WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 3

OH MY GOSH!! So sorry, this should have been the first post this week and I'm just catching it. You can go to the Talisman series tab and read this chapter in order. Again, I am soooo sorry for the mix-up.
The Talisman

Book1

Chapter 3

Part A

The setting sun signaled the need to make camp, yet Quinn pushed on. There would be time to rest once he reached home. He smiled thinking of Zelda and her warm welcome. Of course she would prefer he get the trail dust off and a shave before he visited her, but her solicitous attentions warmed his thoughts. Yes, she had proven herself well worth the gamble. She was no innocent, but he'd known that from the beginning.

He caught a glimpse of flickering fire light as he rounded the pass. Strange. Settlers didn't know about this pass. From the side these folks must have come, it looked like a box canyon. He knew it was passable on horseback but was careful not to travel this pass from the other side so as to not leave a trail. So far the rustlers had not found this shortcut between the Big Lost and Little Lost valleys. He intended to keep it that way. This pass afforded him the luxury of getting home a whole day early. Others in the valley communities had voiced their wonder about how he could make a living with playing cards, riding an occasional round-up and still get his homestead going. He had his secrets and this one he would keep to himself, not even sharing it with Albert, his brother.

Quinn reined his horse toward the game trail on the south once he cleared the narrow pass. Usually he kept to the stream to cover his tracks. Tonight it was more important to learn who was in this canyon. A canyon most believed had only one way out.

He tied his horse a good distance from the campfire and crept closer on foot, careful to remain out of sight. Crouched behind a fallen log, he watched the old timer, his long coat shielding Quinn's view of the fire. At last the man moved around the fire revealing another more slender figure bending over the fire. He watched long enough to recognize something wasn't right. When the figure stood, he kept his arms tight to his body, his hands together. He didn't even pull the long hair off his face.

The figure had no coat and carried the pot from the fire much too close to his body, pouring the steaming liquid from an awkward angle. The form jumped, a feminine squeal of pain filling the air. The old timer swiped a heavy backhand at the slender form.

"Stupid wench!"

Quinn felt the bile of outrage rise in his throat, an old battle reawakened in his gut. Men had died at the hands of outraged youth over the shameful treatment of his kith and kin. To his way of thinking no female, young or old, educated or not, deserved abuse at a man's hand. There were some things a man just should not do. He and his brother had ended a particular abusive situation with their own retribution. They had fled from the warped Tennessee lawman and kept on the move for years with only their horses under them. Hard work kept them fed and card games kept them on the move… until Denver. One night and one card game had changed it all but not the past. The past held bitter secrets, molding the man he'd become. His mother and sister's screams of that night melted to whimpers, whimpers that always brought the same reaction to the surface, his grinding teeth and insatiable need for vengeance. A need from his past that dictated he not allow an old timer to strike a woman.

Quinn worked his way back to his horse, remounted and skirted the camp to approach from the west. He rode in, his back straight, his shoulders broad. He would not run from this fight, if it came to that.

...to be continued.

Oops!

While getting next weeks posts ready, I noticed an error in this weeks order. Part A  of chapter 3 up tomorrow.
Please note that my cheeks are flushed a heated red as my stomach covorts dangerously.

Excuse me...(my muse taps me on the shoulder)...no time for apologizes...get to work. You have another story you are writing while sharing this one with readers. Hurry...you can't leave this one for long.

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 3

The Talisman

Book 1

Chapter 3

Part C

"Thinking of takin' 'er off my hands, are ya?" Curly shook his head. "She's a heap of trouble but ya ain't takin 'er 'fore I get my poke."

"Tough time getting that poke?" Quinn couldn't help but feel relief knowing the woman had held Curly off until now.

"Ain't been the time."

"So what's stopping you?" Quinn measured the man across the campfire from him, disgust growing with every passing minute.

"Nothun now. My belly's full. I ain't a greedy feller. Ya can 'ave a go, jus' as well. Then we know what stakes we're playin' fer."

Quinn noticed the evil glint of anticipation in Curly's eyes. He looked around to see the woman grasping a stout branch in her hands, obviously planning to stand her ground. Instinct told him that she very well could.

"No way. Over my dead body. You want a go? I'll take your manhood first," she hissed.

