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Treasure Among The Ruins

By Linda Farmer Harris

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Treasure Among the Ruins
Book 1 - Voices in the Desert Series
Linda Farmer Harris

Chapter 1

Santa Fe, New Mexico, May 17, 1926

Cordelia Moulton laid the family social calendar beside her breakfast plate and looked up at her mother. “Can we talk about this next week?”

“The summer schedule is almost full, Delia. You simply must make a decision.” Geneva Moulton sat in the adjoining chair, opened her writing case, and offered her daughter a fountain pen. “Please choose a date.”

“Let’s make it a Christmas affair. Everyone enjoys a holiday house party.”

“No. We have cruise reservations to Vienna for the four of us.” Geneva touched her daughter’s hand. “I know you’re tired, Delia. College graduation is a monumental occasion. But, honey, that was two weeks ago. It’s time for you to transition from studies to society.”

Geneva offered the pen again. “Theodore’s mother is anxious to fix his calendar before their summer guests arrive and he escapes to Montana.”

Escape is the right word. Cordelia picked up the calendar and thumbed through the months. Poor Theo, if he doesn’t leave soon he’ll be carting Mrs. Hamilton’s guests to Santa Fe at all hours of the day and night.

“Delia, you haven’t been cordial to Theo the last few times you’ve been home. I hope you will be more attentive this summer.”

The Hamilton ranch was the Moulton’s closest neighbor. Their 640 acres joined the Moulton’s 2,560 acres and formed a land lock across the valley floor. Eight miles outside of Lamy, New Mexico, the Moulton ranch was the largest in Santa Fe County.

Geneva fiddled with the pen. “Is it too much to ask that our oldest child step out into society in a way befitting her social position?”

“Of course not, Mother.” Cordelia flipped to July. “How about a fourth of July soirée?”

“No. The Hamiltons are having a ranch rodeo for Theodore that weekend. See the “TH” on the second through the fifth?”

“Oh.” Cordelia rubbed the block for the fourth. “Well, how about the third weekend in June?”

Geneva pulled the calendar to her and flipped to June. “That gives me only a month to plan and send invitations, but I can do it.”

Her fountain pen poised over the eighteenth, Geneva scrunched her lips then relaxed them again. “I’ll pare down the invitation list. Ask your two college girlfriends to come for a sleepover. The other guests can arrive on Sunday morning.”

“Please pencil in the date until I can see if Abigail and Beth Ann can come?”

“Certainly.” She replaced the pen in the case and retrieved a sharpened pencil.

“I’ll ride to the Lamy depot this morning and send telegrams.” She buttered her toast and plastered on a heaping teaspoon of blackberry preserves. The peppered poached egg atop the slice of tomato and riced potatoes became less and less appetizing the longer her mother talked about the June event.

Cordelia finished her toast and laid her napkin over the untouched breakfast plate. All the while, she ahhed and hmmed over her mother’s plans. “I’ll leave everything to you, Mother. Do you need anything before I go?”

Geneva looked up from her notepad; her face a study in deep concentration. “Not at the moment, dear. Go send your telegrams. I’ll send invitations for Hanley to post when he goes to the feed store after lunch.”

Cordelia nodded. Poor Daddy. I bet he never dreamed he’d be a postman as well as a rancher. She hurried to her room.

She picked up the denim divided skirt she had laid across her bed before breakfast. Much better than jodhpurs. Mother would have a conniption fit if I wore this to the table. She changed into the skirt. If she had her way, I’d ride sidesaddle, if I rode at all.

Old squabbles about proper attire and decorum tried to crowd into the unrest of adjusting to her new role in family life. I don’t know what I expected after I graduated from the college, but wining and dining the social elite of northern New Mexico isn’t part of it.

She adjusted her neckerchief then twisted her body in front of the standing mirror. What now, Cordelia Hewett Moulton? She pivoted to make her gaucho riding skirt separate into wide-legged breeches. I have no clue. I only know what I don’t want to do.

