The Time of Aspen Falls

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  “Did I laugh last time?” he asked.

  “No,” she admitted. “And I thank you for not laughing.”

  “Okay…I’m ready,” he said.

  Aspen inhaled a deep breath. She still couldn’t understand why he wanted her to recite that stupid poem, but he did—and she would. Again she was awash with the feeling that Rake Locker could talk her into doing just about anything simply by asking.

  “Fine,” she breathed.

  A triumphant grin spread over Rake’s handsome face, and Aspen began.

  Like a garland of glass, the river

  Meanders on its way,

  ’Mid trees of scarlet and crimson

  Through the valley yon holding sway.

  She paused, intrigued with the idea of reciting the poem while sitting next to a river. She glanced up to the ageless Sandia to the east and continued.

  Yet up on the mountain gypsy,

  As sweet autumn finds her there,

  Lush golden ribbons of aspen

  Tie up her pine green hair.

  And jewels of rubied leaves,

  Of fiery orange and of plum,

  Drip from the tips of her fingers

  She glanced at Rake and couldn’t help but smile as she added,

  As she summons her lover, “Come!”

  She thought how wonderful it would be to be the mountain—to count Rake as the moon—the mountain’s lover.

  For the moon is the gypsy’s lover,

  And no sight makes the moon shine more

  Than her golden ribbons of aspen

  And the rubied jewels at her door.

  Hark! Winter is coming…

  And the time of aspen falls

  Like a bridegroom’s golden coverlet

  As his gypsy lover calls.

  “Come, lover!” cried the mountain,

  “Oh moon of my autumn heart!

  Come fall the aspen upon me…

  Lest golden leaves depart.

  “Weave me a golden bride’s bed

  To slumber ’neath ’til spring.

  As the time of aspen befalls us,

  Lay me on leafy wing.”

  She paused again, gazing up into the clear October sky—to the now hundreds of colorful hot air balloons lazily drifting overhead.

  So the moon spread wide his moonbeams,

  As the breadth of her lover’s arms,

  And he bound her there within them

  Safe from bleak winter’s harms.

  “Fear not, my gypsy lover,

  For the time of aspen falls!

  And as ribbons of gold clasp the pines

  So my heart into yours enthralls.”

  Then the moon breathed a breath of autumn,

  And the leaves of the aspen fell

  And covered the mountain golden

  From the peak to the low chaparral.

  “Hold fast, my lover,” said Moon.

  “I’ll keep you from winter’s cold

  In the time of aspen falling

  ’Neath a blanket of aspen gold.”

  Oh, Moon loves his gypsy mountain

  And the gypsy loves her moon.

  As the aspen rained leaves upon them…

  They bid autumn gone too soon.

  Hence, the time of aspen befell them,

  And winter’s descending was near,

  So the moon wove his fingers of moonbeams

  Through the gold amidst mountain’s hair.

  Thus, ever the moon keeps his gypsy

  As winter’s white snow swathe sprawls,

  And the moon and mountain blend kisses

  As the Time of Aspen Falls.

  Aspen finished the poem, and Rake swallowed—tried to dispel the thirst rising in him—the thirst for her kiss. He shouldn’t have had her recite the poem. He should’ve known the enchanting sound of her voice—the romantic lilt of the poem—he should’ve known they would rattle him!

  Yet he chose to ignore the warning rising in his chest and mind.

  “Do that last part again,” he rather ordered. He felt his eyes narrow as he looked at her—gritted his teeth to maintain his self-control.

  “‘Thus, ever the moon keeps his gypsy as winter’s white snow swathe sprawls’—” she began.

  “And the moon and mountain blend kisses…as the time of aspen falls,” he finished.

  “That’s right!” she exclaimed. He could see by the smile on her face, the bright twinkle in her eye, that she was impressed he’d remember the end. Little did she know he nearly had the thing memorized. Sitting in his workshop with the poetry book from the library so close at hand, he must’ve read it a hundred times.

