Crystal Mountain Veils

by Kieran York

  ***

  Headlight beams from Royce’s metallic navy Blazer were long gold fingers reaching down the gravel road. Royce was glad when the light struck Dora Madison’s small, rustic cabin. Royce pressed the brake pedal and then sat in the Blazer for a few moments. She was remembering the reason she had moved out to live with her grandmother a year before. With the thought of watching after the spry, seventy-five-year old, Royce had hoped to be able to make things easier for Dora. But, she admitted to herself, she also moved away from Molly, and her mother’s objection to Royce’s being a deputy. Molly had lost her beloved husband, Grady, and feared losing her only child. Royce had proved she could survive, but Molly still worried. When Royce moved out of her mother’s home, above the bakery, it was with the understanding that Royce would be there for Dora.

  Now Royce felt that she was abandoning her grandmother each time she left to spend the night with Hertha. Hertha understood the occasions when Royce stayed to help her Gran with a project. Even though Dora Madison was fit, and certainly independent, Royce sincerely harbored concern for her.

  Dora Madison’s family had been part of the great trickle of immigrants that moved across the wilderness and settled in mountain communities. Many, like Royce’s early relatives, arrived with only a few items and their will to survive. They learned to build cabins, like the one Dora Madison lived in, from halved logs, hand-rived boarded roofs, and put up great rock chimneys. Pine saplings seeded beside the homes and became tall citadels. Royce inhaled the sharp pungent fragrance of those pines. Each summer brought crowds of swaying grasses and wild daisies around the cabin wall’s edges.

  Royce felt at home with the soothing ambiance of Gran’s cabin. Here there was love, there was safety, there was an abundance of common wisdom. These seemed her requirements. And they were never more needed than now, she thought as she passed by the pock-marked tree that woodpeckers had inhabited.

  Royce glanced up on the way to the door. Evening clouds were a roof drifting over the mountainside.

  A cast iron kettle of steaming stew rested on the old, four-eyed cook stove. Another familiar aroma permeated the kitchen. Royce smiled when she saw the pan of peanut brittle cooling. Beside the pan, on the gateleg table, were chaste pots of parsley and chives; a pottery rooster with sprigs of mint; and an old blue crock pitcher. Along the window ledge were fire-engine red blooms of geraniums. Royce never tired of the air thick with the smells of herbs, flowers, and scorched caramel.

  Royce could hear her grandmother singing, out on the enclosed porch Royce had built. Royce dished up a plate of simmering stew and hot corn cakes, and she poured a glass of iced tea. She loved her Gran’s mountain cookery and would devour each morsel. With hands filled, she went out into the coolness of the porch. “Gran, this looks scrumptious.” Royce leaned and kissed Dora Madison’s forehead.

  “Roycie, I made your favorite meal. Molly called this afternoon and said you were dragging. And surely enough,” Gran examined her granddaughter, “those eyes of yours are rimmed with the shadow of weariness.” Stretched out on her patio chaise lounge, she sighed. “Don’t imagine it will do much good to tell you that it’s all gonna turn out fine and dandy.” She lifted Elsa, her ten-year-old tabby, onto her lap. After a stretch, the cat circled into her lap. “Where’s Smoky girl?”

  “With Hertha.” Royce swabbed the plate with a corn cake. “This is delicious, Gran.”

  “Your mama’s right. You got a face like a wet weekend.”

  Royce studied her grandmother. Dora Madison’s diminutive frame was clad in a comfortable house dress. Her light gray hair was pulled back. It was as fine as spun sugar, Royce thought. Gran’s face was ivory, with great opalescent blue eyes. They beamed with mischievousness. Her brows were tented, lifting at the center. Time’s markings were mostly laugh lines. Though Dora had lost her son while he was in his prime, she remained optimistic about human nature. Her words were lyrical remnants from her British ancestry. And they were words of wisdom. Life is to be celebrated, but her granddaughter was not celebrating.

  When Royce failed to respond to her comment, Gran continued. “The folks of Timber County aren’t gonna be letting you down on this election business. Why I figured nobody would even consider opposing you. Now it’s like dogs fighting over a bone. I know of Dillon Granger and his ways. He was a sheriff in a county in southwestern Colorado. Your daddy said he was no kinda lawman. Your daddy didn’t abide by thumping prisoners and the like. There was talk that Granger nearly killed a fella with a tire iron.”

