Cowboy Enchantment

by Pamela Browning

  “The change is a welcome one. I’m glad I came here.”

  “How long are you staying?”

  “A week,” she said.

  “A week,” he repeated thoughtfully.

  As he reached for another sandwich, he spotted a quick movement along the bank of the creek.

  “Look,” he whispered, putting a hand on Erica’s arm to draw her attention to where he was pointing. A coyote stood at attention on the opposite bank. Something upstream seemed to have caught his attention, and he seemed oblivious to the two of them. He stood with his ears up, his tail down, in a posture of alertness.

  “He’s come for water,” Hank said.

  Erica fumbled for her camera, then focused on the coyote. She snapped a picture, hoping the beep of the camera wouldn’t startle him. The coyote’s ears still stood at attention, but he didn’t run. After a minute or so, he lowered his head and loped out of sight.

  Erica sighed, “He was beautiful.” Hank’s hand still rested on her arm, and he didn’t want to move it. She wore a long-sleeved shirt, and her skin felt warm beneath it, warm and solid and real. He thought about how good it would feel to have her warmth pressed against him, enveloping him. He thought about the way her breasts swelled against the front of her shirt. He thought he would have liked to touch his finger to the shadow beneath the curve of her jaw, and he wondered if the skin there would be warm or cool, whether he’d be able to feel the throb of her pulse. He didn’t think he could bear it if he never found out.

  “I’ve never seen a live coyote,” Erica said. “His coat, the amber and buff, is exactly the color I would have liked Tico to make my hair.”

  He studied her hair, which was shiny and made him long to run his fingers through it. “Your color,” he said judiciously, “is not so far off.”

  She laughed, and he laughed, too. He discovered that it felt good to be laughing with someone, to feel such camaraderie.

  She hit the preview button on the camera, and the picture of the coyote popped up. She zoomed in on it so that the animal’s image filled the whole frame and held it toward Hank. “Take a look.”

  In order to see the tiny screen, he had to slide closer to her and soon he was so close their thighs touched.

  “Very nice,” he said, but he wasn’t talking about the coyote. As he studied the picture, in which the coyote was looking straight into the lens and appeared to be laughing at them, the coyote winked.

  Winked? He couldn’t have. This was a digital camera, not a video camera. And coyotes didn’t wink at people.

  Still, he could have sworn that the coyote had winked at him, and strangest of all, he had the idea that if the animal could have spoken, he would have made one of those comments guys sometimes made to each other when one of them was hot on the chase. Something like “Good luck, pardner.”

  Which he didn’t really need. He was lucky already just to have met someone like Erica Strong.

  Padre Luis Speaks…

  MADRE DE DIOS! What is taking so long? Erica and Hank went to the site of my house, and I can still see it standing, though they cannot. It is a blessed place.

  Perhaps that is why they are making progress. And although I can almost see the outline of Erica when she walks through our courtyard now, she is still hoping for the wrong thing. A “fling!” What is this “fling”? I am beside myself trying to understand these people.

  Oh, if these two would only surrender themselves to the inner transformation that awaits them in this spiritual place! Instead, this Erica, she wants to change her hair, change her eyes, change the whole outside of her, which I cannot see, anyway. I can see her spirit, however. It is the color gray. That is not the color of a healthy spirit.

  I am beside myself, I tell you! Beside myself!

  I need my voice. I must speak to Erica. Where is that cat? When I see her, I will push her into the cactus. No, I won’t. God forgive me, I am not a cruel man. But I must make the cat understand that if I do not have my voice, I will have to reveal myself to Erica, and that might make her afraid.

  God, I stand before You, Your humble servant. Tell me what to do. Show me what to do. Send me that cat. Help me get back my voice before these mortals do themselves serious harm.

  Chapter Six

  The battered, hacienda-style house, its adobe walls bleached the color of parchment by the sun, was partially hidden behind a windbreak of tamarisks. Hank had been working to refurbish the old house when time permitted, and he was there now to make a list of needed supplies.

