Friday, May 31, 2019

May Book of the Month: Slay Ride by Josh Lanyon


Summary:
A wild and dangerous ride takes two lonely men into uncharted territory… 

1943 Montana. Returning home to Montana after being wounded in the Pacific, Police Chief Robert Garrett was hoping for a little much needed Peace on Earth and Goodwill Toward Man. Instead, he finds himself chasing after a cold-blooded killer on Christmas Day aided—whether he likes it or not—by eager young reporter Jamie Jameson.

Jamie has idolized Police Chief Garrett most of his life. Despite a stolen birthday kiss three years earlier, he knows his feelings are unreturned. Even if Rob felt the same, there’s no room in their world for such feelings between men. But while Jamie can accept Robert not sharing his feelings, he won’t put up with being treated like a troublesome kid brother. He too has a job to do and he intends on traveling this bloody and twisted road with Robert Garrett—no matter where it leads.


Once again Josh Lanyon does not disappoint.  She has blended suspense and romance perfectly as well as set the scene for the WW2 era homefront.  Robert having been wounded and discharged is now sheriff and Jamie, 4F who is disappointed not to serve.  One of my dad's uncles was unable to serve and was told his services were needed here as he was a farmer.  The disappointment Jamie feels is spot on, not that I expected anything less from the author.  As with her other historicals, it is pretty obvious that she has a healthy respect for the past with the little details she includes in the story and yet the accuracies are never so strong that it reads as a history lesson.  I know that is why some steer clear of the historical sub-genre so if you are one who lets stories of the past go unread because you don't want to be "taught a lesson" then this is the book for you.  You definitely get a feel for the era but it never overshadows the entertainment factor.

As for Robert and Jamie, they have this push and pull dance of attraction balanced with the fear of being discovered.  You just want to tell them it will be okay but in 1943, that isn't a guarantee and Josh Lanyon balances that scale with flirty danger that kept me glued to my seat.  Throw in a layer of suspense which I won't spoil and you have a must read for Lanyon fans as well as historical and mystery fans.

Now, I should mention that I actually loved the way the author "finished it off" off-page.  I know some might not like that and will feel a little cheated not to "see" all the action but if you are a fan of classic films of the 40s then you know you often didn't get to see the big payoff.  Of course in old Hollywood they had the censor board they had to adhere to but as Slay Ride is set in 1943, I found it quite fitting to finish the way it did and I not only can't imagine it ending with a big "onscreen bloody shootout", I would have been disappointed if it had.  I guess what I'm saying is the way the author wrote the ending is, in my opinion, just another example of the respect she has for the past that makes this story wonderfully entertaining.

RATING:


Chapter One
Maybe Tom Finney’s phone call was a blessing in disguise.

Robert was having an early dinner at the home of Sheriff’s Deputy Clinton Dooley’s widow. Dooley had been shot to death on Mill Creek Road six months earlier, and it was a god-awful Christmas for Mabel and the three little girls.

But then, with the war on and so many families missing loved ones, it was a god-awful Christmas for everyone. Joey, Robert’s kid brother, had been killed in the Pacific the previous spring. The Pacific was where Robert had nearly lost his right leg the January before that. There wasn’t a family in Bolt that hadn’t been touched by the war. In fact, there probably wasn’t a family in Montana or maybe the whole of the United States that hadn’t felt the brush of that icy finger.

Robert was doing his best to bring a little holiday cheer to the proceedings. Mabel was swell. He’d been to school with her, had even thought about asking her to marry him at one time. But somehow, he’d never gotten around to it, whereas Clint Dooley had. Now Dooley was dead, shot one night on a country back road by a nameless assailant, and Mabel was making a brave effort not to cry into the mashed potatoes.

When he was done failing to comfort the Dooley girls, Robert was supposed to head over to his mother’s house, where his kith and kin would make their own brave effort not to notice the empty place at the table.

So yes, in a funny way, Officer Finney’s phone call was a relief.

“Chief, I just got a call from Eugene Boswell, the assistant manager of the Safeway over on Harrison Avenue. He claims there’s some bird holed up at the Knight’s Arms, waving a roscoe around and squawking about bumping off his girlfriend.”

“Knight’s Arms. That’s the place on Main Street?” Robert asked. And then, suspiciously, “How would Eugene Boswell know what’s going on in the Knight’s Arms?” Finney had a fondness for practical jokes, and was known to celebrate the holidays, every holiday known to man—including some that hadn’t been thought of yet—with a nip or two.

