Excerpt of "A Moment in Time"

ONE

"Is this the one?"

"Maybe," I breathed.

Surrounded on three sides by steep, unforgiving land, the castle perched atop a cliff overlooking the sea. It was breath taking, and I couldn’t wait to go sit at the outdoor cafe that faced the blue-green water. But, the inside of the castle was what interested me now.

Running my thumb along the tiny key in my  pocket, I silently prayed this castle was the one.

We purchased a ticket and joined a group of tourists as they entered the great hall. There was a rack near the door filled with brochures, and I grabbed one, slipping it in to my bag.

"How many does that make?"

Morgan’s question was low, only I heard it, but still I dipped my head to hide my flaming cheeks.

"Uh…today makes five?"

All collected  in three days, but thankfully she didn’t mention that part.

Instead, she nodded toward the head of the line where a man began pointing out the glass cases filled with tapestries, needle work, old dishes, swords, plaids and other sundry antiques one might find in a Scottish, Medieval castle in the highlands.

The tour guide droned on in a thick Scottish accent I was sure he was not used to speaking in, and like school children my sister and I along with several other Yanks, followed behind, oohing and aahing at everything we saw. But, when we reached the middle of the great hall my heart sank; the stairs were all wrong.

Ahead of me in line two little boys began fighting over a balloon, and as you’d expect, the helium-filled latex could not withstand the argument. With a bang that startled everyone, the carefree toy burst, causing both boys to howl in protest.

Know how you feel, lads, I thought.

A nudge on my back made me glance over my shoulder. Somehow Morgan had ended up behind me, and now she was giving me that look, the look that said, "I know, I know, you’re ready to go because this castle isn’t like the one in your dreams."

Guilt made me ashamed of the way I had been acting; dragging her around, feverishly searching for something that probably didn’t exist in real life. This trip to Scotland was a dream come true for us both, and I needed to get my act together.

Straightening my shoulders, I motioned toward the other folks in our tour group and smiled.

"Look," I said, "he’s going to tell more about that tapestry hanging on the wall. It looks interesting. Go check it out."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Now, go. I’m going over here to have a closer look at the fireplace."

It was a huge affair, and I had no trouble picturing a roaring fire in it, the laird and his family sitting in chairs or on stools before it, hoping to catch some of its warmth. Maybe, nearby, a bard would have been playing a harp and singing.

Without thinking, I reached out a hand and touched the stones. They were cool and smooth from the passing of years, and they were also silent. No humming to warn of impending doom, no distant shouts of battle suggesting a passageway through time. Even so, when a cool draft of air wafted around me, I shivered.

I had heard the tales, just like everyone else. Ghosts and time travelers, Scottish stones and fairies, and like most of the population in the twenty-first century, I didn’t believe any of it.

But, if things like time travel and destiny were not possible, then why the dreams? Why was I searching for a place that, to this point, only existed in my head? Why was just being in the "old country" as my grandparents had called it, not enough?

Frustrated, I dropped my hand and stepped away.

"Bonnie," my sister hissed, "quit that and come on!"

I managed to squeeze back into my spot in line but was given the evil eye by our tour guide. I shrugged and gave him a weak smile, but he huffed at me before turning away.

Well, excuse me; I was only interested in the fireplace. Not like I’m going to come back at night and haul it away.

That was the thing about scheduled guided tours; you had to be on your best behavior, like a kid in school. Sure, they showed you all the neat stuff, and they always told you about the local folklore, any battles the family may have fought in, how loyal or not the castle’s owners had been to one king or another, and it was interesting. But, they really frowned when you asked what was beyond the solid oak doors with signs above them that read "Keep Out!" "Staff only!" "Fire Exit!". The other thing that made tour guides lower their bushy brows at you, was when you slipped beneath one of those rope things they use to corden off an area. I mean, those darkened hallways and black pits in the floor just begged to be explored. Besides, even though this castle wasn’t "the one" I might still learn something interesting.

This particular hole in the floor was square and big enough to lower a person down into. I lagged behind, pretending to study a silver platter on display. No one took notice, and I figure that was because the guide was telling a rousing tale about the time Sir Walter Scott had been a guest here.

When the last person in line made the turn in to another part of the castle, I ducked beneath the cord and got down on my knees at the edge of the opening. Someone had nailed wooden boards around it, probably hoping to keep curious folk like me from falling headlong to their death. I laid a hand on one of these boards and leaned down to try and get a better look. It was so black, I couldn’t see anything, so I took out my flashlight from the depths of my bag and shined its beam down in to the hole.

Empty! Now, how do you like that? The least they could do is leave a skeleton or two chained up down there so I could be properly horrified.

I sighed and put my flashlight away, but I wasn’t fast enough at getting free of the area before ole bushy brows found me.

"Perhaps, Madam," he said, dropping quite a bit of his Scottish accent in favor of a cultured, English one, "you would be more comfortable outside, where you will not be in danger of causing serious injury to your person."

My mouth fell open. Was he throwing me out?

Turns out my hesitation was a mistake. He took it for resistance, and I was escorted out very properly by security, who upon hearing that I planned to have tea at the outdoor caffe, left me to my own devices.

Trying to regain my dignity, I placed an order for tea and scones in Gaelic. It backfired, though, because the teenager behind the counter said, "Sorry, Miss, I dinna have the Gaelic. My granny did, but I never had an ear for it. What would ye be wantin’ today?"

I chose a table off to the side and sat down, turning my back on the castle. From here I had an uninterrupted view of the sea to my right and an open lawn just ahead. Except for the conversations, slide of flip-flops and the scraping of chair legs behind me, I was alone.

The raspberry jam and clotted cream were good, but the scones were dry and hard on the bottom. Disappointed, I scooped the toppings off, ate them and longed to be in Grandma’s kitchen, where no one thought I was crazy and where the scones were always perfect. Slumping in my chair, I picked up the paper cup, took a mouthful of hot tea and allowed it to work its magic.

I grew up on tea and scones, learning to prepare them as well as enjoy them. Scots Gaelic had been the language of our grandparents, and even though we had never been forced to learn the language, we had. Orphaned when we were small, Morgan and I had been taken in by our father’s parents who had come to America after World War II.

Pulling my keys out of my pocket, I laid them on the table and separated them until i found the one Grandma had given me just before she died two years ago. It was tiny and silver and reminded me of the diary I had kept under my pillow when I was a little girl.

"When ye go to Scotland to look for the castle in your dream, take this with ye," Grandma had whispered.

