Lessons in Solving the Wrong Problem by Charlie Cochrane
Summary:
Cambridge Fellows Mysteries #12.9
Jonty Stewart and Orlando Coppersmith get asked by Lord Henry Byrd to locate a treasure trove that mysteriously disappeared many years ago. But is that the case Lord Henry actually wants them to solve?
Original Review March Book of the Month 2021:
First off, Cambridge Fellows Mysteries just keeps getting better and better. Normally after 20 or so stories, between full-length novels, novellas, shorts, & free codas on the author's website, ideas would be getting weaker, perhaps even cliche or "copied" but not Jonty and Orlando. These two fellas from St. Bride's is like a fine wine(better actually because I'm not a wine drinker) they strengthen and become enriched with age.
Truth be told, the author's talent sharpen with each new entry as well. Charlie Cochrane's knack for storytelling, for making the reader feel like a participant in the investigations, for having a healthy balance of staying true to the era and not making it a history lesson standout in these later released novellas. I say that not because the original novels aren't as good or lack the above mentioned elements but because the novellas, well I don't want to say they "jump around" in the timeline but they are set throughout and in doing so the author has to re-visit the characters' strengths and weaknesses that they may have overcome in later timeline(such as how they were post-war compared to new lovers). Sometimes when an author "goes backward in time" they forget and write them as they were later and when that happens certain things are lost and seem out of place. Not Charlie Cochrane and her Cambridge investigative duo, she recreates, revisits, and furthers their journey all the while giving them new and intriguing cases to solve.
Now as for particulars in Lessons in Solving the Wrong Problem, I think you know my answer: read it for yourself to find out because with a mystery too many seemingly insignificant elements can actually change the whole course of the investigation. And I won't spoil that journey. I will say, as per their norm, sometimes the non-answers to one query can lead to solutions in another. What's not to like? You got lost treasure(or possibly lost), possible ghost sightings, possible murder, possible accidents, just so many possibles that it's no wonder the title is Solving the Wrong Problem. As usual Jonty and Orlando are up to the task. Sometimes I think the men are living their very own "Choose Your Own Adventure" adventure in this novella.
I should mention that even though we don't see as many of the mens' typical sidekicks in this one, they aren't completely on their own either. It's still glorious to see Mr. & Mrs. Stewart lending their knowledge into the clue seeking business again. I think it's one of the things I've always found so brilliant with Cambridge Fellows, not only is the main couple a Holmes & Watson(shhh! don't tell them I said that, especially Orlando😉) but Jonty's parents love it almost as much. So often parents, especially mothers and especially mothers of that era would be trying to tamp down the not-always-but-sometime dangerous side of the couple's "hobby" but not Mrs. Stewart, she loves the snooping just as much as her son and "son-in-law".
Okay, that's it, if I talk(or type) too much longer I'll start giving away secrets and that's not allowed here. I've said it before and I'll say it again, no matter how many full-length novels or one page codas, Miss Cochrane chooses to write, or more accurately that the boys decide to fill her in on, I'll be here reading them. This series, this couple will never get old.
One more thing: if you are new to the series than be sure to check out the author's website to get a chronological order of Cambridge Fellows but once you've read the first 4 or 5, I think you can really read them in any order. The first ones show the couple's romance explored more and so in order is more important IMO but the mysteries are always new to that entry. Sometimes there are details mentioned of previous cases but nothing that gives any case away or that leaves you wondering "WTH is going on?" However you choose to read it, don't let the number of entries scare you off because every single one is worth reading and experiencing.
RATING:
The Ghost of a Chance by TA Chase
Summary:For Padraig, finding himself face to face with the man he'd loved and lost a lifetime ago is the biggest thing on his mind.
Padraig Monaghan has a problem. Most would consider dying in a bar fight ten years ago upsetting, and existing as a ghost wandering the world might be thought a real predicament. They might deem a second chance at life through a chance encounter with a dying man a serious dilemma. But for Padraig, finding himself face to face with the man he'd loved and lost a lifetime ago is the biggest thing on his mind. Gareth Reilly stops at O'Toole's for a drink before he heads home. Tomorrow's going to be another lonely birthday for him until he's approached by a stranger. There's something about Padraig's bright green eyes and Irish accent that reminds Gareth of a man he once knew. Unable to resist, Gareth breaks his cardinal rule and invites Padraig home. On St. Patrick's Day, when Irish magic is strongest, it'll take a belief in the impossible and help from a grateful elf to give Padraig and Gareth another chance at love.
Re-Read Review March 2021:
I've been searching for this book for the past 4 years every St. Patrick's Day. I've asked in FB rec groups and I got nothing, course I had very little to go on: St. Patrick's Day and a ghost, that was all I recalled. This year I finally decided to do the painstaking job of going through my kindle library, well it took awhile as it was nearly 6 years since I had purchased this gem but I finally found it and decided that after that effort I had to re-read it not just post it as part of my St. Patty Day 2021 blog series.
I won't go into any details because as you know this is a spoiler free zone but I'll just say, it was worth the effort to find. Ghost of a Chance by TA Chase was even better than I originally remembered. So I upgraded from 4-1/2 bookmarks to 5. Padraig and Gareth are brilliant and is love worth the wait? You have to read for yourself to find that out but you will enjoy every minute of this novella. Will this be an annual St. Patty Day re-read? Maybe, maybe not, but I'll definitely visit the story again and again.
This is a beautifully written tale of second chances or more to the point, taking that leap of faith. Padriag and Gareth both wanted each other but never seized the moment, now 10 years later they have a second chance at their moment, too bad Padraig has been dead the past decade. This is a fun read, sexy, loving, and it reminds you to take a chance when your heart speaks to you. You will laugh, you will cry, and if you are like me you will probably grumble a little at the shortness of the story but in the end you won't regret taking a chance because it will warm your heart.
RATING:
RATING:
Bell, Book, and Scandal by Josh Lanyon
Summary:Bedknobs and Broomsticks #3
Black Magic. Blackmail. Little Black Books. Must a witch break his vows to save his marriage?
Cosmo Saville loves that his husband has finally accepted his witchy ways. And in return, his promise to stay out of police business guarantees them a happily ever after. At least, until he discovers he might be responsible for a dangerous game of blackmail…
Police Commissioner John Joseph Galbraith feels relieved that his marriage is back on track. Especially since he has his hands full with a high-profile suicide and rumors of a city-wide extortion ring. But when he stumbles across Cosmo breaking his vow by playing cop, John agonizes over old wounds.
With the commissioner’s badge and family in jeopardy, Cosmo has no choice but to put his life on the line…
Can the witch expose a dark conspiracy, save John’s career, and return to love’s delicious spell?
Bell, Book and Scandal is the third book in the Bedknobs and Broomsticks romantic gay mystery trilogy. If you like quirky characters, snappy spells, and madcap suspense, then you’ll love Josh Lanyon’s supernatural story.
HOLY HANNAH BATMAN!!! Bell, Book, and Scandal is even better than imagined. And trust me, I imagined quite a bit. Josh Lanyon is one of my favorite authors, she is my go-to mystery author in the LGBT genre combined with how much I loved the first two books in the Bedknobs and Broomsticks series I probably went in with pretty high expectations. High expectations when it comes to any kind or level of art is not always a good thing, so few times does the end result match our hopes. Well, Bell was not one of those times.
Nope.
It surpassed my expectations.
Because this is an ongoing series I don't want to give anything away, either for this book specifically or even too much "hinting" of past entries so that I don't spoil anything for newcomers to Bedknobs. I will say this, John has really tested my limits of wanting to smack him upside the head because of his reluctance to look outside the realms of his preconceived box. Don't get me wrong, Cosmo tries my patience too with his hole "speak, speak again, then speak some more, and finally think" habit of tackling obstacles in his life.
I think that's one of the elements I love best about this series, both characters have serious flaws in how they express themselves. Between their pissing each other off, jumping to conclusions, and then realizing just what the other person was actually thinking, John and Cosmo really are a perfect fit. The blending of similar and different qualities really revs their chemistry up to such believable levels that if the author were ever to kill one of them off, the remaining one left behind would never find another that fills in all the gaps. We all know there will never be any major character death here but I guess it's just my way of saying how perfect they compliment and complete each other.
Now, the mystery.
Okay, you know you aren't getting any tidbits in that area from me so I'll just say this: I could see it unfold in front of me as if I was a fly on the wall, right smack dab in the middle of the room witnessing it all. That's how real Josh Lanyon makes this paranormal, supernatural, magical world, you know it's fiction but it's 150% believable all at the same time.