But Finney sounded cold sober when he replied, “Boswell was over there having dinner at his mother-in-law’s apartment when a gal burst in, followed by this Harold Braun. Braun said he had three bullets, two for the dame and one for himself. While the women were trying to reason with him, Boswell scrammed across the street to the Scandia Bar and called us. He said Braun’s not fooling.”

“On my way. I’ll meet you in front of the Knight’s Arms.” Robert hung up and turned to find Mabel standing in the doorway holding his hat and coat. Her pretty face was pale. She was a tall, thin blonde with a spatter of golden freckles across an upturned nose. In the old days, she had always laughed a lot.

“Trouble?” she asked. She had been a lawman’s wife for nearly a decade.

Robert nodded. “Sounds that way. I’m sorry about dinner.”

Mabel brushed aside the mention of the meal on which she had used up so many of her ration coupons and worked so hard to prepare. “Be careful, Robert.”

“Sure,” Robert said easily. “I’m not the heroic type.”

“Not you,” Mabel agreed. “Not being heroic is how you got shot in the Philippines.”

“Everybody got shot, so that doesn’t count.” Robert shrugged into his coat, took his hat, and limped toward the front door. “Anyway, it was my leg that got shot, not my Philippines. My Philippines still work fine.”

Mabel laughed shakily. “If you can come back later, do. I’ll save you a slice of mince pie.”

“I can’t promise, but if I can, I will.”

She was still standing in the doorway, framed in cozy lamplight and hugging herself against the cold, when he climbed into his car and pulled away from the curb.

* * * * *

A handful of snowflakes drifted down as Robert parked behind the Scandia. He got his pistol out of the glove box and climbed out of the car. His leg ached in the damp winter air. But then, his leg always ached now.

Christmas lights strung across the windows of the bar cast watery blue and red and green smears on the black, shining street as he hurried across to where Finney and O’Hara were pacing in front of the brick apartment building. There was a third man with them, young, sandy and balding, plump as a pigeon, in a dark overcoat. That would be Boswell, the grocery store assistant manager, and Robert automatically wondered why he wasn’t in the army or some other branch of the service.

“Chief, we were just about to go in,” Finney said as Robert reached them. Finney was in his forties, short, wiry, hair prematurely white. He always reminded Robert of a smooth-haired fox terrier. Now he was almost quivering, like a dog tugging at a leash.

O’Hara was older than Finney. He was big—tall and broad—with a head of curly and startlingly dark hair. He hooked a thumb back at the trio of men hovering just out of earshot, and said, “The newshounds say they heard a shot right before we arrived.”

Newshounds? Robert swore inwardly. It had taken him less than five minutes from receiving Finney’s phone call to get over to Main Street, and he had been relieved to see there wasn’t much of a crowd gathered yet. But now that he took a closer look, he saw that the three men lurking a few feet away near scraggly shrubbery were not casual bystanders. One of them, a kid with a shock of white-blond hair, held a camera. Robert recognized the second man as Earl Arthur from the Montana Standard. And the third man… His heart jumped at the sight of that tall, lanky figure with the untidy chestnut hair.

Jamie.

He hadn’t seen Jamie—James Jameson—since Joey’s funeral, but he’d been on Robert’s mind the past few days. Ever since Officer Alf Davies had told him Jamie had traveled to Great Falls and tried yet again to enlist. With the same results as before. 4F. Weak lungs. There were worse things. A lot worse things, as Robert would have liked to remind him, but somehow he hadn’t gotten around to it, and now here was Jamie gazing back at him, eager and alert, hazel eyes shining like Santa had brought him a brand-new bicycle that very morning.

How old was he now? Twenty-one? Twenty-two? No. Twenty-three. Same age as Joey would have been. Why kid himself he didn’t know? Not like he would ever forget the year Jamie turned sixteen—and a stolen kiss at a birthday party.

Remembering that Jamie now worked for the Bolt Daily Banner, Robert groaned inwardly. He turned his back on Jamie and the other newshounds. Another snowflake drifted down and melted as it brushed his skin.

“He’s crazy,” Boswell was saying between chattering teeth. “He’s going to kill that woman. My wife’s still up there.”

