Book 3 earns Praise of Young Reader

Not sure this is true for all authors, but it is for me. I received a nice compliment this morning. My son, age 13 going on 30 stopped in his tracks this morning to listen to me read. It wasn't that he yearned to be 3 and hear a bedtime story, it was the story that I was reading…Go Trevor!

I've lived and worked with this character for over five years and am now working on "His Journey." Trevor has waited patiently for me to tell the story from two female's point of views and now it is his turn to tell his story. I love the guy, he is continually surprising me and this morning, well, let's just say-- his actions held my son in the palm of his hand with the rest of his audience!

"His Journey" will be Book 3 in a trilogy that I'm writing. "Her Promise" is out shopping for a date with a publisher while "In Her Hands" is off to her first of many polishing sessions. When "In Her Hands" is complete with all her polishing done, it too will go shopping for a date to the publishing ball. I have no doubt that it will find one easier than her sister as "In Her Hands" is a romance while "Her Promise" has a different twist.

In Her Hands Update

Just when I thought I was doing an awesome job on In Her Hands, I took a hard look at the word count and choked, only 45,000! Cough, cough and this rough draft is done. Time to go back and fill out the pages before the climax (currently sitting at page 116). Yikes! I only need to write 30-40 pages of description, details, sequels, and maybe a bit of back story... Back to the writing cave for me…

WIP Update

It's been a busy week and with a few unexpected changes to my baby, the biggest being her name.

You've read the announcements, but this one is the final (until a publisher adds their two cents.) The title she went to the publishers with is Her Promise. Why have I finally settled on this title, you ask? Because it is all about the protagonist's promise made and kept at great sacrifice.

Another WIP Update

Don't you hate it when an author and blogger (in this case, me) hides in their writing cave for weeks without out a sound?

My apologizes. But I don't promise it will never happen again. (I've been fighting with Blogger you know.) Blogger has won but I think I've figured it out. Don't hold your breath.

Some of you have watched me share tidbits of what I'm working on over at Facebook and it dawned on me that I re3ally should share here as well. So recently I've been tagged to share the last paragraph that I've completed in my WIP. Tough in my situation as I'm cutting, pasting and rewriting to back it stronger, bigger faster than it was before…oh wait, that might have been the Six Million Dollar Man.

Joking aside, here are a couple of paragraphs from Porsche's Prologue, book one in the Arbon Trilogy.

"I remember a horse squealing, you know that shrill scream between a whinny and a stallion's whistling call?  It made my hair stand on end. It still does. I found out later it was Buckle. She had step on a hollow lava bomb, she must have busted through and broken her leg," her voice hitched.

"I was lucky she couldn't break free. She probably would have trampled me. I couldn't move. I tried to, until I saw the snakes. Hundreds of them slithering and coiling to rattle. I couldn't move then and I knew. I knew they were going to get me." She stared at the ground several feet away as if the snakes were there and yet her tone remained calm, her expression vacant. "I don't know why they didn't bite me. They should have. I should have been bitten a hundred times or more, but I wasn't."

Before you stone me, this is the manuscript with the flying or is it dancing(?) goat.

WIP Update

Today is a BIG day for me. I have completed the rough draft of "Torrid Summer Heat."
This is my most recent romance novel with just a hint of PTSD. I'm so excited to learn more about PTSD and how it isn't limited to those who have served or are currently serving in the armed forces.
From here it is time to start the polishing process, not always a pretty task but totally necessary to bring you, the readers a novel you can get lost in.
With a list of things to watch for, reminders to KISS (Keep It Simple Stupid) (Okay, that isn't what veterans know it as), a submission guideline to tweek the manuscript to, and a colledtion of notes to myself, I'm headed back to my writing hole. I promise to come up for air and sustenance as needed.

One of those days in which I'm wishing I were somewhere else but know I'm where I should be. Life is tough.
Where do I want to be? you might be asking. At the RONE's in Las Vegas of course!
Where am I instead? In front of my laptop dropping a bombshell on my main character for your entertainment. (Does it count that the character is in Las Vegas?)
The question now is: How long should I make the poor guy suffer? Of course on another plate, he has suffered a lot. (On more pages than I want to let you know at this point!)
So who is this character? Funny you should ask, his name is Trevor Palmer, eligible bachelor at 26 and retired CEO of Prestige Pool Company. He's got nothing to lose...or does he? Could it be that his dream has already cost him too much?
I'm toying with the title of this one still. my latest brainstorm that fits the best? Loves Cost
Thoughts?

More goat dancing!



Photo from aux.tv
Not quite Houdini but this could be his sibling

                                                                           Chapter

The sound of tires squealing and the scream of a train whistle punctured the otherwise still morning. Porsche's head jerked up, her attention whipped from the display of aquamarine novelty tchotchkes. Unable to see through the front window of the hardware store from her vantage point, her gaze shifted to Uncle Reinhold in askance. Reinhold Kowallis reflected his German ancestry in every way, from the blue of his eyes and sandy blond hair to his square jaw and broad shoulders that carried considerable muscle mass. Uncle Reinhold could be stern and his temper, when riled could be dangerous, but his tenacity proved invaluable in hard times.

Uncle Reinhold didn't spare a glance in her direction. ""Mrs. Harper's goat is out again."

Porsche could almost hear the German accent in his words, and yet he'd never left the states. "Again?"