As for the supporting cast of characters? I don't want to give anything away by bringing them up individually but I will say that not a single character in this series is page filler. Each and everyone of them plays a part in the end result, or at the very least getting the reader so involved in the story that pretty soon you forget it's a story and it feels like you are reliving a memory spent with old friends.
Magic, likeable(and some not-so likeable) characters that you can relate to, mystery that keeps you on the edge of your seat, romance, humor, drama, action, but most importantly Bell, Book, and Scandal(the whole series really) has so much heart, so many feels, you don't want to say goodbye. And it doesn't look like we'll have to yet, the author reveals there will be another storyline arc in the future, I guess she wasn't ready to say goodbye either or more accurately, Cosmo and John weren't ready to leave us out of their journey.
I just want to end with a couple of points:
1. If you couldn't tell from my review, Bedknobs and Broomsticks is a continuing story so you have to read from the beginning, you can't jump in with Bell, Book, and Scandal.
2. Something I've said in both the other two book reviews and it rings even truer now than book one, "I loved how it made me nostalgic for the endearing comedy of Bewitched, the magical drama of Charmed, and the spell-driven romance of I Married a Witch."
Definitely a win-win all around.
RATING:
The Ballad of Crow and Sparrow by VL Locey
Summary:Sometimes a man’s biggest blunder can turn into his greatest triumph.
Orphaned at fourteen, Crow Poulin now has to hunt and trap the White Mountains of Arizona, as his father had taught him, all alone. It’s a lonely existence, until one morning, while checking his trap line, Crow finds more than a rabbit in a snare. He stumbles across the outlaw Jack Wittington lying half dead in the wilds. He takes the wanted man in, heals him, and in return for saving his life, the smooth-talking criminal invites Crow to join his family. Starved for human interaction and a father figure, Crow leaves the mountains behind for what he assumes will be a brighter future.
Six years pass. Crow is now a man, as well as a member of the Wittington Gang. He may be considered an outlaw, but his father’s morals are warring loudly with the lifestyle of his adopted family. When the gang decides to rob a train, Crow has no choice but to go along to keep a tight rein on the more bloodthirsty members. It doesn’t take long for the scheme to go horribly astray.
Instead of gold-filled coffers, the gang finds Spencer Haughton, son of cattle baron and railroad tycoon Woodford Haughton, cowering in the family’s opulent private car. The outlaws grab the sickly heir in hopes of ransoming him off. Things then go from bad to worse for them when the law rides down on the Wittington hideout and Crow is given Spencer to hide until the ransom is paid. The pretty young man is nothing at all like anyone Crow has ever met before. Delicate, refined, well-educated, and possessed of a singing voice to rival the songs of the birds in the trees, Crow slowly finds himself falling for the winsome rich boy. But can two such opposite souls find the love they’re both seeking in each other’s arms?
Historical, western, romance . . . what else is there?
When I started The Ballad of Crow & Sparrow I wasn't sure what to expect. I knew it would be good and that I would walk away entertained because it was written by VL Locey. I've loved her co-authored work with RJ Scott and loved the few solo stories of her's that I've also read but none were historical. No worries because this story was beautifully written. I loved the balance of accuracy and fiction, it was the little elements that really suck you into the era, you know she did her research but she also isn't delivering a history lesson. Entertainment all the way.
As for Crow & Sparrow, love the names by the way, I won't go into too much detail as I don't want to give anything away. I'll say this, their meeting is not what I would call a "cute meet", honestly it's fraught with tension and "never gonna happen" atmosphere but right away you know it's definitely gonna happen all the same. Balancing that tension and danger with romance can be risky but Locey not only pulls it off, she knocks it out of the park.
If you don't usually read historicals I still highly recommend reading The Ballad of Crow & Sparrow. The blending of friendship and danger, strength and discovery, romance and feuding brings to life a really great read that will entertain from beginning to end.
RATING:
So Far Away by Nell Iris
Summary:So Close, Yet so Far Away
Engaged couple Zakarias and Julian are convinced nothing can separate them…until a global pandemic hits. Zakarias catches the virus with mild symptoms and isolates in the couple’s guest house. The few meters dividing them might as well be the moon as he watches Julian, an ICU nurse, work himself to the bone, unable to support him the way he needs. Frustration and worry build as the weeks pass. Will Zakarias be declared healthy before Julian burns out?
To start off, there is no mention of Covid19 in this story though I'm sure you can tell that the global virus the author describes is inspired by Covid and possibly even the 1918 Spanish Influenza outbreaks. I know for some it might be too soon, too close to home, too triggering. I don't want to tell you to read it if you think it'll spark anxiety but So Far Away isn't so much about the virus but the human heart, the emotions that can and have hit most of us. For me, it was worth the risk and I am so glad I took that leap of faith that goes along with authors you love.
So Far Away looks at the relationship between Julian and Zakarias, fiancees who are so far apart despite only yards away. Nell Iris has created a story that shows the strength of true love, the sheer determination to keep going despite having your nerves completely frayed, fried, and teetering on the cliff of "How long can I keep going?". I'm not going to say this is the best short story I've read but I think it's the most poignant, the most emotion-filled short I've read in a very long time. Now don't get me wrong, despite the depth of heart, both breaking and warming, there is still a lot of fun in this story. Most of that comes in Zakarias' sister but also in Zak's determination to lift Julian's spirits and calm his mind even if it's through Skype.
For the past year I've been wanting to read a story set during or just after the 1918 epidemic in the LGBT genre and even though So Far Away is a contemporary setting, it quenched that thirst a bit for me because it is such a brilliant journey of the human heart. If it is too soon, too current, too anxiety-inducing to read now, which I can completely understand, I highly recommend putting it on your TBR List for the future, even a couple of years from now, you won't regret it.
RATING:
Lessons in Solving the Wrong Problem by Charlie Cochrane
Orlando looked over to where a well-dressed chap in tweeds had entered the marquee. Without Applecross’s words, they’d have been able to guess the newcomer—every inch a peer of the realm—was the landowner. The deference shown by those present would also have sealed the case. His lordship surveyed the company, then made a beeline for Applecross, where the empty seat which had been so puzzling now made sense. Had it been kept free deliberately in case the man himself made an appearance?
Lord Henry paused, hands on the back of his chair, eyeing Jonty, who had turned his head round to get a view of the visitor. “Is that a Stewart I see before me?”
“It is, sir.” Jonty rose, then offered his hand to be shaken. “Jonathan, known as Jonty.”
His lordship pumped the hand up and down. “Very pleased to meet you. You’re the image of your mother, but I suppose you know that.”
“I’ve been told so often, yes.” Jonty beamed. “And I count myself lucky to have inherited her bone structure.”
“Magnificent woman. Like many of my generation, I’d have married her in a trice, but your father was too swift and determined for the rest of us.” He patted Jonty’s shoulder. “I’m far from alone in saying that I might have been your father. Perhaps you get tired of hearing men of my generation express that thought.”
“Not tired, no, although I no longer keep tally. I’ve realised how many heads and hearts Mama must have turned in her pomp.”
It was quite a familiar conversation with anyone of his lordship’s generation. Jonty never appeared to tire of the esteem in which his parents were held so neither, by association, did Orlando. He felt part of the Stewart family and always would. As if the thought gave birth to the act, Jonty words of introduction were, “Lord Henry, this is Dr Coppersmith, my colleague at St Bride’s and an old friend of the Stewarts. Almost an adopted son, in Mama’s eyes.”
“Splendid, splendid.” His lordship shook Orlando’s hand with equal enthusiasm. A plate of food, borne by Kane, appeared on the table. Lord Henry thanked the student, then they all took their seats. “I’m so pleased that you’re both present, gentlemen. I hear you’re a regular Holmes and Watson.”
Orlando forced a smile. How he hated the man from Baker Street: any comparisons with him were odious. “We’ve been fortunate to be consulted on certain mysteries that have evaded previous solution, yes.” He was aware he sounded pompous and those who knew him well would have recognised that meant he was getting worked up. Was it the mention of Holmes that had made his hackles rise or something about Lord Henry that rankled?
“I’ve read about some of your adventures, of course. Your father’s accounts of them always make amusing reading. Better than much else one finds in The Times. Might I enquire as to whether he has employed much artistic licence?”
