This Rough Magic by Josh Lanyon

ISBN: 978-1-61118-402-0

Genre: LGBT 1930's Suspense

Length: Short Novel

Price: $5.00 Info

BLURB:
Wealthy San Francisco playboy Brett Sheridan thinks he knows the score when he hires tough guy private eye Neil Patrick Rafferty to find a priceless stolen folio of Shakespeare’s The Tempest. Brett’s convinced his partner-in-crime sister is behind the theft -- a theft that’s liable to bring more scandal to their eccentric family, and cost Brett his marriage to society heiress Juliet Lennox. What Brett doesn’t count on is the instant and powerful attraction that flares between him and Rafferty.
Once before, Brett took a chance on loving a man, only to find himself betrayed and broken. This time around there’s too much at risk.
But as the Bard himself would say, Journey’s end in lovers meeting.


EXCERPT:
It was always a dame, wasn’t it? In the dime novels, it was always a dame.
A smart and sassy society dame smelling of gardenias, with a fox stole thrown over her bony shoulders, and a mouth that would make a French maid blink. In real life, the dames Rafferty met were of a different breed. They wore Vogue pattern #7313 and lines of worry in their tired faces. They came to him in the hope that he could locate a missing son or daughter -- or straying husband.

There had been one society dame. Rafferty had helped her get back some letters, and her marriage to a Texas oil tycoon had gone right ahead as scheduled. Every now and then she threw some business his way. He could only think that Mrs. Charles Constable was somehow to blame for the very handsome and very nervous young man currently perched on the uncomfortable chair in front of Rafferty’s desk.

The chair squeaked as Brett Sheridan, of the Nob Hill Sheridans, gave another of those infinitesimal shifts like a bird on a cracking tree limb. Sheridan’s eyes -- wide and green as the water in San Francisco Bay -- met Rafferty’s and flicked away.

Yes, a very handsome young man. From that raven’s wing of soft dark hair that kept falling in his wide, long-lashed eyes to the obstinate jut of his chiseled chin.

Not so young, but not so old either. Twenty-six? Twenty-seven maybe? Sheltered, most certainly. The Brett Sheridans of the world were always sheltered. Right up to the moment the world decided to puncture their bicycle tires. Still, a nice ride while it lasted.

Rafferty said, “And you think your sister took this, what’d you call it, folio?”

Sheridan had a nice voice too. Low and a little husky, not too affected, though he’d obviously spent time at a fancy New England boarding school. “Not Kitty. The thug she’s running around with.”
“Harry Sader.”

“Right. Do you know him?”

Rafferty’s mouth quirked. He reined himself in ruthlessly. “Despite how it looks, I’m not on nodding acquaintance with every bum in town.”

“No. Quite.” Sheridan’s color rose. Rafferty tried to recall what the story was on him. There was some story. That much he did remember. “I just thought that in your line of work you might have crossed paths before.”

“I’ve heard of him. He runs with Kip Mullens’s gang.” He could have told Sheridan a story or two about those boys that would have curled his hair, but scaring the client was rarely good business. “Explain to me again what this folio is?”

“It’s a book or a pamphlet. In this case, it’s a book of Shakespeare’s play The Tempest.” Sheridan bit his lip rather boyishly. “I suppose, technically, it’s a quarto, but I admit I don’t fully understand the difference. The only thing I know for certain is it’s the earliest printed version of the play. It was printed in the sixteenth century, nearly a decade before the First Folio.”

Rafferty opened his mouth and then closed it. It probably didn’t matter, right?

“And this folio that is or isn’t the First Folio is worth a bundle?”

“It’s not the First Folio. That was printed in 1623. It contains thirty-six of Shakespeare’s plays, nineteen of which previously appeared in separate, individual editions. All the separate editions are quartos except for one octavo. But Mr. Lennox refers to it as a folio. The Tempest, that is.”

Rafferty could feel his eyes starting to spin. He resisted the temptation to hang on to his desk. “This thing is worth a bundle?”

“It’s priceless.”

“Sure, but I bet the insurance company tagged it with a dollar amount.”

“Mr. Lennox is very wealthy. The insurance money means nothing to him. He wants the folio back.”

“The quarto.”

“Correct. He wants it back at any cost.”

“Ah. He’d pay a king’s ransom?”

Sheridan nodded unhappily.

“And the last time anyone saw the-folio-that’s-really-a-quarto was the night of your engagement party?”

“Last night. Correct. Mr. Lennox hosted a garden party for us -- Juliet and me -- at his home in Pacific Heights.”

“And you immediately jumped to the conclusion that your sister’s beau was responsible?”

“There isn’t anyone else possible.”

Rafferty dropped his pencil and pushed back in his chair. “That so? All swell society folk with arm-long pedigrees, were they?”

There was that wash of color again. Not exactly what you expected from hale and healthy young Harvard bucks. Not unless they were given to unwholesome activities like painting watercolors or writing feverish poetry. Or worse. Rafferty was pretty sure worse was not the rumor he’d heard. He’d likely have remembered that.

“No. That is… Yes.”

“Which is it? No or yes?”

“It wasn’t my immediate thought, no,” Sheridan said stiffly. “But Kitty was acting so…so oddly. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized what must have happened. Sader took the folio, and Kitty knows about it.”

“You mean she was his accomplice?”

Sheridan’s mouth thinned down to a line. His jaw lived up to the promise of that obstinate chin. “Maybe.”

“And you want me to find this folio and return it to its proper owner, your fiancée’s father?”

“Yes. That’s part of it. Mr. Lennox has given the culprit three days to return the folio. After that, he’s going to the police.”

“Why the stall? Why didn’t he ring for the cops last night?”

“Because…because it’s obvious to everyone that the crime was what you’d call an inside job.”

“Well, that’s one thing I might call it.”

“Perpetrated by one of the Lennoxes’ guests. Lennox is trying to save…someone from social ruin.”

“Not to mention prison.”

Sheridan paled. “Yes.”

“Okay. Three days to find this book or whatever it is and return it to Old Man Lennox. What’s the rest of it?”

“I want you to convince Sader to keep his mouth shut about Kitty’s involvement -- if any -- and to get him to agree to stay away from her.”

“That’s a tall order. Doesn’t Kitty have a say in all this?”

Sheridan’s throat moved as he swallowed. “No.”

“And how am I supposed to convince Sir Lancelot to give up the Lady of the Loot?”

Sheridan’s chin lifted. He said with unconscious arrogance, “I understood from Pat that you’re reasonably inventive.”

“Pat?”

“Pat Constable. She’s the one who referred me to you. You to me. Anyway, I should think that the threat of jail would be sufficient to steer Sader away from Kitty.”

Rafferty’s brows rose. “You want me to blackmail him?”

“I don’t want to know anything about it. I just want Kitty out of his cl -- free of him.”

Rafferty managed not to laugh. The Brett Sheridans of the world did not like to be laughed at, even when they were talking what they would probably refer to as poppycock. Rafferty would have referred to it as something else, but not in polite company, and this company was about as polite as it got -- requests for blackmail and intimidation notwithstanding.

“All right,” he said.

Sheridan’s eyes widened. “You’ll do it?”

“Wasn’t that the idea?”

“Yes. I just wasn’t sure -- didn’t think it would be this simple.”

“Yeah, well, it sounds straightforward enough. Right up my alley.” Rafferty tried to look suitably disreputable. He didn’t have to try hard these days.

“There’s a time element to all this --”

“Three days. I didn’t miss it. And it’ll cost you more.” Rafferty named a figure that should have made the sensitive Mr. Sheridan blanch. He didn’t bat an eye as he reached inside his Scotch wool topcoat and withdrew a leather wallet. He briskly counted out the crisp notes.

“You always carry this much cash?” Rafferty inquired, taking the bills, folding them, and tucking them into the breast pocket of his suit.

“Pat told me you weren’t cheap.”

Rafferty snorted. “I’ve been called many things, but never cheap.”

Sheridan’s lashes flicked up, and he gave Rafferty a long, direct look. So direct a look, in fact, that Rafferty wasn’t quite sure he was reading it correctly.

“What will your first move be?”

Rafferty blinked. “Huh?”

“How will you proceed with the case?”

“Are you sure you want to know? It’ll probably be necessary to, er, bend the rules a little…”

Sheridan drew back as though from a flame. “No. You’re right. It’s better if I don’t know. But you’ll…keep me posted on your progress? There’s so little time.”

Rafferty rose from behind his desk, and Sheridan rose too, automatically. “The minute I find anything out, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Right. Of course,” Sheridan said doubtfully. “Thank you.”

