Blackberry Cove excerpt
At the gate to the old man’s property, Abby cut the engine and stepped out of the truck. Tentative late-morning sunlight splintered between the naked trees crowding the narrow, winding road between Sanctuary Ranch and Roman’s place, not yet strong enough to commit to spring. Heavy evergreens swallowed what was left and the drifting Oregon fog made the dying ticks of the old motor sound like pennies dropped on a wool blanket.
The Byers’ low sprawling ranch house was hidden from the road, deliberately secluded. But the solitude was an illusion. Creatures small and large, land-bound or with wings, skittered, skulked, and stalked in those misty-green depths. They triggered a heightened awareness dosed with awe and respect, but not fear. Abby absolutely believed that those wild things were more afraid of her than she was of them.
Humans were different. Predator and prey looked alike until experience, and hindsight, offered up the subtle distinguishing clues.
Solitude was safe, though as Roman Byers was learning, not great as a long-term plan.
Trust, for joy, Abby reminded herself.
Suspicion, for survival, her primitive brain replied.
She walked around the vehicle, reached into the passenger side, and slid a covered basket across the bench seat, wedging it against her hip. Inside were carrots, turnips, beets, and a few parsnips from the cellar, topped with a bunch of fresh parsley that she managed to keep growing year-round in the cold frame.
She came by as often as she could without raising questions. The man’s secret was still hidden, so far. But it kept her up at night, eating at her stomach, and every time she arrived to visit, dread quickened her steps. With high season just around the corner, it would soon be even harder for her to keep tabs on him.
A rise and slope of wooded hillside, a creek that emptied into the ocean, and a couple of miles of gravel road was all that separated the ranch from their nearest neighbor, but Roman had stayed hidden from them for years. Once found, though, he couldn’t be unfound. He was a stray and Sanctuary Ranch collected strays like honeybees gathered pollen.
Lucky for Roman. Until Jamie, Abby’s friend and coworker, had happened upon him, he’d been on track to be one of those headlines: HUMAN SKELETON FOUND ON ISOLATED PROPERTY. FOUL PLAY NOT SUSPECTED. Abby bent low to get herself and her package through the rusted metal rungs of the gate, wondering why he still insisted on keeping it up. A sign reading BEWARE OF DOGS listed sideways on a single nail in the wooden side post.
Beware of dogs. Ha!
“Roman, it’s me,” she called as she rounded the bend leading to his house. “Don’t shoot.”
It was a running joke with everyone at the ranch, now. When Jamie had first knocked on his door, she’d been greeted with a shotgun. Turned out the gun wasn’t the weapon to worry about. Nature had given Roman Byers a tongue as sharp as his mind, a defective brain-mouth filter, and a stubborn streak a mile wide.
Pain had honed those weapons to a wicked edge and loneliness taught him to wield them. Abby recognized what lay behind the attitude. Pity infuriated him. Verbal jousting was the way in.
“Chaos,” she called, looking for the man’s dog, “I’ve got a treat for you.”
Usually, that was the signal for Roman’s beautiful, brilliant and diabolical young Labrador to come pelting toward her.
Nothing. No dog in sight.
She continued up the path, hefting the basket on her hip. The old man preferred to be left alone, but occasionally, when the training sessions he and Chaos took at the ranch went long, Roman joined the rest of the staff in the main house for supper. Daphne loved feeding guests, and always made plenty, just in case.
Over the past winter, however, he’d been forced to ask for help. He’d chosen Abby, and sworn her to secrecy. She drove him to his appointments, physiotherapists, doctors, specialists. More specialists. Usually, if he wasn’t hurting too much, they stopped for coffee. Sometimes, they had lunch.
“Roman?” Abby checked the yard, with its mature fruit trees and great mounds of perennials greening up from the black soil. She could see now that he’d neglected them the previous season. As soon as the bulb garden was done, she’d come help him out.
How that must have pained him.
“Hey, old man.” You better not have died on me.
All those times she’d baited him, and he’d just smiled.
She bit her lip, looking past the fence to the woods. Roman refused to give up his birdwatching walks but Chaos was trained to stick close, help him up if he fell, and lead him home if he got disoriented. He’d also been taught to bring Roman his mobile phone, his pills, the remote control for the TV, and in case of a true emergency, to cut through the wooded hillside to Sanctuary Ranch for help.
Now, she feared Chaos gave him a dangerous sense of self-reliance.
She climbed the wide plank steps to the back porch, pulled open the screen, and rapped on the door. Immediately, the sound of claws scrabbling on hardwood greeted her.
The dog was inside, whining and howling, throwing himself at the door between them.
She tried the knob. It was unlocked. She pushed inside and nearly tripped over the dog, who bolted past her, stopped at the first bush, lifted his leg, and peed and peed and peed.
She dropped the basket. “Roman?”
Chaos hadn’t been out in hours and his doggy door was still locked, which meant something had interrupted Roman’s usual morning routine.
“Roman?” Abby glanced around the great room. The man wasn’t in his armchair or lying on the couch. She pushed through doors, shoved furniture, looked down the stairs to the cellar. He wasn’t in the kitchen or pantry or sunroom.
