Baby Enchantment
Pamela Browning
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Near the California-Nevada-Arizona border in the year 1910
The dry desert air has preserved the scroll well, though the ink has faded to brown.
“What is it?” asks the young rancher, who cannot read a word of Spanish.
“Ah,” answers the elderly priest with a twinkle in his eye. “It contains an old legend telling the reason that we call this place Rancho Encantado—the enchanted ranch.”
The rancher shuffles his feet in the dust. “Well, Padre Luís, we thought it was a pretty name,” he replies. His bride waves fondly from the window of the old adobe hacienda, one of several buildings on their newly purchased spread in the desert area known as Seven Springs.
“A pretty name? Yes, I suppose it is. But this place received that name because good things happen here. Unusual things, unexplained things.”
“Like what?”
“Just…things. But they are things that touch the soul.”
“Oh. Well, it’s good of you to tell me. But this legend of yours sounds like so much guff.” The rancher is eager to escape the priest, who arrived unexpectedly to hand over the land deed and the Spanish scroll. He is glad for the school and hospital that Padre Luís founded here, but he and Betsy have no need of the school yet, and he hopes they will never need the hospital.
The priest seems eager to explain. “The legend came about because of what happened at Cedrella Pass back in 1849 during the gold rush. A lot of people died there in the old days when the West was being settled. A Shoshone woman took it upon herself to reverse the curse.”
“You mean there could be something special in the water?”
The priest raises his eyebrows. “Quizás. Perhaps.” He smiles mysteriously and winks. “But more likely, it’s something we always carry with us, something wonderful, something within the human heart.”
While the rancher is mulling over this pronouncement, the priest hoists his bulk up onto his mule. “Remember, this is a special place,” he says.
The rancher stands watching as the rotund priest rides down the dusty track that serves as a road. Then, with a shrug, he rolls up the parchment and heads for one of the outbuildings, unused at present except for storage.
He’ll toss the parchment scroll into one of the old trunks there. Then he’ll forget about it. He has a ranch to run, after all, enchanted or not.
Chapter One
Brooke couldn’t believe it, but at the same time, she didn’t think the pregnancy test would lie. Just like the ads on TV, the strip showed two pink stripes, meaning that she was pregnant. Preggers. Knocked up. The dismay she felt hit her hard in the pit of the stomach, which reminded her that now she knew why she felt like tossing her cookies every morning. She stared at the bright Southern California cityscape outside her bedroom window, her bleak feelings at odds with this sunny March day in L.A.
The phone rang, yanking her back to reality, and she almost didn’t answer. It could be Leo, she supposed, and she knew he wouldn’t welcome the news that he was going to be a father. Nevertheless, she scooped up the handset and clicked it on.
“Hello?”
It wasn’t Leo but Felice Aronson, features editor of Fling, the number-one magazine for young women on the West Coast. She sounded out of breath. “Brooke, I’m glad I caught you. Something has come up, and I hope you don’t mind rescheduling our lunch for eleven o’clock instead of noon.”
Brooke often wrote articles for Fling, and she was prepared to pitch several ideas to Felice today. “Something has come up here, too, Felice. How about next week?”
“Sorry, Brooke, I can’t. I’m leaving for Mexico City on business tomorrow afternoon.”
Brooke’s heart sank. How could she present her ideas—or herself—in a positive light with pregnancy weighing on her mind, not to mention her heart? She was still smarting over last week’s breakup with Leo, she had no idea how she was going to raise a child on her own and she was on deadline for an article for Redbook. But Felice was her favorite editor as well as a friend, and they had business to discuss.
Brooke closed her eyes against the pink-stained pregnancy strip and tried to focus on lunch. “Okay, Felice, I’ll meet you at eleven.” Maybe her roiling stomach would settle down by then.
“Right. Ciao, Brooke.”
Brooke hung up and sank onto the bed. Leo’s picture grinned at her from her dresser on the other side of the room. It had been taken in happier times, before he’d decided that he didn’t want to be saddled with a wife, kids, a dog and a mortgage. Before he’d broken up with her. Before she’d wanted to crawl into a hole and die.
Now there was a baby to think about, and she couldn’t summon any benevolent feelings toward it at all. She felt only bewilderment, sadness and pain at this turn of events in her life. Where would she and the baby live? Her apartment was hardly big enough for one. Who would take care of the baby? As a freelance writer, she worked at home. Getting any work done with a baby around was hard to imagine.
The scene outside, all palm trees and tile rooftops, blurred. She was thirty-three and had never been married. She had hoped to be a wife, Leo’s wife. That was never going to happen. And now she knew without a doubt that she was going to be a mother.
A baby wouldn’t fit into life as she knew it. Motherhood was definitely the last thing in the world she wanted.
FELICE ARRIVED at their usual table at the trendy Beverly Hills restaurant looking svelte, tanned and enthusiastic. She had returned three weeks earlier from a Hawaiian vacation, where she had picked up information about a fantastic health spa-dude ranch located in a valley surrounded by desert in southeastern California.
