and it’s being tended.”
“Oh, that? Yes, you’re probably right.” She had a deep, contralto voice, a smoker’s voice, but age had given it a tremor more characteristic of a tightly wound tenor. She extended her hand. She must have been nearly six feet tall. Even though she was standing below me on the slope, our eyes were at the same level. “I’m Regan Daniels. I guess I’m sort of territorial about this place. I’ve never seen you here before—are you new with the BLM?”
I shook her hand, noting her pleasantly firm grip. “No, ma’am, I’m not. But this is my first time in this section. My name is Jamaica Wild.”
“Jamaica Wild. My, that’s a pretty name. Unusual, isn’t it?” She turned her head to one side and peered intently at me out of one eye, like a crow. She had strong features—high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, a long, elegant nose, and a full mouth—the kind of face a model could take to the bank while young. I could still see that youthful beauty behind all the decorations that maturity had bestowed. “Will you be assigned here permanently?”
“I don’t believe so, Ms. Daniels. I usually work the high country, mostly range-riding the fence lines in remote areas. But when the weather starts to get cold, I do other assignments. I’m just familiarizing myself with the BLM land in this area right now.”
“Oh, I see.” Her questions answered, she looked now as if she were in a hurry to end the conversation. She made as if to leave, then stopped and looked back at me. “Would you like to come down to the house? I was just about to make some tea.”
• • •
In Regan’s cocina, she brewed some poleo, a native wild mint that grows near water. I wandered through the large, open rooms of her beautiful house, through the dining room and the enormous living room, looking at all the pictures on the walls—many of them featuring a young Regan with well-known television stars and even a former president, once a movie star himself. Others were of Regan in front of the world’s landmarks. The glazed tile floor in the living room was a deep, lustrous blue. Three modern, oversized, white leather sofas seemed to float like barges on this vast expanse of glistening ultramarine, with artfully tossed fur throws and big woven pillows riding on them like passengers. The coffee table in the middle was a horizontal slice through the trunk of a giant cedar—pink, white, and deep red—that had been glazed with a heavy coat of polyurethane. On this table rested a stack of large art books. The sun streamed in the windows, and the exquisite antique porcelain and cast-iron woodstove threw off a pleasant warmth. I tried one of the plush barges and sank deeply into the cushions. I felt like I was being cradled in a soft deerskin glove.
“How did you know that was a shrine?” Regan asked, that fast, uncontrolled vibrato causing her voice to oscillate. She handed me a cup of the fragrant tea.
“I’ve started a sketchbook about the brotherhood.” I took a sip. The sharp, intense mint flavor of the poleo cleared my head. “I’ve been mapping and sketching shrines all around this area, trying to find out more about them, and about the Penitentes, but the locals don’t much want to talk to a white girl like me.”
Regan perched on the edge of one of the sofas, but she didn’t allow herself to sink in—or to sit still. She fidgeted nervously with the arrangement of the art books. “You’re doing a book about the brotherhood? I’m sure that must be very difficult. They’re very enigmatic, those Penitentes. They don’t want anyone knowing what they’re up to, although there aren’t many of the crazy old fools left anymore to keep their secrets.” She twisted her tea mug around and around in her hands.
“I don’t need to know their secrets. I’d just like to know more general stuff, really. I think it’s okay for them to have some mystery and intrigue. That’s what makes them
“Oh, that? Yes, you’re probably right.” She had a deep, contralto voice, a smoker’s voice, but age had given it a tremor more characteristic of a tightly wound tenor. She extended her hand. She must have been nearly six feet tall. Even though she was standing below me on the slope, our eyes were at the same level. “I’m Regan Daniels. I guess I’m sort of territorial about this place. I’ve never seen you here before—are you new with the BLM?”
I shook her hand, noting her pleasantly firm grip. “No, ma’am, I’m not. But this is my first time in this section. My name is Jamaica Wild.”
“Jamaica Wild. My, that’s a pretty name. Unusual, isn’t it?” She turned her head to one side and peered intently at me out of one eye, like a crow. She had strong features—high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, a long, elegant nose, and a full mouth—the kind of face a model could take to the bank while young. I could still see that youthful beauty behind all the decorations that maturity had bestowed. “Will you be assigned here permanently?”
“I don’t believe so, Ms. Daniels. I usually work the high country, mostly range-riding the fence lines in remote areas. But when the weather starts to get cold, I do other assignments. I’m just familiarizing myself with the BLM land in this area right now.”
“Oh, I see.” Her questions answered, she looked now as if she were in a hurry to end the conversation. She made as if to leave, then stopped and looked back at me. “Would you like to come down to the house? I was just about to make some tea.”
• • •
In Regan’s cocina, she brewed some poleo, a native wild mint that grows near water. I wandered through the large, open rooms of her beautiful house, through the dining room and the enormous living room, looking at all the pictures on the walls—many of them featuring a young Regan with well-known television stars and even a former president, once a movie star himself. Others were of Regan in front of the world’s landmarks. The glazed tile floor in the living room was a deep, lustrous blue. Three modern, oversized, white leather sofas seemed to float like barges on this vast expanse of glistening ultramarine, with artfully tossed fur throws and big woven pillows riding on them like passengers. The coffee table in the middle was a horizontal slice through the trunk of a giant cedar—pink, white, and deep red—that had been glazed with a heavy coat of polyurethane. On this table rested a stack of large art books. The sun streamed in the windows, and the exquisite antique porcelain and cast-iron woodstove threw off a pleasant warmth. I tried one of the plush barges and sank deeply into the cushions. I felt like I was being cradled in a soft deerskin glove.
“How did you know that was a shrine?” Regan asked, that fast, uncontrolled vibrato causing her voice to oscillate. She handed me a cup of the fragrant tea.
“I’ve started a sketchbook about the brotherhood.” I took a sip. The sharp, intense mint flavor of the poleo cleared my head. “I’ve been mapping and sketching shrines all around this area, trying to find out more about them, and about the Penitentes, but the locals don’t much want to talk to a white girl like me.”
Regan perched on the edge of one of the sofas, but she didn’t allow herself to sink in—or to sit still. She fidgeted nervously with the arrangement of the art books. “You’re doing a book about the brotherhood? I’m sure that must be very difficult. They’re very enigmatic, those Penitentes. They don’t want anyone knowing what they’re up to, although there aren’t many of the crazy old fools left anymore to keep their secrets.” She twisted her tea mug around and around in her hands.
“I don’t need to know their secrets. I’d just like to know more general stuff, really. I think it’s okay for them to have some mystery and intrigue. That’s what makes them
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