Irene mounted up, still detesting the sidesaddle; but she was at least used to it now. She was glad her mother was gone for a couple of days. It gave her more freedom. She always found it easy to talk Elsa into letting her go riding, as long as she promised to go only as far as the new house or around a fenced pasture nearby.
She gazed across the sprawling town of Denver, which lay stretched out in a conglomeration of simple log huts and grander two- and three-story buildings. She could spot the Kirkland Hotel from here, as well as the bank, and it gave her an odd feeling to realize she would one day own a good share of her parents’ growing businesses. Kirk’s two biggest-producing mines, the Elly May and the Irene Louise, named after his daughters, showed no signs yet of playing out. The Johnny Boy was not doing quite as well but was still profitable.
She moved her eyes along the foothills and up to the snow-covered Rockies. Someday she was going to talk her father into taking her up there to visit the mines. She had loved coming through the Sierras, had been enthralled by the Rockies through which they had passed farther to the north when coming to Denver. She had no fonder memory than that of sitting by a campfire at night in the mountains, listening to her father tell stories of the “old days.”
She remembered an abundance of wildflowers in those mountains, life blooming in a thousand colors, proving there was a spring even after a harsh mountain winter. She had picked paintbrush and daisies nearly every day, preferring to walk and enjoy the sunshine, rather than ride in the wagon with a complaining Elly. She liked the pungent smell of pine and sage, enjoyed watching the green and silver leaves of the aspens flutter in the wind.
She was disappointed that since arriving in Denver there had been no time to go back into those mountains with Kirk. He was always so busy, and he still refused to take her into the mining camps. She tried to imagine what they must be like—wild, noisy, dangerous, dirty. She didn’t care. She would be with her father, and she would be safe.
She turned her horse, spotting a herd of elk ambling across open land to the south. Kirk had complained about how rare a sight wild game was becoming. “People kill them off like flies,” he had grumbled once to Bea. “There ought to be some kind of control or there will be no meat left someday. Same with the buffalo. There was a time when the buffalo roamed these plains in herds so big and thick you could practically walk across their backs…couldn’t see the end of them. Not any more. They won’t come around places like this, and out in the open valleys men are killing them off for their hides, leaving the carcasses. I tell you, it must make the Indians sick to their stomachs to see that kind of waste.”
“I’ve heard some say it’s a good way to get rid of the Indians,” Bea had answered. “Kill off the buffalo, and you take away their strength—their food, clothing, practically everything they need to subsist. It seems like a reasonable way to get them onto reservations. If they have to depend on the government to feed them, they’ll stop making trouble soon enough.”
Irene had been standing near the doorway to her parents’ bedroom when she overheard the remarks. There had been an odd silence, and then she heard her father’s voice, surprisingly low and threatening. “I never want to hear that kind of talk again,” he had told Bea.
“Kirk, I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant,” he had said. “Give some thought to whom you’re talking about, and to whom you’re telling it. They’re human beings, Bea. They love and they hate and they hurt. When their bellies are empty, they get the cramps same as we do. Maybe you’ve forgotten how that feels!”
“I’ll never forget,” her mother had nearly spat at him.
“Won’t you? I think you’ve forgotten a lot of things now that life is good. And another thing. I don’t like living this lie. Someday it’s going to come back at us, and you know who is going to be hurt the worst.”
Just then Irene had been unable to hold back a sneeze. The conversation stopped, and Irene casually walked past the bedroom doorway. Bea had called out to her, asking her how long she had been standing in the hallway. Irene would never forget the pale look on both her parents’ faces. “I wasn’t,” she had answered. “I just came upstairs.”
Bea had turned away, looking ready to pass out. Her father had smiled and told her to get to bed. Irene had never discovered what her father meant by living a lie. Did he mean that they didn’t love each other? She had always suspected their marriage was not extremely happy, although she could not imagine why. Her father was a handsome man and a good provider, a generous man with a strong belief in what was right and wrong. It hurt to think he might not be happy, but she was helpless to do anything about it.
She kept her horse still and watched the elk until they were nearly out of sight. She looked up at the mountains again. “High country,” her father called it, saying the words with near reverence. “When I die, I want to be buried up there.” She had already made a personal vow that she would make sure he got his wish. She would not let her mother bury him in the city cemetery.
She turned Sierra and headed up the hill toward the new Kirkland mansion. What a mansion it was—three stories high, walls of stone and concrete, a castlelike tower at one corner. The inside of that tower was open and contained a circular-shaped bench as part of the seating area in the third-floor ballroom. The house was not finished yet, but already it was obvious it would be the grandest house in Denver. A circular brick drive graced the front lawn, which was not yet fully landscaped, and a natural spring fed the primary lawn decoration, a marble water fountain sporting two cherubs with wings, holding hands and posed as though dancing.
She could hear the pounding hammers and scraping saws. The carpenters were taking full advantage of the good weather, anxiously hurrying to meet certain deadlines given them by Bea Kirkland. Bea had wanted the house ready in time for Irene’s sixteenth birthday, which was only two weeks away. But there wasn’t enough time to ship in all the material required. Her “coming-out” party would have to be postponed, which was fine with Irene. She wouldn’t want a party anyway unless her father was home safe and sound. In fact, she didn’t want the party at all. It seemed frivolous, and she would feel embarrassed by all the fuss.
