One more element needed to be put in place. In a roundabout fashion, Connie asked for a meeting with Patricio, asking him to keep this arrangement in confidence. Puzzled, Patricio agreed. He was very fond of Ramon, but already felt the man was stricter with his daughter than necessary. Perhaps Connie needed some advice now that she was graduating.

They met at Patricio’s office in the hotel. Once she was seated, Connie got right to the point.

“Did you know my father has plans for us to marry?” she asked.

Patricio’s mouth fell open. “Good heavens, no. He does speak a lot to me about you, but it’s always positive.”

“Yes,” Connie tossed her head impatiently, “because he thinks by talking me up you’ll be all the more eager to take me off his hands.”

“Well, I didn’t know … ”

“You know now, and what are we going to do about it? I’m sure your friend who works over at the museum wouldn’t like what he’s planning.”

Patricio wondered for a moment how Connie had learned about his lady friend. Estella was getting a divorce, so they’d been very careful in their socializing. Ramon knew nothing of his friend’s interest. In fact, Patricio realized now in hindsight that maybe he should have seen this coming. What could be done to squelch such an uncomfortable situation?

Connie told him in very precise detail what he had to do. She laid out the campaign with a very general-like precision. On this Saturday, there was a fundraising dance at the Taos Hotel. Patricio would ask Connie to attend, and also inform Ramon of his intentions. Once Connie had outlined the rest of the plot, Patricio was left shaking his head in mingled dismay and admiration. Frankly, it was time his good friend had a shake-up. This was the twenty-first century, not the old days!

Patricio told Ramon of his invitation to Connie over their Thursday night drink. Ramon was delighted. Matters were falling out just as he’d figured. Now that Connie was done with school, Patricio was looking her over and the rest would come quickly. The girl was as beautiful as her mother. Ramon would enjoy his grandsons very much.

When he arrived home for dinner, Cook informed him that Connie had a headache, and gone to her room to sleep. Somehow, the next morning, she didn’t show up for breakfast. Ramon had to wait until dinner that night to mention what he’d learned.

(continued next week)

Ramon Valdez was known as a very proud man. His ancestors had come from minor sons of noble Spanish houses; one of them had ridden north with Juan de Onate in the 1690s and settled near Bernalillo. In the 1780s, the second son of the de Valdez family moved north and accepted a land grant in the Taos valley. He was Ramon’s great-great-grandfather. Ramon lived still in the fine manor house on the edge of the town of Taos.

He possessed wealth, this man who owned valuable land and buildings. His stable bred Arabian horses for sale to those with deep pockets. When it came time for marriage, his choice had been a dynastic one. Maria Santiago could trace her pedigree back to the 1700s, and a wealthy family settled north of Santa Fe. It didn’t hurt that she was a handsome woman as well.

Unfortunately, she suffered from an unexpected heart ailment that cut short her life in her mid- 30s; she left behind two sturdy children, Pedro and Constancia. Pedro followed his father to college in Colorado, where he was known as Peter. At present after graduation, he was clerking for a law firm in Colorado Springs. Tall and exceptionally good-looking, he made his father proud. Little did Ramon know, however, that his son might not have the same expectations of life as his father planned for him.

Young Connie was a severe trial to her widower father. She was surpassingly beautiful and equally willful. By the time she was in junior high school, Ramon placed a strict curfew on his daughter, and turned away those young men who persisted in ringing the doorbell to see Connie. She soon learned to invent wild stratagems to gain a few hours freedom here and there. In senior high school, her nickname was “Princess” since her father guarded her so zealously.

Ramon unbent enough to have a few friends. His favorite was a man who was ten years his junior. Patricio also came from an old New Mexican family; his father had been successful enough to become a fine artist whose paintings sold international galleries for high prices. Patricio worked in his father’s gallery just off the Tao Plaza; he also managed several other properties, including a fashionable hotel.

Over the last couple of years, Ramon had decided that his Connie would make a good wife for Patricio. He did not speak of this to either party, but indulged his fantasies as he lingered over his evening drink. Twice a week, he would drop into a popular local bar and meet Patricio and a few others for cocktails. Ramon enjoyed this fellowship.

Connie was in her senior year and busily planning to discover what college would take her the farthest away from Taos and her strict father. One March, her guidance counselor prevailed upon her to discuss her college choices with Ramon. While Connie was a good student, she was not scholarship material. Some of the colleges she wanted to apply to were expensive. Mr. Ridley urged her to open a dialog with her father. The girl left his office filled with anticipation, though. Mr. Ridley and others had spoken of the freedoms a college student gained.