Finney and O’Hara were only waiting for his word. Robert pulled his pistol from his belt. “How many people are in the apartment?”

“My wife, my mother-in-law, Mrs. Mileur, and her sister.”

“That’s four. Which apartment?”

“Top floor. First one on the left. I can show you.”

Robert nodded. “Good man.”

Finney sprang for the front door. The reporters moved to follow. Robert turned back to them. “Not a chance. You boys wait here.”

Jamie and the pup with the camera burst into protest. Arthur, older, harder, or just lazier, waved them on. Robert ignored them all, following his men and Boswell up the slick wooden steps and through a pair of tall white doors with oval panes of etched glass.

Inside, the building was warm and smelled of a dozen cooking Christmas dinners. Delicious and comfortable scents of roasting turkey and baking pies. The halls smelled the way the world used to smell before Herr Hitler came goose-stepping along.

Bing Crosby’s voice floated from beneath one closed door. “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” But a few million people would not be home for Christmas. Would not be home ever.

Boswell rushed up the staircase, feet pounding, and Robert followed. His leg twinged in painful protest. Behind him, Finney and O’Hara made enough noise for a herd of elephants as they crashed after him up the carpeted steps.

As they reached the top floor, the sound of a woman sobbing reached their ears. All else was eerily silent.

“Anne!” gasped Boswell, starting forward.

“Wait.” Robert grabbed Boswell’s arm. “Stay here.” He went past the other man, moving quietly, cautiously down the hall. The line of doors stayed closed, all but the last. That one stood ajar, and through the opening he could hear voices. Women’s voices.

A floorboard squeaked beneath his foot. Robert paused. O’Hara breathed heavily down the back of his neck.

Robert’s heart was fast, but that was just adrenaline, readiness for action. He didn’t figure he’d ever feel real fear again. Not after Bataan.

He could feel Boswell’s anxious impatience from down the hall, but he wasn’t going to be rushed.

When no one charged out of the apartment at them, Robert reached the half open door and pushed it wide.

He could see his reflection—Finney and O’Hara hovering behind him—in a long mirror hanging over a white and green flowered sofa. A string of Christmas cards hung across a doorway leading into another room. A small Christmas tree sat on three-tiered table. Its silver star was crooked.

There were four women in the room. One woman slumped in a chair while two others worked over her bloodied form. A fourth woman in a red dress sat on the sofa, weeping into her hands. There was no sign of anyone else.

“Where is he?” demanded Robert, and the weeping woman looked up and screamed.

Boswell charged past Robert, nearly knocking him over in his haste. “Anne!”

“Oh, Gene!” The woman in the red dress threw herself in her husband’s arms. “Mrs. Mileur’s been shot. She was struggling with that maniac for the gun, and the gun went off. He shot her!”

“There, there, honey,” Boswell said, clasping her tight.

“You’re no doctor.” A white-haired woman, older than the others, stared at Robert.

“We’re the police.” It seemed pretty obvious to Robert, but maybe not to the woman. “I’m Chief Garrett.”

She demanded, “Then where’s the doctor?”

Robert opened his mouth.

“I’m all right.” The blood-stained woman, Mrs. Mileur, suddenly sat up, startling them all. “The bullet just nicked me.”

She was about forty, with brown hair and blue eyes. Blood soaked the white lacy collar of her navy-blue dress, but she seemed alert enough. She was holding a makeshift bandage to the side of her neck.

The second woman attending to her was younger than the rest of them, dark-haired, and very pretty. Her voice wobbled as she said, “The bullet grazed your throat, Alice. He nearly killed you.” She gulped. “And all because of me.”

“What do you mean because of you?” Robert asked. “Who are you?”

Her blue eyes were angry—and afraid. “I’m Jean McDuffy. Alice’s sister. I was…well, I used to go with Harry. Harold Braun. He was mad at me. That’s what all this was about.”

Finney said, “Why was he mad at you?”

“Because I wouldn’t take the dirty gifts he bought with his dirty blood money!”

“You’re not to blame for anything he did.” Alice Mileur glared at Finney as though he had suggested otherwise.

“Oh, Gene, I want to go home,” Mrs. Boswell sobbed.

“Sure, honey. Sure, we’ll go right away.”

“Nobody’s going anywhere,” Robert said. “There are questions that have to be answered.”