"You best be after him before he causes an accident. That woman needs a better fence to keep her animal off the highway. 'Course it'd help if these out-of-towners knew anything about country driving."

"What makes you say that?" Porsche asked, taking her gray True Value smock off over her head.

"The Nevada plates on that red pick-up." Uncle Reinhold pointed out the door. "Nobody else in these parts would have a horn like that."

Porsche hurriedly straightened her long auburn hair after removing the smock. Uncle Reinhold owned the hardware store and had willingly offered Porsche her old job back when she'd returned home three weeks ago. He was a good and gentle boss, and although not related allowed Porsche and her younger sister, Mercedes, to call him "Uncle." He and his recently deceased wife, Pauline had spent many hours in their home when the girls were small, almost as many hours as they had spent in the Kowallis home growing up. Uncle Reinhold wore glasses on the tip of his nose when peering over the books, which he insisted must be kept the old-fashioned way. Now they dangled from a rather feminine looking chain at his neck. Somehow they seemed to make his huge six feet in height and brawny muscles less noticeable.

"I don't know how long I'll be gone. That horn probably made him skittish."

"More like dancin' to the music. You run along. Think of this as an early lunch hour," Uncle Reinhold tsked.

 "Sorry," Porsche called over her shoulder, pushing through the doors.

"Ya been lookin' for excitement since you came home. Here it is. Take your time."

Mrs. Levenski climbed out of her SUV, her Great Dane pushed to exit his confines. "Duke, quiet. Stay."

Porsche placed a hand on Mrs. Levenski's shoulder intending to hurry past the retired school teacher. "You have a nice day. Take it easy on Reinhold. Don't buy too much fabric. You know how he is about cutting yardage. I've left him alone to mind the store."

"Should I come back later?"

"And hurt his feelings? Are you kidding? Just watch him." Porsche continued the joking banter. Uncle Reinhold was notorious for giving the ladies an extra quarter of a yard just in case he measured wrong.

"Are you going try and catch that stray?" Mrs. Levenski asked, pointing toward the Arty's Burgers with its goat dancing act.

"I am." Porsche wished for the first time all morning that she would have taken the time to at least change out of her boots after her morning check on the horses. Too late now. Hopefully Houdini didn't plan on a site seeing trip today. She didn't need a 5K run, or walk today.

"Here." Mrs. Levenski's single word reflected years of commanding throngs of noisy youth. Porsche stopped in her tracks, turning back to the woman.

Mrs. Levenski thrust a thick walking leash toward her. "I think you might need this. Houdini's collar might not feel too good in your hands after you drag him ten blocks toward home."

Porsche retraced her steps, accepting the short leash. "Thanks."

Porsche walked across the street in the direction of the partying animal. She watched Houdini dance on the table top, shaking her head. Houdini was just like every goat, inquisitive to a fault, and always needing to climb anything and everything he could and when his little hooves managed to make clicking sounds, so much the better. In this case, she hoped the wether goat's vanity with making his own music would prove helpful today. An old blue pickup rolled to a stop in the restaurant parking lot.

"Need some help?" the driver asked.

"Some food to bait him would help."

The guy reached into a bag. Porsche could hear the rustling of fast food wrappers. The driver stuffed half of his egg muffin sandwich in his mouth, using both hands to manage the food and keep it from falling to his shirt front. He tugged the sausage free and handed the rest to her. "Here. You owe me breakfast, Porsche."

She turned and took a good look at him. Vinnie Espinoza, the only German Latino in the entire valley. He'd asked her out a few times in high school and she'd said no then, the answer was the same now, even if he had matured from a baby face to a nice looking guy. He still ate like a slob. She didn't need to complicate her life with what he would most likely expect to follow a breakfast with him.

"Thanks. I'm not eating this." She waved the food at him."Ask Mrs. Harper for breakfast. Her goat is gonna eat it."

She shifted the muffin to her left hand and stuffed the leash into her back pocket, just as she did every time she had to catch her dad's ornery horse, Buck. Most horses could be bribed with a little grain or a sweet carrot, hopefully Houdini could be bribed with fast food. She hoped the breeze was stirring the air just enough to catch the wether goat's attention.

"Hey, Hoody," Porsche purred the nickname she'd given the animal years ago. "Hungry?"

She stepped closer; the goat looked at her and bleated. Was he laughing? Or asking her why she hadn't visited him in so long?

"Hoody want a muffin?" She continued to drone seductively and waved the food in front of the goat. "It tastes good. Not that you're that picky. Come on, you remember me don't you? I won't hurt you."

The goat pranced to the near side of the table. She slowly slipped the leash out of her pocket. Houdini stuck his neck out, greedy for the fragrant muffin that was now devoid of its sausage. Porsche knew better than to let the goat eat out of her hand and carefully maneuvered the muffin to spare her fingers. The egg dropped to the table top. She quickly snapped the leash onto Houdini's collar and patiently waited for the goat to finish his breakfast. The goat was on the leash, the easy part done. Now Porsche had the more difficult job of wrangling the animal to his pen in Mrs. Harper's back yard. She persuaded the bleating creature to leave the table. With any luck, this would be like taking a dog for a walk. She started across the drive thru lane.

