New Mexico Enchantment (Rocky Mountain Romances Book 6) Read online

  The Rocky Mountain Romances Series

  Welcome to Rocky Mountain Romances, seven sweet historical romances brought together by the majestic and beautiful Rocky Mountains. Be sure not to miss any of the installments.

  Utah Sunrise by Amelia C. Adams

  Idaho Fairytale Bride by Jacquie Rogers

  Montana Gold by Diane Darcy

  Ride for a Bride in Wyoming by Charlene Raddon

  Hazel of Heber Valley by Annette Lyon

  New Mexico Enchantment by Savanna Sage

  Colorado Dreams by Heather Horrocks

  New Mexico Enchantment

  by Savanna Sage

  Chapter 1

  1895, Hugoton, Kansas

  Dusk was late to hang out the wash, too late, really, but nineteen-year-old Stella Brasher had more important things on her mind. Drying laundry overnight seemed a small breach of etiquette compared with trying to keep her father from dying. On top of that, if she’d known about the ogre, she would have arranged her evening differently.

  The strange event began when she jammed a wooden clothespin over the last wet sock on the washline. That’s when Prince’s brown ears suddenly perked up. Hoisting the laundry basket on her hip at the same time her dog let out a deep-throated growl, Stella asked, “What is it, boy?”

  With a sharp bark, the lap-sized Prince bounded away toward the spring. The long nosed mongrel’s whiskered face, looking as if it needed a shave, didn’t resemble any prince in Stella’s childhood fairy tale book. He was so ugly that he was oddly appealing. His main fault was that he didn’t always come when called. In spite of his imperfections, Papa said his princess needed a prince, and the dog was the only current prospect, so “Prince” he became.

  Stella’s green eyes squinted into the darkening forest. “Prince!” she called, hoping her father couldn’t hear her from the house. She wouldn’t mind going inside and leaving Prince to find his own way home when he was through with his adventure, but Papa would worry about the small dog fending for himself in the woods. Her father needed rest, not worry, to get well.

  When the dog didn’t appear, Stella dropped her basket, grabbed the front of her skirt to lift it several inches off the ground, and started after him. She called his name a few more times as she trudged along a faint game trail leading to the spring.

  Before long, it grew so dark that she was about to turn back, and trust Prince to return on his own, when the acrid odor of something burning drifted past her. Alarmed, she looked in all directions, testing the air, searching for the source, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Stomach twisting beneath her racing heart, Stella called in a softer voice, “Prince?” as if afraid she might waken sleeping giants. More than ever, she had to find the dog and get back to the safety of home.

  Feeling her way more slowly along the narrow path through the darkness, the scent of smoke teased her, sometimes faint, sometimes strong. When the sound of rippling water just beyond the tree line let her know she’d finally reached the spring’s runoff, she stopped. There was still no flicker of firelight through the trees, nothing to indicate the source of the smoke. Odd. Where was the scorched smell coming from? Was someone camped there, with their fire already put out? Who could it be? Whoever it was, perhaps they’d seen her dog.

  “Prince?” she called again, willing him to respond to the urgent pleading in her voice. Then her breath hitched with a sudden wish that she’d remained silent. What if a robber lay in wait? Or a murderer?

  A single bark overrode her worry. Prince was alive, and quite near. Stella pulled her skirts in close and swept past the trees into the clearing. Then she stopped as stone cold as if she’d bumped into Medusa. Beneath the glow of stars lighting themselves in the sky, the broad shoulders of a man hunched over the stream bank, feet in the water, back bent over a dog she couldn’t see, but she recognized the tail wagging from beneath the stranger’s arm.

  “Prince!” Stella called before she thought about whether or not it was a good idea to draw attention to herself.

  When a mottled face turned toward her, she sucked in a shocked breath. Half of the ogre’s mouth was swollen below an obscenely bulging eye that refused to open. Worse yet, the ogre’s one good eye was locked on her.

  Prince popped his head out from beneath the ogre’s arm, his tongue out, body waving wildly as he wagged his tail. Could the smoke she smelled be from fires the ogre kindled to roast dogs for his supper? At least he hadn’t eaten her dog yet. Stella bent and put her hands out. “Prince,” she begged.

