Chapter 12

By October of our first year, I seemed to be driving to town more than working at the ranch. The bunkhouse had been refurbished and modernized. We had two permanent hired hands and four temporary workers installed along with a cook. Neighbours cut and baled hay. My time was mostly taken up with driving to town or amateur mining. Day after day, we were swamped with orders for one to ten-ounce specimens of the rose quartz. Ribbons of wire gold and tiny beads were obvious in every one of the pieces. Small, beautiful nuggets auctioned off on-line for astronomical prices. Our spare room was soon piled with boxes full of bubble mailers. There was a new work station and computer in the living room. Instead of a sofa, there was a large work bench with stereo digital microscope, precision electronic scales and a stamp machine. Fractured chunks of rose quartz usually filled large plastic bins. Donna took over most of our internet operation. She selected larger pieces, carefully breaking them down to smaller display specimens. Less expensive ones always sold faster, producing a substantial cash flow and swollen bank accounts. She would place a chunk under the stereo microscope, make a quick examination, then cleave the rock down to manageable pieces. Each was weighed and photographed, then given a provenance card, bubble packaged and stamped before going into the shipping bin. My contribution to the effort made use of military demo experience. I blasted out quartz, packing loads down to the ranch house, along with transporting a heap of mailers to the post office once or twice each week.

Within a month, I was a local celebrity. After filing the claim, along with paying for an assay, I had to fight off mining conglomerates and venture capital moguls who wanted to turn our ranch into an environmental disaster. Yes, ‘our’ ranch. It wasn’t mine alone. Though she was a ghost, a trans-substantial being, and the light of my life, by rights, the heritage belonged to Donna Angelique Wainwright as much as I belonged to her.

Twice each week, we would ride horseback up to the Angelique Mine, a modest hole in the side of our foothill. Extensive military training had taught me the use of explosives, so at least something of that paid off. At first, I’d used the good old-fashioned double Jack and hand drilled. Later, we could afford a diamond drill and compressor. Small charges were all that I required to fracture the vein of rose quartz. Even after several months, the mine was only six or seven yards into the hillside, dipping down and sometimes producing large, precious nuggets. Two ornery but resigned pack mules with paniers would carry ore back down to the house. The ranch was becoming unbelievably homey. We had free range chickens, wild turkeys and pet ducks. A goofy, friendly golden retriever watched over the birds and, when his human or ghostly mistress had the time, chased squeaky toys and tennis balls. There were at least two barn cats. One adorable, grey kitten named, of course, ‘Ghost’, slept with us. For her part, Donna didn’t sleep. She just stroked the kitten and massaged my dreams, chasing away nightmares.

Abundant snowfall finally melted and we entered our second spring together. Along with forested slopes, everything in the yard turned a vibrant green. Bulbs were shooting up new stalks. Iris, hyacinth and crocuses were blooming. Pollen started sifting down from evergreens and sunlight looked magical as golden rays streamed through swaying boughs. Chickens were producing more eggs than I could eat, the excess getting donated to the county food bank. One mother cat produced more kittens than seemed reasonable. Amber, the tall blood bay had foaled again, giving us another cinnamon colt, this one with emerald green eyes. Naturally, I accused Donna of messing with their equine genetics. Instead of arguing with me, she got one of those far-away looks that boded trouble. Not bad trouble, just the possibility of her meddling in ways that might interest genetic scientists.

A morose, oft repeated proverb says ‘all good things must come to an end’. Well, I feared that end; and, whenever Donna considered the possibility that events could take her from me, she sank into a period of melancholy.

With the approach of summer, turf on the bench dried and roads became dusty. Soon, irrigation became necessary. We celebrated the first anniversary of my giving Donna the gold wedding band. It was our special time, but we included Charlie Wind eagle in a quiet celebration. Despite smoking and suffering spells of emphysema, the old Crow had past the century mark. Surprisingly, he was the only other person who could see Donna. Our hired hands, their housekeeper and visitors never seemed to notice her presence, though my ghost girl often casually strolled among them. If Donna and I left the ranch on horseback, nobody seemed to realize that Judy was saddled and leading Dusty into the mountains.

However dreaded, the decision was made. One fine morning, Donna announced that she was ready and determined to confront her destiny. She wanted me to uncover the truth about her death. If necessary, she would pass on into light. I couldn’t hide from her the absolute certainty that I’d very soon follow-by any means expedient. Early one morning, I felt a sinking dread. The day had come. It was late spring, the country already parched after days without rain. Donna packed lunches. we saddled Dusty and Judy, tying on saddlebags and large canteens. We didn’t talk much. Donna rode in front, leading me northeast, around the flank of one foothill, across flats, through dry creek beds. Dozens of miles from the ranch, we turned up a narrow dirt track that likely hadn’t been used since hunting season the previous autumn. We crossed through a ravine, finally climbing out on another disused road. Near a dense clump of fir saplings, Donna finally dismounted, lightly dropping onto a flat rock. She dropped reins, leaving Judy ground hitched. I looped Dusty’s reins around a fir sapling. Without saying anything, Donna took my hand, leading me into the trees, back through a hundred feet of scattered rock and tangled brush. There, a bald limestone cliff had been split ages past, we entered a narrow ravine. There, Donna stopped and pointed at a tall, triangular boulder. It had broken off the cliff, sliding down to wedge in a cleft, more than filling a gap in the chalky limestone.