The shrill whistle of a train horn sounded causing Porsche and Houdini both to jump and when Houdini ran, Porsche followed to the corner before managing to bring the 150 pounds of runaway under control. Porsche glared at the driver of the red truck, watching it as it pulled out on the highway that was also the town's main street.

"Oh buddy, you are so lucky that I'm German instead of a Romanian gypsy, I'd put one heck of a curse on you." She tugged at the leash. "Houdini, you got any Romanian blood in you? Can you at least give him the evil eye?"

Houdini bleated in answer, trotting happily beside her. Apparently, the asphalt surface was as good as the table top, without being climbed on. Things went well until they left the paved roadway. Forty-five minutes later, after pushing and pulling the rest of the way she deposited the animal behind the chain link fence.

"Mrs. Harper," Porsche explained for the umpteenth time. "Houdini loves to climb. And when you pull his shelter over by the fence, he climbs it. When he gets board, he jumps off and goes for a walk in town. Unless you move it back to the center of the pasture, he's gonna keep getting out."

"But the pasture needs to get watered."

"Next time I'm just going to call Sheriff Zupan. You know he's given you plenty of warnings. And Mrs. O'Leary was none too happy about having her trees stripped. One of these times Sheriff Zupan will write you a ticket or worse, Houdini just won't come home." She didn't have the heart to add he might be dead. Of course she didn't want any harm to come to Houdini. She'd held him when he was just a week-old kid and when Mrs. Harper had finally complied with city zoning and sold the rest of her goats years ago, Porsche had visited often to comfort the kid. Now he'd grown to an inquisitive wether goat. Thank goodness Mrs. Harper had had him castrated when he was six months old.

Porsche's comment inferring the worst for Houdini, got Mrs. Harper's attention. "I'll take care of it. I promise. Thank you again for bringing him home. I'll fix you dinner this Friday."

"Don't worry about it. Fix Vinnie Espinosa breakfast and call it all square."

The walk back to the hardware store gave Porsche time to reevaluate her goals somewhat. Grandmother's decision to support Mercedes, Porsche's younger sister, at ISC rather than continuing to support Porsche had stung. She'd tried to finish the necessary schooling on a very tight budget, taking a few too many credits. Her plan had backfired and she would have to repeat the classes. In the mean time, she was forced out of her student housing and had returned home. Uncle Reinhold had proven good for his word, giving Porsche her old job back. This time she would pinch every dime rather than driving to and from work, going to movies in American Falls and hanging out at the local bar with guys like Vinnie.

Her walk was much shorter without Houdini's company and she reached the Maverick Gas Station about the same time she promised herself that nothing, not tight funds, lack of entertainment or even a guy would keep her from becoming a Physical Therapist. Her commitment renewed, she looked up and recognized a recent model red pick-up glistening in the sunshine, parked off to the side of the converted coffee shop windows. Maybe Houdini had managed to curse the vehicle, but couldn't the curse go to work after the guy left town?



Fun Scene---(or st least the first part of it)---as promised!

Chapter

Trevor simultaneously slammed on his brakes and hit his horn. Astonishment coursed through his veins at the sound of a train whistle emanating from his newly acquired truck. He had little time to wonder while keeping his vehicle from swerving out of control. He pumped the brakes again and came to a stop. The goat did little more than look at the bright red truck and continue munching on whatever it held in its mouth. A bag bounced across the street, carried by the morning breeze. Contending with a four-footed creature for the right-of-way on a busy thoroughfare wasn't what Trevor had bargained for on his visit to what he expected would be a quiet adventure to Arbon, Idaho.

The goat bounded after the dancing plastic bag. Trevor let off the pressure on his brakes allowing his truck to roll forward in the goats wake. Entertained by the unexpected distraction, Trevor watched the frolicking animal as it chased the bag and jumped high in the air after it. Amused, Trevor pulled into the fast food restaurant's parking lot. The little black and white critter scampered first one way and then the other after the bag and even slipped on the pavement once while pirouetting in its pursuit. Trevor chuckled; the goat looked like he had airplane wings for ears! The animal skidded to a halt, bleated a moment and bounded toward the brightly colored picnic tables. With acrobatic ease that would make the goat's cousin, the mountain goat proud, the animal high tailed it onto the bright yellow table surface. The goat appeared to square his white neck and shoulders, much like a prize fighter returning to a bout and immediately began prancing and dancing.

A young woman, dressed in her work smock, exited the restaurant and confronted the four footed dancer. Unimpressed by the human's efforts to scare him away, the goat jumped off the yellow table and just as easily mounted the blue table top. Trevor half expected the goat to kick the previous diner's remains off the table to make room for his performance. Instead the goat snatched up the paper plate and started munching away.

The young woman approached waving her arms wildly to startle the animal. He merely stared at her, bleated and continued munching what Trevor assumed was a syrupy plate. Beaten by the uninvited patron, the frustrated young woman returned inside. Trevor watched the goat, several questions running through his mind. Whose goat wandered the streets of this small town? Did they know their goat was terrorizing what appeared to be the only fast-food establishment in town? How long would the goat occupy the table top?

Trevor mentally shook himself. This goat had nothing to do with why he was here. The only thing this interlude accomplished was a much needed break from his long drive. When he took a few minutes to relax, he had to admit he was famished. Maybe with a not breakfast, instead of a granola bar, he would manage to organize a game plan. He had little to go on other than his grandfather's journal. He had all summer to find the mine, if it really existed, and the riches the journal described. One thing at a time, and the first thing was to satisfy his hunger.