  “Yep…I guess it’s true,” he sighed.

  “What’s true?” she asked. She twisted, laying down on her stomach and propping herself on her elbows.

  “I like that poem…so I guess I really am a weenie,” he explained, smiling at her. Uh oh! He could feel the devil rising in him as he let his attention linger on her lips; he could feel the mischief pumping through his veins. She was distracted for a moment—looked skyward as several more balloons appeared low over the tree line, heading for the water. He smiled, remembering the warm taste of her mouth—the smooth silk of her skin beneath his palms the night of his grandparents’ barn party. He swallowed hard, trying to draw on his resolve to act appropriately. He’d brought her out here to watch the balloons, not to start making out with her before the day had even begun. Still, as she looked back to him, her eyes were warm—inviting. There was mischief in her expression too—or something akin to it—and his resolve was lost.

  “Go ahead,” he said, smiling at her.

  It was the increasingly familiar smolder of his dark eyes that caused the butterflies to go off in Aspen’s stomach. His grin implied pure misbehavior, and her mouth flooded with moisture. He’d read her thoughts! She was sure he had. She’d been lying there looking at him, considering how fabulous it would feel to kiss him. And somehow—somehow he knew! She felt her cheeks pink up a bit.

  “Go ahead what?” she asked. She’d play dumb. Then maybe he’d change the subject.

  “Go ahead and do what you’re thinking of doing,” he said. He remained just as he had been—stretched out on his back, legs crossed at his ankles, hands tucked back behind his head. Yet the smolder in his eyes told her he was thinking the same thing she was.

  “I-I’m just—just watching the balloons,” she lied. She sat up, leaning on one hand and gazing off into the sky. He sat up too. And as she sat facing east toward the mountains, he sat facing east toward the river.

  “You should’ve done it,” he said, smiling at her. “I would’ve let you. You know that, right?”

  “Done what?” she asked, attempting innocence of knowledge.

  “Done exactly what you were thinking of doing,” he chuckled.

  “And…and just what do you think I was thinking of doing?” she asked. She couldn’t confess—couldn’t admit she’d nearly leaned over and kissed him! She couldn’t.

  “This,” he said, reaching out and slipping a hand beneath her hair to the back of her neck as he pulled her toward him.

  Aspen trembled at the first touch of Rake’s lips to hers. He kissed her softly just once—once softly before his mouth captured hers in a heated, moist, and teasingly driven kiss. She accepted him at once—didn’t pause in returning the passionate nature of it. She felt flushed with fever, awash with desire and the need for his attention to continue at her mouth. Though her eyes were closed, a vision of Rake in his worn Levi’s, Nike cap, and now tattered flannel shirt flashed in her mind. He was so handsome—so rugged and naturally attractive! He pulled her into his arms, drinking deeply of her kisses, as if trying to quench some insatiable thirst. She let one arm go around his waist, the other hand sliding up his muscular arm, over one broad shoulder, around to the back of his neck.

  His manner of kissing was so masterful, so perfect—as if he’d somehow been trained to execute the perfect blending of mou
ths. Aspen suddenly wondered if that was indeed it. Had Rake Locker done so much kissing with other women that he was considered a pro? The thought slightly interrupted her bliss, and she pulled back from him, breaking the seal of their lips.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, frowning.

  She glanced up into the smoldering brown of his eyes. He was gorgeous! Of course he’d kissed other girls. He’d probably had his pick of girls when he was a teenager—and women as a man. The thought made Aspen suddenly shy—shy and jealous!

  “I-I probably shouldn’t be doing this,” she stammered.

  “Probably not,” he chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

  “W-we really haven’t known each other very long,” she began to explain. She was distracted by his mouth, however—by wanting him to kiss her again.

  “Not really,” he agreed, letting his lips hover a breath above her own. “Do you want me to stop?” he asked. “I’ll stop if you want me to.”

