Santa Fe
Title: Santa Fe
Author: Rickp
Rating: PG-Two men livin' together? You bet. And a few "bad" words.
An A/U one-shot story: "what if" Ennis had gone after Jack after their last meeting.
Jack and Ennis are borrowed, with respect and gratitude, from Annie Proulx, and used for love, not profit.
With thanks to Jessi, who said Turn That Truck Around, and who kept me true to the guys.
And thanks to Ea for her proofing and editing.
Santa Fe
Ennis leaned the split piñon logs upright, tepee-style, against the back of the kiva fireplace on a nest of wadded up Santa Fe Reporter pages and set the paper ablaze with a wooden match he took from between his teeth.
The bright red-gold glow of the sun setting behind the Jemez range lit the bottoms of the layered, floating clouds with gold and magenta as far as he could see. Even after the hot September afternoon, the wind off the distant mountains picked up the chill of the high altitude desert, dry as clay dust. He tossed the butt of his cigarette into the fire. This was his favorite time of year. The aspens climbing the high sides of the Sangre de Christos to the east had gone gold. One after another, flaming sunsets lit the gold and deep green mountains with the magical light that inspired the Spanish settlers, four hundred years ago, to name them "the blood of Christ." But the season would be short, and the chill of the mountain desert evening told of nights to come, soon now, too cold to sit outside, even with the fire.
The piñon smoke snaked into the darkening, blazing sky, perfuming the flagstone patio he and Jack had laid under the wide portal, from the adobe chimney they'd crafted themselves, the way they'd learned from old Miguel Jimenez down the rutted, corduroy dirt road. Miguel taught Ennis how to make adobe in the old way, mixing the straw and clay and horse dung, slopping the wet mixture into the rectangular wooden forms, drying it in the searing sun, how to build with it, as the pueblo Indians had built their ancient pueblos.
He pulled one of the old wooden rockers close enough to catch a little of the fire's warmth. The dried piñon caught the flame fast, and sparks joined the smoke out the chimney top. Sparks. Even after all these years, sparks floating skyward against an inky sky reminded him of those early days, the companionship, the fear, the deep satisfaction of finding another human who took him for what he was. How he'd almost let the fear kill the hope of love.
He'd remember the early fires, the early nights, on Brokeback, and then later ones, all those years, stolen nights, so sweet, but always tinged with that sadness that they couldn't last, until that one, almost the last one, when Jack had just come out and told him how much he missed him. Still put a lump in his throat, a weight on his heart. Driving away, seeing Jack angry and pissed in the rearview mirror, feeling bad about August, bad about Mexico, bad about driving away, leaving Jack, but not able to leave those words: "I wish I knew how to quit you."
What if he did? Whenever he thought about it, the bitter acid taste of that fear, worse than the others, the tire iron, people knowing, would settle in the back of his throat like it did then. How close he'd come. But he didn't. Now there was something to send up a prayer of thanks about.
"Ennis? You gonna sit out there all night?"
"Might. Come on back out. It's nice."
"It's cold."
"Nah, Ain't bad. Get a jacket or sumpin'."
* * * * *
What if he hadn't turned his truck around? What if he'd just gone back up to Riverton and felt sorry for himself? He'd smile to think how he'd broken the speed limit, hell, practically broke the speed of sound, hoping not to break bones on his horses in the back, high-tailing it back down the highway he knew Jack would be taking up to Lightning Flat. Only good thing about making Jack feel so bad was that it must've made him drive slow. Only about forty-minutes' hard running on the asphalt and Ennis caught up, saw his truck in a gas station, pulled in behind him.
"Ennis?" Jack said, when he turned around, saw the truck, saw Ennis step out and just stand there.
"Jack, I'm . . ."
"What're you doin', Ennis?"
The edge on Jack's voice told Ennis maybe he was thinking he was toying with him somehow, maybe he was still mad, maybe he'd already started, somehow, in his head, to quit him. He walked a few steps closer.
"Jack, I'm sorry."
"Jesus, Ennis."
Ennis saw in Jack's bloodshot eyes the cloud of doubt, the hope of possibility breaking through, the same hope he'd seen that day Jack drove all the way from Texas, after the divorce, the hope he'd been crushing all this time. Like a boy who's been hit too many times, all that was in Jack's eyes, and Ennis felt his own burn for putting it there. He took another step forward, stopped, looking around.
