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This book is a work of fiction. Some of the places, incidents, and characters, with the exception of historical figures, stem from the author’s imagination. Any similarities to actual people, alive or dead, locales or events are completely unintentional.

Published by Milagro Mountain Press

P.O. Box 34131

San Diego, CA 92163

jeffreei@yahoo.com

ISBN: 9781623097226

Dedicated to Joyce Mary Sapp
who loved a good romance

My deepest gratitude to my proof readers and editors without whom I could not have perfected the final manuscript and brought this story to life: my husband Earl, my sister Jordana George, my friends Linell Maloney, Gail Rossi, and Ricky Polcer, and to my good friend Col. Wallace Henderson, USAF Ret., for the image of his hot air balloon, TEGWAR (The Exciting Game Without Any Rules).

CHAPTER ONE

Rachel Kingston gripped onto the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned white. She tried to keep her eyes on the road as she craned her neck to look at a map spread out over her sister’s lap.

“Rachel, I can’t find Oak Valley. Are you sure it still exists?” Lauren asked, her eyes scanning every corner of the Lincoln County map.

“Look at the foot of the mountain ranges, 60, maybe 70 miles north of here. I think it’s near Carrizozo Mountain,” Rachel responded trying to point to a small section of the map and keep control of the steering wheel at the same time. “I don’t remember exactly what Mom said.”

Lauren turned the map sideways, cocked her head accordingly and strained to read the map. Running her finger up along a faint line indicating a road, she moaned and shook her head.

“Man, it’s going to take a miracle to find this place; I’m not seeing it on the map,” Lauren scowled, eyes scanning the edge of the crisp, new auto club map.

“Don’t worry, have a little faith,” Rachel quipped. “We’ll find it.”

Rachel Kingston and her sister, Lauren, headed north on a narrow two-lane road out of Alamogordo, a small town in southeastern New Mexico, near White Sands National Monument and home to Holloman Air Force Base. She rarely ventured out of Albuquerque in the north except to pursue her favorite diversion, flying her brilliantly-colored, hot air balloon. In this part of the state, though, the wilderness reminded Rachel of how she loved the rugged, untouched terrain of southeastern New Mexico.

She glanced out across the high desert landscape and thought how more than a century before it probably looked no different. Snakeweed and grayish-green straw grass rippled in the warm, mid-day breeze. Tufted mounds of brilliant yellow chamisa choked the roadside casting a veiled golden glow across the uneven asphalt. Between the shocking-colored chamisa, yucca plants resembling ice picks pointed skyward, spiny cholla cactus and sagebrush blanketed the rolling landscape.

To Rachel, this part of the state resonated with images of the past. It didn’t take much imagination to visualize stagecoaches following the same dusty, worn road, bands of Mescalero Apaches standing guard atop the flat-top mesas, and an occasional outlaw crouching in the crooked ravines, awaiting wagons of unsuspecting new settlers.

The morning air was steeped with the intoxicating sharp scent of chaparral wafting through the car. Whenever Rachel ventured into the desert outback she smelled the land and its roughness, its raw soul, its belly. Here she felt alive, a part of the defiant land and its tumultuous history. Casting her eyes along the horizon, Rachel well remembered the region’s past from history classes. This land had seen it all: the cattle and Indian wars, the squandered dreams of fortunes found and lost, and the devastating droughts that callously slaughtered both animals and settlers alike. It was a land framed by sky-bound mountains, translucent pale blue skies and a proud people who believed a better life was possible here. Of course, many of those people expected to make their millions in the gold mines of Oak Valley, the elusive Oak Valley of her family’s past.

An hour after leaving Alamogordo, the sisters turned down an abandoned dirt road that led to a hill overlooking an old dilapidated town crouched in a valley. They scrambled out of the car to get a better look. Crumbling adobes and weather-beaten wood-framed houses hugged the road ahead, an occasional tumbleweed skirting in the wind.