She gazed at the ostentatious building, deciding she preferred the coziness of the home they already lived in. This new one seemed domineering and cold, and she realized with a sad heart that it did, indeed, fit her mother’s personality.
She rode closer, spotting John walking toward her. “Irene, come over here and see what I’m doing.”
Irene headed Sierra toward him, thinking how tall and handsome her brother was getting. John told her to come inside. She dismounted and tied the horse to a hitching post shaped like an elk.
“I don’t want to stay long,” she told John as she followed him through the heavy oak front doors and through a marble-floored entranceway over which hung a French chandelier. Most of the furnishings, draperies and more chandeliers would not arrive for several weeks yet, since they were being hauled out from eastern ports. Special silks for bed clothing and bedroom draperies were coming from their own warehouses in San Francisco, as well as rugs from India and Chinese vases and other oriental accessories.
The greater share of the interior was finished, including polished wood floors and rich green wallpaper in the huge central room of the house, where guests would be wined and dined someday soon. Oak beams in the central room graced the ceiling in a spokelike fashion, all meeting at the center, where another candlelight chandelier was to be hung.
“See the tiny carved flowers at the base and tips of those beams,” John said as he pointed them out to her. “Ramon did them.”
Irene walked closer, gazing up at the design in wonder. Her first thought was that it took a gentle, caring man to do such intricate, beautiful work—a man of great passion and dedication. “It’s lovely,” she told her brother.
“Come into Father’s smoking room,” he told her excitedly. “The fireplaces are all going to be Ita
lian marble. It hasn’t got here yet, but Ramon is already working on carving the oak trim and mantels for them. Ramon is working here at the house now. He has the oak beams laid out to work on them, and he’s letting me do one. Come and watch him work, Irene. I want you to meet him.”
He hurried through the next huge room, which would be the dining room, then into a room to the left of that. Irene hesitated for a moment. The mysterious Ramon was in that room. To this day she had not met him, and she had wondered about him for so long. Ramon Vallejo had done most of his carving in one of his boss’s little shops in town, where Kirk had taken John to visit him. The carved wood was then brought to the house for installation.
But today…today he was here at her house! She had not expected this. “Come on,” John called out to her from the smoking room. She moved on shaky legs toward the doorway, wondering why in the world she was so nervous. She entered the room, blushing when a dark, handsome young man looked up at her from where he stood bent over a piece of wood.
The moment was suddenly tense and embarrassing for both of them. Ramon Vallejo was indeed the same young man she had seen that first day she’d come to Denver. Why she remembered him so vividly, she could not understand. She met his dark eyes, seeing there the same passion and gentleness she had seen in his work. He was just as handsome as Chad Jacobs, only in a dark, compelling way, more intriguing, perhaps, because he was different, forbidden.
“Ramon, this is my sister, Irene,” John said.
Ramon’s dark eyes moved over her. He did not usually allow his gaze to linger too long on a gringa. It usually meant trouble. But this Irene Kirkland was the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld. “Buenos días, señorita,” he said aloud.
She nodded. “Hello, Ramon. John has told me a lot about you.” She wondered how she had managed to find her voice. “I’m very glad to meet you.”
He flashed a smile that made her feel weak. “Gracias. I am also glad to meet John’s sister, of whom he often speaks.”
You are most beautiful, he wanted to tell her, but he was afraid the remark would offend her, coming from a Mexican. He was well aware of how most whites in the area felt about his people, even though they rightfully belonged here. After all, this had been Spanish territory long before these white intruders claimed it.
Irene swallowed, thinking how the day seemed even warmer than she had realized. “I saw some of your work in the great room and dining room,” she told him. “It’s very beautiful.”
Ramon glanced down, appearing embarrassed. He ran a dark, strong hand over the gentle curve of a piece of wood, and she was shocked at herself for suddenly wondering how it might feel to be touched by such a man. “Gracias,” he said again. “I love working with the wood. Someday I plan to have my own carpentry business. I already own many of my own tools.”
“Irene, come and look at this mantelpiece. I carved it myself,” John told his sister, too young and too involved in his own excitement to notice the attraction between his sister and Ramon.
Irene had difficulty tearing her eyes from Ramon’s. She stepped over lumber and carpenter’s tools to go and stand beside her brother, then lightly touched the carved flowers on the heavy strip of wood. “John! This is the best thing I’ve seen you do yet!”
The boy grinned with pride. “You really think so?”
“Of course I do.” She looked up at Ramon, who had turned to watch her. “You’re a good teacher, Ramon.”
He shrugged. “He is easy to teach.”
Irene wondered if there was any imperfection in Ramon Vallejo. Her mother would say that being Spanish was imperfection enough, but Irene still did not understand what was supposed to be so terrible about the race. He was not just a handsome, well-built man, but there was an inner beauty to him that shone through his dark eyes. She sensed he would be capable of great love and total devotion.
