by Jeanne Rose
What now? Frances wondered. Louisa didn't need more grief. But Billie looked embarrassed as he stopped before them. He took off his hat and crushed it between his hands.
"What is it?" Louisa asked, her suspicion ripe in her tone.
"I, uh, don't know how to say this . . ." He was turning red. "It's about my ma."
"She's not getting the town riled up about Louisa again, is she?" Frances asked.
"No, ma'am. You gotta excuse her for what she did, 'cause she's outta her head. Has been since Pa got killed. I tried to take care of her..."
"I'm sure you did your best," Frances said.
Louisa remained silent and stiff.
"Anyhow, you got my apologies." Billie wrung the felt brim between nervous fingers. "I don't know what else to say."
"How about that you'll keep her from doing what she did to me to anyone ever again," Louisa suggested.
"I aim to do that. I mean, I'm taking her away from here. We got family back East. Anyhow, I just wanted you to know how sorry I am."
Louisa nodded. "Thank you, Billie."
Nodding, the teenager backed off, squashed his hat back on his head and strode off, looking a little more like a man than he had a few minutes ago.
Frances waited until he was out of ear shot before asking Louisa, "Did you know Lieutenant Strong was leaving Santa Fe?"
Smile turned brittle, Louisa said, "No. Whyever would I care?"
"I thought you might have some affection for the man."
"For that no-account..." The girl looked appalled and quickly said, "Lieutenant Samuel Strong means nothing to me."
"You mean something to him. He asked about you."
"You've seen him?"
"I visited him in the brig where he's been confined since taking off without leave. He was worried about you."
"He has no need. I'm not going to run away again."
"That's not what he's worried about."
Louisa flushed and avoided looking her way.
Frances touched her arm. "Louisa, if you ever need to talk to another woman about...well, about anything, please, come to me."
Nodding, Louisa allowed her emotions to show but for a moment. "Listen, I don't feel like messing with the horses right now, after all. I, uh, need to stretch my legs."
"You want company?"
The girl shook her head. "I'd rather be alone." Then, as if feeling Frances's distress for her, she said, "I'm all right. Please, don't worry about me. I just need some time to think about things."
"Don't take too long. Lieutenant Strong's transfer could come through any day."
Louisa hugged her. "Thanks for caring, Frances. I know I was your student and that I'm a lot younger than you, but I think of you as my best friend."
"That makes two of us," Frances assured her.
She watched Louisa walk away, a lonely figure, the weight of the world pressing down on her young shoulders, appearing far older than her sixteen years.
Though a trip to the stable had merely been an excuse to get Louisa alone, Frances chose to follow through. She was quite fond of the little sorrel despite the beast's having dumped her and leaving her to Ynez's devices. Poor thing had been scared out of her wits...much as she had been.
Frances had been in the stall for only a few minutes, and was making over the mare, when she felt another presence behind her. She whipped around, eyes searching the shadows and finding a solid, familiar form.
"Chaco!"
A burst of pleasure filled her and she yearned to run to him, to throw herself in his arms and kiss him, but something held her back. Though he was obviously staring at her, she could see neither his expression nor his eyes. And his body was stiff, as if something disturbed him.
She had no idea of what until he said, "You're still here," without the slightest hint of emotion.
Was he happy about the fact or not?
Stroking the horse's nose to keep her hands from shaking, she asked, "Where else would I be?" in the steadiest voice she could muster.
"Thought you might have gone in search of that civilization you think so high of."
"Maybe I'd rather help bring civilization here. Not too much," Frances quickly added, her heart fluttering. Surely he was happy that she hadn't left! "There are things about this part of the country that I hope never change." When he still didn't respond positively, she grew irritated with his very denseness. "And I can't believe you would think me so poor-spirited as to turn tail and run."
"After what you've been through, no one would blame you."
"I came West seeking adventure. I merely got a bit more than I bargained for."
"You almost got killed."
