Ride the Wild Wind: Sheriff Robert Gallegos – Friends and Enemies, Book 1

By Josephine Ashton

Sheriff Robert Gallegos, tall, handsome, quiet, friendly, Native American/Hispanic, an ex-WWII Marine is determined that the encroaching Juarez, Mexico drug cartel that will stop at nothing to take over his south eastern New Mexico, Aragon Valley - will not, on his watch, succeed. But as intimidation, rape and murder stalk the rural community, the reality of the threat, this summer of 1965, grows ominously closer.

A man's man, with friends dating back to childhood and enemies current, romantic when the time is right, the Sheriff's real companion is Old Lady Sara Tree-Root Tampoya, the part-Hopi Medicine Woman who communicates with Grey Lady Between the Mountains, bringer of passages of life and of death, as he struggles to stay centered in the present and decipher the past, to understand who he really is.

The wild red-dust wind gallops day and night through the streets of this fictional Aragon Valley county and town, situated near the Rio Grande, somewhere between Las Cruces and the borders of El Paso, Texas and Ciudad de Juarez, Mexico. Santa Feans, Easterners, Denver and West Coast hippies, foreigners and lovers are welcomed, Juarez drug cartel goons are not, and all soon learn to ask no personal questions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Aug 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781685626310

Josephine Ashton

After publishing her first historical fiction novel for adults, under the pen name, Josephine Ashton, Dark Wind Rising – A Claudia Kelly Mystery, Ashton has continued her interest in New Mexico locations, with story lines that encompass other eras, such WWII and the 1960s, to write Ride the Wild Wind – Sheriff Robert Gallegos – Friends and Enemies. Currently she has completed a sequel, Ride the Wild Wind – Sheriff Robert Gallegos – The Witch’s Grave, and is considering a series. As Claudia J. Carroll, Claudia Carroll and CJ Carroll, the author has written some 300 pieces for community newspapers as well as published articles, stories and poetry for small magazines and not-for-profits. Having written both plays and songs, she has been involved with stage and music productions, event coordination and continues to exhibit her paintings and photography. As an older adult, she achieved a BA in Visual Arts at a California university, and a Masters in Arts in Education at Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts. She has also written and independently published several personal journals, such as 1000 STEPS – A Teaching Adventure in Taiwan, GUATEMALAN ODYSSEY – Poverty, Pain, Prayer & Politics, ANGELS IN FOREVER – In Search of My Self, and a guide for non-writers: REMEMBRANCE WRITING 101, The Easy Way to Write and Share the Stories of Your Life. As a teacher of both English as Second Language (ESL) in Taiwan, Guatemala and Mexico, and special education in New Mexico and California, she’s also independently written books for children. The most recent is Clinton’s Tree of Life, a cooperative project with the founder/director of the international, not-for-profit, Kids For Saving Earth. Other independently published stories for children include, Little Bravebird & the Grandparents’ Gifts, Shmadiggle & the Imagination Asteroid, Old Dumpling & the Rainy Day, Missy Mouse & the Rocket Ship, Petey Punkin’ & the B & BRRR Haunted Hotel, and Clara Cow & the Country Fair. She hopes these books will find illustrations eventually, or be combined into a single hard-cover book. HISTORICAL NOVELS: Ride the Wild Wind – Sheriff Robert Gallegos – Friends and Enemies (pub. 2022 Austin Macauley Publishers). INDEPENDENTLY PUBLISHED or in production: Ride the Wild Wind, Book II – Sheriff Robert Gallegos – The Witch’s Grave; Dark Wind Rising Book I – A Claudia Kelly Mystery. PERSONAL JOURNALS:1000 STEPS – A Teaching Adventure in Taiwan; GUATEMALAN ODYSSEY – Poverty, Pain, Prayer & Politics; Angels in Forever – In Search of My Self. POETRY: Shared Unevenly. GUIDE-BOOKS: Remembrance Writing 101, The Easy Way to Write the Stories of Your Life. FANTASY BOOKS FOR CHILDREN & the Young at Heart (featuring non-nuclear relationships): Little Bravebird and the Grandparents’ Gifts; Petey Punkin’ & the B & Brrr Haunted Hotel; Shmadiggle & the Imagination Asteroid; Old Dumpling & the Rainy Day; Missy Mouse & the Rocket Ship; Clara Cow & the Country Fair. COOPERATIVE PROJECTS with Not-For-Profit Organizations: Clinton’s Tree of Life (published by Kids for Saving Earth, 2022).

Book preview

About the Author

After publishing her first historical fiction novel for adults, under the pen name, Josephine Ashton, Dark Wind Rising – A Claudia Kelly Mystery, Ashton has continued her interest in New Mexico locations, with story lines that encompass other eras, such WWII and the 1960s, to write Ride the Wild Wind – Sheriff Robert Gallegos – Friends and Enemies. Currently she has completed a sequel, Ride the Wild Wind – Sheriff Robert Gallegos – The Witch’s Grave, and is considering a series.

