The Enchanted Land
JUDE
DEVERAUX
The
Enchanted
Land
Dedication
for CLAUDE—who gave me the time to write
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
MORGAN stared at the ugly brown dress spread across the…
Chapter Two
“MORGAN, Morgan!” Uncle Horace’s voice reached them in the garden.
Chapter Three
“MORGAN.” Seth’s voice was close to her ear. “Get dressed…
Chapter Four
THERE was one more day before they left. Morgan regretted…
Chapter Five
EVERYONE told Morgan that the first part of the trip…
Chapter Six
“JAKE, what’s a whore?”
Chapter Seven
THAT night Morgan lay in the wagon, half asleep, pictures…
Chapter Eight
THEY rode all night. Morgan snuggled against Seth and slept…
Chapter Nine
THEY spent four days in the canyon of the ancient…
Chapter Ten
THE Montoya ranch was enormous. The main house itself could…
Chapter Eleven
WHEN Seth left the Montoya party, he rode hard for…
Chapter Twelve
JAKE had been riding for three days when he first…
Chapter Thirteen
IT took the little band—the Indians, the Frenchman, and the…
Chapter Fourteen
AFTER three days of hard riding, they arrived in San…
Chapter Fifteen
THE Chandlers had already had a long, hard trip from…
Chapter Sixteen
“REMEMBER, if you ever need anything, just look us up,”…
Chapter Seventeen
“FRANK, you must stay to help us celebrate Señora Colter’s…
Chapter Eighteen
“HEY, mister, watch where you’re goin’!” The man, one eye…
Chapter Nineteen
MORGAN was happily surprised by the ranch house of the…
Chapter Twenty
IT was the day of the party when Gordon saw…
Chapter Twenty-One
BREAKFAST had begun before Morgan entered the room.
Chapter Twenty-Two
IT had been a little over two weeks since Seth…
Chapter Twenty-Three
WHEN Morgan woke, the house was quiet. As she stretched…
Chapter Twenty-Four
WHEN Morgan awoke on the cot, Adam was still sleeping.
About the Author
Other Books by Jude Deveraux
Copyright
About the Publisher
When they were apart
it was a wilderness.
When they were together
it was…
The
Enchanted
Land
The story of a woman
who could not be conquered,
a love that was never forsaken,
and a land that will not be forgotten.
Chapter One
MORGAN stared at the ugly brown dress spread across the bed. She shivered. Remembering again what she must do tonight, she turned slowly and gazed wistfully into the mirror, seeing without interest her pale hair and blue eyes. She tried cocking her head and smiling. But no … she wasn’t pretty, and she was sure she never would be.
She turned quickly as a knock sounded and her uncle strode in. He was a short, portly man, given to excess at the table. He smiled at her and reached out to touch her chin. She turned her head away.
“What do you want?” she asked coldly.
“Is everything all right? How is your packing coming?”
“Fine.” She kept her face averted.
He looked around the room at the closed trunks and, finally, at the brown silk dress on the bed. He touched the silk lightly.
“Why don’t you rest before we leave for the ball? You have a few hours yet.”
She didn’t answer, and he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him quietly.
Morgan removed her dress and replaced it with a plain dressing gown. She lay down but she couldn’t sleep. Instead, she found herself going over it all yet again.
The problems had started before she was born. Both her father and her mother had been brought up to the life of wealthy plantation owners in southern Kentucky. But her father had wanted to venture out, to seek the hardships and challenges of the frontier.
After her parents’ marriage, the young couple had moved to New Mexico. Morgan was born there. Her mother had nearly died in childbirth. The baby was early, and it was a full eighteen hours before her husband could bring a midwife to his wife. Morgan had heard many times from her mother of the horror and pain she went through all alone. Being a lady, she would not allow any of the ranch hands in the room.
When Morgan was a year old, her mother and she returned to Kentucky. Her mother had refused to bring up her daughter in savage New Mexico. There had been many an argument between her parents, and her father had said that if his wife took their child and left him, he never wanted to see either of them again. And that’s the way it had been: she had not seen her father in seventeen years.
Her mouth hardened as she realized that he had his revenge now. In death, he was punishing his wife through his daughter.
She tried to keep her mind off the reading of the will, just two weeks ago, that horrible will that had led to her decision about tonight.
She turned her head toward the door when she heard a light knock, smiling at her aunt’s voice.
As Lacey entered, Morgan couldn’t help but think how well the older woman’s name fit her. Lacey was small and frail, as if she might break. She reminded Morgan of a starched and crocheted doily.
“Hello, dear. Are you feeling all right? I imagine you’re excited about tonight.”
Aunt Lacey was always so sweet. She assumed that, since Morgan was young, she must be excited about going to the ball. And Morgan would have been, too, if the circumstances were different. She gazed at the nondescript brown dress, which she had pushed to one side of the bed, and Lacey’s eyes followed hers.
Lacey walked around the bed, touched the silk, and said gently, “Brown isn’t really your color, is it, my dear?”