  Aspen was breathless, overcome by his nearness—by the desire to have his mouth pressed to hers again. She couldn’t stop herself, and she moved to meet his lips with her own.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘don’t stop,’” he breathed a moment before he kissed her again—kissed her hard—a demanding kiss, drenched with desire.

  Chapter Eleven

  Aspen was entirely delirious, her mind void of any reason or rationality. As Rake kissed her, quick sparks of warning, of an urgency to run from him, flashed in her mind. He was too wonderful—absolutely too wonderful! No one was as perfect as they seemed, especially someone as attractive as Rake Locker. Yet she couldn’t push herself out of his arms—couldn’t find the willpower to stop kissing him. He would be the death of her, she knew it! The death of her—or at least of her heart. Still, she couldn’t pull herself out of his arms—only longed for their kissing to continue—forever!

  He broke from her, suddenly—frowning.

  “Hold on,” he mumbled. A deepening frown furrowed his brow, and he turned his head as if listening. Releasing her, he nearly leapt to his feet, turning around and shading his eyes from the sun to the east.

  Aspen heard it then—the quick, short burst of a balloon burner. She scrambled to her feet in time to see a large red balloon appear just barely above the tree line.

  “He’s descending way too fast,” Rake mumbled, more to himself than to Aspen. She knew he was right. The balloon barely cleared the tree line and was headed for the river, descending at an alarming rate. The basket wouldn’t just bounce on the sandbar or skim the water—it would hit with brutal force.

  “Oh, no!” she gasped, her hands covering her mouth.

  Rake swore under his breath and, turning toward the horses, shouted, “Stay here!” Aspen watched as he ran to his horse, turning his cap and putting the bill at the back of his head.

  Fairly leaping into the saddle, Rake slapped the horse’s flank with the reins, sending the horse galloping toward the river. Aspen’s heart hammered with anxiety as she watched Rake ride through the shallow river toward the sandbar just as the basket hit with devastating force. She screamed when it tipped, spilling several people into the water as the hot air in the envelope tried to lift the balloon into the air again. But it came down again, the basket dragging in the water. Aspen watched, helpless, as a woman fell out of the basket—went under the water’s surface as the still sky-bound balloon dragged the basket over her.

  Yet Rake was there in the next instant—leaping off his horse into the water, pulling the woman to the surface. He picked her up in his arms and struggled through the waist-deep water to the sandbar. He laid her down and said something to the other three people who had fallen from the basket and were now standing in the middle of the Rio Grande River, stunned and no doubt very banged up.

  “I’ll call 911!” the pilot of the balloon shouted to Aspen as he hit the burner, sending the balloon rising and narrowly missing the tree line.

  “Okay,” Aspen squeaked out, nowhere near loud enough to be heard. She waved at the pilot of the balloon as he and one other man remaining in the basket floated up and toward the west. She knew there was nothing the pilot and the other man could do. Ballooning was a dangerous hobby, and unfortunately accidents did happen. Calling 911 was the smartest and best response to what had happened. Aspen knew the pilot would radio his chase crew as well, and they probably had some emergency medical supplies on hand.

  She looked back to the sandbar, relieved to see that the woman who had fallen into the water appeared to be conscious and was sitting up. Rake’s horse had followed him to the sandbar, and Aspen watched as Rake pulled another serape from a saddlebag, wrapping it around the wet woman’s shoulders.

  He stood then, conversing with the three other passengers who had fallen out of the basket—two men and another woman. Each of the two men shook his hand, and the woman hugged him. Aspen was frustrated with being so useless. She couldn’t do anything but stand on the riverbank and wait.

  Rake picked up the woman in the blanket again and nodded to the others. Carefully, he waded through the river; the others followed, as did his horse. Aspen began to run down the riverbank, toward the place they were headed. He was smart to get them to the bank. They were in a remote area as it was, and the emergency vehicles would no doubt have enough trouble getting to them without having to wade out into the river.