As Claudia J. Carroll, Claudia Carroll and CJ Carroll, the author has written some 300 pieces for community newspapers as well as published articles, stories and poetry for small magazines and not-for-profits. Having written both plays and songs, she has been involved with stage and music productions, event coordination and continues to exhibit her paintings and photography. As an older adult, she achieved a BA in Visual Arts at a California university, and a Masters in Arts in Education at Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts. She has also written and independently published several personal journals, such as 1000 STEPS – A Teaching Adventure in Taiwan, GUATEMALAN ODYSSEY – Poverty, Pain, Prayer & Politics, ANGELS IN FOREVER – In Search of My Self, and a guide for non-writers: REMEMBRANCE WRITING 101, The Easy Way to Write and Share the Stories of Your Life.

As a teacher of both English as Second Language (ESL) in Taiwan, Guatemala and Mexico, and special education in New Mexico and California, she’s also independently written books for children. The most recent is Clinton’s Tree of Life, a cooperative project with the founder/director of the international, not-for-profit, Kids For Saving Earth. Other independently published stories for children include, Little Bravebird & the Grandparents’ Gifts, Shmadiggle & the Imagination Asteroid, Old Dumpling & the Rainy Day, Missy Mouse & the Rocket Ship, Petey Punkin’ & the B & BRRR Haunted Hotel, and Clara Cow & the Country Fair. She hopes these books will find illustrations eventually, or be combined into a single hard-cover book.

HISTORICAL NOVELS: Ride the Wild Wind – Sheriff Robert Gallegos – Friends and Enemies (pub. 2022 Austin Macauley Publishers).

INDEPENDENTLY PUBLISHED or in production: Ride the Wild Wind, Book II – Sheriff Robert Gallegos – The Witch’s Grave; Dark Wind Rising Book I – A Claudia Kelly Mystery.

PERSONAL JOURNALS:1000 STEPS – A Teaching Adventure in Taiwan; GUATEMALAN ODYSSEY – Poverty, Pain, Prayer & Politics; Angels in Forever – In Search of My Self.

POETRY: Shared Unevenly.

GUIDE-BOOKS: Remembrance Writing 101, The Easy Way to Write the Stories of Your Life.

FANTASY BOOKS FOR CHILDREN & the Young at Heart (featuring non-nuclear relationships): Little Bravebird and the Grandparents’ Gifts; Petey Punkin’ & the B & Brrr Haunted Hotel; Shmadiggle & the Imagination Asteroid; Old Dumpling & the Rainy Day; Missy Mouse & the Rocket Ship; Clara Cow & the Country Fair.

COOPERATIVE PROJECTS with Not-For-Profit Organizations: Clinton’s Tree of Life (published by Kids for Saving Earth, 2022).

Dedication

Thanks to all the writers of the lifetime of books that I’ve read, plays and films I’ve seen, songs I’ve heard and sung, and to those who gave me life; and to remember, if only in fiction, those who served in WWII, especially the Navajo Code-Talkers, and those with whom I sang, danced, created, played, cried and loved in the 1960s, and to New Mexico, where I will always hear the voice of the wild wind in harmony with the Rio Grande singing, ‘home.’

—Josephine Ashton, 2022

Copyright Information ©

Josephine Ashton 2023

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Ashton, Josephine

Ride the Wild Wind

ISBN 9781685626297 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781685626303 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781685626310 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023908461

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

Acknowledgment

To the Southwest,

Her wide open spaces, her skies that excite,

Her Rio so Grande, deserts, montaños and life,

Her amigos and enemies, her recuerdos of love,

Her wind that sings strangeness,

And wildness and strife,

Ride el viento,

Through her darkening night,

She promises nada,

But the dawning of light.

—JA (c.) 2022

Appreciations to my ancestors who made it possible for me to exist, and to writers throughout the ages who dared to get print on paper so that dreamers like myself could read, enjoy, learn, and write. Thank you Austin Macauley Publishers wonderful team for believing in Ride the Wild Wind and in me.

—Josephine Ashton, 2022

Introduction

Aragón Valley is a fictional, one-street town and scarcely populated county in southwestern New Mexico, situated on the Rio Grande, near the borders of El Paso, Texas, and Ciudad de Juárez, located in the Mexican state of Chihuahua.

Sheriff Robert Gallegos, part Native American, part Mexican American is facing an encroaching threat from a Juárez crime family, drug cartel, that will stop at nothing to buy up the Valley. He is determined this will not, on his watch, succeed.

But as intimidation and murder stalk the town, and the threat grows ominously closer, the valleyites can no longer go about their friendly and sometimes highly sensual lives as small rural towns in 1965 might have done.

Gallegos will reflect on his experience in WWII as a Marine, search his past to discover who he really is, love, lose, laugh, learn and stand, more often alone than not, his Colt .38, Winchester, and his Sheriff’s badge signaling respect the law or else, in this complex historical fiction swirling around him, his friends, his enemies and their times, that are a-changing.

Only the Hopi medicine woman, Sara Tree-Root Tampoya knows that in such times, the man she raised as a boy, must learn to ride the wild wind.

Prologue

September 1945 in northern Mexico, just south of Ciudad de Juárez. Thunder clouds threatened rain, but no rain fell to relieve the humidity. What those from New Mexico had come to do, had happened quickly. The men inside the cabin were surprised, then dead; shot through the head or heart or first through the testicles.