"I, um . . ."
Jack looked down at his boots, afraid to look at Ennis. What he'd said he couldn't now unsay.
"Jack?"
"What?" Jack's legs were shaking so hard they might buckle under him
"Jesus H, Jack. I don't know what to do. Huh? What the fuck do we do, now?"
"Do?" Jack's voice quavered.
"Tryin' to tell you, bud. All you said? You was right."
Jack lifted his head, took a step back, staggered as though the ground had tilted under his feet. A puff of breath escaped him.
"Are you fuckin' jokin' with me? Don't do this to me, Ennis."
"I ain't jokin', bud. I swear. Remember when you told me you redlined it all the way to Riverton? Well, here I am, redlined it to catch up with you. So, now what the fuck do we do?"
"Ennis, friend, if you're sayin' . . . Damn, boy." Tears welled in his eyes.
Ennis saw the disbelief on Jack's face. He had to jam his hands in his pockets to keep them from grabbing Jack to hold him up, hold him close, make him believe. His voice came soft, reassuring, promising. "What I'm sayin', bud."
* * * * *
In a seedy room in a nearby motel, after some energetic reassurance, they lay in each other's arms, spent, settling into a quiet, troubled euphoria. Jack would have to find a way to tell Lureen something, he didn't know what, yet, and didn't really care much. Ennis only had to worry about keeping up his child support for a little while longer, so wherever they went, a cow and calf operation wasn't going to work. No money for that. They'd have to find work. And someplace where it was okay for two men to ranch up together. Jack told Ennis about his folks' place, but Ennis grunted, reminded Jack about his old man pissing all over him. Didn't think that would be the place. Alone, the two of them, way up there. Camping alone was one thing, living all the time, something else. Remember old Earl.
They smoked, talked, and soon, not coming up with a plan, and not really caring much past the shabby room and sagging mattress, they left off talking to just touch each other, gently, caressing, exploring, until the embers were stoked again, got them rolling on each other as though putting out flames.
"Heard about Santa Fe, in New Mexico," Jack offered, later, lying back against Ennis's chest. "Supposed a be a place where two guys together ain't no big deal. Be kind a part way between your girls and my boy."
Ennis stroked Jack's thick, dark mane lying against his chest.
"Well, uh, maybe in November, then. We could meet up there. See what it's like."
"You sure about August, that job?" Jack had finally begun to believe this turn enough to tease.
"Ain't sure about nothin', bud," he leaned his head to kiss Jack's hair, "'specially about lettin' you out a my sight again."
"Shit." Jack rolled over to face Ennis, lying on top of him. "I remember those gut cramps you told me about." His eyes smiled, soft and gentle and blue as May mountain sky. "No more dry heaves for you, friend. Not never."
* * * * *
Jack came outside, hunched against the chill in his sheepskin jacket, followed close at heel by Old Rose, the mixed collie mutt they'd rescued from the shelter as an eight-week pup. First time they saw her, she'd rolled onto her back, showing them her soft, pink belly, and from the minute Jack rubbed that little patch of pink velvet and called her Rosie, she was his dog. She guarded both Jack and Ennis, her flock and her responsibility, with the work ethic of a true sheepdog, but there was no doubt that Jack was her shepherd and her alpha male. Twelve years later, the bond held strong. He tossed a heavy lined wool shirt to Ennis in the rocker and sat on the cushioned bench near the fire.
"What's that for?"
"It's getting cold."
"Nah, it ain't."
"Well, just in case it does."
The dog sat next to Jack, rested her chin on his leg looking for his touch.
"She's startin' her fall sheddin' already. Undercoat's comin' out in clumps. All over the damn house." He rubbed down her back a few times and held up a handful of soft, down-like fur that lifted with the breeze and rolled away across the flagstones.
Ennis just grinned, nodded, watched Jack care for his old dog, their old dog. She looked good for her age, just like Jack did, with his thick, dark hair, salted some at the sides, deeper smile lines mapping the years. Years he almost missed, almost denied them both.
"Well," he got up to toss another log on the fire, "Why'nt ya quit bitchin' and just brush her?"
"Gonna have to. Comb it out. She hates it, don't you, girl? Even shows me teeth, huh, Ol' Rosie?" He fluffed her ears and she pushed closer to his lap.