  “Is this place the source of the Rancho Encantado ghost?” Erica asked as they drew the horses to a stop at the end of the wooden veranda in front.

  “If so, I wish he’d take more of an interest in the hacienda’s upkeep. I could use another pair of hands around here.” His tone was ruefully amused.

  “Want me to wait while you go inside?”

  “No, I’ll show you around. It’s interesting to see how the people lived, ghost or no ghost.”

  As Hank helped her dismount, he told her that the Iversons, Dan and Betsy, were a young couple when they had homesteaded here around 1910.

  “They wanted to farm but couldn’t make a go of it. Cattle and sheep had been brought in by miners in the 1860s, and they’d break through the farmers’ fences and destroy their crops. After several years of drought, the farmers mostly went to work in the mines. Finally there were full-fledged range wars, farmers fighting the ranchers, ranchers hating the farmers. The ranchers won, and soon the Iversons moved away.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  Hank looped the horses’ reins over the old hitching post. “You could say that. On the other hand, Dan went to work at a tungsten mine and in his spare time managed to uncover a rich silver vein in a nearby mountain. He became a wealthy man, one of the pillars of Carson City. He sometimes said that the best thing that ever happened to him was not succeeding as a farmer.”

  Erica, while listening to Hank speak, noticed that the front door to the adobe house hung open. “Don’t you lock the door?” she wanted to know.

  He chuckled. “This isn’t the city, Erica. No one bothers this place.”

  Inside, a wide arched fireplace, its odor reminiscent of long-ago fires, occupied one wall of the large front room. The walls wore a coat of fresh white paint, and empty paint cans sat in one corner.

  Hank pushed his hat back and cocked his hands on his hips as he surveyed the paint job, the narrow metal cot in one corner covered with a colorful serape, the handhewn wood of the table beside the door.

  “Who uses this house?”

  “I used to come here when I wanted to be alone. That’s how I became interested in refurbishing it for Justine.”

  “It’s primitive now, but it could be beautiful.”

  He smiled in agreement. “It has potential.”

  While Hank hauled empty paint cans out to the garbage heap out back, Erica wandered into the kitchen, which contained an old wood-burning stove, a sandstone sink and a massive oak table. While she was studying the cobwebs in the overhead beams, Hank reappeared in the doorway. “Come with me. I want to show you what’s in one of the back rooms.”

  She followed Hank down a hall to a series of rooms that had probably been used as bedrooms when the house was inhabited.

  “Justine piled old furnishings here when she let some construction workers live here last summer while they built an addition on the Big House,” he told her. “Look, there’s an antique pine bedstead, and there are three or four humpbacked trunks. There’s crockery, too, in that beatup crate.”

  The crate had been pried open, the cover tossed nearby. When she looked she saw that the dishes inside were of various patterns—blue willow, one with a border of daisies, some with a heavy green glaze. Erica wondered about the people who had once lived here. These dishes would have been part of their daily lives.

  While she tried without success to pry open the lid of one of the old trunks, Hank disappeared into the next room. She heard him
opening and closing a window as he whistled to himself. The light and shadow that the late-afternoon light streaming through the window cast on the jumble of furnishings would make an interesting still life, she thought, so she readied her camera and photographed the scene from several different angles.

  When Hank returned, he was making notations on a pad of paper. “The windows in this place are in bad shape,” he said.

  Erica slid her camera back in its case. “How often do you come here?”

  “On weekends usually.” He tucked the notepad into his pocket.

  Erica was mindful of the weekend coming up. Somehow the image of a cowboy repairing a run-down building on his time off did not seem appropriate; shouldn’t he be frequenting the local watering holes and chatting up cowgirls?

  “It relaxes me to work with my hands,” he said, apparently feeling some need for explanation.

