Once Upon an Enchantment Read online

  Once Upon an Enchantment

  The Wacky Women Series: Book #5

  by

  Day Leclaire

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  Other Titles by Day Leclaire

  Excerpt from Once Upon a Cowboy

  A Note from Day Leclaire

  Meet Day Leclaire

  Dedication

  Book Description

  In the world of Wacky Women, nothing ever goes according to plan!

  From one disaster to the next, these women will do anything to find true love.

  Heartwarming, hilarious, and unexpectedly poignant,

  Fall into laughter while you fall in love.

  When enchanting, loveable Meriwyn is kicked out of her pixie tribe weeks before Christmas and forced to live as a human, she goes to work for tough, pragmatic engineer, Reeve Lambert, caring for his motherless children. She cherishes everything about her new life, despite the hilarious mishaps with all things electrical and modern. More than anything, she loves the children almost as much as she loves their sexy father, even though that love is forbidden.

  Reeve doesn’t know what to make of adorable Meriwyn. From her odd speech pattern and ability to charm all two- and four-legged creatures, to her confusion over the basics of everyday life, to her innocent passion, she’s become an irreplaceable part of his family. His children want her as a forever mother . . . and so does he.

  But Meriwyn can’t do forever, not with a human. And when she discovers Reeve’s actions will unintentionally destroy her home and people, she must choose between the humans and their needs, and the very existence of her tribe. Not that there’s any real choice. If the humans have their way, the pixies will die. Somehow she must stop Reeve without his discovering who she is and where she comes from . . . or that their love can never be.

  Note to Readers: Once Upon an Enchantment is Book #5 in The Wacky Women Series, a contemporary romance series by USA Today bestselling author and eleven-time RITA© (Romance Writers of America) finalist, Day Leclaire. This story features serious crazy, loveable characters of the two- and four-legged variety, a touch lot of wackiness, and a tender sizzling romance between soul mates.

  This book includes a preview of Book #1 in The Wacky Women Series, Once Upon a Cowboy.

  Would you like a free book? Sign up for my Newsletter for your free copy, as well as the latest exclusive updates and specials.

  Prologue

  “Tell us another story. Please, Granny?” the little girl begged.

  Her brother nodded eagerly. “Tell us about the pixies.”

  “Pixies! Pixies! Tell us the pixie story.”

  The old woman settled in her rocking chair and fixed the two youngsters with a stern gaze. “So, it’s pixies you want to hear about, is it? Very well. Snuggle down in your beds and listen carefully, but mind you don’t wake the babe. For what I tell is no story, but truth.”

  “Once upon a time . . .” the little girl prompted.

  “A long time ago . . .” added the boy.

  The rocking chair gently squeaked and the children’s grandmother picked up the tale. “Came a ship from England filled with pirates. They found a beautiful island for their home that would hide them from the authorities while they waged their nefarious activities.”

  “That means bad,” whispered the girl to her younger brother.

  “Indeed it does,” Granny confirmed. “They were wicked and lawless pirates led by their fearsome leader, Headless.”

  “What about the pixies?” the boy asked.

  “Ah. Poor wee ones. In search of a new homeland, the tribe hid aboard the pirate ship, Vengeance, thinking it a merchant ship.”

  “With an acorn. Don’t forget about the acorn because without it, they couldn’t grow their oak tree,” the girl reminded her granny.

  “Yes, poppet. They brought with them an acorn. For many pixie tribes form close and binding ties with trees. As the tree flourishes, so flourishes the tribe.”

  “And as the tree withers, so withers the tribe,” the boy intoned solemnly, then gave a huge yawn. “That means they die, right?”

  “Right you are, my boy. Should something harm their tree, so will their tribe be harmed.” A small gurgle came from a nearby cradle and Granny fell silent until the baby settled. Keeping her voice low and soothing, she resumed her tale. “And so for many years, long before the wicked pirates mended their ways and became good, decent folk, pixie and human settled here, both in hiding.”

  “The pixies from the humans . . .” the boy began.

  “. . . and the humans from the law,” the girl completed. “Of course, eventually the pirates gots caught.”

  The boy grinned. “Most of ’em.”

  “And so did the pixies.”

  “Only one!”

  “Tell us about the pixie you caught, Granny,” begged the little girl.

  The boy chimed in. “Yes, please. Tell us.”

  The rocker eased back and forth in a slow, gentle motion. “Oh, I was a bitty tyke when I first laid eyes on that puckish prankster. I came upon him quite by accident. Right at dusk it was.” She smiled gently at the long-ago memory. “I knew straight off what sort of creature I’d stumbled upon. It’s easy to recognize a pixie, you know.”

  The little girl gave a serious nod. “Because they’re green.”

  “Because they always have a bit of green about them,” the old woman corrected. “And they have wee, little points on the tips of their ears.”

  “And their pixie dust. Don’t forget the bag of pixie dust they tie to their belts,” the boy reminded.

  “Yes, boy. And the pixie dust.”

  “Tell us what you did when you saw the pixie,” the little girl urged. “You catched him, didn’t you?”