As she ran toward his bedroom, she heard the sound of water trickling.
Oh no.
He was in the bathroom, on the floor, naked and motionless, while water slopped over the edge of the bathtub onto the floor.
You better not have died on me.
“Roman!” She reached around him to close the faucet, which was trickling ice-cold water, then dropped to the ground. Her knees slid sideways in the puddle. Her brain stuttered at the scene before her.
Blood feathered from a cut over his eye. He was wet and shivering. The puckered, spotted skin on his back was bluish-white and dotted with silver hair, and small circles where bathwater had evaporated.
His thighs were clenched together and quaking, the bones visible beneath the sagging skin. He’d managed to drag a small towel over his genitals, and clutched it with one clawed hand, a desperate grasp at dignity that broke her heart.
“Roman, can you hear me? Wake up, please. Please!”
He opened his eyes and gave a low groan that ended with an expletive.
“Oh, thank God!” Abby exhaled in a huge rush. He was awake, conscious, and breathing.
“Took you…Goddamn…long enough,” she heard him say.
She grabbed a hand towel, folded it, and pressed it against the cut.
“Hold this.”
He tried, but his hand was shaking too hard.
She tucked another towel under his head. Under the thin gray stubble, his scalp was damp and oily, his skin ashen, his eyes sunken and wreathed with lines.
“Hang on,” she said. “I’m going to get a blanket.”
With trembling hands, she yanked the comforter off his bed and ran back to the bathroom where she tucked it around him. Preserving body heat was essential but protecting his battered pride was just as important.
“Can you get up?” she asked, winding her arm beneath his shoulder.
He cried out at the movement. “Bloody…hip…” he said through gritted teeth. “I can’t move.”
“How long have you been lying here?”
“How the hell should I know?” he muttered.
It was nearly noon. He’d likely been lying here for hours.
A cold nose nudged her from behind. Chaos, whining at the state of his master, pacing back and forth, not knowing what to do.
Abby knew the feeling.
She patted the pockets of her hoodie, feeling for her phone. First she called 9-1-1. Then she called the ranch.
Last, she called Roman’s son.
Surely, now, Roman would tell him the truth.
Get your copy of Blackberry Cove to read more.
A Sheriff, an Elf and a Reindeer…
No, it’s not the start of a joke. 🙂 It’s the very first Christmas story I wrote, a novella titled SAVING THE SHERIFF. The hero, a sheriff, is looking after his friends’ ranch during the holidays, when he discovers a woman dressed as an elf and a trailer of “reindeer” stuck in the snow. He’s a bit uptight, she’s a free spirit but when they get stormed in, they discover they have more in common than they thought.
Here’s a snippet for you:
“Help you?”
Frankie jumped and dropped her flashlight. Bone-deep instinct kicked in, a primal watch out, honey! Not necessarily danger…but maybe.
Two words, and oh, baby. No gruff old-timer, his voice sounded young, strong…and smoky, full of…campfire stories…and marshmallows roasted on fresh-cut branches…
She gave her head a shake. Don’t be an idiot, Frankie.
He was a man with a truck.
“I’m stuck.” She put on her most innocent grin and faced the headlights. She couldn’t see a thing through the snow. “Can you help me out?”
Three River was supposed to be empty over Christmas. At least, the ranch’s Facebook page had indicated the family was in Maui. The mustang sanctuary was well-known among animal lovers and Frankie felt certain they’d have helped her cause, if she could have asked them. So she’d taken a chance that they wouldn’t mind. That in fact, they’d never know.
Yet here was a man, from what she could hear over the snarl of engines and wind. A man unexpected, in every way.
But what if he was private security? Or worse, a game warden.
Stop it! Think positively, Frankie!
Maybe, despite the little mishap with the ditch, the universe was on her side after all. Maybe this was just a kindhearted local who’d be delighted to help out a damsel in distress.
The man stepped out, leaving the engine running and the driver’s door standing open. This time she caught a glimpse of a cowboy hat and beneath it, a stubbled jawline. Broad shoulders. And tall. He held up a much better flashlight than the one she had, shining it high, scanning the truck, the listing trailer. Then scanning her. The beam of light traveled over her body, up and down, leaving no inch untouched. Warmth rose to her cheeks, prickly in the winter air.
“Wanna tell me who you are and what you’re doing here?” He cleared his throat and she thought she heard the glimmer of a smile. “Lost on your way to work?”
“Ha-ha.” She sighed and stamped her feet, aching with cold now that she was standing still. “Yes, I’m wearing an elf costume. Can you pull me out or what?”
He walked up to the trailer and shone the beam inside. He moved smoothly, deliberately—like a hunter she thought, her breath quickening.
“That option disappeared about six inches ago, I’d say.” The man knocked his fist against the side of the truck, the metal echoing hollowly, and then he moved the light off her and aimed it out into the empty field. “Red LeClair, Lutherton sheriff and currently in charge of this icy little slice of heaven. Wanna tell me what’s going on out here? Ma’am?”
Sheriff! Universe: home run, Frankie: out.
