Happy 250, America!

 You might think that is a strange title for a blog post about a book that has nothing to do with the Fourth or America specifically. However, a book called Seducing Their Nun or a reasonable facsimile of it, could not have been written just anywhere. Here, where freedom still has a place, where the great experiment has striven to provide an atmosphere of living the lives we all want—regardless of race, gender or creed—is the only kind of place where a woman could create a work featuring an entity of the Catholic church having doubts and taking action. This is not an anti-Catholic book but nonetheless, the freedoms we still enjoy in our nation would have allowed me to write even that. We aren’t perfect but we’re about as perfect as we’re going to find on this earth.

Happy Birthday, America! And long may you continue.

Seducing Their Nun, Book 1 of the Unlikely Bedfellows series

 Blurb:
Sister Margaret Mary comes home after her mother's death, never expecting to find a hidden past. Nor does she suspect that once outside convent walls, ingrained habits would drop like petals from a flower. Anyone who's known a girl away from home for the first time, out from under the strict gaze of her parents, understands her need to fly, to experience all life has to offer. But new desires—especially for her attorney, Jordan Parnell, and his friend, Mark Collins—are alien to the nun. She prays for a week of freedom, a week of feeling like a real woman.

 Jordan is captivated by Catherine Jacobsen's allure before he knows it. Then what? He may call her Catherine instead of Sister, but she's still a nun. Just when he believes that he and his best friend Mark can convince Catherine to forsake the convent, a terrible secret puts their future in doubt.

 Buy links:
Amazon US https://www.amazon.com/Seducing-Unlikely-Bedfellows-Publishing-Everlasting-ebook/dp/B0099QF8OY/

Barnes & Noble https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/seducing-their-nun-unlikely-bedfellows-1-jenna-stewart/1113075359

Excerpt:
Quickly taking her place in the pew, she barely had time to say a decade of the rosary before Father Samuels began Mass. The hour flew by before she knew it, and then she was at the door.

“Sister Margaret Mary, your habit looks as though you slept in it.”

She dropped her gaze. “I’m sorry, Father. I will launder it today and take an iron to it.” She glanced into the parking lot. There was no Brendan Tipton, but no Jordan, either. Disappointment made her heart stutter. Well, she would rather walk than ride with Tipton again, but she would rather spend a few extra minutes with Jordan than walk.

“Tipton get you home all right yesterday?”

“Yes, Father.”

“I don’t like that he is showing an interest in you. You must make him stop.”

She must make him stop? She wanted to ask how Father Samuels proposed she do that, but she stopped herself in time from saying it. Then she’d have to confess disrespect to a priest. Her transgressions were building by the hour. “Yes, Father, although I’m not sure how.”

“The same way Eve should have dispersed the devil in the Garden. Tell him with firmness to leave you alone. The woman must always set the ground rules, Sister.”

What did he mean by that? Did he think she had any experience dealing with men? “Yes, Father.”

“There’s Jordan Parnell. I wonder why he’s here.”

A leap of joy replaced the earlier disappointment, and she jerked her head up to see for herself. Just as Father said, Jordan was striding toward them, his eyes on her. He smiled when he saw she noticed him, and there was no way she could keep from smiling back.

“Hello, Father Samuels,” Jordan said, holding out his hand.

“It’s good to see you, my boy,” the priest responded. “I’m sorry about your father. He’s sorely missed.”

Father Samuels had said nothing about her mother being missed or even acknowledging her death. For the first time, Margaret Mary had some inkling of what life must have been like for her mother, a disgraced woman kept by the town’s richest citizen, if his cars and actions said anything about Tipton.

“Thank you, sir.”

“What are your plans now that you’re home?”

Jordan cast a sideways glance at Margaret Mary and said, “Right now, my plans are to take Sister Margaret Mary home. I’m helping her with the inventory of her mother’s house.”

“That’s right. Tipton said so yesterday. I’m happy you came to get her rather than that—” He looked as though he wanted to say more. “Considering his relationship with her mother, it’s unseemly for him to show so much interest in her, too.”

“I don’t think we need to talk about that here or now, Father.”