  A wind sprang up outside in a whirl of dust and tumbleweed, pushing back the door of the front room to gain admittance, funneling off toward the kitchen in a merry whoosh and becoming no more than a caress on Erica’s skin by the time it reached the back bedroom where she and Hank stood. She felt the caress in the same breath that Hank mentioned working with his hands, and the wind whispered as it spiraled past the little whorls in her ear, You could find him something more personal to do with his hands. She saw those hands as they would be if he reached out and curved them around her breasts, and for a moment it seemed as if she could feel their heat and their strength. Her nipples firmed beneath her new yellow flannel shirt at the thought, and the wind, having accomplished its mission, settled down at her feet with a contented sigh.

  “Better close these windows,” Hank said, moving to do so while Erica agitatedly hurried into the living room to do absolutely nothing but shiver in what she thought was anticipation. But anticipation for what? Even though she was sure he had almost kissed her yesterday after her riding lesson, he had shown no sign of being physically attracted to her today. She was imagining things. She was making things up. She was so accustomed to having her brain brim full of things to do, was always rushing from one place to another, that when there was extra time to be filled, she filled it by daydreaming about things that weren’t happening. Could never happen. In a million years.

  Now Hank was sauntering out of the bedroom, and he was stark naked.

  Omigosh.

  And then her eyes refocused, and she saw that he was fully clothed. He wasn’t anywhere near naked. This was another figment of her imagination, and she’d better put a stop to it. But how? She had been imagining her perfect cowboy all of her adult life, and now that she’d found him, who could blame her for giving her imagination full rein?

  She turned away, but he reached out and stopped her by casually resting a hand on her shoulder. When she thought about what she’d just imagined that hand could do, she felt a blush creep up the sides of her neck, the warmth of it staining her cheeks.

  He did not seem to notice. “Let’s go out back for a minute.”

  He didn’t say why, and she didn’t question. It was enough to know that he was enjoying her company enough to want to spend extra time with her.

  In the back of the house was a tumbledown wooden shed. “This was where the Iversons kept their farm animals,” he said. To one side a trickle of water dribbled from a pipe into a basin made of a hollowed-out rock. A tin cup on a chain dangled from the pipe. “You can taste the water if you like,” he said.

  She held the cup under the water until she had collected enough to drink. The water was surprisingly cool. “Tastes a little salty,” she said after a sip.

  “It is,” Hank agreed. “But okay to drink.”

  While Hank stacked flowerpots in the old shed, she took a few pictures of the light and shadow playing across its weatherbeaten boards. By the time the sun tinged the snowy mountain peaks pink in the distance, they were ready to leave.

  She remained quiet on the way back to the ranch. The square dance was tonight, and Hank hadn’t mentioned it. As they rode into the stable yard, she was mulling over whether she should ask him if she’d see him there, but before she decided, Cord McCall strode out of the feed room.

  “Hank, where you been?”

  “We’ve just come from the Iverson place. It’s time to fix those windows.” Hank swung down from Whip’s back, but before he could reach Erica to help her dismount, Cord had reached for Melba’s bridle.

  Erica dismounted on her own. Cord gave her a curt nod and led Melba into her stall. Not knowing what else to do, Erica tagged along.

  “Hank, I’ll help you rub the horses down, and then you and me need to sit down and figure out our purchasing requirements for the stable,” Cord said.

  “I’ll need to make sure Justine isn’t tired of looking after Kaylie,” Hank said. “I was planning to go over to the Big House.”

  Cord looked disgruntled. “I’ve only got a few minutes until I have to be on the road,” he said. “I was hoping we could settle things before I go.”

  “I’ll check with Justine about Kaylie,” Erica said. “If you like.”

  Hank seemed to notice her for the first time since they’d ridden in. “Would you? I’d be grateful. Tell Justine I’ll be there as soon as we finish up here.”

  Erica set off for the Big House, not minding the errand. Since she had her camera with her, she’d use this opportunity to snap some shots of Murphy. If Kaylie was available, she’d take some photos of her, as well.

  But she wouldn’t ask Justine if Hank was going to the dance. Her pride wouldn’t let her.

  AN HOUR OR SO after he arrived back at the ranch, Justine was fixing Hank with a no-nonsense glare. “What do you mean you don’t want to go to the dance tonight?”

