Summary:
Bitten as a teen, Caleb now suffers through a painful transformation from human to bobcat a few days each month. As a bobcat, he leaves behind his camp and fellow soldiers to explore the night. But a gunshot and the bright scent of fresh blood draws him to a clearing where he learns that he isn't the only one of his kind.
Wounded and hurt, Brance is a loner by nature, gruff and grumbling, who doesn't want anything to do with Caleb...at first. The younger bobcat prevails, and starts to win Brance over, until they turn human again and find themselves on opposite sides of the American Civil War.
Summary:
Brance Brenneman is used to harsh conditions—the eldest son of a stern Amish preacher, Brance was bit by a werecat as a young boy, and managed to keep his secret from his family until he was old enough to leave them and their religion behind. Years later, when the nation is divided by the American Civil War, Brance finds himself enlisted in the Union army. By sheer chance, he meets Caleb Chilson, a Confederate soldier who bears his same shapeshifting burden.
Together they leave the war behind to forge a new life in the wilderness of Pennsylvania. But trappers near their camp are hunting bobcats, and they don’t much care if Brance and Caleb are only in the fur part of the time. Brance finds his peaceful existence shattered, and he has to fight to defend the life—and the bobcat, the man—he’s come to love.
Summary:
Once a Yankee soldier, Brance Brenneman has left the War Between the States behind and gone into hiding with his lover, former Confederate Caleb Chilson. Deserters intent on keeping to themselves, they find a nice, sparse acre of land where they can finally settle down. Life falls into domesticated routine for both the brooding Yank and the excitable Rebel. Together they struggle to create a more perfect union forged of love and their shared shapeshifting secret.
But the discovery of another bobcat encroaching on their territory brings out the possessive alley cat in Caleb, eager to defend his home and his mate. Will the newcomer destroy what they've worked so hard to attain? Or is there room enough for the three of them deep in the wilderness of Pennsylvania?
The year is 1863. Caleb Chilson is a private in the Confederate Army, currently camped in the Virginian woods. Most of his time is spent on picket duty, on the lookout for a Yankee attack. But when the moon is full, he manages to slip away from the encampment and into the woods to become something a little less than human ...
Imagine his surprise when he meets another werecat like himself. The only difference? Brance Brenneman wears a Yankee uniform.
This box set contains all three stories of J.M. Snyder's best-selling historical shifter trilogy:
Under a Confederate Moon
Bitten as a teen, Caleb now suffers through a painful transformation from human to bobcat a few days each month. As a bobcat, he leaves behind his camp and fellow soldiers to explore the night. But a gunshot and the bright scent of fresh blood draws him to a clearing where he learns he isn't the only one of his kind.
Beneath a Yankee Sky
Brance and Caleb leave the war to forge a new life in the wilderness of Pennsylvania. But trappers near their camp are hunting bobcats, and they don't much care if Brance and Caleb are "in the fur" only part of the time. Brance finds his peaceful existence shattered, and he has to fight to defend the life-and the bobcat, the man-he's come to love.
A More Perfect Union
Brance has gone into hiding with his lover, Caleb. Deserters intent on keeping to themselves, they find a nice, sparse acre of land where they can finally settle down. Life falls into domesticated routine for both the brooding Yank and the excitable Rebel. Together they struggle to create a more perfect union forged of love and their shared shapeshifting secret. But the discovery of another bobcat encroaching on their territory threatens to destroy what they've worked so hard to attain.
Under a Confederate Moon #1
The golden glow of the sunset painted in autumnal hues the thick trees that surrounded the Confederate encampment. On the outskirts of camp, beyond the pitched tents, Private Caleb Chilson leaned against his rifle, one of a handful of pickets posted to ward off the coming night and the threat of a Yankee attack. Since the sun had begun to disappear below the horizon, a faint, familiar ache had blossomed in his lower belly, a cramp not unlike hunger pains, a burning that seemed to grow more desperate with each passing minute. The change was coming over him, responding to the rising moon. He felt it in his bones.