“No, no,” Rafferty replied urbanely. He was starting to enjoy himself. “Thank you.”

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A Heart Divided by J.M. Snyder

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A Heart Divided
by J.M. Snyder

GENRE: Gay Fiction • Historical • Romance
LENGTH: 41,542 words

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BLURB:
Confederate Lieutenant Anderson Blanks has grown weary of the War Between the States. He is all too aware of the tenuous thread that ties him to this earth -- as he writes a letter home to his sister, he realizes he may be among the dead by the time she receives the missive. His melancholy mood is shared by other soldiers in the campsite; in the cool Virginia night, the pickets claim to hear ghosts in the woods, and their own talk spooks them.

Andy knows the "ghost" is nothing more than a wounded soldier left on the battlefield, dying in the darkness. With compassion, Andy takes the picket's lantern and canteen in the hopes of easing the soldier's pain. After a tense confrontation with the soldier, Andy is shocked to discover none other than Samuel Talley, a young man Andy's father had chased from their plantation when the romantic relationship between the two boys came to light. The last time the two had seen each other, Sam had been heading west to seek his fortune, and had promised to send for Andy when he could.

Then the war broke out, and Andy had enlisted in the Confederate Army to help ease the financial burden at home. Apparently Sam had similar ideas -- he now wears the blue coat of a Union solider.

Sam is severely wounded and infection has begun to set in. Andy can't sneak him into his own camp for treatment because all Union soldiers are taken prisoner. But Andy's Confederate uniform prevents him from seeking help from the nearby Union camp, as well. It's up to Andy to tend his lover's wound and get Sam the help he needs before it's too late ... and before Andy's compatriots discover Sam's presence.

EXCERPT:
"I brought you water," Andy offered. Despite the stranger's harsh words, he felt a sudden kinship with this man, unseen beyond the circle of light cast by his lamp. They were just two soldiers, without rank, two souls somehow alive on a battlefield littered with dead.

"Water?" the soldier asked, as if he had never heard the word before. The surprise turned to suspicion. "Why?"

"I thought you were dying." Even though the stranger couldn't see him, Andy shrugged. "I don't know. My men heard you singing and thought you were a ghost out here, come to steal their souls for the devil." The stranger laughed again, and Andy smiled at the sound. "I came because if it were me, I'd want you to come. I'd want someone to find me and sit with me a bit, 'til I go."

"I ain't going nowhere," the soldier said softly, and Andy heard the faint clatter of metal as the rifle was set aside. "Water?"

Andy unshouldered his own rifle and set it down on the ground beside the lamp to show the soldier he was unarmed, as well. Then he shook the canteen, more than half full, and the water sounded like a promise as it sloshed around inside the container. "Water," he affirmed. "I can toss it to you --"

"You can bring it," the soldier replied. "I'm ... there's a bullet in my thigh. I don't cotton the thought of dragging through the dead to find the canteen if you miss."

With slow, deliberate movements, Andy picked up the lamp again and stepped closer. In the flickering glow he saw the soldier appear like a ghost, a faint outline propped against a fallen log, taking shape and definition as he approached. He saw pants dark with blood from a ragged hole high on one leg, and he held the canteen out as an offering of peace.

When he wasn't shot as he approached, he came closer, and knelt by the man's side.

The soldier took the offered canteen with a sigh. "I'm so damn thirsty," he whispered, uncorking the container.

Andy frowned as the stranger gulped down the water. The lamplight fell short of the man's face, but Andy could see the dark coat he wore, marking him as a Union soldier. Hardly more than a boy, he corrected, taking in the smooth hands and thin wrists that held the canteen tight. "I thought you a rebel," he said as the soldier drank. "You sound Southern."

The soldier laughed. "Most men I know would kill you for that comment alone, water or not."

"Then I'm glad you're not most men." Andy sank to his knees beside the soldier, the damp ground seeping through his weathered breeches. "You say you aren't dying?"

"Who are you?" the soldier asked abruptly, ignoring his question. "I can't see your face."

"Lieutenant Anderson Blanks, of the Fifth Regiment out of Biloxi." He felt a cold hand grip his as the soldier caught his breath. "What is it? What --"

"Andy."

The word was nothing more than a sigh, barely heard over the breeze, but it rang through Andy like the peal of a church bell, echoing through his heart and his blood. My God, it can't be. It's the night and the weariness and the memories haunting me, nothing more. Sweet Lord Jesus above, don't do this to me, don't You dare ...

But his name in that voice, one he'd heard in dreams every night for the past three years, since the day he had watched the train carrying his lover disappear into the west. "Sam?" he breathed. "Sam Talley? Christ above, is it really you?"

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Between States Book 3: A More Perfect Union by J.M. Snyder

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Between States Book 3: A More Perfect Union
by J.M. Snyder

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BLURB:
Book 3 in the Between States trilogy

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?

EXCERPT:
The snow stopped falling by the time they left the shop, but gray clouds still scudded the sky and Brance could feel the moon on the rise. Tossing his haversack into the back of their cart, he untied the horses from the hitching post as Caleb brushed the fresh snow off the jump seat. “What do you think about that girl missing?” he asked, climbing into the seat. The rifle once again lay across his lap.

With a shrug, Brance vaulted up beside him. “You know we’re the only bobcats in those woods.”

Caleb cleared his throat and glanced down at his hands, unusually quiet. Brance frowned. “You’ve seen others?” When Caleb shrugged, he asked, “What haven’t you told me?”

“I haven’t seen anything,” Caleb said, choosing his words carefully. With a dark look at the dusty window of the general store, he added, “Let’s head on home. It’s getting late.”

Brance sat with the reins in his hands, impassive, unmoving. Waiting.

Caleb sighed and covered his lover’s hands with one of his own. “Brance, please. It was last month, okay? When I chased after that doe, remember? She led me down a short ravine and when I came up the other side, I smelled another’s scent. I didn’t see any cats, I didn’t hear any ... it was an old scrape, nothing I thought worth bothering about.”

For another long moment, Brance stared at Caleb. His lover seemed to wilt under his gaze, drawing his neck into the collar of his thin jacket, hunkering down, waiting for admonishment. Several emotions flickered through Brance -- anger, betrayal, concern -- but he held them in check with a grip as firm as that which held the reins in his hands. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, soft. “Caleb,” he said.

His lover flinched at the sound of his own name. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I should’ve said something, I know. I just didn’t think it’d be a problem.”

How could another cat’s territory so close to their own not be a problem? With a flick of the reins, Brance set the cart in motion, buying himself a moment to think. If there were bobcats in the woods they called home, then Brance suspected sooner or later, they’d have to fight for the land. He didn’t relish the thought of going up against younger, wily felines, either in the flesh or in the fur. As a human, he had an aversion to killing any living creature; he had never been the perfect soldier, and even hunting for food bothered him, which was why he left it to Caleb. His lover was much better at it than he. And as a bobcat, he wasn’t the sleek specimen found in the wild. He had an old war wound on one leg that slowed him down, his bones ached in the cold weather, and he’d rather mate and eat and sleep than anything else. If their territory lay so close to that of another male’s, there would be trouble before long.

He could feel Caleb’s sour mood simmering beside him. The same thoughts hopefully gnawed at Caleb’s mind, worrying him. What happened when this other bobcat decided to expand his territory and breeched theirs? How would they protect their small home from such a creature? Their crops, their horses, themselves?

As Brance steered the cart out of town, Caleb tried to assuage their fears. “I don’t think we have to worry about it, really. That ravine’s half a day’s hike from our place. We’ve marked the land all around it, and I scratched fresh marks in the trees before I left. There were no other paw prints out there, nothing but the scrape, and it was so old anyway. I mean, she must’ve laid it down weeks before I came by there.”

“She?” Brance gave him a sharp look. “It was female scent?” At Caleb’s nod, he pressed, “Are you sure?”

Caleb nodded again. “Oh, yeah.” A wild look crept into his eyes and he grinned. “The man in me wasn’t interested, but the bobcat got randy. Whoo, boy. It turned me on something fierce, I’m telling you. I gave up on that doe and raced back to you, ready to fuck. Don’t tell me you don’t remember.”

With a chuckle, Brance joked, “You’re always ready.”

The town was behind them now, their cart alone as it followed the path in the snow they had tamped down earlier. Caleb turned to set the rifle in the cart behind him, then eased an arm around Brance’s back. Scooting closer, he leaned against his lover, one hand angling into the pocket of Brance’s jacket for warmth, the other easing over Brance’s stomach with a ticklish touch. Caleb rested his head on Brance’s shoulder; puckering his lips, he pressed them to the tender spot behind his lover’s ear. As his fingers massaged Brance’s belly through his shirt, he murmured, “I’m ready now.”