  The ogre opened his misshapen mouth as if to speak, but before he made a sound, a distant voice called from the trees beyond him, “Smash!”

  As soon as the ogre turned toward the voice, Prince gathered his courage, squirmed out of the ogre’s grasp, and scampered toward Stella. She scooped him up in her arms and stumbled as fast as she could on trembling limbs along the familiar path toward the safety of home.

  ~~~

  “What are you doin’ clear over here?” Carrying a torch in one hand, Spud Raney tossed a bag of money on the stream bank with the other. Instead of looking at it, the Salt Lake Smasher turned his bruised face back toward the trees. “Hey,” Spud said, tapping the Smasher on the shoulder, not bothering to avoid any sore spots. “It seems that startin’ the fight before full dark was good strategy. We won.”

  The Smasher’s parents named him Adam Quinn, but Spud changed the name of the fatherless young man he found defending a stray cat from bullies in a Salt Lake City alley. Spud sat beside Adam and jammed his torch handle into the dirt. Then he bent, scooped some water from the stream, and tossed it into the Smasher’s face.

  “Hey!” Adam shook his head, then moaned.

  “What’s wrong?” Spud asked.

  “Head hurts.” Adam held his head in both hands.

  “You ain’t able to count on shoulders broad as a spud cellar or being tall as a tree to keep you in the game,” Spud said. “You gotta stop those other guys from gettin’ in all them head jabs, or they might knock some sense into you.”

  “How much longer are we gonna do this?”

  “Hear what you’re askin’?” Spud said, looking over at his young friend with a grin on his broad, freckled face. “Long as you’re makin’ us money, ya fight, ya eat, you dumb potato head.”

  “There are other ways to make a living.”

  “But this is the only thing you’re good at, Smasher. You know them other ways don’t pay nearly as good.”

  Adam’s gaze drifted to the woods.

  “Why you askin’, anyway? ‘Fraid of the law?”

  Adam shrugged.

  “Didn’t ya hear? Boxing’s legal in England now, complete with namby pamby rules. Shouldn’t be long afore we fall in with them sissy Brits and their three minute rounds. Some towns in the US don’t even bother arrestin’ fighters no more. They see the change coming, and you’re right on top, front and center of the public eye, the Salt Lake Smasher, punchin’ his way to fame and fortune. You’re good, Adam, really good.”

  When there was still no reply, Spud tipped his head, his eyelashes and eyebrows so pale they were barely visible. “That was one of my best speeches. I better write it down.”

  In contrast to his middle aged trainer, Adam had thick eyelashes and strong brows. A woman once flirted by saying his wavy brown hair streaked with honey colored strands looked good enough to eat. It was easy to imagine his tawny eyes as those of a lion enchanted into a man’s form. He began his boxing bouts with an angular jaw and straight nose set above full lips, often quirked up in a smile. But after a fight like tonight, he more closely resembled a beef r
oast that the dogs had gotten to.

  “You’re too purty to quit,” Spud said. “You ain’t got the broken nose or lumpy ears of a true fighter.”

  “I just saw the most beautiful woman in the world,” the Smasher said, his gaze fixed on the woods. “She didn’t look the sort who’d like lumpy ears.”

  Spud laughed. “Ya got hit too hard in the noggin.”

  “No. There was this dog, and then she came for him. Long hair dark as night, skin like starlight, and a voice that could introduce you to heaven.”

  “My, ain’t we the poet,” Spud said. “Seems mighty late for a decent sort of woman to be about.”

  Smasher was quick to her defense. “She was after her dog.” He moved his feet in the water. “I could see she was scared, but she wasn’t leaving her dog.”

  “So, she’s brave and beautiful. She’d have to be brave to look at you.”

  The Smasher raised his hand to his cheek. “Am I that bad?”

  Spud shrugged. “The usual. But you’ll be ready for next week’s big match in Colorado with a Chinaman.”

  The Smasher fixed his startled eye on Spud. “Chinaman? That doesn’t seem like an even match.”

  “He’s supposed to be tall as you. Calls hisself the Emperor.”

  The Smasher turned to stare at the trees again. “I wish I knew her name. She called her dog ‘Prince.’”