Morgan fought the urge to throw back her head and laugh hysterically. “It’s all right, Aunt Lacey. I don’t mind. I could have a Paris gown and it wouldn’t matter. Nothing could make me pretty, just as Uncle Horace says.”
Lacey’s eyes were sad. She moved around the room to sit beside Morgan on the bed. She looked at her niece closely. “I know Horace says you’re not pretty.”
“My mother said so too.”
“But I can’t help thinking that if you wore brighter clothes and didn’t hide your hair … you know you have lovely hair.” She ran a finger down Morgan’s cheek. “And such lovely skin.” She paused. “I really feel, dear, that if you smiled more, you would be much more attractive.”
Morgan grimaced. Her aunt had often told her that if she looked happier and were a little bit livelier, she would be pretty. Morgan smiled faintly at what her mother would say about her aunt’s encouraging Morgan to make herself more “attractive.” Attractive indeed—like a flower enticing bees.
Seeing Morgan smile, Lacey patted her hand. “That’s better, dear.” She rose to leave, pausing with her hand on the door. “Could I help you dress, or help with your hair?”
“No, thank you, Aunt Lacey. I think I may sleep awhile.”
“Good. I’ll wake you in an hour.”
The door closed, and Morgan was alone again. She lay back and
slept. An hour later, Lacey returned to waken her, then went back to her own room to complete her toilette.
Morgan lifted the brown silk dress, stared at it a moment, and tossed it back on the bed. She had to fight the urge to tear it to shreds. Again, she thought of her father. This was all his fault. In all her eighteen years, she had never had to worry about her appearance.
She and her mother had lived alone for fifteen years in Trahern House. Trahern House. The very name made her homesick. Trahern House was one hundred seventy-five acres of green, rolling countryside with a duck pond, bridle paths, and woods. Her mother had indulged Morgan’s every desire. She longingly recalled her pretty little mare, Cassandra.
Her mother had told her she was plain, but she knew her mother had wanted her to be plain. Her mother had never allowed male visitors at the house. She had told Morgan that men cared only for pretty faces, and that Morgan was better off plain. If she were plain, she could live her life in peace, at Trahern House. And Morgan had never wanted to live anywhere else.
Yet her mother’s unexpected, early death two years ago had cast Morgan into her uncle’s house. And the will had been a second, terrible blow. Why hadn’t her mother told her that her father really owned everything? She knew that Trahern House had belonged to Morgan Trahern, her maternal grandfather, so she assumed her mother had inherited it. What had happened, that the house and lands were given to Grandfather Morgan Trahern’s son-in-law rather than to his own daughter?
Morgan looked back at the mirror. Her eyes were cold as she said, aloud, “You may have been my father, Charles Wakefield, but you have not treated me like a daughter. You took away the only thing I had—Trahern House. And you have required an ugly thing of me to secure it.” She drew closer to the mirror and her voice was hard, a deep whisper. “But you never knew your daughter. She is strong. I vow here and now that neither you nor any other man,” and here her mind touched briefly on her Uncle Horace, “will ever stop me from getting what I want.”
She stared at herself for a few seconds and was startled to see her normally blue eyes turn a deep green. What did it matter that she didn’t have physical beauty? As her mother had told her many times, she had inner beauty. And that was what mattered. Physical beauty was for silly women who wanted only to catch a man. And the last thing Morgan wanted was a man.
She turned again to the bed and the dress, thinking that tonight, for just this one night, she would like to be pretty. Because tonight, Morgan was going to have to do the very thing she had never wanted to do. She was going to have to catch a man.
She sighed and began to dress, pulling her hair back from her face and slipping into the loose, plain dress.
“You look lovely, my dear,” Uncle Horace said as he entered and extended his arm to her.
But Morgan saw the complacency in his eyes, the satisfaction. Of course, he is pleased, she thought If I were beautiful, in a low-cut, red satin dress, some man would carry me off to New Mexico and he’d lose all the money. But she knew her uncle had no reason to worry about that tonight.
They arrived early. Few others were there yet. Morgan was glad. She would have a chance to appraise the people as they arrived. She must consider them all carefully: she could not afford to make a mistake. Her spine stiffened.
As they entered the glittering ballroom, Horace led Lacey and Morgan over to their host and hostess, Matthew and Caroline Ferguson. Morgan had met the Fergusons several times before.
“Morgan, I’m so glad you are here. You get out much too seldom.” Caroline Ferguson smiled.
“Well,” said Horace, “our little Morgan much prefers the solitary life, with her books and her walks through the garden.”
Morgan shrank as Horace’s hand touched her shoulder, but she managed a smile for the Fergusons.
As the little party was walking away, Cynthia Ferguson made her appearance. Cynthia was beautiful, knew it, and made sure everybody noticed it.
“Why, Morgan,” she drawled, “you dear thing. I’m so glad you could come to our little party. My, what a … charming little dress.”