"Wretch!"

Quinn stood facing her, the plate of beans forgotten. If he could divert any hostility he had to come between the woman and Old Curly. He sidestepped, placing one foot firmly on the rope that tethered her. He spread his hands, inviting her to trust him as he would a skittish horse. He tried to reassure her, mouthing the words, "It's okay. I won't hurt you."

He sensed rather than saw Curly skirt the fire. "Ya go fer 'er hands. I'll hog tie 'er."

Quinn's hand recoiled at the same time he spun. His knife flashed once before sinking into Old Curly's shoulder. "N--" The stout branch caught Quinn off guard. The second swipe hit him and all went black.

...Next week -- Chapter 4

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 3

The Talisman

Book1

Chapter 3

Part B

"Hello at the fire." Quinn called out.

"Who goes there?" came the guarded greeting from the camp.

"Are ya willing to share your fire? I come in friendly," Quinn responded, checking the knife at his belt.

"That's two in one day. Come on in."

Quinn rode closer to the camp wondering at the comment, dismounting at the firelight's ring. "Smells right inviting." He nodded at the woman and the plate of beans in her hand.

"When she ain't burnin' it or dumpin' it on ya." The old timer turned his attention to the woman. "Get the man the rest of 'em vittles."

Quinn watched her. She glanced longingly at the beans and then handed him the plate. He noticed a look of angry annoyance replace that of hunger on her features as he took the plate he observed that her hands were tethered. A length of rope kept her within the ring of firelight.

"Have a sit. Move woman or ya'll get no blanket tonight."

The woman eyed her captor, an inkling of hunger mixing with the vengeful glare. She moved away from him as far as her tether would allow.

Quinn nodded his thanks and hesitantly took her seat on a comfortable rock. He spooned a healthy bite into his mouth. They tasted awful. What had she done to them? The old timer took his place on a ratty stool and resumed his meal, seemingly unaware of the offensive taste.

"Betcha are wondrun' 'bout this." The old man traced the tether in the air with his spoon.

Quinn nodded in a nonchalant manner taking a smaller bite of beans.

"Ungrateful wretch. Saved 'er life, I did. An' this 'eres the result."

"She volunteered to be your slave, did she?" Quinn knew better, but wanted to hear the old timer's version of the story. Nothing made it right to tether a woman like this, especially one that seemed rather unhappy about it. If she were a cattle rustler, it might be different. The old timer definitely wasn't a cattleman.

"Jus' opposite. Old Curly saves her life an' she weren't even appreciable. Ya ever heard of that?"

"I said 'thanks'," the woman snapped.

Curly yanked hard on the rope causing her to fall. Quinn considered the rope, following it with his eyes to find it anchored to a large rock near Curly.

Anger boiled in Quinn's throat. You couldn't force someone to be thankful and if anything Curly had heaped the wrath of the woman on himself. He managed to hide his feelings. Could Curly be reasoned with? Was Curly the type of man to seek revenge if Quinn stepped in? Would he have to outright kill Curly to set the woman free? Quinn considered the woman in the firelight. She was slender, the manly clothing doing nothing to hide her feminine curves even if she looked rather dirty and unkempt. He harbored little doubt about Curly's warped motive.

"Women," Quinn drawled. "Seems they're more trouble than they're worth. Are you a gambling man, Curly?"

...to be continued.

Revised ending to Chapter 2

Thanks to Teresa Anderson's comment on Friday, I've decided to change things just a bit at the end of Chapter 2. Thank you Teresa! Your type of comment is what I'm hoping for to make the whole so much better for all those that read it.

Note to Teresa: Don't forget to contact me so that you can get your prize!

Ah, gee thanks, you old buzzard. His leer turned uglier, stripping her with his cold blue eyes. Her skin crawled. He rubbed his rough beard.

"Been dreamin' of a warm bed. Even been prayin' fer one. Guess the good Lord answers prayers. Whatda ya say? Come with me and 'ave the nice things?"

"Never." Trish struggled against the rough bands about her arms and chest, trying to break free. It was a mistake. He pulled the rope tighter, cutting into her skin.

"I done fought meaner heifers than you, girl."