"But, what does it go to?" I had asked.

"Ye will ken it, when ye see it."

"Does it have something to do with the dream?"

"Promise me, Bronwen Catherine."

I had promised, and after Grandma's passing, Morgan and I began saving our money for a trip to Scotland. Now here we were, Morgan still grieving the loss of her husband and I had the key and my imaginary castle and no earthly idea what to do next. The strangest part was even in her pain, Morgan was the one connecting, the one who was keeping it together. I, on the other hand, felt as if the threads that held my life together were unraveling.

"What was that all about?"

At the sound of my sister’s sharp tone, I jumped and sat up straight. Dropping my keys into my bag, I tried to look as if I weren't having a pity party for myself.

"I’m sorry, Gan, I just..."

"You just what, Bonnie?"

"Still dealing with jet lag, I guess. Go get yourself a cup of tea. It’s really good, but don’t order any scones. I think there’s going to be a performance of some type."

I nodded toward the grassy lawn where a group of men were gathering, all of them dressed in full highland regalia.

Morgan gave me a long look, then went to stand in line.

While she was gone, I watched the men. They appeared to be comrades, their expressions care-free, their smiles genuine. Using one of the tables to set their gear on, one man pulled out a folder with papers sticking out of it and  unsheathed a long sword, while another man pulled out a small set of bagpipes. Interested, I leaned forward in my seat. A reenactment, I was sure.

"Have ye seen him?" I heard one of them ask.

"No," another answered.

They scanned the crowd, squinting and shading their eyes, until I too turned to see if I could spot...whoever they were looking for. The odd thing was, when I did see him, I knew he was the one the men were searching for. Of course, if I had glanced down at his attire, it would have been obvious he was one of them, but it wasn’t his clothing that grabbed my attention, it was his eyes. Gray and...filled with...something I couldn’t read. He was wading through the busy crowd, creating a path as he passed.

Rather like Moses parting the Red Sea, I thought.

When he saw me, he stopped, did a double take, gave me a most curious stare, raised a black brow then looked me straight in the eye. Altering his course, he came toward me and made as if to speak, but just then, someone shouted, and it caught his attention. He took a step, waved a hand at me as if to say, "stay there" then joined his friends. Only when he walked away did I notice he was carrying a broad sword.

"Wow, would you look at that!"

I glanced over at where Morgan was pulling out a chair and realized she was staring at my guy, too.

"Nice choice, Bonnie,and that Claymore looks authentic. After the demonstration, you should go introduce yourself."

Okay, so it wasn’t a broadsword but a Claymore. I never said Scottish history was my strong point. Gannie, on the other hand was an authority on all things Scottish; A master’s degree’s worth of knowledge lay hidden behind her sad eyes.

"Yeah, right."

"I’m serious!" she said, flashing me a conspiratorial grin. "I’ll keep watch so you don’t do something you’d regret."

"Gan, I don’t just walk up to strange men and introduce myself."

"Well, why not? He almost stopped to talk to you. After all, how do you think Brian and I met?"

"That was different," I said, heart aching at the sorrow in her expression.

"No it wasn’t. He was working behind the counter in the student center, and I walked right up to him and introduced myself. Then, I asked him what his name was. We talked about how gross the cafeteria’s burgers were and the nice weather, and then he asked me out."

The thing is, things like that just seemed to happen to Morgan. They do not happen to me. I’m not as pretty as my sister, I’m not as up-to-date on social graces as she is and if I didn’t know better, I’d think that when God handed out luck with guys, He somehow forgot I was in line.

Well," I stalled, "you and Brian were meant to be."

I didn’t miss the way she swallowed hard; grief was something that never seemed to go away. After a minute, though, she nodded.

"Yes, Brian and I were meant to be, and I believe God has somebody out there for you."

I managed to keep from snorting, but barely.

"Gan, let’s just sit back, finish our tea and enjoy the performance. Then, we’ll go back to the B and B and go to bed. I’m worn out, I feel too grungy to talk to any men, and besides, I’m not in the market for someone new. Remember what happened the last time?"

"Yeah," she said, a pinched look around her mouth, "I remember Drake, more’s the pity. But, Bonnie, that was last year, and not all men are like that...that idiot. You need to start looking at men like any one of them could be God’s match for you."

"Now you sound like an advertisement for one of those Christian dating sites online. Give it up, Gan. I’m on vacation. Remember?"

Her sigh was so loud, I could hear it over the sound of the piper getting his pipes ready, but she said no more about my nonexistent love life and what I should do about it. With a sigh of my own, I sat back and made an effort to pay attention to all the performers, but it was hard. My eyes kept straying to my gray-eyed stranger.

The performance was impromptu, if the expression on the locals’ faces was any indication, but it was superb. One man read aloud from a paper in Gaelic and then translated in to English. It was a poem written by some long dead Scottish author. Then, the man put aside his papers, grabbed a sword and he and my guy went at each other, as if they truly intended on killing one another. But, as vicious as it looked, I knew it was staged. Still, my mouth watered in spite of my vow to give up on men. After the sword play, a third man began to play a small set of bagpipes, and something inside me came to life. I can’t explain it, really, but when I closed my eyes, I could almost see a regiment of highland clansmen, running toward the battle, Claymores at the ready.

Then, into my revery, someone began to sing. Opening my eyes, I stared at my guy in awe.

"O the summer time is coming and the trees are sweetly bloomin’ and the wild mountain thyme grows around the bloomin’ heather. Will ye go lassie go? And we’ll all go together to pull wild mountain thyme all around the bloomin’ heather. Will ye go lassie go?"

A song Grandma had often sang to Morgan and me at bedtime, and I found myself sitting on the edge of my seat, my whole being focused on the man and his voice.

"I’ll build my love a bower by yon cool crystal fountain and round it I will pile all the flowers o’ the mountain. Will ye go lassie go?"

Before the last notes of the song could fade, I was on my feet, my breath caught somewhere in my throat.

There was the sound of applause in the distance, and then our eyes met across the way. A question lingered in his gaze, a question I wanted to answer. I don’t know what he saw in my own expression, but the corner of his mouth tipped up, and he actually bowed. He straightened and then winked. I opened my mouth, but speech was impossible. Then, the crowd surged forward hiding him from view, and I could have cried at the feeling of bereavement I felt.

"Bonnie? Bronwen? Hello, earth to Bronwen!"

I blinked, and time began again. I turned, and the expression on my sister’s face made me feel about two inches tall.