Margaret Mary’s surprise at Jordan’s sharp tone focused her attention on him. The set of his jaw and the blaze of fire in his blue eyes were all for the priest. In her experience, no one spoke to a priest like that, but Jordan appeared unfazed. He seemed fearless.

“Shall we go, Sister?” He held out his hand, and without thinking, she took it. If Father Samuels thought anything of it, he didn’t make a sound.

Jordan led her to the car and opened the door on the passenger side. Minutes later, they were on the road, windows down and wind blowing wildly on her face.

“Do you listen to the radio at the convent?” Jordan asked over the sound of the wind.

“We used to listen to Bishop Sheen. Now Mother Superior hears the news and tells us at dinner each night if anything worth knowing happened during the day.”

“Would you like to listen to some music?”

“If you would.”

He turned a dial, and suddenly a man’s voice filled the auto with a cheerful song. “Dean Martin,” Jordan said. At the proper point in the song, right along with the singer, he belted out, “That’s amore!” Then he held out his finger as though keeping time and queued her to join in with the words at the next verse. By the time they pulled into the yard, she was laughing more than singing.

Jordan stopped the car and brought silence when he turned off the ignition. “I love the sound of your laughter. I was beginning to fear that nuns never smiled.”

“Oh.” As quickly as her laughter started, it faded away. “We spend a lot of time in prayer, and that’s very serious.”

“Isn’t there time for fun?”

She had to think. When had she last done anything she termed fun? “Teaching is sometimes fun. The girls say outlandish things that make the teachers smile. But I don’t teach. I help keep up the priests’ clothing and the altar cloths. I am part of the contemplative order.”

He stared at her in such a way that she felt uncomfortable. “Don’t pity me. I love prayer.” Then why have you missed doing it so much in the last couple of days? She couldn’t help but think she was trying to fool God, because at that moment, given the chance to sit and talk with Jordan or be on her knees in prayer, she would rather be with him.

“I wasn’t feeling sorry for you. I was thinking how sad it is that such a beautiful, intelligent woman should have missed so much of life.”

 

A little about me:
A few years ago, Dee S. Knight began writing, making getting up in the morning fun. During the day, her characters killed people, fell in love, became drunk with power, or sober with responsibility. And they had sex, lots of sex.

After a while, Dee split her personality into thirds. She writes as Anne Krist for sweeter romances, and Jenna Stewart for ménage and shifter stories. All three of her personas are found on the Nomad Authors website. And all three offer some of the best romance you can find! Also, once a month, look for Dee’s Charity Sunday blog posts, where your comment can support a selected charity. Sign up for my newsletter and have access to free reads.

 Author links:

Website: https://nomadauthors.com

Blog: http://nomadauthors.com/blog

Twitter: http://twitter.com/DeeSKnight

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DeeSKnight2018

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/265222.Dee_S_Knight

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B079BGZNDN

LinkedIn: http://linkedin.com/in/dee-s-knight-0500749

Sweet ‘n Sassy Divas: http://bit.ly/1ChWN3K

 

 

Taken by the Alien by @meganslayer #romance #monsters

 

Taken by the Alien by Megan Slayer 

Genres: Action Adventure, Dark Fantasy, Paranormal, Romance, Sci-Fi , Urban Fantasy

Themes: Alien Encounters, Capture Fantasy, Elves /Dragons /Magical Creatures, Magic /Sorcery /Witchcraft

Series: Taken (#13)

Book Length: Novella

Page Count: 118

Buy it here: https://www.changelingpress.com/taken-by-the-alien-taken-13-b-3864

She’s got magic she’s never tapped into. He’s from another galaxy. Together, they’re just right.

Lindsey Knepper-Lare just wants to belong. As far back as she can remember, she’s felt different. She’s convinced she’ll always been damaged goods. Then she’s abducted by an alien and spirited to a planet with a name she can’t even pronounce. Then Ronan walks into her life. He’s everything she wants, but has never had the courage to go after. Too bad he’ll never pay her any mind.