Hat in hand, she hurried down the hall to her sister’s room and tapped on the door. “Patrice, are you up?”

“Come on in, Miss Valedictorian. I’m decent.”

“I’m riding to the depot to send a couple of telegrams. Wanna go?”

“Not on your life. I’m spending the first full day of summer in the middle of this bed.” She fluffed up her pillow and snuggled back under the light coverlet. “In a room by myself. Next year I’m hitting Daddy up for a single dorm room. I’m a senior now. I think I deserve it.”

“Good luck with that.” Delia sat on the side of the bed. “It was a two-girl dorm room for me the whole time.”

“We’re legacy. Once they found out who you were you could have finagled a single from the housemother.” Patrice sat up. “Besides you liked your roomie. Mine was a fuddy-duddy.”

“Wouldn’t put up with your hijinks, huh?” Delia rolled her eyes. “Imagine that.”

“Hey, it wasn’t like that at all. I kept my grades up. You know I don’t like having to be in bed at sundown and up before the crack of dawn.”

“Builds character.” Delia stood. “I can ask Westin to saddle your horse.”

“Not on your tintype. I’m a lady of leisure today.” She slipped on her bedroom slippers. “As long as I can stay out of mother’s way.”

“Gotta go.” Delia grinned all the way to the stables before she broke into a cackle that scattered the barn cats.

“Miss Moulton, are you riding to the depot alone?” Nelson Westin tied her horse to the hitching post outside the barn door.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve ridden to the depot a dozen times by myself.” She reached up and touched the rifle in the scabbard.

Westin tipped his hat back off his forehead. “I’d feel better if you’d take a pistol, too.”

Delia smoothed down her skirt. A wide holster belt around her waist didn’t appeal to her.

“If you must—”

“I know. If I must dismount, I need a pistol at hand.”

“It’s either that or I ride with you. Your mother’d skin me alive if I let you leave without ample protection.”

“Yes, she would, and we don’t want that.” Delia tugged a bit of her blouse out of her waistband. The slight easement made wearing a holster more comfortable.

Westin offered her the pistol in its tooled leather holster. “Your dad said this .32 caliber might be more to your likin’. The gun handles the same as your other pistol only lighter, and the holster isn’t as bulky to wear on horseback.”

Delia slid the smaller gun out of the holster and aimed the barrel at the empty pasture beyond the barn. “I like the size.” She put the pistol in the holster and buckled the holster in place with the leg strap untied.

He picked up one of the holster’s leather strings hanging past her knees. “I cut the leather long enough for a double wrap. The bow knot would be on top.”

“Perfect. Much easier than tying the knot in the back.” She mounted the stirrup and swung into the saddle. The strip of leather circled her skirt leg and made an adequate bowknot on top of her thigh. She checked the closure on her bulging saddlebag.

Westin stroked the neck of her horse. “Wearing the pistol isn’t fashionable, but rattlesnakes and mountain lions won’t mind.”

“Thank you, Mr. Westin. I’ll ride across the south pasture to the county road, up the canyon to the depot. It’s shorter, and I’ll be back by mid-afternoon.”

“I’ll hold you to that. Knowing you’re a sure-shot gives me comfort, but if you aren’t home by your mother’s afternoon tea, I’ll be on the road looking for you.” The grin lines around his eyes deepened. He shaded his eyes to look up at her. “Deal?”

“Deal.” She reined Skillet toward the pasture gate. On him, she could open and close a fence gate without leaving the saddle. The other ranch horses balked at the sound of the gate latch so close to their heads.

The south pasture’s grass was high enough to conceal the gopher holes plaguing the ranch since spring. A nice lope, or a gallop was out of the question. The walk across the mile-long pasture would give her time to practice the balance exercises Westin showed her the day before.

She raised her shoulder into a high shrug, rolled them back, and let them drop. She sensed a straight line through her shoulders, hips, and heels.