“This woman needs a doctor,” the white-haired lady informed him while at the same time Jean replied to her sister, “You warned me he was no good. I guess I thought I knew better—”

“Never mind all that now. Where’s Braun?” Robert had to raise his voice to be heard over the din of everyone talking at once. “Where did he go?”

The white-haired woman answered. “He ran downstairs. He must’ve thought he’d killed Mrs. Mileur.”

The injured woman said with reassuring vigor, “He meant to kill Jean, and no thanks to him, he didn’t. He lives in an apartment in the rear of the building, by the door to the cellar. I should have thrown him out weeks ago.”

“You’re the manager of this place?”

“Yes.”

“Does Braun live alone?”

“Yes. I’ll tell you now he’s a chicken thief and a hophead. Don’t trust him for a second.”

“It’s my fault,” Jean said again. “This is all my fault.”

“Be quiet, Jean. The only thing you’re to blame for is having lousy taste in men.”

“Nobody leaves this apartment. Boswell, lock the door after us.” Robert turned back to O’Hara and Finney. “Come on. Downstairs.”

A chicken thief and a hophead. Well, it could be worse. It nearly had been. A lot worse.

He pounded back down the staircase, Finney and O’Hara on his heels.

There was a good chance Braun had already fled the premises. In fact, if he had any brains, that’s exactly what he’d have done, but if he was hopped up on dope, all bets were off. He might be sitting there waiting quietly for them to arrest him. Or he might be planning to ambush them from around the next corner.

Cautiously, Robert and his men made their way down a narrow hall. No ambush materialized.

They passed the battered door to the cellar and lined up outside Braun’s rooms.

There was no sound from within.

Robert nodded at Finney. Finney pounded the door with his fist.

“Police! Open up!”

The door did not open. There was only silence.

Robert touched the round doorknob. The door swung silently open.

“Careful, boys,” Robert whispered.

Pistols at ready, the three men entered the apartment. The blinds were drawn and the room was in darkness.

“He’s gone,” Finney said. “He must have lit out.”

Robert felt through the gloom for a lamp.

“There’s another room here,” O’Hara’s voice floated through the blackout.

There was a squeak of hinges, the gloom wavered as a door opened, and too late Robert saw white muzzle flash and heard the blast of Braun’s revolver.

O’Hara cried out. The lamp flared on just as there was another flash and another loud bang. Robert glimpsed the nightmarish vision of Finney crashing into the wall, firing at the open bedroom door.

Robert didn’t remember turning the lamp out again, but the room fell back into blackness as he dived for the floor.

Braun was still shooting, and Robert returned his fire. He could hear Finney groaning and swearing, and for one crazy, confused moment he thought he was back on Luzon, under fire from the Japs. He had fallen badly on his leg, and it was throbbing like he’d been shot all over again, but that was the least of his problems.

Swift footsteps approached, someone running toward Braun’s apartment, and to Robert’s horror, a voice he would have known anywhere called, “Rob? Chief Garrett?”

So much for the comfortable notion he would never feel real fear again. Terror squeezed his heart, squeezed his lungs as he yelled, “Jamie, stay the hell out of here.”

He listened, ears straining.

Braun had stopped firing.

Had he managed to hit Braun in the dark? Robert didn’t think so. More likely, Braun was hoping to slip into the front room and pop him. He kept his gaze trained on the slit of faded light between the dark living room and the bedroom.

Jamie hovered outside the apartment doorway. Robert knew it, could feel it in his bones, but he didn’t dare call out again, didn’t dare draw Braun’s attention to Jamie. Finney was still groaning.

“O’Hara?” Robert tried.

There was no answer. Rather, that deadly stillness from the spot O’Hara had fallen was the answer.

“How bad are you hit, Tom?” Robert called.

Finney stopped moaning. He choked out, “The sonofabitch chicken thief got me in the right shoulder. And my left arm.”

“Did he get you, Rob?” Jamie asked from the other side of the front door frame. He sounded startlingly calm.

“No. I’m okay,” Robert said. “Stay out of here. Understand? Stay clear of the door. Stay back from the walls.”

“Got it.”

A gust of cold December air blew in from the bedroom, and Robert tasted snow. “Goddamn it,” he exclaimed. “He’s gone out the back.”

He scrambled up, levering himself on the small table with the lamp, knocking both over. The glass globe smashed on the wooden floor. Robert stayed close to the wall, moving quickly around the square of the room. Keeping to the side, he threw open the bedroom door.