While he was up, Ennis put on the outer shirt. "You want a whiskey? Feel like a whiskey."
These days, they drank their whisky in regular glasses, with ice, and it was Jack Daniels, now, no longer Old Rose, although there remained, always, an unopened pint bottle of it in the bar cupboard, in honor of naming the dog all those years ago, and of a time much longer ago than that.
When Ennis came back out, the sky in the east, over the Sangres, was awash with stars and the moon was rising over the black humps of mountain, and in the west, over the Jemez, the lights of Los Alamos twinkled in the darkening red glow of sunset. He handed Jack his drink, and Jack took it, moved aside a bit on the bench, and patted the seat next to him for Ennis to sit. The dog curled herself against the warm adobe banco that flanked the fireplace, and Ennis leaned against Jack's chest, where Jack had lifted his arm for him, settling in under that arm, his angel's wing, although he would have denied thinking of it that way. They sat, quiet, against each other's warmth, and sipped their whiskey, and watched the color leave the sky and stars splash the ceiling of the world.
* * * * *
The months until that November, back in eighty-three, seemed like a year to Ennis. If he could have quit that job, hadn't had to worry about his child support . . . If he could have done that, the issue might not have come up, Jack might not have finally put him to the test, they might have gone along as they always had, twenty years of high altitude fucks whenever he could get away. But it was good he had the job, had to take the time. Good that he could talk to Jack every few days on the phone, hear about how Jack was telling Lureen he was leaving, about where they would stay in Santa Fe, about what they were going to do, how they had plenty of time to work out the details. It was good he had that time, because between phone calls, between his trailer and the ranching, he was scared shitless. And one of the things that scared him the most wasn't tire irons or people maybe knowing, but how happy he felt. Get that happy, bound to crash and burn. Just didn't feel natural to feel so good.
Finally, November did come. They got a room in a motel on the edge of Santa Fe, out Cerrillos Road, where the Hispanic woman at the front desk didn't even glance up when they asked for a room together. Wasn't like it was the first time, but this was different, not a stolen weekend or one-shot thing, and Ennis was nervous enough to want to bolt, excited enough to be quaking like a man freezing to death, and overheated enough to melt ice, all at the same time. All the way down in New Mexico, with Jack Twist, who was leaving his wife to be with him. Two men together.
Two trucks rested in the dusty parking lot, door slammed against them, closing out the miles they'd gone to arrive at this place, this room, decorated with cheap Indian art and fake Indian rugs. Ennis sprang at Jack like a starving man at a prime rib, and Jack pulled Ennis down to the bed on top of him, the two laughing like schoolboys ditching on a hot spring day to jump into a clear, cold creek, Ennis hungry after Jack's mouth, Jack saying whoa, cowboy, slow down. We got the rest of our lives.
But neither of them slowed down, and they went at each other full speed, tossing off their clothes and working the mattress and springs in earnest until the two of them finally wore out and drifted off, arms and legs draped on each other, and slept until morning, never thinking of food, never apart.
Next day, they set out to see about Santa Fe. They walked through the Plaza with its gazebo and Civil War monument, and Jack pointed out that they weren't the only two guys walking around together. The portal of the Palace of the Governors was lined with Indians selling their wares. Musicians played in the spotty shade of the Plaza trees, almost bare now in the cold late autumn. Vendors sold food from their carts, tourists strolled about, and Ennis and Jack told each other about the rough spots, telling Alma and the girls about leaving Wyoming, Lureen and Bobby about moving out.
"Thought she'd throw a fit," Jack said, "but she just went back to her books. Thought she was goin' a punch the numbers clean off."
"Tell you what," Ennis said, "Ain't as cold out here as when I told Alma I was leavin'. All she said was, 'fine, Ennis. Just don't you say nothin' to the girls'."
"Well, shit."
"Jack? Ain't gonna lie to you, bud. Scares the shit out a me."
"We'll work it out, Ennis. Jesus, can't you ever stop worryin' about everthing? Sure enough wish I could get my hands on that pa a yours."
They put miles on Jack's truck that week, driving out into the country, asking about work. What they found was plenty of hotels, some outside town with horses and riding, some small ranches that might use extra hands. Possibilities. They also found that no one seemed to care much about the two of them together. For the first time, together, around other people, and no one following them with tire irons.