But it was too late for the woman. She died in the arms of one of the men who’d come to save her. Now, the only two left standing, they who had done the shooting, wrapped the woman in a blanket and buried her in the red earth where the wild opium poppies grew.

Then they pulled the extra five gallon gas tank from the jeep, poured it over the bodies of the men and set the cabin on fire. Finally, leaving behind them only ashes, covered by darkness and a threatened storm, they drove for an hour, hit the edge of town and found their compadre waiting in the tavern. He raised his eyebrows in question; they nodded. He ordered rounds of shots and beers to numb their pain.

"Canciones, señores?" the guitar player asked.

"Amapola," the blond one answered, barely a whisper, his grief-stricken eyes hidden beneath the shadow of his hat. The dark, long haired one stared at the table, shook his head, slammed his shot glass down spilling the tequila, then put his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

The waiting compadre ordered another round for the four of them. The guitar player knew the song, had seen it in a Gene Autry movie. "…Amapola…" he sang.

The bartender, who knew the men, had hung the cartel cerrado on the hook on the door of la taberna when the three men had arrived. Now, nearly dawn, the sky gray and heavy, the bartender and the guitar player helped the older, sober companion carry the young blond one and the long-haired dark one to his Willys Jeep. He drove them back across the border and home.

They never spoke of the bloody night again.

Chapter One

July 1965. Aragón Valley, southwestern New Mexico. Sheriff Robert Gallegos seldom made breakfast for himself. Usually up by six, he was down the street to Connelly’s for biscuits and gravy, sausage and eggs. But he’d had a bad night, slept until mid-morning, needed a quick coffee fix.

Rob spooned the Maxwell House into the percolator, enough for six strong cups, and lit the propane gas flame. He shaved, trimmed his black sideburns a tad, peered into his nearly empty icebox then sat at his kitchen table, listening to the pff-pff-pff of the percolator. When the sound stopped, the coffee would be done.

Waiting, he stared out the second-story window of the apartment over his office, the two-story building being next to the jail, empty at the moment. A heavy mist hung over the river, over the cleft in Gray Mountain; above the mist, rain clouds promised a short-lived monsoon. Aragón Valley needed rain, now, but the wind was blowing hard through the dusty town. Rob was glad he hadn’t left his window open overnight. He hated the wind. But both his fears and his hatred had often given Old Woman Sara Tree-Root cause to lecture him.

You can’t fight the wind, Robbie, she’d chortle. Sara was the only person the 40-something sheriff would allow to call him that. But you can’t let it throw you. Have to ride the wind like a wild horse you’re trying to break; gentle, know what I mean? But let ’em know you’re the boss. That’s what she’d told him the afternoon the air was swirling with red clay dust, the bloody afternoon he’d found his boy, Sonny.

In his gut, the sheriff felt this morning didn’t bode well either. The pff-pff was quiet. He pushed back from the table, reached for a coffee mug, then poured until the rich, dark brew splashed over the rim leaving no room for cream. Hell. Well, he needed to lose a few pounds anyway. He’d skip the sugar and canned Pet Milk for a change.

Rob walked over to the window. He wasn’t in the mood for the Saturday market that sometimes turned into a fiesta. Guns fired into the air forced him to remember the war. Firecrackers set off by drunk braceros up from Juárez threatened the Montez vineyards. Only a couple of times in the past year had Aragón Valley’s jail stayed empty on a Friday or Saturday night. Mostly cool-offs for fist-cuffs, or sobering up sleep for drunks. Gallegos’ reputation had effectively caused real trouble-makers to take another road to Juárez, or headed north, to Las Cruces or Santa Fe, or at least, holster their guns and park their motorcycles while in town.

Rob sipped his coffee, frowned, poured some of it into the sink and added three spoons of sugar and the Pet Milk. Once in a while, a trouble-maker was one of Montez’ vineyard workers, but not often. They knew they had a good employer in both the old man, Ibai, and his thirty-something son, Phillipe, and respected what they meant to families back in Mexico, or for a few, the families they brought with them.

The bracero program had officially ended in ’64, but Phillipe Montez had, obeying his old father, Ibai’s directive, kept some of the workers, especially those with pregnant wives, or kids. They all were given housing, so the Red Stones Vineyard owners had figured that in deciding how to pay them. Some of the kids, as Romero would say, telling this, trabajaron junto a sus mamas y papas in the vineyards. But even the stray single man or woman found extra work with Tim Sanderson, or on Seller’s land, when Britney was drug and booze free enough to tell them what needed to be done, or in the kitchen of Rosalie and John Connelly’s The Irish Coffee Cafe which locals tended to refer to simply as the coffee shop, being the only one in town. Right now, though, a group of hippie girls down from Denver for the summer, had camped out on Tim Sanderson’s back forty, livened up the town and provided an extra, cheap labor work force for anyone needing that.

A flash of lightening and a rolling drumbeat of thunder shook the kitchen window. Yep, he thought out loud. Ten to one Sara Tree-Root Tampoya and Bella Aragón are mumbling to themselves and to anybody who’ll listen: ‘Gray Lady is riding the wind. Somebody’s gonna die’. Gallegos massaged his growling stomach, reached for his Stetson and his holster, double-checked to make sure his Colt .38 was loaded and headed downstairs.