(Continued next week)

Leland thanked them for their hospitality, agreed he’d follow up with Lois, and returned to his campsite to unfurl his bedroll and seek shelter from nippy evening breezes inside his small text. He left the flap open, and soon, Henry, who’d been slow in tearing himself away from the poodle, joined him, providing a warming bulk against Leland’s side.

In the morning, he was up early to wash in the creek, eat gloppy instant oatmeal, and travel on foot to two locations where he’d plan to comb the ground. This took about an hour, and then Leland swung round to the site where the little segisaurus had been found. Little was left buy hollowed out impressions and Leland did not spend much time at the site. Bob had been over the territory with a fine tooth comb.

Instead, Leland took his Explorer to the lodge. He got the last spot in the parking lot; the Monument was busy today. Inside the building, he was able to identify Lois by her nameplate. He waited a bit, thumbing through publications, for the full-cheeked, middle-aged Navajo lady at one of the counters to become free. She was busy helping clutches of tourists. When the area in front of her cleared, Leland walked over.

He greeted her politely in Navajo, and the woman’s cool brown eyes warmed. Leland didn’t envy her job, handling all the diverse folks who visited, with their giggling kids and sullen teenagers. Unhurriedly, he told her about his meeting with the Bitsues, and the information they’d provided about the Littletrees. He explained about his father, too, but she interrupted him, speaking in Navajo also. “Ah, I remember you. You’ve been coming here for years. I recall your father and mother, too. She spoke to me once, when I was selling my mother’s pottery outside the shop.”

He nodded, and waited. He knew he was on inspection, and privately he thanked his parents for instilling him with an appreciation for Navajo values. How contrary to contemporary society were their manners, and many younger Native kids parted ways with these traditional principles. He was pretty impatient in daily life, but here in Coconino County, Arizona, the old ways felt right.

Lois grabbed a pen and a piece of note paper and began sketching the route to the Littletree outfit. They lived in a remote part of the Canyon, but there was a good jeep track to follow.

“It’s good the monsoon hasn’t started yet,” Lois said gravely. Leland agreed. A heavy rain would have made travel there difficult if not impossible. They conversed a little more, and when a new wave of visitors made their noisy way into the building, Lois dismissed him politely.

Leland returned to his site, and then brought Henry over to the Bitsues and invited them to come with him. Both declined, citing their joints. He understood, for the track would be very bumpy. Betty offered to keep Henry with them, and Leland thanked her. He was sitting with the poodle already, looking contented. The day was promising to be warm, and the shade under the cottonwood trees would be better than sitting in a hot vehicle.

Arrangements made, Leland set out, glad he’d gassed up in Kayenta. He found the entrance to the road, and the next six miles were terrible, indeed. Jolting and bouncing along the dirt track (which often resembled a cattle trod) tested every feature on his van. At last, the road gave way to a clearing near Laguna Wash, and a group of neatly laid out hooghans. There were ramadas and sheep pens, and all the signs of a prospering family settlement. Leland pulled his Explorer next to a dusty pickup truck, cut the motor, and remained seated.

The sun was warm, but Leland drank from a water bottle and remained in place. A few minutes passed while he eyed the doors to the three octagonal buildings. Finally, a middle-aged woman emerged from one building. Leland exited the van, and instead of greeting the woman at once, he went to the back of the vehicle. Reaching in, after opening the doors, he retrieved a brown bag of groceries from Basha’s. He’d need to restock as a result, but that hardly mattered at the moment.

Lugging his sack, Leland walked up to the woman and engaged her in traditional Navajo greetings. She showed surprise, but listened intently. He took his time, introducing his meeting with the Bitsues and Lois, describing his father’s mission, and then came round to asking if he might be introduced to Mr. Littletree.

The woman smiled, but shook her head slightly. “That one has passed, but I can bring you to his brother. They were very close, so perhaps he may have the information you seek.”

Leland’s heart skipped a beat and he winged a prayer to Changing Woman even as he agreed politely. The woman introduced herself as one of the Littletree family and led him to the hooghan that was sited farthest back.

She went in first, speaking slowly and in a low voice to the two inhabitants. Leland followed her, still clutching the groceries. The man and woman were very elderly, perhaps in their 80s. They wore traditional dress. Mrs. Littletree was clad in a velvet shirt with a broomstick skirt, and had scuffed Keds on her feet. She wore two strands of beads, turquoise and coral, that would probably have made a collector faint. The old man’s pants were scuffed at the bottom, but he, too, wore a velvet shirt with silver button covers. He had a bandanna round his head. Leland knew at once he was a headman of some importance in the region.