“You may and the answer is not a single bit.” Jonty didn’t appear to be as insulted by the question as Orlando felt about it. How dare anyone imply that the accounts of their investigations had in any way been embroidered? If anything, they’d been moderated somewhat, real life being so often tinged with events that would be frankly unbelievable if put on paper. “You’ll be aware that my father has a reputation as being a stickler for the truth in all situations.”
If he didn’t know, he damn well should have, the tone implied. Evidently Jonty had been affronted, despite the charming smile he still wore.
Lord Henry either didn’t notice the indirect rebuke or ignored it. “That reassures me greatly. I have a question and I’ll come straight out with it. Would you be interested in casting an eye over an old mystery that puzzles my family? No hidden codes or gruesome murders, but something I would hope worthy of your cerebral capacity.”
The Ghost of a Chance by TA Chase
Chapter One
The sound of scuffling drew Padraig's attention, and he drifted over to an alley. One slender guy was struggling against two bulkier men. He'd seen enough robberies in his time to know what was happening there. Curiosity drove him closer, even though there wasn't any way he could help the poor sod getting his ass kicked. Sometimes being a ghost sucked.
He couldn't make out much in the shadows cast by what little light the street lamps threw down the alley, but he caught the glint of a knife, and he started to shout out a warning. Too late, Padraig remembered no one could hear him.
Gasping, their victim sank to his knees. Padraig was afraid it wasn't going to end well.
"Shit." One of the assailants whirled on the other. "Why the hell did you do that?"
"I didn't stab him on purpose. You pushed him into me."
"Fuck. It doesn't matter. We need to get out of here before anyone sees us."
He didn't move as the two assailants rushed toward him. They shivered as they passed through him. Padraig had to let them go. Being invisible made it impossible for him to do anything, really. Concern drove him closer to the body on the ground.
Crouching down, he looked at the man dying among the garbage in the alley. Even if Padraig had been human, he wouldn't have been able to save the man. Blood pumped from the man's stomach and pooled under him. Padraig reached out, knowing he couldn't offer comfort to the victim, but needing to make some effort.
He gasped as his hand touched the warm liquid surrounding the wound. The dying man's eyelids fluttered, and Padraig jerked when those eyes opened and focused on him.
"Are you an angel?"
He shook his head. He'd never been accused of being angelic, even when he was alive, just being scary and creepy. "You can see me?" Padraig glanced over his shoulder, wondering if anyone was going to come help this man.
"Yes. Am I not supposed to?"
He coughed, and Padraig grimaced at the wet sound in the man's lungs.
"No one except crazy people and dogs have been able to see me for ten years." He shrugged. "And now it seems that dying people can see me. I'm Padraig."
"I'm Steven. I'm dying, huh?" The effort to talk strained Steven's voice.
There was no point in lying to the man. "I'm afraid so, Steven. I can't help you, and it doesn't look like anyone else is coming."
A slight lift of Steven's shoulders caused the man to groan. Padraig tried removing his hand from the wound but couldn't. Blood stuck to Padraig's hand like warm glue. He tugged and his hand sank in deeper. It was like he was being sucked into Steven's body.
"Bloody hell," he muttered, wondering what the fuck was going on.
"Do you see a light?" Steven's unfocused gaze went over Padraig's shoulder.
Fighting the urge to look, he grimaced as he slid up to his elbow in the gaping wound. "If I saw a bloody fucking light, I wouldn't be here." He rolled his eyes.
Steven's lips moved, but nothing came out.
Padraig struggled, pulling away as he tried to free himself. What the bloody hell was happening to him? Was he suddenly going to Heaven or Hell, whichever place the higher power chose to send him to? It was like sticking his hand in quicksand. Every time he tried to get free, it sucked him deeper in. There was no way he could get out, and he slipped farther into Steven's body.
The sound of scuffling drew Padraig's attention, and he drifted over to an alley. One slender guy was struggling against two bulkier men. He'd seen enough robberies in his time to know what was happening there. Curiosity drove him closer, even though there wasn't any way he could help the poor sod getting his ass kicked. Sometimes being a ghost sucked.
He couldn't make out much in the shadows cast by what little light the street lamps threw down the alley, but he caught the glint of a knife, and he started to shout out a warning. Too late, Padraig remembered no one could hear him.
Gasping, their victim sank to his knees. Padraig was afraid it wasn't going to end well.
"Shit." One of the assailants whirled on the other. "Why the hell did you do that?"
"I didn't stab him on purpose. You pushed him into me."
"Fuck. It doesn't matter. We need to get out of here before anyone sees us."
He didn't move as the two assailants rushed toward him. They shivered as they passed through him. Padraig had to let them go. Being invisible made it impossible for him to do anything, really. Concern drove him closer to the body on the ground.
Crouching down, he looked at the man dying among the garbage in the alley. Even if Padraig had been human, he wouldn't have been able to save the man. Blood pumped from the man's stomach and pooled under him. Padraig reached out, knowing he couldn't offer comfort to the victim, but needing to make some effort.
He gasped as his hand touched the warm liquid surrounding the wound. The dying man's eyelids fluttered, and Padraig jerked when those eyes opened and focused on him.
"Are you an angel?"
He shook his head. He'd never been accused of being angelic, even when he was alive, just being scary and creepy. "You can see me?" Padraig glanced over his shoulder, wondering if anyone was going to come help this man.
"Yes. Am I not supposed to?"
He coughed, and Padraig grimaced at the wet sound in the man's lungs.
"No one except crazy people and dogs have been able to see me for ten years." He shrugged. "And now it seems that dying people can see me. I'm Padraig."
"I'm Steven. I'm dying, huh?" The effort to talk strained Steven's voice.
There was no point in lying to the man. "I'm afraid so, Steven. I can't help you, and it doesn't look like anyone else is coming."
A slight lift of Steven's shoulders caused the man to groan. Padraig tried removing his hand from the wound but couldn't. Blood stuck to Padraig's hand like warm glue. He tugged and his hand sank in deeper. It was like he was being sucked into Steven's body.
"Bloody hell," he muttered, wondering what the fuck was going on.
"Do you see a light?" Steven's unfocused gaze went over Padraig's shoulder.
Fighting the urge to look, he grimaced as he slid up to his elbow in the gaping wound. "If I saw a bloody fucking light, I wouldn't be here." He rolled his eyes.
Steven's lips moved, but nothing came out.
Padraig struggled, pulling away as he tried to free himself. What the bloody hell was happening to him? Was he suddenly going to Heaven or Hell, whichever place the higher power chose to send him to? It was like sticking his hand in quicksand. Every time he tried to get free, it sucked him deeper in. There was no way he could get out, and he slipped farther into Steven's body.
Bell, Book, and Scandal by Josh Lanyon
Chapter One
“Merde.”
I scowled and sucked on the slice across the pad of my thumb. I didn’t taste blood, the papercut wasn’t that deep, but my tongue tingled with the flavor of…
Odd.
I picked up the letter opener, slit open the envelope, and several glossy black-and-white photos spilled out and slid across my desk.
Black and white? Who took black-and-white photos these days? Who took photos these days? That’s what phones were for, right?
I reached for the nearest photograph, studied it curiously—and dropped it as though it had burned my fingertips.
A man and woman locked in naked—very naked—embrace.
I didn’t recognize the man, though the large tattooed pentacle on his back indicated maybe I should.
The woman was my sister-in-law. Jinx.
I drew in a deep breath.
Well, this was…unexpected. And unwelcome.
I bowed the envelope to check for a letter. I was anticipating something with misshapen letters cut from magazines and spelling trouble, but there was nothing. Just the photos.
Not that that wasn’t plenty right there.
I rested my fingertips on the photos, closed my eyes, concentrated… To my surprise, there it was. The scintilla of the arcane. Magic.
I opened my eyes.
Curiouser and curiouser.
Was there any possibility this wasn’t a threat? That the intent was…what? Hey, here’s something you might want to keep an eye on? I considered that theory hopefully, but I couldn’t quite convince myself that these photos had been sent with anything but ill intention.
To what end, though?
Money, right? That was the way these things usually worked. Not that I had any practical experience of blackmail.
Yes. Blackmail.
It wasn’t a complete surprise.
Or rather, yes, it was a surprise—especially given that Jinx seemed to be the target—but we weren’t the first family in San Francisco to get one of these poison parcels. John had been losing sleep—a lot of sleep—over the past month with the discovery that the city’s high society appeared to have fallen prey to a well-connected extortion ring.
John is John Galbraith. My husband—but more importantly, in this context at least, SFPD’s new police commissioner.