“According to the map,” Lauren said, “this should be Oak Valley. It’s definitely a ghost town, Rach. But, look at it,” she grimaced. “It’s deserted and a wreck. I find it hard to believe we actually had relatives living in this dump.”

Rachel gazed across the valley landscape. “Of course it’s hideous, hon, it’s been neglected for God knows how long. I remember Mom talking about this place when we were kids, how her great-grandmother told her wonderful stories of living here. Hey, look!” Rachel pointed to a crumbling adobe building with a weather-faded sign that read, ‘Oak Valley Jail.’

“Too bad Rob and the boys couldn’t crew this weekend. Tommy and Jeffrey would have loved this,” Lauren said. "Rob's a good guy to take care of them for the weekend; he knows how we like to bond at these balloon rallies,” she giggled.

“Your hubby is a good guy to take care of your kids,” Rachel interjected. Lauren cocked her head sideways. “Yeah, he is Lauren. You are so lucky to have him and your two rascals,” Rachel chuckled.

“Rascals?” Lauren asked, raising her eyebrows. “I’d say they are a little more than rascals; more like terrors when they want to be.”

“Runs in the family, doesn’t it?” Rachel posited, smiling.

Rachel gave her sister a quick hug. Lauren’s parents adopted Rachel when she was an infant, the same age as Lauren. They became inseparable from the moment they met. Ever since Rachel had earned her balloon pilot’s license five years earlier, Lauren had been her staunchest crewmember.

During the drive down to White Sands the day before for the September balloon rally, Rachel and Lauren decided that when they were done flying on Saturday, they would try to find the old ghost town of Oak Valley. Rachel was sure the town lay about 75 miles north of White Sands.

The women each put an arm around the back of each other's waists and looked out across the panorama. “This must have been a beautiful valley at one time,” Rachel mused. “Look at all the trees.”

On the dale floor scrub oak, knotty pinon, forest-green juniper, stubby cedar, and brilliant wild flowers bejeweled the ground as though they were riding herd on the undulating terrain. Huge old cottonwoods with massive trunks, bent sycamores and lofty walnut trees with branches spread like wings graced a small creek traversing the center of the valley. Higher up, along the steep mountainside, tall white oaks and towering pines stretched for the summit.

“Hey look!” Lauren pointed to a large white house, a turret adorning each of the four corners.

Rachel glanced toward another house, at the other end of town, a stately Victorian with a narrow mansard roof.

“What a shame,” Rachel declared. “This must have been one of the prettiest towns in the state. I wonder what happened here.”

Lauren nodded her head in agreement. “Let’s go see it!”

The two women got back into the jeep and drove toward what was left of Oak Valley. They drove a hundred yards, and then Rachel slammed on the brakes.

“I saw a marker next to the road back there. Let’s check it out,” she said. Reversing the jeep, Rachel made her way back to the marker. It was barely visible and would have been easy to miss altogether. They got out of the jeep and stood in front of the sign. Rachel read out loud,

Oak Valley

Established: 1870s

Died: 1899

Oak Valley was founded in the late 1870s with the discovery of gold in the adjacent mountains. By 1890, it was the second largest town in New Mexico with over 3000 people residing in Oak Valley. It was considered one of New Mexico’s most desirable and thriving communities. When the railroad requested a subsidy to build a connecting line into town in the late 1890s, the town’s leaders refused, purporting Oak Valley did not need the railroad. Gold reserves dried up not long after. Without the railroad or the gold mines, the town quickly died, leaving only ghosts to tend to the valley of the oaks.

“What idiots!” Rachel moaned, shaking her thick brown locks from side to side. “What arrogance! This town could have been the jewel of New Mexico, but for a few overconfident town leaders who thought they knew better. ”

Lauren shrugged her shoulders. “They didn’t know, Rach. Maybe at the time they didn’t realize the railroad would be so influential. They couldn’t tell what was going to happen.”

Rachel stepped back, crossed her arms over her chest and looked squarely at her sister. “You know, it doesn’t take a Ph.D. to watch economic trends. By 1890 the railroad was pretty much a fixture on the American landscape. It was changing lives, changing society.”

