Camino del Monte Sol ch. 8 (with OBTS) -- PG-13
Posted: Wed Jun 15, 2011 5:39 pm
Author’s Note: This story is a collaboration between OnceBitTwiceShy and myself for Champagne Challenge #128: Reader/Writer II. OBTS provided the idea of Josef visiting Santa Fe in the 1920’s, and running into…well, you’ll have to read the story. The settings are as accurate as I can make them, having been in Santa Fe myself many times, and also using various resources on the City Different, as they call it, and its inhabitants back in the ‘20s. While I could find no record of a hotel located in Sena Plaza, such a place does exist, and who knows? It could have housed a small hotel at one time. The artists’ colony, and their compound on Camino del Monte Sol, are documented. There will be a thread with a set of pictures and links to places, costumes, cars, posted after most chapters. My thanks to OBTS, not only for the idea, but for her encouragement and input as the story progressed. I don’t own Josef, or any of the historical locations and personages mentioned in the story. Any errors or misrepresentations of fact are mine.
Camino del Monte Sol
VIII. Sangre de Cristo
Reza stopped and looked back at Stephen as her horse crested the ridge, the buckskin mare curveting under the pressure from the bit. “I didn’t think you’d be able to keep up,” she called to him as he emerged from the stand of aspen.
“I told you, I was riding as soon as I could walk,” he replied. “My father made sure of that.”
Laughing, she swung down from the saddle, looping the reins over her arm. She took off the broad-brimmed hat she’d worn against the sun, and shook out her hair. Stephen thought she must know that she looked quite a picture, in her flared riding breeches and boots, the white shirt with its wide, soft collar set off by a red scarf knotted low. The ride had been, ostensibly, for her to show him a particular location, and he supposed they had arrived. From their vantage point on the ridge, they could see a pleasant valley spreading below. Further into the distance, the hazy outskirts of the city were just visible. He imagined that at night, the lights would be beautiful. A small stream, flowing down from the Sangre de Cristo Mountains at their back, lent the scene an even more pleasing air. The change in altitude from Santa Fe meant that the afternoon sun was tempered to coolness, and Stephen imagined that evenings here would be crisp, even in the summer.
Reza tied her horse to a nearby fallen tree, and Stephen, dismounting, did the same. She’d given him a tall, rangy bay gelding to ride. At one time, he’d have thought it a remarkably ugly horse, but it had performed admirably on the climb up from the corral on the northeast side of Santa Fe, and he couldn’t fault it for that. He supposed he was succumbing to the modern passion for form following function, but he had to say he missed the days when a good horse was supposed to be beautiful as well as strong.
“If you’re wanting a good site for a lodge,” Reza said, “you couldn’t do much better than here. And the land is available.”
“It definitely has possibilities,” Stephen conceded. “Of course, we’d have to put in a road up here.” He walked over to where she stood on a stone outcropping, trying to picture what he wanted in this place. If he were serious, he’d have to get a team of architects and surveyors out, he supposed.
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re looking for, exactly,” Reza commented. “I mean, I understand a guest lodge, but you said something—it’s not just ordinary people you’re building for, is it?”
Stephen shook his head. “Not exactly. It’s more like—like a sanatorium,” he said. “Not for tuberculosis, though. More just for city people who are, um, run down. In need of rest and quiet.”
Reza nodded. That made sense to her. She’d known many people who’d moved to Santa Fe for their health. “Everyone says the climate here is very healthy.” She laughed. “And it is certainly quiet.”
“I don’t know about that. The night life in town is certainly entertaining.”
“You have only been here a short time. It’s not usually so lively, except for the artists.” She gestured out at the valley. “So, you like the land?”
He nodded, the broad brim of his hat shading his face. “Possibly. Reza, who does it belong to? Is it your family’s property?”
“Hardly. My family hasn’t sold an inch of land in the last 200 years, and they are not about to start now. It belongs—it belongs to a family I know. They…no longer have a son to carry on the name, and they want to sell.”
“What happened to the son?” Stephen asked gently.
Her answer was short. “He died in the War. He was a fine boy; we used to ride together here, years ago.”
“You cared for him?”
“I was a child. And he is gone, so what does it matter?” As she stepped back from the outcrop, the sole of her riding boot skidded on a pebble, and she swayed, fighting to retain her balance. Stephen was right there, however, a strong arm thrust around her waist to catch her so that she fell against him.
