Excerpt from A Room in Blake’s Folly“You trust Big Jim?” Resentment rippled down Westley Cranston’s
spine, meshed with scorn. “A lousy cad who jilted you when you were
carrying his child? Who knew your bigoted family would kill you?”
Seemingly unperturbed, Sookie Lacey dipped her forefinger into the
oily pot of carmine on her dressing table, spread the rosy salve over
her lips. Turned, met Westley’s eyes squarely. “Jim didn’t have a
choice. He was on the lam. He had to keep moving.”
“Because he was wanted for a violent robbery! Why the hell are you
making excuses for an unscrupulous criminal who forced himself on an
impoverished family?”
“You weren’t out in this part of the world back then. You can’t even
imagine that winter when cattle froze to death on the prairie. How could
anyone, good or bad, have survived in the open?”
“And while hiding out with your family, he seduced you.”
“Seduced!” Her nostrils flared. “Being with Jim protected me from my
vicious brother, my depraved father, I told you that. They both tried to
have their way with me.”
It was an old argument, one they’d had many times. Why couldn’t
Sookie see that Big Jim’s perfidy could have ruined her life—would have
ruined her life if she’d been a weaker woman? A pregnant
fifteen-year-old runaway when she arrived in Blake’s Folly, Sassy Sookie
had gone to work as a prostitute in the Red Nag Saloon. It wasn’t the
lowest sort of brothel, but it wasn’t a classy parlor house either. Yet,
clever, lighthearted, and a favorite with the men, she soon realized
her own worth. Never succumbing to the temptations of alcohol or
laudanum, she’d left the Red Nag, come to the Mizpah, and as a saloon
girl, made such excellent money selling dance tickets, encouraging men
to buy alcohol, and to gamble, she no longer needed to sell herself.
“So, four years after jilting you, Jim walks into the Mizpah, sees
you’ve become successful, and decides to stake his claim. That makes him
a decent man?”
“He’s changed. Jim has become a respectable businessman, and he wants
to marry me. He’s building us a big fine house where we can live
together with our little son.”
“Where? Where will this wonderful fine house be?”
“In Virginia City.”
“Have you ever been there? Seen what he’s building?”
“You know I haven’t. Jim’s been on the road for the last five months.
He sends me letters from Denver, San Francisco, New Orleans, and
Phoenix.”
How can she be so blind? Westley took a deep breath, forced
himself to sound steady and reasonable, not like a man hopelessly in
love with the woman he would soon lose. “And what about us? What about
what we shared? The nights you spent in my arms?” Nights when she had
given herself without reticence but with warmth, tenderness.
Sookie stood, shook out the short, ruffled skirt and colorful
petticoats floating just below her shapely calves. Her golden beauty,
caught in the lamp’s uneven flicker, made his heart ache. How desirable
she was in the low-cut sequined bodice that barely hid the sweetness of
her breasts.
“Westley, what you and I shared is our secret. A delicious secret
that no one else can know about or even suspect, particularly since Jim
has sent Doug Lazy here to protect me.”
“To spy on you, you mean.”
Sookie’s chin tilted defiantly. “Think what you’d like. Just don’t forget I’m marrying Jim in September.”
Pushing past him, she swept out of her boudoir and into the long dark
corridor. The tapping of her tasseled kid boots on the stair held a
note of finality.
Excerpt from All About Charming Alice
The back seat of Jace’s car looked like it needed a shave. “Can’t you dogs keep your hair on?”
The shaggy black animal wagged its tail, a look of simple adoration
in its eyes. Jace sighed. His day was going all wrong. He didn’t like
dogs, didn’t like dog hair, and didn’t like being late. Yet here he was,
late for his appointment and busy driving a shedding mutt around a
ramshackle agglomeration no one could call a village or a community. A
semi-ghost town? Yes, that was the right word for this jumble of shacks,
run-down frame houses, beat-up trailers, and car wrecks strewn along
weed-choked lanes.
Hard to imagine that a hundred years ago Blake’s Folly had been a
wild town, a Gomorrah, a name that had brought terror into the hearts of
honest men and women but also a refuge in a harsh, hostile wasteland.
Times had changed, all right. Nowadays there was nothing appealing,
nothing welcoming, and nothing threatening about the place. It was
definitely a has-been.
“Jeez!” Jace muttered. “Why would anyone choose to live in a mess
like this?” As if in response to the question, which was, of course,
merely rhetorical, the dog shifted forward and licked his cheek.
Jace jerked away, threw the creature a sour look in the rearview mirror. “The last thing I need is a dog with all the answers.”
The dog was large—very large. Its bulbous head seemed to sway on a
sagging neck. Its legs were long, knotted, and spindly, and its ribs
wanted to punch through a dull, ratty-looking coat. Yet, ugly though it
was, the damn thing had a strange appeal.