He had another hour, maybe two, before the rifle fell from his hands and he'd lose another good pair of pants to his damn condition. The last time it'd happened, the sutler laughed at the hole torn in the back of his dungarees. "You sure you caught this on a fence, soldier?" he'd sniggered, full of himself. "Or'd you just cut it out for easy access?"
"I'd shoot you for that," Caleb had replied, "if I had the lead to waste. Just give me a new pair, or a kit to mend these."
A particularly hard twist of his gut doubled Caleb over. He clutched at his stomach, closing his eyes against the pain. It was happening now, though the sun wasn't yet completely down; he recognized the symptoms, he could feel his body begin to change. Already his mind roiled with a myriad of scents and wordless images--his heightened hearing categorized each of the soft sounds made by the camp as it settled in for the night, the crackle of firewood as it burned to ash, the scrape of metal utensils on metal bowls, the crunch of footsteps over dead leaves. His altered sense of smell picked out the clean, bland scent of boiling water, the sharp tang of gunpowder, the overpowering man-spore that filled the clearing. Glancing down, he noticed a sudden growth of pale blonde hair on the back of his hand...no. He shook his head to clear it, struggling to hold onto that small part of his mind still human. Not here, not yet, no.
Suddenly a warm hand clapped his back and he staggered forward, almost tripping over the barrel of his gun. "You all right, Cal?"
One of the other pickets--in his current state, Caleb couldn't remember the man's name. Another private, like himself, with a Southern drawl that marked him as a rebel. The stench of his unwashed flesh filled Caleb's animal senses, nauseating him. He struggled for words, and when he finally managed to set them loose, they felt clunky and odd in his mouth. "Sick," he gasped, the pain tearing through him now. He had to get away from this man, this camp, this place. He had to get free.
He took a stumbling step forward and his comrade laughed. "Man, not you, too!" he chuckled. "Must be something in the water here, I swear. Half the camp's out in the woods with the shits."
Numb, Caleb nodded. Yes, the woods. That was where he needed to be. The trees reached out for him, their limbs stretching to claim him as their own. He felt the leaves on his face like cool hands, brushing the blonde hair from his brow, smoothing over his face, as gentle as a mother's caress. Bent double, Caleb hurried into the woods, eager to lose himself in their depths. He stumbled again and fell to the ground, out of sight from the camp. The hands that caught his weight were now paws covered in fur. As he watched, emotionless, his long fingers shrank into his palms as his nails grew into razor-like claws that retracted. His body compacted into itself, his thighs curving, his feet stretching, his toes taking his weight. His bones crunched with a sickening sound, reshaping themselves into the feral wildcat form over which he had no control.
The rip of fabric filled the air as his coccyx lengthened and grew into a short, thick tail. As the last vestiges of his humanity fell away, Caleb moaned, then reared back and let out a flashing cry that tore through the quiet of the growing night. He shook his head, his cap falling aside as twin tufted ears pushed it off. Wiry blonde hair, as shaggy as the uncut mop of waves that covered his scalp, erupted along his body, covering him in a thick, tawny pelt.
One long stretch and the buttons on his shirt popped open. The belt around his waist hung heavy on his now feline hips, but a good roll in the bushes relieved him of its weight. He kicked the pants aside, then wrestled with the shirt, nipping at the sleeves with long fangs that bit into the fabric until it hung in shreds around his forepaws. Unsatisfied, he cried out again, a raspy mew, and backed up, trying to get out from under the material encasing him.
A sudden shot ripped through the air. The bullet passed overhead and Caleb froze, all senses alert. He smelled cloying smoke and a piercing man-scent he recognized all too well--fear. From the direction he had come, he heard humans scrambling to their posts. Someone called out, "Jack, did you hit it?"
"Goddamn bobcat," someone else muttered.
They mean me, Caleb thought, bemused.
"What the hell are we doing out here in these damn woods anyway?"
The first voice spoke up a second time. "Shoot it again, Jack. Can't hurt."
"Gimme your gun," Jack replied, "if you want me to fire. I only got a handful of shot left."
A low growl filled the woods, raising the hair on Caleb's haunches. Then he realized the noise came from himself. With one last gnaw at the sleeve of his shirt, he gave up. Stretching the feline body that had replaced his clumsy human form, he darted through the low underbrush and raced into the forest.