At Connelly’s Irish Coffee Cafe two buildings down from the sheriff’s place, owner John Connelly was also staring at the sky. He and Rosalie usually grew enough vegetables on the half acre in back of the place to keep the coffee shop supplied, but last week, and the week before, she’d had to fill up a basket at the Saturday Farmer’s Market. They needed rain. But waste of time to wish for it, John thought. It would come when it would come or not at all.

John Connelly! his wife Rosalie called from the kitchen. Stop day-dreamin’ and help me in the kitchen. You know how busy we get Friday lunch. The boys’ll all be here and…

John ignored his wife and went back to wiping down the counter. Damned if he knew why they’d started a cafe. He’d wanted to go to California. But she’d fallen in love, she claimed, with New Mexico and that’s as far as they got. He poured himself a mug of coffee, then pulled out the official looking letter from the drawer under the register.

We’re creating this business for Mary, Rosalie would tell him for the hundredth time. John sighed. His wife would never leave Aragón Valley, never sell, no matter how good the offer was. He put the letter in the drawer, rinsed out his bar-towel, and went back to wiping down.

What are you fixing up for market day on Saturday? he asked finally, fiddling with the radio beside the cash register. He turned the dial until he heard the DJ announce a Sonny and Cher. I Got You Babe kind of tickled him, made him think of him and Rosie. He couldn’t get used to the Beatles, but Sonny and Cher, Petula Clark, the Temptations were more his cup of java.

Irish hand-pies again? he called out to his wife. We oughta put them on the menu. Folks always ask for those beef and cabbage things on Fridays anyway. He hadn’t waited for his wife’s response. That was his nature, to just scattershot his thoughts from one to another. Get tired of peeling potatoes and frying up chicken, he grumbled.

Hello there, Ely! Rosalie called out cheerily. She’d heard the bell jangle as the front door opened and came out of the kitchen. Just took some apple dumplings out of the oven. With your sister Miranda out of town, nobody around to harp on you about sweets being bad for your teeth!

Scoop of ice cream on top and cuppa java, Ely Herrera replied. The young druggist who’d come to town to take old Smithington’s place slid onto a red-leather topped stool at the counter.

He felt like a kid smoking a stolen cigarette out behind the barn when he sneaked into the Connelly’s coffee shop to indulge in sweets. But with a dentist for a sister—an older sister with an irritating tendency to nag, what could a fella do but do it on the sly?

You gonna make up a batch of your dumplings for the Fiesta? he asked Rosalie, his spoon already in his hand.

I would if Mary was around to help. But maybe, Rosalie replied, pouring a mug of coffee, some Irish hand-pies anyway, she said.

The bell jangled again. Dr. Steven Jonas, another newcomer, tall, good-looking, thirty something had also come to the valley as replacement to old Smithington, who’d served as doctor, druggist and mortician until he died at ninety. No mortician had shown up as yet, but except for the tragedy that had happened to the sheriff’s boy, Aragón Valley didn’t have much burying to do unless somebody died of old age.

Jonas straddled the stool beside Ely, glancing at the bowl of apple dumpling and ice cream. Make mine the same, he said, rubbing his stomach. Mary not working today, Rosalie? he asked, then glanced at Ely. Haven’t seen your sister, Miranda either, Ely. All the woman in Aragón Valley leave town?

Hmph! John laughed, finally turning away from the window where he’d been watching the sky, to pour the men cups of coffee. You mean single women, doncha boys? They would have laughed but they were already busy stuffing their mouths with the sweet, cinnamon-flavored pastry-wrapped apple concoctions.

Well, I can take the mystery out of that for you two hound-dogs, Ely’s sister, Miranda, Rosalie said, brushing off her apron. came by this morning and asked Mary to ride down south with her for the day.

May not be back till tomorrow if those black clouds start dumping rain, John cautioned, although rain of any kind, any duration would be welcomed in the southern New Mexican town. Not complaining, though, he added.

Steve Jonas stopped eating and took a long dreg from his cup. How far south? he asked, glancing at Rosalie. He hoped they wouldn’t hear what had been worrying him. El Paso, I think they said, John answered for his wife.

Once Miranda starts driving south she won’t stop this side of the border, her brother laughed. Bet she’ll take Mary dancing in Juárez!

Juárez? They’ll be OK there? Dr. Jonas asked, more of a statement to control his emotion than a question. He held up his mug and John topped it off.

Oh, nothing to worry about, Ely said. Miranda’s from Juárez, remember? Did her dental intern work there. One of her friend’s family owns a club there. Went dancing there once. Nice place for young locals, no tourists. They’ll be fine.

But it was neither the locals nor tourists that worried Steve Jonas. He looked up to see little Lisle Schiliman push through the front door. She seemed, just by appearing, to make him forget his concerns. The thirteen-year-old pulled off her denim scarf, loosening a shock of curly auburn hair. As color coordinated as a painting, her hair matched the amber flowers in her shirt and her denim scarf matched her jeans.