  “Quick as a wink I seized a piece of him, I did. Don’t ask me why. I was young and foolish. But lay your hand upon one, or fix him with an unblinking gaze, and he can’t escape. But let loose of him and look away for the teeniest moment, and he’ll vanish in the twinkling of an eye.”

  “What did you do with him?” the little girl demanded. “Do you still have him?”

  “No, poppet. You can’t hold a pixie any longer than you can hold your breath.” She smiled at the memory. “So there I had meself a pixie and what to do with him? They aren’t like leprechauns, you know. They have no pot of gold.”

  “Have him use his pixie dust to grant your wishes.”

  “No, no. That only works in the light of the full moon, and even then, only if the wee blighter is so inclined. I suppose I could have held on to him until the full moon rose later that night, but I doubt the pixie would have granted my wish while still my captive. No. I chose to forgo my wish. But I decided as long as I had a pixie, I might as well satisfy my curiosity about his kind.”

  “What did you say to him?” the little girl asked in a breathless voice.

  “‘Master Mischief,’ said I.” The old woman stopped rocking to clarify. “I addressed him so for a pixie does not give up his name willingly. It gives a human power over the fairy, so they guard their name with great care. I did not ask it to show respect for him and the ways of his kind. ‘Master Mischief,’ said I. ‘Tell me of your kith and kin and all about that leather bag you keep at your waist.’ Mind you, I took care to listen with but one ear, for they can beguile you with sweet words. Before you kno
w it, they’ve scrambled your wits and escaped.”

  “What did he tell you?” the boy interrupted. “I don’t remember this part.”

  “Then, I’ll refresh your memory.” Granny ticked off on gnarled fingers. “Pixie dust changes their size, that it does. From little to big and t’other way ’round. Or their shape. My wee man turned from fox to fern to fieldstone. But I was on to his tricks and held tight.”

  “So the dust can change things?”

  “Only after a fashion. As I said, a pixie can use it to change their form. But its main purpose is—”

  “To right a wrong,” the little girl interrupted. Her brow wrinkled in confusion. “What’s that mean? How does it right a wrong?”

  “I’ve puzzled over that many a year,” the old woman confessed. “And sad to say, I haven’t a clue and my Merry Man never explained.”

  “Once he’d answered your questions, you let him go?” the boy wanted to know.

  “The poor, bitty thing begged so pitifully, I hadn’t the heart to keep him. It was the summer solstice that very night. You see, my sweets, pixies collect their dust at moonrise each solstice and equinox. They call it their Gathering Night and his supply of pixie dust was in a sorry shape. The instant I heard it means certain death for a pixie to use the last of his dust, I set him free. They’re near to immortal, fairy creatures are, and I couldn’t have his death on my conscience.”

  “Did he turn you into a monster when you let him go?” the boy asked with a huge grin.

  The old woman chuckled. “Bless you, child, no. A pixie cannot harm a human. Oh, there’s nothing he loves more than playing a prank on an unwary mortal. And he’ll laugh his fool head off if he succeeds. But he can’t do physical harm to me and mine. Truth be told, I’ve always believed having caught the wee lad—and then releasing him—has blessed my life with an extra helping of good fortune.”

  “When you let him go, did he say thank you kindly?” demanded the little girl.

  Granny chuckled. “Not a bit of it. He cursed me soundly for delaying him and went about his business.”

  “Did you ever see him again?”

  “That I have, sweetpea. That I have, though only from a distance. Once a year at the summer solstice, he’d appear in my garden and try to tempt me from hearth and home. I knew no good would come from trying to catch him again. He’d only lead me deeper and deeper into the woods and vanish once he had me well and truly lost. Being pixie led, it’s called. But I’m on to Master Puck’s tricks. Of course, now that I’m old and gray, he sits by my window now and then to visit, whether in the form of a rusty old marmalade cat or ruddy-tailed raccoon or redheaded squirrel. Old friends are we.”

  The little girl gave a wide yawn. “I wish I could meet a pixie,” she said, snuggling deeper into her bed. “I’d hold on and never let go.”

  The old woman nodded sadly. “Aye, I believe you would, my sweet mite. Which is why pixies never, ever trust humans.” She closed her eyes, the weight of her years and ache of her bones easing beneath the captivating memory of having touched one of the fae.

  She smiled. “Sleep well, my precious ones. And dream the dreams of enchantment.”

  Chapter One

  “Water! We need water!” the unruly crowd roared.

  Al Rayhew, the mayor of Pixsley, stood on the front porch of town hall and stared at the mob in horror. He took a telling step backward. “We gotta do something,” he muttered around his cigar.

  “You have to do something,” Reeve Lambert corrected easily. He leaned a broad shoulder against a wooden support pillar, keeping a wary eye on the crowd. “I warned you about this.”

  The mayor’s ruddy complexion darkened. “This isn’t the time for I-told-you-so. You’re the engineering genius. Do something quick, before they really get ugly.”

  Reeve folded his arms across his chest and shook his head. “The tests aren’t complete. It would be premature—”

  Mayor Rayhew clamped down on his cigar. “Premature, my Aunt Agnes! We’re in desperate straits here.”