“That’s true,” Lauren admitted.

“For them to discount the importance of the railroad and to assume that they could survive without the assistance of modern transportation was about as idiosyncratic, small-minded and backward as they could get. Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb!” Rachel repeated, nodding her head from side-to-side. Her green eyes flashed, filled with anger and exasperation.

“Come on, Rach. Don’t get all hot about the stupidity of something that happened more than a hundred years ago. Let’s just have a nice time, okay?”

Rachel nodded her head. “Yeah, you’re right. But, I’ll tell ya if I lived in this town then, there’s no way they would have gotten away with such idiocy.”

Lauren smiled and sucked in a deep breath of air. “I know, you would have set them straight from the get-go. More than likely they would have given in rather than face your wrath. Come on,” she urged, tugging on her sister's hand, “let’s go see this ghostly town of our family tree.”

They drove through what was left of Oak Valley, first visiting the turreted house, then the old Victorian with the mansard roof. On top of the Victorian, they spotted a rusty iron-rail, a widow’s walk encircling the roofline, casting eerie pointed shadows onto the hardened ground below. The sisters walked around the two-story stone and brick house, inspecting boarded-up windows, a dead rose garden, an overgrown walnut and apple tree grove and an expansive wooden porch. At the back of the property, dominated by a grand cottonwood, stood what looked like an old outhouse.

Rachel stared at the porch and envisioned how it might have looked when there was life in Oak Valley. She squinted her eyes to a blur and imagined the outline of rocking chairs and potted flowers gracing the nooks and crannies of the porch. It seemed so real. She shook her head. The scene dissolved to reveal only a dilapidated porch.

Rachel felt very strange. Both fear and elation swelled within her. She sensed she had come home. Though she knew she had never been to the house before, or to Oak Valley, it felt strangely familiar.

They found the thick, oak front doors boarded up and posted with “danger of collapsing” signs. Lauren sighed, laying her palms on the door. “This was a lovely home at one time. These people worked so hard to build such an elegant house in this outpost. And now it’s being left to rot.”

Rachel stood back and closed her eyes. “Lauren, can’t you imagine women in bustle skirts and funny little hats holding a tea party on the porch?” She reached back and whisked her thick brown, shoulder-length hair up into a bun on the top of her head, demonstrating a Victorian hair-do.

“Huh?” Lauren responded.

Rachel opened her eyes, looked at Lauren and let her hair drop. “Yes, and in the garden, can’t you imagine men in high collars and tailored pin-stripe suits gathered around, smoking pipes and discussing the futures of the mines?”

“Oh right!” Lauren laughed. “This was a gold mining town. I doubt it would have been so civilized.”

Rachel looked back at the porch and garden and tried to re-imagine it with a group of grungy, ill-dressed miners in their place. Somehow that imagery didn’t seem to fit. The buried beauty and sophistication of the home suggested pride and self-respect. She couldn’t explain it, but somewhere deep inside of her she knew the people who inhabited this place were not wild, ill-mannered or poorly dressed, but people who took the future of Oak Valley and themselves very seriously.

“I wish we could see the inside,” Lauren said quietly. “I’ll bet it was beautiful.”

“It was and we can,” Rachel blurted out suddenly.

Lauren stared at her. “What do you mean? How do you know?”

Rachel shook her head, feeling somewhat confused herself. “I don’t know. I but I know it was magnificent. Mahogany lined walls, a heavy, carved staircase, stunning imported rugs and tapestry draperies and stained glass windows and-----“

“Hey!” Lauren interrupted her sister who rambled on in a dazed-like manner. “You’re worrying me. You’re always such a no-nonsense person and now you’re babbling on as though you’re in a trance.” She snapped her fingers in front of Rachel’s face. “Hey! How do you know all this? Have you been here before?”

Rachel snapped out of her reverie, smiled slightly and hunched her shoulders. “No, I’ve never been here and I don’t know how I know. I just do. Like I know there’s another way in.” She took off around the corner of the house.