“Balance. I need balance in my life, Skillet. When mother finds out Abigail and Beth Ann were scholarship instead of legacy students, she’ll be disappointed. She wants my friends to be from the most influential families.” She rode for fifteen minutes in unison with her horse’s steady amble.

“I need a lot more than equine balance. My whole life is out of kilter.”

Backbone straight, she leaned forward and patted her horse’s neck. “You don’t care about family money or social standing, do you, boy? No hidden agenda in your friendship. I can be myself. Whoever that is, now.”

Once on the county road, she flexed her hips to follow the rhythm of Skillet’s back as it lifted and rolled into a faster gait.

She reined him into a series of figure eights, spirals, and small circles. Between maneuvers, she took a deep breath, exhaled, and sank into her seat bones.

She giggled and stroked Skillet’s neck. “Do you remember our first day together? Westin kept saying, ‘sink into your seat bones.’ I had no idea what that meant until he said, ‘sink until you feel those bones that get sore when you’ve ridden all day.’

“Well, I found the bones in my anatomy book. Those are the Ischium bones. Try starting a conversation with that bit of trivia.”

Skillet responded to the cessation of her hip movement and halted. They stood for a few moments before she squeezed her knees to cue him to walk on.

Her goal for the summer was to perfect as many silent commands as Skillet could master. An equestrian exhibition at her college’s rodeo week was the catalyst for her new way of communicating with her horse. The exhibitionist rode without saddle, bridle, or reins, controlling the horse with imperceptible body movements.

She envisioned giving the same demonstration at next year’s Santa Fe rodeo. Skillet showed signs of understanding her new movements for go, stop, and stand.
Two miles later they stopped in a grove of salt cedars along a small stream that flowed above ground in several places only to disappear for miles below the desert floor.

She dismounted, took off her hat, and whipped her face with her handkerchief. She sat on a flat rock and sipped from her canteen while Skillet nibbled the grass at the water’s edge.

Balance. I must put both feet back in my life’s stirrups. Dear Lord, help me. How can I do that when I don’t know how they slipped out?

The warm morning forerunner of an seventy-five degree day lulled her into a few minutes of shut-eye.

In the mishmash of dozing, she heard, “Hey rider. Up here. Look up here.”

Skillet’s alarm nicker brought her to her feet, pistol drawn.

Delia scanned the terrain in front and behind her before she looked up along the ridgeline.

A young woman, too near the edge, waved her arms like a calisthenics instructor. She cupped her hand around her mouth megaphone style. “Our car broke down. We need help.”

A man dressed in ranch clothes stood next to her, but didn’t join in the waving or yelling.

Delia holstered her pistol. Car broke down? What are they doing out here in the middle of nowhere in the first place? She gathered Skillet’s reins and mounted.
She pointed to the side of the ridge that had a trail between the two peaks. What kind of get-up is that girl wearing?

She pulsed her thighs and knees then added a soft pressure with her boot heels on Skillet’s sides. He took a step. She released the pressure.

She searched the ridgeline again. No woman or man. I hope they understood my pointing. On her next pulse, she bent forward with a slight roll of her hips.
Skillet picked up the pace.

Delia was so intent on syncing her cues with Skillet’s gait she wasn’t prepared for the seven people huddled around a black Packard. Two cowboys, one young woman, and two couples watched her ride up. Her eyes met the gaze of the cowboy, who had been on the ridge. He stood off to himself.

His dark eyes never left hers as he lifted his hat in a silent greeting. He used the sweatband to sweep an escaped black curl back under his hat.

Wow. He’s a tall drink of water. Delia acknowledged his greeting with a slight nod then turned her attention to the young girl who had hailed her from the ridge. “What’s the trouble, folks?”

The cowboy with his head under the hood of the car raised up and lowered the hood enough to see Delia. “Best I can tell, there’s a hole in the radiator. The car will need to be towed back to Lamy depot then into Santa Fe.”