"And I almost killed another human...well, whatever she was." Realizing uncertainty was keeping him at a distance, Frances thought it important that she tell him, "I understand now, Chaco."
"Understand what?"
"How a person can be driven to do things against his nature."
"You mean me? Don't fool yourself, Frankie. Don't make me out to be something better than I am."
"And don't make yourself out to be worse. I've met a lot of people who think highly of themselves, who believe they're good upstanding Christians when they're really narrow-minded and shallow like Minna Tucker. Maybe they never do anything terrible, maybe they aren't responsible for taking lives, but they're misguided, even cruel. I know you for who you are inside, Chaco. You're a good person, kind, someone I trust. And love."
As if her heartfelt declaration freed him from his own constraints, he swept forward and gathered her into his arms. "I love you, too, Frankie, only I was afraid..."
"Not of me," she murmured against his chest. "Don't ever be afraid of me."
He showed her his new fearlessness in a kiss that was both loving and demanding. She opened herself to him, poured every emotion she'd ever felt for this man into one heart-stopping moment. His hands left trails of fire where they touched her and she shuddered with need when he pulled away.
"You serious about helping to civilize this territory?" he asked, stroking her hair away from her face.
"Dead serious."
"How about me? Willing to have a go at a former gunfighter?"
"Absolutely."
"Mind changing your last name again?"
"Not a bit."
He kissed her again and held her so tight that her heart raced uncontrollably. All her doubts were vanquished. They belonged together.
"The wind from the East might have blown you here, but I intend to keep you," Chaco vowed. "How does being a rancher's wife sound?"
"Like a new adventure." She couldn't contain her happiness. "You've worked things out with your father?"
"Some. He's having papers drawn up so those southeast acres are mine no matter what. As for the rest...we'll see. He's kind of distracted after his wife's death and all."
"But he believes she was a skinwalker?"
"Yes. And that she was very evil. Quite a few of his servants had tales to tell, as well. They found poisons she'd mixed up in a chest in her bedroom."
At the mention of Ynez, they were both silent for a moment. Frances's good mood was tempered.
But then Chaco returned to a more positive subject. "You won't mind leaving the Blue Sky?"
Frances smiled, imagining spending every day with him. "I'll gladly leave the whole operation in Belle's capable hands." Thinking of how things had worked out for Avandera and Ruby -- and maybe even Luz – she said, "With a little luck, all the employees of The Gentleman's Club will have other prospects." Especially if she helped find them.
"And you won't mind living in a cabin?"
"It'll only be temporary. We'll build our own home."
"You don't like the estancia?"
"I don't like Ynez's having lived there," Frances admitted. Even though the woman was dead, she would always be aware of the witch's presence in her former quarters. "Besides, I think we both deserve a fresh start."
"And as soon as possible," Chac
o said, taking her mouth with a groan of impatience.
The winds of change might sweep through New Mexico, Frances knew, and she and Chaco might have to bend, but they would never break or be forced to move on. In her heart, she hoped their legacy would be the marriage of all the territory's cultures, a foundation for a rich, wonderful future.
Spellbound Book 2:
HEART OF THE JAGUAR
Paranormal Historical Romance
Patricia Rosemoor & Linda Marquis
Copyright © 2011 Patricia Rosemoor & Linda Marquis
HEART OF THE JAGUAR
was originally print-published by HarperCollins
under the pseudonym Roslynn Griffith
Book 1: THE WIND CASTS NO SHADOW
Book 3: SHADOWS IN THE MIRROR
HEART OF THE JAGUAR
PROLOGUE
Spotsylvania, Pennsylvania – May, 1864
THE ODOR OF DEATH filled the air.
Captain Beaufort Montgomery sniffed distastefully and steeled himself as he gazed down on a field of ragged, bone-weary men gathered in small groups around half-drowned, smoking fires. Some stretched tents over their shoulders seeking protection against the rain. Others rolled themselves in the canvas and lay close to the logs, trying to sleep. Most merely huddled within themselves, having no shelter at all against the raw, inclement weather.