"Hello!" she said. "Not in the market for someone new? Bonnie, that man was flirting with you!"

Flirting? What planet was she on.

"He wasn’t flirting, Gan. He was just singing."

"To you. Bonnie, everyone could see it. He was looking right at you and singing, and you stood up with this look on your face like...well, like you were ready to go lassie go!"

There was a sudden stinging in the corners of my eyes, and I turned away so she couldn’t see.

"Gan, let’s go."

"You’re not going to wait for him?"

Wait for him? So I could make a fool out of myself all over again? Not hardly.

"No."

"Bronwen!"

But, I ignored her and took off toward where we had parked the car.

Hurry! Find her!

But, she was nowhere in sight. By the time he found somewhere private to exchange his kilt for jeans and put his sword back in his car, the table where she and another woman had been sitting was empty. He ran back to the car park, searching each face for those familiar blue green eyes, but she was gone, and he didn’t even know what kind of vehicle he was looking for.

Of course, it would help if he knew for certain who he was looking for. He had his suspicions, but...

With a prayer in his heart he slid in to his own car and drove away.

Lord, that I might find her!

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From Westerns to Time Travel

What makes a writer go from Westerns to time travel? What makes an author choose Scotland rather than the Wild West? The answer is simply that I like to read different genres. Makes sense that I would write in different genres, too. Right?

What started it all? Well, I suppose it had something to do with the countless episodes of Dr. Who and Star Trek playing on my husband's television set. Maybe, it had something to do with the medieval romance I had been reading. Then again, perhaps I was just looking for an escape from the bad weekend I was having. In any case, I dropped into my desk chair that Saturday morning and began to type. The end result is a Scottish, time travel romance from a Christian's point of view.

I say it was a hard weekend, but in truth, the entire week had been hard. I was set to go to a library to talk about writing and to hopefully sell some books. Instead, I had stayed home that Tuesday because my youngest had a stomach virus. I wish I could have been celebrating Valentine's Day, but instead I was cleaning up gross substances from my children, the floors and the beds. All week my girls were sick. Sleep? What was that? I'm thinking it was 2012, which means my girls were about 6 and 4. So, between sterilizing dishes, washing sheets and mopping floors I was needed on the sofa for some tender loving care. By the time Saturday arrived, I was sleep deprived and ready for a break.

"What if," I thought, "a woman goes to Scotland for vacation and ends up in the 15th century? What if she is held at knife point and threatened with death if she doesn't do as she is told? What if..." And, so it went until two years later I had a story that I call "A Moment in Time."

The hero of "A Moment in Time" is Colin McQueen. He's the laird, and he's got some secrets. He is one of my most favorite characters, and it was so much fun writing about him. Bronwen is the heroine of the story, and in some ways she represents me before I met my husband. Putting these two together was a challenge, but it was fun, too. The spiritual thread throughout the book took some doing, but the Lord blessed me with truths straight from His word, and I can't wait to share it with you. Just hop on over to Amazon and get your copy today.

Plans are in the works to get it put into audio, but that will take a few months. I would appreciate your prayers in the meantime. Happy reading, and have a blessed day.

A Day in the Life

I would like to say that my morning begins at 6 a.m. when the battery powered rooster crows. But, since I think I have that non24-hour sleep disorder, my gettin' up times change from day to day. In any case, I start with a hot cup of caffeine and my open Bible. I read some and pray some and try to listen to what God has to say to me.

Depending on how early I got up, I might play on the internet for a while. Sometimes I gather online materials for school work. Sometimes I hop on Youtube for a song or two. But, more often than I like to admit, I scroll a while on Face Book. :) If I'm not online, then I'm throwing some laundry into the washer.

When my girls are up, we do breakfast. When that is finished, I make sure they brush teeth, make the bed and get the table cleaned off. I wish I had another table or desks for school work. For now, though, the kitchen is our school room.

School starts with Bible and prayer. Then it's usually on to math. Sometimes groans accompany them as they retrieve their math books. They say it is their least favorite subject. It's hard for me to keep my groans from being heard, as math was always one of my least favorite, too. Sometimes, we manage to get language arts in before lunch. Other times, we take a quick munching break, then settle down to parts of speech, reading, writing, or spelling tests. Depending on the day, there's time enough for science, history or both before the afternoon blahs set in. lol

I have been known to nap at the end of a full day, but it doesn't happen often. I have also been known to forget about that load of laundry started that morning until almost bedtime, but we're not going to talk about that.

On some days I cook, and on others the girls prepare a  lot of their own meals using the microwave. On occasion, the man of the house has come home to a hot and ready meal, but this is usually more of a surprise than a regular occurrence. After supper, it's usually relax time then bed.

Every day is different, though. Every subject is different. What one child excels at, the other may struggle with. They are always taking turns setting the pencil aside with claims they just have to go to the bathroom. Then, of course, they need a drink. I'm often heard saying, "Just sit down!" lol

Inevitably, I'll get a text or FB message or a phone call. Depending on who it is and what they want, interruptions can last for a couple of minutes to over an hour. I say that, but there are times when I look forward to talking to someone older than eleven. :) Sometimes, this mama needs to talk to someone about something else besides school and kid related things.

And, then there are the times when I need to go to the grocery store or to a doctor's appointment. On those days, we usually do not get any school work done. Our doctor's office is here in town; close enough to walk and be back shortly. But, a ride to the store involves getting a driver. Drivers are subject to their own wants and needs. Therefore, a trip down the road just might take all day. I long for a day when I can pick up and go without relying on someone else.

What I haven't talked about yet is my writing. Where do I fit it in? Well, here and there. Sometimes, I write during math class, but mostly I need to be aware of what each girl is doing. Sometimes, I write while they are reading. Other times, I either stay up late or get up earlier to have time to put words into my stories.

So, there you have it; a typical day in the life of me. This is how it is Monday through Friday. During the weekends, I try not to think of school. If I do, then I'm usually discouraged by the time Monday morning rolls around. :) On the days we don't get much book work done, I try to work on other things like home chores. There are homeschoolers out there with stricter schedules who would probably have a heart attack when reading about my loose schedule. But, since 2010 when I first began to homeschool, I have learned that everyone is different. Sometimes, I get the best of the day, and other times the day gets the best of me. One day feels almost perfect, while the following day feels like a complete flop. Sometimes, I wonder if I'll ever get some me time, while other days I know for a fact that without these girls, I'd go crazy.

