IN THE WORKS
Since I'm not working on a vampire book, I thought I'd include the first chapter of the Western that I'm currently working on....................
Prologue
He stood in the middle of a white-walled room that had no windows or doors, and no ceiling. Clouds swirled above him, but they were unlike any clouds he had ever seen, constantly changing colors, occasionally broken by streaks of jagged lightning. His body felt light, foreign, as if a strong wind could blow him away. He had no idea where he was or how he'd gotten there. Or where his clothes had gone. Not that he was naked. No, he wore a long, white robe made of some feather-light material. He told himself he must be dreaming.
He stilled as the air in the room grew suddenly heavy, oppressive, like an invisible weight that threatened to crush him.
"It hurts, doesn't it?" The voice was gentle, feminine.
He turned in a slow circle, searching for the source, but saw no one.
"What you're feeling are the weight of your sins," the voice said. "Broken promises. Broken commandments. Broken lives."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
Soft laughter filled the room. "Funny you should mention hell."
An icy chill slithered down his spine. "Is that where I am?"
"Not yet."
The realization hit him then. He was dead. He had a sudden image of facing Jack Shaunhessy across six feet of dusty ground, a sudden. searing pain in his chest, and then nothing.
You've done one good deed in all your life. Do you remember what it was?"
"No."
"I'm not surprised. Years ago, you saved a man's life. He promised one day he would repay you. This is that day."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm saying that he stood up for you and pleaded that you might have a second chance to redeem your soul. You have one year to prove yourself. I'll be watching everything you do. See that you make better choices this time."
Before he could ask what the hell that meant, T. J. Vance found himself astride a paint pony in the middle of a verdant valley, with no idea how he'd gotten there. But a clear memory of a white room with no windows and no doors and no ceiling. And a vivid memory of every sin he had ever committed. And a soft warning voice whispering, "Make better choices this time."
One year, he thought. He had one year to change his fate.
He clucked to the mare. And for the next few miles, he dredged up his past. It was not a pretty picture. He had done a lot of rotten things in his life -- lied a little, cheated a little, whored a little, robbed a few banks, killed a few men, but only in self-defense. Out and out murder was about the only sin he hadn't committed.
One year. Hell. How did a leopard change his spots?
Chapter One
Lindy huddled inside what was left of the barn, the war cries and shouts of the Indians gradually fading away. She couldn't stop shaking. Couldn't stop the flow of tears cascading down her cheeks. The savages had set the house and the barn on fire, stolen their cow and their horses. The lingering scent of smoke fouled the evening air. Her parents lay outside in the yard. Dead. She wept every time she looked at them, lying so still, so cold, bodies scalped and mutilated. She had no way to bury them and when she couldn't stand looking at them anymore, she had gathered her courage, left the shelter of the ice house where she'd been when the attack came, and covered her parents with a scorched tarp. Her younger brother, Joey, had been kidnapped by the savages. For all she knew he, too, was dead.
Why had the Indians attacked them? Her family had done nothing to them. Nothing at all. They had lived here for five years. Never before had they had trouble with the Indians.
Shivering from the cold, she huddled under a pile of hay and closed her eyes. If only they had killed her, too. She was going to die anyway. Why had she been spared? Everything she knew and loved was gone. Her family. The house, along with her clothes and books and everything else. There was nothing left to live for, no way she could survive out here alone. She wondered briefly if their neighbors had also been attacked. Perhaps tomorrow she would walk the five miles to the Murphy place. She shivered again, frightened by the thought of leaving her hiding place. What if the Indians were still out there?
#
T.J. rode west. Four days had passed since his return to earth. One minute he'd been in that white room and the next he'd been back on earth, wondering if he had imagined the whole thing. The incident left him feeling confused. And though he hated to admit, scared right down to his socks. He'd been dead and now he was alive again because some man he didn't remember had begged heaven to give him a second chance.
He shook his head. Had it really happened? And what the hell was he supposed to do with the reprieve he'd been given? He'd been a wanderer his whole adult life, drifting from town to town, drinking, gambling, whoring, sometimes spending summers with his mother's people.