The plot had only come to light because one of the victims, the Rev. Canon Angela Tzeng had had the guts to go to the police and report an attempt to blackmail her. Tzeng was supposed to be consecrated October 1st as the first female bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Northern California, but her courageous move had been rewarded by the blackmailer releasing information about a teenaged pregnancy to the press. It was the Twenty-First Century. You’d think— But you’d be wrong. The revelation of Tzeng’s youthful mistake was damning information in the eyes of both the public and the diocese. Now Tzeng’s very future in the church was in question.
Needless to say, no other victims had come forward. Not openly. Not officially. But they were out there.
“Someone’s going to get killed,” John had said the other night. He was not a guy for kidding around, and he was not kidding then.
I considered the pile of photos before me. I couldn’t help thinking that choosing Jinx as a blackmail target was kind of a stretch.
Yes, these photos were revealing and embarrassing, but at twenty-five, Jinx was a grown woman. The fact that she was a sexually active grown woman would likely only come as a shock to John. She did not hold public office. She was not married. There was no reason I could see that she shouldn’t have sex with whoever she pleased, although I had to wonder about her good sense in choosing a guy who’d branded himself with the Sigil of Baphomet.
Jinx had been studying with the Duchess for the past few weeks, so she surely knew better. And if this guy was not a poser, if he was Craft, he ought to know better too. But this photo might be months old. When I’d first met Jinx, she’d been a little bit of an occult fangirl. Actually, she was still a little bit of an occult fangirl.
But I digress. As usual.
That the photos had come to me, made me wonder if Jinx had already been approached and had brushed it off. You have to care a lot about what other people think to make a good blackmail victim. When it came to what other people thought, Jinx had, in the mortal vernacular, zero fucks to give. In fact, there had been a time, and not so long ago, when I thought she’d have taken delight in appalling both John, who was twenty years her senior, and her mother, Nola.
And when it came to Nola, who could blame her? I felt the urge to appall Nola now and then myself. Not that I had to try. My existence was enough to keep my mother-in-law in a constant state of pall.
Which meant what?
That the real target was me? The assumption being that I would pay up to keep Jinx’s past from embarrassing her? From embarrassing me? No. From embarrassing John.
Of course.
Because John was the vulnerable one. As Police Commissioner, San Francisco’s first gay police commissioner at that, John was the one with something to lose. The news that the police commissioner’s younger sister was a devil worshipper (oh, I could already hear all the idiotic and ignorant things people would say) would certainly bother the hell out of John—and might even impact his political future. John was an ambitious man. A man with a plan.
So why not send this packet to John?
Oh, right. Because John was as honorable as he was ambitious. He would not be blackmailed. He would see Jinx burned alive—in the court of public opinion, that is—before he paid one cent of blackmail money.
The blackmailer was relying on me to pay up to protect John from himself.
Mistake.
If I had learned anything in the four months I’d been married to John, it was that honesty was the best policy. At least with John.
The Ballad of Crow and Sparrow by VL Locey
Prologue
White Mountains, Arizona
Fall 1879
“…Et ne nous soumets pas à la tentation, mais délivre-nous du mal, car c'est à toi qu'appartiennent le règne, la puissance et la gloire, pour les siècles des siècles. Amen.”
I knelt beside the grave, the freshly dug dirt ripe and pungent in my snotty nose and let the final words of Papa’s favorite prayer drift off on the cold wind. My back, arms, and legs ached as deeply as my heart. Staring at the mound of dirt over Papa, I felt drained. Digging the hole had taken me days, for the ground still had frost in it and I was weak from my own battle with the sickness that had claimed Papa.
The pox had sickened me badly, but I had survived with only a few scars. Papa had not been so lucky. After nursing me back from a sure death, he had fallen ill. I tried my best to heal him, as he had me, but I was wobbly as a new fawn, sickly, and sleepy. I missed several cool water sponges for him, and the herbal tea he had forced into me to combat the fever were also missed, due to my falling asleep by his bed.
“Forgive me, Papa. I failed you,” I coughed, patting the cold dirt with a blistered hand. Gin whimpered at my side. I petted her soft head. Papa had traded one of his prized bottles of gin for this dog. A gift for my fourteenth birthday. She was young still but possessed of great intelligence and obedient. Much more so than my father’s horse, Wind, who was whinnying at me to come feed him. He did not understand that I still had lines to check or a father to mourn. All he knew was that he was hungry. Sometimes, I envy animals. They did not have to mourn the dead or worry for the future. All they needed to do was what was asked of them. “I did not keep death from you as you did for me.”
A wail of anguish washed over me, and I fell forward to the cold, cold ground and wept until darkness settled on the mountain. Wind had given up asking for his hay. Gin tugged on my sleeve when snow began to fall, and somehow the dog got me up and pulled me from the grave under the gnarled oak. I glanced back at the cross I had made, and felt a great loneliness settle inside me. Now I had no one save a horse and a dog. Mama had passed long ago, before I could get to know her face, and now Papa was gone.
I pulled off my damp coat and fur-lined boots and crawled into my bed. Papa’s bed and bedding had been burned yesterday, the flames leaping up into the wintry sky for hours. I fell into bed fully clothed, hungry beyond measure, but too grieved to eat. As I waited for sleep, I heard the words of my father in my head.
“You are a man now, Crow. You will do well. Be strong. Be pure of heart. Make me proud.”
I did not feel like a man. I felt like a fourteen-year-old boy who was terrified of what the mountain would do to him. Gin lay down beside the bed where Papa had said she must sleep, for dogs had fleas. With the fire blazing and my heart heavy, I whispered to my dog to join me under the covers, fleas be damned.
Spring, 1880
The wind woke me. It whirled and roared around the cabin, small slips of frigid air seeping through the cracks between the logs. I rolled to my side, facing the fireplace, and pulled the mound of furs up over my ear. Eyes and nose exposed, I lay in my bed, the wool and horsehair padding under me doing little to keep my side from the rough ropes supporting the mattress. Next summer, I’d have to make a new pad, maybe trade some furs for cotton or shoot more goose for down to plump my new bed. The fire in the hearth was low, just some glowing red coals. The tip of my nose grew cold quickly, so I burrowed deeper under the furs and old military blankets. New old blankets. When Papa had died, I had burned every blanket we had traded for from that passing travelling caravan then I had lit flame to his bed. The blankets had brought the pox into our cabin. The few round scars on my belly itched just to remind me of the horrors.
That summer seven months ago seemed like a different lifetime now. On days like this, when the snow was blowing and the traps sat waiting, I wished I had someone to share the work with. Papa or Mama—although I recall little of her—or someone else. A nice man. Pretty, young like me, with soft lips who would let me stay in the bed—our bed—and go ride the lines. That was my special wish. I discussed it with no one, not ever, because it was forbidden, according to Papa’s God. Since I had no knowledge of Mama’s gods, because Papa had said they were heathen gods and forbid me to speak of them, I didn’t know if the Mohawk felt as Papa did about sins and deviants. Perhaps all people hated men like me. I’d not known many people. Papa had distrusted most folk.
A yawn rose up. The wind blew and sparkling snow dust rode into the cabin on a sliver of morning sun. I had to get up. There were snares and traps to check. Papa had always been adamant about tending to the animals in the traps quickly.
“It is cruel to let a creature linger in pain,” he would tell me as we rode along the slopes, rivers, and ponds.
“Oui, Pére” I would reply.
Papa favored agreement. He was a harsh man, but spoke two languages, French and English, which he taught me. He could read well and tried to teach me many times. I grew to hate those nights bent over his worn Bible, trying to make sense of the letters and sounds he said they should make. The letters and words looked backward to me. Papa concluded that I was simply dim-witted when it came to reading and stopped trying to teach me. Still, though, I liked stories when others read them to me.
Perhaps I was dim-witted, but I knew the value of a fisher fur and how to track a deer through the summer woods. I could barter well but sang poorly. I knew prime pelts from poor ones, and my aim was sharp with a gun and a knife. Perhaps I wasn’t the smartest man, but I was clever and easy on the eyes, according to that whore I once met.
She had been riding with three men who had come to our cabin with pox-ridden blankets and other items to trade last summer. She showed me her wares, then got mad when I’d not give her money to fuck her. She threw a boot at me, and I had to run to avoid the other pink boot aimed at my head. Papa had beaten me badly for even looking at the woman, but I had never seen what a lady had under her skirts. I’d not been impressed. The men bathing in the creek were much more appealing, but that was, of course, a secret buried deeply inside.
A cold nose wiggled under the covers, wet and black it snuffled around in my hair, making me laugh softly and paw at the long snout.