It's difficult being a woman who is blind teaching sighted children, but I'm right where God wants me to be. This life is full of challenges, but it is also full of joy. So, with that said, time to go spread some of that joy on the students who aren't doing what I told them to do a few minutes ago. lol

Keep On

Pressing my palms deep into the ball of dough on my kitchen table, I thought for sure that I had messed up somewhere along the way. My dough felt floury in some spots and too sticky in others. How long would I have to knead until it was smooth and elastic? My friend and instructor who taught me to make bread had said I couldn't knead too much, so only choice I had was to keep going.

Push down, spread it out, fold it over. Press down, spread out, and fold it over. Again and again I worked that lump on my table. All the while, my 9-month-old daughter wandered around the kitchen in her walker, exploring the contents of my towel drawer and cabinets. Just when I thought I would never have a workable lump of dough, it smoothed out. I was amazed. I placed it in a well-oiled bowl and covered it. I set it aside to rise, and an hour or so later, it had doubled. I baked it, and my husband and I ate homemade bread that evening. "I thought for sure I was doing something wrong," I told him, "but all I needed to do was keep kneading."

Jump forward ten years. There I was walking and slugging down bottle after bottle of water. Sure didn't seem like I was losing weight. Then, one day, the scales gave me a reading I hadn't expected. All I had to do was keep walking. Some days during our homeschool, I wonder if I'm doing the right thing. Will spending this much time on math pay off? Will they ever get this particular concept? Will I ever see results? That is when a still, small voice whispers, "Remember the bread. remember the walking. Keep kneading. Keep walking. At a time when you least expect it, you will see results."

This advice isn't something I remember all the time. Often I get bogged down and forget it. I need reminding, just like everyone else. Whenever the dough feels to floury, the walking seems to hard, the math so difficult, the mountain too steep, just keep pushing.

Maybe, you didn't need this message today, but I sure do. Life can be rough, situations can get so out of hand that I think I can't deal with it unless I have a bowl of ice cream to hand. That, my friend is when I need reminding just who I'm living for. The Bible says "I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me." Philippians 4:13 KJV. It doesn't mean I can do most things, or things folks expect. It doesn't mean only things a blind person can do. Nope, it says all things and means all things. And, God's Word is what I base my life on.

So, with all that said, here I go. Time to figure out what's for supper. Time to leave today and it's trials in the hands of my Lord and trust that He will work all things out for my good. Y'all be blessed, and remember God's love for you is deeper than the oceans, higher than the skies, brighter than the sun, sweeter than honey, as wide as the East is from the West and better than anything you can imagine.

Excerpt of "To Tame A Heart"

PROLOGUE

April, 1882

A storm was coming.  Deric could see it.  Even if he had not been able to see the dark clouds moving toward him, he would have known by the way the cattle were acting.  In preparation for spring round up, he and the men who worked for him were attempting to move a portion of the herd down to the southern pasture, where it would be easier to work.  The cattle, nervous at the approaching storm, however, were having none of it.

Deric was not afraid, he had lived out here all his life, after all and knew what to expect from a Wyoming storm. The uneasy lowing of the animals, the darkening sky and the tension in the air were, however,  putting him on edge.  He was glad he had told his wife to stay with Cookie and the chuck wagon.  They would have already found shelter.  He was also thankful for his sure-footed mount, a big, ornery stallion who wasn't afraid of anything, including the spooked cattle. That horse wasn't letting any thing or anyone bother him.

Cracking his whip over a straying cow, Deric shouted and herded the animal back among the others.  The men around him were doing the same, hoping against hope they could get to lower ground before the storm hit.

Glancing up, he tried to guess how long they had and was dismayed to see that the roiling mass of clouds had developed a greenish brown look.  Tornadoes did not usually come in April, although it was possible.  He studied the clouds and just as a streak of lightning lit up the underside of the boiling mass, he saw something that chilled his blood.

Riding toward them, her back to the storm was his wife.

Now, what was she doing out here?  Had she lost her mind?

He wanted to shout to her, to tell her to get off that horse and head for the lowest piece of ground she could.  He knew it was futal, though, because she would not be able to hear him.

Trying to remain calm, he made his way through the mass of bodies and clashing horns, praying he could get to her in time.

She turned then and saw him.  Waving frantically, she pointed to the storm and said something, but he could not hear her and was not close enough to read her lips.  He shook his head and motioned for her to ride.  She just sat there, tall as ever, outlined against the ever-increasing bolts of lightning.

Crazy female!  Why did she have to get all independent now?

Although Deric had never been one to order a woman about as if he owned her,  there were times when he expected to be obeyed.  And, right now, in the midst of a coming tornado and at the outside of a full out stampede, was one of them.

Leaning low over the saddle, he pushed his mount, aptly named Lightning, toward the place where his Pamela waited.  Thunder boomed, drawing his attention to the steer at his right that was mooing in his ear.  Deric jerked back, only to stare in horror at the beast's horns.  They had little bluish bits of light on them. Seeing them, he shied away and pressed himself even lower, grabbing a handful of the horse's mane.  Then, the wind, which had kicked up a few moments before, died down. Left in its wake was what would have been an ominous silence, if the cattle had not been bawling.

Then, without warning, a horn caught Deric from his other side. With a grimace of pain, he pressed his arm to his side.  He didn't think the wound was serious, but it warned him to get moving.  He had to get away from the cattle and get to his wife.

He looked up then, searching for her.  Ah, there she was.  Now, if he just had a clear path…

Just as he was thinking this, however, a flash so bright it blinded him split the gloom and at the same time, there was an awful bang that he felt in his chest.  There was no time to react, no time to scream, no time for anything.  One minute, he was headed for his wife, and the next, he was deaf, blind and being hurled along. It was impossible to know where he was going.

It felt like forever to him, but in just a couple of minutes, he realized that he and the horse were heading in a different direction than the stampeding herd.   He chanced a cautious glance up and froze.  There on top of the knoll where his wife had been on her own mount, was nothing.

"Pammy!"

Her name was a cry on his lips, as he threw himself out of the saddle.  After catching himself, Deric ran to where she had been just a minute ago.  He would have fallen over her, if he had not been watching the ground.  As it was, he only stumbled over her horse, as he made his way to where she lay.

Ignoring the pain in his side, he knelt by her and touched her face.  He kept calling her name in hopes of a response, but there was none.  He checked her pulse; then her breathing, but with thunder shaking the ground and rain pelting down, he could not feel or hear a thing.  He tried blowing in to her mouth, as Dr. Wilson had taught him. He sealed his lips over hers and forced air down in to her lungs, but his efforts, frantic as they were,  did not seem to matter.