Dr. Steve! Hoped I’d find you here. When you finish eating would you look at Poppy?

Poppy? John harrumphed. Doc’s no veterinarian, Lisle! What can he do for a cat?

He won’t eat, Lisle said, straddling the high stool like a saddle. I’m afraid he got into something bad. Usually, the fluffy, salmon-colored cat followed Lisle everywhere like a dog. Rosalie even let the girl bring the cat into the café, sometimes saving up some scraps of chicken to give the animal.

Told ya we shouldn’t be feeding that cat scraps, John said, scolding his wife as she came out of the kitchen with some chopped up chicken wrapped in a paper napkin.

Mind your potatoes, you old coot, Rosalie retorted, Poppy didn’t eat any bad food here! She left the package in front of Lisle. John, get Lisle a dish of ice cream.

But Connelly was back at the window again. Who’s the new red-head in town? Anybody know? he asked, half to himself. Looks like she dipped her head in a can of stop-sign paint. Seen her around yesterday too, riding her horse out by the river when I went to pick up some grapes from the Montez place. That’s some car she’s getting into. 1965 Ford Thunderbird, if I know my cars. Convertible. Not much good for hauling hay though.

What business is it of yours, John Connelly? Rosalie chided. You got the potatoes peeled yet?

Ely Herrera and Steve Jonas looked around as the front door swung closed, half anticipating the red-head to walk in. She didn’t, but Sheriff Robert Gallegos did, ducking his head. Jonas was almost six feet, Ely maybe five-ten, but both wondered how the big man coming in now managed that door without banging his head. Gallegos took off his twenty year old boss of the plains, camel-colored Stetson and threw it into a booth, nodded to Ely and the doc, smiled at Lisle, then eased himself into the booth, eyes front so he could see who was coming and going. John had a mug of coffee, pitcher of cream on the table before Gallegos could ask. The sheriff nodded his thanks and started pouring in sugar.

Usually, only Tim Sanderson and Phillipe Montez called him ‘Rob.’ Around town he was ‘Sheriff’ or just Gallegos. His black, wavy hair wasn’t mashed down by the hat, or if it had been, had sprung back miraculously. His lashes were long, his eyes dark brown sometimes, but in a different light, appeared hazel-green. His hands matched his frame, wide, with long fingers made for playing the guitar, pleasing a woman, or pulling the trigger of his Colt .38 or his Winchester.

The sheriff preferred using his hands only on the former two, however. He was, despite his admirable good looks, nearing his mid-forties, a man’s man, but actually a peace-loving man who kept women at bay, but there were times…there had been a time…that rainy night in Santa Fe when he’d met Vivie Delano. He looked out the window, toward the mountain. Gray Lady was sure brewing up something. The walking rain clouds were being blown about by the wind. He felt antsy. Unsettled. Maybe he needed to let the wind blow him someplace else for a few days.

Chapter Two

Gallegos had made it a rule to stayed away from El Paso—too close to the Valley, and Juárez—too damned dangerous. But, when he needed to get away, as he had two months ago, he’d headed north. In Santa Fe, a man could be invisible. If he met someone at two in the morning, nobody except the bartender closing up would notice them leaving together, unless the bartender was a woman and…

Leaning back in the booth, the sheriff was satisfied that all was well at John and Rosalie’s, picked the big white mug between both hands, sipped the coffee and let his mind drift.

Long drive though from the Valley in this damned rain he’d thought, when he finally pulled into the parking lot of the Long Horn. But New Mexico needed rain. He’d locked his Colt .38 in the shallow lock-box beneath the glove, left his badge on the passenger seat, pulled on his leather jacket and locked his truck.

Gallegos had finally sold his1945 Willys and bought, just for the hell of it and because it reminded him of his days in the U.S. Marines, a M38-AI Willys. If he’d been going to Santa Fe strictly on business, he would have driven his official patrol car, but he had to park the Willy’s under a lean-to when it rained, so his own Ford pickup had been the better choice for a late afternoon drive through the rain.

He’d looked for the place with country music, found the one he’d stopped in before. The Long Horn looked, from the outside, as if it ought to be in El Paso instead of the outskirts of Santa Fe. Inside, sawdust on the floor, long bar, a bartender who made sure the nipples on her big, young, rouged tits showed through her thin tee-shirt because she’d rubbed lipstick on them before coming onto her shift. She seemed to enjoy feeling her tits bounce, he noticed, and probably enjoyed having men fantasize, waiting till the place closed, then opening their Levi’s while she and some of her friends lap-danced them.

He wasn’t sure why he’d come to such a conclusion. There was a lot of macho guy stuff in him that he didn’t like. Maybe his attitude toward a young, sexy bartender was one of them. After he’d looked around, a habit that belonged to his self that was a lawman, he sat at the end of the bar so he’d have a wide-lens view of the room. She’d introduced herself as Vivie Delano, and seemed to only have eyes for him.

Some women got excited just flirting with the law, and some men got their rocks off picking fights with them, but that ain’t me, babe, he thought, aware a second time of the thoughts that, when he was tired, just popped in like bad relatives, unannounced, and uninvited. The girl, no, the woman was probably working to keep her mother in a nursing home, or herself out of some abusive…hell. He shut his voices up and listened to the music.

