excerpt – The Queen of Paradise Valley

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She woke, her hand on her mouth, her stomach quivering. Peculiar smells filled the forest glade: woodsmoke and food. Real food.

Heartbeat quickening, she grabbed the shotgun and crept through the brush, emerging in a small clearing. A circle of flat stones surrounding a campfire supported a steaming black pot and a pan of biscuits. Biscuits! She wanted to run to this feast and fall on her knees before it. But the food hadn't appeared there by magic. Someone was near. Someone human.

An animal yelped behind her. She whirled. A black beast vaulted at her, knocking her down. The shotgun skidded across the grass. Gasping, she lifted her arms to fend off the monster and stared in consternation at the hound trying to lick her face.

"Ebony." Her alarmed cry sent the dog to his belly. Panting, squirming with excitement, he gazed at her with eager, inquisitive eyes.   

Del came from the direction of the stream, a battered coffee pot in his hand. Happiness washed through her, then vanished. He was looking at her with much less excitement and pleasure than Ebony had. His eyes, half-closed, glimmered; his mouth formed a firm line.

She swiped a hand across her mouth. "Dammit, how did you find me?"

"Ebony tracked you. Remember him? Maybe you don't remember me?"

"Go away, Del. Back the way you came."

"Not without you." He squatted by the fire and set the pot on a flat rock.

She sat and crossed her arms. "You can't force me to go back."

"I can. Roped like a maverick if necessary." He picked up the shotgun and gave her a hard stare. "Be ready to leave in one hour. You can sit here till then. I'm having my dinner."

No. This wasn’t happening. She remained seated. Soon the aroma of coffee mingled with all the other tantalizing cooking smells. Her mouth filled with saliva; her stomach cramped and groaned. She didn’t need Del. But when he loaded a tin bowl with heaping spoonfuls of stew, broke a biscuit out of the pan, poured himself a mug of coffee and sat back in cross-legged comfort, tears stung her eyes.

With bated breath she followed the movement of his hand as he dipped a spoon into the bowl and delivered it laden to his mouth. His teeth flashed tearing into the biscuit, his jaw worked as he chewed, his throat contracted as he swallowed.

She wiped the corners of her mouth on her sleeve and rose to her feet. Her gaze on the black pot, she crossed the clearing and sank down beside Del. He handed her a bowl and she filled it, finding to her delight the stew contained chunks of meat and tuberous vegetables in tomato broth. She sat back on her heels, rejected a spoon, lifted the bowl to drink the broth, and picked up the meat and vegetables with her fingers, stuffing her mouth full.

He stopped eating. "You been living with wolves?"

She flicked her hair over her shoulder. Unmannerly, unladylike--she didn't care. Like in her dream, she wanted to eat everything and take pleasure in doing it the most basic way. But when she leaned forward to refill her bowl, her stomach did a somersault. She dropped the bowl, jumped up and bolted across the clearing. Everything she'd devoured rose to mock her; basic pleasure was replaced by the taste of sour bile.

 

--Cat

 

New excerpt from The Queen of Paradise Valley

From chapter 27

Clem waited in the house. "How you been, Miss Diana? Heard there was some trouble."

She hung her jacket and wool muffler in the hall, dropped her hat and gloves on a chair. "What did you hear?"

He hooked his thumbs into his vest pockets. “Well…you and Del had a big fight and you tried to kill him. 'Course, it's also been said he shot himself by accident."

"That's what he told the sheriff."

“Miss Diana--" Clem gave her a searching look, but she shook her head. No. She would not discuss the incident.  Teresa bustled down the stairs bearing a tray laden with empty dishes. Clem turned to her. "How's the patient today? Does he want comp'ny?"

"He is much better.” Her eyes were bright. “But he wishes to see the Signora."

Oh, no. Seeing Del was the last thing Diana wanted to do. "I don't have time now. Teresa, can you please get me a change of clothing from my room?"

With a shake of her head, the housekeeper declared, "You must get for yourself anything you want. You cannot delay seeing him. He is your husband and must be obeyed."

Clem smiled. "I'll be back tomorrow."

Engulfed by a torrent of angry thoughts, Diana didn't watch him leave. Husband? Well, yes. Master? No. Never.

But eventually she went to her room. So warm. Someone was keeping the fireplace well-fed lest the invalid get a chill. Without a glance at the bed, she strode to her bureau and opened a drawer. Why didn't he say anything? If he was asleep she could avoid a confrontation. She took a chance, looked into a mirror and saw her own pink-cheeked face, and Del, gazing at her with half-closed eyes, a cryptic smile on his lips.

