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.

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/

Weekend with Nike Chillemi

Shaunna:  Before I met Nike via the cyberwaves, I thought her name was a pseudonym. Nike -- wow a fast link to the teenager and their parents alike. We all think of Nike shoes, right? Then there is Chillemi. Do this aloud with me Chill-em-i. in my ear I hear Chillin'me. Thus my conjecture. Imagine my surprise when Nike corrected me with this: 

Nike: Since Chillemi is my true last name and not a pen name, I'm going to change the question a bit.

Shaunna: So here is the slightly revised question:  Tell us about your alter-ego Crime Fictionista. Was that contrived as you knew what genre you wanted to write in?

Nike:  A little known fact is I graduated from the Fashion Institute of Technology in NYC and worked in the bridal industry for many years. I traveled to bridal trade shows in Dallas, Atlanta, Chicago, Las Vegas, and of course in New York.  I became well acquainted with the term "fashionista." When I started writing murder mysteries, I thought how about "crime fictionista." I did a google search and discovered nobody was using it, so I took it for myself.  I have a very talented 15 year-old daughter who is now working on a red-haired, female-detective graphic to go with the moniker. I'll be debuting that graphic in the near future.

Shaunna: Fashion! Okay, does this mean I need to change my clothes for this interview? (I dive into my closet for a quick change to my most recently purchased jeans and button down top.) Et hum… I press the commercial button to keep you busy while I change.

------Commercial-------

Darkest Hour: (Murder Mystery w/Romance, late-1940s)

---a widow is framed by powerful people/the medical examiners knows she didn't pull the trigger

---Sweet romance, warm intimacy, sophisticated themes presented tastefully

A petite widow, secretary and sole support of her son and grandparents, is framed for the murder of her boss. Wealthy village residents conspire with the DA to indicte her and stop further investigation. The medical examiner thinks the shooter was a tall individual and when his report is shoved aside, starts snooping trying to clear her and in the process falls in love with her.

Lucinda Walsh lost her husband and parents at sea. When she discovers the body of her boss, his A-List society finacee, backed up by her powerful family and a corrupt DA, acuses Lucinda of murder.  She struggles on shielding her five-year-old son, her feisty grandfather and arthritic grandmother from the ugliness of her situation. She mistrusts the dapper ME, thinking he's a ladies' man, but soon realizes he may be the only one in her corner.

Hank Jansen, the county ME who's had his share of pain and loss, doesn't know if this little widow was in on the murder, but he knows by the trajectory of the bullet she's too short to have pulled the trigger. His professional opinion ignored, he begins his own investigation and at least one cop accuses him of an ethics violation. He certainly can't deny he's fallen head over heals for the accused, and also is crazy about her son. A huge problem is there's a leak inside the investigation and the murderer is always one step ahead of them.

Shaunna (Slinking to my seat, I nervously straighten in my chair as I fidget with my four inch heels. If I had to stand, I'd probably lose my balance.)  How did you develop the plot for DARKEST HOUR and how did you come up with the name?

Nike: (Snickering at my discomfiture.)  In my Sanctuary Point series, one novel has flowed out of another. Main characters in one novel will appear as subordinate characters in the next novel.  Hank Jansen, the Nassau County Medical Examiner, first appeared in my Christmas/New Year's novel in the series, GOODBYE NOEL. Then he popped up at the murder scene in PERILOUS SHADOWS. I got to like him and thought he'd be a terrific hero. He is the most flawed of my heroes, but like all my other heroes, he seeks to right injustice. So, he needed a heroine, but I wanted a gal who would be put off by him at first. So, I created a widow with a young son who the powerful people in the village seek to frame for the murder of the village doctor. She is dignified and protective of her son and at first thinks Hank is a ladies' man and one who is a bit to cavalier for her taste. Then, of course, he grows on her. The name DARKEST HOUR came to mind because things in this story get so scary for the heroine. 

Shaunna: That's it! I can't wait! I gotta read the first chapter.

Excerpt:

From Chapter One

Sanctuary Point, NY

Lucinda Byrne backed further away from the dead body of her boss, the sides of his suit jacket wide open. Blood oozed from a hole in the center of his chest and spread over the front of his white dress shirt and yellow tie. Dark, angry red... sticky...

A baby-faced police officer snapped photographs of the body where it lay in the gravel parking lot.

Even at this hour, the day threatened to be a hot one, and the smell the body threw off intensified by the minute. She hugged herself, but couldn't stop the trembling, then took another step back. "Someone said the medical examiner was on his way," she mumbled to nobody in particular.

A burgundy Chevrolet sport coupe pulled into the lot. A stylish man with wavy brown hair and a tinge of gray at the temples got out. He walked toward the detective in charge and they talked.

The village detective, with a riot of salt and pepper hair beneath a fedora, jutted his chin in her direction.

The newcomer turned his face toward her. She felt small under this Dapper Dan's scrutiny, but forced herself to stand pat and return his gaze.

He tugged at the razor like crease in his pants, looked down, and squatted beside Dr. McCloud's body, but didn't touch it. There was obviously no need to feel for a pulse.

The detective turned on his heel and approached her. "I'm Detective Ian Daltry, ma'am. I understand you found the body." He took a small notebook and a fountain pen from his jacket pocket.

"Yes, I... I did." She started to sniffle and fought it, not wanting to fall apart while being questioned.

"And Dr. McCloud was your boss?"

"Yes."

"Both you and Dr. McCloud came into work early this morning?"

"I knew he wanted to clear up some paper work, so I came in as well." She clasped her hands together, squeezing the fingers of one hand into the back of the other.

"Really?" His eyes narrowed.

"Yes, Detective, really. Early is fine with me, so is late. I really need my job."