* * * *
The scent of man enveloped him. Each tree he sniffed, each branch, each bush, carried the smell of humans and their artillery. Dried blood and disease mingled with the smell, painful scents Caleb didn't like. The shirt on his back only confused his senses, but once the camp was behind him, he took a moment to wiggle out of the torn material. He sniffed it, curious, then left it among the leaves as he hurried away, the growl still tickling the back of his throat. The sound warned anything away from his vicinity, and helped keep his mind off his churning stomach, or the bloodlust that filled his veins.
On four padded feet, Caleb crept through the forest as silently as a house cat stalking its prey. He hunted half-heartedly, not quite ready to sate his appetite and call it a night. At some point he scared up a large hare, coming onto it from downwind, but the creature caught his scent moments before he pounced, and darted just beyond his powerful jaws to disappear into a hole too narrow and deep to dig in for long. Abandoning the prey, Caleb kept moving, always keeping the men and their smoke-filled camp at his back. He heard no more gunshots, and felt no urgency to hurry through the night.
Around him, the woods were alive in a way the human in him would never see. Small rodents raced over the forest floor, skittering through the moss and lichen, raising whiffs of fresh meat in their wake. Occasionally one would catch Caleb's attention and he'd give chase, toying with the frightened mouse until it disappeared into a crevice of tree roots too small for his paw to fit through. He caught a couple, nothing large, and let each one go after playing a bit. He wanted something bigger, something worth the effort of a kill. Something--
Off in the distance, in the direction he was heading, he heard a gunshot. He stopped, ears trained on the sound, his whole body rigid and tense. Men. The word was anathema to him in his current state. He waited for another sound, a second shot maybe, or raucous laughter in the night, but nothing seemed to follow. The tip of his tail twitched, waiting.
Then a volley of shots rang out, three, maybe four, all at once. Caleb dropped into a crouch and heard a wounded yelp cry out, a primal sound that tugged at his instinct. Another cat, he knew--a large one, by the sound of it. That damned growl of his started up again, and he sniffed the air, trying to smell powder or blood, but nothing came to him on the wind.
Beneath a Yankee Sky #2
There was an icy edge to the evening air, a sharpness that rustled the leaves and cut across the babbling creek where Brance Brenneman squatted as he rinsed off his tin plate and cup. Winter’s coming touch tinted that breeze—though it was still September, Brance felt the chill in the heavy Pennsylvania air. It cooled his heated skin when it danced through the bushy auburn hair corkscrewed over his scalp, slipped between the buttons of his old Union shirt to tease over his chest, tickled up his bare legs to prickle the sensitive skin beneath the dingy underpants he wore. Somewhere to the east, a godless battle continued to wage between North and South, pitting brothers against one another in a war none of them wanted. It had been a good six months since he’d left the fight—and his compatriots—behind.
The brand “deserter” meant nothing to him. He’d grown up with worse names, and suspected there would be others added to the list before he died. As he scrubbed a worn scrap of flannel over his cup, cleaning it with water dipped from the spring, he felt the first stirrings in his gut and knew he’d never fit in among mere men again. He’d live out the rest of his days here, in the woods, where the distinctions between human and animal weren’t so great.
At least he was no longer alone.
* * * *
Trees surrounded him, those to the west taller as the land rolled itself into the foothills of the Appalachians. The sun was already out of sight behind the dense leaves, a few rays of lingering light flashing through the canopy when the wind turned, but the moon had not yet risen so Brance ignored the pain that flared in his midsection. He concentrated on the sounds around him, the birdsong that serenaded the setting sun, the rush of water over rocks, the small yawn from the tent pitched a few yards behind his back. In less than an hour, those sounds would deepen, one minor part in a symphony that would come alive to him in the night. Another tremor twisted his stomach. Not long now.
He heard his name called out behind him. “Brance?”