“Huh?” Lauren responded, following her sister.

Rachel ran to a little shed off the northeast corner. With a tug, she opened the door, and then brushed away some old hay that covered the floor to reveal a door in the flooring. When she opened it, she looked up at Lauren who stood behind her with her mouth open in surprise. Before Lauren could say a word, Rachel bolted down a stairwell.

“You coming, Lauren?” she called from deep down inside.

“Well, I can’t let you go in there by yourself, can I?” she answered timidly, stepping down onto the old wooden stairs.

The sisters followed a musty, rank-smelling corridor that led to another door. Rachel pushed on it repeatedly until it opened. They climbed into what was the kitchen.

The two walked through the dilapidated house, being watchful of corroded floorboards and small animals that had taken up residence. Rachel glided through the house as though she had lived there for years. Finally Lauren stopped asking Rachel how she knew so much about the house and Rachel was thankful because she couldn’t figure it out either.

The house was a shell, a fragment of its former glorious years. Though they could still see the fine wood, it was greatly decayed and rotted in many places. Shreds of once opulent draperies barely covered the boarded-up windows. When she discovered the staircase was too decayed to risk visiting the second floor, Rachel sat on the bottom stair and plopped her head into her hands.

Lauren looked squarely at her sister and saw her eyes filled to the brim with tears. “Why is this house affecting you so?”

Rachel shrugged. “I feel this uncanny sense of grief here. I know it as well as my own apartment, but I don’t know why. I’ve never felt such a connection to a place before. I can’t explain it.”

“I can’t either and I suggest we get out of here. It’s giving me the creeps,” Lauren declared. She grabbed Rachel’s arm and led her out of the house the same way they entered.

Outside, they walked through the dead rose garden and headed toward the car. Rachel stopped and looked back at the house one more time. “This breaks my heart,” she said, her voice unnaturally quiet. “This home shouldn’t be left deteriorating at the foot of a forgotten hillside.”

At the edge of the garden, Rachel nearly tripped over a small stone plaque, embedded in the ground. Although weather-beaten and worn with age, she could still read “La Querencia.” She smiled. She knew the term well. La Querencia, the place of your heart’s desire. It was a phrase people often used to describe their passionate feelings for the rustic charm of New Mexico.

Rachel thought about how since birth she had heard the term, but had never been able to apply it to herself. Many of her friends at Polzer Incorporated relocated to New Mexico because they found that special spirit, that special connection to the land here. Although she had been born and raised in New Mexico, she never felt that bond, never felt that ethereal level of comfort, as though she was meant to be here. But then she never felt much of anything, up until today.

Life to Rachel Kingston wasn’t about ethereal nonsense; her life consisted of working and flying her balloon. Rachel’s joint microbiology-business degree from college landed her a coveted top marketing position at Polzer Inc., New Mexico’s largest pharmaceutical firm. Except for flying balloons, Rachel didn’t have a social life, not because her boss required her to work 60 hours a week, but she demanded it of herself. She wanted to be the best and took her responsibilities seriously. She refused to let herself be dependent on anyone for anything. She told friends and Lauren that she learned her lesson early.

In college, Rachel dated Bob Evans for a couple of years. At the time, Rachel thought Bob was the love of her life, even letting her grades slide when she first became entranced with the medical student. For two years she neglected herself and supported Bob to help get him through school. She kept telling herself it was for their future, that Bob adored her. Because he spent every free moment at the library or the lab, Rachel praised him for thoroughly committing himself to his career, to being the best. After Bob graduated from medical school and dumped her for his blond lab partner, she decided men were a wasted distraction. She resolved to never let another man get in the way of her goals again.

Rachel dropped to her knees and ran her fingertips over the words on the plaque when something shiny caught her eye near the bulging roots of an old oak tree. Digging in the dirt, she uncovered a large, oval cameo on a gold chain. “Lauren, look what I found!”