One evening, at the suggestion of Maria at the motel desk, they drove up to the Cross of the Martyrs, planted high and visible on a hillside overlooking the city, to watch the sun set and the night sky come alive. The view stretched across the lights of the tiny city to the dark distant mountains. The November air was sharp, cold, clean. The sky blazed with stars, as it had in all their mountain times together. Jack put his arm around Ennis. Ennis tried to pull back, to look around, but Jack was having none of it and pulled him close.
"Tell you something," he said, "lookin' at all this, I don't think California's the place."
"California?"
It had only come up once as a possibility, and it was so far from Ennis's thinking that he'd dismissed it without even remembering.
"Well, we could go there. Lots of guys do, and there's places, you know . . . But there ain't no skies like this. Too much light. Too many people. This place feels real good to me."
"Could be," Ennis said, leaning into Jack, but still checking over his shoulder.
"Tell you somethin' else," Jack said.
"What's that?"
"Friend, I'm gonna keep on holdin' you like this till you stop lookin' around a see who's comin' a get us."
He quickly kissed the side of Ennis's head, mouth in the dark blond curls, in and off fast enough that Ennis didn't have a chance to avoid it.
Ennis turned his head, looked at Jack, his infrequent smile surprising his unexpecting face, a sudden joy gripping his heart.
"What?" Jack said.
"No California, bud. Always got a be stars like this."
* * * * *
Ennis pulled Jack's hand around to his face and took a slow drag off the cigarette, then pulled the butt from Jack's fingers and flicked it into the dying fire. Rosie lifted her head as it flew by.
"Needs a log," Ennis said.
"You don't want to go in?"
"Me? Not yet. Not that many more nights we can sit out. Needs a log."
"Ennis?"
"Hmm?"
Neither moved, but stared at the glow of embers and the vault of blackest sky pierced by a billion stars, clear and sharp, the Milky Way a smear of shimmering white paint. The nearly full moon brightly lit the piñons and junipers, patio and courtyard, memories and dreams, casting soft, dark, distinct shadows. Finally, Ennis stood up, took a log from the woodpile, and stood it against the low mound flaming coals.
He went inside, poured two more whiskeys, and when he brought them out, Jack had stretched out on the bench, was looking up at the sky. Ennis handed him his drink and tapped the top of his head, telling him in their wordless way of talking, to sit up, give him room. Jack propped himself up to let Ennis slide in behind him, and leaned back against him, settling into Ennis's chest and arms.
"Winter's comin'," Jack said.
"Yup. Does every year."
"Look at that sky,"
"Yup." Ennis sank his fingers into Jack's thick, dark hair, as thick and full as it had been forty-three years ago when he'd first felt the unexpected jolt of physical contact with the best friend he'd ever known. The charge had softened with time, never diminished, only deepened. So much time gone so fast, so sweet. If he could just hold this moment forever.
* * * * *
By Christmas of eight-three, they'd pulled up stakes and, back in Santa Fe, at the same motel, pored over the paper spread on the bed, for a place to live and for jobs. Ennis allowed that Jack's small savings he'd been able to take away, Lureen holding tight to the money, could get them started, find some small place. North of town, they found a snug adobe house to rent, one bedroom, one bath, old kitchen, and acres of silver-green chamisa, buffalo grass, piñon, and juniper, the Sangre de Christo mountains rising high, gentle, not rocky like the mountains in Wyoming, from the foothills to the east, an easy ride on the horses Ennis had brought down with him.
The owner of the house, Miguel Jimenez, also owned a small ranch nearby with a few cattle and a stable of horses. His family had been in Santa Fe since the conquistadors had claimed the land as their own, and he begrudgingly hired Ennis, because of his ranching experience, having just lost his head hand to a bigger ranch down in Albuquerque. Anglos weren't to be trusted, came in to take over, weren't part of their land, but he soon warmed to Ennis's quiet way, and offered stabling for Ennis's horses. Ennis learned some Spanish, enough to be polite and get along, and, as time passed, found himself enlisted in early spring to clean the acequia with all the other neighbors, mostly Hispanic, who depended on the long-ago-dug ditch as a life-giving artery, bringing water from the mountain to the ranches, farms, and homesteads, pleased to be part of this old communal tradition.