Passing the jukebox on the way in, he’d put a couple of quarters in the slot and pushed some buttons. Gallegos was feeling sorry for himself. Pasty Cline’s I Fall to Pieces, was just the ticket to get him crying in his beer.

Band’s on break, Vivie said, more or less apologizing as she set a generous double shot of whiskey with a coke-back in front of the sheriff. He smiled, but was too into himself to flirt back. Every so often he had to get the hell out of Aragón Valley. This was one of those times. His Hopi friend, Old Woman Sara Tree-Root, out searching for her wayward goat, had found an apparent hitchhiker dead out by the river. Sara had fetched her grandson Miguel, home for the summer from his medical studies at the university in Albuquerque, to get the sheriff, then placed some sage on the girl’s chest, covered her with a blanket and sat down beside her to wait.

Bad enough to find a woman killed in Aragón Valley on his watch, but the strangled hitchhiker was a beautiful, dark-skinned woman, a woman he knew. A woman Phillipe, and possibly Tim had known. A woman the big, Jewish ex-Army Military Policeman Rusty Rosterman had known—as had the others, in the biblical sense, but with whom Rusty had fallen in love.

The tracks were that of a pickup hauling a small trailer. Gallegos had turned the case over to Santa Fe when they had ticketed two white guys in a pickup hauling an Airstream for illegal parking, and found the trailer full of drugs, and a backpack containing a woman’s tee-shirt, long denim skirt, thong panties, sandals, a money clip with a pounded silver New Mexico sun but an id that placed her in Los Angeles County. He’d come up to meet with authorities to tell them what he’d found and, dammit, what he knew.

What he probably would tell them was his suspicion that Theta had gone to Juárez and after a few days, decided the place was too dangerous, and hitched a ride with what she thought were tourists, hauling that Airstream and all. What he probably wouldn’t tell them was suspicion that she’d tried to leave her ride once they got to Aragón Valley, and they’d raped her. The bruises around her neck could have been intentional, meant to kill her, or could have happened during the brutal rape. What he also probably wouldn’t reveal was his suspicion that she’d been murdered and left by the river as a message to him, to Aragón Valley from the Juárez Aguilar-Trujillo cartel.

Dance, Robert? the bartender had asked, trying her best to flirt with the sheriff when the band kicked off with a Willie Nelson number. Why the hell had he given her his born name, he didn’t know. He was used to being referred to as Sheriff or Gallegos. But now he was on the verge of losing the advantage of being able, if a man kept his mouth shut, to remain invisible in Santa Fe.

When the band moved on to Hank Cochran’s Make the World Go Away, he nodded his head toward the dance floor. The girl—no, a woman, late twenties, maybe just thirty—pressed her braless tits against him, and when she felt his cock go hard against her, whispered, "I’m off early. Ten, maybe. Time for dinner with me? Great margaritas and chile rellenos down the road a bit."

Sounds good, he said, holding her tighter. But staying over for business and gotta get a motel before it’s too late.

Fuck, man, she laughed. Stay with me. My cabin’s out back. You smoke pot? The bar was practically empty except for the band, and Gallegos had laughed at her frank forwardness. She reached up and kissed him so long, he pulled back. Have to come up for air, hon. He smiled. But the minute he’d climbed into his truck she reached over, ran her fingers over his mouth and he’d kissed her so long she also had to come up for air or unbutton his shirt and unbuckle his belt and pants.

Silent during the short drive to the cafe, but once there, they’d drank margaritas, talked, reordered, ate chile rellenos, talked, let the waitress take their plates away, ordered coffee and caramel-topped flan, sipped brandy, talked, then watched the rain pellets pound the cafe windows.

Sorry kids, the waitress said. Last call. We’re closing in a few minutes. She brought them two more shots of brandy with the check.

Vivie grabbed Robert’s hand when the door closed behind them and the outside neons dimmed out. A hurried walk through puddles, to his truck. He opened the passenger door for her, then swatted her behind. Vivie returned the gesture and grabbed his crotch.

Back at her cabin, she told him to park in front of her place, it’d be safer there. She’d noticed his lawman’s badge when he’d opened the passenger-side door for her, then reached across her to put it in the glove. She didn’t notice a revolver though. He’s probably got a lock-box. Damn! If he’d been wearing his gun belt, she thought, she would have creamed while they were dancing.

Vivie lit incense and a candle, handed him a joint to light, turned the radio on low to some country station and their clothes fell around them in a heap. I don’t have a… he said. Supplying himself with condoms hadn’t been on his mind when he left Aragón Valley. Never mind, she teased, sticking her tongue out at him. I’m on the Pill.

She was trying too hard to please him. He didn’t want her to do that. He wanted to please her. They finally gave up playing that game. Smoking pot slowed him down too. They got up at 4 a.m. and she scrambled some eggs with green onions and he made the percolator coffee. Books on your shelf, he said. What do you read?

Look for yourself, she said, scraping the eggs and onions onto two plates.

"Well, little miss intellectual. Lady Chatterley’s Lover? Fanny Hill? Boswell’s London Journal, Henry Miller, Anais Nin’?"

