The following material is an extract from NOT JUST ANY MAN, A Novel of Old New Mexico, Copyright © 2018 Loretta Miles Tollefson. Published by Palo Flechado Press, Santa Fe, NM

A Note about Spanish Terms: This novel is set in northern New Mexico and reflects as much as possible the local dialect at that time. Even today, Northern New Mexico Spanish is a unique combination of late 1500s Spanish, indigenous words from the First Peoples of the region and of Mexico, and terms that filtered in with the French and American trappers and traders. I’ve tried to represent the resulting mixture as faithfully as possible. My primary source of information was Rubén Cobos’ excellent work, A Dictionary of New Mexico and Southern Colorado Spanish (University of New Mexico Press, 2003). Any errors in spelling, usage, or definition are solely my responsibility.

CHAPTER 40

Suzanna scowls sleepily at the lopped-off branches that brace the hillside lean-to. She burrows deeper into the bedding. At least there’s a bear skin to add some warmth. It’s early May in Taos. Everything’s blooming there. Here, it’s icy cold. If that man thinks she’s going to actually live permanently in this God-forsaken place, he isn’t thinking clearly.

“Wife?” Gerald asks from the open side of the lean-to.

She burrows deeper, covering her head.

Gerald chuckles and comes to kneel beside her. “I have a fire going,” he says. “I’ve toasted some of the bread Encarnación sent with us and am heating water for tea.”

Suzanna sighs and reluctantly uncovers her head. “All right,” she says.

“There’s a herd of elk on the other side of the valley,” he says. “I thought I’d try for one after breakfast. We could use the meat. Do you want to come with me?”

“I’m not staying here by myself.” She sits up. “Not until you’ve built me a cabin.”

He leans in to kiss her forehead. “I love you,” he says.

“And I you.” She shakes her head. “Though I still think you’re soft in the head. This valley is so isolated and cold. How does anything grow up here?”

He grins, stands, and goes out. “The water’s hot!” he calls from the fireside.

Suzanna grimaces and pulls the bear skin around her shoulders as she leaves the blanket. The shaggy skin drags the ground around her feet as she steps outside. The fire is crackling with warmth and the sky overhead is a luminous blue. She takes a deep breath of the clear mountain air.

The marsh where the Cimarron heads is at the base of the hill she’s standing on. On the other side of the marsh is yet another hill. Ramón moves among a half-dozen downed and debranched trees. Two mules browse on the grassy slope below, waiting to pull the logs to the cabin site.

Suzanna shakes her head and looks at Gerald, who is carefully pouring steaming water into a tin mug. “You do know that you’re both crazy, don’t you?”

He hands her the mug of steeping tea, then turns and waves his arm toward the valley below. “Just look at it,” he says.

She follows his gaze. The morning sun touches the long grasses on the valley floor and the tiny silver streams that weave through the spring green. A coyote trots purposefully along the base of the hill, where a cluster of elk browses peacefully. Nearer at hand, a red-wing blackbird trills in the marsh.

“There’s plenty of water,” Suzanna acknowledges. “And that vega grass should make excellent hay. I wonder what other plants lurk in it. Wild onions, I would imagine. And garlic.” She purses her lips. “There’s likely to be mint along the stream banks.”

 Gerald chuckles. She narrows her eyes at him, then grins.

He moves to stand beside her. His arm slips around her waist. “Hmmm,” Suzanna says. She tilts her head and lets it rest in the hollow of his shoulder. “I still think moving here is a crazy idea.” She shivers a little. “It’s much cooler here than in Taos. I suppose that’ll be nice in June and July, but right now it seems a bit chilly.”

Gerald nods noncommittally but doesn’t answer. They gaze at the long valley before them, the black-green of the pines on the slopes of the snow-topped mountains opposite, the brighter green of the grassland below.

Suddenly, Suzanna twists out of Gerald’s arms and leans forward to peer at the flat piece of land between the hill they’re on and the marsh. “I wonder if I can get corn to grow up here,” she says. “Certainly potatoes.”

Gerald grins triumphantly, then wipes his face smooth as she turns back to him.

Her eyes narrow. “If you think I’ll be satisfied that easily, you’d better think again, Mr. Locke,” she says severely. Then she laughs. “That cabin had better have glass windows!”

“Yes, ma’am, Mrs. Locke,” he says, his eyes dancing as she leans in to be kissed.

 

EPILOGUE

“Well, that young Gerald Locke has gone and got himself set himself up in conjugal bliss.” Old Bill turns the bent beaver trap in the firelight. He can’t righteously plan on it holding together until they get back to Taos. He sure hopes Jerry Smith has showed up by then. This needs the touch of an expert.

“Yeah?” Milton Sublette asks. “Who to?”

“Señorita Suzanna Peabody, no less.”

“Well, I’ll be.” Sublette frowns. “Does her daddy know about Locke? What he is?”

“Oh yeah. He knows Locke’s Daddy. Trapped with him back when they both first come out here. Him and Locke and that Ramón Chavez. They were quite a team.”

“And?”

“The girl says she don’t righteously care what Locke is or where he comes from. He’s the man for her.”

“Does she actually know? Did they tell her?”

Old Bill shrugs. “Now that I don’t truly know, but I wouldn’t think so. Not unless she wanted to know. And if she doesn’t, I’m sure not going to be the one to inform her. Our Suzanna’s a strong-willed piece, but she’s ours and I don’t aim to spoil her pleasure for her, if knowing who her man’s Daddy is would spoil it. Besides, Locke’s a good man and that’s all that righteously matters.”

“Yeah, it don’t matter. And the only man stupid enough to care and bastard enough to tell her is dead and gone.”

“And by the hand of her man.”

“Fair fight and a man who deserved to die, if ever there was one.” Sublette stirs, easing his leg and grunting a little at its stiffness. “Well, I wish young Locke luck,” he says. “With that gal’s opinions, they could be in for quite a ride.”

Old Bill chuckles. “That they righteously could be.”

THE END

Copyright © 2018 Loretta Miles Tollefson

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