  “Sometimes the bad guys win, Gran. Law enforcement has brought that home. Granger could win.”

  “Not with all of us backing you. Why there’s Bonnie and the women from my club making calls and stuffing envelopes. Your mother and her church group are busy campaigning. To say nothing of all the shop owners Faye has rounded up to support you. And our Nadine is doing you proud. With her as your campaign manager, you can’t lose. Everyone loves her.”

  “I really appreciate all the help. But Granger has people in his camp too.”

  “Not as devoted and dedicated as we are,” Dora said with a staunch confirmation. “You just keep doing the job like you always have, and we’ll be the best election committee a sheriff ever had.”

  Chapter 3

  Morning’s sunlight seeped in across the bed and cast its pale brightness against Royce and Hertha. Love added radiance, Royce noted as she felt Hertha’s warmth. She could never express the awe of awakening with her lover. From the moment Hertha first held Royce, Royce was enchanted.

  Hertha’s cottage was directly behind the High Country Animal Clinic. A cobblestone footpath connected clinic and cottage. Though small, the two-bedroom stone cottage was bright and airy. Hertha’s bedroom housed a four-post double bed, dresser, wardrobe, and bookcase. Robin-egg blue tied the bright assortment of colors together. Lush wild herbs grew in small pottery bowls that lined the window sill. Each ceramic vessel, Hertha explained, was representative of patterns used to symbolize the Ute nation’s kinship with nature. The variety of herbs gave off a scent of freshness, but Hertha also used them medicinally.

  Royce loved the fragrance of the bedroom. Each part of the room, and of the cottage, was familiar to Royce. It reflected the woman she loved.

  Hertha’s onyx evening eyes gave her the appearance of being a mythical Indian princess. Within each glance was a revelation of love. The morning after lovemaking left Royce safe in the nearness of her. Royce felt her lover stir, and their bodies rearranged the tuck of love. Hertha’s arms wound around Royce’s neck. Her chin lifted and they kissed good morning. Royce experienced a tug of restless desire. Her hand reached to touch Hertha’s long, glistening dark hair. Her fingers caressed Hertha’s soft neck. Hertha’s dark eyes shone golden when her lids bobbed open.

  There were no words, nor need for them. Each woman could read the other’s passion with a glance, a smile, a tender touch. They enjoyed the pleasure of waking to love. Royce’s lips traveled across Hertha’s cheek to her lush mouth. Their kiss was intimate and powerful. Their nude bodies laced together, and Royce’s kiss trailed to Hertha’s neck.

  Hertha’s body was warm and inviting. Their bodies clenched, and their legs roped them against one another in pulsating motions of love.

  Royce rested tranquilly in her lover’s arms.

  It was many minutes before Hertha spoke. With a laugh in her voice, she remarked, “I don’t believe Smoky has even moved.”

  “Guess she’s getting used to us.” The pewter-colored pup had often thought their lovemaking was a game. She would pull their covers from them, snarl playfully at them, and attempt to join in by nipping busily for attention. She would press her beard into their faces and yap. But after Royce sent Smoky to another room a few times, Smoky resigned herself to a corner of the bed.

  Royce glanced up at the ceiling. Hanging above them was a dream catcher. The decorated hoop had been made by Hertha’s grandmother. Strips of leather were carefully wrapped a
round the hoop. Magenta, teal, rust, and charcoal beads streamed down from strands of leather. Attached to them were long, dangling feathers. Although Royce liked the symbolism of the dream catcher, she felt uneasy with the abundance of Native American artifacts. She had never mentioned her feelings to Hertha. She didn’t understand her discomfort enough to discuss it.

  “Nadine brought Cinnamon in yesterday with an ear infection,” Hertha reported. Cinnamon was Gwen and Nadine’s eight-year-old Irish setter. They also had a buff-colored Persian mix named Ginger and a Siamese, Moz. “I treated her, and asked Nadine to bring her back tomorrow.”

  “Maybe you can get a fix on what’s troubling Nadine,” Royce said as she sat up and slipped into her short terrycloth robe. “Gwen says Nadine’s been irritable lately.”