Ronan Miir wasn’t planning on visiting the diner on ERAEMA, but the second he spots Lindsey, he knows he has to save her. The metallic aliens on the planet want nothing good for to her. Not Ronan. He wants to kiss, touch, and protect her. Good thing he knows a thing or two about aliens, rescue, and getting back to Eerie. He’s ready to make their pairing into a forever romance… if she’ll give him a chance.

WARNING: Includes references to past abuse and dream-state scenes of torture which may trigger some readers.

Excerpt!!

Copyright ©2026 Megan Slayer

A man walked into the diner and said something she couldn’t quite hear to T181. Lindsey moved to the second table and watched the man. So far, she’d only seen beings that resembled satellites, like T181 and P482. This was the first being she’d encountered, even at a glance, who sort of resembled a human.

She watched him and her heart ached. Not only because she missed her home, but because she missed being held. Missed being touched. Missed other humans. Hell, she wasn’t even sure anyone would want to look for her. No one probably missed her.

Still, that didn’t mean she couldn’t drool over this being. She swept her gaze over him. Dark hair, a bit wavy and just long enough to need a little product. Icy blue eyes that seemed to pierce through her the longer she looked at him. He had a slight dimple when he smiled and dazzling white teeth. He even had nice hands. The suit fit tight to his body, like it was tailored precisely for him. He oozed sex. No, not just sex, but power and confidence as well.

Not that this man would ever look her way. Good gracious. She was like Cinderella, but on a whole different planet. Even back on Earth men like him didn’t pay her any mind. She faded into the background -- just like she would here.

T181 moved between her and the man. “He’s mine. He’s got money, he’s free to move about the planet, and won’t bed you.”

She almost asked, “Bed him?” She hadn’t even thought of that. “Sure.”

She glanced over at him while she cleaned the third table. He had nice lips. Just full enough for a good kiss. She’d bet he was skilled at kissing, too. Not that she’d ever know. She was stuck.

She’d been taken to breed and given a bullshit answer for how to get home. A lie. Her heart hurt. This was so silly. Impossible, really. This man, no matter how sexy he was, probably had obscene amounts of money or credits or whatever. She wasn’t even sure how he’d been able to come to the planet. Was he a prisoner, too?

New Systems, New Momentum

I've noticed over the past few months I've been struggling to get anything done. As a toddler mom, I probably never have enough time or energy for everything I want to do, but with a few prolonged bouts of illness this summer, I’ve been struggling more than usual. As someone who is used to being productive and going after my goals, it’s been difficult to deal with this season where I have nothing left to give. Physically or mentally.

One of the difficulties of having a young child is that you often have so many balls in the air at once, and you are so focused on keeping them going, you can’t think about anything else. I’ve got to keep my son alive, which includes bathing, feeding (even though he only likes three things), and forcing him to sleep the best I can. Maintain the house while he simultaneously tries to destroy it. Remember snacks for daycare and the swim stuff for lessons. And that doesn’t even touch on all the needs for my evil day job.  It can be overwhelming to keep all those plates spinning when you’re already on empty.  Trying to remember everything is a full-time job of its own.

So this month, I made a list of everything that need to get done on a daily, weekly, or monthly basis (a quarterly or yearly list might be necessary too, but I'm holding off on those until I've refined the system more). I assigned everything a day of the week and created a daily to do list of every day of the week with everything I need to do, down to putting the recycle in the bin each night. What days the laundry is done. What day I fill the coffee pods. What day I clean the fridge. Anything that needs to get done. Thereby allowing myself to release those thoughts from my mind. I don’t need to worry about when the flowers were last watered or groceries were ordered, because I have a day set aside for that and I know it will be done on that day, and it doesn’t need to be done sooner. If it did, it would be on my list sooner.

And as the month progressed, I’ve added more and more things to lists. More areas of stress or irritation that can be solved by being ahead of the game. I create list of items in the house that need to be constantly restocked, and designated a day to when I would determine if they needed to be purchased or not. No more getting home from the grocery store only to realize I’m out of soap and I need to go back. I’ve moved some activities from the morning to the evening, such as refilling the coffee pot with water (because nothing is more upsetting to my morning than having to delay getting coffee because there is no water in the pot), focusing my nights to set up the best morning, and day, I can.