With a dawning horror, he realized she was gone. His Pammy, the love of his life, was gone.

Throwing back his head, he stared with unseeing eyes up in to the writhing heavens and cried out with all the emotion inside him.

"NO!"

CHAPTER 1

Montana, May, 1882

Dr. Faith Valentine closed the door to her medicine cabinet with a sigh of satisfaction.  It had taken nearly all day to restock her supplies, but now the chore was over.  Being the only woman doctor around was not the easiest job but she loved the people out here, just as her late husband had.

She and Richard had met during her last year of medical school at the Women's Medical College in New York.  He had been practicing medicine for a few years already, and they just seemed to hit it off.  He began courting her and soon they were married, much to their parents' delight.  He never treated her as if she was beneath him or inferior.  In fact,  he consulted her on many a case.  She had learned a lot under his instruction while he had grown more sympathetic by watching her bedside manner.  She had taught him how to listen to what the patient was not saying and he had taught her most of what he knew about surgery.

Then, after they had practiced medicine alongside one another for two full years, he had told her he felt called to take his medical knowledge out West.  They had prayed a great deal about it, and believing in her husband, Faith had packed their belongings and followed him to the frontier.  At first, she had not been accepted as a physician, and, even now, folks were still a bit leery of her. Nevertheless,  her husband's obvious confidence in her abilities and the fact that there was more doctoring than one man could do alone, caused the folks of this town to start calling on her nearly as often as they had called on her husband.

Things had sort of smoothed out in to a comfortable rhythm and Faith had begun thinking things would only get better.  Then one sunny afternoon, her world came crashing down.  She still had nightmares about that day a year ago, feeling that if she had only listened or had only been a better doctor, her husband would have lived.  She had almost gone out of her mind with grief.  While it was so hard doing it all alone, God had been her stay.  Also, her friends had been there to help cushion some of the hardest blows.  What would have happened to her without the sheriff and his wife, Bill and Shirley Tucker, and Pastor Marks and his wonderful wife, she could not say.  All she knew was the townsfolk needing her services, added with the friendship of those wise souls, had been just the medicine needed to bring her back to the land of the living.

It had been almost a year, now since Richard's death and it was she that they called on when they needed medical care.  From a child's tummy ache, to a man dying of cancer, she treated them all, and was glad to do it.

Smoothing a hand over the crisp, white sheet that lay over the examination table, she took one more look around the office and smiled.  It was now as neat as a pin.

All she needed now was a sick person to dirty it up.

At that thought, she laughed out loud and left the office in search of the children who had grown way too quiet for her peace of mind.  Knowing their favorite place was outside, she headed toward her front door first. She found she had no need to look further. There they were, all sprawled out in different directions on her porch.

Colbey and Candace Lockhart were the oldest at fourteen and, as such, they had claimed the only swing on the porch.  Faith thought it was amazing how that even though they were growing up and growing apart, when sitting next to one another, they always seemed to be touching in some way.  Like just now, for instance, both had their heads bent over separate books, but Candace was leaning a bit to the left so that her shoulder brushed her brother's.

Sprawled at their feet was eleven-year-old Ruby with her flaming red hair and snappy green eyes.  That one, Faith knew, gave Miss Ellis, the head of the orphanage, more trouble by herself than all ten of them combined.  And, even now, while the rest of the children were reading, Ruby was drawing with the set of pencils and paper Faith had bought her for her birthday last week.

Twelve-year-old Zachary sat on the other end of the porch with his ten-year-old brother, Cody sitting next to him, reading aloud.  Zach's vision was poor, but Cody's eyes more than made up for it.  Faith felt her own eyes burn at the sight of Cody reading to his brother.  Cody read so well, and sometimes, all the children would stop what they were doing and ask him to read aloud to them.  He made stories come alive, as he tried to act out the parts.

The remaining five children lay on their backs or stomachs between the older ones, and all had books in their hands.  They were all Faith's books that she had allowed them to use for the afternoon.  She never had to worry about them tearing them up. Somehow, being without the luxury of books had taught these children to be extremely careful.  Allowing her gaze to caress each one, she smiled. The little ones always seemed to sit or lie down according to their ages.  At one end, closest to Ruby, was her eight-year-old brother Tommy.  Next to him was seven-year-old Megan, whose white blond hair could always be seen in sunshine or in rain.  Next to her lay seven-year-old Blake, who could outrun anybody.  Next to Blake was six-year-old Tracy, whose parents had been killed in a train robbery only two years before.  Faith knew he still had bad dreams about it.  Lastly, lying on her back with  a picture book held gently in her small hands was four-year-old Kierstin, whose Swedish parents had not been able to endure the climate out here.  Faith could still remember how she and Richard tried to treat them.  Despite the two doctor's best efforts, they had died, leaving their little daughter alone to live with the older children in an orphanage.

The ten of them were all special in their own unique way and Faith, even though she had no reason to, felt responsible for them.  They spent as much time at her place as Miss Ellis would allow, which was quite a sizeable amount, as the older woman could not handle them on her own.

Faith did not mind.  In fact, she enjoyed the company they brought her.  Why, they could be good little helpers, if you could get them all to agree on something.  Besides, if it had not been for these children, she might have gone out of her mind with grief.  Unknown to them, their love and their neediness had brought her through the hardest year of her life.

Clearing her throat to get their attention, she asked, "Would anyone like to help me?"

Ten pairs of eyes looked up in question.

"Help you with what?" Candace asked.

Ticking the chores off on her fingers, she said, "I need someone to go for some ice, someone else to go down to the spring for the cream, I need someone to fetch the rock salt and…"

"Someone to go for the ice cream maker!" the littlest ones shouted in glee.

Grinning from ear to ear, Faith only nodded and let them put away the books and head in all different directions to help with the ice cream making.

"There's that jar of cherries you canned last summer, Dr. V.," Ruby said.  "May we put some in it?"

"That would be wonderful," Faith smiled.  ""Why don't you go to the pantry to fetch it."

With so many hands, the cherries were soon chopped up small enough to put in to the ice cream. It wasn't long until everyone  had a bowl and spoon, enjoying the fruits of their labor.

"Didn't you say you received a letter from your folks, Dr. V.?"

Faith swallowed a mouthful and answered, "I did, Candace."

These children, having no folks of their own, delighted in Faith's correspondence with hers.  Often, she would share some, if not all, of her parents' letters with them.