In the wintry light he saw O’Hara sprawled and motionless. Crimson pooled beneath him, soaking the floorboards.

“Goddamn it,” Robert said.

Brown curtains bobbed lightly on the breeze blowing through the open window next to the bed. Aside from O’Hara, the room was empty. When he thrust his head out the window, the alley behind the building was empty too.

Robert swore again, bitterly, turned and ran past Finney, who was slumped and bloody against the wall. “Hold on, Tom.”

Finney didn’t answer.

There was no sign of Jamie in the hall. That showed reassuring good sense, and Robert was relieved as he limped hurriedly down the narrow passage and back to the front of the building.

Arthur from the Montana Standard was fairly dancing with excitement on the pavement in front of the house. “By God, what a story! What’s the name of this gunman?”

“Never mind that. Where’d he go?”

“Thataway.” Arthur pointed down the street, where a green sedan had all but disappeared into the now heavily falling snow. “There were two women in that car he grabbed.”

God almighty. It just kept getting worse and worse.

Robert looked around. A crowd had already gathered on the sidewalk behind them. Well, that was bound to happen, and maybe in this case it wasn’t such a bad thing. He scanned the ring of bystanders. “I need a doctor. I’ve got two men down in the apartment next to the cellar entrance and an injured woman upstairs.”

“The doctor just went up,” Arthur said.

Well, that was something anyway. Robert realized that the face he had been instinctively searching for was not among the growing crowd.

His heart sank still lower. He turned back to Arthur. “Where’s the kid?” he demanded.

“Who?”

“The red-haired kid. Works for the Bolt Daily Banner. He followed us inside. Where did he go?”

“Kid? You mean Jameson?” Arthur pointed down the street, now empty of all but snow flurries. “He and that damned cub who’s supposed to be my photographer took off after your bird.”

Author Bio:
Bestselling author of over sixty titles of classic Male/Male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure and unapologetic man-on-man romance, JOSH LANYON has been called "the Agatha Christie of gay mystery."

Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).

The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.

Josh is married and they live in Southern California.


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๐Ÿ“˜๐ŸŽฅFriday's Film Adaptation๐ŸŽฅ๐Ÿ“˜: Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls


Summary:
For fans of Old Yeller and Shiloh, Where the Red Fern Grows is a beloved classic that captures the powerful bond between man and man’s best friend.

Billy has long dreamt of owning not one, but two, dogs. So when he’s finally able to save up enough money for two pups to call his own—Old Dan and Little Ann—he’s ecstatic. It doesn’t matter that times are tough; together they’ll roam the hills of the Ozarks.

Soon Billy and his hounds become the finest hunting team in the valley. Stories of their great achievements spread throughout the region, and the combination of Old Dan’s brawn, Little Ann’s brains, and Billy’s sheer will seems unbeatable. But tragedy awaits these determined hunters—now friends—and Billy learns that hope can grow out of despair, and that the seeds of the future can come from the scars of the past.


Chapter 1
WHEN I LEFT MY OFFICE THAT BEAUTIFUL SPRING DAY, I HAD no idea what was in store for me. To begin with, everything was too perfect for anything unusual to happen. It was one of those days when a man feels good, feels like speaking to his neighbor, is glad to live in a country like ours, and proud of his government. You know what I mean, one of those rare days when everything is right and nothing is wrong.

I was walking along whistling when I heard the dogfight. At first I paid no attention to it. After all it wasn’t anything to get excited about, just another dogfight in a residential section.

As the sound of the fight grew nearer, I could tell there were quite a few dogs mixed up in it. They boiled out of an alley, turned, and headed straight toward me. Not wanting to get bitten or run over, I moved over to the edge of the sidewalk.

I could see that all the dogs were fighting one. About twenty-five feet from me they caught him and down he went. I felt sorry for the unfortunate one. I knew if something wasn’t done quickly the sanitation department would have to pick up a dead dog.

I was trying to make up my mind to help when I got a surprise. Up out of that snarling, growling, slashing mass reared an old redbone hound. For a second I saw him. I caught my breath. I couldn’t believe what I had seen.

Twisting and slashing, he fought his way through the pack and backed up under the low branches of a hedge. Growling and snarling, they formed a halfmoon circle around him. A big bird dog, bolder than the others, darted in. The hedge shook as he tangled with the hound. He came out so fast he fell over backwards. I saw that his right ear was split wide open. It was too much for him and he took off down the street, squalling like a scalded cat.