Jack found work at a fashionable hotel north of town, in the foothills, as a wrangler for the tony tourists who could afford to stay in its luxuriously quaint casitas and ride horses into the canyons and along the ridges of the foothills. Ennis teased Jack about rising to head wrangler and trail guide with his blue-eyed charm, but he reveled in Jack's stories of the movie stars he met and led, the famous Hollywood cowboys who could barely sit a horse.
Their second Christmas, Ennis and Jack were invited to join Miguel and his family for the traditional posole and biscochitos, and they all went together for the first of many Christmas Eve walks on Acequia Madre and Canyon Road, lit with the small luminaria bonfires and paper lantern farolitos that lined the streets, the houses and adobe walls, lighting the way in the quiet celebration. The two narrow streets and small compounds off them were filled with strolling townspeople, homes opened, groups stopping by the bonfires in spontaneous carol singing, neighbors serving hot spiced cider and biscochitos to the revelers as they passed. No electric lights, the streets glowed with the light of hundreds of farolitos and a quiet, simple spirituality. Ennis and Jack felt, for the first time in their lives, the spirit of community.
"Never much liked Christmas before," Ennis said, when they got home. "That was real nice."
Jack took him in his arms beside the little tree they'd cut up in the mountains and decorated with dime-store lights and ornaments.
"You didn't have me," he said.
Ennis grinned and Jack kissed his smiling lips.
"Jack," Ennis said, holding him, "now don't you laugh at me, bud, but I got a say this."
"What? Promise I won't." He did his best to suppress an insistent smile.
"Aw, now."
"Okay. I won't. Come on, what?"
"Jack fuckin' Twist," he paused, looked down, looked back up and fixed on Jack's eyes, "I love you, bud. I guess I always did."
Jack pulled him so close there was no air between them, sandpapered his face as he pressed his mouth against Ennis's ear and whispered into it, "Friend, this is the best present I ever got in my whole life."
* * * * *
"Ennis?"
"Hmm?"
Ennis's hand rested in the thatch of Jack's hair, fingertips massaging the scalp above his ear, as much for the pleasure of his fingertips as Jack's head. Jack pulled away when he leaned to reach the low wooden table nearby to set down his drink, reluctant parting of head and hand.
"It is getting' cold, now. Come on. That drink's colder on the outside than the ice inside. Can barely hold the glass. I'm goin' a take some wood in, start a fire inside. Be nice. Haven't had one yet this fall."
"Go ahead, then. Just goin' a wait for this one a go out."
Jack paused. "Ennis? You okay?"
"Me? Hmm. I'm fine. Why?"
"I don't know." Jack loaded a canvas carrier with the short, split piñon logs. "Just wondered. You seem kind a down or sumpin'."
"Nah. Just hate to see the warm nights go. You know?"
"Yeah. Oh, hell, Ennis. You'll be out here when it's zero and snowy lookin' at those stars."
"Go on. I'll be right in."
* * * * *
That first year, Ennis had gone back up to Riverton at Junior's request to see her get married. Alma had been as cold as fresh snowpack, but a year later, when his other little girl had her wedding, he took Jack with him, Alma be damned, and the girls seemed to get on with Jack just fine, despite their mother's squinting glare. Jack had no second thoughts about Ennis going with him to Childress when Bobby got married that same year, and Lureen, while not embracing the situation, was cordial. Jack and Ennis decided from then on, the kids could, if they wanted, come to visit them, and they slipped into a new sense of freedom from responsibilities other than making a life for themselves.
There were the occasional trips up to Lightning Flat, Jack dragging Ennis along to help out to help out his momma and daddy with the heavy chores. Ennis sensed a kindred spirit in Jack's quiet but kind momma, felt sad she had to be stuck with such a mean old prick as his daddy, found it hard to say he was sorry when the old man died under an overturned tractor. It was hard when she sold the ranch after that, harder still when they had to attend her funeral and see her go into the family plot, but after that bleak February day in ninety-three, they never returned to Lightning Flat.
At Jack's insistence, early on, they got their first dog, a big, short-haired chocolate-brown mutt, who chased rabbits and coyotes and didn't live very long. His seventh year, he developed a cancer, and they stood by while the vet put him down, Jack holding the dog's head to comfort him as it went heavy in his arms. Both cried all the way home and on and off for the next few silent days.