Frankie followed his light where it dissolved in the darkness, watched it catch on low shrubs and rocks sticking up through the snow. She swept a gloved hand over her cheek and bit her lip. She’d expected the animals to bound off into the sunset the second she opened the trailer, but it hadn’t happened like that. They’d wandered off to the nearest wooded area, but that’s as far as they’d gone. At least the snow was coming down so hard and fast their hoofprints were nearly covered already. But would they find the food set out for the mustangs? They wouldn’t last long in this weather.
Go! Run! She urged them silently. Had she been too late? Were they already too habituated to humans? This was the perfect location for them. Perfect!
As his light moved, she could see the gleam of eyes, still watching from the woods. Darn!
“What this looks like,” he said, clicking off his light and crossing his arms, “is trespassing. For starters.”“Look,” she said, eager to draw his attention back. “I’m sure this looks a little…odd—”
She swallowed. “Technically, you might have a point. But I can explain.”
“How about we start with your license and registration, please. Ma’am.”
And that’s when Frankie began to suspect the universe wasn’t just having a little fun at her expense, but was in fact a PMSing
hag. She rummaged through the glove box until she found the crumpled insurance papers belonging to Conrad Toole, the man who owned the truck and the dilapidated roadside Christmas display she’d been part of. Until tonight, when she’d liberated the five young elk he’d been parading as reindeer.
She could see how this might appear sketchy.
A Sweet Christmas Treat
My story A SWEET MONTANA CHRISTMAS is about a couple with more than their share of burdens. They’ve lost their way in life, and with each other and although their love remains, they don’t know how to find their way back. They find themselves starting over on a derelict honey farm in Montana. I loved writing this book so much!
One of my favorite scenes in this story is when Austin, the husband, attempts to wash his wife’s hair. The hot-water tank is out of commission and the facilities are, shall we say, rustic. But he wants so badly to make Melinda less miserable and so he does this clumsy, thoughtful thing that ends up being a bit of a mess. Those are, I think, the most romantic gestures; not the ones that work perfectly, but the ones that involve risk, the chance of failure, of being laughed at.
**
Austin set the aluminum tub on the butcher-block table in the kitchen.
“Come here,” he said.
Melinda looked at him with caution, but he could feel excitement, thrumming like a field, around her like a field.
Fear and temptation.
She stepped up to him and he handed her a towel.
He wanted to unzip that thick hoodie and pull it off. To lift up the shirt beneath, little by little, revealing her creamy torso by inches, until he could see the lower swelling of her breasts.
“Eyes up, big guy.”
He jumped. “Sorry.” He laughed shakily. “Habit.”
He gestured to the chair. “Sit. Put this around your neck. I’d ask you to take off your top, but…”
To his surprise, she slipped out of her hoodie. Underneath, she wore a tank top and it was fantastically obvious that she was braless.
Her breasts looked larger, the nipples pink and straining through the thin fabric.
He adjusted his pants. This was going to be harder than he thought, pun intended.
“Are you going to wash my hair, Austin?”
She asked it in a smoky voice that might have come straight out of an old western saloon. Low and slow and smooth as honey.
“I am.” He helped her lean back and draped her hair into the small tub. “Comfortable?”
“I’m okay.”
He scooped a bowlful of water and poured it over her head, being careful not to get any in her eyes.
She groaned, deep in her throat, a sound that sent more blood rushing southward, a sound he’d only heard when she was in his arms, sweaty, sated and limp with pleasure.
He stroked her hair, lifting it and continuing to pour, getting every bit saturated.
Then he squirted a handful of shampoo and began massaging it into her head. He’d never done this before and water splashed onto the table.
A bit of foam dripped onto her throat, then slid slowly toward the neckline of her tank top. She lifted her hand and caught it, without looking. The sight of her fingers, caressing her skin, so close to those rosy nipples…
“Ow!”
The towel beneath her neck slipped, allowing the sharp edge of the tub to bite into her skin.
“Damn, sorry, baby,” he said. He tried to tug it up but his soapy hands slipped. He bumped the tub with his elbow and suds splashed onto the table.
Way harder than he expected. In every way.
Suddenly he was aware of Mel, giggling. She put her hand to her mouth, trying to hide it, to let him carry on.
Then she grasped the back of her head and sat up, dragging the towel with it, laughing freely.
He felt like an idiot. Washing a woman’s hair was supposed to be a sensual thing, not a comedy show.
She leaned forward, laughing with her whole body now, and he felt the humor tickle him, too.
“That,” she said, between gasps, “was the single best shampoo… I’ve ever had.”
“Liar,” he said. But her joy unlocked something inside him and before he knew it, the two of them were bracing themselves against each other, bent over at the waist, howling, while water dripped onto the floor and Mel’s still-soapy hair sagged onto her shoulders.
“We’re going to have to heat more water,” said Mel, when she got her voice back. “I need a rinse.”
Her face was flushed and her now mostly-transparent tank top had slipped off one shoulder. Dark hair, red lips, those pink nipples. She looked like a strawberry sundae, with chocolate drizzle and whipped cream on top and yeah, he wanted to eat her up.
“There’s enough hot water,” he said, taking her hand, “to do this properly.”