Lauren joined her sister on the ground. Rachel buffed the face with her shirt until they could clearly see an image. The intricately carved cameo portrayed a very handsome man looking into the eyes of a woman who bore a striking resemblance to Rachel.

“I can’t believe it's in such good shape. It’s not cracked or even tarnished.” Lauren turned over the cameo squinting at something on the back.

“What is it?” Rachel asked. She crouched next to her sister and read the inscription, “To R, My Querencia, Love M.”

“You should have it,” Lauren said putting the necklace into Rachel’s hand. “It’s got your initial on it and this woman looks like you.”

“It’s not my initial,” Rachel laughed, ignoring the comment about the resemblance. She looked down at the cameo in her hand and ran her forefinger over the finely etched picture. It wasn’t the woman’s face that disturbed her, but the man’s. She felt as if she knew him. She gazed at his mustache and his shoulder-length hair, and somehow she knew he had blue eyes the color of the sea and a smile that could soothe the deepest wound. Looking at his eyes caused her breath to shorten. She felt an overwhelming sense of sadness and longing, as though she somehow missed this man, as though he had once been a part of her life. Swallowing hard, she barely caught a lump in her throat. She wiped at a tear before Lauren noticed.

“It’s so old. I’m amazed it survived all this time out here,” Rachel said, hoping to distract Lauren from seeing the welling tears in her eyes.

Although it was stiff, Rachel got the chain’s catch to open. She brought it around her neck and clasped it closed. She touched her fingers to the cameo lying below her collarbone. It felt comfortable, it felt right, and it made her feel.....cherished. ‘How odd,’ she thought, still fighting the lump in her throat.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was made for you,” Lauren said. “And that woman looks a lot like you. She has that same far-away expression you sometimes get.”

Rachel smiled. Lauren was right. People had been remarking on that expression her entire life. The heavy strangeness of the afternoon began to take its toll on her. She needed to get out of Oak Valley, back to reality.

Rachel looked at her plastic sports watch. “Hey, we’d better get back. We’re supposed to meet the crew for barbecue dinner in an hour and a half and I’ve got to wash some of this dirt off of me.”

“You’re tellin’ me!” Lauren laughed, and holding her nose she ran toward the jeep.

* * * * *

Though tired from the previous evening’s barbecue, dancing, and chatting late into the night Rachel and her balloon crew dragged themselves out of their cozy hotel beds and assembled at White Sands National Monument before dawn the next morning. White and undulating as snow-covered hills, the endless gypsum sands resembled a tranquil wintry scene. Yet, on a 75 degree September day, it was hardly winter. She liked flying White Sands because, although it looked like a December mural, balloonists didn’t have to endure cold temperatures or risk getting the balloon envelope fabric wet. Too often, after flying in snow country, Rachel had to replace expensive balloon envelope panels. Mildew ate away at the fabric of any balloon that was packed away wet. In White Sands it was the best of both worlds. Gypsum sand never destroyed fabric.

The morning was particularly spectacular. A mystical thin layer of patchy fog hovered over the sand dunes. The balloon pilots and crews gathered in a flat parking lot for a flight briefing before the rally; spectators sat on the milky-white dunes overlooking the balloonists, waiting for the launch of 70 colorful balloons.

A short, round man wearing a tall chimney sweep’s hat introduced himself as the balloonmeister and called the briefing to order. Rachel knew most of the balloonmeisters; she had never seen this man before. Many of the pilots and crewmembers wore comical hats, a playful oddity that disguised the seriousness of their sport. Rachel always opted for her cherished ruby red baseball cap.

“Winds aloft at 6,000 feet are 250 at three knots." The crowd 'oohed', causing the balloonmeister to stop and wait for the ensuing laughter to die down. "At 9,000 feet, winds are from 200 at 14 knots." The crowd 'aahed' and the balloonmeister shook his head. "You're a tough crowd," he announced into the microphone. The crowd quiet at last, he continued. "There’s some patchy fog, but it’s clearing quickly. Visibility is five miles. Lifted index is plus six, so it won’t take much heat to make your balloons rise. Y’all should have a real nice flight today,” he predicted. “Oh and one other thing,” he added. “We’re due for a full eclipse today, so be real careful lookin’ up. Don’t want anyone going blind on us up there.”