He tramped toward her, closing the distance between them until he was so close she smelled the layers of dirt and sweat. She threw her knee at his groin, intending to drive him to his knees long enough to escape. Instead she found her knee caught in layers of filthy cloth sending a more putrid whiff of his stench to her senses. He chuckled, his stale breath of decayed teeth and food engulfing her, turning her stomach. Her gag reflex forced its way to the surface and she held her breath, swallowing the bile down. He dragged his filthy hand across her face, pinching her mouth between his fingers.

His eyes tightened on her. "Ya come along nice an' sweet like, an' I won't 'ave to get mean. Maybe ya like the feel of spurs to yar skin. I gave up cowboy'n in favor of huntin' for gold. But don't think Old Curly's lost his touch. I's can still rodeo with the best of 'em. Ya give me trouble an' I just might think of goin' back." He continued making his vile plans while he tied her hands. "That 'orse of yourn don't 'ave much for hind quarters on 'em, but Old Curly could do some right sharp 'orse tradin' an' get me one that do."

She tuned his sordid verbiage out for the moment. She had to watch for the chance to escape.

When he indicated she mount Yedi her hopes soared. Yedi would respond to her leg cues. She didn't have the chance to settle herself before Old Curly climbed up behind her, wrapping his filthy arms around her and hissing his lurid plans in her ear. Her stomach churned at his debasing comments and sickening odors.

This was not the kind of adventure she'd hoped for.

Sunday Morning with Nike Chillemi

Smell the coffee? maybe it's hot chocolate at your place. we don't discriminate. pull up up a chair and relax. I've got my newest Sunday outfit on, so I'm comfortable. We'll pick up where we left off yesterday. What would you say is the underlying theme of DARKEST HOUR for your readers to carry away from it?

Nike:  The underlying theme of all of my novels is that upright people are the ones who seek to right a wrong. My main characters seek justice. They fight against evil, sometimes at great risk to themselves. Another theme in all my stories is that evil cannot defeat love. I think of my mysteries as having a great love story, rather than a romance. In addition to the blossoming love between the heroine and the hero, I also have love of family and love of friends in my stories.  The various main characters in my stories are all at different places in their relationship with the Lord. Some are mature Christians while others are just beginning to consider a walk with the Lord. They all come to rely deeply on the Lord's love.

Shaunna: For those who've read my book DARK DAYS OF PROMISE, you will see why I love Nike and her novels. I love knowing that no matter how ugly things get, right will prevail. Of course I'm a romantic at heart, but romance isn't enough, there has to be a good story to keep me reading. And family and friends are always important.   Although your novels fall squarely into the classic murder mystery genre and might even be considered cozies, you've often been placed in the Edgy Christian Fiction category. Why is that?

Nike:  Wow. I think I'm going to get to that through the back door. I guess you could say my church experience has been that of attending what might be called the urban relevant church. Many in my congregation wear jeans to church. If you have tattoos or sport a black leather bomber jacket, you'd be welcome. And yet you couldn't find a preacher more respectful of the Lord and the gospel than my pastor. I approach Christian crime fiction from that perspective...relevancy. I write classic murder mysteries that could stand side-by-side with any Perry Mason story. However, the reader will find realism in my murder scenes, in my shoot-outs and fight scenes. A murder scene isn't pretty. It doesn't smell good. When one of my characters is beaten up or shot, I make it gritty...realistic. That's why I was placed in the edgy Christian fiction category. I've been writing seriously for about six years and I think today if you asked readers what I write, they'd simply say, "murder mysteries."

Shaunna: We are so different in our religious beliefs and yet the fundamentals are the same. I know there are readers that can't believe my work is recognized as Christian fiction. Who writes the rules anyway? You don't have to answer that Nike. Before I let the readers enjoy another excerpt, let me thank you (Grace Awards really) for inviting me to be a judge in this year's contest. Since our books are competing against each other…good luck! No, ladies and gentleman, we do not get to judge that genre.

Excerpt from DARKEST HOUR

From Chapter Two

Sanctuary Point, NY

"You can't go any further." The husky, police officer Lucinda had seen on patrol around the village raised his hand to stop her.

"My desk is over there." She felt outside her body, observing herself interacting.