  “Well, just call her Cinderella, then. Come on, let’s go.”

  Chapter 2

  The warm, yellow lights of home glowed through the trees. Stella sobbed with relief as Prince wiggled in her arms, eager to get down. She tightened her grip. Even though there were no sounds of pursuit, she wouldn’t risk having him run off again.

  Limbs wobbling as she climbed the porch steps, her knees nearly gave way. In spite of his small size, each step homeward made Prince heavier. Fortunately, the door opened before she put her hand on the latch.

  “Papa, I saw an ogre by the stream.” Stella shut the door with her foot and set Prince down on the floor. Too late, she saw that it wasn’t Papa looking at her.

  “What are you babbling about?” Uncle Owen demanded, his chin held uncomfortably high as he gazed from Stella’s tangled dark hair to the pointy toes of her muddy shoes beneath her dress hem.

  “I… I was hanging laundry.” The less she said to Uncle Owen, the better, but she’d already said too much.

  “Where’s Papa?”

  “He’s resting, in no state to deal with your wilfulness. Since when does your laundry line stretch clear to the stream?” It was a ridiculous question, but Uncle Owen wasn’t smiling. “An ogre, indeed. You have far too much freedom, young lady. You either imagined the beast, or, more likely, you saw a tramp, and are fortunate you escaped with your life.”

  “He was all misshapen,” Stella said, touching her eye and her lip. “Only one eye, half his lips huge, his face looking strange… sort of lumpy.”

  “Some are born that way.” Uncle Owen lowered his eyebrows. “Or he may have been in a fight. But that’s not the point. You aren’t listening, as usual. You do what you want even when you are warned against it. Do you even realize how spoiled you are?”

  Stella shouldn’t try explaining anything to Uncle Owen. He never made an effort to understand her, so why should she be agreeable? “I don’t see how being called ‘Cabbage Head’ can possibly spoil me.”

  “You know your misguided father uses it as an endearment, most likely because all he could afford to eat when he first married was cabbages.”

  Ignoring his biting tone, Stella gave her uncle the sweetest smile she could manage. “As it turns out, I don’t particularly care for cabbage. However, they are one of the king’s (what king?) favorite foods.”

  “I don’t care about cabbages!” Uncle Owen shouted. “I care about you behaving appropriately.”

  Stella managed to hold her tongue. Although accustomed to her uncle’s shouting, it made her shrink inside, as if he were a jinn shrinking her down shorter, instead of standing the couple of extra inches she had over most girls of nineteen. She did her best not to show it. When facing wild animals, ogres, or angry uncles, it was best not to display fear.

  If the ogre actually was a man who’d been in a fight, what was he fighting about? Prince hadn’t been afraid of him. Could he really be a kind-hearted Beast? If Stella had her own Beast, she would have him make Uncle Owen stop bullying her. Imagining the ogre trading blows with Uncle Owen by the spring was almost laughable. Had her father ever fought with his older brother when they were boys? No. She couldn’t imagine her papa punching another person to save his life.

  Prince lifted his face toward the door, his tail wagging wildly enough to stir up a breeze. Taking off on a trot, he met Alton Brasher in the doorway, and turned little circles of excitement until Papa bent to give Prince a thorough petting with his skeletal hands. “Did someone say cabbages?” Papa’s pale face turned from his brother to his daughter.

  Uncle Owen threw his hands up in surrender. “She’s spoiled. Going on reckless jaunts, making up stories of ogres, then treating lightly every suggestion made for her own good.”

  “Ogres?” Alton asked. After straightening and bracing his hands against the doorjamb, he shuffled from the kitchen doorway into the parlor with Owen and Stella right behind. (I had the feeling he was sort of housebound, why was he out so late in the dark?) Lowering himself onto the horsehair sofa, he grunted as though he were several years older than his brother rather than five years younger. “I’d like to hear the ogre story.”

  “Of course there was no ogre!” Uncle Owen said. “She made it up! Can’t you see that she’s as wild as an unbroken colt?”