Morgan thought she might strike Cynthia. Cynthia had on a low-cut gown of mauve watered silk, set off by tiny jet beads around the bodice and hem. Morgan bit her tongue and held her pride. “Thank you, Cynthia. I am glad to be here.”
“You just make yourself at home. I know all the boys are going to fill your card and I’ll never get another moment to speak with you again all evening.”
As Morgan walked away, she heard Cynthia murmur to her mother, “I had no idea silk could look like that.” Morgan did not hear Mrs. Ferguson’s reply.
Horace seated Lacey and Morgan and went to speak to some men friends in a corner of the room. Then Lacey saw some of her friends, and after Morgan assured her she would be all right, Lacey left.
Morgan sat back, enjoying the quiet and the chance to survey the guests. She moved slightly, sitting so that she was in the shadow of a curtained doorway.
As each man entered, she looked him over carefully. It had been strange to learn that an entirely different world existed outside Trahern House, a world which included men. In this new world, Morgan felt awkward and out of place. It was incredible that her personal value could be assessed by such things as clothing, physical beauty, and whether or not she made a good match.
She saw Brian Ferguson enter and considered him for a moment. Tall, slim, handsome, he was about twenty years old. He would probably not want to leave his comfortable home and travel to the wilds of New Mexico. He was an only son and would inherit his father’s plantation. She must look for a second or third son, one who would need money, and who would lose little or nothing by moving to New Mexico.
The music started and couples began to dance. Morgan sat in the shadows, wishing she were back at Trahern House and not sitting here, awkward and lonely. Older women began to take the chairs near Morgan. They paid little attention to her, except for occasional glances of pity.
Morgan listened carefully as the women pointed out various people to one another and exchanged gossip about them.
“That Cynthia Ferguson—whatever can her mama be thinking by letting her daughter wear a dress cut so low?” asked a gray-haired woman dressed in black.
“Her mama is thinking very carefully of trying to get that handsome Mr. Seth Colter for her son-in-law,” explained another.
Morgan’s eyes followed their glances. She saw him standing not too far from her, and her eyes widened at the sight of him. Seth Colter certainly was good looking, but, somehow, he was not conventionally handsome. For one thing, he was too big. He was probably one or two inches under six feet, but the width of his shoulders and the thickness of his chest made him look terribly powerful. His chest tapered to slim hips and legs, but the muscles in his thighs bulged under snug pants. Morgan blushed and looked away. What in the world was she doing, staring at a man’s thighs? She smiled as she thought of what her mother would say!
The women beside her kept talking and she forced her eyes around the room again. She considered every man, most of whom she knew nothing about. She began to listen more attentively to the women. Again, she found they were talking about the man her eyes had so carefully avoided for the last fifteen minutes.
“Well, I don’t understand it, either. He has everything. Nora and William Colter have given their lives to that plantation, and everything will be his someday.” The lady in black was talking.
“And I don’t blame William at all for refusing to give him the money for that place of his. Where is it?”
“New Mexico, I believe the territory is called.”
Morgan nearly jumped. She considered what she had heard: Seth Colter needed money and he had a place in New Mexico.
Seth was talking to Cynthia now, and a wave of anger crossed Morgan. He was looking down at Cynthia with a sort of mocking expression, as if he were amused by her.
As Morgan studied Seth’s face, she felt eyes on her and looked to see Cynthia staring at her. Se
th, following Cynthia’s gaze, turned to look at Morgan. He looked at her thoroughly, seeming to look at every part of her. He smiled slightly, but showed no real interest in her.
“Morgan, you dear thing, sitting all alone here in the shadows. No one can even see you. Has anyone asked you to dance yet?” Cynthia obviously wanted to show Seth the difference between her own popular self and this rather plain girl in the ill-fitting dress.
“No,” said Morgan timidly, “I haven’t danced. But then, we haven’t been here very long.” She felt she had to save some pride. Why did that man have to keep staring at her? Why did she feel so warm under his gaze?
Cynthia’s eyes darted from Morgan to Seth. She seemed to enjoy Morgan’s obvious embarrassment. “Seth, dearest, why don’t you dance with our little Morgan?”
“No—” Morgan began, looking up at the man who seemed to be enjoying her confusion.
“Seth, I promised the next dance to Paul Davis, and if you could just keep Morgan company, I’ll come right back to you.” Her lashes fluttered, and she gazed up at him with promise in her eyes. Morgan’s mouth tightened as she realized that Cynthia thought her thoroughly safe company. She’d be no threat to Cynthia!
Seth Colter looked down at the young woman that Cynthia was pushing at him. Poor Cynthia, he thought, just like my sisters. She thinks that if she flutters her lashes at a man and he dances with her twice, then the next step is an engagement.
Somehow, this Morgan interested him. She kept her eyes lowered, and he looked at the top of her head. He saw hair that was both blond and brown, not evenly mixed, but streaked, with parts very light and parts the color of dry piñon needles. He could tell very little about her body under that horrible brown bag of a dress, but he knew she was small. He doubted she reached five feet.