A pitiable scenario.
Beaufort sighed deeply, fingering the medallion he wore beneath his gray wool coat, envisioning the comfortable library in his home in New Orleans, the retreat where he'd spent most of his time before being called to war. Aged texts in Spanish awaited him there, along with fragile codices in Aztec hieroglyphics. He'd paid dearly for the materials, had made more than one arduous journey into Mexico to obtain them. Enthralled, intrigued, fully enraptured by the past, he'd waded through two languages to write papers about the ancient Mexica, had viewed his servants' knock on the door as a gross interruption.
The war with the Union had disrupted his studies completely.
Disruption. But that was too kind a word.
Staring down at men who'd been forced to descend to the level of animals, Beaufort now understood that his world itself was at stake, that the South was being destroyed. Even if he lived to return to New Orleans, nothing would ever be the same.
He would never be the same.
Once a scholar who was fascinated by bloody ceremonies that took place in the safety of the past, he'd been forced to kill in reality, to send men to their deaths.
The elegance of ritual sacrifice lost much of its luster as he'd viewed numberless undignified, bloated corpses.
Beaufort shuddered even as a cannon boomed somewhere nearby. He could barely remember a time when the stench of gunpowder didn't burn the air. When smoke didn't float and twist on the wind like writhing serpents.
Writhing Aztec serpents, fierce fangs dripping.
He'd dreamed about them the night before and saw them now before shaking his head and determinedly turning away.
He was so tired, so disheartened. Sometimes reality and vision merged. He fingered the medallion again, imagining it gave off heat.
Dawn came. Beneath the heavy cloud cover, the sun rose and with it, activity renewed. Divisions of Union soldiers swept over a barrier of interwoven limbs and branches.
"Fire!" came a cry from a Confederate officer.
And they did.
Men in blue uniforms pitched over the hastily-built breastworks to land face first in the marsh grass. But more escaped this fate. Union men kept forging through the rain and mist and smoke, downing Confederate soldiers in a bloody hand-to-hand combat.
Hour after hour the warfare continued, until the battlefield was littered with bodies.
And from his vantage point on a hill, from whence he sent more of his men to their demise, Captain Beaufort Montgomery watched helplessly at the carnage.
The world was ending, just as the priests of the Mexica had predicted. The sun would be swallowed up by darkness...unless the gods themselves would deign to intervene.
Below, disheartened young Confederates raised pieces of shelter-tents above them in truce. They wanted to give themselves up and live. Enemy fire slacked off.
"C'mon in, Rebs!" came a shout from behind the Union line.
Twenty or more young soldiers -- boys, really -- stood with weapons lowered, and for a moment panicked as they got a better look at the carnage around them.
That moment of hesitation signaled their deaths. For, before they could surrender in fact, gunfire renewed. The men in tattered gray dropped to the mud. Most looked dead. A few crawled toward the Union line on their bellies, crying and screaming for mercy.
Beaufort turned away from the sight of cowardice, raised his face to the sky. Surely the gods would take action with the proper sacrifice.
Even as he thought that, for a moment, a ray of sun somehow managed to slice its way through the misting gray.
The gods.
They had answered! He inhaled the pungent smell of blood, stopped fighting death, let it seep into his pores...imbue him with power.
When Beaufort gazed at the battlefield again, he saw it through new eyes. There were serpents writhing among the struggling soldiers. And he smiled as he withdrew his sword.
"I am death!" he roared, sweeping down the hillside against orders. He had a higher task now.
No matter that many of his men lay still, eyes staring, mouths gaping.
"Beaufort! Where the hell you think you're going?"
Eyes glazed over, he barely recognized his cousin Lamar, separated from him by a field of bodies in mud and blood-spattered blue or gray.
"I shall honor my warriors!" he shouted, holding his sabre high. "And bring back the sun!"