"No more dogs," Ennis said three days later. "Can't never do that again."
At the hotel where Jack worked his way up to head wrangler, Jack met Alan, a horseman and waiter in the hotel's restaurant, who lived with his partner, Carlos, in town. Ennis had balked, at first, at going to dinner at their house, meeting new people, other men who lived together, but Jack insisted, and they went and shared drinks, a joint, and stories about finding a place where they all could live without fear, where no one cared.
Getting Ennis out of their house and into town tested Jack's patience, but Ennis slowly warmed to an unexpected circle of friends. He was always more comfortable among the cattle and horses at Miguel's ranch, and Miguel rewarded his caring by making him manager and paying him enough that he and Jack were able to arrange to buy the house for the same as their rent.
Their housewarming party, thrown for them by the Jimenez family, was the first time they entertained in their own home, the crowd a mixture of Hispanics and Anglos, singles and couples of every variety.
Ennis almost always would rather just stay home and work on the house, setting flagstones, making adobe for building, but he and Jack found themselves gradually developing a not entirely unpleasant social life that included more than just them and their animals.
"You see?" Jack said, one night after a party in town, by their newly-built kiva fireplace at the edge of the patio they'd created, sitting with their new puppy, Rosie, Old Rose. "A sweet life. Like I said. Ten years, and no fuckin' tire irons."
"Jack?"
Ennis rubbed Jack's chest through his shirt.
"What?"
"You was right, bud."
He found Jack's nipple and gave it a quick, sharp pinch.
"So shut the fuck up."
* * * * *
Ennis drained the last of his Jack Daniels from the glass, crunching what was left of the ice cubes. The fire was down to a few dull embers, and smoke curled now into the night sky from the chimney of the house. Jack had the fire going, and Ennis knew it would be nice, always was, cozying up indoors as the weather turned toward another Christmas season and the cold, clear winter that would follow. Days they'd stay home because of too much snow to get to work, take Rosie for walks so she could bound like a rabbit in the snow, burying her face, sniffing every wild footprint of rabbit, packrat, coyote. And Jack was right-he would be out here in the frigid night air, just looking at the snow blanketing the piñons and junipers as far as he could see, like a giant's world of cotton balls, and overhead, that vault of stars that had been their companion since the beginning, since their first days, so long ago, up on Brokeback, before he could let himself know what it was he'd found. And all those other nights, borrowed nights, secret, fraught with the pain of knowing they would so quickly end. No, he would go inside in a minute, but he lit another cigarette, stood, looking. How many stars? How many nights? So many. Forty-three years, gone by like snowmelt running down mountain streams, rushing, sparkling, dashing against rocks, splashing up, laughing, always plummeting.
"Ennis?" Jack called from inside.
"Be right there."
He blew a puff of blue-white smoke up against the black, glittering sky.
* * * * *
The year before, Ennis had been flattered and proud to be elected to the acequia commission by the many families who shared the Jimenez acequia, confirming his and Jack's admission into the traditional cultural life of their chosen community, and affirming his status as almost an adopted son of old Miguel Jimenez, the mayordomo of the acequia and grandfather to the entire rural neighborhood.
The day the families would all gather for the annual cleaning of the life-giving ditch, Ennis and Jack were invited to the Jimenez home for a breakfast for the commission members. Teresa Jimenez was known for her cooking, her red chile sauce made from the hottest dried Chimayo chiles considered the best for miles around. Jack, who loved her cooking, complained on the way there.
"Been eatin' Tums like candy, can't shake this damn heartburn," he said. "I just know those breakfast burritos are goin' a burn a hole in me."
"Well, go easy on 'em, then."
They worked all day in the cold spring wind cleaning out the ditch, Jack popping more Tums and continuing to complain, saying he'd hardly eaten anything, this was the worst damn heartburn he'd ever had. He complained so long and hard that, when they got into the truck to go home, Ennis drove him to the emergency room at St. Vincent's, thinking if it was an ulcer or something, they could get him some medicine that would quiet him down.
Ennis was allowed to stay with Jack while they waited, told the attendants that he held Jack's medical power of attorney. The first thing the doctor did was to hook Jack up to an EKG, and, minutes and some fast signatures later, Ennis saw them wheel Jack away for a heart cath, and whatever that meant, he knew it wasn't good.