An assistant handed the balloonmeister a small latex balloon filled with helium. He held it above his head and let it go. The crowd watched the little blue balloon slowly rise and float eastward until it was out of sight. Rachel was watching the balloon disappear when she felt someone looking at her. It was the balloonmeister. He grinned broadly, in an impish sort of way. As she turned to look away, he winked at her and mouthed, “Have a good trip.” Rachel looked around to see if he was looking at someone else, but other than her crew, everyone else had started back towards the launch sites. She turned back toward the balloonmeister, but he was gone.

Rachel’s six crewmembers gathered around her. “Well? What do you think?” one of the crewmembers asked.

“Like the man said, I think we’re going to have a great flight today. Liftoff should be fairly uneventful; there’s barely a breeze. If I fly close to the dunes where it’s around 4,200 feet, it’ll be slow going. If I take her up to 9,000 feet we’ll be cookin’, going east. Shall we see if we can make it as far as the main road this year?” Rachel asked.

During previous rallies at White Sands she had often tried to fly southeast as far as the main road, but never made it. Whoever got there first, or at all, received a grand prize picnic basket packed with champagne and goodies. She had been trying to win it for her crew several years in a row. With 14 knot winds at 9,000 feet she thought she might have a chance of making the road this year.

Rachel and her crew pulled the gondola basket and envelope bag holding the balloon out of the little trailer attached to the back of the jeep. While Rachel and two crewmembers turned the basket onto its side, other crewmembers untangled the lines attached to the mouth of the envelope. Rachel secured the burner onto the frame and her instruments to the inside of the wicker basket.

Once everything was hooked up, the crew pulled the bag, dragging the balloon envelope out in a straight line. Rachel checked the crown of the envelope, ensuring the top was properly attached. It was critical that when she flicked the burner that would heat the air during the flight, the top would operate properly, and contain the hot air in the balloon until she was ready to release the air and descend.

Crewmembers pulled out the sides of the red and yellow striped balloon envelope, expanding the fabric across the ground. Lauren set up the gas-propelled fan while two helpers held open the balloon mouth. For several minutes the fan blew cold air into the envelope, puffing out the balloon; meanwhile Rachel walked around the perimeter ensuring everyone was in proper place for the final, hot air inflation.

When the fan had adequately filled the balloon, Rachel lifted the burner, rested the frame on her knee, pointed the burner inside the balloon, and turned on a blast. Great flames shot forward straight into the balloon’s interior. The envelope quickly expanded. Rachel ceased burning and waited a few seconds for the hot air to fill the envelope. For several minutes she continued the on-and-off sequence, softly puffing hot air into the balloon until it fully expanded. Finally, she stepped back and began up righting the basket and burner, climbing over the side and settling herself inside the basket as it stood erect. She waved in the crewmembers and tied off the lines she would need to control the balloon during the flight.

“Weight on!” Rachel called and all the crewmembers leaned onto the edge of the basket to hold down the balloon while Rachel continued to send flames into the balloon, raising the interior temperature high enough to take off.

“Lauren, where’s my backpack and quilt?” Rachel asked her sister.

Lauren ran to the jeep and removed a backpack and a much used small quilt rolled into a log and tied with a ribbon. She jogged back to the balloon and handed them to Rachel.

“Can’t fly without my lucky quilt, can I?” Rachel smiled at her sister. Their mother, a longtime quilter, made it for Rachel when she earned her pilot’s license. Since that day Rachel had never flown without the colorful quilt that depicted a hot air balloon flying over the New Mexico landscape.

“Well, who’s first?” she called to her crew.

A young woman, a friend of one of her regular people climbed in.

“First time?” Rachel asked. The young woman nodded, looking a little nervous. “Don’t worry, one flight, and you’ll be hooked,” Rachel reassured her.