"Beaufort, don't be a damned fool! You're gonna get yourself killed!"
But Beaufort was beyond reasoning. He had nothing to fear. He plunged forward, muttering in Nahuatl, the ancient Mexica language. While bullets whizzed by him, none found him as target. They couldn't kill him.
He was invincible.
He was a god himself – Quetzalcoatl.
His gaze fastened onto a Union officer even younger than he who fought ferociously alongside his men. The sandy-haired lieutenant saved one of his own soldiers from certain death. Then another. He ignored a flesh wound, a bright red slash across his left shoulder, and continued to do battle, his newest target one of Beaufort's own – a boy with straggly black hair and bronzed skin who fought back like the devil himself.
"A brave heart!" Beaufort cried, charging toward the combatants.
He flew at his enemy and, surprising him, shoved his sabre through the Union officer's chest. The boy in gray fell back, breathing hard and wounded but alive.
His expression astonished, the lieutenant swayed on unsteady feet, then sank to his knees, and finally, his side. Breath wheezed harshly through an injured lung. Beaufort tossed aside the weapon that had downed the officer and knelt beside him, ripping open his uniform to bare his already bloody chest.
Pain-filled hazel eyes were fixed on Beaufort's face. "Finish me," the wounded man begged, his rasping voice no more than a whisper. "Make it quick...please..."
Drawing his knife from its sheath, Beaufort felt power surge through his limbs.
The serpents danced. He inhaled fire.
In his mind, the captive lay on a slab of stone rather than on a muddy field. He himself wore a cape and headdress of fine feathers rather than a worn woolen uniform. And his follower – the half-breed boy – stared at him, black eyes wide.
"Die with honor and pride!" he intoned, the knife flashing in a lethal arc.
A gurgle of sound escaped the lieutenant's lips. Then he went still, eyes and mouth open in a silent, endless cry, but not before Beaufort grabbed his prize – the brave if nameless officer's bloody, still-beating heart.
CHAPTER ONE
Northern New Mexico – October, 1886
LOUISA JANKS FLIRTED with the massive
stallion as if he were one of the ranch hands on the de Arguello spread where she lived and worked the horses. The difference was, the stallion would get closer to her than any cowboy.
"You'll do this for me, yes?" she coaxed, running her hands delicately along his neck and back. Beneath the red dust and brambles, his coat was as black as her own waist-length hair, which she'd pulled over one shoulder in a single thick braid. "It's in your own best interests, you know. Better gentled than dead."
She'd moved the stallion before daybreak, before Adolpho's orders could be carried out. Consort to a herd of wild mares, the stallion had stubbornly refused to let his harem be taken and tamed without a fight. He'd already come for them once before and had slashed the new pasture fence to ribbons with his mighty hooves. He'd led the mares to freedom. The men had gone after the herd and had recaptured all but the stallion, who once more had returned to claim his ladies a few days before.
This time he'd been caught and confined.
And though Louisa had insisted she could gentle him if given enough time, both Adolpho and Chaco had agreed that the stallion was bound to cause too much trouble meanwhile. He wouldn't let anyone get near him, no less break him. Pity that he would have to be destroyed.
That's when, her Comanche blood protesting the destruction of such fine horseflesh, Louisa had decided to steal him.
She'd known she was taking her life in her hands in doing so, for the stallion was the wildest, bravest horse she'd ever gotten close to. And it had taken some doing. Nearly an hour to lure him to the fence, his reward food laced with a calming herb. She hated to drug an animal, but, if she hadn't, she wouldn't have been able to handle him in such a short time, wouldn't have gotten him safely out here to her hideaway in the foothills at the edge of the de Arguello spread.
Besides, the drug was already wearing off and the stallion was becoming his own surly self. He bared his teeth and nipped at her arm. She moved away fast, tapped him firmly on the nose and kept him controlled and on the ground when he might have reared.
