Montana’s house is an old miner’s shack he’s lived in for over forty years, it overlooks the Galisteo River Basin from the south side of the highway. I can just see our two-story adobe house at the base of the state park from his porch. Like something out of a western movie, his home is a bramble of old barn wood, crackity, gapped, wood plank floors on the porch, and a rusted, old, tin roof. It’s exactly how I hoped this cowboy would live. It’s real.
“Well, hello there. Have any trouble finding me?” Montana smiles from his porch invitingly.
“No, your directions were perfect. Cell service is useless out here, so I’ve come to rely on handwritten directions.” He nods as I continue, “They’re like a description in an old Louis L’Amour novel; turn right at the cattle guard, turn left at the large cholla cactus. It’s charming.”
Montana laughs, a hearty laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well, they work. But your little friend isn’t here yet. Would ya’ like something to drink?”
“Oh, actually, I brought you some of our coffee. Maybe we can indulge?”
“Sounds good. Come on in.” I hand Montana a tin of our Army Intelligence blend. He shakes the tin and starts to laugh, “Pretty crazy, all this hoopla about pot. We just roll it up and smoke it.”
I nod. He’s right of course.
“For years, we used pot as currency ‘round here,” my host continues dressed in jeans and an old school flannel shirt. “Almost everyone grew it under the juniper trees. You’d tie the colas down to the juniper branches so the choppers couldn’t see ‘em.” The tall, lanky man shares easily, placing a pot of water on the one-burner stove before offering me one of two chairs in the one-room abode. The wood stove in the corner is formidable, but I prefer to leave my coat on. “Twenty years ago, even the police wouldn’t come through town if you called ‘em. It was wild then.” He sits down with that perfect smile, and a twinkle in his eye as he lights up a hand rolled cigarette, a tell-tale sign of his Hollywood endeavors. No spurs today, but his well-worn cowboy boots and hat are right where they belong, as he easily shares, “We all grow for personal use now. Most of the big growers have moved on, no money in it anymore. Town’s a lot quieter too. Most of the rowdy, ole’ timers are dead.”
“I don’t know. It still seems pretty wild to me.” I respond, the vision of Remy on the porch last night, in the forefront of my mind.
“Yeah, I heard y’all had some trouble with Daryl,” Montana states. “You shouldn’t pay him any mind. He’s pretty much harmless, unless he’s off his meds.”
How reassuring. “Did Galax check in with you, she seems awfully late.” I change the subject. My disconnect to our new community, a definite flare.
“Nope. Let’s just start and if your pretty little friend shows up, all the better.” Montana opens his laptop, which seems completely out of place in the Shaker-like surroundings. Taking his cheaters out of his pocket, he begins, “I know y’all own Mad Hatter Coffee & Tea; I looked that up online. What’d ya do before that?”
Unable to seriously feel interested in our past, I get a little wild myself. A wave of Machiavellian intrigue takes over me, as I begin to ramble.
Lighting his fourth cigarette, he sits back in his chair with silent appraisal. But for all my meandering efforts, Montana’s expression remains unalterable. “So, why did y’all move here, out of all the places in the world?”
To heal. To create. To have space . . . to escape. “It just seemed like the right place for us.” There’s no going back from the web I cast, so I continue the farce, plugging ahead even though I’m heavy with guilt that I’ve intentionally led this lovely man astray.
An hour later, I’m glad to be back in the bubble of my car when we’re finished. “What the hell is wrong with me?” Questioning my lack of desire to fit in, I head towards town, and the park comes to mind, wondering what community we can we belong to anyway? I mean, I still have actual family members who consider us drug dealers! My discordance, turns dark. I’m glad we’re leaving town soon.
The house Galax has bought on Main Street could be something out of the Haight district; pleasant purples, dark greens, and flirty pinks splash the well-worn facade. This 1920s building must have been a merchant’s home as it’s three times the size of a miner’s shack. The tiny, front yard is mired by winter, and gives little suggestion to its previous custodianship. But the porch is trimmed in welcoming bric-a-brac and craftsman, lattice woodwork. Bed sheets cover the two front windows on either side of the door. Tattered and stained, they are an obvious leftover from the previous tenant. I knock and wait. It’s cold out, I can see my breath, the low winter sun barely visible over the narrow valley’s edge.
“Galax?” I knock again. This time the door opens slowly. Large, dark-brown worried eyes look out through the crack. “Hey, are you okay?
"Come in quickly,” she whispers, her drawl accentuated as she ushers me inside. The house is completely dark. I stiffen with the contrast of light from outside as she closes the door behind me and locks it.
“Galax, what’s going on?”
“Stephanie, I’m so scared.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands up, as she pulls me through to the kitchen at the far end of the house. When she turns on a bare bulb protruding from the ceiling, my eyes take a moment to adjust. Boxes, newspaper wrappings, and an array of kitchen items litter every surface. I take the only chair next to a small, round table. Reaching out, I hold her hands encouragingly, “Just tell me what’s going on.” In the light, I can now see she is completely disheveled in a quilted robe over jeans. Her long uncombed hair is scattered around her elbows as she moves her head up and down, as though she’s agreeing to some silent pact.
“Horace called me last night,” she states ominously, shaking her head.
“Hey, it’s all right. You’re all right. Take a breath.”
Inhaling slowly, her brown eyes pivot in place before she finally confesses, “Three of the eight other survivors from the park are dead.”
Recoiling, I let go of her hands. “What? Who? Who died? How did they die?”
“Arona,” Galax starts crying silently.
In an instant, I recall the gray-eyed woman I’d seen on Horace’s plane. Remy had told me she’d fought bravely before he instructed her to climb up a tree and wait for him to come back for her.
“Who else?”
“Leeds and Pitt.”
“How did they die? When?”
She hands me an envelope, as she states, “In October Leeds was found drowned in California,” her voice stutters. “Pitt was hit by a car in January.” She wipes her eyes on a dish rag embroidered with pansies before continuing, “Arona was on the United Airlines flight that crashed last week.”
“Okay.” I add all the pieces up and assure her, “Leeds and Pit are suspicious, but that flight couldn’t have anything to do with the park. I’m sure, that’s just a terrible coincidence.”
“Really, Stephanie? You’re goin’ with that?”