I've even started adding meal planning to my daily list. Giving each day’s dinner a theme, such as Mexican on Tuesdays and Pizza on Friday. It might not be an exact meal, but even just having a theme limits my options, and allows me to decide what to make for dinner faster.

And so far, it’s been working well. It’s amazing the freedom taking these many little decisions throughout the day off my plate has created. I don't have to wonder if I should do the laundry, or if it’s been too long since I’ve scooped the cat’s litter, or if we are almost out of laundry pods. I have a day for that, a system for that, and until it shows up on my list, I don’t need to worry about it.

And limiting how many decisions I have to make throughout the day has freed up my mind for other things. Most importantly for creativity and writing. I didn’t realize how much all those little decisions were draining my energy. How much trying to keep everything in my head was stealing my creativity. Until it was gone. I just knew I was always too tired, too overstimulated to focus on writing. I never looked deeper.

But now that I’ve freed up some of this mental headspace, I’m able to think about my characters. To ponder what they are doing, how they arrived in their current circumstances, and how to get them out of it (and probably their clothes). I’m able to hear the words again, and get random ideas while walking or doing dishes like I used to.

I’m still working through the kinks of this new system, and finding new areas I can embrace to eliminate even more decisions from my daily routine. And once I have it perfected, I’m sure life will change. My son and his needs will no doubt change over time. As will mine. But finding these areas of relief, even if it’s just for this moment in time, has been so vital to my mental health.

So I encourage you, if you’ve been feeling overwhelmed in this season of your life for any reason, or even if you’re not feeling overwhelmed but just feel your life could improve with more organization and focus, take a moment to write down everything that is bogging you down. Everything that splits your focus, or raises your stress, and trying to create a system to eliminate or minimize it. Find ways you can take duties off your mind and put them on paper, and free your mental space up for more. No matter how difficult it might sound to start, it will be well worth it in the end.

A Break in the Routine #AmWriting #WritersLife #Summer #RestAndRecharge

 It’s July! I made it through a winter full of power outages and drudgery, and survived a spring season of house hunting and writing the last few chapters of Hawk’s Heart (Stranger Creatures book 5). Finishing that story really hurt my brain, until I finally, finally envisioned the ending, which felt just right. With a major project completed and the search for a house done, I’ve been sitting down at the computer, ready to plan my next writing projects and thinking about all the other things that need to be done, not to mention all the minutiae of house maintenance and cooking. The lists of things to do felt like an endless load of weight piling up in front of me, and I lost all energy and motivation.

Coffee and dark chocolate helped restore my energy and gave me some extra to store away, but the motivation to do any meaningful work or make any real choices? That stayed gone much like my short-lived love of waterfall cardigans and candy circus peanuts. Habits created by having to juggle a fair amount of hours at work while in college and then, the experience of raising children and everything that entails, has taught me that every minute must be used wisely or I will drown in a sea of tasks that require my attention. As the children have grown, I find myself still trying to do every single thing I think needs doing to keep the imaginary sea of entropy at bay. Summertime seems to be when I catch myself in this pattern of unnecessary overwork and overwhelm.

Maybe it’s the sunshine and lovely weather. Maybe the ocean is calling me through my seashell collection. Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s book Gift from the Sea was the inspiration for the sea shells that I have displayed in different places throughout my house. I intentionally left them out so they could become breadcrumbs that would lead me to remember to take some time for myself every now and then. Mostly, I just see the shells without really seeing them. Sometimes, though, could be the shells or the sunlight beckoning from the crack in my blinds, something snaps me out of my ultra-efficiency mode.

Whether it’s a staycation or traveling, or even short weekend trips, taking some time off always renews my desire to delegate every chore possible and to let the little things go for a while, maybe even completely. Habits are hard to break but the peace and the time for reflection regenerates a part of myself that I tend to neglect. With each reminder, I go further into the journey of finding what matters versus what is the kind of background noise that we, as humans, have been trained to fear and judge others about. Slightly messy houses, chipped manicures, simple, unglamorous dinners that don’t involve a ton of prep work and clean up, and souls that light up like flowers in the sun- that’s what summers are for. So, I’m taking a break and telling myself that it’s alright. This summer, I won’t get as much work done as far as actual words on paper, but the ideas are buried deep in the garden, growing into something better and brighter than they would have become if I had kept slogging through a constant routine of multitasking and mopping up messes.