“Dumb dog,” I chuckled, lifting the mound of furs to let Gin join me on the narrow bed. Papa would never have allowed such a thing, but this tiny cabin was mine now, and Gin was my only friend in the world, next to Wind, who was probably chewing on his stall in frustration.
The sandy-colored dog snuggled in close and sighed. I rubbed her belly for a while, but my conscience soon got the better of me and I had to get up. With Gin dancing around my feet, I leaped from worn woven rug to worn woven rug, the wooden floor as cold as Gin’s nose. I chucked some round pine logs into the fire, bending down low to blow on the embers until they ignited the sticky bark. Once the flames were leaping, I slid my feet into my moccasins, threw open the door and whined at the new snow that had piled up overnight. Gin sat beside me, whimpering at the sight as well. Then, my eyes found the beauty of the scenery. The mountains coated with white, the sagging boughs of the trees heavy with snow, the bright blue sky. I breathed in the cold air, admiring the land as Papa had before me. He would often say that God had given men the world to tame and tend, and so we must appreciate her beauty and treat her kindly.
“March is bad, but soon, April will come,” I said, scratching the top of Gin’s head between short, erect ears. “Go do your business and I will do mine.” She raced off into the snow. I pissed out the door and to the left. That would help keep the porcupines from gnawing on my home, according to my father. The path that I had wallowed down to the barn was now partly filled in. The cold air whipped over my cock. I shuddered, shook, tucked it back into my long johns, and whistled for my dog.
Gin raced inside, tongue lolling, and shook gobs of snow off. I threw up my arms to keep the icy cold fluff from hitting me in the face. I so wanted coffee, but there was no time to ready a pot and wait for it to perk over the fire, so Gin and I had some fish jerky and water for breakfast. Dressing was quick; buckskin pants over my long john bottoms, a thick wool sweater under a duster coat made of tough bison leather. It had been my father’s and now fit me reasonably well. I’d grown into it over the past few months. My boots were also leather, up to the knee with rabbit fur lining. Papa traded ten beaver pelts for them last summer and they were worth every fur we’d parted with. Leather gloves, a thick scarf knitted by my mother for my father, and a hat made from a red fox. The flaps covered my ears and could be tied tightly to keep it tight to my head. The fox’s tail hung down between my shoulders. Gin barked at the fox on my head, as she always did.
“He’s not going to bite me now,” I assured her, grabbed my Smith & Wesson from the kitchen table, stoked the fire well, and waded out into the cold. The mountains were already alive with bird song that the wind carried along with soft flakes of snow. Gin and I waded to the barn, then threw the door open. It was a small building, just big enough for two horses. I’d thought of getting a mule. I still wished for one, but I’d not be able to afford to feed two animals through the winter. Perhaps if the payout for furs was high this summer, I could find a cheap mule, but for now my Paint gelding Wind carried everything for me.
His ears were back when I walked to his stall. He flashed me some teeth when I reached out to pet him. Gin sat by the doors, tail wagging, ready to go because she knew breakfast—a real dog breakfast—was coming soon.
“Un tel visage de cheval laid,” I joked as Wind had a handsome horse face, not an ugly one. Wind nickered, tossing his head, brown mane flowing, to show me just how angry he was. “Come now, I am only a little late.”
The horse took a step, then two, and put his nose against my outstretched hand. I had been forgiven my laziness. I was then allowed to saddle the gelding and get on my way, rifle riding beside me, knife at my hip, Gin leading the way. The dog and the horse knew the trap line well. We rode up the base of the mountain, then across, lopping down along a small brook, then making a circle of the lake. This late in March, the furs were no longer quite at prime, many were already shaggy, but I was in no place to toss away lesser grade pelts. My food stores were low and the trip down to Sourwood to sell my furs was months away.
The snares always did well. Four fat rabbits were caught. One I threw to Gin, and she ran off to eat her meal while I reset the snare. Wind carried me along the brook, the edges of the running water iced but the middle flowing freely. Gin stopped to drink, as did Wind, and I sat there watching a bright red bird flit from tree to tree. The wind was strong, shaking the naked branches and fat pine boughs, whistling through deadfalls. Gin’s head shot up, water running from her jowls and off she went, barking madly. Wind stomped a foot, the shallow water splashing up over his fetlocks to his knees.
“Allez,” I said, giving the horse a soft nudge in the sides. He followed the barking dog, surefootedly picking his way along the snowy deer trail that Gin had streaked down. The dog had stopped running already, her frenzied barks coming from a thick swatch of blowdown trees to my left. I slid off my horse, tossed the reins to the ground, and grabbed my rifle from the leather scabbard that lay under the fender/stirrup. Then I began scrambling over dead trees coated with snow and ice. Perhaps she had treed something, or found a denned up bear or badger, neither of which I wanted my dog to tangle with.
I spied Gin and her quarry ahead and slowed my dangerous rush over the uprooted pines and aspens. She’d not winded a grizzly or a fat boar raccoon. No, she had found a man. He was pale as the snow and weakly swatting at Gin as she tugged on his pantleg.
“Stop,” I barked at the dog, and she dropped the man’s pantleg instantly, her lip still raised and the short golden fur on her back on edge. Such a scrapper, she was. Not knowing what kind of man I faced, I cradled my rifle in my arms, my approach slow. He was an older man, bald, a crooked nose, and a thick scraggly brown mustache.
“Sweet Jesus, you’re a big one,” he coughed weakly. “You don’t want my scalp. It’s bald as a baby’s balls.” I came to a stop beside my dog, my sight roaming over the paunchy old man with the ugly face. He worked up a grisly sort of smile. His teeth were stained, but his blue eyes seemed kind. “Must be that squaw milk grows you bucks big and strong, eh?”
Gin snarled a warning. I shushed the dog.
“You speak any kind of English?” I remained silent, wary, looking for any signs that he planned to reach for the guns strapped to his thigh. “Okay, well, my Apache is rough but…”
“I am not Apache,” I told him to spare his butchering of a proud language.
“Ah, well, you do speak English. Good. Fine dog you got there. Feisty.” Sweat ran down his brow into his eyes. I took a tentative step closer and sniffed the air. The scent of rot was thick around him. “I’ve been shot, you see…” He lifted the thick horse blanket from his lap. I drew down on him before he could blink. “No! Fuck sake, don’t fucking shoot me again!”
My gaze darted to his legs and the red snow under him. The stench of infection was ripe and hot on the cold wind.
“How long have you been here?” I enquired, lowering the barrel of my gun. The little color he had in his face leeched out and he slumped to the side, his eyes rolling back into his skull. Gin tipped her head and yipped.
I thought to simply ride off, but couldn’t. Papa’s God said one should be kind to strangers. Path chosen, I gathered the sick man up, carried him to Wind, who tried to bite the feverish man several times as I loaded him up into the saddle, and then walked home with a sick man lashed to my horse.
Wind was not happy, and kept trying to turn and nip at the stranger who woke and babbled and drifted off several times before we reached my cabin with the grave under the great oak. Wind was happy to have the man off his back. I carried him into my cabin—he was not a big man—and laid him on my bed. Gin sat down by the bed, her attention on the unknown person moaning and thrashing upon the mattress.
It had been some time since I’d tended to a sick man, the last being my father. I’d been weak then myself, wobbling about like a newborn elk calf, just recovered from my rashes. Perhaps if I had been stronger, he might have survived. Perhaps not. I gathered around what I could of my meager healing supplies. I was no healer, but I could tend minor wounds well.
Gin lay down beside the bed, nose resting on paws, giving me someone to talk to. The man was fevered and speaking nonsense. I cut off his pant leg and nearly gagged at the smell and sight of the festering wound. His thigh was fire red, the entry wound oozing foul looking pus. I glanced down at Gin.
“This is going to be ugly,” I said. She whined in reply. I stood, then gathered up what I needed: hot water heating in the fire, my skinning knife, a pouch of healing herbs that Papa had traded for from an old Apache woman outside Sourwood, and an old shirt for bandages. I still needed rope from the barn, so I made a dash outside. Wind had wandered back into his stall while I’d checked the man. I hurried to unsaddle him and tell him he was brave and strong. He nipped my ass while I was forking some hay into his manger for thanks.