A big ugly cur tried his luck. He didn’t get off so easy. He came out with his left shoulder laid open to the bone. He sat down on his rear and let the world know that he had been hurt.

By this time, my fighting blood was boiling. It’s hard for a man to stand and watch an old hound fight against such odds, especially if that man has memories in his heart like I had in mine. I had seen the time when an old hound like that had given his life so that I might live.

Taking off my coat, I waded in. My yelling and scolding didn’t have much effect, but the swinging coat did. The dogs scattered and left.

Down on my knees, I peered back under the hedge. The hound was still mad. He growled at me and showed his teeth. I knew it wasn’t his nature to fight a man. In a soft voice, I started talking to him. “Come on, boy,” I said. “It’s all right. I’m your friend. Come on now.”

The fighting fire slowly left his eyes. He bowed his head and his long, red tail started thumping the ground. I kept coaxing. On his stomach, an inch at a time, he came to me and laid his head in my hand.

I almost cried at what I saw. His coat was dirty and mud-caked. His skin was stretched drum-tight over his bony frame. The knotty joints of his hips and shoulders stood out a good three inches from his body. I could tell he was starved.

I couldn’t figure it out. He didn’t belong in town. He was far out of place with the boxers, poodles, bird dogs, and other breeds of town dogs. He belonged in the country. He was a hunting hound.

I raised one of his paws. There I read the story. The pads were worn down slick as the rind on an apple. I knew he had come a long way, and no doubt had a long way to go. Around his neck was a crude collar. On closer inspection, I saw it had been made from a piece of check-line leather. Two holes had been punched in each end and the ends were laced together with bailing wire.

As I turned the collar with my finger, I saw something else. There, scratched deep in the tough leather, was the name “Buddie.” I guessed that the crude, scribbly letters had probably been written by a little boy.

It’s strange indeed how memories can lie dormant in a man’s mind for so many years. Yet those memories can be awakened and brought forth fresh and new, just by something you’ve seen, or something you’ve heard, or the sight of an old familiar face.

What I saw in the warmgray eyes of the friendly old hound brought back wonderful memories. To show my gratitude, I took hold of his collar and said, “Come on, boy, let’s go home and get something to eat.”

He seemed to understand that he had found a friend. He came willingly.

I gave him a bath and rubbed all the soreness from his muscles. He drank quarts of warm milk and ate all the meat I had in the house. I hurried down to the store and bought more. He ate until he was satisfied.

He slept all that night and most of the next day. Late in the afternoon he grew restless. I told him I understood, and as soon as it was dark, he could be on his way. I figured he had a much better chance if he left town at night.

That evening, a little after sundown, I opened the back gate. He walked out, stopped, turned around, and looked at me. He thanked me by wagging his tail.

With tears in my eyes, I said, “You’re more than welcome, old fellow. In fact, you could’ve stayed here as long as you wanted to.”

He whined and licked my hand.

I was wondering which way he would go. With one final whimper he turned and headed east. I couldn’t help smiling as I watched him trot down the alley. I noticed the way his hind quarters shifted over to the right, never in line with the front, yet always in perfect rhythm. His long ears flopped up and down, keeping time with the jogging motion of his body. Yes, they were all there, the unmistakable marks of a hunting hound.

Where the alley emptied into the street, he stopped and looked back. I waved my hand.

As I watched him disappear in the twilight shadows, I whispered these words: “Good-bye, old fellow. Good luck, and good hunting!”

I didn’t have to let him go. I could have kept him in my back yard, but to pen up a dog like that is a sin. It would have broken his heart. The will to live would have slowly left his body.

I had no idea where he had come from or where he was going. Perhaps it wasn’t too far, or maybe it was a long, long way. I tried to make myself believe that his home was in the Ozark Mountains somewhere in Missouri, or Oklahoma. It wasn’t impossible even though it was a long way from the Snake River Valley in Idaho.

I figured something drastic must have happened in his life, as it is very unusual for a hound to be traveling all alone. Perhaps he had been stolen, or maybe he had been sold for some much-needed money. Whatever it was that had interrupted his life, he was trying to straighten it out. He was going home to the master he loved, and with the help of God, he would make it.