"Mama wrote to say that Papa is finally starting to feel like his old self, again."

"And his sore knee is getting better?" Cody asked.

"Yes," Faith smiled, reaching out with a napkin and wiping the boy's upper lip clean of ice cream.  "They are planning on attending church this Sunday."

The exclamation of gladness from each one of them was as infectious as she knew it would be. It was so good to share her own excitement with this bunch, who really did care.

Several weeks ago, her father had fell down the basement steps in his house in New York.  He had been in a hurry, looking for something, and he had lost his balance, falling down to the bottom and landing in a heap.  Nothing had been broken, but he had been bruised and sore enough that he had found that staying home to mend was his preferred way to spend the time.  The good news from her mother was like a breath of fresh air.

"I sure would like to meet them," said Blake.

The others nodded in agreement and Faith's heart went out to them all.  The eager looks in their eyes and faces made her want to drag them back east and give them all their young hearts could desire.  But, she knew she could not, even if they were hers.  She purposed in her heart to put their case before her parents and see what could be done.

Later that evening, when all ten children were back at the orphanage, Faith opened another envelope.  This one she had not told the children about.  It was from her father's brother who was practicing medicine in Wyoming.

"My dear niece," it began.  "I know I have asked you before and I know you have turned me down before, but I do wish you would come to Cheyenne and stay with me for a time.  I'm getting on in years, you know, and not as able as I once was in keeping up with all the sick folks around, especially the ones who live out on these ranches so far from town.  I know you are attached to folks there in Montana, and I know your Richard is buried there, but dear, you need to think about moving on.  I really could use an extra pair of hands.  Who knows, the folks down here could take to you right away, leaving me to retire.  Of course, I don't want you to make a hasty decision.  So, take your time and pray about it before giving me an answer.  In the meantime, I'll be praying for you and ask you to pray for me that God will give me strength to hang on.  Maybe, if you can't come to stay, you could come for a short visit.  I haven't seen you since you graduated from medical school, you know, and I do miss you.  Well, my dear, I hear someone calling for me, so I will end for now.  Take care and write as soon as you are able.  I remain your favorite uncle, George Wilson."

Refolding the letter, Faith smiled.  Uncle George, her father's only brother was her only uncle, so of course, he was her favorite.  His offer sounded nice, but the thought of leaving everyone here made her miss them already.  Sure enough, it was a matter to pray about in earnest.

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Excerpt of "Wild Heart"

Chapter 1

Arizona Territory, 1881

The mid-September sun seemed to breathe its heat as it shone unmercifully upon the quiet and dusty streets of Tombstone, Arizona.  The unbearable heat was not unusual for the last days of summer, yet folks seemed to think that September should bring relief, instead of more of the same hot, dry, dusty conditions that made merely existing seem like a chore for the most hardy of men.  Not even a cool drink of water under the shade of a low hanging roofline could provide respite for a perspiring pedestrian or diminish the hot rays of the ball of fire slowly slipping toward the western horizon.  For this reason, the streets of Tombstone were unnaturally quiet.

While ladies endeavored to relax in their homes or on their covered porches, most men took to the saloons where it was believed that a game of cards or a drink of whisky might help get their minds off the heat and their boredom.  For a young man out to prove himself, a saloon was the perfect place to look for a fight.  For a more content man who had no need to prove his worth, the porch of the Sheriff's Office was the perfect place to gab the day away, but for Gage Colton, those quiet and dusty streets of Tombstone were a source of information on that lazy day in mid-September.

After his father's untimely death, he had made the necessary arrangements, as best he could; kissed his daughter; and left the Colton ranch to try to find the man who was responsible for the aching grief that plagued his every waking thought and even his dreams.

To a casual observer, Jeb’s murder had appeared to be an accident at best, or at worst, a suicide.  However, Gage was no casual observer; he was a man who had seen his fair share of death by gunshot, and this was definitely a murder.

It had seemed like hours, but only a few moments had passed between the echo of a gunshot and his riding up to find his father lying prone on the ground, revolver in his right hand with a widening stain of crimson darkening his shirt front.  He had quickly dismounted and went to his father’s side, calling out to him, but even before Jeb spoke in a labored whisper, Gage new it was too late.

"I don’t think I ever seen him before." 

"Did you get a good look at him?" he had asked, wishing for something to do.

"Sure did," Jeb had gasped, trying to suck in enough air.  "He was Indian, I think."  Then, with a final sigh, he whispered so soft that Gage almost missed it, "Just a kid."

The next couple of days had seemed to fly by with so much activity that nothing really made sense except his father’s last words and the knowledge that an Indian kid was out there, running from a crime that he had tried to cover up by making it look like another’s.

Memorizing the prints made by the killer’s horse, Gage said his goodbyes and left.  The Colton ranch lay near the Rio Grande, and, due to the hard work of panning for gold in California, was something of which to be proud of.  But, shouldering the responsibility of managing such a large spread would just have to wait.  The deceased rancher's eldest son was not certain why he left to follow the trail of the fast gun that had ended his father's life, but trail him he did.

Years ago, he might have been on the gunman's trail, so as to silence the kid, forever, but not anymore.  He was now a Christian, and even though he was not quite sure what he would do when he found his father's killer, he knew he was not bringing harm to the man.

He had been in nearly every town since San Antonio, and the information he'd gathered, so far, was not much to go on.  Besides killing Jeb Colton, the half-breed gunman was reported to have killed two card cheats down in Mexico and a bartender in San Antone, and rumor was that the kid was very fast and deadly accurate.  Speculation was that the kid was still looking for someone, but as for whom, well, no one seemed to know.

When he had asked around, folks had differing opinions on the kid's appearance.  Some said he was over six feet tall with long hair and a beard.  Some thought he was little and scrawny with greasy hair and an ill-kept appearance.  Mostly, however, no one really knew what the man looked like; they all said he was a young, Indian brave who either never spoke, or had very little to say for himself.

And now, after being in Tombstone for nearly two days, no one seemed to have any more ideas as to the kid's whereabouts than he did.  However, he was no less determined than when he had started out on this quest down in Texas.  Figuring it was time to move on; he had just decided to go back to his hotel to pack his saddlebags, when he overheard a conversation between two men that attracted his immediate attention.

"Hey, Harry," one of the men asked, "What was ye a-thankin’ 'bout, callin’ that kid out like that?  I mean, seein' as how he ain't done nothin' to ye, reck’n ye ain't got no reason to kill 'em."