Flustered by the weight of his gaze, she lifted several nightgowns out of the drawer, then turned to face him. "I needed some things. Teresa refuses to fetch them."

He didn't speak but continued looking at her. Propped up by pillows, a quilt drawn to his bandage, he was bare-chested, all black hair and hard muscles. Much too masculine for the lace trimmed pillowslips and the elegant roses embroidered on the quilt. Ebony dozed on the floor at the foot of the bed. Another traitor.  Like everyone else at the ranch.

She licked her dry lips. "Will you be able to move back to your room soon?"

A shrug lifted one shoulder. "Soon's doc says I can. Are you keeping my bed warm?"

"I've been sleeping in Randy's room." Face tingling, she hugged the clothes and looked aside. "Why don't you ask Alfredo to give you a shave?"

"Alfredo's busy. Why don't you do it for me?"

Her gaze swung back to him. "Ha. Put a razor in my hand I just might slit your throat."

“Diana." His tone was softly chiding and she stared at him in surprise. "I trust you. Why don't you trust me? Come sit so we can talk."

Despite her reluctance, she perched on a chair beside the bed and looked out the window.  What did he want to say? Why didn't he get it over with? She asked, "How do you feel?"

“Like I’ve had a bullet carved out of my side. Like I've had my flesh stitched together. Want to see it?"

"Oh no. No!" Embarrassed, she added, "I can't look. I–I have an aversion to the sight of human blood. I panic. I can look at animals covered with blood, dead or dying. But wounded people--never." Damn, she was jabbering. She rubbed her brow.  "I--didn't mean to shoot you. It--just happened."

Another awkward silence. At last he said, "I'm sure I deserved this. Go ahead, call me a miserable son of a bitch." He paused, but when she said nothing, he continued, "What do you think the sight of you half-undressed does to a man? Especially when he knows you aren't the saint you pretend to be? Why don't you stop acting the prude?"

— Cat

New excerpt from The Queen of Paradise Valley

From chapter 19

A lantern hung from the center post, shedding smoky light that didn’t reach the gloomy corners of the tent. Diana brushed snarls out of her hair and pulled down the wool sleeves of her underwear. Outside a rising wind stirred the pines, sawing branches together, scattering needles onto the canvas roof.

She shivered and hugged her arms. Her bedding, blankets arranged on a thin mattress, looked cold and uninviting. Why hadn't she asked one of the cowhands to bring some heated rocks from the campfire? Where was her brain? Still listening to Del as he chided her for skimming the surface of the ocean he called life?  

A chilly draft swept her back. She whirled. As if she had conjured him up, Del stood in shadows at the entrance, one hand holding his hat, the other clasping the neck of a bottle.

"Del--" Tremors in her voice betrayed her excited dread. "You have no right to be here."

Her dread increased as he let his hat fall and stepped forward, his face emerging in the light. There was something predatory in his half-closed eyes. Something hungry.   

"Why?" The soft-spoken word seemed fraught with danger. His gaze moved over her in a slow sweep and he swayed, groping for the center post to steady himself. The lantern swung and grotesque shadows careened across the canvas walls. He raised the bottle to his lips.

She shook her head. Drunk. Disgusting.

"See, the men got a wager. Some say you wear black to bed. Reckon they’re wrong. Man's clothes, man's red underwear. An' I was hoping to see the flawless design."  

No sense to his words. No reason for heat forming in her cheeks, spreading to her neck and down. She said, "You can make your report and leave me to myself."

“C’mon, Miz Russell, don't you want some of this good whiskey?" He lifted the bottle and shook his head. A grin twitched his mouth. "Sorry. None left to warm you--"

The bottle slid from his hand. He took several steps, stumbled, and half fell against her. She grabbed his shoulders, strained to stabilize him. At once locked in a ponderous embrace, she stared into glazed silver eyes mere inches from hers. He bunched her hair to one side and dragged his fingers down the center of her back, igniting all her senses.

And she was the one sliding, falling, and he was supporting her. He lowered his face to hers. She averted her head and his lips brushed her cheek. 

“I’ll warm you myself, China Doll." He squeezed her chin and turned her face to his.

She opened her mouth, whispered, "Don't--" but her protest was crushed by the stubborn press of his lips. He tasted like whiskey and she herself was intoxicated. She clutched at his jacket collar. It was fur, maybe wolf, thick and shaggy like his hair. 

 --Cat