At a nod from the younger woman, Leland introduced himself. She closed the door to the hooghan and Leland remained standing. They had kerosene lights inside the dwelling, which flickered occasionally. Carefully, Leland traced his involvement with Tsegi Canyon, his father and mother’s roles, and explained the connection to Floyd and Betty Bitsue. Her name evoked a nod from the couple. The old woman rose from her chair and came over to take the bag from Leland. “Sit here, my son,” she commanded in Navajo.

Hosteen Littletree exhibited interest in the bag’s contents. Carefully, they excavated the bag and the old man gave a sigh of satisfaction when two bags of candy emerged, one of peppermint twists and the other one contained butterscotch discs.

Leland pulled up the third chair at the table where the couple sat. He waited respectfully for them to complete their inspection of the sack; glad for the patience his parents instilled in him from an early age, he willingly repeated his story, careful not to show any signs of exasperation.

He wished for a moment his mother could have joined him, but Carla Coe was busy picking up her life after the loss of her husband. Privately, Leland hoped he’d be successful at last, if only to bring a smile to a face that rarely showed happiness these days.

Leaving behind a generous tip, Leland headed back to his vehicle. Henry, his yellow lab, waited in the passenger seat, his head stuck out of the rolled down window. The drive to the entrance station for the Navajo National Monument was quick, with few cars on the road this morning. The guy manning the booth leaned out when he recognized the driver.

“Hey, Coe! Long time, no see.” His wide face creased into a big grin.

Leland threw his arm out to strike palms in greeting ghetto-style. He’d known Abner Tso since he was a kid. They’d played together over the years.

“I’m gonna find him this time, Abner,” Leland promised. “Think of all the press and publicity it will bring the Monument.”

The big man gave a gusty sigh. “Money is what we need, Professor. There’s never enough every fiscal budget year…”

“Don’t I know it! How full up is the campground? I heard it was bustling.”

“Every campsite but one is taken. But your favorite area is available, and you can share facilities with Number 40. They’re Diné from down around Albuquerque.”

They spoke a little longer and then Leland set the Explorer down the road to the campground turnoff. He got on the ring road and turned off at a small dirt track about three-quarters of the way around. His favorite spot near the bend of Laurel Wash was there, bringing up memories of years gone by. It didn’t take long to set up his canvas tent, and put out a few cooking supplies near the fire pit. When he saw Henry lope off toward the nearest campsite, Leland thought he’d better follow him.

He found his dog gingerly sniffing a black standard poodle that was the same size. A middle-aged couple sat on lawn chairs. When Leland greeted them in Navajo, shy smiles marked their formerly reserved faces. Before too long, they were chatting away like old acquaintances.

“Well, I remember your father, lad,” the man, Floyd Bitsue said. “We used to come up here when I was a kid to see family at Shonto. They were my mother’s relatives. My dad liked to stay here because their place was so small. Your dad would either camp at this site or over where you are.” He went on to recount how his father and Leland’s used to play cards, and start swearing when their hands were poor.

“I learned a lot of good cuss words,” Floyd chuckled. He called the poodle over and Henry trotted along the other dog’s side.

On paper, she was building an impressive resume. Yet there were fault lines in her career trajectory. Those who worked with Carole found that she was often closed off and introspective while doing an extrovert’s job of communication. Her manager was frustrated at some offers she turned down without any seeming rationale. One October while in New York, she received a letter through her agency; Carole was finishing a book co-authored with a well-known psychologist on grief management, and finding the process unexpectedly stressful.

The letter was from Everett Muncie. He was bringing his two nieces to the city on a promised high school graduation excursion. He wanted to know if Carole was available one day to sightsee with them. This small piece of a life she’d left behind dug at her resolution. She waited until the day specified and then called Everett’s cell phone. He answered right away and she agreed to meet him and the girls at a fashionable lower Manhattan restaurant. Her manager made the reservation.

The dinner was a disaster right from the start. The restaurant was one with serious pretensions to being trendy, with snobbish staff and well-to-do diners. There was a glorious view out of the windows to the Statue of Liberty, but everything else conspired to make her guests uncomfortable. There were no prices on the menu. The waiter sneered when no one ordered any alcoholic drinks, and Everett’s nieces kept looking around with worried expressions at the mannerisms of the people at adjoining tables. Everett kept up a hearty dialogue aimed at both Carole and the girls.