  “Oh my heck!” Aspen exclaimed as the others came ashore. “Is she badly hurt?”

  It was the woman herself—the one Rake was carrying—who answered.

  “I-I think I broke my ankle,” she said. She was a young woman, perhaps Aspen’s age—very pretty, even drowned-rat wet.

  “The pilot said he’d call 911,” Aspen told Rake as he set the woman down on the ground.

  “Good,” he said. “They’ll probably come down off Alameda. I’ll ride over and find them.” He mounted and turned his horse south. “Will you stay here until I get back, Aspen?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she said. It seemed a silly question. What else did he think she was going to do?

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll be right back,” he said to the stunned balloon passengers. He was off then, riding at a gallop south, toward the old Alameda bridge.

  Aspen looked back to the three standing strangers—glanced down at the woman with the injured ankle.

  “What a morning, huh?” she asked, shaking her head and smiling. It worked. All four people chuckled and nodded.

  Rake almost reined in—almost turned his horse around and went back. What was he thinking, leaving Aspen alone with four complete strangers? He didn’t like the way the younger of the two men had looked at her. What if he’d left her in an unsafe situation? Still, there were women there and another man. Surely three of the four startled balloonists would be decent people.

  He rode hard, cussing under his breath at the way his morning had been interrupted by disaster. He could still taste Aspen’s kiss in his mouth, and it caused a thirst to rise in him the like he’d never known before. She was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted—the prettiest thing he’d ever set eyes on—the most tempting woman to ever cross his path—ever.

  Rake was so preoccupied by his thoughts of Aspen that he almost rode right under the old Alameda bridge instead of heading up the bank to the street. He could hear the flags flapping in the wind and reached the street bridge in time to see a chase crew slowing down, a woman in the back of the truck using a pair of binoculars to look down the riverbed. He put his fingers to his mouth and whistled, pointing in the direction they should go when the woman looked over to him. As the truck and trailer rig started down onto the sandy road along the river, Rake heard sirens. He’d stay until he’d made sure they knew where to go; then he’d head back. A horse could move faster over the sandy riverbank than the chase crew or EMT vehicles could, and he had to get back—just in case he’d been stupid enough to leave Aspen in the hands of a serial killer.

  Rake smiled, shook his head, and chuckle
d a little. A serial killer? He couldn’t decide whether his concerns were legitimate or whether Aspen had totally infiltrated his mind—right down to her irrational fear of meeting up with a serial killer.

  

  “So, we’re just sitting there—you know…just innocently making out,” Rake explained, drying his hair with a fresh towel.

  “Yeah?” his sister, Marissa, prodded—her eyes wide with anticipation, as if it were the most natural thing in the world that her brother and Aspen were sitting on the banks of the Rio Grande making out at seven thirty in the morning.

  “And this balloon comes over the trees…way too low. I could tell he wasn’t going to make it,” Rake explained.

  Aspen swallowed hard and tried not to blush—tried to avert her attention from Rake’s bare torso before her. She couldn’t believe how uninhibited he was! After the EMTs had left the river to take the ballooning passengers to the hospital, Rake and Aspen had ridden back to his grandparents’ house. Wet and cold from his time in the river, Rake had asked Aspen if she minded waiting while he showered—then they could head up to Santa Fe to pick piñons. She’d gladly agreed, excited about spending more time with him. Still, as she’d been sitting in his grandmother’s kitchen waiting for him to finish showering, not only had his sister walked in but also her husband. Only minutes later, his brother, Mark, had arrived and his mother. Now they all sat in the kitchen, listening to Rake tell about the ballooning accident she and Rake had witnessed. Furthermore, not only was he standing in the kitchen relating the story while wearing nothing but a smile and towel wrapped around him at his waist, he’d just announced to the entire assembly that he and Aspen had been “making out” just before the balloon crashed.