His skin was a sun-browned copper color, his dark eyes wide-set, outlined with dark lashes and a prominent brow line. His nose was straight and handsome, his lips full and well-defined, his cheekbones set high. His nearly black hair hung in gentle waves to the collar of his blue calico shirt.
Irene hoped he couldn’t read her thoughts, for they embarrassed and confused her. She looked back down at the carving. “How do you get all this detail, John?”
“Mostly with a lot of patience,” he answered, laughing.
“This tool helps,” Ramon added, coming closer and showing her a small instrument with a sharp, rounded blade. He picked up a smaller piece of wood and quickly carved the end of it into the shape of petals. Irene watched in fascination, astounded at how fast he whittled away at the wood and still kept an amazing perfection to his work. She could understand why his hands looked so strong, for he apparently worked with them long hours every day. “There, you see,” he told her, as he held out the small carving for her to take. “A flower for my friend’s sister.”
She reached out, surprised at how dark Ramon’s hand was compared to her own tawny brown one. She took the flower, feeling strangely light-headed when his hand brushed her fingers. “Thank you,” she told him. “Will you be working here at the house from now on, until it’s finished?”
He nodded. “Si, señorita. Do you…come here every day?” he asked hesitantly, wondering if the question sounded too forward,
“Not every day, but I come as often as I can, usually when I go riding.” She felt suddenly self-conscious. How did she look today? She had worn her dark green velvet riding habit, with a full, draped skirt and a close-fitting jacket and plumed hat. It was her nicest one, and she was glad she had chosen to wear it.
“Your brother told me about your horse, Sierra.”
“Come and see him, Ramon,” John told the man, walking around the pieces of wood. “He’s tied out front.” The boy hurried out, and Irene and Ramon stood alone in the room for a moment, feeling an awkward silence. Their eyes met again, both wanting to say words they were afraid to speak.
“You don’t have to come and see the horse if you don’t want to,” Irene told him. “You must be very busy.”
He smiled gently. “I would like to see him. I like to ride, too. On our ranch to the south, my father and grandfather have many horses. They have to watch them closely. Sometimes the prospectors try to steal them.”
“That’s terrible!”
He shrugged again. “They think it is all right to steal from Mexicans.” A hint of anger came into his normally gentle eyes, mixed with a fierce pride. “They do not know that my grandfather comes from a wealthy, powerful Spanish family in Mexico, descendants of a branch of the family of King Charles the First of Spain, who conquered Mexico three hundred years ago.”
Irene’s eyebrows arched. “Really?”
Ramon seemed to stand a little taller. “Sí. Then in Mexico’s war for independence, our family was attacked because they were descendants of the king. They fled north, with no time to bring many of their belongings. They lost everything and had to start over, so now life is harder. But my grandfather is strong and determined, and we still have our pride. Someday we will return to Mexico, when we are sure it is safe. In the meantime, I have plans to be a wealthy man again when that time comes. My grandfather told me I should come to Denver, where there is much building, and where wealthy mining people will pay much money for my skills.”
She felt disappointed at the thought that he would one day go back to Mexico. “I see.” She walked past him, afraid if she stood too close and let him read her eyes too long, he would see what she was thinking. “Well, your grandfather was probably right. I hope you realize your dream, Ramon.” She toyed nervously with her gloves.
“Do you have dreams, señorita?”
She let out a little gasp of surprise at the question. “I—I guess I haven’t given my future much thought. I mean…my mother seems to have all of our futures laid out for us. I suppose I’m expected to help take over the family business some day. I…and whoever I might marry.”
He st
udied her exquisite form, longing to touch her golden hair, feeling an odd possessiveness and a jealousy at the thought of another man touching her, disgusted with himself for having thoughts he had no business considering.
“I am sorry for the question. It is not my business.”
They both heard John outside calling for them to come out. Irene glanced back at Ramon, and he grinned. “I think we had better go out there,” Ramon spoke up. “I must get back to work soon or my patrona will be angry with me.”
She headed through the doorway, feeling him behind her. “I know what patrona means,” she said, turning to watch him again as he came up beside her. “We had a Spanish man who worked for us in California. He called my father patron. It means boss…employer. You say patrona because your boss is a woman, my mother.”
“Si. Do you know much more Spanish?”
“Not a lot,” she answered bashfully, walking to the front doors.
“I have been teaching a little to your brother. Es un amigo sincero. That means he is a true friend.”
They walked down the wide, brick steps. “John is a good person. I’ll miss him when he goes off to college.”
“He has told me he does not want to go.”
She laughed. “You don’t know my mother. Believe me, he’ll go.”
Ramon laughed, too, and walked with her to Sierra. He reached up and patted the horse’s neck. “Ah, he is a fine gelding,” he told her. He ran his hand along the animal’s body, kneeling to inspect its legs. “He is worth much money, señorita.”
“My father gave him to me when I was twelve. He was two years old then.”
He glanced up at her. “And how old are you now?”
“I’ll be sixteen soon.”
He rose, patting the horse’s rump. “A fine animal. My own grandfather would be proud to have this one in his pasture.”
In the Shadow of the Mountains Page 12