"Sorry," the young man replied. "Nobody except law enforcement personnel's allowed in Dr. McCloud's office or by the secretary's desk."

A camera flashed in the doctor's office and the baby-faced officer she'd seen in the parking lot photographing the doctor's body emerged with his camera. His mother worked in the emergency room, and at any other time, she would have smiled at him in greeting. He strode to her desk and took a shot of the papers and items on top. He used a handkerchief to open the top right drawer where she kept an inkpad and several stamps and a steno book.

"Hey, he's going through my desk. Is he allowed to do that?"

The husky officer nodded. "The hospital's given full permission, but he could anyway."

"I see." She stepped to the side to get a better view of what the one with the camera was doing. What was his name? Robert Classen? Attaching a name to him helped, somehow.

He opened the top drawer of her desk and took another photograph.

She rubbed her arms, feeling strangely violated.

"There's something under this appointment book." The officer took keys out of his pocket and used one to lift the book. "Ian, come here. I found something."

Detective Daltry emerged from Dr. McCloud's office. "What've you got?"

"A bullet... a live round under this appointment book. Looks like a Smith and Wesson thirty-two Long."

The detective pulled a handkerchief from his inside breast pocket and retrieved the bullet. "A common cartridge, but still the make is different from the earlier version of the bullet. Get me an evidence bag."

"A bullet," Lucinda screeched and bolted past the officer.

"Miss, stop. You can't go there," the strapping one shouted after her.

"That is not mine." This was surreal. Her world was spinning out of control.

The detective wrapped the bullet in his hankie and shoved it in his pocket. He deftly stepped in front of her, blocking her path. "Miss Byrne, that's far enough."

"Mrs. Byrne."

"Mrs. Byrne," the detective said, his voice taut. "You must step back. And I will have a few more questions for you." He pivoted. "Officer Vogel, show Mrs. Byrne where to wait?"

"You have to back up. You're not allowed in this area," the stocky one said.

Detective Daltry examined the contents of her desk, while the younger one took photographs, documenting everything. Then the detective approached her and took out his notebook.

"Mrs. Byrne, as you saw, we found a bullet in your top desk drawer. Do you know how it got there?"

"I have no idea. I do not own a gun and have no need for a bullet."

"Does anyone in your household own a gun? Could you have somehow picked up a bullet from a gun kept in your house?"

"My grandfather owns a rifle. It's in a locked cabinet in the master bedroom. I don't know when the cabinet was last opened, but it was a long time ago. I have a young child at home and I don't want easy access to a gun."

"I fully understand, Mrs. Byrne. I have a child as well."

She released a sigh and realized she'd been holding her breath. "Until this moment, I'd forgotten we had that rifle in the house."

"Do you know of anyone who might've placed a bullet in your desk drawer? Maybe someone has it in for you."

"No, I don't know of anyone like that. My desk is out in the open, right in front of Dr. McCloud's and Dr. Hinsey's offices. Anyone who walked by could have access."

The detective nodded and smiled, "Indeed, that's certainly so."

Author Bio:

Like so many writers, Nike Chillemi started writing at a very young age. She still has the Crayola, fully illustrated book she penned (penciled might be more accurate) as a little girl about her then off-the-chart love of horses. Today, you might call her a crime fictionista. Her passion is crime fiction. She likes her bad guys really bad and her good guys smarter and better.

She is the founding board member of the Grace Awards and is its Chairman, a reader's choice awards for excellence in Christian fiction. She writes book reviews for The Christian Pulse online magazine. She was an Inspy Awards 2010 judge in the Suspense/Thriller/Mystery category and a judge in the 2011 and 2012 Carol Awards in the suspense, mystery, and romantic suspense categories. BURNING HEARTS, the first book in the crime wave that is sweeping the south shore of Long Island in The Sanctuary Point series, finaled in the Grace Awards 2011 in the Romance/Historical Romance category. GOODBYE NOEL, the second book in the series released in December, 2011 won the Grace Award 2011 in the Mystery/Romantic Suspense/Thriller category. PERILOUS SHADOWS, third in the series released July, 2012, and DARKEST HOUR, the fourth in the series released in February, 2013.  She is a member of American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW) and the Edgy Christian Fiction Lovers (Ning). http://nikechillemi.wordpress.com/