With a hard shake of the reins to spur the horses on, Brance murmured, “Why am I not surprised?” 

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Between States Book 2: Beneath a Yankee Sky by J.M. Snyder

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Between States Book 2: Beneath a Yankee Sky
by J.M. Snyder

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BLURB:
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.

EXCERPT:
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.

With nerveless fingers, Brance managed to extract himself from the shirt. His hands changed as he struggled to undress -- his nails lengthening, curving, sharpening; his fingers retreating into padded paws. The last vestiges of humanity fell away as he kicked off his underpants -- the legs that slipped from the shorts drew up to Brance's body, feet dissolving into paws, ankles straightening, knees bending back as his thighs reformed into haunches.

Around him, the night came alive with sights and smells and sounds the human he had been could not appreciate. Brance lay on his side, panting, as he allowed himself to remember the feel of this body, its weight and power, the strength now flowing through his veins. The thrashing in Caleb's thicket had stopped, as well. The stench of man filled the clearing but Brance recognized it as his own scent, mingled so heavily with his lover's that the two became one.

A sudden roar split the night. It flashed like lightning through Brance, igniting his blood. As he rolled into a sitting position, the trees nearby shook -- he watched a bobcat trot from the thicket, amber eyes trained on Brance's face. Before he could react, the cat came right for him without hesitation. Its cold nose wrinkled as it sniffed over Brance's forehead -- he closed his eyes, waiting.

Then a choppy purr filled the night air, and the bobcat butted its head against Brance's. ::What about now?:: the other cat mused. It turned, raising its short tail into the air to expose its anus. A heady scent blossomed between them, a randy, wild smell that eclipsed all others and made Brance's claws knead the soft dirt beneath him, eager. Caleb's voice spoke into Brance's feline brain. ::Will you fuck me now?:: 

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Between States Book 1: Under a Confederate Moon by J.M. Snyder

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Between States Book 1: 
Under a Confederate Moon 
by J.M. Snyder
Gay historical paranormal
shapeshifter erotica
Novelette, $3.99

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BLURB:
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.

EXCERPT:
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 sense of smell, 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 larger, something worth the effort of a kill. Something ...

Off in the distance, along in the direction he was heading, he heard a gunshot. He stopped, ears trained on the sound, his whole body rigid and tense. Men, he thought, the word 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.

Could be Yanks, the still-human part of his mind whispered. Sensing an unprecedented opportunity, Caleb sat down on his haunches and licked one forepaw as he mulled over his options. Race ahead, get shot like the other cat. Or no, sneak in and sneak out, but learn enough of the enemy camp to bring back to his commanding officer in the morning. Major Pennock would want to know how he came about the information, but if they ambushed the Yanks, would it matter how he knew?

With a decisive flick of his tail, Caleb leapt away. On strong legs, with sure strides, he ran through the forest, dodging undergrowth, vaulting over fallen logs and large stones, climbing low trees to jump from their quivering branches when it suited him. The wind raced him, whipping around his ears and flaring his nostrils. His fangs were bared to the night, allowing him to catch the faintest of odors. Before long he found the scent of man again, and gun smoke, and blood.

He skidded to a halt. Like a knife, the blood pierced his mind and stirred his senses. Nosing around, he found a drop of dark lifeblood on a deadfall, still warm. His tongue licked out, and the taste of copper filled his mouth. A heavy scent like wet fur clung to the wood. Picking his way carefully over the rotten limbs, Caleb climbed the deadfall and, on the other side of the forest floor, found another bright patch of blood, a clump of fur clinging stubbornly to the edges of a paw print. Another bobcat, just as he'd thought. Wounded.

He wouldn't get far.

With his animal senses, Caleb could easily discern the cat's path through the woods -- here the grass bent in a certain direction, there a few branches were snapped as if pointing the way. Caleb padded on, cautious. Every now and then he paused to sniff around. The trail led to a thicket of tall grass, tamped down in the center. As Caleb approached, he heard a low growl issue from the grass in warning.

He sat back. Cocked his head to one side. Ventured another step and received a breathy hiss as a reward. In the darkness he could see two golden cat's eyes staring back at him. A guttural voice spoke in his mind. ::Another step and you die.:: 

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A Daring, Devoted Heart by Linda Hines

Published by DreamCraft
ISBN: 978-0-9807092-7-8
Genre: Western Romance.
Length: 37,500 words.
Cover: Jade.
Heat rating: 3.5
Price: $4.99
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Years ago, revenge brought Emeric von Gondrecourt to New Mexico. Now, the force keeping him there is loyalty to the Metairie family — and his love for the young Calder Metairie, who has grown up while Emeric watched.

The two men are separated by geography, history, language, culture — one, born an Austrian prince just before upheaval in Europe would rob him of his birthright, the other born to head a cattle ranch as vast as small European countries. Both were born to different kinds of power, positions of command, and lives bound by duty. And both share a secret.

Being gay at this volatile time in America's history is damned dangerous. Being two men in love is a hazard Calder and Emeric fully recognize —

But the simmering frustration with which Calder grapples, every moment of every day, is Emeric's stubborn refusal to allow himself to love, and to express his feelings in any physical sense. For Emeric, the situation is a labyrinth of duty and loyalty, desire and the determination to honor promises he made to the Metairie family in the wake of his one terrible mistake. The Metairies forgave Emeric once, and he enjoys a certain comradeship within the great Alteza cattle empire. He has worked long and hard to earn their trust and respect ... but would they forgive him a second time if his crime, this time, were to lay a lover's hands on Calder? For an Austrian warrior prince, the dilemma is bleak.

The situation between the two men is already like a powderkeg on a short fuse only waiting for a spark, when horse thieves steal Emeric's priceless Andalusian stallion, Lagrimas. The horse's name is prophetic ... it's the Spanish for tears, and this magnificent animal is at the epicenter of troubles, danger, which will bring Emeric and Calder face to face with their personal devils, once and for all.

A DARING, DEVOTED HEART is a Western with a difference. Not merely an m/m romance, it's also "quest fiction," taking a pair of mismatched heroes through country which brings to mind the works and words of Zane Grey, and culminating in a double-barreled climax — it's a hail of hot lead and a struggle to survive, before Calder Metairie and Emeric von Gondrecourt take those devils by the horns.

Chapter One

Beside the shaded riverbank, the buffalo grass was abundant, protected from the parching late summer sun of northern New Mexico by a leafy veil. Scattered sunlight filtered through the heavy foliage, dappling the leaves and painting whimsical shadows across the curly mesquite which blanketed the ground. Great branches stretched out across the river, coloring the canopied pools a cool viridian. Two riders halted from their journey there, as the hardwood gallery of bur oak, green ash and cottonwoods hailed a welcoming retreat.

Dismounting the big buckskin, Calder Metairie turned to his dark companion and laughed, as if once again wishing to rouse the prince from his serious thoughts. "Enough, I say," chided the spirited cowboy, hands on hips. "You voice concern when there is none. I am a man well grown."

"Too well grown," retorted Emeric von Gondrecourt, black eyes narrowing as he studied him. Carefully groomed to manage the Metairie Cattle Company's huge operation, Calder Metairie was impressive in stature and a skilled leader of men. Confident and charismatic at twenty-three, he was a young giant. With his handsome features, commanding presence and engaging ways, the young rancher attracted attention wherever he went. Too much attention, mused the prince, and usually of the wrong sort!

Amused, Calder tilted his Stetson to reflect his audacious personality. The bright blue shirt he wore contrasted sharply with his partner's darker garb. Worn and stained shotgun chaps covered his long, lean legs. A gun belt was prominent on his hip. Fancy silver spurs crowned the heels of his custom-made Coffeyville boots. And an elegant silver buckle graced his hand-tooled belt, the distinctive stylized M, a bold and recognizable symbol of strength throughout the rugged territory.

"I said enough, Emeric." Calder unsaddled Riago and pulled his bridle, freeing the buckskin gelding to graze among the high grass. Irritated still, he tossed his hat aside, brushing back his long dark hair, tying it at his nape with a rawhide cord. "Who are you to advise me on men? I don't try to pick your lovers."

"A man of more experience," he declared. "And there have been no lovers for you to pick." Prince by birth, warrior by circumstance — now at thirty-four, Emeric's features were quite striking, angular and gaunt. Lean, broad-shouldered, and physically powerful, Emeric von Gondrecourt was a haughty beast. A life hard fought had sharpened his mind, strengthened his body; its emotional scars lent his movements a wary leonine grace, and to those who threatened, he emanated a silent danger.