"No reason to kill 'em!" the other man exclaimed in outrage.  "Why, I reck’n his bein' an Injun what thinks he's gooder'n us white folks is good enough reason, Bob!  I'm gonna kill 'em tomorra.  Jest ye wait and see!"

"But I heard he's a real fast gun and don't never miss what he aims at.  What if'n…?"

Harry did not allow his brother to finish.  "How bad can it be, Bob?  I mean, come on!  He's just a kid and a breed at that!  I'll have him dead afore ye kin blink an eye.  Now, are we gonna git inside outta this heat and play a game-a cards 'r stand out here and chit-chat all afternoon?"

In an instant, Gage recognized the twosome standing in front of the Silver Dollar Saloon.  Both men had shown up at a time in his life that he did not care to remember.  He had hoped never to lay eyes on them again, and seeing the pair so soon after his own father's death, he felt a cold lump of dread settle in his gut.  He did not know why the Baker brothers were so far south, but he could not help but think that trouble would be the end result.  Knowing both men as he did, he knew they had spent most of the last three years in either Colorado or Wyoming, and now, he wondered if they were speaking of the very man who had seemed to elude him for the past several weeks.  Praying he would not be recognized, he approached the two men, and inquired, "Don't mean to interrupt you, gentlemen, but what might be the name of this kid?"

Harry frowned at the man who stood a good four inches above him.  "What's it to ye, stranger?"  He asked.  He wasn't sure he liked strangers listenin' in on his private conversation.

"Just curious," Gage said with a lazy calm that he did not feel.

Harry's frown deepened.  He'd not said ten words to this tall stranger, yet he disliked him already.  "The kid ain't been botherin' ye, too, has he?"  He pried.

Fixing his gaze upon the smaller man with a determined look in his clear, blue eyes, Gage prompted, "The kid's name?"

"The breed never said what his name was," Bob said quickly, before Harry could open his big mouth and possibly get them in to more trouble than necessary.  "Folks jest calls him the breed."

"Why is that?"  Gage asked, not taking his eyes away from Harry's oily countenance.

"Cause he looks like a half breed," Harry answered incredulously, wondering if the tall man was possibly a few cards short of a full deck.

"And," Gage concluded "you're going to kill him tomorrow."

"Yip!  Sure am!  Come high noon tomorra, he'll meet me right here in front of the Silver Dollar, and I'm gonna kill 'em dead," Harry bragged, growing more self-confident as the questioning leaned toward him and not the breed.

"Well, I reckon I'll be moving along," was all Gage said as he continued his stroll down the rough board sidewalk.  Something just did not seem right about the situation and, feeling that cold lump of dread grow larger, he intended to figure it out before moving on.  Perhaps this was the break for which he had been searching.

As the man left, Harry and Bob looked at one another in puzzlement.  Turning toward the double doors of the saloon, Harry asked, "What ye s'pose that stranger be a-wantin' to know 'bout the breed fer?"

"Why, that waurnt no stranger," Bob said, glancing over his shoulder at the retreating form.  "That was Gage Colton.  Ye know, the gunfighter we met up with back in '76?"

A thoughtful look came over Harry's face.  As he sat down at one of the scarred card tables, he said, "So it is, Bob.  Do ye reck'n somebody's hired 'em to git that breed?"

"Wouldn't know," said Bob.  "But, I can tell ye one thang!  If'n Colton's after that kid, then I kind-a feel sorry fer 'em; Colton's good with that gun, and he always was a mean 'un!  Fact is I was a-gittin' kind-a worried a minute ago, cause ye wouldn't shut of ye mouth.  What if'n ye'd made Colton mad?  Don't know 'bout ye sometimes, Harry."

"Know what ye mean, 'bout Colton bein' a mean 'un," Harry agreed.  Shuffling a deck of cards, he finished, "I member how he never showed no mercy to those he went after.  But, ye'd nothin' to worry 'bout.  I could've took care of that kid and Colton, too, with one hand tied behind my back!"

As the noon hour of the next day drew near, the street in front of the Silver Dollar began to empty, but it was not due to a lack of curiosity.  In fact, those souls who were brave enough were finding vantage points along the street in order to watch from a distance.  They were hungry for something new to gossip about, but they were not stupid; no one wanted to get in the way of a stray bullet.

Among those brave souls, standing just inside an alley across from the saloon, stood Gage Colton.  The last thing he wanted was to see bloodshed, but he felt he needed to see who this kid really was. Something in him seemed to be shouting that he was right; he was finally going to get a look at the one he'd been following since Texas. Trouble was, what would he do if his instincts were correct?

Seeing Tombstone's notorious Chief of Police, Virgil Earp, making his way toward the alley where he stood, he greeted him by asking in a low voice, "You planning on doing something about this fight?"

Earp gave the younger man an incredulous look, and answered, "No.  Baker's a cardshark, who cheats more often than not!  I figure if he’s stupid enough to challenge that kid to a gunfight, he’s stupid enough to get his self killed.  And the kid...well, from what I've heard that kid can take care of his self."

"You've heard of this kid before?" Gage asked.

"No," Earp answered, "not until last night when somebody told me Baker had called the man out; sides, if I tried to stop every gunfight in town, I’d be doin’ it from now till doomsday!"

Turning away in disgust, Gage wondered what the purpose was in having a Chief of Police, when he did not seem inclined to keep the peace.  He wondered why no one seemed concerned that lives were at stake.  Did anybody care what became of either man?  Would anyone have a funeral for the one who would be unlucky enough to be too slow at the draw?  He seriously doubted it.  Uppermost in his mind was the kid's identity, or rather, was he the same man who had murdered Jeb Colton?  There were no forth-coming answers to his many questions, but one thing he knew for certain, was that there was bound to be trouble, no matter who was left standing when the smoke began to clear.

When the sun had finally reached its highest peak in the sky, he could see Harry, revolver resting in its holster on his hip, walking slowly down the left side of the street.  Glancing to his right, he saw the kid on his way to meet his opponent.  The two met about twenty feet apart in the middle of the street.

In the ominous hush that had seemed to fall over the town, Harry's voice could be heard loud and clear, as he taunted, "Are ye sure ye don’t wanna back out, breed?  Wouldn't want any of your Injun blood contaminatin' this here street, if’n it can be helped!"

Concentrating on the kid’s appearance, Gage almost missed the quiet reply.

"It isn’t my blood that will be contaminating the street; it’ll be yours, Mr. Baker.  Are you sure you want to die today, because we could just call it off and…"

"Cocky little whippersnapper, ain’t ye!" Baker said, a little cockily himself, but he was unable to hide the note of nervousness that kept him from meeting his opponent’s eyes.