It was one of those moments. Neither spoke, struck silent by proximity, and she looked up into his warm, brown eyes. They looked at each other for a long moment, then he bent his head down, and laid his mouth on hers, catching her lips parted in a gasp. Her arms stole up around his neck, and she met him boldly, returning his passion with her own. He kept his fangs from extending by sheer force of will, but it was a struggle. The steady throb of her pulse, the warmth of her body against his, the scent of her filling his nostrils all combined to make control stretch to a thin steel thread. If he wasn’t careful, he’d reveal himself too soon.
Abruptly, he released her, turning away. “I’m sorry,” he said roughly. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
He could hear her moving behind him. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Of course you should kiss me. I wanted to kiss you.”
“What about Nash?” He turned to face her, watching her push her hair, disordered by the wind, away from her face.
“Nash,” she said, her expression turning suddenly enigmatic. “He wants a wife. Someone to cook and clean, and model as well. And probably to produce a crop of babies.”
“And that’s not what you want?”
“It is not,” she replied sharply. She crossed her arms and tilted her head to one side, daring him to ask.
“All right, then, what do you want? You said the night I met you, you wanted to stay in Santa Fe.” He moved away a little, seeking the shade of one of the tall fir trees, his feet moving noiselessly on the forest floor.
She looked out over the mountainside again, the land falling away from where they stood. “I thought so, but I’m starting to wonder if I need to leave.” She paused. “But first, Stephen, I want to spend the night with you.”
Stephen leaned against the tree trunk, folding his arms in unconscious imitation of her pose, welcoming the respite from the sun. “I’m not against that, Reza, if it’s what you want. I’m concerned that it might not be wise for you, though. Your father—”
She approached him and laid a hand against the breast of his jacket. “Let me worry about him. He also wants—well, can I tell you about my aunts?”
Stephen frowned at the apparent non sequitur. “Of course.”
“My father has two sisters, both much younger. After his father died, he took over as head of the family. My Tia Serena, he convinced to marry a much older man, a man she cared nothing for. She spends her days on a ranch outside town, isolated and unhappy, waiting for her husband to die. Tia Barbara had a slight limp, I think one of her legs is shorter than the other. Papa decided she would never marry, so she went into the church, and now she is Sister Maria Barbara. I asked her once if she had a true vocation, and she told me it would be a sin for her to say no. My father cares about propriety, but he has my brothers to carry on the family for him. He will not force me either into a convent, or into a marriage.
I am going to do what I want.” She smiled savagely. “And my mother agrees. She told me I was right to pose for Nash, if I want.”
“I see.”
“Will you take me to dinner tonight, Stephen?” she asked, looking up into his eyes. “And after dinner, will you…take me?”
Kostan took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said.
Camino del Monte Sol
VIII. Sangre de Cristo
Reza stopped and looked back at Stephen as her horse crested the ridge, the buckskin mare curveting under the pressure from the bit. “I didn’t think you’d be able to keep up,” she called to him as he emerged from the stand of aspen.
“I told you, I was riding as soon as I could walk,” he replied. “My father made sure of that.”
Laughing, she swung down from the saddle, looping the reins over her arm. She took off the broad-brimmed hat she’d worn against the sun, and shook out her hair. Stephen thought she must know that she looked quite a picture, in her flared riding breeches and boots, the white shirt with its wide, soft collar set off by a red scarf knotted low. The ride had been, ostensibly, for her to show him a particular location, and he supposed they had arrived. From their vantage point on the ridge, they could see a pleasant valley spreading below. Further into the distance, the hazy outskirts of the city were just visible. He imagined that at night, the lights would be beautiful. A small stream, flowing down from the Sangre de Cristo Mountains at their back, lent the scene an even more pleasing air. The change in altitude from Santa Fe meant that the afternoon sun was tempered to coolness, and Stephen imagined that evenings here would be crisp, even in the summer.
Reza tied her horse to a nearby fallen tree, and Stephen, dismounting, did the same. She’d given him a tall, rangy bay gelding to ride. At one time, he’d have thought it a remarkably ugly horse, but it had performed admirably on the climb up from the corral on the northeast side of Santa Fe, and he couldn’t fault it for that. He supposed he was succumbing to the modern passion for form following function, but he had to say he missed the days when a good horse was supposed to be beautiful as well as strong.
“If you’re wanting a good site for a lodge,” Reza said, “you couldn’t do much better than here. And the land is available.”
