm. "Apparently, the board doesn't see anything I've proposed as being ‘high pressure’. Maybe listening to another opinion would prove worthwhile?"
"Maybe."
She would get nowhere with this man today, Callie realized. She climbed aboard the bike. "I'd better get back to Albuquerque."
Luc eyed the Harley with obvious concern. He shook his head. "Don't know if that's such a good idea."
"I appreciate your concern, Sheriff, but remember — I rode cross country by myself." She waved goodbye and took off down the road.
Luc watched her ride away. She'd gotten off easy at the meeting. As the opposition intensified, she would come to see that.
He shrugged and climbed into his four-by-four for the ride to his parents' rancho. No matter that his old bed was too short by six inches. His mother had promised him an old fashioned breakfast if he stayed over. His mouth watered in anticipation.
He could barely make out the receding tail light shining in his rear view mirror. Dimly aware that a few short weeks ago a perfect red circle would have glowed brightly at this close range, he headed in the opposite direction.
* * *
In the moment between realizing he was awake and opening his eyes, Luc felt a gentle weight on his chest and a faint, warm, orange-scented breath against his nose. Grinning, he reached up and clasped the slight body, lifting it high above him. He opened his eyes to the delighted giggle of his youngest nephew, two-year-old Enrique, who squirmed in his hands and flapped his arms like a volantón, a fledgling taking his first practice flight out of the nest.
Luc lowered his arms and hugged Quique to him, enjoying his warmth and the glint of happiness in the child's dark eyes. Time to think of having kids of your own. The vision problem would have to be resolved and his parents' future settled to his satisfaction. Then he would give his own future the attention it deserved. An image of the attractive newcomer flashed before him. No way, he thought. Not this time.
"More, Tío Luc," Quique pleaded. "More up. Más arriba."
"No 'más', niño. Not now." Luc swung his long legs to the floor, hitched up his sweat pants and tucked the toddler under one arm as he opened the door of the bedroom that had once been enormous but now seemed to squeeze tight around his shoulders.
Apparently, riding against his hip was nearly as much fun as "up" had been. Quique's laughter accompanied Luc down the hallway until he deposited the child outside the bathroom door and patted him on his rear end.
"Scoot, kiddo. I got business in here."
Chortling impishly behind his chubby hand, Quique "scooted" down the short flight of steps to await his favorite uncle's arrival at the breakfast table. When Luc joined him a few minutes later, the child was wrapped in a dish towel from chin to waist, clumsily spooning scrambled eggs into his mouth.
Luc leaned over. "Want some help?" he asked.
"Me eat," he said, with a shake of his head that left no doubt he considered himself fully capable of doing the job on his own, mess or no mess.
Luc went to his mother who stood at the stove finishing his eggs and slipped his arms around her waist. "Morning, madrecita." He nuzzled her cheek. "Mmm, you smell good."
She laughed and swiped at his arm. "Ahh sí, I smell like salsa picante."
"Like I said, 'you smell good'." He grabbed a hand-made flour tortilla from the warming basket, rolled it into a cylinder, folded that in half and stuffed it into his mouth. "I'm starved," he said between chews.
"Do not talk with a full mouth," his mother scolded. "Have you not yet learned manners? A full-grown man like you? You should be ashamed."
"Can't help it," he said after gulping down the last mouthful. "Love your cooking too much to be polite."
"You should find a good woman, hijo.” She set a full plate in front of him and kissed the top of his head. "Then you would not be so hungry for my cooking and I would not have to work so hard to keep you fed."
Luc heard the laughter in her voice, felt her warm kiss and gave her another hug. "C'mon, tell the truth. If I didn't show up on your door step at least once a week, you'd miss me like hell. "
She sighed. "Better you showed up with a wife and, someday soon, children. Then I would know you were happy."
He chuckled. "'Married' doesn't necessarily mean 'happy.' Just ask Mike."
"Your brother Miguel would be the first to admit that true happiness takes work, a thing he and that wife of his had no stomach for. I think you would not be so foolish and at least you would not be alone." She went to the stove, filled two cups and carried them back to the table. Easing into a chair across from him, she sipped at the cinnamon-laced coffee with its frothy topping of boiled milk. "Sometimes I wish you had settled down with that pale-skinned Americana."
When he remained silent, his mother touched his arm. "Lo siento. I
am sorry. I should not have mentioned her."
"You recall, leaving was her idea. Anyway, it's all right, Mamá. She's a thing of the past."
"You are certain?"
He kissed her hand. "Sí." Shaking off his momentary depression, he noticed his mother's cup. "No breakfast?" he asked.
"I ate earlier, with Papá."
Luc noticed the furrow between her eyebrows. "He okay?"
She shrugged. "He is getting too old to work the sheep. He should be retired by now."
"Retirement would kill him, you know that. He’s got to keep busy."
"Perhaps, but he does too much. I worry about him."
Luc took a healthy mound of eggs with their onion and chile spiked tomato sauce and wrapped them in a tortilla. "Want me to talk to him? I'll ask him to slow down a little." He took a bite and chewed, waiting for her reply.
After several moments, she nodded. "Only be careful what you say. You know how proud he is. And how stubborn."
He sipped the strong coffee. Proud and stubborn, that sure described the old man. Those same traits had caused no end of trouble during Luc’s youth. And nothing about his father had changed with age.
After he'd helped his mother clean up the kitchen and had played with Enrique until the little guy nodded off, Luc went out to look for his father. He knew where the old man would be this time of morning. Sure enough, he spotted him watching the flock from the shade of his favorite tree.
He sat with his back against the trunk and his walking stick across his lap. A fine plume of smoke curled from the bowl of his pipe. His hawk-like profile showed no expression but Luc knew his gaze traveled over the animals, watching that the lambs came to no harm, that the rams steered clear of each other, that the slow movement of the grazing animals kept them within sight and away from danger.
Luc sat beside his father. "Qué tal,Popi?"
"It goes well, Lucero. But speak American."
"I speak American all the time. It's the old language I miss. I don't want to lose touch with our heritage."