Yeah, Vivie laughed, buttering the toast. Frankly, despite some of them being banned in Boston, people found their books anyway. Shocked a lot of people who were not all that open about their bodies as my generation, but they paved the way for modern erotica. Look, sheriff honey-child, she teased in a Southern accent, I love sex, but unless it’s someone special, which is hard to find a dump like this—present company excepted, she laughed. I’d rather read about sex than watch those stupid porn films.

I’m with you, Robert said. He’d already transported Vivie to his apartment. Just watching her cook, listening to her talk had made him horny again. More than that though, it made him realize how lonely he was. He walked into the bathroom to wash his face and cool off. Coming out, he reached for his shorts and shirt.

Those films are nothing more than rape-trash, she went on, when the toast was ready, then set the plates on the small, oil-cloth covered table. Never yet saw one where a man knew how to lick and finger a clit or cared enough to try; they’re obsessed with ass-fucking.

I have a friend who would rent out her pig, Gallegos laughed, pulling two cups off their hooks to pour the coffee. Vivie was, among the many things he’d discovered, such as a reader and wannabe writer, also both uninhibited and passionately enthusiastic.

He picked up The Book of the Hopi. Frank Waters? he’d asked, sipping, the hot coffee burning his tongue.

"Yes, and Willa Cather’s Death Comes for the Archbishop."

Gallegos ran his hand along the shelf on Southwestern books. "Edward Abbey, Fire on the Mountain; Oliver La Farge? The anthropologist? What’s Laughing Boy about?"

A Navajo silversmith, Vivie answered. A romance. She shook her head. With challenges.

Challenge is just another name for romance, Gallegos laughed. But La Farge won a Pulitzer Prize for the novel, didn’t he?

I think so. I can get off reading their descriptions of New Mexico the way it was. Sometimes, she laughed, buttering the toast, I think I was born too late. I just want to shove one of their damn books between my fucking legs. Keep hoping I’ll give birth to a baby book that might line some bookstore shelves next to theirs.

Gallegos laughed again. He loved Vivie’s openness, her ease with her body and his, and her dirty, sensual mouth made him smile. In Aragón Valley, she’d be one of the boys, at the Thursday night card games. Winner takes all, and she’d win, and take all of them probably. The thought made him jealous. Damn!

"The Land of Little Rain? You like Mary Austin? Didn’t know anybody read her anymore."

Hell yeah, Vivie replied. Story was set in early California but I love her ability to describe a surrounding with pure poetry. She collaborated with Ansel Adams on Taos Pueblo.

"El Pueblo de Las Uvas? he asked, picking up the Austin collection. The Little Town of Grape Vines. Story reminds me of Aragón Valley."

That’s where you’re from sheriff? she asked, spooning some jam onto her toast. By the way, how come your truck doesn’t have a Sheriff emblem?

Shit! Gallegos cursed. He’d not even been away twenty four hours and had already shot two holes in his plan to stay invisible. Drive one like that when I want to intimidate folks. But not this trip. Business yes, but partly to just get away. How’d you guess?

I saw your badge on the seat of your truck, honey, Vivie shrugged. But not your gun-belt. Too bad, I would have cum six times by now if you’d been wearing it.

We’ll take a rain-check. Next time, if you’ll wear one of those black lace corset with a push-up top, he teased, the kind with the ribbon-straps that will hold up your sheer black stockings, and… He paused, grinning.

Vivie jumped up, wiggled over to a bureau drawer. I’ve got the black stockings, she teased, pulling out a pair and dangling them at him. And what? You didn’t finish your sentence.

And you can wear my holster.

She was already smoothing the black stockings up over her legs. With the gun? she teased back, reaching into his shorts to grab his uncomfortable hard on.

Colt .38, he taunted, guessing, somehow, Vivie was no stranger to the wild New Mexican west, nor guns and cocks, he thought. With no bullets, kiddo.

Shit! You mother fucker, holding out on me like that! she laughed. Somehow, they finished their breakfast, talked, drank coffee and smoked a shared joint.

You keep a diary? he asked.

They’re called journals these days, sheriff baby.

Gallegos winced, but knew she was just teasing him. I’ll immortalize you with my pen.

You’re one lovable, dangerous bitch, he teased back. In fact, he was in danger—of falling head over cock in love with this girl-woman. He’d never experienced such a tease, much less one whose black stockinged legs were so accommodatingly open so he could watch.

There had been that one trip to Juárez when he was seventeen. He’d wanted a real woman not just one of the girls who worked in the Montez vineyard. But Juárez proved to be beyond real. The whorehouse in Mexico and the plentiful supply of drugs had terrified him. Finally, when his time for watching was up, and he had to stick it in or zip up and get out, fearful of catching something evil, he’d zipped up and hiked back across the border, catching a trucker’s ride into Aragón Valley. That’s when Linda had found him. Bad timing, he grimaced.

I’m glad you’re watching me, Vivie whispered, It makes me happy to please you. But Robert Gallegos wanted to do more than watch.

