The Comanchero’s Bride – western romance novel –
When she is approached at a fiesta by dark-eyed, handsome Mingo Valderas, she knows her heart will never be her own again. But Mingo has a checkered past—a reputation as a Comanchero, and a man who is as fast with his knives as he is with his gun. An ex-outlaw with many secrets, Elizabeth gives her trust to him, and their whirlwind courtship begins.
Scene Set-Up
Mingo and Elizabeth aka Isabel find shelter during a New Mexico Territory blizzard during their desperate ride for the safety of the Mexican border
The dugout they stay in is similar to this actual dugout, which stands south of Lamar, Colorado on US Hwy 287 near the old Augustine Stage and Freight stop. It’s also about 30 miles from where I live.
Here’s the scene:
“Keep your face covered and your mouth closed. Breathe through your nose. It is not good to have the cold moisture from the snow get into your lungs.”
Mingo took hold of her reins. “I will lead you so we do not become separated.”
He knew the land as well as he understood the way of prairie snowstorms. While harsh, this one lacked the fierce onslaught of a blizzard and would blow itself out, leaving little snow on the open range to show for all its fury. With the ebb and rise of the wind and snow, Mingo was able to keep himself oriented relative to his destination due to the occasional clearing overhead that allowed a glimpse of stars or a familiar landmark. Always, though, he trusted his instincts to keep their path true.
He turned often in his saddle to check on Isabel. When she noticed, she waved to let him know she was all right. She rode without complaint, and he caught himself wishing again for an easier route home. He let it go as wasted effort. This is the way of it. We are together, and Beal does not know where we are.
He brought Isabel’s horse up beside him and leaned toward her, shouting, “We will rest soon. Do you need to walk and warm up?”
“No.” She motioned him on.
Time passed, but with no meaning. Only the wind and snow existed. The cold was so deep in his bones when they arrived at the dugout, he didn’t think he could move, but attaining shelter from the storm compelled him into action, and he forced his numb body into motion, his sluggish brain into simple planning.
Get Isabel inside. Build a fire. Take care of the horses.
His poncho, frozen and stiff, hampered his movements, and he couldn’t feel his toes when he put his full weight in the stirrups to swing down. When his foot touched the ground, his legs gave out, and he fell to his knees. Struggling to bend his fingers, he made several failed grabs before his hands connected with the stirrup, and he pulled himself up.
With labored steps, he made it to Isabel’s side where she sat her horse, her head hanging and her shoulders hunched against the cold.
“Isabel!” He tugged her coat sleeve, but she didn’t respond. He tugged harder, and she slid off the saddle. Although he caught her, he couldn’t hold her, and they tumbled backward into the snow.
“We have to go inside.” He fumbled to lift her, but his hands were like chunks of ice. He managed to sit her up, and when he lifted her chin and let go, her head lolled forward.
Shaking her roughly, he ordered, “Isabel! Get up! You will freeze. I cannot carry you. You have to walk.
His harsh commands reached her, and she opened her eyes. He put his arm around her waist, dragged her to her feet, and she clung to him as they staggered the few yards to the earthen dugout.
They had to duck through a low overhang then go down several steps to the door, but once inside, there was enough ceiling height for them to stand straight. The familiar aroma of musty stale dust, and the cold, rank smell of weeks’ old wood smoke hit Mingo’s nose.
Surrounded by absolute darkness, relief washed over him as he absorbed the sudden remarkable calm. It was an eerie stillness after enduring hours of relentless wind and battering snow. His skin prickled and his scalp tingled with the abrupt temperature change.
“We need light.”
He spoke aloud for Isabel’s benefit. He released her, and though she wavered on unsteady feet, she stood of her own accord while he groped beside the door until locating the tin can with matches and candles right where he expected to find them. Striking a match, he put the flame to the wick.
Dingy but adequate candlelight bathed the twelve-foot-square area. With a sweeping glance, he saw the old buffalo robe hanging over the plank bunk, a stack of firewood by the wood stove, a blackened coffee pot hanging on a nail, and a menagerie of canned goods on a shelf. Although the scuffed dirt floor showed some recent use, the dugout was unchanged since last he’d stayed just two years ago.
“Build a fire while I take care of the horses.”
He held the candle and matches for her to take, with a mental reminder to replenish what they would use from the supplies they brought with them, but she only stared at them. Putting his hands over hers, he made her grasp the candle with one hand and the matches with the other, then he shook her to bring her out of her frigid daze.
“Isabel! Build a fire, or we will die. Me explico?”
She blinked, blinked again, and nodded understanding.
The Comanchero's Bride is available at Amazon - Print | Digital | KindleUnlimited
Until next
time,
Kaye Spencer
www.kayespencer.com
1 comment:
I love Western romance. I've written a few myself.
The Comanchero's Bride sounds like a wonderful story. I can't wait to read it. :)
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