When he saw smoke in the distance, he reined his horse to a halt. Perhaps he could get a decent meal before riding on. Clucking to the mare, he rode on, his brow furrowing when he saw the smoke wasn't from a chimney fire. The whole place was in flames.
Drawing nearer, he reined his horse to a halt again, his narrow-eyed gaze sweeping the carnage. He read the signs easily enough. Before his death, the Crow had been on the warpath, burning a wide swath of misery and destruction through the countryside. Apparently they were still at it. This was the third burned-out place he'd seen in the last two days. But he couldn't blame the Crow. They'd been lied to. their hunting grounds over-run by prospectors, the buffalo decimated by hunters. The last treaty had been broken by the whites. The Crow were mad and they had every right to be.
His gaze rested briefly on the bodies. Would it be a black mark against him if he didn't try to bury them? He swore under his breath. Unless he could find a shovel, the best he could do was carry them into what was left of the house, but that wouldn't keep the wolves from finding them.
He was about to dismount when he heard the faint creak of wood against wood. His gun was in his hand as turned in the direction of the noise. A muttered oath slipped past his lips when he caught a quick glimpse of a pale face, frightened gray eyes, and a riot of honey-gold curls peeking out of what he guessed was the ice house. Muttering under his breath, he holstered his Colt.
Lindy froze at the sight of the man on the horse. Indian! Oh, Lord, had they come back to finish the job?
Panic lent wings to her feet. She sprang out of the ice house and bolted, her only thought to flee her parent's fate. She saw nothing, heard nothing, as she ran for her life.
She let out a terrified scream as a long arm snaked around her waist. The breath whooshed out of her lungs as a heavy weight carried her to the ground. Oh, Lord, she was going to die. Eyes squeezed shut, she prayed it would the end would come quickly.
But nothing happened. The weight lifted.
She opened her eyes, afraid of what she would see. And he was there, a tall man with coppery skin, long black hair, and deep, dark brown eyes. He wore a pair of buckskin pants fringed along the outer edge, a long-sleeved gray shirt, and a pair of black boots. A black leather holster was snugged around his hips. A knife in a beaded sheath rode his left hip. He was the most dangerous-looking man she had ever seen.
He stared at her from beneath the brim of his Stetson. Then offered her his hand.
When she refused to take it, he said, "I'm not gonna hurt you, kid," and held out his hand again.
Her own hand trembled as she placed it in his and let him pull her to her feet. She was sorely tempted to run again, but what was the point?
"What's your name, girl?"
"Lindy. Lindy Montgomery."
"How old are you?"
"Almost twenty."
He grunted softly. Clad in a blue skirt and a matching shirt, her feet clad in a pair of scuffed cowboy boots, her hair tied back in a tail, she looked younger.
"You got any other kinfolk nearby?"
She shook her head.
"Well, you sure as hell can't stay here."
"I was going to see if any of our neighbors..."
He shook his head. "That was a hell of a big war party. Your neighbors are all gone. And we're leaving."
"Leaving?" She stared up at him through tear-ravaged eyes.
"Like I said, you can't stay here."
"My parents....I can't just leave them."
T.J. swore softly. "I'm sorry, girl. But I've got no way to bury them. The best I can do is place them in the ice house."
She wanted to argue but she knew he was right. The ground was hard as a rock. Silent tears tracked her cheeks as she watched him carry her mother and father to the ice house. At least they wouldn't be prey to the wolves, she thought bleakly, and murmured a prayer for their souls.
The man swung into the saddle, then held out his hand. "Come on," he said. "We'll have to ride double until we find you a horse."
She stared at his hand, big and brown, for a long moment before she grabbed hold of his forearm. He lifted her effortlessly and settled her behind him. When the horse moved out, she wrapped her arms around the stranger's waist and closed her eyes. Right or wrong, she was trusting her life to a man she knew nothing about.
T.J. was acutely conscious of the girl riding behind him. The feel of her arms around his waist. The warmth of her breasts against his back. Her faint, womanly scent. Damn. What was he going to do with her now? He knew what he wanted to do, but that would surely be a black mark on his account.