  “It’s temporary,” Alton said, glancing up at Owen.

  Tempting her uncle’s wrath, Stella slid in to sit beside her father, enjoying his protective warmth.

  “You oughtn't let her out alone, especially in those… trousers you let her wear to go riding.” Uncle Owen actually shivered. It was most entertaining.

  “She sits a horse well.”

  “Don’t change the subject. They’re indecent on a young woman.” Uncle Owen made a face as if he’d just stepped on fresh, steaming horse manure.

  “It’s more decent than having a skirt fly up in the wind, and it’s safer than yards of fabric to trip over while mounting and dismounting.”

  “It just isn’t done. She needs a heavier hand, Alton. I realize it was your misfortune to be born the youngest son to elderly parents with no stamina to enforce proper discipline, but you can learn from me.”

  If Papa was bothered by Owen’s criticism, he didn’t show it. He’d remain calm if lightning struck the ground between his feet. The harsher people grew, the more agreeable Papa became, although he never gave in on his principles. As much as she admired his diplomacy, his way of dealing with troublesome people just didn’t seem as satisfying to Stella as throwing a solid punch at a vexing person, like Brer Rabbit hitting the tar baby with both fists and feet.

  Papa reached over and picked a twig out of his daughter’s long black hair with gentle fingers. Princess hair, he called it, as dark as Snow White’s.

  “You can be sure her mother wouldn’t approve,” Uncle Owen continued.

  Alton Brasher sighed. “Willa was a practical woman, an admirer of Elizabeth Stanton, in fact.”

  “Not the suffragist!”

  “Perhaps you didn’t know Willa as well as you thought. Even as though she was just a child, she admired women who fought in the Civil War.”

  Stella sat up at this new revelation about her mother. She pictured Mama in uniform, then wondered what it would feel like to wear one. What would it be like to go into battle?

  Uncle Owen sniffed. “How could they even call themselves women? I can’t imagine the Willa I knew ever shouldering a gun.”

  Stella didn’t like Uncle Owen’s tone of ownership whenever he spoke of her mother, who he’d courted for a time. Being three years older than Alton didn’t bother Will
a one bit when she chose her father over the wealthier, more established Owen.

  “You’re right,” Alton agreed. “She simply thought women should decide for themselves.”

  “Preposterous,” Uncle Owen thundered. “Women don’t have strong enough minds to know what’s best for them. Men must guide them toward correct pursuits.”

  “And if they won’t be guided?” Alton asked, his face twisted up in a parody of a smile.

  “Then we take corrective measures for their own good.”

  “I’ve found that gentle persuasion carries the day.” Alton reached out and lightly brushed Stella’s cheek with his knuckles. She relaxed against his side, content in the knowledge that she would do anything for him. How could these two men possibly be brothers? It had to be one of Papa’s fairy tales come to life, where the older brother bullied people about and failed his quest, while the younger brother came away as the good-natured hero.

  “You’ll not find me pandering to a woman.” Uncle Owen declared.

  “I’d rather indulge a wife’s whims if it means the companionship of a loving wife over a fearful one,” Alton replied.

  “You no longer speak from experience.” Uncle Owen said. “I’ve no doubt your relationship would have declined over the years as a result of your permissive ways.”

  “There will be no telling now, Owen, so let’s drop the matter, shall we?” Alton struggled to his feet. “Eat with us, won’t you?” When Stella rose, Alton asked, “What’s for supper, Cabbage Head?”

  Before she could answer, Uncle Owen paced to the door and pulled it open. “Neither one of you has any sense,” he declared.

  Papa’s large, warm hand wrapped around Stella’s smaller one. “Perhaps that’s why we get along so well.”

  Chapter 3

  Adam Quinn stared through the bars of the Pueblo jail window at blue sky. He hadn’t stood beneath the sky for a fortnight. Worse than that, his plan to go back to Kansas and find Cinderella after his fight with the Chinaman, no matter what Spud said, was mighty difficult to do from a jail cell.