“It definitely has possibilities,” Stephen conceded. “Of course, we’d have to put in a road up here.” He walked over to where she stood on a stone outcropping, trying to picture what he wanted in this place. If he were serious, he’d have to get a team of architects and surveyors out, he supposed.
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re looking for, exactly,” Reza commented. “I mean, I understand a guest lodge, but you said something—it’s not just ordinary people you’re building for, is it?”
Stephen shook his head. “Not exactly. It’s more like—like a sanatorium,” he said. “Not for tuberculosis, though. More just for city people who are, um, run down. In need of rest and quiet.”
Reza nodded. That made sense to her. She’d known many people who’d moved to Santa Fe for their health. “Everyone says the climate here is very healthy.” She laughed. “And it is certainly quiet.”
“I don’t know about that. The night life in town is certainly entertaining.”
“You have only been here a short time. It’s not usually so lively, except for the artists.” She gestured out at the valley. “So, you like the land?”
He nodded, the broad brim of his hat shading his face. “Possibly. Reza, who does it belong to? Is it your family’s property?”
“Hardly. My family hasn’t sold an inch of land in the last 200 years, and they are not about to start now. It belongs—it belongs to a family I know. They…no longer have a son to carry on the name, and they want to sell.”
“What happened to the son?” Stephen asked gently.
Her answer was short. “He died in the War. He was a fine boy; we used to ride together here, years ago.”
“You cared for him?”
“I was a child. And he is gone, so what does it matter?” As she stepped back from the outcrop, the sole of her riding boot skidded on a pebble, and she swayed, fighting to retain her balance. Stephen was right there, however, a strong arm thrust around her waist to catch her so that she fell against him.
It was one of those moments. Neither spoke, struck silent by proximity, and she looked up into his warm, brown eyes. They looked at each other for a long moment, then he bent his head down, and laid his mouth on hers, catching her lips parted in a gasp. Her arms stole up around his neck, and she met him boldly, returning his passion with her own. He kept his fangs from extending by sheer force of will, but it was a struggle. The steady throb of her pulse, the warmth of her body against his, the scent of her filling his nostrils all combined to make control stretch to a thin steel thread. If he wasn’t careful, he’d reveal himself too soon.
Abruptly, he released her, turning away. “I’m sorry,” he said roughly. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
He could hear her moving behind him. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Of course you should kiss me. I wanted to kiss you.”
“What about Nash?” He turned to face her, watching her push her hair, disordered by the wind, away from her face.
“Nash,” she said, her expression turning suddenly enigmatic. “He wants a wife. Someone to cook and clean, and model as well. And probably to produce a crop of babies.”
“And that’s not what you want?”
“It is not,” she replied sharply. She crossed her arms and tilted her head to one side, daring him to ask.
“All right, then, what do you want? You said the night I met you, you wanted to stay in Santa Fe.” He moved away a little, seeking the shade of one of the tall fir trees, his feet moving noiselessly on the forest floor.
She looked out over the mountainside again, the land falling away from where they stood. “I thought so, but I’m starting to wonder if I need to leave.” She paused. “But first, Stephen, I want to spend the night with you.”
Stephen leaned against the tree trunk, folding his arms in unconscious imitation of her pose, welcoming the respite from the sun. “I’m not against that, Reza, if it’s what you want. I’m concerned that it might not be wise for you, though. Your father—”
She approached him and laid a hand against the breast of his jacket. “Let me worry about him. He also wants—well, can I tell you about my aunts?”
Stephen frowned at the apparent non sequitur. “Of course.”
“My father has two sisters, both much younger. After his father died, he took over as head of the family. My Tia Serena, he convinced to marry a much older man, a man she cared nothing for. She spends her days on a ranch outside town, isolated and unhappy, waiting for her husband to die. Tia Barbara had a slight limp, I think one of her legs is shorter than the other. Papa decided she would never marry, so she went into the church, and now she is Sister Maria Barbara. I asked her once if she had a true vocation, and she told me it would be a sin for her to say no. My father cares about propriety, but he has my brothers to carry on the family for him. He will not force me either into a convent, or into a marriage.
I am going to do what I want.” She smiled savagely. “And my mother agrees. She told me I was right to pose for Nash, if I want.”
“I see.”
“Will you take me to dinner tonight, Stephen?” she asked, looking up into his eyes. “And after dinner, will you…take me?”
Kostan took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said.