 

If you’d like to follow me on social media for my latest book updates and recommendations, poems, contest info, and other fun stuff, you can find me at:

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/Christina-Lynn-Lambert/e/B01MCYK0K7

BookBub:  https://www.bookbub.com/authors/christina-lynn-lambert

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/christinalynnlambert

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15900423.Christina_Lynn_Lambert

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/christinalynnlambert

Wordpress: https://christinalynnlambertwordpress.com

Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/cllambauthor.bsky.social

 

Wave That Flag!

 

This year’s July 4^th celebration has a little more meaning in America, because we’re marking our 250th birthday. Movies have dramatized many events in our country’s history, especially military conflicts. Granted, some of them were highly fictionalized (especially biographies), and many played fast and loose with the facts, but I thought it would be fun to look at some of the better ones that emphasized patriotism. This is by no means a complete list, just a few favorites.

“Yankee Doodle Dandy” (1942)—James Cagney returned to his song and dance roots to portray Broadway showman George M. Cohan (“Born on the fourth of July,” he always claimed). It was released when America was deep into WWII, and the timing couldn’t have been better for a flag-waver like this. Cohan favorites like “Over There,” “Grand Old Flag,” “Mary,” and “Give My Regards to Broadway” (among many others) are showcased in elaborate production numbers. The cast works well together, and Cagney won the Oscar for Best Actor.  

“Destination Tokyo” (1944)—One of the best movies about submarines in wartime, with enough suspense for two films. Cary Grant is the submarine Commander assigned to sneak his crew into Tokyo Bay to gather information for an upcoming air strike. What makes it work better than most other war flicks are the details the writers used to create believable characters, then placing them in realistic situations. All of the other standard war movie tropes are used (an ethnically diverse crew, personality clashes, close calls with enemy vessels, etc.), but just sit back and enjoy a terrific adventure. And speaking of Cary Grant and submarines…

“Operation Petticoat” (1959)—This service comedy pairing Grant with Tony Curtis was supposedly inspired by actual events, but it’s played strictly for laughs. During WWII, the submarine Sea Tiger picks up a group of Navy nurses from a South Pacific island, one step ahead of an enemy invasion. Since the sub’s crew is strictly stag, you can imagine the complications that follow. Grant is on familiar ground as the frustrated Captain, but Curtis holds his own as a junior officer whose talents are pulling scams and chasing women.   

“Action in the North Atlantic” (1943)—During WWII, every branch of the military was featured in a movie, and any actor who hadn’t enlisted was pressed into service. This film gave Humphrey Bogart his turn as a Merchant Marine skipper, leading a diverse group of seadogs delivering supplies to Allied troops while evading the German Navy.   

“Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo” (1944)—This film is known for its accurate depiction of the historic Doolittle Raid, which was America’s first retaliatory strike against Japan after the attack on Pearl Harbor. They incorporated actual wartime footage to make it more realistic. The script was based on a book by Captain Ted W. Lawson, who was a pilot on the raid. Van Johnson played him in the film, and was supported by most of the MGM contract players who weren’t serving in the military. Spencer Tracy also dropped in as Lieutenant Colonel Doolittle, who planned the raid.  

 

“The Great Escape” (1963)—Based on an actual breakout of Allied flyers from a German POW camp, this adventure still holds up. It’s usually remembered for Steve McQueen’s motorcycle antics while fleeing the Nazis, but the story grabs you from the gate and doesn’t let go. Credit for that goes to a great script, taut direction, and a terrific ensemble cast featuring James Garner, Richard Attenborough, Charles Bronson, and James Coburn. Garner revealed in his memoir that of all the films he made, this was his favorite because it was based on a true story that needed to be told. A special nod goes to Elmer Bernstein’s musical score.