The sleepy voice yawned again, louder this time, then he heard muffled curses as Caleb extracted himself from the tent. Brance glanced over his shoulder—the man he’d known more intimately than any other these past few months stood in front of the small tent, nude, and reached for the sky. A leonine yawn escaped his throat as he stretched; each muscle stood out in stark relief on his slim body. His skin was pale, almost hairless, though Brance knew from experience that a fine down of blond fluff covered every inch of that flesh. How many times had he smoothed down the ruffled hair, like so much fur, along Caleb’s arms and legs? How often had his fingers delved into the knot of golden curls now hiding Caleb’s dick from view?
As if aware of Brance’s stare, Caleb drew the stretch out as long as he could. Then his hands dropped to his head, where they scratched through the mussed mop of blond-brown hair that framed his face. Brance watched those hands trail down Caleb’s neck, over his shoulders, along his chest, until they fisted in the patch of curls at his crotch. Cupping his cock and balls, Caleb fondled himself as a wide grin spread across his face. “I see you looking,” he called out.
Brance’s reply was a wordless grunt before turning back to his dishes. He sensed Caleb’s approach, silent on bare feet, and anticipated his lover’s touch moments before it came. Firm hands found his shoulders, then tickled over the front of Brance’s shirt as Caleb squatted down and caught him in a strong embrace. Damp lips pressed to the nape of Brance’s neck, just below the hairline, and hot breath filled his ear when Caleb sighed. “Come back to the tent and fuck me.”
The matter-of-fact way he said it, so unabashed, so unashamed, made Brance’s whole body burn in response. Suddenly he was all too aware of Caleb’s nakedness pressed against him. He was tempted to take the man up on his offer, just drop the dishes in the stream and, hell, take his lover right here, on the ground. Who needed to hide in a tent? They were the only men in these woods, perhaps for miles. What was there to stop them from rutting where they would?
Pain rumbled through Brance’s bowels, so acute it took his breath away. From the way Caleb’s hands clawed at the buttons on Brance’s shirt, he knew his was not the only discomfort. The warm mouth on the back of his neck drew in a quick breath, almost a gasp. Dropping his washcloth, Brance took one of Caleb’s hands in his own, laced their fingers together, and gave him a reassuring squeeze, as if they could draw strength from each other. He felt teeth bite into the collar of his shirt and he half-turned to murmur to Caleb, “It’s all right.”
Caleb sighed as the pain receded. His voice was shaky when he spoke. “God. Each time I hope maybe it’ll ease up a bit, you know?”
Brance remained silent. In his opinion, if he agreed with something, then he had nothing to say about it. Why talk just to hear his own voice? But Caleb was cut from a different cloth; no matter how much he tried to insist that he and Brance were the same, there were a few quirks that kept them apart. Caleb’s need for constant chatter was one. The man maintained a running commentary as he went through life—now that they were alone, with the rest of the world at bay, Brance caught the brunt of that ceaseless prattle. Most times it just washed over him, a background noise not unlike the stream, constant and unchanging. He’d learned to pick up subtle clues in Caleb’s manner that indicated his input was needed—a rise in the tone of voice indicated a question, a covert glance at Brance meant he was expected to speak. For a loner such as himself, Brance found that the hardest part of a relationship, with anyone, was the continued expectation to talk and laugh and joke and ramble on and on and on…
Caleb knew he talked a lot. For the most part, he didn’t expect a reply. He seemed quite content to just carry on, and Brance suspected the reason they got on so well was simply the fact that he didn’t interrupt Caleb much. What would he say, anyway? He was a man of actions, not words. And he had found nothing more effective at shutting Caleb up than a single finger traced along a swathe of exposed skin, over the back of Caleb’s hand maybe, or underneath his knee. One touch…that was all it took to dry up the words and get that wide-eyed gaze turned his way.
Another shot of pain kinked Brance’s abdomen. He felt Caleb bury his head between his shoulder blades, and the arms around him tightened. Raising Caleb’s hand to his lips, Brance kissed the battered knuckles. “It’s all right,” he said again, simply because he thought his lover needed to hear it. “Go cover up, will you? It’s colder out here than you think.”
Caleb nodded against Brance’s back and stood, then leaned down to whisper, “I still want that fuck.”