Come back to learn who the goat belongs to, and how long the goat will occupy the table top.

Previous first chapter to WIP

A story of love and sacrifice

Lord, help thou my unbelief…

Chapter 1

"I'm sorry Porsche, I just can't continue to support both of you girls. I know this comes out of the blue, but I hope that you can understand why I feel I should help Mercedes finish school. She hasn't vacillated in her chosen field like you have. I just can't justify continuing to throw good money after bad. When you decide what you want, we'll talk again."

Porsche couldn't believe her ears. Grandmother Wilkes had offered to pay for college tuition for years. Because of Grandmother's assurance that Porsche's college education was going to be at Grandmother's expense, Porsche has spent her money on a car and explore various universities one semester at a time. Now, that decision was coming back to haunt her.

"I understand Grams. It just comes as a surprise."

"I know dear. I wouldn't have wanted this for the world, but my portfolio really took a hit when the company I invested in sold. The new owners are uninterested in the opinion of an old woman or her investment. Maybe you can find a job to pay for your schooling."

"I'm sure I can. Thanks Grams. I love you."

"I love you too, dear."

Porsche ended the call and set her smart phone on the coverlet of her bed before the tears invaded her evening.

In the weeks that followed, she made the most of her remaining days at UNLV. Making sure she didn't miss a single extracurricular activity that caught her interest, hoping that at least one would outshine all the others. It just wasn't happening.

The day she had to call home for money for the third time in a month was the day she decided to return home and take her old job back, working for Uncle Reinhold at the hardware store.

She and her twin sister, Mercedes, had worked summers for him. It was while working for him that she had earned enough to buy an old car. Dad had fixed it up and it served her well. Mercedes would become the only college student in the family and Porsche would be the daughter living at home. She had to earn money to get out of the small town of Arbon before it became too comfortable to leave.

(Okay, this isn't the fun scene I promised---Come back in a couple of days...)

WIP Update

My current project is succumbing to major revamping. The reason? Most readers don't associate with double climaxes even if they think they do. It is a programmed response from years of reading. Solution? Start smack dab in the middle of the first climax. (Okay, I already knew this but momentarily--as in for three months, got mentally stuck on 'what happens when a stranger comes to town.') Yes sir-reee that was and still is a fun scene.

(Me with my mind swirling) Wonder if I should share that scene with ya'all????) It would certainly give those of you who follow my work something to chew on for a few days…weeks…months…

Two edged sword…love it and can't wait and love it but wanting to kill me for not sharing more or getting the book to you sooner.

Humm…Do we understand that it takes longer to build a story that the reader can't put down than it takes to actually read the book?

Then there is finding the perfect publisher, fitting it into their publishing calendar. We could be a good year out with this one…maybe release a prequel on smashwords???

Your thoughts? Opinions? Or did I lose you guys when you didn't get all of The Talisman? You can click on the title here or the tab at the top of the page and read if you're interested.

Come back and help me figure out a good title for this one. Do I need tempt the winner with a free copy when it is released and seeing your name in print?

Wip - The Talisman - Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Present Day

Part B

Rhea's heart dropped. No wonder Trish had returned home. Her life-long dream had been shattered. She had turned to plan B, whatever that was. Rhea gasped. Plan B, ride off into the sunset never to be heard from again. Could that be Plan B? It didn't seem that farfetched when she considered Grammy and her outlandish stories.

Tap, tap, tap.

Rhea flinched and looked at her window to discover Vance standing there. Rhea put her hand in motion, rolling down the window.

"Morning, Mrs. Larsen." Rhea could still remember changing this boy's diapers twenty years ago but still he used the formal address.

"Morning." Rhea interfused her thoughts and righted her demeanor.

"What brings you by this morning?"

"I'm looking for Trish."

"What? Miss Play by the Rules sneaking around behind your back or something?"

"Or something. She didn't come home last night…"

It didn't take long to discover that Yedi wasn't in his stall or that Trish hadn't returned her saddle and tack.

Vance pulled out his cell phone, astonishing Rhea with not only the number of people he called asking if they'd seen Trish but the clarity of the conversation via the wireless.

"Looks like nobody's seen her since yesterday morning."

"It didn't sound to me like anyone had seen her. Who said they'd seen her?"

"Me." Vance said as though the one syllable solved the puzzle.

"You," Rhea pounced on the clue. "Where? When?"

"Right here yesterday morning. She seemed fine."

"What did she say? Where did she go?"

"Whoa, Mrs. Larsen. She said 'Morning, I'm going riding.' That was it. She didn't say where she was headed or when she planned to be back."

"Which way did she go?"

"Down the road, but that isn't going to help us any. She was on horseback and she knows the valley as good as I do. It wouldn't surprise me none if she turned up in a day or so, telling us she'd followed the Oregon Trail or the Old Stage Coach Trail."

"Did she take supplies?"

"I didn't notice any other than her canteen, but really, I pulled out of here before mid morning to get to that sale in Idaho Falls on time. She coulda come back by and Mom wouldn't have seen her if Trish came to this north gate."

"Young man, you are not helping," Rhea accused.

"What's to help? If Trish wants to vanish up one of these canyons, she's likely to do it and see more deer and elk than hunters do. She's a survivor. You know that. Heck, she taught me about most of those canyons."