“The Rancho Encantado motto is ‘Where Dreams Come True,’” Felice said as she nibbled on the leaf and matchbox-size bit of tuna that were her lunch. “Apparently, there’s something to it, because people come away from there with not only a makeover but a life. Honest, that’s what I’ve heard.”
Distracted as Brooke was over the results of that morning’s pregnancy test, she barely registered the information. She needed to jockey for a conversational opening in which she could insert one of her own article ideas, such as the one about female bodybuilders or another about men afraid to commit. She could write a whole book about that one, probably.
“Mmm,” she said, staring down at her plate of quesadillas, complete with spicy salsa and a heap of guacamole. Although she craved anything spicy these days, the very thought of eating something slimy and green made her stomach lurch.
“The thing is, I don’t believe the hype, either. The owner of Rancho Encantado is a former model, Justine Somebody, who used to run the Razzmatazz Agency in New York. There’s reputed to be an old Indian curse…it’s part of the lost legend.”
“What lost legend?”
“No one can remember what the legend is, and the curse is supposedly responsible for the bad things that happened there. But then the curse was reversed—”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, that’s what they say. Oh, and the place is supposed to be the location of a vortex,” Felice told her.
“I didn’t realize Fling was into New Age.”
“We’re not. The point is that this Justine is probably really good at public relations or knows someone who is, and she’s made up all these sto
ries to draw people to the place. Maybe you can poke a hole in the puffery, Brooke, and find out what Rancho Encantado is really about.”
“I was thinking that my next Fling article should be about female bodybuilders,” Brooke said faintly.
Felice dismissed this idea with an authoritative wave of her hand. “They’re passé, at least as far as Fling is concerned. But makeovers are still in. Everyone wants a makeover.”
“Not me,” Brooke said. She was about to be made over, all right. Pregnancy was going to transform her into a pudgy, waddling version of herself, and there wasn’t a whole lot she could do about it.
“That’s too bad, Brooke, because I figured you could wangle a free makeover out of the assignment. Not that you need it. I wish I had your naturally blond hair and cute figure because I’m sick of hairdressers who don’t do what I ask and diets that don’t work.”
“Thanks, but I could use some dieting pointers.”
“I’ll let you know about my current diet after I weigh myself tomorrow. It’s all too, too depressing.” Felice shoved her plate aside with a look of distaste.
“Suppose I find out that Rancho Encantado lives up to its promises and can’t write the piece the way you want it? What then?”
“So do what you want. All I’m saying is that I think the article would be better if you had firsthand knowledge of what they do there.”
Brooke considered this. “Where exactly is Rancho Encantado, anyway?”
“Near the California-Arizona-Nevada border, a few hours’ drive from L.A. and two hours north of Las Vegas.”
“Isn’t that near Cedrella Pass—the gap in the mountain range where people traveling to the goldfields died on their way to California during the gold rush in 1849?”
Felice shrugged. “I can barely keep up with current events much less history.”
Brooke tried to remember the oft-repeated family lore about her ancestors’ big move from the East to California. “My great-great-great-grandmother Annabel Privette was traveling with a wagon train and died on the infamous Tyson Trail because the wagon master misjudged the weather and they got snowed in at Cedrella Pass with very little food. I’ve always thought the story would make a great book.”
Felice brightened. “There you go! Use this assignment to check the story out. Even if it’s not book material, you might get a couple of good articles out of it. Say, aren’t you going to eat your lunch? It’s on me today.”
“I’m not hungry. Blame the early lunch hour and a late breakfast, okay?” Not the whole story, but it would do for now.
“So will you take the assignment? Please say yes!” Felice was at her most persuasive.
“Well—” Brooke began, but Felice interrupted.
“I’ll toss in a couple hundred dollars more than we paid for your last piece, and you get a vacation out of the deal. And,” Felice said craftily, “there’s the small matter of an interview with Malcolm Jeffords.”
“What interview?”
“The one he’s considering giving Fling. We’re in the final stages of negotiation for a profile.”
Malcolm Jeffords was a rock star who had grown up singing gospel with his six cousins, some of whom had gone on to become almost as big a star as he was. Despite his large fan base, his career had hit the skids a couple of years ago after police broke up a raucous party at his house. They had taken several partygoers into custody, including a couple of monkeys. Jeffords had retreated behind the high walls of his estate in the Hollywood Hills; he had never talked about the incident publicly.
Brooke was wary of Malcolm Jeffords. He had the reputation of being both controlling and hard to interview. “You’re saying what, Felice?”
“That I want you to write the profile. Only you could do it justice.”
“Um, what do you mean?”
“Well, you have written an article about monkeys for the Sunday section of the L.A. News.”
“That was about sociological research using primates, not about monkeys sliding down water slides with a certain difficult rock star.”
“I was trying to be funny.”
It was sort of funny, but today Brooke was seriously lacking a sense of humor. “All right, so you’re giving me the Jeffords interview, provided I get the scoop on Rancho Encantado first, right?”