“Later,” Brance conceded.
Behind him Caleb stretched again. Brance risked a quick glance up and saw a glorious sight—his lover’s balls nestled in fuzzy hair, and the tip of his dick pointing down at Brance like a single sightless eye winking in temptation. If it weren’t so late, and the change so imminent…if only they had world enough and time…
A foot nudged the small of Brance’s back. “I see you looking,” Caleb said again. “Two minutes, I’m telling you…”
Sudden discomfort flickered across Caleb’s face as one hand clutched his lower belly. “God,” he gasped, a look of sickness on his young face. Turning on his heel, he raced for a low thicket nearby. Brance heard him retch as he disappeared into the underbrush.
It was nothing more than the moon on the rise, but when Caleb cried out in pain, Brance stood and half-turned to follow his lover into the trees before a cramp in his own stomach doubled him over. Clutching his abdomen, Brance fell, breathless, to the ground. His skin began to burn, as if flames lapped his body—pain slashed through him, radiating from his belly up through his chest, shooting down both legs, crippling his arms. In the cataclysm of change, his joints popped as his bones crunched down, reshaping themselves into a familiar feline form. Burnished hair erupted over the back of his hands, along his legs. As he writhed on the ground, his fingers fumbled to unbutton his shirt. His breath came hoarse and close, ragged to his own ears. Over the sound he heard the brook muttering to itself and, beyond that, Caleb’s quiet sobs.
A More Perfect Union #3
Thick flakes fell from a silver sky, muffling the sound of the horses’ hooves as they picked out a path down the packed dirt road that led into town. Their tack jangled with each step, and in the back of the clapboard cart they pulled, an axe and shovel rattled together like distant thunder. In the cart’s jump seat, Brance Brenneman held the reins in one hand, an almost negligent gesture, and kept the other on the seat as if to hold himself in place. To his right, his young lover Caleb Chilson clutched a rifle laid across his lap. With every other step the horses took, the back of his left hand brushed the inside of Brance’s right wrist.
The town they entered was a handful of log buildings shuttered against the cold. A few homes ringed the outskirts, haphazardly placed off the riding path as if scattered by the wind, and though he saw no one, Brance caught the occasional flicker of candlelight through warped boards nailed over windows. As they approached the town’s small center, he slowed the horses to a walk, his gaze darting around, but the snow had sent everyone inside. This far northwest, the winter came on fast, and Brance kept his collar turned up to hold back the wind. Caleb’s hands were red from the weather, and he’d spent most of the ride hunkered down in Brance’s shadow, letting his lover bear the brunt of the storm.
In front of the town’s general store, Brance pulled the horses to a halt. He jumped off the cart and turned, intending to toss the reins to Caleb, only to find his lover clambering down, as well. “Stay here,” Brance told him.
But Caleb shook his head. A gust of wind threatened to relieve him of the felt slouch hat he wore, and he clamped it down over his bushy blonde hair with one hand, the rifle still in the other. “It’s cold out here,” he said, skirting around the back of the cart to join Brance. “I want to go in with you.”
Brance busied himself with tying the reins to the hitching post. He knew the argument was lost—Caleb always got his way, the kid didn’t know how damn spoiled he was—but Brance still pointed out, “I’ll only be a minute.”
“And I’ll be a minute warmer,” Caleb sighed as he leaned against Brance’s back.
The touch was sudden and unexpected, out here in the open where anyone could see them. A thin arm came up around Brance’s waist, and icy fingers tickled between the buttons of his old Union shirt, burrowing into the fuzzy tufts curled along Brance’s belly. Caleb nosed through the hair on Brance’s nape to plant a quick kiss there, then breathed into his lover’s ear, “You warm me up.”
With a wild look around, Brance shook Caleb off. “Not here,” he warned.
Caleb drew back. “No one’s watching,” he said, a slight pout in his voice. “They’re all in ’cause it’s damn cold out here. Why we ain’t inside yet—”
“Listen to me,” Brance told him.
As usual, his quiet words silenced Caleb immediately. Or maybe it was the forefinger strummed down the back of Caleb’s hand, leaving a swath of warmth in its wake. Whatever the reason, Caleb’s mouth clamped shut and he waited, obedient, for Brance to speak.