  Hank shifted his weight to his other foot. “I want to take Kaylie off your hands.”

  “Don’t be silly, Hank. We have a whole lot of women who are going to need partners tonight, pardner.”

  Hank unwrapped a fresh cookie from its cellophane wrap and handed it to his daughter, whose eyes lit up as she grabbed it. “The last job I had, they didn’t expect me to work all day and dance all night,” he said glumly. Still, he’d bet Erica was going to be at the square dance.

  “The last job you had didn’t provide free baby-sitting,” Justine said tartly. “Anyway, was it really work to take a leisurely trail ride with Erica today?”

  “Not exactly,” he admitted. “Hey, did she put you up to this?”

  “To what?”

  “To insisting I go to the dance.”

  “No. She delivered the message that you’d be here soon and took Murphy for a run so she could take some pictures of him. We did not discuss you. You like her, don’t you?” Justine’s sideways glance was mischievous.

  “I didn’t say that,” Hank said, but he couldn’t stop a grin from spreading across his face. He quickly quelled it.

  “I saw that smile,” Justine said. She poked him in the ribs. “You’re ready to rejoin the dating scene at last, I’d say.”

  “Did I mention anything about dating?” he said, dancing out of her reach.

  “No, but that doesn’t mean much.”

  “So what if I do indulge in a minor flirtation?”

  Justine sobered up at that. “Don’t go breaking hearts, Hank. It’s not good for business. It’s not good for anyone. If you and Erica want to enjoy yourselves in any and every way, it isn’t any business of mine, but…”

  He nailed her with a meaningful look. “You’ve got that right. It isn’t any of your business. So let’s not talk about it, okay?”

  “Erica’s a nice person. I’ve been hearing about her from Charmaine for years, and Char’s worried about her. She says she’s too uptight and she needs this vacation. She doesn’t need a broken heart.”

  “I’m not planning on breaking any hearts.”

  “Go easy on Erica. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “I get the message. You don’t mind keeping Kaylie here all night?”
<
br />   Justine swept Kaylie up into her arms, gummy cookie and all. Kaylie giggled and Justine grinned. “Do I mind? I’d love it!”

  Justine had been good to him and to his family. Hell, she was good to everyone.

  “All right, I guess I’ll go get my dancing shoes on.”

  “You’d better show up in full cowboy regalia.”

  “You’ve almost convinced me that I’m a real cowboy,” he said, handing Kaylie her bottle of juice.

  “You are, you are,” said Justine. “By the way, there’s a stack of mail for you on the hall table.”

  “I’ll grab it on my way out.”

  The mail was all junk except for a white envelope bearing the logo of Rowbotham-Quigley. He picked it up and turned it over, hesitating for a few seconds before he stuffed it deep in his back pocket.

  Wouldn’t you know that just when he was beginning to feel like a real cowboy, his firm would remind him that he wasn’t? Well, he was a cowboy for the moment, anyway. He might as well enjoy it to the hilt.

  AS SHE DRESSED for the dance, Erica realized that the necklace that Charmaine had given her, the gold disk engraved with her initials, was missing. She looked around her suite, hoping to find it on the floor, but it wasn’t there. She tried to think of when she’d worn it, and to the best of her recollection, she’d felt it swinging at her throat as she repositioned the still life of discarded items in the hacienda earlier. Perhaps she’d lost it there, in which case she would go back and look for it as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

  The blue light on the phone blinked, signifying a call. It was Natalie, phoning to see if she was ready to leave for the dance. “Want to walk over with us?” she asked.

  “Sure, meet you in the courtyard.” Erica flung a sweater around her shoulders and stepped outside.

  The cactus garden in the middle of the courtyard was brightly illuminated tonight by the full moon, and since Natalie and Shannon had not emerged yet, she sat down to wait on the bench facing it. The cacti were beautiful in a strange, unearthly way, bathed as they were in moonlight. You could almost imagine that they were people, giant arms outstretched above their…Was that a man standing among the cacti? A portly man with his arms extended in an attitude of benediction?