He tapped his notebook with his pen. "When you arrived this morning, did you notice a car coming into the parking lot or pulling out?"

"No, I wasn't looking for that." She'd had her head down as she rushed for the front door, wondering what type of mood the self-important doctor would be in. She'd keep that tidbit to herself.

The detective jotted a note. "When you got out of your car, what did you see?"

"I was walking toward the main entrance and there he was -- on the ground. Blood spreading all over his shirt." She swiped at a tear seeping from the corner of her eye.

The detective wrote in the notebook. "After you got out of your car, did you see anyone walking in or out of the hospital?"

"No one." She looked toward the hospital to prevent the detective from seeing her lower lip trembling. A lock of shoulder-length brown hair fell into her face and she brushed it away.

He made another notation. "Nobody at all?"

"No. I'm sorry. I wish I could help you, but I didn't see anything." The relentless yammering of her thoughts had crushed her, worries that babysitting her young son might be too much for her elderly grandparents. She hadn't been paying attention to her surroundings.

"That's about all the questions I have at this time." He took her address and phone number. Stepped away from her, then turned back, and asked a couple more questions that made no sense to her.

She stood there staring at him as he returned to the body.

If only this morning would end. She rubbed her hands together in an attempt to quell a slight tremor.

A black coach resembling an ambulance drove into the lot. An older man in overalls pulled a collapsible gurney out of the back and raised its bed to hip level. Its chrome gleamed.

A night orderly and two nurses getting off the night shift stopped to watch.

The brown-haired man pointed to the gurney and his voice carried. "They finally allocated some funds my way. Makes transporting much easier. Oscar and I used to carry them on a stretcher. My back sure is grateful to the board of supervisors."

The detective laughed. "Don't you county guys have all the dough you want?"

"Who're you kidding?"

The gurney's wheels rumbled across the gravel parking lot. The older man pulled on the straps of his overalls."Hank, you ready to move the body?"

The stylish man nodded. "Let's do it." They lifted the body onto the gurney and the man in overalls covered Dr. McCloud with a white sheet. Blood seeped through and began spreading.

Lucinda gasped, took another step back, stumbled, but managed to keep her footing. She straightened her spine. She still had to go into that building and work a full day. She had a son to support.

The detective nodded toward the body. "By the size of the hole in his chest, I'd guess he was shot with a pistol, maybe at close range. I need to have the bullet as soon as you recover it."

"Then by all means, you'll be my guest at the autopsy."

"Gee, thanks." The detective shook his head.

The debonair man chuckled, turned, and approached Lucinda.

A tremor ran down her back. More questioning, and all she wanted to do was run and hide. She sniffled and wiped her nose with the side of her index finger.

He reached into his inside pocket and offered her a folded white handkerchief. "It's rough if you've never seen anything like this. I'm Hank Jansen, the medical examiner, by the way."

Lucinda's gaze followed the gurney to the black coach. "He was my boss."

"You work at the hospital for Dr. McCloud?"

"Yes. I... I'm his secretary... was, I mean. And Dr. Hinsey's too." She couldn't believe the doctor's life had ended this way.

Detective Daltry barked, "Hank, can I speak with you?"

"Excuse me." The medical examiner stepped away.

"Wait." Lucinda quickly refolded the handkerchief and handed it back to him. She didn't know this man. Wouldn't begin to know how to return the white cotton cloth. "Don't forget this."

"Take it with you. The day's not over. Things could still get rough." He smiled.

"No, I can't take your hankie."

"Listen, I'll pick it up the next time I'm at the hospital. You say you work for Dr. Hinsey?"

"Hank," the detective called, impatience sharp in his tone.

"Yes, Dr. Hinsey. She's the head of the maternity ward. I'll launder it and have it ready for you."

The medical examiner nodded and smiled. "It's a date. I mean, I'll stop by and pick it up." He turned and trotted toward the detective.

Lucinda slipped the handkerchief into her purse. She headed for the main entrance of the hospital, bent and picked up a fountain pen in the gravel lot.

She pivoted and advanced toward the two men.

The detective made a chopping gesture with his hand and raised his voice. "I'm not fooling, Hank. Don't go putting another notch in your belt. She's a witness."

"Can't a fellow do a simple act of kindness?"

"I'm warning you, stay away from her." The detective spun around and nearly collided with Lucinda.

Heat rushed to her face, and she couldn't meet either man's gaze. If the ground would only open and swallow her. She held the pen out to Detective Daltry. "Uh... I… I'm sorry. I think you dropped this."

---continued tomorrow guys. I'm hooked!  Don't forget to come back!

WIP The Talisman - Chapter 2

The Talisman

Book1

Chapter 2

Part C

"Thanks, but I don't think we're headed the same direction." She turned to get Yedi and ride away. The rope settled over her and yanked tight at her chest. She stopped. He'd offered to help but now it appeared he had other intentions. A nagging sense of dismay eked at her. What could she do now? She needed to think.

"Missy, these parts ain't safe for the likes of you." The rope tightened, forcing her to stumble in his direction. "You need a feller to protect you an' I be thinkin' that feller should be me. Why not? I saved ya from a nasty death of starvation 'til you be too tired to fight off the varmints. As I see it, you owe me."

Had he never heard of chivalry? Was such nonexistent here?

"As I see it, you've done your good turn for the day."

"Ya come along with me an' I'll let ya keep yer 'orse."

Was he actually ignoring her? Did he really intend for her to be able to keep her horse? Or did he plan a subterfuge of some kind? She tried a different tactic. "Horse stealing is a hanging offense you know."

"Ya cook my meals and I'll feed you. I be thinkin' I might even share my blanket with you to keep ya warm."

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. 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.

…Next week…Chapter 3