They laid back exhausted. Every woman Rob Gallegos might fuck in the future could thank Vivie for their pleasure; he was the one man in the universe who’d learned how. They’d laughed when he told her that, then they’d slept until dawn. It was still damned raining. Maybe the Santa Fe sky was cumming.

Gallegos had showered, dressed, made coffee, but Vivie Delano didn’t wake. He wondered if she would fulfill her dream of writing erotic, …not porn, she said, sensual novels, centered in New Mexico. He wondered too, if anyone he knew who might guide her in the right direction, give her a break. Maybe Darren Green the new publisher of their Aragón Valley News? Hell no, Green was so uptight his ass squeaked when he walked. But New Mexico would change him. The sheriff laughed. Vivie Delano could change him. But Vivie Delano must not change.

Before he left her, the sheriff wrote a note. Don’t let New Mexico change you, beautiful woman. May our paths cross again, and may we love and linger. He stared at those words and started to crumple the paper. No, love was exactly what he was now feeling for Vivie Delano.

Sheriff Gallegos pulled on his boots, slipped on his leather jacket and walked out. The rain had stopped and the sun had managed, his Hopi friend would tell him, to turn the rainy, Grey Lady Between the Mountain clouds the colors of ripe peaches and wild poppies. He shoved his key in the passenger side door of his pickup and looked back. She was there, standing in her open door, naked, waving a kiss. Then she laughed, giving him the finger.

He opened the car door, tossed his jacket on the seat and reached beneath the passenger seat, to the shallow lock-box. Then he slammed the door, standing there so Vivie could watch, buckled his holster, checked his Colt .38, sauntered around to the driver’s side, threw Vivie a kiss and his own middle finger, mouthing up yours, babe. She threw him a kiss. They laughed and he climbed in, slammed his door, backed out carefully, then floor-boarded and spun out. Damned girl-woman, he thought. Don’t change.

He needed to spend one more night away from Aragón Valley, in town. The ripe peaches, wild poppies sunrise had already been chased by Gray-Lady, her veil trailing the sky raining to the north. He reached into his jacket pocket for the business card of his lawman friend, Jake Jaramillo, a Deputy Chief of the Santa Fe State Police. The officers who’d stopped the pickup truck towing the trailer with belongings that apparently identified Theta as the strangled hitchhiker, reported to him.

But Gallegos had also intended to find out whether Jake figured the two whities were connected to the Juárez based Trujillo drug cartel, or whether they were living in neighboring El Paso Texas, southeast of his New Mexico Aragón Valley. The card Gallegos pulled from his pocket was not Jaramillo’s, however. It was a note from Vivie Delano. Her phone number. Call me, hon. I could join you tonight in Santa Fe.

He might call her, he shouldn’t, he wanted to, he wouldn’t…hell! What was the name of that motel where he’d stayed last time he’d been in Santa Fe? The one with the kiva fireplace in the corner, the big bed with the fake-fur quilt and that mirror with the pounded silver frame placed just so? Damned woman, he grinned. Pulling at his belt to relieve the tightness of his pants against his swollen cock, he noticed he was no longer calling Vivie a girl.

The sky opened. Sleet, not rain, drummed the sheriff’s windshield like a volley of buckshot. He turned on the radio, dialing through the three stations—balladas and rancheros out of Albuquerque, L.A. and Mexico, rock and roll from all over, and country from Texas and Nashville. He stopped dialing.

Hell! The Phil Spector hit, ‘Be My Baby’ had hit the charts in 1963, but The Ronetts’ hit was still around.

Gallegos pictured Vivie—sitting cross-legged on the Navajo rug in front of the kiva fireplace, naked, her guitar covering her tits, but from where he was sitting, the view between her legs was just fine. Why hadn’t he asked her to play her guitar for him? Damned woman.

You drink her tea? Old Woman Sara Tree-Root Tampoya would be sure to ask him, and did, when he visited her the Friday after his Santa Fe trip at her nearly off-the-grid few acres, before driving her to Mass. "Gal done poured some of Gray-Lady’s powerful penis-puta-pokin’ potion on your cock, hijo!" She’d chortled, spitting out her teasing accusation in back-country Indian, Mexican and English while sending up a prayer to Gray Lady Between the Mountains that maybe this was one who could take her boy’s ache away.

Gallegos had braked just in time to avoid hitting the 1963 Ashton-Martin that shot around him, then slowed down too fast. His pickup skidded on the wet pavement, but he’d recovered, turned on his flashers and pulled the driver over. The twenty-something wasn’t drunk, wasn’t stoned apparently, had a New Mexico license, and was, he said, in a hurry to get to Taos to his sister’s quinceañera. He had a big donkey piñata in the back seat.

OK, Gallegos said. "I’d slow your Ashton-Martin down a bit if you expect to get to the fiesta in one piece." He wasn’t in the mood for making an arrest in a county he was only just visiting. Climbing back in his jeep, he wrote the name from the guy’s id, and the car’s license plate number on the back of Jake Jaramillo’s card. Something about the kid made his skin crawl and he’d ask Jake to check out the car.

The sheriff had also made another decision. If the rain-sleet kept up or turned to snow, he’d call Vivie, but he was damned sure he wasn’t gonna let her drive