  “Nadine mentioned that Gwen has been edgy. She wonders if it’s because she’s spending so much time out of the office working on the campaign. But Nadine says she’s thriving on it. She’s caught up in all the campaign strategy.”

  “I feel guilty about all the work she’s been doing. Trying to get campaign funds in a small community is difficult. And I know for a fact that she’s worried about the Coalition’s major funding. We can’t match that. Slick ads. Radio spots. I know how conscientious Nadine is. She might be feeling beleaguered by the opposition.”

  “Royce, I know Nadine has a personal interest in the campaign. But I’m sure she knows that you’re not putting any pressure on her. We all realize that she’s doing the best she can.”

  “If I had known Granger would have the national backing of a group like the Coalition, I’m not sure I’d have even run. Much less asked Nadine to be my campaign manager.”

  “Nothing can stop you from trying. Nadine too.”

  “Then what’s upsetting her?”

  “Maybe it’s because Gwen’s ex is coming to town.”

  “Nadine’s more secure than to worry about that,” Royce defended. “At least Gwen thinks she should be.”

  “I sometimes think about your beautiful, erotic ex-lover and wonder why you chose me.”

  Royce eased Hertha to her. “I think you’re the most remarkable, lovely woman I’ve ever known. You’ve got to know that.” She began massaging Hertha’s back as she spoke. “I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.” Royce felt limited by language. To fully express the emotion seemed impossible. She wondered if words existed. There was a sense of entirety about romance with Hertha. “I only think of you.”

  “Sometimes my inferiority complex surfaces.”

  “How can you feel inferior? You’re an admired veterinarian. You’re well-read, bright. You’re beautiful, and you know I’d do anything in the world for your love.”

  “Perhaps it’s the way I was brought up.” Hertha’s thoughts turned back to her past. Her mother had been raped by three white men. She was conceived of mixed blood. “I’ve always been looked down on by the Native American community. I wasn’t even allowed to have an Indian name. My mother gave me one anyway.”

  “You’ve never told me that before.”

  “Royce, we’ve only known one another a few months. One can’t speed-read relationships. There’s so much more we’ll both learn about one another.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “My mother called me Evening Flower. It was her vision when I was born.”

  “Evening Flower is lovely.”

  “But it can never be legitimatized by the Ute nation, any more than I can be. But at least my mother had the courage to give me a chosen name. At one time an Indian mother giving birth to a half-breed was put to death. Along with the child.”

  Royce winced. She turned her head and considered the treachery that harms the innocent parties. Tradition, she knew, passed down nobility with virtue in mind. But unfortunately, she conceded, evil is often integrated into customs and charged off as being the will of a supreme being. Royce had been raised by a man in law enforcement. She was taught to see people in terms of good and evil, rather than culture and race. She rested her head against Hertha’s neck. “Putting a mother and child to death is an evil act. The Indian heritage has its weakness, just as the Anglo heritage.”

  Hertha’s body tensed. “Not all past customs were perfect. But at least my people didn’t commit systematic genocide to eradicate an entire race.”

  “That was wrong. All acts of cruelty are wrong.”

  “But you still don’t understand its basis.”

  Royce sighed. “I wish our conversation wouldn’t end back at the same place.” She closed her eyes a moment. “Hertha, I’m sorry for whatever I said that offended you.”

  Hertha pulled away and stood. “I’m sorry that you aren’t aware of what you said that might have offended me.”

  ***

  Royce had promised Gran that she would stop off at Laird’s Country General Store. Bonnie and Orson Laird had owned and operated the store for nearly four decades. In addition to having a two-pump filling station in front, the little general store served as a post office branch.

  “Bonnie,” Royce greeted Bonnie Laird, “how’s it going?”

  “I’m movin’ slower than a three-legged mule goin’ up Pikes Peak. And you know how busy we get weekends, so I’ll be lucky to keep up.”

  “At least it’s great weather today.”

  “Fine Sunday morning. And you’re wearin’ your Levis and fancy shirt, so I guess you got today off.” Bonnie was the mother of Amy Laird, the Sheriff’s Department dispatcher. Amy was a carbon copy of her mother. They shared circular faces with inset dark brown eyes. Their frames were both stout, and they both wore shirtdresses. Amy’s short dove-gray hair had turned prematurely, just as Bonnie’s had when she was in her early thirties.