Luckily, it turned out, Jack's heartburn had been angina, and they'd got him to the hospital in time to avert a full-on heart attack. He'd had several blockages, but with angioplasty and some stents, he was home a day later and soon in rehab and then back to work, leading out the rides from the hotel, but letting the younger wrangler take a few more on his own.
That one night, when Jack was in the hospital, and Ennis came home alone, for the first time in twenty some years, he felt about as low and scared as he could remember since the day he'd turned his truck around to chase down Jack on the highway.
Rosie had come to the door, looking past Ennis for Jack. When he didn't come through the courtyard, she lay by the door to wait.
"He's not coming home tonight, Rosie, ol' girl. But he'll be home tomorrow."
He sat on the floor by the door and rubbed her head. They'd told him that Jack came through it fine, that he'd be on his feet the next day, but Ennis couldn't shake the cold hand of mortality that suddenly invaded his quiet life. What if he hadn't come through it? What if he had to tell Rosie that Jack wasn't coming home? His throat tightened and tears rimmed his eyes as he stroked Old Rose's soft fur.
"It's okay, girl," he said, as much to himself as to her.
* * * * *
Rosie thumped the floor by the sofa with her plume of a tail, where she lay next to Jack's feet, when Ennis came through the door.
"How's your drink?" he asked Jack.
"You havin' another one?"
"Yeah."
"Okay," Jack handed Ennis his nearly empty glass.
While Ennis poured them each another, Jack said, "Ennis, I know when you got sumpin' on your mind. What's the problem?"
Ennis returned, quiet, and sat next to Jack on the sofa, pulled him close. Jack, knowing when not to push, snuggled against Ennis, leaning his head on Ennis's shoulder.
"Tell you what," Ennis finally spoke, after taking a sip, setting his glass on the table between them and the roaring fire. He kissed Jack's forehead. "You always talked about a sweet life together. Never believed it could be like this. I just hate we're getting' old. Even Ol' Rose. Guess I just love you too much, Jack fuckin' Twist."
Jack answered softly, not lifting his head where Ennis's mouth brushed his forehead. "Christ, Ennis. Don't you ever stop worryin'? We got years. I'm fine. Hell, might outlive you."
"Hope so. Couldn't stand it if you went first."
"Christ. You hear that shit, Rosie?"
Ennis pulled Jack closer, held him tighter. "I mean it, Jack. It's goin' so fast, scares the piss out a me."
"Same thing you said about us livin' together." Jack rubbed Ennis's lanky leg.
"Yeah, I know. Guess you never get over some things."
"Well, I"ll tell you what, Ennis Del Mar. Saw you lookin' at all them stars up there. We're like that, Ennis. What we got, all this we got, it's goin' on for as long as them stars."
"I hope so, bud. I want to believe that."
"Ennis, I swear . . ."
Ennis took Jack's head in his hands, turned it to face him, and kissed him, soft, gentle, his fingers sunk deep in Jack's hair. The kiss fully tasted, he pulled his face away and looked, smiling, into Jack's glistening blue eyes.
"Hope you're goin' a brush out that ol' dog tomorrow."
End
Glossary:
Acequia: (ah-SEH-kee-a) A hand-dug ditch used as an aqueduct to bring water from the mountains to the arid plateaus, an Indo-Hispano tradition dating back hundreds of years. There are over 1,000 acequias in New Mexico, each maintained by the families, farmers and ranchers who use it. A MAYORDOMO presides over a commission, which decides how the water will be distributed. Acequia also refers to the group who use a particular acequia.
Banco: A bench built in as part of a wall, like a banquette, usually of adobe (or simulated adobe).
Piñon: (peen-YOHN) An indigenous scrub pine, growing on the high plains and foothills, used for its seeds (pine nuts) and a highly aromatic firewood
Farolito: (fahr-oh-LEE-toe) Literally, "little lantern," a small brown paper bag, the top edges rolled down, sand in the bottom, and a votive candle. Often called a "luminaria" in other parts of the southwest or "luminary".
Luminaria: (loo-min-AH-ree-ah) A small bonfire, set to warm the walkers, traditionally to light the holy family's way to the stable on Christmas. Not to be confused, in New Mexico, with the paper-bag-lanterns, often called luminarias elsewhere (see above).