Allowing himself a small smile, Brance tugged at the front of his lover’s thin jacket to close it. “Don’t say anything inside,” he cautioned. He raised his gaze to meet Caleb’s, whose amber eyes mirrored Brance’s own. “Let me do the talking.”
“You hardly ever say anything,” Caleb said, snickering.
Brance pressed the palm of his hand flat against Caleb’s stomach, quieting him. “Exactly. Just hold your tongue. We’ll be home soon enough.”
The moment Brance moved away, Caleb started, “Why—”
“You still sound Southern,” Brance told him.
Caleb’s mouth shut again, with an audible click this time. Brance didn’t have to mention the war that raged between the states, a war in which they had once fought, facing off on opposing sides. A war they’d left behind when each had found the other. For all their time together, Brance couldn’t forget the fact that here, in the backwoods of Pennsylvania, Caleb was still seen as the enemy. Add in the relationship the men shared, the love they harbored for each other, as well as the curse that stripped them of their humanity when the moon was full, and Brance thought Caleb’s origins were the least of their problems.
But why flaunt it? Better to remain silent, and keep apart in public, and hope no one ever ventured out to their little plot of land when they were in the fur.
With an ignoble pout, Caleb followed Brance up the wooden steps to the store’s porch, so close behind him that Brance could feel his lover’s breath flutter the hair that peeked from beneath his own hat. He ran a hand over the back of his neck as if swatting away a pesky insect; in response, Caleb pursed his lips and blew gently. Brance slapped him away. “Stop.”
He didn’t have to turn to know his lover only pouted harder; he could feel Caleb’s ire radiate from him like heat from a stove. Not for the first time, Brance wished it were night and the two of them changed. Life was much simpler then, and they communicated better as bobcats than they ever would as humans. He knew Caleb needed attention, and Brance wanted nothing more than to stop the world to pamper him, but at the moment they stood in inclement weather outside a general store whose proprietor probably spied upon their every move. He couldn’t take the man behind him in his arms, or kiss away that pout, or reassure him he was loved.
The best he could manage was to reach behind him, catch Caleb’s hand in his own, and give it a quick squeeze. Then he set his shoulder against the door to the general store and pushed it open.
A rush of dry, hot air hit him in the face as he entered the store, Caleb on his heels. Even as his lover was closing the door, a scratchy voice cried out from behind the counter, “Shut that trap, will you? You’ll let all the heat out.”
Brance glanced over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the dark look brooding on Caleb’s face before his lover turned toward the door. Slowly Caleb eased the door shut, but just before the latch caught, he shoved against it, hard.
“Damn it, boy,” the shopkeep snapped. “No need to slam it.”
Beneath his breath, Caleb muttered, “Wind got it.”
“Shh,” Brance hissed. He turned before he could see the wounded pride in his lover’s eyes. Tonight, he promised silently. In human form, the thought stayed inside him, unspoken. I’ll make it up to you then. Aloud, all he could say within the shopkeep’s earshot was, “Don’t touch anything.”
Ignoring the glare his lover directed his way, Brance strolled down the narrow aisles inside the dingy store. They needed dry goods, some potatoes, some gun powder. When his arms were full, he stepped up to the counter and deposited his goods in front of the shopkeep. The man was easily twice Brance’s age, wiry and wrinkled, as if he had been sitting for too long in front of the potbelly stove that warmed the shop. A pair of pince nez glasses sat perched precariously on the bridge of his nose, and his mouth worked around toothless gums as he stared at Brance. When Brance risked a look at him, the man spoke. His voice was surprisingly loud this close. “You them boys squatting out in the woods, ain’t ’cha?”
Brance gave him a slight nod.
The man teetered back on his stool, pleased. “I knew it!” he crowed.
Brance suspected this little visit would likely supply the man with hours of gossip. The people in town would talk of them anyway, Brance knew, but he didn’t want to give them added topics. Better to keep quiet. He glanced around the shop until he saw the top of Caleb’s hat sticking up from the last aisle.