 

Tim Smith is an award-winning bestselling author of romantic mystery/thrillers and contemporary romantic comedies. His author site is AllAuthor--Tim Smith. 

  

Happy Independence Day to All the Independent Authors

 

 

Image by RebaSpike from Pixabay

An independent author's life doesn't come close to resembling Hallmark stories of glamorous and adored authors dealing with a touch of writers block and a handsome but irritating agent/fellow author/handyman at the cabin where they're staying/pick your own hunky hero. What drives the independent or hybrid author is mostly invisible to everyone except ourselves.

Nobody outside those closest to you know about the rejected pitch you pretended didn't matter or the chapter you rewrote for the third (or thirtieth) time because it wasn't right yet, or the day you only managed one sentence, but it was the best damn sentence ever.

Independence Day is a good time to remember that the one who lights the fuse of inspiration and dedication is you. Every indie author is self-ignited. We don't have outside publishers forcing a deadline, nor agents demanding the next book. It's just you, deciding again and again, whether the fuse on a story is worth lighting.

Then the book goes out into the world, igniting the firework that's only possible because of your decision to light the fuse in the first place.

So if today you're at the mid-fuse point, stuck in the slow but necessary work, don't be discouraged. Keep the fuse burning, and the fireworks will come!

Happy independence day to all my fellow authors. 

 visit me at naughtynetherworldpress.start.page

Happy July to you!

 Good Morning to you!

I hope my post finds you well and ready for summer. I have grand news! I've written my first Western novel to be released this summer from Wolfpack Publishing. 

I have loved reading Westerns since I was a kid and to think I finally got to pen one does my heart a lot of good! Here's what it's about:

The MacGregor’s Lament

A Legends of the High-Lonesome Novel

 

January Bain

 

The star on his chest was supposed to keep the peace. The blood in his veins demanded a reckoning.

In 1858, a ruthless cattle baron burned out Holt MacGregor’s family, leaving him with nothing but a shattered childhood and a wooden sidehill horse carved by his father’s own hands. Decades later, Holt wears the silver star of a deputy marshal in the Wyoming Territory—a “Scholar-Warrior” trying to let the law handle his ghosts.

But the past refuses to stay buried.

When Holt and his fiercely loyal clansman, Callum, trace a web of corruption straight to the capital city of Cheyenne, they find themselves face-to-face with the man who ordered the slaughter: the wealthy, untouchable Baron Sutherland. To bring him down, they must survive a war zone of hired regulators, crooked judges, and a city on the brink of collapse.

Then comes Adaira. Beautiful, fierce, and the Baron’s own daughter, she represents a future Holt never dared dream of—a quiet life far from the chaos of the gun. But in a territory ruled by greed and iron, peace comes at a devastating price.

When the ultimate betrayal shatters his world, the lawman must die so the warrior can live. From the smoke of a printing press to a legendary walk down Carey Avenue, Holt MacGregor will unleash a primal fury that will change the frontier forever.

Some men ride for justice. Some ride for peace. Holt MacGregor rides because he has nothing left to lose.

A gritty, heart-wrenching frontier epic, The MacGregor’s Lament is the unforgettable origin story of a man destined to become the West’s ultimate errant knight.

 

 

 

The MacGregor’s Lament

 

From Highlands to Wyoming plains,

MacGregor’s fought for land and name,

Centuries reckoning to end the flame,  

And wash away the Sutherland stains.

 

A cellar deep and a wooden horse,

A boy who watched a brutal course,

The silver spurs and the dragon’s breath,

A child who learned the scent of death.

 

He wore the badge but kept the hunger, 

While the years grew short and the shadows longer, 

Until the wind brought back the ash, 

And the level-head met the lightning flash.

 

A sixty-mile ride on a lathered bay, 

To the smoking ruins where the MacGregors lay, 

He found the girl with the enemy’s face, 

And a love that bloomed in a hollow place.

 

The Colt was cocked, the hammer back, 

The Baron knelt in the chimney black, 

But the Higher Law was the choice to save, 

And the debt of blood was finally paid.

 

From Highlands to Wyoming plains,

MacGregor’s fought for land and name,

Centuries reckoning to end the flame,

Till only the dust and debt remains.

