Lena Jones 02 - Desert Wives

again when I cut north on 389 into Utah and headed up toward Zion National Park and West Wind Guest Ranch. As the Jeep bumped along the long dirt road leading to the ranch, I remembered what I’d read about the area.
    Rivaling the nearby Grand Canyon in beauty, Zion National Park had originally been home to the Anasazi Indians. When the Anasazi disappeared, the Paiute moved in, and many remained. Anglo settlement began in the 1850s, when the Mormon pioneer Isaac Behunin saw the area and named it “Zion,” which meant “beautiful resting place.” Old Isaac hadn’t been given to hyperbole, either.
    Sheer cliffs towered more than three thousand feet above the forested plateau below, where the Virgin River wound its way through red and white sandstone. Lush Ponderosa pine, sycamore, piñon and cottonwood covered the valley, complemented by scarlet plumes of Indian paintbrush and blue columbine.
    Although the tourists who flocked to Zion kept West Wind Ranch in business, Jimmy had told me that the ranch, owned by Leo and Virginia Lawler, acquaintances of his adoptive mother, also served as a safe house for polygamists’ runaway wives. The women would arrive exhausted from their escape, rest up for a few days, then Virginia would drive them to Zion City, where groups such as Tapestry Against Polygamy helped ease them into mainstream society by finding them apartments and jobs.
    After the road took a final dogleg around a massive column of red sandstone, West Wind Guest Ranch came into view. Built entirely of logs, the multi-building complex appeared to have been part of the canyon for more than a hundred years. Jimmy’s mother had told me, though, that only the ranch house was an original structure, and even it had undergone extensive renovation. The outbuildings, all new, had been designed to look as old as the house. In the manner of all dude ranches, a few well-fed horses milled around a split-rail corral, their grumpy expressions hinting they didn’t much like their prospective riders.
    Tourists limped across the grounds, looking spiffy in their new, pressed jeans and expensive cowboy boots. Driving into the yard, I heard a smattering of German, some Japanese. Just like Scottsdale.
    I eased the Jeep into the gravel parking lot, weaving through a plethora of BMWs, Mercedes and Lexuses. It takes real money to vacation rough.
    A woman dressed in Levis and plaid Western shirt waited for me on the ranch house porch. About forty-five years old, she was a big-boned, comfortable brunette, but as I grew closer I saw that her green eyes belied her sturdy physique. They were shadowed with sorrow.
    She glanced at the scar on my face, then said, “Howdy, Lena. I’m Virginia, and I don’t let guests tote their own luggage.” Before I could protest, she grabbed my suitcase, but when she reached for the carry-all which secreted my Arizona-only licensed .38, I stepped quickly out of her reach.
    “Pleased to meet you,” I said, smiling.
    She grinned back, dimming the pain in her eyes. “An independent woman. Good. You’re gonna need to be.”
    The ranch house’s interior lived up to the exterior’s rustic promise. The walls on either side of the ancient stone fireplace were tapestried with knotty pine and antlers. Bright Navajo rugs lay scattered across the oak plank floor, softening the distance between a series of low, leather couches. Overhead, black beams girded a whitewashed ceiling. The room was empty of tourists.
    “A gaggle of guests are out trail riding with Leo,” Virginia explained, leading me up the stairs and down a softly lit corridor. “They’ll start drifting in soon with sore butts, whining for martinis.”
    She gestured toward the wet bar, her sour expression reminding me that Mormons were non-drinkers. But as many Mormon hoteliers had done during the Salt Lake Olympics, the Lawlers apparently indulged their gin-guzzling guests.
    “You want something?” she asked. “Beer? Whiskey? Any other kinda strange brew?”
    When I told her I didn’t drink, I earned a smile of approval. I didn’t tell her, though, that my teetotaling ways had nothing to do with religion or dietary philosophy. Not knowing what kind of genetic load I carried, I never drank anything stronger than Diet Coke. For all I knew, both my vanished parents had been druggies or alcoholics, and I didn’t want to risk traveling the Addict Highway. I’d already lived through Hell and didn’t feel the need for a return