Brance’s lack of response didn’t deter the shopkeep from making conversation. “I heard you was building a cabin out there. How’s that coming along?”
“It’s built.”
Brance had seen hoof prints in the woods around their cleared spot of land; he knew the townsfolk had ridden out to check on him. He and Caleb had built a small log home, one room, with a fireplace along one wall and sparse furniture of which Brance’s Amish father would have been proud. There were two straight-back chairs and a round table to eat on, and blankets softened the mattress on the bed they shared. They needed little more—goods from the store this winter, and seeds in the spring. After that, Brance hoped they would never have to leave their homestead. They’d grow the food they needed, hunt for meat, and live out their days together as one.
Before Brance could turn from the counter, the shopkeep stuck out a gnarled hand. “Stan Barkley. And you are?”
Brance looked at the hand, considered ignoring it, then realized that would only be fodder for the gossip mill. With a quick, firm shake, he grunted, “Brance.”
Raising his voice, Stan called out, “How about you, sonny? You got a name you’re willing to share?”
Over his shoulder, Brance exchanged a glance with Caleb, who scowled at them over the top of the aisle before turning back to the shelves. At the look of consternation on Stan’s face, Brance explained, “That’s Caleb. He won’t speak.”
“What’s he, dumb?” Stan asked.
Something clattered as Caleb dropped it back onto the shelf. “Hey!” Stan called out. “Watch the goods.”
Brance turned to hide the smirk he couldn’t keep off his face. His lover was having a rough day. Once again, he wished he could comfort him, but this was neither the time nor the place. As Caleb stepped around the aisle and approached the counter, Brance twisted his smirk into a sympathetic smile, but his lover’s brooding gaze didn’t rise to see it. Caleb stormed past, tossing something onto the counter as he went by.
A round tin of lard, cooking fat the two of them used as a lubricant when they made love. Brance almost laughed out loud.
The shopkeep began stacking Brance’s purchases into a small pile. “You boys best be careful out in them woods,” he said.
And they were back to making conversation. Brance didn’t rise to the bait and kept quiet, watching the old man’s hands flutter over the goods he planned to purchase.
It didn’t matter—Stan was a lot like Caleb, a man who spoke just to hear the sound of his own voice. “Sheriff’s daughter, Anna May? Pretty young thing, I’d allow. We lost her a few months back, not a stone’s throw from where you’ve settled down.”
“Lost her?” Brance gave him a sharp look. “How?”
Stan leaned over the counter, gesturing for Brance to do the same. His pale eyes were watery and large, pinning Brance in place. “Bobcats,” he said in a loud whisper.
Behind Brance, a tumble of boxes told him Caleb had overheard. “Careful, boy!” Stan shouted. “You’re about as clumsy…”
Brance met Caleb’s gaze across the store. Bobcats. The only ones Brance knew of stood in this very room, in the flesh. Tonight when the full moon rose over the snowy ground, he and Caleb would become, for lack of a better word, other, as they did every month. In the time they’d been living in the woods, building their home, Brance hadn’t seen any tracks or indication that the territory belonged to another cat. That was part of the location’s appeal—it was isolated, not only from man but from bobcat, as well. Brance’s scent marked the trees that ringed their property, and the scratches on the trunks had been made by Caleb’s claws. That land was theirs now. It belonged to them.
J.M. Snyder is a multi-published author of gay erotic romance who started writing fanfic (specifically, boyband slash). She has worked with several different e-publishers, including Amber Allure Press and Torquere Press, and has short stories published in anthologies by Alyson Books, Cleis Press, eXcessica, and Lethe Press. In 2010, she started JMS Books LLC to promote and publish her own work as well as that of other authors she enjoys.
For more information, please visit website.
EMAIL: admin@jms-books.com
Under a Confederate Moon #1
KOBO / iTUNES / GOODREADS TBR
Beneath a Yankee Sky #2
KOBO / iTUNES / GOODREADS TBR
A More Perfect Union #3
KOBO / iTUNES / GOODREADS TBR
Box Set
B&N / KOBO / GOOGLE PLAY