"And her father taught her."

"Don't worry about her."

"I can't help it. It's womankind's nature to worry and to top it off; I have a bad feeling about this."

"Why?"

Rhea reached through the open car window, grasped the piece of bad news and handed it to Vance. "This, is why."

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Present Day

Part A

Rhea woke with a start. Why was she sitting up in her chair and in the living room? Trish!

Rhea scrambled to right herself, plucking her reading glasses from their precarious perch at the end of her nose with one hand while fumbling for her romance novel that had slid between the chairs generous cushions. The grandfather clock ticked with its usual disciplined beat. She reached to turn off the lamp on the side table. The first pale glimmer of dawn beckoned at the horizon across the valley. Pushing the footrest closed, she stood and moved carefully through the waning darkness to see the clock's face. Five o'clock. She had fallen asleep waiting for Trish to come home.

This wasn't like Trish. Yesterday had been her birthday but she hadn't seemed overly distraught about it. She'd left the house early to go riding.

Maybe she'd gone with Vance. No one at his home had answered the phone last evening and Rhea had left more than one message. Of course if Vance and his mother were anything like herself, the light on the message recorder could go unnoticed for more than a day.

Where was Trish? Cell phones were wonderful gadgets and maybe after this, she would get one, but service was spotty at best in this valley and thus her decision to keep the landline. It was too early to call. Vinita, Vince's mother worked the late shift and wouldn't be up until after eight. That left her one choice, to go over and try to catch Vance before he got too engaged in training or left to deliver a horse. Why did Trish have to agree to go into business with Vance? He was so young and full of dreams, not to mention being cock-sure of himself.

Rhea mentally shook herself. Trish and Vance and their huge dreams were not the issue this morning. Finding Trish was.

Rhea paused long enough in the kitchen to grab a couple pieces of toast, she'd need it to think straight and if the day demanded more? Well, she'd cross that bridge when she came to it. With her purse strap over her arm, butter slicking her fingers from the toast and keys in the other hand, Rhea hurried through the brisk morning air to her car. The old Pontiac Grand Prix turned over and burst into the gentle roar of power tweaked by local teens. Taking her foot off the brake she let the power roll the heavy car down the drive before coaxing the engine to speed down the dirt road. Oh Trish, where are you?

Ten years ago, Rhea would have thumbed through Trish's notebook, looking for friends and boyfriends whose couches Trish would happily crash on in a case like this. But not today. Trish had come home after weeks of phone calls from Rhea, begging her to reconsider.

Trish had reconsidered all right, right into Vance's dream of horses and training grandeur. What had become of Trish's dream to become a defense attorney? Rhea mulled the possibilities around in her head. Maybe something had happened at the law offices of Mikelson, Hoffman and Bauer. Trish had seemed happy enough until that last phone conversation. Rhea shook her head; she'd not held the power to sway Trish's decisions since high school. Something or someone else must have been the cause for Trish's willing return home.

Deep in thought, Rhea took the corner a bit too fast. The papers on the passenger seat slid. Rhea slapped her hand on them to keep them from falling to the floor. Letting off the accelerator, Rhea pulled safely into the yards of Vance's dream-come-true. As Rhea lifted her hand to put the car into park, the papers slipped to their earlier destination, the floor. It was only then that she took the moment to read. She didn't have to read much to discover the reason for Trish's rash decisions. The letter informed the reader that Trish had not passed her bar exam.

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Part C

Quinn stirred the fire, getting it going again. He figured it was about three in the morning. The horses squealed alerting him to what had woken him in the first place. He didn't usually wake at this hour unless he had good reason. This spring the job for Leavitt had stolen many nights sleep, what with the wolves running the range. The men had opted to work in pairs this year, all but Quinn. He preferred to work alone to protect his secrets, even if it meant less sleep. Leavitt paid well for these occasional short jobs of gathering his livestock from the rough passes of this ridge. Passes no one knew as well as Quinn.

He checked the horses. The stallion pawed at the ground, testing the tether line. Quinn checked the knots and tightened the line. It would be unwise to try to traverse this country without a horse. Though not wide eyed, the stallion seemed ready to bolt at the slightest altercation. Quinn soothed the animal, running an appreciative hand over his sleek coat. The stallion's head was fine, his eyes speaking of intelligence. Could this stud be stolen property? Maybe he was used for breeding as he certainly wasn't a cowpony. This was the type of animal Quinn would happily breed his mares against. Too bad the mare he rode on this trip wasn't in season. If she were, no doubt there would have been a bit more squealing on her part.

Quinn had spent years bartering good breed mares for his training services. Noble was notorious for not recognizing a good animal and even worse at caring for them. Quinn had rescued more than one prime mare from the man.

 Finding all well with the horses, he returned to the campfire. The woman had named herself Trish, not what he would have expected.

He filled the quiet hours of darkness watching her sleep. Her long hair had a hint of red in the firelight. Her features were gentle, her cheekbones high, her nose slightly upturned. He wondered how old she was. The dirt and grime smeared along her cheeks and chin masked her age quite adequately, a comely woman, not overly attractive.

