"Then will the Church accept us?"
"Accept me?" she said, making it a pointed question. "I won't accept the Church. Hush, hush, Raul, it's time to sleep. Think where we are, up here, at the top of things...."
"Are you warm?" he asked.
"Very warm. Let me sleep on your arm."
"Tomorrow we have a long ride," he said.
In a matter of seconds, she fell asleep, breathing gently, her arms around him. He turned thoughts over in his head while listening to a wolf howl, high on the cliff above. How ridiculous to ask: Will the Church accept us? As if Angelina no longer had anything to do with my life. Yet, as he lay there, staring at the gathering clouds, he felt she had less and less to do with his life. Guadalajara would claim her, the parties, friends, theater—Estelle Milan.
It was drizzling when they awoke. They had breakfast around the campfire, the horses tethered nearby, ready for departure. As they began the slow descent, the drizzle changed to rain, chilly, at times falling fast. To reach the regular trail, they filed through a forest of scrub oak. Shale made the going tricky, but the rocky area did not last long. Once on the main trail, they quickened their pace and then—like a great swab—mist puffed over them and swallowed trees and boulders. Because of the mist, Raul had trouble with Chico. Somewhere below nine thousand feet they crossed a number of small cornfields, mist along their edges.
"I wouldn't want to live up this high," said Raul.
Dressed in white tropicals, Raul's men shivered. Raul felt cold and a little shabby in old blue denim. Lucienne was comfortable in corduroy: tan jacket, dark green riding skirt, darker beret, raincoat. Italian boots, laced with yellow laces, reached almost to her knees. She loved the mist, and sang as they plugged along, corkscrewing through pine. Unpacking her plant press, she stopped for a rare fern.
In a flash of sun, the mist broke and below them lay a rancho, a ragged L-shaped patch of lava rock huts with yellow straw wigs, a chapel and municipal building.