He was known as Jaeger along the Mediterranean and across the battlefields of Europe. The family he protected called him the Hunter.

Beneath long, thick lashes the cowboy's eyes changed with his moods, and Emeric noticed, now they were a deeper blue. "Calder, what may be accepted between two men in a warriors' camp, or behind closed doors at a princely court, can surely get you killed in the American territories in 1878."

"Emeric," Calder challenged with a wounded expression only his trusted companion understood, "I know of your life before, and the passion you once shared. But that was years ago. Why do you bridle your love now?"

"Calder," Emeric said softly to the man he knew who loved him — a feeling he deeply shared, but was honor-bound never to acknowledge, "because the only man I love is the one I cannot have."

"Me?" They stood close enough to touch, their words a whisper and a lamentation.

"Yes, you know that well enough."

"Emeric, why?"

"Your uncle extended to me his trust; my word, his only demand. Now, by my honor, he has me bound foot and hand."

"We are alone. Who would know?"

"I would. I gave my word to protect his family. I doubt that includes taking you to my bed."

"But it's not right. Who is he to set such boundaries?"

"Calder, what we share knows no boundaries. I feel your desire — know your love by every word you speak and every thoughtful action you perform."

"It is not enough. I need your touch. I need you part of me."

Emeric sighed. "I yearn for your touch as well. More than you will ever know. But it is the choice we were given. I can be here with you now. Choose devotion over desire. Or I must leave. For me, there is no other way."

The gaze they shared seemed endless and was the invocation of their longing. Both men knew words were not enough. Desire ached, and then it burned.

Deviled by discontent, young Metairie turned away. Quickly, he unpacked the harness and with a gentle stroke freed Mythos, the gelding who carried their supplies. The striking blood bay and golden buckskin presented a pleasing scene as they grazed at river's edge. Nodding to his companion, the cowboy set off to gather firewood, leaving Emeric to attend to his stallion and prepare their camp. Stripping his fine mount of leather and pack, Emeric loosed the silvery gray to quench his thirst and join the horses along the riverbank.

The viridian pool mirrored the prince's reflection, and he stared into its depths. He was plainly dressed in the European fashion. His shirt was of the finest linen; his waistcoat and breeches were black and severely cut. He possessed the long, muscular legs of a horseman; his tall gray boots, which were of the richest and most supple leather, seemed a part of him. A revolver on his hip and a black, low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat were the sole concessions to his presence on this continent.

Running a calloused hand through his dark, rumpled hair, Emeric turned his thoughts to ordering the camp. Eyes narrowing, he glanced through the tangle of trees, pondering their words, impatient for the return of his young companion.

"Lagrimas!"

The magnificent Andalusian stallion raised his sculpted head, dark eyes peering brightly through lustrous strands of silvery forelock. Neck arched, heavy mane tousled, he shook his head in spirited fashion. He was a big horse, strongly built, compact yet elegant, with a long, exquisite mane and tail.

One of the oldest pure breeds in the world, the Andalusian was known for its intelligence, sensitivity and docility. The horses originated on the Iberian Peninsula in Spain, where ancient cave paintings portrayed their noble breed. The chosen mount of captains and kings, the Andalusian was praised for its prowess as a war horse and prized by the nobility. The breed was used as a tool of diplomacy by the Spanish government, and was known as the Royal Horse of Europe. Alas, warfare and disease during the early nineteenth century had reduced the herds dramatically, and exportation from Spain had been restricted since that time.

"Come," he called, as Lagrimas nickered impatiently. Quickly, the gray approached, halting only when Emeric felt the rare stud's silky jaw brush gently against his own gaunt cheek. The soldier's whisper was a caress. Emeric had raised the stallion from a foal, and in 1873 brought him to America from the Mediterranean on his own great ship.

A Habsburg of both Spanish and Austrian descent, Emeric had often visited his austere grandfather in Spain — a nobleman of high rank and domineering ways. The Andalusian was bequeathed to him upon the old man's death. Honoring the stern old warrior, missing him still, Emeric named the spirited colt Lagrimas, which in the Spanish language meant tears. Now, along with Emeric's beloved books, the magnificent stallion was the only physical reminder of his life before.

The Hunter left his mount with a gentle word and a long caress. Inquisitive, the gray followed, gracefully bending his long neck to nuzzle about the saddles and packs spread haphazardly upon the ground. Amused, Emeric found pleasure in the antics of his silver stallion.

Of a splendid intellect, and a daring, devoted heart, Emeric's powers were all combined upon a single purpose: atonement.

Protecting Mariah Metairie, her daughter and her sons was his fervent vow.

But adversity molded the man, not condition of birth, as each experience, success and sorrow, shaped the mind and impacted the heart. Now, Emeric remembered once again the dramatic events which brought a dispossessed Austrian prince to the wildest territories in the American West — an old lover, misplaced passion, and an unforgivable lie.

In Love and War by Lydia Nyx

I put this up as a free read on GLBT Bookshelf. When you're done reading the excerpt, click the links at the bottom to get the WHOLE thing for FREE!

This story takes place on the eve of advancement before the Greek-Roman battle of Heraclea in 280 BC. The main characters are Macedonian and part of the allied army of Macedonia who advance with King Pyrrhus of Epirus. I tried to be largely realistic pertaining to the sexual conventions of the time, which makes it a little less typical than most erotic fiction.

Blurb: On the eve of the Greek-Roman battle of Heraclea, General Karanos of the allied Macedonian army enjoys the hospitality of his old friend and once-lover Nikanor. Nostalgic for old dalliances, he quickly learns Nikanor has a new dalliance of his own: a beautiful, fierce young man named Amyntas. However, old passions are not so easily quelled--nor are new ones.

Excerpt:

Time passed and Karanos sunk deeper into the cushions of the couch, his limbs heavy with wine. The dancers sat upon the men’s laps and laughed, their voices tinkling with the music. A few tried to draw Nikanor’s attention but he waved them off. When Zeuxis finally rose and went to another couch Nikanor sprawled out, one foot on the cushions and the other on the stone floor. He wore a simple unadorned chiton without a cloak, no special dress for his farewell celebration. His feet were bare. Karanos felt a fondness deep inside him and smiled. Nikanor’s lack of convention made him ironically more appealing, to everyone. Nikanor stared at the ceiling, head reclined on the arm of the couch, his hands folded and resting upon his stomach.

One of the dancing girls came by, swaying her hips, and stopped beside Nikanor’s couch. She reached down and put a finger to his chest and Karanos heard her speaking lowly. Nikanor drew her down by the arm and whispered something in her ear.

Thetima spoke. “Women love my son, but he does not suffer them well.”

Karanos glanced at her, and then back at Nikanor. The girl suddenly stood upright, frowning petulantly, and moved away from him. Clearly, whatever Nikanor had said did not please her. Nikanor stared up at the ceiling again.

“He has no time for such pursuits,” Thetima said, never looking up. “Love for a woman is weakness. Do you love your wife, General Karanos?”

Karanos blinked, his cup hovering near his lips again. “I do. She has borne my son.”

“And does your wife understand your life? Your life of war and killing?”

“Of course not. But I do not ask her to. I would rather she not realize the truth of such things.”

“So I think Nikanor feels, that any wife he took would suffer.” Thetima gave a soft sigh. “He could not bear to expose her to it and yet he could not keep it from her. For it is who he is.”

Karanos thought on that. “I understand. But it is lonely without a wife. Even if they do not understand, at least they are there.”

“Is she here?” Thetima paused in her threading. She held a shell up to the light and examined it. “Is your wife here to ease the loneliness?”

Karanos did not speak.

“Of course she isn’t.” Thetima rested the shell on the cloth again. “She is not here because you would not expose her to it. And so you are lonely, when you sought not to be. This is the problem Nikanor knows full well. He could only ease his loneliness with one who understands his life. So it is with many men of Macedon. You lay with each other to share wisdom, but it is not only that. ”

Karanos was surprised to hear her speak so.

“Do not look so startled.” She glanced up at him, her eyes as calm as a windless sea. “Long have I been in the midst of men. Long have I heard tales and jests when they thought it did not matter if I heard, for I was only a woman. I do not fault you for it. You must take your peace where it is offered. I know of men and their ways.” She drew a small pouch from her side and from it, dumped a pile of glittering glass beads. “Loneliness must east itself where it may.”

Karanos wished for more wine in his cup.

“You desire my son,” she said.