Why would a woman dress like a man? Her clothing choice wasn't the only thing that seemed odd. Her shirt had fancy stitching and a collar like that needing a cravat of sorts, but she had none. And her pants: she looked to be plumb poured into them. Of course though it had been merely a glance, he had noticed the curves of her figure. Zelda had once been slight like Trish, and he'd liked Zelda that way. But time at Pierre's saloon had changed her.

When Quinn had first watched Trish from the cover of a downed tree nearby, she had seemed so small and needy under Old Curly's cruel captivity. Curly had threatened to take a poke at her and her whole bearing changed. Trish had become a she wolf, fighting for her life. A reaction totally opposite of how he knew Zelda would have reacted. Obviously this woman was cut from different cloth.

Trish had proved her capability to use a weapon quite well; he had the broken tooth and a nasty bump on his head to attest to it. He glanced at the dead man. She had finished him as well. A daughter, even one with amnesia wouldn't turn on her father unless… How long had Curly had her trussed up? Had he hit her or threatened to rape her before? If he had, he'd gotten what he deserved. Nah, it didn't make sense. Curly was as old and dirty as years of nothing but trails could make a man. Trish, on the other hand was clean in spite of the dirty smudge on her face and arms.

In Quinn's experience women generally needed taking care of. Trish apparently did too. Of course when she'd been free of her tethers, the tables had turned.

She turned over in her sleep, pulling her blanket up and exposing her feet. He appraised her boots. The heel seemed high and the fringe… Common sense, even that of a lady, deemed such extra trappings unwise. Maybe she was hiding the fancy stitching across the toe of the boot. The woman's clothing didn't make sense.

Trish wasn't like other women he'd known. His mother and sister were both genteel ladies of the South although they'd not been strangers to work. Zelda, though not refined, certainly enjoyed the softer side of life. Honest work, whether in the house or the fields wasn't what Zelda relished. Lucinda, Albert's wife, wasn't a complainer. She dealt with living in the rough cabin for the past year with a loving, even doting affection for Albert. They all needed defending at some point, but not this one.

Trish was different, and spirited -- just like her stallion. He liked a spirited horse. He'd trained many of them. They made the best mounts, even in a cowpony. Spirited animals worked hard and would give a man their last ounce of strength.

The log in the fire dropped, sending sparks into the air. Trish stirred, turning over but didn't wake.

Birds chirped heralding the coming of morning. Steam rose from the heating coffee pot. At last she awoke.

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Part B

His indifferent indication of the campsite revealed his disgust. He glanced at her while evaluating the situation. "Well, we gotta call ya somethin'. Got a name ya like?"

She didn't want to answer too fast. "For some reason I feel partial to Trish."

"Trish. Guess it's a'right. Nice meetin' ya ma'am." He repositioned his hat on his head with a gentleman's nod.

 Trish found his presence so near her disturbing and shifted onto her side, her back to him. She tried to focus on the flames of the fire but her eyes inevitably returned to Curly. She pinched her eyes closed not wanting to remember the dead man on the other side of the fire or those frenzied moments leading up to his death. Fearing the memory more than the stranger, she rolled over and wiggled a bit closer to him, her chin tucked to avert her eyes from meeting his.

"Fire's gonna die down. Ya might be want'n to stay close to it."

"It. Not Curly."

"He's a real danger now," Quinn interjected in a sardonic fashion.

A shudder crawled up her back. How could she admit to him the horror she felt at what she had done? She couldn't verbally admit it to herself. "It's not Curly that bothers me. It's dead bodies in general. That blank death stare gives me the creeps."

He rolled out of his bedroll and circled the fire. On the other side he bent over the body and rolled it further away from the fire, face down. He returned stepping over her.

"Anything else botherin' ya?"

She wanted to say lots of things bothered her, including being near him. Instead she answered, "No, thank you."

He settled into his bedroll and moments later serenaded her with his snoring. How could he do it? How could he be part of a murder, roll the victim over and sleep as if it were all in a day's work? Was he that hard? She stopped. Who had killed Curly? Had Quinn with his knife? Or had she struck the final blow? One of them could be found guilty of murder in a court of law, but the other would be an accessory.

If she should happen to be charged with murder, she would plead self defense. If charged with accessory? She was guilty. The memory of her actions sickened her. She faced the fire. Maybe if she snuggled down just right, the rocks at the fire's edge would block her view of Curly. She watched the flames as the fire crackled but she couldn't ignore the dead man.

She turned over, her feet getting tangled in the bedroll. She sat up, her breathing coming in ragged gasps. She had to deal with this. Her gaze settled on Quinn. She didn't know the man. He had proven himself dangerous… no more so than she herself. The light from the fire flickered across his rugged features turning the dark locks of hair fiery black. Could she trust this man? Did she have a choice? If she must trust herself to someone in this dangerous adventure of hers, she could do worse. She had done worse. She resituated her bedroll closer to him chiding herself for finding him even slightly attractive. Pulling a few rocks out from under her, she turned to him for a smidgeon of human comfort and safety. The wolves howled and after a time she slept.

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Part A

Trish lay on her back with her knees up, ready to spring from her bedroll and scramble away or fight. Old Curly's bedroll surprised her with its functional warmth that also served well as padding under her. She opted to wrap the newest looking blanket around her, a finely woven Indian blanket of deep orangey red with a unique pattern near one end.