When I returned to the cabin, Gin was on duty guarding the man. He was no threat to anything in his condition, but she was vigilant. Knowing things would get bad, I tied him to the bed, found an old bottle of gin—Papa’s favorite drink—and kneeled beside him. What came next was not pretty, but it was necessary. I doused the putrid wound with gin. My patient moaned. Then, I began cutting away the dead and dying flesh. He screamed and thrashed but the ropes were snug and soon, he passed out. Gin was glad. So was I. He screamed like a woman.
I worked for a long time, until it was dark outside and I had to light the kerosene lamp to finish applying the slave I’d made out of the various herbs and some bear grease. Desert plants from down near Sourwood were helpful for many things, Papa had told me. When the wound had been cleaned and bandaged, I tossed the bloody rags and other foulness into the fire and washed my filthy hands in the remaining warm water. The lye soap burned the scrapes along my knuckles, but that was good.
I then made a quick broth by tossing a rabbit into my pot of melted snow with a small cubed potato. Gin and I ate, then curled up in front of the stone hearth, her spine resting on mine. We shared a thin blanket to ensure the sick man had the good furs. It was so cold on the floor that I slept with my clothes and boots on.
That night, I dreamed of a beautiful woman with long black hair and soft brown eyes offering me a bowl of corn soup. I took it and ate it all quickly. She told me that the river of my life was now flowing in a new direction. When I asked where the river was taking me, she patted my cheek before fading away, leaving me gifts of corn, squash, and beans in my empty soup bowl. I awoke during the night, smiled into the murky darkness feeling safe and loved, and curled myself around Gin as my guest snored loudly.
The man never woke up that first night, but he cried and cussed and spoke of bizarre things. He lingered in a fevered state for five days. I returned from checking my traps and doing a bit of hunting on the sixth day to find him sitting up in my bed, ashen and wobbly. Gin had been left behind to guard him. He lifted a shaky hand in greeting, then wet his cracked lips.
“That dog…she don’t like me,” he said, then paused to lap at his lips again. “Christ, you’re a big son-of-a-bitch.”
“You said that already,” I replied, stomping snow off my boots, then tossing the three gray squirrels to the kitchen table.
“I did?” He blinked clear eyes at me. I nodded, untied my boots, dipped a tin coffee cup into the bucket of water on the floor, and walked to my bed. Gin padded over to the hearth to rest, now that her job was done. I helped him lift the cup to his lips. He drank greedily and I eased the water from him.
“Not so much too fast,” I said, leaving the mug with him as I untied my boots and began cutting the back legs off the skinned squirrels. One got thrown to Gin. She fell on it ravenously, her gaze on the stranger as she ate.
“What else did I say?” I turned my head to look over my shoulder at him.
“Crazy things.” I went back to preparing our dinner. There were a few spongy potatoes left and two carrots. Then, we would be down to simply meat until spring thaw came. I prayed that fur prices were high this year. I needed so much.
“What kind of crazy things?”
I chucked a fat rear leg into the cast iron kettle. “Things about money, mostly, and loose women.”
That made him laugh. He had a hearty laugh. “Ah, well, sure enough that’s a man, eh? Lying on death’s door but still talking about pussy.” I shrugged. Gin was busy with her dinner, the sound of thin bones crunching and the chop of a cleaver hitting old wood filled the cabin. A log popped and rolled in the fireplace. “You don’t say much, do you?”
“I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
“Well, how about we exchange names. Seems the least I could do for a man what saved my life is to give him my name.” I nodded, wiped my hands on my pants, laid down the cleaver, and turned to look at him. He was sound asleep, tin cup dangling off a finger, mouth open, snoring like a fat dog in front of a warm fire. I padded over to the bed, took the cup from him, and pulled a soft gray wolf fur up to his round chin.
Several hours later, he roused again, this time asking to use the latrine. I handed him a chamber pot and waited.
“Guess you done this for me when I was talking nonsense, eh?” I inclined my head, took the pot and tossed the urine out the door. “I appreciate your saving me, but I must ask. Where the hell are my clothes?”
“You soiled them. They were burnt in the fire. They stank.” Gin lay by the fire, nothing moving but the whiskers over her eyes. I returned to my seat in the corner and the beaver pelt stretched over a fleshing board. This one was still prime and would fetch a nice price. The meat would be dinner tomorrow, most of it. Some I put aside with the castor for bobcat lure.
“Well, shit,” he muttered.
“Yes, exactly.”
That made him laugh. “You’re a funny kid. Any chance I can get some drawers?”
“When your shit has firmed up, you can have some of mine. Not before.”
“Fair enough.”
I thought so as well, and went back to drawing my fleshing knife along the inside of the pelt. After all the meat I could remove was taken off, the pelt would be stretched and dried and tanned. When summer came and it was time to go to town to trade, all the pelts would be gathered into a bundle, wrapped up in poor quality skins, such as summer beaver or badly cured or shot-up elk, to protect the better quality fur. These bundles were called a pièce and weighed roughly about ninety pounds.
“That food I smell?” I glanced up from my work. The man was staring at me. I laid aside my knife and went to the hearth, using the ladle that hung beside the hearth to pull the pot away from the fire. “Thank you kindly. I’d thank you by name, as is fitting, but I don’t recall you telling me your name.”
He took the bowl and spoon with tender care. The furs had slid down to his lap to reveal a soft belly covered with grizzled brown and white hair.
“My name is Crow Poulin,” I said, then offered him my hand. He slid his palm over mine and gave me a weak shake.
“Crow Poulin. Poo-lihn. That’s a right odd combination of names.” He spooned some broth to his mouth, droplets of rich brown liquid dribbled to his bare chest. “You look pure Injun, ’side from them gray eyes, but you sound like a Frenchie. Damn, this is good soup.”
“My father was from Château-Richer in Quebec, Canada. He come down into America and met my mother while trading furs with a Mohawk tribe in New York State. Her name was Katsitsienhawi, which means ‘she carries flowers’ but Papa could not pronounce her Mohawk name so he bade her to change her name to Rose.”
I wasn’t sure why I was telling this man such personal details. Perhaps it was just because I was so lonely, or because he listened to me and seemed to be interested. Few people paid mind to what a half-breed had to say.
“Rose is a pretty name. Mine is John Wittington, and I am indebted to you for saving my life, Crow Poulin.”
“And for washing your flat, hairy ass,” I added, which made him snort and choke on his soup.
“You’re a funny buck. I like you.” I turned from the compliment, uneasy with hearing such things from a white man. Hell, from anyone to be honest. Even Papa wasn’t given to handing out sweet words or sentiments. “You ever consider doing anything else for a living?”
I returned to my stool and my pelt, the flesh already growing tacky on the sharp blade of the two-handled knife.
“No.” Gin got up and went to the door. Again, I left my work to tend to someone else. She made a round of the cabin as she always did, then squatted to piss. Once back inside, John wanted more soup, so I fetched it for him. “Who shot you?”
He glanced up at me, his thick brown mustache wet with broth but his eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Well now, Crow Poulin, that’s a long story.”
“It will be a long night,” I pointed out, went back to my stool, and returned to preparing my pelt, the fire cracking in the hearth, sweet pine smoke lying along the ceiling timbers like fog. Gin stretched out; her feet pointed at the flames. Outside it was still. The call of a nearby owl could be heard through the walls.
“Aye, that it will. Well, the bullet that left me in such an unseemly and sickly state was the result of a slight altercation with a lawman who, if I may say, was incorrect about his assumption of my presumed guilt.” John took a loud sip of soup. “It had not been me who had stolen that horse. Surely a smart and handsome boy as yourself can tell that I’m far too knowledgeable to steal a horse of such inferior quality.”
“All I know of you is that you are too stupid to hide when someone shoots at you.”
He grinned and winked. “There’s that wit,” he said as he waved his spoon at me. “Damn bastard shot my horse, too. Course, he was a stupid shit of a horse, but still…”
“I would hunt down and kill any man who shot my horse or my dog. They are my only friends,” I said flatly because I spoke the truth. John studied me over his steaming soup for a long, long time.
“Not anymore. Now you can count John Wittington as your friend, Crow Poulin.” I nodded and smiled down at my pelt. It was nice having a friend here to talk with. Gin was a good dog, but she was not much of a talker. Wind was a fine horse, but also not much for talking. “So, this sheriff from over in Tame River tracked me up into the mountains. I finally lost him, but the bullet that took down my horse had now began to sicken me. I walked for days in the snow, feeling the life draining out of me as the heat inside me built. I sat down in the blowdowns to wait for the grim reaper and was instead discovered by Mr. Crow Poulin!”