It was bold of her to speak of such a thing and he had to restrain himself from chastising her, for she was not his mother and it was not his place. Nikanor sat up suddenly on his couch, placing both feet on the floor, and leaned down to retrieve his cup near the leg of the couch.

“I know men your age do not desire one so old as my son.” Thetima began stringing the beads with the shells. “I know this desire only arises from a need for understanding and companionship. But you have a past with him, one that you do not speak of.”

“Why do you say this!” Karanos was finally unable to withhold his outrage. “Do you seek to shame me?”

“No, my intention is not shame. It is a warning.”

Karanos frowned, studying her profile. “A warning?”

Suddenly, a draft passed through the hall. It made the lamps flicker and the fire burn brighter for an instant. Karanos felt a warm tingling on his arms and wondered how much wine he’d truly drank.

“How long has it been since you last saw Nikanor?” Thetima asked. “Five years? Six?”

“Too many.”

“Things have changed a bit since then.” She glanced up.

Karanos turned to see where she was looking and his gaze fell upon the doors. They had just opened, accounting for the draft. A young man entered the hall. He wore a deep blue chiton that fell to mid-thigh, pinned twice at the shoulders so they peeked through the resulting gaps, narrow and golden. His legs were long and lean, bronze as the rest of his skin, the laces of his sandals lashed to the knee. He wore his hair long like Nikanor’s, though it was darker and straighter. Around his neck hung a shelled necklace similar to the one Thetima wove. He was Amyntas, son of Timandros, and Karanos had known him as a boy. Thetima cared for him after his parents were stricken down by typhus and in letters to Karanos, she often spoke of his growth. He was going with them to see his first battle.

“Amyntas!” Karanos lifted his cup, though it was empty, to the youth in greeting. Amyntas nodded in return. The firelight on his skin and in his eyes made him glow like a bronze-cast sculpture.

“So potent he is,” Thetima murmured. “Do you not feel it?”

“What do you mean?” Karanos asked softly.

“He is young, and full of power. He is also as the lion that adamantly guards its territory. Beware, Karanos. Study well before you assume old dalliances. He was but a child when last you saw him. He is a child no more.”

The other men greeted Amyntas, and he them. Nikanor made no sound or move. He remained lounged on the couch, tugging idly at a lock of hair. Amyntas came near him and stopped. Karanos gazed upon Amyntas and wondered at Thetima’s words.

Clear they became when Amyntas fell elegantly upon the couch and draped his long, sleek legs decisively across Nikanor’s lap. He held his hand out for a cup from one of the serving girls. His eyes fell on Karanos, and though his smile was friendly, his gaze was fierce.

As fierce as a lion’s.

Get the entire story free on GLBT Bookshelf or on my website!

Lydia Nyx on GLBT Bookself

A Man Lay Dead in Winter part 9

The rest of the parts are linked here.

“I would not have you condemn the man out of hand. Any of these things could be explained away…” Horace’s voice faded uncertainly but he was heartened by the look in the Sherriff’s eye.

“They could indeed, and I will not make any assumptions. First of all I shall go and talk to the man whose cottage this is, and that granddaughter of his. I do not think that they will dissemble before me. Perhaps I might find your runaway there, too, if he’s not over the Severn and away by now. Only time will tell, but I will not harass or condemn an innocent man, you have my word.”

The body was by now safely strapped into the litter and Dinmont prepared to mount his own horse and go to find Kenwyn’s kin. He would take his stoutest man, both in spirit and in physique, with him to carry out this task. He didn’t want to end up another body by the wayside.

“I wish you success, sir.” Horace held out his hand in parting and nodded his gratitude at the men who were to bear their grizzly burden down into the city.

“And I wish you a blessed Christmas, both of you. Please God the New Year will bring us better times.”

“Amen to that.” Johannes said, with true feeling, as he watched the party move off along the path.

***
The sky suggested that the journey home should be less hazardous than the outward one had been; there seemed little risk of snow this day.

“You said that you had an excuse for misplacing your bridle. Would you care to lay it before me?” Horace’s spirits were low, this business—one of his own men perhaps a murderer—had hit him hard and he sought for any refuge from his dark thoughts. As always he found it in speech with his dearest friend and ardent lover.

Johannes sighed and made a concerted effort to raise both his own morale and that of his friend. “I was simply distracted. When we’d ridden in from Gloucester two days ago and I had been meaning to hang the thing where it would normally go. But while I saw to my horse—and yes, I know we have stable lads to do that but I was too long on crusade to let any other tend my mount, except you naturally—I saw such a look in your eye. The fresh air and the fine winter sun had raised your spirits enormously and that expression made me think, well, it diverted me from the matter in hand and kept me distracted until events had run their natural course.”

Horace blushed, remembering the wondrous conclusion of the evening. “Can I be so much of a distraction? That an old warrior neglects his gear, thinking of an amorous liaison?”

“You are more than a distraction, my love.” Johannes laughed, an incongruous sound after the happenings of the last day.

“And you are incorrigible. And…” Horace found himself smiling and laughing too, intoxicated by this creature at his side whose smile could dismiss all sorrow, “you have not told me the answer to the riddle.”

“The riddle? Oh that. You should be ashamed of yourself, finding a solution to a murder but not solving a children’s puzzle.”

“But a man can’t ride into a place on a feast day then stay less than a week and ride out on the same feast day. You must be mistaken.”

“And you are being too literal. He rode in on Lady Day just as you ride on Hugon. It was his horse, Horace, and he rode out on it again some days later.” Johannes grinned and took a deep breath of the sweet air that blew through the trees, smelling of snow and a distant hearth. “Have I rendered you speechless? I must try that more often.”

“You are a knave, sir, and a rascal.” Horace spurred his horse on. “We need to be getting home. I don’t like the look of that sky again.”

“Look of that sky, my grandfather’s beard. I know why you want to be home; you may fool all the rest of the world but you cannot pull the wool over my eyes. Perhaps I should dawdle a bit.”

“You do and you’ll find the gates locked to you, snow or not.”

“Come then, let’s negotiate the hill and then I’ll race you over the plain if the snow permits. First one home sets the next riddle.”

Horace took a look over his shoulder at the place they had lodged. It could no longer be seen but he felt its presence keenly. It had been the first place they had shared a bed, of sorts, outside his own demesne and irrespective of the bitter memories it would bear, murder and betrayal of trust, it would always have a special place in his heart. “I will take you up on the wager. And I’ll find a conundrum so hard you’ll never deduce it.”

The two lovers laughed and nudged their horses on a little faster.

A Man Lay Dead in Winter part 8

The rest of the parts can be found linked at this page.

Horace nodded. “But it is all no more than conjecture. There is not a scrap of evidence except for the sketch.”

Johannes shrugged. “Let me tell you about what crossed my mind as we tended to the beasts. Cerys is a very placid mare and she will do aught that Kenwyn asks of her; I have seen her take a ditch that many a gelding would have baulked at. We had such creatures on the battlefield and they were invaluable for keeping their heads and their riders’ seats despite the flying limbs and gore. She might have made very little fuss over being witness to a stabbing. And if someone wanted to hide the fact that his mount had been spattered in the process, what better than to offer her to carry the body for a while? Any blood which Hywel Dinmont might notice on Kenwyn’s saddle or his clothes might be explained by the corpse having left its mark. And we would be witness to that fact.”

“He did not wear his cloak.” Horace stretched his long finger to point outside to where the three had stood and talked the day before. “I know he is a hardy soul but he had it on earlier in the day and I had to remind him to put it on again. It was folded into one of his saddle bags I think…”

“Well we can tell all this to Hywel when he comes,” Johannes suddenly paused, “if he comes, Horace. It occurs to me that we have no way of knowing whether he ever intended to go to Gloucester. If he committed the deed then he could be half way into Wales by now.”

“No, I do not think he went that far last night. If he did not go to the city, either as innocent man ill accused or guilty one brazening things out, then he stayed close by, either from fear of the law or the weather. There are two many imponderables in this matter. We should not speculate further.”

“Then let us wait patiently to see what this morning brings us.”

The morning, barely an hour later, brought Hywel Dinmont and one of his men. They knew of the body and had come with a horse drawn litter to carry it down to the castle where the men who worked for the Sherriff could begin to help him solve the mystery. Of Kenwyn there was no sign.

“I thank you, my lords, for keeping the body safe. This is bloody murder indeed and if wild beasts had got to the corpse then any evidence which remained might be spoiled.”

“Is my groom not with you?” Horace had expected this development, really. If he and Johannes had been correct in their assumptions then he’d little doubt that the man had gone to ground, like the game he was so talented at tracking. He wondered whether Dinmont would be as capable of flushing Kenwyn out, at the very least to let him speak his part and establish his innocence, assuming he was blameless.