  Both women wore their hair in tight curls that surrounded jovial faces. Even their voices sounded so much alike that Orson always teased that when he phoned home he always had to check whether he was talking to his wife or his daughter. Amy had lived at home her entire thirty-five years and saw no reason to leave before she found a man to marry. Bonnie and Orson enjoyed her company, and getting firsthand news of happenings at the Sheriff’s Department.

  “I finally got a Sunday off. Gwen and Nadine are having a little brunch this morning. I wanted to get my errands done.”

  Bonnie sorted through some letters she had behind the counter. “Held these out for you. Two for your Gran, and one for you. From a travel consultant, I see.”

  Royce smiled, and nodded. “Yes. I’ll tell you a secret, Bonnie. But not a word to Gran. Gran’s always been wanting to go to England with her sister Blanch. Well, Blanch’s family has got the money together for her ticket, and I’m surprising Gran with a round-trip ticket for her birthday. She’ll be spending four weeks in England. Part of September and into October. She and Blanch can search out their heritage like they dreamed about doing.”

  “Well, isn’t that the sweetest surprise! So she’ll be coming back in time to help you campaign in October?”

  “I’ll need her at my side.”

  “It’s gonna be a mighty busy autumn, with all this business about the filming in Crystal.”

  “It will bring business to the area.” Royce was certain that Amy had given her parents a full rundown on the department’s involvement with Godiva’s visit. “Hard to believe that Tyler is going to be co-starring in a major film.”

  “Elizabeth McDermott is too full of herself, if you know what I mean. But Tyler always seemed to be a nice young fella. He didn’t take after either of his parents.” Bonnie’s eyebrows raised.

  “I know. Judge McDermott can be pretty overbearing in court. A couple of times when I’ve been a witness he’s threatened to cite me for contempt.” Royce chuckled, “But then he’s threatened everyone with that.”

  “He’s very above himself too,” Bonnie said with a conspiratorial expression. “If I ever have to go to court, I hope that nice judge alternate, Meg Carter, is on the bench.” Her lips pursed and she leaned over the counter. �
��I hear Judge McDermott was in a spot of trouble in Denver. When you were there, did you hear anything of it?“ she pried.

  “No. But I wasn’t there when he was. Before I forget, how’s Orson coming with Hertha’s van?”

  “Getting the booster for the electrical system in the morning,” Bonnie reported proudly. “That old man of mine can fix nearly anything. Doc White’s van will surely be ready for any emergency after he gets finished with it.”

  Royce nodded. She was happy that Hertha’s van was being renovated with updated medical equipment. So much of her practice took her to nearby ranches to treat large ailing animals. With a trauma van, she could arrive quickly, perform her tests, evaluate, diagnose, and give treatment. “Hertha can’t wait to see the finished product.”

  “She’s lookin’ out for a puppy for us. After we lost old Wolfe last year, Orson said no more dogs. Well, we got a friend of Amy’s stayin’ with us, Norma Donovan, and she’s got a nine-year-old daughter, so we decided to try and find us another dog. How’s that cute little Smoky doing?”

  “Fine. She stayed with Hertha. I just wanted to get the mail and fill up the Blazer. Oh, and I can use another couple rolls of butterscotch.”

  Bonnie placed the rolls on the glass counter. “I figured you’d be needin’ some. I’ll need to get a pretty good shipment going come election time.”

  Royce put down the correct change and murmured, “No doubt in the world about that.”

  ***

  Royce arrived at the appointed time and walked around to the back patio area. Gwen and Nadine had lived in the elegant old home since they first started living together. It had been the home Gwen was born and raised in. On the street directly behind the Times office, the refurbished Victorian home was part of the picture postcard charm that decorated the community. Many of the homes were over a century old, and most cantilevered out from the mountains. Others, in the heart of Timber City, were on level ground. Each home, with gabled roofs and hanging wooden lacework, reflected individuality and quaintness. Colors had been selected carefully to authentically blend with the city’s old West flavor. Over the years, Gwen and Nadine had been part of the movement to restore the old houses to their turn-of-the-century finery, and their home was a leading example of the historical society’s effort.