I gave him a sideways look and said nothing, but he continued to talk. He talked. A lot. And over the next several weeks I found myself genuinely liking the man who had been falsely accused of horse thievery. John was intelligent, a learned man who could read and write. Ugly he may be, but he had a certain charm that began to ease me into a friendship with him. As he healed and grew stronger, the tight grip of winter began to lessen. By the time he was up and walking, tripping over my too long pant legs, spring had started to force its way through the snow and ice. The brooks coming down the steep slopes were rushing torrents of spring thaw. The ground was a broken artwork of white and brown, snow and mud vying to see which would win.
John recited stories he’d read in books as I worked my pelts or tried to find a way to cook meat in a way that made it something other than meat. All the root vegetables were gone, as were most of the canned goods. Flour and sugar were also a memory, the strain of having another mouth to feed becoming evident as supplies dwindled. It was worrisome, as we had at least two months, perhaps three, before it would be time to head down to sell the furs and stock up. John’s retellings of the many books he’d read was enjoyable and erased my concerns for a short while.
He recounted tales of a boy name Huckleberry Finn, an odd tale about a Dr. Jekyll, a woman with a scarlet letter, and a Yankee in King Author’s court. Perhaps my favorite story was the one he told that was about a mighty white whale and a Captain Ahab. I had never seen the ocean, but Papa had. He’d said it reached out forever and that great monsters lived in its depths. Much like the Great Lakes, which I had seen once, when we had moved west from Mama’s lands. I remembered little of the lakes, but did recall a whispered story about a horned serpent, Onyare, who lived in the mighty waters. He capsized canoes and ate the people who tumbled into the stormy depths.
“Someday, I should like to stand by the sea,” I said as John, dressed in buckskin, sat beside me on the front step of my cabin. Gin had now grown used to John, as had Wind. Neither quite loved him as they did me, but they no longer tried to bite him every chance they got.
“You’ll never see the ocean living up here all alone,” he pointed out. A fly slowly buzzed past, dopey and drowsy. It bounced off the side of the cabin, then flew away. “Crow, there is a big world out there just dying to be discovered by a man such as yourself. Just think of the adventures we could have, the fun and good times!” He spoke of his ‘family’ often now, tempting me to give up Papa’s cabin and the harsh wilderness to ride with him and his friends. Good men all, he told me. “Why, I can show you things you’ve never imagined seeing. And, there are other reasons to come ride with us. Money.”
“Stolen money,” I pointed out yet again. We had this talk almost daily.
“Now, Crow, what have I told you about simplistic thinking such as that?” he asked as if greatly offended. “There is no such thing as stealing money from the wealthy. It’s more a humanitarian effort. We’re easing the burden of the upper class by lightening their taxes. The more they own the more they pay. So when we borrow cattle or horses, it’s a favor to them.”
“If it’s such a goodness that you do, why does the law hunt you?” I shifted my sight from Wind out in his small muddy paddock enjoying the sun to John at my left.
He puckered his lips, making his fat mustache ride up and bury his nose. “They are shortsighted,” he said, then quickly slipped into a new thing to dangle under my nose. “Plus, my camp has women in it. White women.”
I gave him a quirked eyebrow. “I have no interest in white women.”
“Right, sure you don’t.” He drove an elbow into my side. “I’m just saying that the gals in camp would be right happy to make nice with you. I bet even one or two might be willing to give you a fuck under cover of night. You ever been with a woman?”
I shook my head and thumbed back a strand of hair that clung to the new whiskers growing from my cheeks. It needed cut badly. It was to my shoulders now and annoyed me. Soon, I’d take my knife to the thick black mass and hack it down to my scalp.
“You poor bastard. Tell you what. Why don’t you just visit for a spell when you take me home?” He smiled over at me, a welcoming sort of smile. “Check things out. See how tight our family is, how welcoming the women, and maybe ride out on a job or two with us. Get some money in your pockets and some whiskey in your belly! What do you say?”
I bit down on the inside of my lower lip. Friends and money. Those were the biggest temptations. The women didn’t interest me, of course, nor the whiskey. Papa had warned me about whiskey. He had said a boy like me, half Indian, should never touch it, because red men were prone to overindulgence. Gin was fine, but not whiskey. Papa had many bottles of gin hidden in the cabin, several in his old chest. I never touched it. The taste of both was disgusting to me, so I rarely drank either.
“Crow, son, listen to an older gentleman.” He draped his arm around my shoulder. He smelled of unwashed man. He refused the offer of joining me at the creek to wash with lye soap or even to use the tin tub as Papa had once a month. “This life isn’t for someone with your vision and drive. You come ride with me, with the Wittington family, and I can promise that you’ll never be bored, broke, or lonely again. Also, I’ll make sure you see the ocean.”
Hearing him call me son warmed me, and so I agreed to take him to his family and linger, just for a bit, to see if the life on the plains was better than life in the mountains. I stared up at the crystal blue sky and tried to imagine the ocean and the mighty white whale and felt a shiver of excitement skip down my spine. Perhaps John was right. Perhaps I was destined for more than dying up here alone with only a dog and a horse to mourn my passing. Perhaps someone special awaited me down by the sea.
We packed out during the first few days of May. John had recuperated fully. His leg was badly scarred and he walked with a slight hitch, but he was alive and walking. He tended to heap praise on me unduly, as I’d done what any man would have done in that situation.
“Oh no, you are sadly mistaken, Crow Poulin. You are the exception to the rule, trust me. Which is why my family needs a man like you.”
“And what kind of man is that?”
“One that is rife with good intentions.”
I glanced up at him riding my horse. He was a slick talking man, I felt, and I had suspicions about how warm and welcoming his family would be. Most people tended to shy away from a man such as myself. My size and skin tone intimidated or repulsed. Gin trotted along in front of us, her nose to the ground.
“I’m just a man like any other,” I said, the cool air whispering through the newly-budded branches.
“That is where you are wrong, young Mr. Poulin. You have a simplistic code of ethics that you abide by. I admire that and so will the others in camp. Perhaps someday you’ll work yourself up to being one or two of my most trusted associates. Hell, you might even be able to woo one of the women in camp to settle down with you! How does that sound?”
He reached down to slap my shoulder. Wind whipped his head around to nip at John, but I tugged on the reins to remind him to be polite. The horse jerked his head up and down in frustration. I knew he wished to run a bit, and that he did not cotton to a stranger on his back, but this was how it must be. He had to accept John on his back, the travois of my furs bouncing along behind him, and his wishes to race around and kick up his heels would come later. Right now, the man with the limp rode, I led, and the dog worked ahead of us.
“I’ve told you before, I have no desire for a white woman.” I kept one eye on Gin and the other on the still sloppy ground. A late snow followed by a cold snap meant the way was slick with mud on top of frozen ground.
John laughed. Every time I spoke those words he laughed. As if there were no greater treasure than what lay between a woman’s legs.
“Of course not. Next thing, you’ll be telling me you’re one of them sodomites!”
I said nothing in reply and simply walked, letting John ramble on about his family and the riches that awaited me in their camp. He sensed I wasn’t sold on the idea of giving up my cabin to live among him and his followers.
“Did I ever tell you about the time Silva—he’s my second in command, fine man, short-tempered now and then but loyal to a fault— him and me snuck across the border and found us a couple of them pretty Mexican gals who…”
His words drifted off with the spring winds buffeting my face. I made the right sounds at the right times, grunts and gruff chuckles, but my mind was on my dog, the path, the movement of animals in the thick woods, the price I would get for my furs, and the worry of moving among people I didn’t know. John told me that I was the youngest hermit he’d ever met. He felt that a man of my age shouldn’t be sequestered up in the fucking mountains without human interaction. He wished for me to experience the love of a true family. And while I carried doubt inside me, there was no denying that I longed for a fellowship like the one he promised me.
It took us two weeks to leave the White Mountains. We stopped in the small town of Sourwood and I sold my furs to the man who now ran the mercantile. He seemed disinterested in taking them at all, which I found odd, but after much discussion with his sons he gave me an offer that was an insult. When I mentioned that in previous years, a large made beaver pelt would get me two pounds of sugar or a blanket or twenty fishing hooks, he scoffed.
“You’re free to haul them to the fort over in Lonely Dawns, if you think you can fetch a higher price for them there.” He rose up to his toes then rocked back on his heels, his two sons standing on either side of him, cradling shiny new repeating rifles. “If I were you, and I know you don’t understand complicated business things, I’d take what was offered to you and get back where you came from.”