“Were you expecting him to be? He told me he had been given orders to return to you immediately he had delivered his message. We tried to restrain him, the snow being so heavy, but he would not be gainsaid. He left clear instructions as to where I could find you and I was anticipating meeting him here. I hope that he has not fallen foul of the weather; I would not seek to have another corpse to find and another mother to bring sad news to.” Hywel regarded each man in turn. He’d known Dumanoir for many years and was aware of the favour he found with the old duchess. Fitzrichard he’d met and liked well enough, impressed by the tales he’d heard of the extreme valour the man had displayed in the Holy Land, both in fighting and in kindness. They were neither of them good at hiding the truth. “Gentlemen, what troubles thee? There is more to this story than I have heard.”

“What did Kenwyn tell you?” Horace was loathe to commit himself until he saw more clearly what events had happened between his groom leaving the cottage and then disappearing.

The Sherriff related what the man’s report had been and they could vouch for the truth of it. The finding of the body, its conveyance to safety, were all as they remembered, the only outright lie being Horace’s instructions to his groom to return forthwith. “And what will you add?” Hywel’s suspicions were becoming aroused now and he was keen to have the truth and have it soon.

“That he had no such order to return; we had expected him to come back with you. This morning we are less surprised at the fact he is not in your train. We have had time to think.”

“And your thoughts, you will impart them to me?” Dinmont was used to men protecting their own, seeking to mete out their own form of justice rather than let the King’s law take its course.

“I would never seek to impede your duties, Hywel, but I would add that much of our thoughts are mere speculation. We have one thing of substance to show you and that is all.” He gestured to Johannes, who produced the sketch of Arthur’s seal and explained where he’d found it and the significance they’d seen in it. Soon the whole of their theorising had been shared and each point had been met by Dinmont with a thoughtful look, especially when they touched on the matter of the mare.

“I noticed the blood on your groom’s cloak. He could not have avoided wearing it by the time he reached us or else he would have been half frozen. He even joked as he spoke of bearing the body on his mount and how he would have not have offered had he known the mess it would have made. I thought that it was black humour. I see it often on the occasion of sudden death but now I wonder if it was covering his tracks. Certainly his disappearance speaks more of guilt than misfortune.”

A Man Lay Dead in winter part 7

The rest of the parts can be found via this page.

“Yesterday morning, when I went to fetch Hugon, Kenwyn was not in the stables. He appeared soon after and said he had been out for a ride to visit his kin. He had some cloth for them and I had given him permission to take it, although I had assumed he had returned the night before.”

“That’s what he told us when we found the body. Do you believe he had been gone the night?”

“I do not know. I meant to ask him but then you appeared, all flustered because you had lost your bridle and we had to find it.” Horace smiled in fond remembrance of how flustered his friend had been and what a joy it was to prove that the idiot’s bridle was just where he had left it, despite his protestations of checking there. “It didn’t seem so important then to establish what he had been up to. Many a young man pays a call which involves his staying away the night and is loathe to admit it.”

“You think he had been courting his cousin; it would make sense. He always speaks of his kin with great affection. But this alone would not unsettle your mind. Tell me the rest.”

“Last night I thought long and hard on all that Kenwyn said and did that morning and when we set off to hunt. He had seemed agitated when we were saddling up. Would you agree?”

“Perhaps. I was in too much agitation myself over that lost bridle and then embarrassed at my own stupidity, although I have an excuse for it, to have noticed much.” Johannes considered, in his mind’s eye putting himself back a day and picturing the scene. Normally Horace was the one who noticed details, recalling a place and the contents thereof with pinpoint accuracy, and Johannes who fixed on the feelings of the people involved, the quivering in the air and a hundred small signs which indicated emotion. “I did notice that his mood changed during the day. When we were chasing the hind down by the stand of beeches he went off into the coppice to try to get around behind her and we lost track of him. When you wound your horn for him to return he seemed…” Johannes strove for the right word to portray the mixture of elation and passion that Kenwyn had displayed, “… what you might call fey. I thought it was merely the thrill of the chase—it always makes you flushed and excited—but now I wonder if there was more to it. His face reminded me…” He stopped, hesitant. What he wanted to say would take them into deep waters.

“Reminded you of what? Johannes, I rely on your observation without question. You are always the one who spots the hawk on the rise or the boar in the undergrowth. I need to know what you saw.”

“His face bore the expression I have seen many a time on the battlefield. Elation after the kill.” Johannes clasped his lover’s hand to his bosom, trying to impart some calm, some sense. “That’s what you dreaded me saying, yet still expected, isn’t it? You believe that Kenwyn killed Arthur and has been covering his tracks ever since.”

“It is very much what I feared, although I have little true evidence for it, just a feeling.”

“I cannot believe that. You are much too sensible a man to be swayed by feelings alone. There must have been more, to make you forge such a chain of reasoning in which to bind a felon.”

“The water is ready. Let us feed the horses then I will tell you what I have thought of.”

Johannes nodded his agreement and they didn’t speak of the dead man again until their own breakfast was almost prepared. “I have had a notion too, as we fed Hugon and Carwyn. But it can wait to see whether it compliments or contradicts yours.”

Horace took a deep breath and began. He had analysed the entire proceedings of the day before and couldn’t help but find that Kenwyn’s attitude had been out of the ordinary. He knew, from the man’s own admission, that he had excellent knowledge of the woods and the tracks over the beacon, more so than any stranger could have had. And they had seen no strangers, not one, while they had hunted and enjoyed riding in the crisp winter air. None of this was more than circumstantial, of course, “but for a copy of Arthur’s seal to be here seems more than coincidence. And I wondered whether it had been made so that the old man who lives here would know if he came across Arthur. So that he could recognise him if he met him.”

“For what purpose?” Johannes sought to tease the theory from his friend, piece by piece.

“Revenge. I wondered further—you must remember this is all speculation—whether Arthur had been up to his old tricks and had taken advantage in some way of Kenwyn’s cousin, his affianced girl. Maybe she gave her grandfather a drawing she or a friend had made of the man’s seal. And if Kenwyn had visited the old man he’d have been shown it, and would have recognised it too, I’ll warrant, with his family’s history of service on our lands.”

“And you think he met Arthur when we were out here yesterday? By chance?”

“I know that chance works out strangely enough. I have seen the most extraordinary coincidences, ones which would truly defy belief but had been none the less pure chance. But this I think was more a matter of design; Kenwyn went to see his young lady two days ago and I am speculating she told him that Arthur was hanging around again making a nuisance of himself. He knew that we were to be coming out hunting—it was his suggestion we rode up to these woods, was it not?—and arranged to meet his enemy somewhere along the ride. Or perhaps at this very cottage.”

“In which case they encountered each other early and came to blows. Perhaps it was even Kenwyn’s hunting knife which did the deed.”

A Man Lay Dead in Winter part 6

The other parts can be found via this page.

“Extraordinary. What can it mean?”

“That the man who lives here, Kenwyn’s kin, had some reason to need to know what that seal looked like. I can’t believe he kept it for decoration. Could he have some connection to the dead man’s family?”

“I do not know. Was there anything else that you sniffed out?”

Johannes shook his head. “Nothing out of the everyday. But I have thought on that picture long and hard. I wondered why I would need a copy of someone’s seal and decided it could only be to recognise the man, if I had not met him before. Or to see that his mark was genuine when witnessing the sealing of a document or the certifying of someone’s identity. I can’t imagine that Kenwyn’s cousin’s grandfather would have much occasion for being a witness, so I guess he was given this so that he would know Arthur if he met him. In which case, why?”

“There may be some simpler explanation. Perhaps he took a fancy to the pattern and wished to have a copy?”

“Perhaps. Let us be charitable and assume that is just the working out of coincidence, but I have a feeling in my bones that there is a connection to what happened today, and it unsettles me.” Johannes moved closer to his lover; the fire had been kept well banked up but he sought for comfort, not just warmth. “How well do you know Kenwyn? He had not been with you long before we met, I believe.”

“Aye. His family are simple decent folk. His father served mine and it was long agreed that the son might follow suit once he had returned from Gloucester. He spent some time with Hywel’s men and could have had a place there in the guardhouse but he prefers the country to the city. Cleaner and more honest, he says. Perhaps this violent death will make him realise that there can be evil anywhere.”

“Has he ever spoken of Arthur or his father? Were you ever aware of a special connection between the two families?”