She stared at the night sky teaming with its abundance of stars so unlike the night sky of her home in the outskirts of Seattle. There the night sky invariably glowed with the reflection of manmade lights on the overcast sky. Oh sure, there were clear nights, but she'd stopped noticing them about the time she'd mistakenly believed her career kicked into high gear. How could she have really believed the "Old Boys" considered her as anything but a glorified office girl? They had given her the mandatory pay raise every six months with the occasional bonus of a title change. She knew betting took place on everything of public knowledge from a baby's birth date, time and weight to who was shacking up with who. Surely the office had run betting odds for if she, the oldest unofficial intern in the office would pass her exams this time just like they had the time before.

The memories made her want to climb in a hole and disappear. She chuckled mirthlessly. She had done better than that; she had slipped through the fabric of time with a device she no doubt should have used years ago. Why didn't she listen to Grammy? I listened alright. I just didn't believe her.

Had Trish listened with an open mind, she could be experiencing her umpteenth adventure rather than her first and by now she would know better than to fall victim to the likes of Old Curly.

"What's done is done," she sighed barely above a whisper. Realizing she'd verbalized her thoughts, she snapped back to her present situation.

A rather handsome stranger lay to one side of her. On the other side, and just beyond the fire, lay a dead man. She didn't know if she could trust the stranger and yet he hadn't killed her. He had actually, in a roundabout way, helped her kill the man holding her prisoner. She may have gotten away from Old Curly without this strangers help, but when and at what price? She was here alone and it had proven dangerous today. Maybe surviving seven days wasn't as easy as Grammy had made it sound. She needed to trust someone, why not him?

"Do you have a name?" she asked into the darkness.

He didn't answer right away. "Quinn. You?"

What if he asked about more than her name? She couldn't tell him she was from the twenty-first century. He'd never believe her and what if he asked where she was from? She didn't know anyone and she didn't know exactly what the year was. Her not knowing even the most common realities could easily be mistaken for amnesia. That's it!

"I -- I don't know."

"What do you mean, ya don't know? Every man has a name."

She had to think fast. A lie was easier to remember if it echoed the truth. "I just remember Curly fishing me out of the gulley. Nothing else."

He pushed himself up on one elbow, looking down at her. "Is that why Curly had you trussed up? Ya ain't lyin' to me?"

"I don't know why he had me tied up. He helped me out. I thanked him. The next thing I knew he'd lassoed me."

"He ain't your pa is he?"

Her stomach wrenched at the thought. "Heavens no. You think he'd wanna take a poke at his own daughter?"

"It'd explain a bit though. Don't 'magine his fatherin' skills'd be much better than his othern'."

"What other?" Was she really having a conversation about a dead man?

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 4 - Part C

Chapter 4

Part C

He grimaced, pulling his head back. "What's with the high fa-lutten words? Ya from back East somewhere's? I ain't heard that kind of gibberish since I was a youngster." He settled back against a rather large, downed tree and relaxed, his knees flexed and his arms draped across his thighs.

A wolf howled in the distance sending a shiver up her spine. How close was it? Would it be safe to travel alone? Through this canyon in the dark? The possibilities raced across her mind. Although she would be considered a city girl in this era, she knew enough to know the answers to her questions. Too close, no, and no. The wolf howled again as if finalizing her decision. A choice she didn't want to make.

"I tell you what. You haul dead Old Curly away from here and I'll share the fire with you," she bargained.

"Tell you what. We leave Old Curly where he is. Put our bedrolls on this side of the fire and let the wolves have him tomorrow while we mosey on down the canyon."

"I'm not sleeping near a dead body." She cringed, had she really killed a man? No, she could never even hurt a man… but she had this time.

He almost smiled "Put 'im out in the cold and invite the wolves to dinner, eh? Or maybe you plan to fight the pack off yourself. Either way, the wolves'll have dinner. I'm thinkin' I'll stay right here, near the fire and put the vittles out for 'em when we leave at daybreak."

She stared at him, relaxing her grip on the rifle. "Yeah, but can I trust you?"

In one fluid motion he sprung to his feet, grabbed his knife and held it to her throat. Trish froze. He held her against him, his blade centimeters from her neck for several minutes before releasing her. He stepped away into the darkness. Her knees nearly buckled, and her whole body trembled.

"If I was gonna help Old Curly or hurt ya, ya couldn't a stopped me. Settle your roll by the fire an' I'll check the horses. Just don't shoot me when I come back."

She stared after him as he disappeared into the darkness.

...next week...Chapter 5

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 4 - part B

Chapter 4

Part B

Trish turned to regard the beans scattered in the dirt. The plate had landed right side up with a few beans still stuck to it. Nausea engulfed her. For the first time all day she was grateful that her stomach was empty. The need to heave gave way to rumblings before shifting to shallow pangs.

She turned her attention on the newcomer. His knife had cut her free but it had also killed. She could see the shallow rise and fall of his muscled chest. She watched the firelight skip on his features. How long would he lay unconscious?

She carefully measured the knife to the sheath at his waist; an exact match. Had he turned and thrown the knife to protect her? She sat back and closed her eyes, trying to remember. It had happened so fast. One moment he was standing there, making those weird faces at her. Then he spun. She slammed the branch as hard as she could at his head, twice. Wait.

She stepped over him, retrieving his hat and setting it on his head. Maybe there had been a reason for the look he gave her and for the… She swallowed. What if he had been trying to communicate with her? Telling her something?