"You’re a fool," the kid said in disgust.

"What’s that?  What did ye call me, there, Boy?" Baker asked, nastily, resting his right hand on his gun.

"I called you a fool," the kid answered, still not bothering to raise his voice.  "If you're wanting to shoot it out, then let's quit all this talk and get on with it."

Hearing something in the kid's voice that made the little hairs on his arms stand at attention, Gage narrowed his gaze and studied the man more closely.  His voice had not been loud, nor was it familiar, yet it sounded more like a woman's than that of a young man.

He had no more time to wonder about it, however, for at that moment, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Baker begin to draw his weapon.  But, he had no time to cock it, before the kid's bullet hit him between the eyes, and the unused gun fell to the ground along with a very dead Baker.

As long as he lived, Gage would never forget the look on the kid's face at that instant.  Shock and horror seemed to mingle with a very feminine expression—the beginning of tears.  Then, like a curtain, an expression of cold indifference fell over his face, and, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just taken place, he turned to leave the scene, revolver still in hand.  It was all over in a matter of a few moments.

For a split second, silence ruled the spectators.  Then all at once, a mass of people began to flock toward the middle of the street.

Paying no heed to those around him, Gage stepped in to the street, and without stopping to analyze his reason, began following the tall, slender figure out of town; he just could not let this kid walk off without finding out his identity.  Behind him, he could hear shouting as folks were undoubtedly removing the lifeless body from the street.  A few were trying to get close to the kid, too, but the cold expression on his face and the fact that he still held his revolver at the ready, kept everyone from getting too close, except Gage.  Just as they passed the last buildings in town, he heard amidst all the shouting, Bob's voice promising his brother that he would "git that no good Injun fer this."

When they were finally clear of town, the kid stopped, re-holstered his gun, put two fingers in his mouth and gave a shrill whistle.  Immediately, Gage could see a beautiful Appaloosa running toward them.  The kid reached for the horse's reins, but before he could mount, Gage said, "Hold up there, boy."

When the kid turned to face the voice behind him, Gage managed to hide his surprise, but barely; his first impression of the kid had been correct.  This was no man standing before him. Instead, he found himself staring in to the face of a full-grown woman, and a very beautiful one at that.  She wore a wide-brimmed hat that hid most of her face.  Masking most of her features, this hat was probably the most important part of her outfit, for it caused others to not think twice about her appearance.  Her jet black hair was twisted into a thick braid down her back.  He could see that she had a dark complexion, a full mouth and a chin that seemed permanently tilted at a stubborn angle.  He tried to determine the color of her eyes, but the brim of her hat shadowed them, along with the rest of her features.  Of average height, she wore men's blue denim pants that showed well herslim waist and her long, shapely legs.  The blue shirt and fringed buckskin jacket that she wore were well placed over broad shoulders, and were intended for the purpose of hiding her more feminine curves, but they fell woefully short; she was most definitely a woman.  Instead of boots, she wore calf-high leather moccasins.  Most intriguing about her attire, Gage thought, was the gun belt buckled securely about her waist, with her revolver resting in its holster on her right hip.  From what he could see of her hair and complexion, she did look as if one of her parents were Indian, and it was no wonder so many had mistaken her for a young boy for she truly did look the part.  But how could they not tell she was a woman just by looking at her?

"I suggest that you stop staring and start explaining, Mister.  I don't have all day."

Gage's eyes returned to her face.  Wishing that he could see the expression in her eyes, he asked the first thing that came to his mind.

"Who taught you to use that gun?"

The question surprised her, but quickly masking her expression, she said, "That isn't any of your business."

Taken aback by her cold manner, he said, grimly, "No, I guess it isn't at that.  I only wanted to suggest that you stop trying to kill everyone you come in contact with.  You can't solve problems by ending the lives of others."

He did not go on, for her anger was very apparent, not only in her facial expression but also in the torrent of words that spilled forth from her lips.  Who did this man think he was, anyway?

"My actions and the reasons behind them are none of your concern, Mister…" 

"Gage Colton," he supplied.

But, paying him no mind, she finished, "So you can just turn your body around and march yourself back to town unless you'd like to end up like that man in the street.  I can provide the service, you know."  This last was said as the fingers of her right hand brushed suggestively against the butt of her revolver.

Gage continued to stare at the angry woman.  Her cold manner, along with the knowledge of her skill were enough to send anyone packing, but he was not thinking of the previous events in town; his mind was on the expression he had seen on her face when she had killed Harry Baker.  Where was the horrified girl?  He knew she had to be hiding behind the cold woman who stood before him.

Finally, he said, "I'll go back to town, but you might want to think about leaving this place.  They might come looking for you, seeing as how you just killed Harry…"

"I know who I killed," she said, allowing her hand to rest fully on her gun.

Taking the threat for what it was, he gave her a long look, sighed, then turned toward town, still wondering about the interesting woman behind him.  He had no doubt she would carry out her threat…he didn’t know too many men or women who could draw and fire as fast as she had, but he could not understand why a young woman felt the need to go roaming the countryside, posed as a half-breed gunslinger.  How could he have ever thought, for one minute, that this woman might be the man he'd been trailing?  Then, thinking on her peculiar behavior, he realized that there was more here than what met the eye, and he felt that he hadn't seen the last of the woman, who shot in cold blood as if she was used to it.

Watching the tall figure walk back toward town, Shewana Christy sighed with resignation.  So, she had finally met the infamous Gage Colton.  She had heard all about him, but had never laid eyes on him until now.  Or, had she?  Oddly enough, he looked familiar.  Then, as the name registered, her heart dropped in to her stomach and her knees nearly gave way beneath her; Gage Colton, the eldest son of Jeb Colton!

For an instant, the awful terror that had plagued her these last few weeks, washed over her in waves.  What was she going to do now?  Had he come looking for her?  Or, was it just an accident—bad luck, perhaps--that she had had the misfortune to run in to him.

Finally telling herself to get a grip, she mounted her horse and gathered up the reins.  She wondered if Deric could have sent him to come looking for her.  If so, was her brother just concerned at her continued absence, or had the news of Jeb Colton’s death reached Wyoming?

She had heard, once, that Colton had come clean, that he was no longer a gun for hire, but one could never tell.  In any case, the more miles between her and Gage Colton, the better.  Most assuredly, she needed to get out of Arizona, and fast.

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