“Not that I know of, except that all families locally seem to know each other in the common run of things. Kenwyn has been a good groom. He is reliable and fiercely loyal and cares very much for his people. He did mention how fond he was of his cousin —I suppose it is the same one that the man who lives here has been visiting, as I believe Kenwyn said she was the only girl among a half dozen boys in the family.”

“How fond is fond, Horace? The fondness for someone he might regard almost as a sister or more than that? The fondness we share?”

“Perhaps the latter. I recall he was asking about what would happen should he take a wife, whether he could stay in my service. I was more than happy to agree to the proposition as he has been a very good servant to me and I would be loathe to lose him.”

“That seems fair. I know that many a man with a household to serve him might elect to have bachelors only, but it seems unfair to expect one’s men to be celibate when the master…” Johannes’s words petered out into a smile, a kiss, and then a great yawn. “I must sleep Horace. A great tiredness has come upon me and it can’t be fought off as easily as you can when you feel amorous and I am too weary. Exercise your mind on this mystery as I sleep and we might have something to give Hywel in the morning, or whenever this snow lets him come here, apart from just a dead body.”

Johannes laid his head on the makeshift pillow, declining the opportunity to use his lover’s legs for the same purpose. It would be unfair to deprive the man of part of the cover, which is what would be entailed if they moved into such a position, and anyway those particular limbs were not a little bony and needed a good feeding up before they would make an ample cushion. Horace’s chest would have been another matter, but it would not answer in these circumstances.

~~~

When Johannes woke his face was warm, indicative of the fire still burning steadily in the hearth, but his back was cold, which meant that Horace had gone off about his business or whatever he thought his business might be this morning. As if Johannes’s thinking of him had brought forth the man, the door opened and Horace entered, carrying a load of wood.

“Good morning. Is the world smothered in its winter blanket?”

“It’s not so bad. The snow lies as thick as the breadth of my hand in places but it should be passable assuming they have not suffered worse in the valley. We should see Hywel before noon unless even more urgent business calls on him.”
“And the horses?”

“Cold and hungry but surprisingly happy considering that they did not pass the night as comfortably as we did. I found some apples and even some bran in the store. This man is well looked after, Johannes, and we must replenish all his supplies twice over. And add a flask of wine or two.” Horace smiled, something that he’d become accustomed to doing more often since his lover had entered his life the previous year. It had been the most fortuitous of circumstances and at times Horace was inappropriately grateful for the harsh times his friend had spent abroad as they’d brought him to Pain’s Wyke and to his manor.

“Shall we make a warm mash for the beasts? Your Hugon is always fond of one or so Kenwyn says.”

“Ah, Kenwyn.” Horace said no more, turning to the store and filling a bucket with bran.

Johannes considered for a moment. He knew this man extremely well and could recognise when something was exercising his mind. He also knew better than to enquire of it until he knew that Horace was ready to share all his thoughts. “I’ll get some water warming, then. Old crusaders know that it’s best to look after your horse before yourself; our bacon can wait.” He watched the pot carefully onto the hearth—no-one with any sense handled such an operation without care, risking as it did the pot tipping and the flames being put out. As it was settled safely, he felt strong arms around him and Horace’s face nuzzling into his neck. “What ails thee?” He reached his arms up to encircle his lover’s head in a halo of affection.
“I’ve been thinking all this last watch and I do not like that thoughts I have forming in my mind.”

“Will you tell me them while we wait for the pot to boil?” Johannes turned, took his friend by the hand and sat them down with the fur cloaks over their shoulders. The morning hadn’t yet shaken off night’s cold embrace and it seemed unlikely that the day should ever have any warmth in it.

A Man Lay Dead in Winter Part 5

The other parts can be found via this page.

Horace was very quiet for a while, studying the flames as they danced in the hearth. He was aware that Johannes understood him more completely than anyone, perhaps even more than he did himself, but Johannes had no areas of character he wished to keep hidden, no unplumbed depths of which he was frightened. He had spent the last year and more teasing Horace out of himself, winkling the pearl of love and valour from the oyster of reserve and self-pity that had been created after the death of his father. The pearl had proved to be beyond price. “I do not know. I can understand the self-sacrifice, I can understand that very well. Had I gone to the crusades I might have fallen upon the sword of honour and valour, seeking to lose myself in the fight. I have wished it often enough but not had the courage to make it happen.”

“Do you wish it now?”

“You know the answer to that question. Need I repeat it?” Horace’s face softened into a smile. He appeared boyish and vulnerable by the light of the fire and Johannes knew he could never love anyone or anything as much as he loved this strange and dour fellow into whose manor he had come by accident some fifteen months back. “The part I find so hard is the idea of loving one’s neighbour as oneself. Very hard to accomplish the former when the latter is beyond one’s capabilities.” He nestled his head onto Johannes’s shoulder, finding all the comfort he needed in contact with the strong frame.

“Perhaps all the love I feel for you will kindle some dormant tinder within your heart and let you love yourself. Or at least like yourself. That would be a start.”

“Perhaps. I believe you have love enough for both of us.” Horace lifted his face and kissed his friend with as much tenderness as he could muster. “I wish we were at home in my bed.”

“Aye. But we are not and we must be aware both of not intruding on our host’s hospitality, especially when he is not aware that he gives it. And on the fact that either Kenwyn or Hywel or both might appear at any moment. A murder is scandalous enough. We do not want to risk disgrace on top.”

Horace smiled, recognising that his lover was not just a seemingly infinite fount of love but of wisdom too. “Then let us drink our wine and try to get some sleep. That snow is not likely to leave off for a while and I for one will want to have all my strength come morning.”

“Shall we take watch and watch? You should sleep first. I feel peculiarly awake and would welcome the chance to think.”

“And what will occupy your mind?”

“This scrip, Horace, and its contents. Perhaps they can tell us some more. I like a riddle; in my father’s house it was custom to entertain the assembled guests with games and word play. When I was but a boy I would sit for hours and try to join in solving the mysteries that were described.”

“What sort of mysteries? Not the sudden and unlawful death of a man on a winter’s day?”

“Sometimes. My paternal uncle had many a tale to relate of crimes that had been committed up in Shrewsbury and an exceptionally clever monk who had outwitted the culprits to bring them to justice. But often it was just silly things, puzzles to amaze and amuse. My favourite was about the man who rode into the Abbey on Lady Day, stayed the whole of two nights then rode out again on Lady Day.”

“That is not possible. Such a thing could not be.”

“Oh it could, Horace. I remember I had solved the problem long before the men of the household and whispered the answer in my father’s ear. He was so proud of me then—he always has been, bastard or not.”

“And will you tell me the solution? It must be a trick. The man stayed a year elsewhere and you did not tell me.” Horace didn’t like to be bested, especially by his lover.

“I will give you until morning then when we break our fast—it will be water from the well and any of that meat that remains—I will tell all. And perhaps I will have some ideas about our dead friend, too. Now sleep, you look done in.”

Johannes laid his lover’s head down on the makeshift pillow he’d fabricated from the saddle bags, and gently stroked his temples. Horace snuggled down like a babe with its mother and didn’t open his eyes again until he awoke with a start, convinced it was his turn to keep watch and that his lover had let him sleep over.

“Johannes, why didn’t you wake me?”

“Because you’ve only slept two hours, I would guess. The night is barely half through.”

“And you have a twinkle in your eye that I can even see by this firelight. What have you discovered, my faithful hound?”

“This.” Johannes produced a piece of parchment and laid it out where the glow of the fire might illuminate it. “I was looking to see if there was a lamp anywhere—to hope for candles would have been unrealistic—and I found a cache of things on a little shelf. Even in the dim light I could see that this meant something.” The paper carried a depiction of the seal which the dead man had carried.

“Extraordinary. What can it mean?”

A Man Lay Dead in Winter Part 3

The other parts can be found via this page.

The first indication that something was amiss was the shying of Johannes’ horse. Horace was far too concerned with his friend’s wellbeing to notice anything else, until he was sure that the man had his mount back under control and was in no danger. Once that was established, they were both able to turn their attention to what had caused the horse such distress and what was making his own gelding uneasy; a dead body, stabbed and bloody, in the middle of the ride which cut through the woods that covered the hill where the old earthworks were.

Johannes was out of his saddle in an instant. He had seen plenty of men hurt and killed on the crusade and they held no terrors for him. He soon recognised from the quantity of blood that the wound had gone straight to the heart or one of the great vessels near it. The victim’s clothes bore great patches of gore, the smell of which was causing the horses still to squirm and be troubled.