But was that a reason to talk to it? Jace had never had a
conversation with an animal in his life—folks who did were either nuts
or absolute fools. “And there’s no way I’m sliding into one of those
categories!” he stated with definite emphasis. The animal’s tail thumped
a mocking denial on the seat.
Jace groaned. It was all the fault of the dry Nevada air. “Doing
strange things to my brain. I need the city, with big city dirt,
pollution, and noise. Spend a few more hours in the desert with this
beast, I’ll find myself explaining the theory of relativity to it.” He
turned again. The amount of dog hair on the back seat had now reached
disaster proportions. He had to get rid of this animal and fast.
Suddenly, the rutted track came to an abrupt end. Jace slammed his
foot down on the brake, and the car skidded to a dusty stop. Now what?
Ahead of him, the countryside stretched out in beige desert monotony:
endless, lifeless, treeless. The man at the gas station had told him to
take this dog to the last house in town: a yellow mansion. One belonging
to a woman called Alice Treemont—how was that for a moniker? Certainly
seemed appropriate for someone who lived in the desert and took in stray
dogs. He could picture her, too, hair dyed ruby red, cigarette hanging
out of a corner of her mouth, her body molded by leopard-print latex. Or
else a mean-lipped witch, one who hated every male on Earth.
Jace stared at the structure on his right. High, ancient, rickety,
made out of wood, it looked nothing like a mansion and more like the
typical haunted house found in amusement parks. Could this be what he
was looking for? Impossible. He peered out at the landscape: left,
right, behind, ahead. Nothing else. Just this.
“And the locals call that yellow?” Sure, it must have been yellow
once…around a hundred years ago. Back then it might have been regal.
Opening the car door, he stepped out onto the soft, brown dust that,
to his annoyance, instantly covered the fine Italian leather of his
boot. Hell on Earth, that’s what this part of the world was. He was
really looking forward to getting back to Chicago with its art
galleries, concerts, and theater performances and to meeting up with the
good-looking, sophisticated women he knew. But for the next month or
so, he was stuck out here, doing research. It was his own fault:
sometimes he had crazy ideas.
Excerpt Desert Rose
When the bell above the shop door tinkled, Rose’s well-practiced
welcome smile was almost in place. Almost…then it stopped in
mid-stretch. Stunned, she stared, swallowed, stared some more. My
goodness: wasn’t he gorgeous. Her interest increased, and her
heart did a pitter-patter tippy-toe dance as she took him in:
tallish—but anyone would be tall when compared to her tiny size—rangy,
with tousled hair so black it appeared blue under the lights, an
explorer’s bone structure and weather-honed skin, deep brown eyes. And
here she was, acting like a complete idiot, frozen into place, gawking
at him as if he were of another species, or something totally
new-fangled dropped down from a distant stretch of the Milky Way.
Not that he seemed to be faring any better, not moving, staring at
her, his gaze unwavering, the wide-open door letting in frosty air and
plump snowflakes. What was that gaze of his telling her? That he was
surprised? Pleased? Oh yes. He liked what he saw, all right—and men did
like her, she knew that. She was used to their admiration. They liked
naturally golden curls, slanting blue eyes, and the broad, flat
cheekbones of the Russian steppe. But wasn’t it especially nice to be
admired by such a gorgeous specimen? Yes, indeed.
Mentally, Rose shook herself, forced herself out of her
stupor—somebody had to do something. This was a store, a business, not a
blind date. If a man suddenly showed up in a ladies’ dress shop, that
meant there was already a woman in his life. Unless he was a
cross-dresser. Or was lost and needed directions out of this
half-a-horse hellhole.
“Hello.” She forced the formerly incomplete smile into something more fulsome and professional.
“Hello,” he answered. Smiled back. Not a forced smile, though. A
wonderful one that softened the craggy angles of his face, crinkled into
deep lines around his mouth and eyes.
Rose swallowed. Stared for another few seconds, then ordered herself
to stop thinking about his smile, his lips, the bristly, salty way his
skin would taste if she licked it, right there, at the corner of his
mouth. The thought made her knees tremble. A bad case of lust at first
sight? With a great effort of willpower, she corralled the lusty
thoughts until they were more manageable, somewhat closer to normality.
Heard her own voice, calm, practical: “Can I help you with something?”
He blinked, once, twice, as if waking from a trance. Then, laugh
lines and crinkles disappeared, gave way to a more business-like
expression. “Yes, of course.” Stepping into what was left of the warmth
in the shop, he turned, closed the door behind him. Stared at her again.
Cleared his throat. “I’m looking for a present.”
“For your wife?” Rose held her breath.
His mouth tightened. “Not quite.”
“Ah.” Hope faded. Not quite a wife wasn’t nearly as bad as a snuggled-in official wife, but it was close enough.