  “You’re in desperate straits,” Reeve corrected again. “You wanted the good citizens upset over the water situation in order to unseat your predecessor.” He inclined his head toward the people cramming the small cobbled town square. “Congratulations, Mayor. You succeeded.”

  “They should be upset,” Rayhew snapped belligerently. “If you were smart, you’d be upset, too. You can’t blame me because I took control when things got desperate—”

  Reeve turned cold, dark eyes on the mayor. “You took advantage, not control,” he retorted. “You used the islanders’ fear to further your own ends.”

  “We have a water crisis on our hands!” the mayor practically shouted. “I didn’t invent it.”

  Reeve pushed away from the pillar and approached, looming over the short, rotund man. He despised those who used fear to garner power and control. And Rayhew excelled at that ability. “No. You did far worse. You exacerbated it. Right now, we need level heads to make informed decisions. What we have instead are hysterical people who will make rash decisions out of fear and ignorance.”

  Rayhew shot another nervous glance toward the unruly crowd. “What decisions? Either there’s water or there isn’t. What’s to decide?”

  A small, humorless smile crept across Reeve’s face. “So you admit the possibility there isn’t any water. During your election campaign, you promised an endless supply. How will you keep your word if my test results are negative?”

  The mayor shrugged. “If there is no water, then the island is dead and I’m out of a job, anyway. But if there is water . . .”

  “Then you’re a hero.” Reeve turned away in disgust. When had local politics become synonymous with dishonesty and underhanded manipulation? On a national scale, sure. It happened. But not on their tiny island. “Until you started your campaign, we had time. Time to drill our wells, to test the water samples, to examine our choices, and determine the best option. Now, the clock is clicking down.”

  “Then you’d better act fast.” Rayhew stabbed his cigar toward the crowd. “The first order of business is to take care of this little problem. So, get on it.”

  Reeve shook his head. “This little problem is all yours. You hired me to find water, not act as crowd control.”

  “You can’t just walk away.”

  Reeve studied the mayor with pointed indifference. “Can’t I?”

  “I don’t think you fully appreciate your position in all this.” Mayor Rayhew leaned closer, his deep voice a soft rumble. “I may have promised them water, but I also promised them you’d be the one to find it. It’s your tail on the line every bit as much as mine.”

  Reeve froze him with a look. “Don’t try to blackmail me, Al. You won’t like the results. I can’t give them water if there’s none to be found.”

  The mayor ran a trembling hand over his nearly bald head. “Reeve, please.” His tone turned more conciliatory. “There are women and children out there. Someone could get hurt. Do something. Anything.”

  For a long minute Reeve considered walking away and disowning the whole sorry mess. But he was native to this island, and as deeply concerned about the current water crisis as everyone else. He studied the crowd through narrowed eyes, seeing the fear and anger marking the faces of people he called friend and neighbor. He couldn’t allow them to suffer because of the thoughtless actions of one man.

  Besides, as much as he hated agreeing with anything Rayhew said, if someone didn’t take control and fast, all hell would break loose and people could get hurt. Not that it wouldn’t happen, anyway.

  The Isle of Faye was renowned for three features: its idyllic climate, its lush setting, and its hot-tempered residents—and not necessarily in that order. The islanders considered all three their natural, God-given birthright, passed down from their equally spirited pirate ancestors.

  Facing the inevitable, Reeve bounded down the steps of the town hall and disappeared into the crowd. The milling ma
sses parted, clearing a path, and he strode toward the bronze statue in the center of the square. Grabbing the outstretched sword arm of the bronze statue, he swung up to stand beside Headless the Pirate, the founding father of Pixsley.

  “Calm down and listen,” he shouted above the roar of the voices.

  A burley islander approached the base of the statue. “Why should we?” Stemp demanded. “We don’t want words. We want water.”

  “If you want water, then listen up,” Reeve retorted. “I’ll tell you as much as I know at this point.” A hush fell and he took immediate advantage of the momentary lull. “You know I’ve been drilling test well sites.”

  “You’ve found something?” a young woman called, cradling her baby close.

  “I found what could be the edge of a large aquifer. If the results are positive, we’ll have more than enough water. But—” He shook his head to stem the cheers. “Wait a minute. Listen.”

  “Let’s recall the mayor and elect Reeve instead,” Stemp suggested, a huge grin splitting his bearded face.

  “Don’t do me any favors.” Reeve held up his hands and the crowd fell obediently silent. “First, you should know the test results aren’t definitive. You need to prepare yourself for the possibility the initial tests are incorrect.”

  The crowd stirred uneasily and a voice called, “When will you know for certain?”

  “Sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Second, there’s no need for panic. The current water supply will last a while if we’re conservative. We’ve pulled together when faced with other crises. We can this time, too.”

  Renewed enthusiasm met his comment. “Remember that hurricane two years ago?” an old-timer reminded. “We could have been wiped out. But we all got by.”

  “That’s right,” Reeve agreed. “Finally, you must understand these things take time. Be patient. Go home and let me do my job.”

  “What? And break up such a fine party?” Stemp retorted. Laughter erupted and it took several minutes to restore order.