“Lead them away, Horace, upwind if you can. There is no more we can do for this poor soul.” Johannes carefully considered the body as his friend found somewhere to tether the mounts. It was a well-dressed young man, his scrip still at his waist and no evidence that his death had been part of a robbery, nor that there had been much of a struggle.

“We should raise the hue and cry. The Sherriff must be told.” Horace had returned and was staring at the body, his face almost as pale as that of the corpse. “If there are bands of cutthroats at work here…”

“If this were the work of robbers then the body would have been stripped. There’s no sign that such a thing was even started. Look at his clothes, Horace, this is good quality cloth and fur, and his scrip is still on him. Call for Kenwyn and send him for help. We should stay here and make sure that no-one comes upon the body by chance and cheats his family of what is due to them.”

“No man would rob a corpse, surely?”

“Men will do many a thing that you could not believe.”

Horace shook his head and wound his horn. Within a few minutes his groom rode along the path and found them. “My lord?” Kenwyn’s face was a picture of concern at having been called for, and then distress at seeing the body. “What happened?”

“We found this man, already beyond our aid. I would have you ride to Gloucester and fetch the Sheriff, Dinmont, or his deputy. There’s been murder done here.”

Kenwyn considered the sky; it had been darkening this last hour and now was grey and leaden. “I will, my lord, but I do not like the look of those clouds. There’s snow coming later or sooner. At the least it might delay my return, at worst it could make you cut off here. You must find shelter.”

“He’s right, Horace. We can’t stay out here with a dead body, it would be far too cold even if it doesn’t come on to snow. Hywel Dinmont will come here only to find three corpses.” Johannes smiled thoughtfully.

“There is a cot nearby—the grandfather of one of my cousins lives there, just off the main path through the forest.” Kenwyn pointed along the ride.

“Will he mind providing us with hospitality?” Horace was used to providing accommodation for others, but he had ample means. He wouldn’t wish to impose on a cottager so close to Christmas, at a time when food and fuel were often short, even if he could recompense the man handsomely afterwards.

“He is well provided for, my lord. We are a close family who always see to our own, whatever the need. And he is not at home at present. As I rode out to visit my cousin and her mother yesterday he was there, staying a day or two en route to spending the Holy days with his other daughter. He would not begrudge the use of his roof and hearth to someone in need; you could be warm there and keep this poor soul out of the way of the wild beasts.”

Horace shared an exchange of looks with his friend and an unspoken message of agreement passed between them. “Kenwyn, will you show us where this place is? There may be a pallet there we could transport the body on, behind one of the horses. If not, we will have to take it on the back of the gelding. He might be less bothered, especially if he has not far to bear such an unpleasant burden.”

“It can only be a matter of some hundred yards or so, my lord, I know the place well. I am glad now that I suggested we come up here to hunt. Although the sport has been poor, at least we have the satisfaction of helping our fellow man. Load him up on my mare, she is very placid and will go wherever I lead her, bearing whatever burden is required of her. She has a steady temperament and a dead man would not trouble her.”

It seemed a sensible solution all round, especially as the wind had begun to rise and the nip in the air grew sharper. When they reached the little clearing and saw the cottage, small but very sound, they were pleased to be able to find such suitable shelter. Horace tried to dissuade Kenwyn from going straight for the Sherriff—he was sure he had felt the first flake on his face as they had slowly paced along the ride and didn’t want his servant to be at risk. “Or let me go instead. Hugon is much more fleet of foot than your Cerys. She may be excellent at dealing with the smell of blood and death but she would not win a race.”

“I am happy to go, sir. You forget that I was brought up on these hills. I know all the short cuts and the best way to go when the weather draws in. There is much less danger in my going.” Kenwyn leapt onto his mare and turned her head, as if his decisiveness settled things. “I will see you as soon as the weather permits.”

Horace shouted at the rider’s back, to tell him to remember to put his cloak on against the bitter air, but Fitzrichard didn’t waste time watching the man depart. They had to get a fire started in the hearth—there seemed to be plenty of wood in a long, covered box—and they needed to find a place to put the corpse. Johannes may have had plenty of experience of the horrors of war but even he balked at sharing the cottage with a dead man. The wood store gave them the solution. The body could be placed there safe out of the way of beasts and if anyone tried to disturb it—Johannes had a niggling worry at the back of his mind about the murderer returning—then they would hear the person concerned and be able to defend themselves. The corpse was already beginning to stiffen and he was pleased they’d lain it out straight again after moving it from the horse, so there would be no undue unpleasantness.

Once they had performed their grisly deed Horace set about lighting the fire while his friend tethered their mounts out of the wind and assessed the likely provisions. There was a small well from which he was able to draw wholesome water, enabling him to fill a small bucket for the horses and two ewers for themselves. There was a little winter grass along the edges of the vegetable plot lying behind the cottage and he was happy for the animals to graze there. If it came on to snow they would have to find the beasts a little shelter among the trees.

The men had carried a flask of wine and some bread with them, the soldier’s natural provision against the possibility of hunger en route. Johannes found some salted meat in the household stores, probably the remains of the last season’s pig, which they might be able to broil over the flames. All in all they were not so badly off. Plenty of people would sup less well this night and many would have less pleasant company. For a man to have his lover at his side, who could reasonably ask for more?

Lola Dances

The following is an excerpt from Lola Dances by Victor J. Banis. Brian and Joshua have spent the winter in a mining camp in Butte, snowed in.

It was near spring. A mighty Chinook had swept down from the mountaintop, scattering woodpiles, overturning privies and turning banks of snow into rivers of mud that still froze over from time to time or got covered with new snow.
Brian came home later than usual from a game of poker at Angelo's. Bored and restless with waiting for spring to arrive, Joshua had passed on going with him this particular occasion, and had spent the afternoon trying to make some order out of the mess that was their cabin. Months of close confinement had meant piles of unwashed clothes, dishes and pots that had been used and, never washed, used again, until they were crusted over with remnants of previous meals.
"There's an Indian squaw in town," Brian said when he'd shed his buffalo robe. He got himself a glass of whiskey and came to warm himself in front of the fire. "Got in yesterday, with a couple of miners from Helena.”
"Is that so?" Josh said, more interested than not. There hadn't been any newcomers in the camp since the fall, before the snows had come so heavy.
"Calls herself Happy Rabbit," Brian said. "Seems like mostly what keeps her happy is selling her pussy." He chuckled. "She was sure one happy injun last night, I'd say. Reckon half the boys in town took their turn."
"I guess you were helping keep her happy?" Josh asked with a grin.
"I did my share." Brian grinned back at him. "Been a while since anybody around here got any tail. Any real tail, I mean to say. Thing is, she's about the ugliest woman I ever seen, and I don't expect she's had a bath since last summer. But it's not a bad piece of ass if you keep your eyes closed the whole time and don't breathe too deep. You ought to give her a poke. Might make you happy too. Sure did me."
Joshua gave him a wry smile. "I think I'll just take your word for that," he said.
Brian gave him a long, hard look. "How long's it been, anyway, since you fucked a woman?"
Josh shrugged. "I haven't been counting. Long enough, I suppose."
"Well, then? What's wrong with fucking this one?"
"Brian, I'm happy—well, no, make that contented—with what I got. Seems to me like it works good enough. For the time being anyway."
"So, what is it then that you think you got, that makes you so contented?" Brian asked, and there was a note of challenge in his voice.
Josh looked hard back at him. They had never actually talked about what they had been doing together for many weeks, but even so, he thought by now they were both surely past pretending it didn't happen. Besides, he was tired of waiting for Brian to say what he wanted to hear. Maybe Brian needed a little push.
"This," he said aloud, "If you didn't know," and in a sudden quick movement, he crossed the room to where Brian was standing, took him by the shoulders, and, to his surprise at least as much as Brian's, kissed him, tenderly.
For all the fucking they had done throughout the winter, it was the first time their mouths had ever come together. At first, Brian stood frozen, unresponsive. Josh might have been kissing one of those Indian totem poles. And, really, he wasn't even sure why he had done it, except that they never had, and it seemed funny not to after everything else they had done together, after six months of fucking one another nightly, and some afternoons too. It wasn't like there was a lot else to do to pass the time when you were snowed in.
Then, as if of their own accord, Brian's arms came around him, and Brian began to kiss him back, not at all gently, the way Josh had kissed him, but hard, fiercely, and Josh, initially surprised in turn, soon returned it in kind, mouths and teeth grinding together and tongues searching frantically, their bodies writhing against one another, so close they might have been a single entity, and trying to get closer yet.
They parted just long enough to shed clothes, each pausing in his own disrobing to take some piece of clothing off the other, neither of them able to get naked fast enough to suit either themselves or one another. Both as hot as if this were their first time and they were just now discovering the other's body.