To him it made no difference how long the road, or how rough or rocky. His old red feet would keep jogging along, on and on, mile after mile. There would be no crying or giving up. When his feet grew tired and weary, he would curl up in the weeds and rest. Water from a rain puddle or a mountain stream would quench his thirst and cool his hot dry throat. Food found along the highway, or the offerings from a friendly hand would ease the pangs of hunger. Through the rains, the snows, or the desert heat, he would jog along, never looking back.

Some morning he would be found curled up on the front porch. The long journey would be over. He would be home. There would be a lot of tailwagging and a few whimpering cries. His warm moist tongue would caress the hand of his master. All would be forgiven. Once again the lights would shine in his dog’s world. His heart would be happy.

After my friend had disappeared in the darkness, I stood and stared at the empty alley. A strange feeling came over me. At first I thought I was lonely or sad, but I realized that wasn’t it at all. The feeling was a wonderful one.

Although the old hound had no way of knowing it, he had stirred memories, and what priceless treasures they were. Memories of my boyhood days, an old K.C. Baking Powder can, and two little red hounds. Memories of a wonderful love, unselfish devotion, and death in its saddest form.

As I turned to enter my yard I started to lock the gate, and then I thought, “No, I’ll leave it open. He might come back.”

I was about halfway to the house when a cool breeze drifted down from the rugged Tetons. It had a bite in it and goosepimples jumped out on my skin. I stopped at the woodshed and picked up several sticks of wood.

I didn’t turn on any lights on entering the house. The dark, quiet atmosphere was a perfect setting for the mood I was in. I built a fire in the fireplace and pulled up my favorite rocker.

As I sat there in the silence, the fire grew larger. It crackled and popped. Firelight shadows began to shimmer and dance around the room. The warm, comfortable heat felt good.

I struck a match to light my pipe. As I did, two beautiful cups gleamed from the mantel. I held the match up so I could get a better look. There they were, sitting side by side. One was large with long, upright handles that stood out like wings on a morning dove. The highly polished surface gleamed and glistened with a golden sheen. The other was smaller and made of silver. It was neat and trim, and sparkled like a white star in the heavens.

I got up and took themdown. There was a story in those cups—a story that went back more than a half century.

As I caressed the smooth surfaces, my mind drifted back through the years, back to my boyhood days. How wonderful the memories were. Piece by piece the story unfolded.


After two long years of hard work, Billy Coleman saves up enough money to buy a pair of redbone hound pups, and it's love at first sight. Before long, Billy trains "Old Dan" and "Little Ann" to be the finest hunting team in the valley. As the inseparable trio chase the wily "ghost raccoon" and confront danger together, Billy learns the meaning of loyalty, courage, and perseverance.

Release Date: May 3, 2003
Release Time: 86 minutes

Cast:
Joseph Ashton as Billy Coleman
Dave Matthews as Will
Renee Faia as Jenny Coleman
Mac Davis as Hod Bellington
Kris Kristofferson as Older Billy Coleman
Ned Beatty as Sheriff Abe McConnell
Dabney Coleman as Grandpa
Gary Anson as Bully Wendell
Orvel Baldridge as Mr. Pritchard
Robert Bauman as Hunter #2
Andrew Dickison as Rainie Pritchard
Stuart Dickison as Rubin Pritchard
Julia Downs as Sarah Coleman
Tess Downs as Alice Coleman
Kevin Gourd as Bully Garth






Author Bio:
Wilson Rawls grew up on a small farm in the Ozark Mountains of Oklahoma. There were no schools where he lived so his mother taught Rawls and his sisters how to read and write. He says that reading the book The Call of the Wild changed his life and gave him the notion that he would like to grow up to write a book like it. He shared his dream with his father, and his father gave him the encouraging advice, "Son, a man can do anything he sets out to do, if he doesn’t give up." Rawls never forgot his father’s words, and went on to create two novels about his boyhood that have become modern classics.


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Book Blitz: Between Bloody Lips by Sai Fox

Title: Between Bloody Lips
Author: Sai Fox
Series: Valentino Family #2
Genre: M/M Romance, Mystery, BDSM
Release Date: May 11, 2019
Cover Design: Samantha Garrett

Summary:
Who is Nicolai Valentino?

Some think him a devoted son, a ruthless killer, a vicious monster. The heir of the infamous Valentino family, Nico is a man with blood-stained hands and a heart of ice.

