"Bill, do you think that we—"
"By the way, Barbara," Bill said, "you haven't told me what you want for Christmas this year. What with things as they are—or as they're going to be—I can afford something pretty nice, so think it over and let me know."
This was my chance. "I already know," I said.
"Oh, really?" Bill said with that maddening social insincerity. "What?"
""I want Rancho del Monte," I said.
"Oh, fine. Well, I'll . . . What did you say?”
"I said, 'I want Rancho del Monte.' I like it here. I love it. I never loved anything so much in my life, except maybe you. I don't want to be an idle gentlewoman in New York. I don't want a mink coat or a beautiful apartment or a fistful of theater tickets. I don't want you to be a rich, rising young executive—"
"Wait a minute, Barbara. Not so fast. You always said—"
"I don't care what I always said. I was wrong and I apologize. But all I want for Christmas is what I have at the moment—you, the ranch, the animals, the bills, your crooked bookkeeping, that stove. It's what I want. I know it now."
"You really mean that, Barbara?"
"I really mean it."
There was a long pause. Then Bill said, "Good. It's all I want, too."
"But, Bill," I said, "when you accepted that job in New York, I was convinced that you actually were anxious to take it. Why didn't you say you wanted to stick it out here?"
"I took it because I thought you wanted to go back to New York. And I didn't really mind. It was a good job. It still is. A great job. But I didn't think it was fair to you to keep hanging on out here, never knowing where the next guest is coming from. I wanted you to be happy, too. That's only fair, isn't it?"
"But, Bill," I said, "I was happy out here. I didn't think so all the time, but I know it now. I'm much happier in New Mexico than I ever was in New York . . ."
"You didn't want to come out here," Bill said. "I made you do it. Remember? Then I had to trick you to make you stay a second year."
"Yes," I said guiltily, "I remember. And now I don't want to go back. Do you?"
"Not really."
"Well, then?"
'Well, then," Bill said, "I'll telephone Connie and tell her that I'm sorry, but the deal's off. It probably wouldn't have worked out for any of us anyway."
"Poor Connie," I said with a sudden pang of conscience.
"There are other ranches she can buy," Bill said. "Bigger and better ranches."
"Maybe bigger," I said, "but not better. Call her now."
"Barbara," Bill said, "it's three o'clock in the morning New York time."
"Then promise to call her first thing in the morning, Bill," I said.
Ordinarily, I have such a funny feeling about long distance calls and the cost of them that if I were on my deathbed I'd undoubtedly say, "No use telephoning Mother, Bill. A post card will do just as well." But not tonight.
"First thing in the morning here will be about right," Bill said. "If we call at nine, that will be eleven in New York."
"Then my Christmas present is as good as bought and paid for?" I asked.
"Bought," Bill said, "but not paid for."
The next morning we both got on the telephone to talk to Connie. Connie was disappointed, naturally. But Connie, also being Connie, was understanding and forgiving and she had been thinking that, after all, maybe a honeymoon trip around the world would be rather fun before she settled down to anything permanent.
No sooner, had we hung up than the telephone rang again. It was The Dreadnought.
"I understand, Mrs. Houghton," she said, "that you and your husband are planning to give up Rancho del Monte."
"Do you, now?" I said airily, but with a kind of venom in my voice that even she must have sensed.
"Well, uh, my People have given me to understand that, uh, certain ne-go-see-ay-shuns have, uh, beeeeeen under-uh-way, and, uh . . ."
"You'd better get some new People," I said. "We have no intention of selling out. We never did have. In fact, we're not leaving unless we're driven out by the sheriff."
"Well, really! I do think that you might have—"
"Good-bye," I said, "and Merry Christmas!"
21. Guestward ho!
Christmas was wonderful last year. We had a full house with lots, of our summer people coming on for the holidays. Bill and I worked like slaves, doing everything ourselves and loving it. The most beautiful tree ever to grow was cut down, dragged into the lounge, and decorated. Piñon wood burned continually in every fireplace.
We celebrated Christmas Eve by attending a Mass that wasn't actually a Mass at the Tesuque Indian church and then watching the dancing afterward with the orange light of a giant bonfire playing on the snow.
Christmas Day is a day I never will forget, with all the dining tables put together to stretch out into one long banquet board. We were joined by our guests and by friends who drove out from town who all sat down to the best Christmas dinner ever cooked—and all of it cooked by Bill and me. Everything was perfect.
The work nearly killed us and, right after the New Year, when our guests departed, Bill and I collapsed for a solid week. But we got up in time to take care of the weekend skiers, who descended on us in droves.
Easter came and summer followed.
At the beginning of June the Hammond electric organ arrived, followed shortly by our old friends and guests, the Boyers, who brought this time not only eleven friends, but a brand-new son-in-law.
Joe and Ronnie were back on hand to help us and Ollie returned to the kitchen for her "peaceful summer."
Every guest still means a new adventure and almost always a new friend. We still look forward with anticipation to every new arrival and with joy to every old friend who returns. Every picnic is still a lark, every ride an exhilarating experience, every sight-seeing tour awe-inspiring in its beauty.
Summer is coming to a close now and, as I write, I can hear Mrs. Boyer at the electric organ—this one fitted out with a kind of carillon—playing "Tea for Two" in the adobe cottage they have taken again for the season. It's beautiful music.
It's also a beautiful life with never a dull moment spent in some of the most beautiful scenery God ever created. And as I look across our mountains at one of our super-glorious Technicolor sunsets, I thank God, with some fervor, for showing Bill and me to this wonderful, wonderful land.
Rancho del Monte
Labor Day, 1955
Table of Contents
Title Page
A Note About the Authors
Copyright Page
1. Remembrance of things past
2. Santa Fe trial
3. Just the two of us
4. Guest appearance
5. Business before pleasure
6. Too many cooks
7. Rules and regulations
8. All that glitters
9. Help! help! help!
10. Man hunt
11. Come and get it
12. A slight difference of opinion
13. The killer
14. James B. Smith rides again
15. The day of reckoning
16. The end in view
17. The bidding begins
18. Good-bye to all that
19. Greeks bearing gifts
20. The eleventh hour
21. Guestward ho!
Guestward Ho! Page 26