Trish took her hat off and did the best she could to comb her hair with her fingers. She would watch him and wait. His knife balanced on her knees. The fire burned low. She set the knife on a rock and added a log to the fire.

"Come on, hero. If you are a hero, wake up. I couldn't have hit you that hard." She shivered knowing she'd hit Old Curly hard enough. She looked around wondering where Old Curly left his bedroll. Locating it with his mule's pack, she stood to retrieve it. "Dang, I forgot how cold the canyons get at night. Curly, you dog, you better not have fleas or --"

"You always talk to dead men?"

Trish jumped and spun. She stared at him. When did he wake up?

"How do you know he's dead?"

The man chuckled, winced in pain and sat up. "You got a wicked swing." He touched his head and grimaced.

Curly's rifle lay with the rest of the gear still with the pack. Trish grabbed it, pointing it at the newcomer. He glanced at her but continued to check his head for blood. "You should at least trust me now. I could have killed you or at least let Old Curly have his way with you. Put the rifle away before you kill somethin'."

"Trust you? Why should I? How do I know you were trying to help me, and not just get Curly out of the picture?"

"Are you slow? Is that why he had you all trussed up like a steer?"

Trish kept the gun pointed his direction. She had no idea whether or not it was loaded. She reached for the bedroll, rolling it up her leg to get it under her arm. "I'm not slow, and you haven't answered my question."

"The old goat's dead or you wouldn't be free." He glanced at the body before his gaze focused on his knife several feet away. "Ya gonna let me have my knife back?"

She moved to the knife, planting her foot on it.

"Hm--" He pressed his fingers to his lips, checking for blood. She watched him roll his tongue around his teeth. "Busted one of my teeth, too."

She smiled; she'd done better than expected. "Looks like you won't be taking advantage of a shanghaied woman. I ought to press charges against you for being an accessory."

...to be continued

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 4 - Part A

Chapter 4

Part A

Adrenaline pumped through Trish's veins. Her heart pounded, threatening to jump out of her chest and yet she stood firm. No man would take her virtue without a fight.

She turned her attack on Old Curly. He was on his knees, his eyes stunned, his right arm in the air as if to protect himself from her blows. Just think of his head as a tennis ball. She shuffled her feet on the uneven ground, took her stance and swung a beautifully executed backhand. Curly fell back. A strange ker-thunk whispered in the darkness. Both men lay motionless.

Trish stood still, surprised at her easy victory. Smoke from the campfire drifted toward her. The branch slipped from her fingers. Why had the man who ate her supper turned at the last minute? It was as if he'd wanted her to hit him. It took her a minute to absorb what she'd done. She could see by the campfire's dancing light that he was still breathing. She shuddered, willing the gruesome scene to depart. Remembering her need to escape, she knelt by the newcomer hoping to find a knife to cut the rope off her wrists. She did her best to search him, her hands roaming across solid muscle, finding the empty sheath. Why would he have a sheath and no knife? She sat back on her heels and looked at him.

She'd sent his pale cowboy hat flying when she hit him and now she couldn't reach it to return it. A glimmer of guilt for robbing him of his cowboy appeal, tickled her thoughts. No, he doesn't deserve my sympathy. He was going to help Curly rape me. Still, she couldn't keep herself from marveling at his wavy locks of dark brown hair and felt jealous as his eyelashes appeared thick and long against tanned cheeks. His nose came to a gentle point punctuating defining cheekbones and a strong jaw. He looked totally at ease with his mouth pleasantly relaxed. She resisted the impulse to twist her head and get closer. Where was his knife?

The fire crackled and spit as a log shifted, making her jump. She stood, trying to evaluate Old Curly from a distance. He lay in an awkward position with his legs tucked under him, his eyes open. Her gut twisted, bile rising in her throat. Was he dead? She dared to get closer and found herself jerked to a halt. The stranger lay on the rope tethering her. Tugging at it, she pulled the rope free and stepped closer to Curly. The shaft of a knife stuck out of his chest, a pool of blood on his clothes and another dark puddle growing on the ground under his head. He had to be dead. She reached for the knife and pulled. It stuck firm. She turned away, her hands trembling.

Moments later shuddering angst encompassed her whole frame. What had she done? She mentally shook herself knowing she wasn't out of this mess yet and forced herself to do what she must.

She turned back to the dead man, placing her foot on his chest. "I'm not --" She grasped the knife and gave it a firm tug. "Going --" Another tug. "To die out here with the likes of you."

The knife came free. She staggered back, almost falling into the fire. She returned to his body and wiped the knife on his coat. Her strength, driven by shear willpower lagged as she stumbled to sit on the decaying log Curly had forced her to drag to the fireside. She sat with her back to his dead stare. Propping the knife between her feet, she worked at the cord securing her wrists. A sharp zing at her wrist warned her to work more carefully. At last she was free. Trish examined her cut wrist in the flickering fire light. Where was that canteen?

 Locating it behind the rock Old Curly had used to anchor the her tether, she poured water on her cut. The cloth she'd used as a hot pad would have to do for a wrap. Piercing the cloth with the knife, she gave the fabric a savage yank to tear it. Using her teeth as well as her fingers from her injured limb, she managed to tie a rough bandage on her wrist. Her stomach grumbled.

…to be continued

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.

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