To Gabriel Delatto, Nico is more than that: a childhood friend, a passionate lover, a misunderstood soul, a man whose cold, calculated outward exterior protects the broken man inside. Nico is his best friend, his lover, his other half—his better half.

But how much of that is true? And how much is just lies whispered between bloody lips?

New York to Tokyo—Gabriel is willing to follow his lover to the ends of the earth to find out what Nico is running from.

Or, maybe, what is Nico running to?


Nico was beautiful in his fear.

Nico’s hair was mussed, sweat dripping down from his hairline to the collar of his shirt, his pendant standing stark against his throat. There was blood splattered across his cheeks like macabre freckles, a dribble just below his nose making its way down his bottom lip.

Gabriel didn’t know if it was his or someone else’s, but it looked exquisite against his skin.

What would Nico’s blood have tasted like? What would Nico’s fear have tasted like?

It didn’t matter. Gabriel would have kissed it away if he could.

If he could, Gabriel would have done many things differently.

If he could.

If he could…

This was all wrong.

“Stop, Gabriel.”

The air in the house was like an oven, nary a breeze to give either of them comfort. Despite the distance between them, a chasm that only seemed to grow wider, Gabriel could all but feel the heat from Nico’s mouth against his.

Nico was fire and Gabriel…

Gabriel was just the kindling.

They were so close—all Gabriel had to do was reach out. All it would take was a hand around Nico’s collar and he could crush his lips against Nico’s. They could fall into each other’s arms as they always had, always would.

That would have been right.

That would have been good.

But there was something pink and gelatinous smeared across the front of Nico’s shirt, something that Gabriel knew intrinsically belonged in someone’s head, not spread across Nico’s white button-up.

Nico’s hands shook like leaves on trees just before the hurricane ripped them off and scattered them across the sea.

When their eyes met, Gabriel turned away his head as though someone struck him.

Nico’s unbridled fear staring back at him through piercing dark blue eyes made his stomach churn.

That wasn’t how Nico was supposed to stare at him. That wasn’t what they had, that wasn’t who they were supposed to be.

Why was Nico so scared?

Why was Nico scared of him?

“Gabriel—Gabe—”

Gabriel could hear the words, feel the cold metal in his hand. He knew that there was something wrong with this scene, knew that this wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go. He could feel the heaviness of the gun, the cloying smell of blood and shit, the sweat on his brow, the panic clawing through his stomach—

“Gabriel—please. Please, listen to me. You don’t have to do this. I know you, Gabriel. I know you. This isn’t you. This isn’t you.”

“Get out of the way, Nico.”

It was his voice.

He could feel the hum of the words leaving his throat, how his lungs exhaled with every syllable. He could feel the way his lips touched, how they formed words, how his tongue clinked against his teeth.

He could feel it, feel allof it, just as he could feel the metal, hard and cold, gripped in his hand.

“You can’t do this. you have to stop—” Nico reached out for his arm, but it met nothing but air.

Gabriel tried to lower his hand, tried to loosen his grip on the gun, but he couldn’t.

He couldn’t.

“Don’t make me hurt you.”

“Gabriel—you’re better than this. You’re more than this!”

Was he?

“My hands are bloodier than yours.”

Gabriel wanted his hand to shake, but it was steady.

It was too steady.

“Baby. Please. If you do this... you can’t come back from this.”

He wanted to let go, wanted to scream, wanted to say something—anything.

Why couldn’t he stop himself? Why couldn’t he let go? Why did it feel as though he were a marionette, a puppet with someone else pulling his strings?

I don’t want this. I don’t want to do this. Please. Please. Nico—please—
“Gabriel... I love you.”

It was a whisper between bloody lips.

“I love you. Please don’t do thi—”

Gabriel pulled the trigger.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Silence.



Author Bio:
Sai Fox was born and raised in New York City, so it doesn't come as much of a surprise that there's an ever-present coffee cup on her desk as she writes well into the night. A chronic insomniac, some of her best ideas come to her right before heading off to bed.

Currently residing in Tokyo, Sai finds most of her time spent writing, reading, and wandering the strange and intoxicating streets that tell thousands of stories... with a cup of coffee. There is always a cup of coffee.

Sai has been writing fiction for well over a decade, enjoying the ability to push boundaries of society and sexuality through her work.


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 EMAIL: mssaifox@gmail.com 



Between Bloody Lips #2

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