“Is that where you came from?” Delia rode Skillet closer to the cowboy mechanic.
“These dudes came in on the morning train and will be staying at the La Fonda in Santa Fe. They wanted a quick trip into the desert before we drove into town.”

The older woman clung to the man standing next to her. “Victor, I want to go back to the train. We should have gone straight to town. I saw something crawling on those rocks.”

Victor put his arm around her shoulder and whispered in her ear. He smiled one of those apologetic smiles of indulgence, but didn’t say anything.

Delia slackened the reins. “How long have you and the dudes been out here? What made you take this trail across private property?”

The young woman in a brilliant velveteen Navajo-style blouse stepped up next to the cowboy mechanic. “It’s my fault, Señorita. I misread the map. We intended to go north to a small lake, but we were going south.”

The woman’s skirt with walking pleats made a striking background for the Navajo belt of figured silver conchas. Her squash blossom necklace finished off a dazzling outfit.

“I’m the Detour guide, Marcella Baca.” She unfolded the brochure-sized panels of a rough map of the area. “Señor Lahr is our driver.” She motioned to the cowboy mechanic.

“It’s not hard to get lost out here.” Delia’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. The desert wasn’t the place for a casual romp. Careless people irritated her. “What can I do to help?”

“There isn’t much unless your horse can tow a loaded Harveycar.” The cowboy mechanic closed the car hood and wiped his hands on a pocket-handkerchief. “Our little detour must have added quite a few miles. How far away is the train station?”

“Too far to get help from Lamy today.” Delia turned Skillet until she could see each of the four other people. None of them were shod for hiking any distance. They might be fit enough, but the walk would be slow and strenuous.

She rubbed the saddle horn. “Skillet’s strong, but I wouldn’t ask him to pull a loaded car. I’ll ride home and tell our foreman, Nelson Westin.”

“How long will that be, ma’am?” The man from the other couple pointed to the horizon. “It’ll be sunset soon. I don’t want to be out here in the dark.”

Miss Baca came forward. “With the new moon, it’ll be about 8:00 p.m. before sunset.”

“So, Miss Baca, you’re versed in astronomy as well as the flora and fauna?” The second man’s companion arched her lip in smug sneer.

Miss Baca straightened her shoulders and smiled. “The class was one of my favorites when I trained for the Southwestern Indian Detour Courier Corps.”

Delia dropped her feet out of the stirrups and shifted to a more comfortable position. “Miss Baca is correct. We can get you to our ranch, but you won’t make it to Santa Fe today. I’m Cordelia Moulton. Our ranch, the Rocking M, is three miles south of here. My parents will be pleased to host you overnight.”
She looked at each person. “If you can be patient, help will come as soon as possible.”

No one answered, but a few shook their heads.

“What about our luggage? We can’t leave our possessions out here in this wilderness.” Victor’s wife’s whine made wilderness sound like an alien planet filled with reanimated corpses and crawly things.

“Our ranch hands will take care of everything. Can y’all hold out for the ninety minutes it’ll take them to arrive?”

“Sure we can.” Victor gave his wife a shoulder hug. “Right, Roberta?”

Roberta whispered in his ear. Her pinched face and teeth biting her bottom lip didn’t need an explanation.

Delia dug in her saddlebag and pulled out a roll of toilet paper wrapped in tin foil. “No water closet nearby, but those bushes along the creek will offer some privacy.”

Miss Baca accepted the roll. “Thank you. I didn’t plan on needing one of these. I know camping protocols. I didn’t expect to need toiletries. Mr. Lahr and I were scheduled to have these dudes at the La Fonda in Santa Fe for the evening meal.”

Delia put her feet in the stirrups and caressed Skillet’s neck to wake him from his snooze. “Our ranch brand is on the side of the car. You’ll be safe with our cowboys. Miss Baca, you can call your company from the ranch. We have a phone.”

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