Carole was embarrassed. She couldn’t have engineered a more uncomfortable setting than the one they occupied that moment. Nor could she come down from her introverted mindset; the business of the book was tugging at her concentration. In total, she was letting Everett down, and instead of trying to overcome her innate remoteness, she grew more tongue-tied as the meal progressed. She was also very uncomfortable on a personal level; Everett appeared more mature and attractive than when she’d last seen him, and her crushing sense of dislocation made her unable to respond to his pleasant overtures. His nieces appeared in awe of her. For one wild moment, Carole wondered if she’d simply outgrown the people she knew from a New Mexico life. This thought was followed by one of deep shame.

The final misery came when the check failed to arrive. Carole’s manager had secured the reservation with a credit card and approved an advanced charge to that card. Everett, however, operating from the normal laws of modern social responsibility, wanted to pay the bill. He had no desire to appear like a country yokel, kinfolk in tow, who was too in awe of his hostess to not accept her charity. When Carole refused his offer of payment, endorsed by the waiter with a gratuitous sniff, he became flushed and angry. The dinner party split up on the street outside the restaurant, with Carole hastily hailing a taxi to escape further confrontation. Everett took the girls to an ice cream parlor near their hotel, and refused to discuss any aspect of their meal with Carole.

Needless to say, Carole heard no further from Everett, and attempts on her part to phone him with an apology were answered by voice mail. He never called her back. Mentally, Carole labeled this incident as a bruise on an untouched heart. Outwardly, she moved on, accepting that there were few reasons why she should stay in communication with old neighbors. There was born, however, from then on a desire on her part to escape even further from her hometown. When she found herself the completely shocked recipient of a MacArthur Foundation grant, she used some of the money to study abroad.

The place she chose was Iceland. When asked in an interview for The New Yorker why she chose that destination, to her own surprise she argued how the dramatic volcanic landscape reminded her of her home and would therefore stimulate some creative art work. Carole refused to read the resultant article, certain its contents doomed her further in the eyes of those she’d grown up with. She immersed herself in travel, sketching, and painting. She rented a small studio in Reykjavik and socialized sparingly. Driving around the country, she was amazed by how many people knew and spoke English. They were interested in her and her painting with a genuine friendliness.

She stayed a little over a year, and inside something thawed that had been numb ever since the fatal crash. Her identity as a family orphan, survivor and recorder was quietly honored by those she met and talked to. She held no celebrity status, and the naggings from New York could be held at arm’s length. The austere beauty of her surroundings oddly brought memories of Roger closer to her, and softened them with the dignity of time passed. Carole knew it would sound like the biggest cliché, but his physical loss did not diminish her. Somehow, his spirit lived. Perhaps simply because of all the work she’d done in his honor.

Carole finished her part of the book during her first six months abroad. She was pleased with the results. Iceland had served as some sort of abstract healer. Best of all, a longing grew inside her. Every time she viewed a geological monolith that reminded her of Hogback, her heart felt a tug that had vanished completely in the aftermath of her brother’s death. For the first time, she could imagine a return to her home, and a powerful incentive to do so.

Almost six years after that terrible day, Carole boarded a plane for New Mexico. She contacted no one ahead of time. She had no idea of the reception she’d face, but face it she would. The classic cycle of grief and renewal had to end within the shadow of the mountain that had always sustained her. She rented a car in Albuquerque and drove slowly north. She arrived in Farmington and rented a hotel room. With trembling fingers, not knowing what reception she might face, she dialed Everett’s cell phone. He answered, and their conversation was short.

“Everett, this is Carole. The prodigal returns.”

“Where are you?”

“Farmington. At the La Quinta. Want to meet me at Blake’s?”

“I’ll be right over.”

She reached the restaurant only a few minutes before he arrived. She was shaking still, attempting to ease the quivering in her fingers that matched the tingling in her chest. He looked much the same as when she had seen him last time, except he wore an all-out frown. Or was it a grimace? Tears started in her eyes. He hadn’t forgiven her after all. Carole faced his silent scrutiny with chin up, waiting for a sign.

When he seized her in a fierce embrace, she knew many would say she’d come home. But her real homecoming had begun the moment her plane had landed. Now, she was simply living again. The ice-encased persona she’d occupied these past years melted, restoring her to the generous woman she’d always been. Now she accepted love and its inevitability. While tragedy had tempered her soul, her backbone had always been forged from the Hogback itself.