“You could say that. Both these articles are important to me, Brooke. They could be important to you, too. If Jeffords goes through with the interview, we’ll up our print run. It’ll be big, really big.”
A large print run. Major exposure. TV interviews to follow, plus her phone would ring off the hook with calls from other editors, wanting her to write about topical subjects.
Brooke didn’t have to think about it any longer. “All right, I’ll do it,” she said abruptly. The Rancho Encantado deal had fallen right into her lap and would be easy money, which was important since she’d be supporting two from now on. And the Jeffords interview would be a major coup.
Felice grinned and called for the check. “Okay, Brooke, we’ve got a deal. I’ll call you when I’ve set up the Jefford’s interview. By the way, you’re lucky to be going to Rancho Encantado right now. The desert isn’t as hot at this time of year as it is in summer. Warm days, cool nights. You’ll love it. I’ll give you the Rancho Encantado phone number and you can make the arrangements yourself.” She dug a slip of paper out of her purse and handed it to Brooke.
Brooke tucked the paper into her briefcase, pushed the quesadillas across the table so that she wouldn’t have to smell them and excused herself to go to the rest room, where she blotted her face with a wet paper towel. Maybe the nausea would have abated by the time she left for Rancho Encantado.
And maybe not.
THREE WEEKS LATER, on the next to the last day of March, Brooke was on her way to Rancho Encantado in her sporty red Miata, a map unfolded on the seat beside her.
On the map, Cedrella Pass didn’t look like any big deal. With her fingernail, Brooke traced the dotted line that indicated an unpaved track and then ran her finger over to the nearby green spot that sat in the middle of the desert in the area known as Seven Springs. Rancho Encantado was not only a health spa and dude ranch but also a working cattle ranch, according to the woman she’d spoken with on the phone. Since Brooke was going to write an article about the ranch, she would have a free room, a makeover and access to any part of Rancho Encantado that struck her fancy. As Felice had pointed out, you could hardly beat that deal with a stick.
When Brooke emerged from the mountains bordering the western boundary of the desert, it was as if she had entered a whole different world. The undulating golden hills seemed to radiate a warm light, and their gentle folds wrapped her in a welcoming hug. Although the desert was arid and austere, the road led her into a green and fertile valley bisected by a narrow stream; the sky was a brilliant blue and unsullied by clouds. Ahead, like a mirage, lay a cluster of low buildings—Rancho Encantado: the enchanted ranch.
The entrance to the ranch was framed by two rock pillars topped by a sign bearing the ranch’s name and the motto Where Dreams Come True. A sign pointed her toward a registration building and a rec hall.
Brooke parked her car and went inside the building marked Registration. There she joined a long line at the check-in desk. Apparently, she’d arrived on the busiest day of the week, and there was considerable hubbub due to the many new guests. The confusion didn’t stop her, however, from idly listening to the conversations around her.
“I heard that Rancho Encantado is located on the site of an earth energy center,” said a woman in front of her. “A vortex, it’s called.”
Brooke recalled that Felice had also mentioned a vortex. She quickly dug her reporter’s notebook out of her briefcase and began to take notes.
“So what’s a vortex?” demanded the woman beside her.
“I’m not sure.”
Another woman pitched in. “It’s a geophysical anomaly. People have tried to explain the biochemical changes that oc
cur in people when they visit vortexes, but so far no one is sure what happens. Scientists would like to be able to define the physics of the energy centers, and they’ve tried to in such places all over the planet by measuring magnetic fields and electrical impulses that may or may not be present.”
“Have they had any luck?”
“Nothing conclusive, although they’ve noticed that such energy centers are all heavily charged with negative ions, even in the most arid climate conditions like the ones here in the desert.”
The first woman shrugged. “Don’t get so technical, Dolores.”
“Yeah, and none of that explains the Rancho Encantado ghost,” said another.
“Ghost? There’s a ghost?”
“They say that the place is haunted by a priest named Luís who built a school and hospital here,” someone chimed in.
“Oh, great. Ghosts, yet. Geez, all I really care about is that I lose a few pounds, get a new hairstyle and enjoy a break from my four kids.”
“Amen,” said one of the others, and they all laughed.
The line began to move faster, and Brooke wrote down “check on ghost” before tucking her pad away in her briefcase. Soon she had reached the desk, where she filled out a card and received a packet of materials. Suitably equipped with information, she exited the building, stopping just outside the door to consult the site map for directions to her room. As she shuffled papers and maps and brochures, a thick cream-colored envelope fell out of the packet. She ducked to pick it up at the same time that a shadow fell across the porch.
She glanced up and saw a man outfitted in full cowboy regalia scowling down at her. He was a big man, a rugged man, with high bony ridges to his cheekbones and a jagged scar blazing across his chin. He wore his Stetson pushed far back on his head.
“Excuse me,” she said, embarrassed. “I’m a bit slippery-fingered today.”
The scowl deepened. The man shifted his booted foot and, with a ripple of muscles underneath his tight-fitting shirt, bent to pick up the flyer he had trampled. “Here,” he said gruffly. “Could be important.”
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