 

 

 

 

 

Prologue

 

Missouri, 1858

 

“Get into the cellar, son! Stay quiet no matter what happens or what you hear.”

His pa’s voice was a jagged rasp as he yanked up the trapdoor and lowered him by his outstretched arms into the darkness. Holt’s small fingers were cramped tight around the little cedar horse his pa had finished whittling just that morning. It was a sidehill horse, built with the uphill legs shorter than the downs, meant for navigating the legendary steep braes of the old country. It was a tale the boy never tired of, fascinated by the very thought of such mythical beasts running wild across the misty glens.

Holt was dropped, his boots hitting the packed earth, but he never let go of the carving. He crawled toward the rough stone wall, the ground cold and gritty under his palms, the little wooden beast now tucked safely into his pocket against his thigh. Fear lodged in his throat, making him gasp for every ragged breath.

Above him, the floorboards groaned. He could hear his parents arguing, their shadows flickering through the narrow cracks in the wood. His mama refused to leave, her voice sharp with a desperation Holt didn’t fully understand, insisting she could handle a long gun as well as the next man.

The trapdoor slammed shut, cutting her off. The heavy wood sent a cascade of dust and grit raining down on Holt's head. He ignored it, straining to see in the dimness, the darkness pressing in from every corner like a physical weight. The musty, damp smell of the earth stung his nostrils. He waited, curled small, alone in the dark.

The sudden crack of gunshots made him bolt upright. He covered his ears, a sob breaking from his chest as tears began to track through the dust on his cheeks. Then came the silence—a dead, heavy quiet that was worse than the shooting.

Would pa let him out now? He stared at the ceiling, waiting for the sliver of light that would mean the trapdoor was opening. He prayed for it. Please, let me out.

A different noise started then. A low, hollow whoosh that sounded hungry to his ears. The smell of smoke reached him first. Sharp. Dry. Wrong.

Fire.

Stunned, he couldn’t move. He could only watch the cabin floor above. Through a jagged knothole, he saw the flash of silver spurs—heavy, star-shaped rowels that clinked like a funeral bell against the floorboards. Then the smoke drifted in, thickening into a gray blanket that pressed him down toward the dirt. He covered his mouth with small, trembling hands, remembering his father’s command to stay silent.

Suddenly, the world above gave way. A floorboard, wreathed in orange flames, came crashing into the cellar. The jagged, glowing wood caught him across the shoulder, and he screamed as the heat seared through his shirt. He had to hide—or he’d be burned alive.

He looked around frantically, spotting the crawlspace his pa had dug out under the porch—a narrow, cooler hollow in the earth. He scrambled toward the tunnel-like opening, pushing through the suffocating heat. At eight years old, he was slender, taking after his ma’s side of the family. His pa was always telling him he needed to “muscle up”, but today, his small frame was his only hope.

He managed to wedge himself into the opening, pulling his legs in and curling into a tight, shivering ball. His hand went to his pocket, his knuckles white as he gripped the little horse. He squeezed it so hard the stunted wooden legs bit into his palm, a small, grounding pain against the roar of the fire. His shoulder burned where the floorboard had branded him, and tears flowed unchecked. It felt like an eternity before the angry roar of the fire died out into a low, hissing ember. 

And in the black silence of that hole, the boy he was died, and the man he would become began to hunger.

 

 

 

Chapter One

 

Green River, Wyoming, 1885. 

 

Deputy Sheriff Holt MacGregor stared east into the pitch-black expanse of the high desert. Sometimes, even twenty-seven years on, the wind still brought back the fire. It shifted through the high Wyoming grass with the same dry, rhythmic hiss, smelling of alkali dust and old ash. He rolled his left shoulder—the one branded by Missouri oak—feeling the phantom heat pull uncomfortably at the twisted skin.

In the quiet between the gusts, the faint, ghostly skirl of the bagpipes started up, humming a low, jagged lament in the back of his mind. A funeral song for a family long in the clay.

I hope you have a grand day and a lovely summer!

Hugs,

January Bain/storyteller