Bickering further seemed pointless. This new man and his grown sons had made their points clearly when they’d brought out their guns and asked why I wasn’t off on the rez with the rest of my people. Explaining to them that I was more Canadian than Mohawk would make no difference, so I took the lesser payment, eased out of the mercantile, and went to find John. Wind and Gin followed along meekly, neither of them fond of towns nor strange people, much like their owner.
The saloon was dark, musty, and smelled of sour ale and cheap women. Gin sat beside Wind, who was lashed to a hitching post. Her body was tense. I felt much the same. Several patrons gave me a long look as I walked to the bar and stood beside John. He looked up from his drink, then frowned, his bushy mustache drooping.
“You look like that wild bastard horse of yours just kicked you in the balls.” He offered me a sip of his drink. I shook my head. The barkeep jerked his head at the doors to indicate I wasn’t welcome here.
“We’re leaving now. Finish that drink.”
I backed away from the bar and left, my horse and my dog glad to see me. John followed in a moment, wincing with each step and dragging his leg just a bit.
“You do realize that your uppity tone in there got me no shortage of odd looks,” he said as he limped down the creaky wooden stairs to my horse. Wind bared his teeth at the only man in this town not looking down at me. “What the hell crawled up your ass?”
“Intolerance.” I helped him onto Wind, blocked the bite aimed at John’s leg with my forearm, scolded the horse, and then led us out of Sourwood with the promise to myself that I would never return. I would have to make the longer trek to the fort to sell my furs next summer.
“Okay, so you planning on telling me what the hell is wrong?” John asked after a few hours on the dusty road leading out of town. Gin loped along at my side. Wind was still itching to break free, but a firm hand on his reins kept him in check. “And don’t be throwing one word answers at me.”
I relayed the unfair exchange that had taken place back in Sourwood. He sat tall in my saddle; his head craned around to study the direction we’d come from.
“And you figure this unfair practice was perpetrated upon you because of your Indian blood?” I nodded. He mumbled something under his breath that I didn’t hear. “Well, Crow Poulin, do not let it worry you overly. Someday, that man and his evil offspring will pay for their hatred.”
Assuming he meant when they died and met their savoir, I swallowed down the upset still plaguing me, or tried to. The hurt lingered for a few days, but then it was buried under the mound of hurt that already resided in my breast. John never said another word about Sourwood, nor did I, and our slow steady trip to the outskirts of Aurora Gorge continued. After another two weeks on the road moving with snail speed, John grew tired of our pace.
“We require another horse,” he announced one night at camp. The landscape had shifted gradually from mountain to grassy plains to sandy desert scrub lands. Instead of towering pines, we were now sleeping by buckthorns. We checked our boots every morning for scorpions and kept keen ears open for the rattle of a diamondback. The moon was fat and low and the coyote calls seemed loud. Gin whined at the coy-dog song, but never left the glow of the firepit.
“If I purchase another horse, I’ll be broke,” I told him as I poked at the fire with a stick. “A decent horse would cost at least fifty dollars plus forty for a saddle and another two dollars for a blanket. The connard in Sourwood only gave me sixty-seven dollars.”
“Bastard is right,” John mused as the fire danced skyward, then calmed. “He’ll get his, trust me, son.” He gave my right bicep a small pat. It had been many years since anyone had called me ‘son’ or touched me in a kind way. “So, our predicament is this. We need a horse and we do not have the funds to purchase said animal. This being a situation with no legal outcome, we shall have to—just this once, mind you—skirt the legality of horse ownership.”
I stared at him openly. “You want to steal a horse?”
He puckered his lips, which made his fuzzy upper lip dance. “We’ll simply borrow one.” I shook my head. “Crow, if we do not avail ourselves of another horse, we’ll be travelling at this miserly pace for another month.”
“But stealing is wrong. Papa quoted me from the Bible and he said—”
So Far Away by Nell Iris
When we’d just bought it, we spent many long evenings making plans and discussing options. We’d share a bottle of wine and make long lists of things we wanted, things we deemed necessary in what was going to be our forever home. The lists started outrageously—a wine cellar bigger than the actual house with an employee who turns the bottles? Really, Zakarias?—but distilled into a few reasonable items. So Julian’s dream of the biggest bathroom in the northern hemisphere—a Bath Palace, Zakarias, not a bathroom—complete with a pool, a jacuzzi, a sauna, and every other imaginable luxury, turned into a more feasible sized room with a fancy walk-in shower and a separate bathtub with jets—both of them big enough to accommodate the two of us. It also has a heated floor and double sinks. And my favorite feature; the tiny lights over the bathtub, sprinkled in the ceiling like a starry sky.
We both love the house; it’s our sanctuary. Every design element is chosen for comfort and to make it feel like a real home. Like someplace we can be ourselves. Someplace we can grow old together.
But this house…it’s not just a house, it’s a home. Our home and I miss it.
I miss coming home from work and finding Julian sprawled on the couch in only his underwear, watching some horrid reality show or other on the big screen TV. I miss waking up early on weekends and preparing luxury breakfasts for him, miss how the scent of freshly baked bread never fails to wake him and lure him out of bed. I miss the adorable sight of him stumbling into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, hair in disarray with pillow creases on his cheek and dried drool on his chin. I miss how he beelines for me like a heat-seeking missile and winds himself around me, burying his face in my neck, snaking his arms around me, and tapping three times over my heart.
His family came up with that code when he was little; his younger sister was born with a genetic developmental disorder and never learned to speak, so three taps to the heart meant “I love you.” She died when she was only five, but the family keeps her memory alive with that gesture. It was how Julian told me he loved me for the first time. I didn’t understand it at the time, but when he told me the story, I realized he’d been telling me he loved me long before the words were spoken out loud.
I straighten my spine. Shake my head at my moment of weakness before marching back to the guesthouse and pulling a sweater over my head. I pour out the cold forgotten contents of my mug and pour fresh, steaming coffee into it.
Then I sit, take a sip, and breathe.
As Charlie Cochrane couldn't be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice - like managing a rugby team - she writes. Her favourite genre is gay fiction, predominantly historical romances/mysteries, but she's making an increasing number of forays into the modern day. She's even been known to write about gay werewolves - albeit highly respectable ones.
Her Cambridge Fellows series of Edwardian romantic mysteries were instrumental in seeing her named Speak Its Name Author of the Year 2009. She’s a member of both the Romantic Novelists’ Association and International Thriller Writers Inc.
There is beauty in every kind of love, so why not live a life without boundaries? Experiencing everything the world offers fascinates me and writing about the things that make each of us unique is how I share those insights. I live in the Midwest with a wonderful partner of thirteen years. When not writing, I’m watching movies, reading and living life to the fullest.
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.
USA Today Bestselling Author V.L. Locey – Penning LGBT hockey romance that skates into sinful pleasures.
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, Torchwood and Dr. Who, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee. (Not necessarily in that order.) She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a pair of geese, far too many chickens, and two steers.
When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in one hand and a steamy romance novel in the other.
Nell Iris is a romantic at heart who believes everyone deserves a happy ending. She’s a bona fide bookworm (learned to read long before she started school), wouldn’t dream of going anywhere without something to read (not even the ladies’ room), loves music (and singing along at the top of her voice but she’s no Celine Dion), and is a real Star Trek nerd (Make it so). She loves words, bullet journals, poetry, wine, coffee-flavored kisses, and fika (a Swedish cultural thing involving coffee and pastry!)
Nell believes passionately in equality for all regardless of race, gender or sexuality, and wants to make the world a better, less hateful, place.
Nell is a bisexual Swedish woman married to the love of her life, a proud mama of a grown daughter, and is approaching 50 faster than she’d like. She lives in the south of Sweden where she spends her days thinking up stories about people falling in love. After dreaming about being a writer for most of her life, she finally was in a place where she could pursue her dream and released her first book in 2017.
Nell Iris writes gay romance, prefers sweet over angsty, short over long, and quirky characters over alpha males.
Charlie Cochrane
EMAIL: cochrane.charlie2@googlemail.com
TA Chase
EMAIL: chase.ta@gmail.com
Josh Lanyon
BLOG / NEWSLETTER / CHIRP
EMAIL: josh.lanyon@sbcglobal.net
VL Locey
Nell Iris
FB FRIEND / GOOGLE PLAY / B&N
EMAIL: contact@nelliris.com
Lessons in Solving the Wrong Problem by Charlie Cochrane
The Ghost of a Chance by TA Chase
Bell, Book, and Scandal by Josh Lanyon
The Ballad of Crow and Sparrow by VL Locey
So Far Away by Nell iris
