Sheritta Bitikofer's Blog, page 11

Something About Sheritta #4

What is your writing process? For instance do you do an outline first? Do you do the chapters first?

I start with character names. I’ve tried to start with the outline first, but found it got confusing because I would plot out these scenes without knowing names and sometimes my notes wouldn’t make sense. Once I have my entire cast of characters figured out and how they’re all interconnected, I set to writing the chapter outlines. I used to do bullet points, but I’m starting to chart it all out in a three-column table so I can see notes about character development for each chapter and what kind of emotion needs to be conveyed. I never write a single word of the manuscript until I have the outline completely done and fine-tuned. Even when it’s done, something may come up in the course of writing the manuscript and things change, but I at least like to know where I’m going before I start.

About the same time I’m making this outline, I’ll make some basic notes about how I want the characters to develop over the course of the story. Will she get over a certain fear? Will he let go of a grudge? Stuff like that. Along with the chapter map, it helps me to understand the characters, which aids me when I’m writing out their dialogue and narrative.

Then, I start writing. I like to do about half a chapter a day, which can range from 2,000 to 3,500 words. If I’ve got a good flow going, I won’t stop there and keep going with the rest of the chapter. I like to divide up my point-of-view segments that way. So, you may see that half of the chapter is dedicated to the heroine’s perspective and then the other half is for her hero. Doing only half a chapter a day can help me reset and get into the other character’s mindset. When I’m not writing, I try to immerse myself into the next scene and get the right attitude. My day job is a blessing because I can listen to music, which will help set the mood for when I’m ready to write once I get home. The actual writing process could take me anywhere from a month and a half to two months. The exception was when I wrote a 85,000 word novel in a little over two weeks.

Once the final sentence is written, I usually treat myself to a nice dinner out with my husband or splurge on lunch for myself. Then, I give myself a couple of days to rest and regroup. Sometimes, I’ll work on the plot outline for another book or take some time to read or study the craft. Only then, once I’ve halfway emptied my head of the story, I’ll go back and do a first round of edits. Sometimes I’ll read it silently to myself, but I’ve found that I catch more typos when I have a text-to-speech program reading it to me. That could take me about a week, maybe two, because I’ll spend one afternoon editing two or three chapters.

Once my personal rounds of editing are done, I send it off to beta readers, editors, and carry on with the rest of the self-publishing process.

The Luck of the Irish is Running Out for Dustin…

Here’s a taste of what you can expect in The Irishman, releasing May 18th!

Preorder Here! 

(From chapter 3)

Katherine was glad that Shawn understood her need to stay at Samuel Flanagan’s for the evening. The close connection between the Keiths and the Flanagans was made perfectly clear to him before they ever married and she told him straight out that if the need came, she’d be at Cassandra or Samuel’s side in an instant. Now was no exception. Besides, Shawn could never bear funerals. He attended the burial with her, but no more. He was much more inclined to stay home or go to the pub until the whole hysteria blew over. Their two little ones needed looking after either way.

Samuel put on a brave face for the funeral, but once the mourners were gone and they were shut up in his house, he was nearly inconsolable. He simply sat by the fireplace, staring at the chair where Cassandra used to sit and knit during her free time when she wasn’t doing chores or going off with Dustin.

The old man barely responded to her questions and when he did, they were in single syllables that were sometimes unintelligible to begin with. Katherine gave what little comfort she could, but she knew that she couldn’t stay forever. After she started up a big pot of soup and gave up on any type of conversation, she set to straightening up the house and cleaning it to the best of her ability, knowing the man wouldn’t get around to cleaning it himself for quite some time. From what Dustin told her, Cassandra did all the cleaning in the past.

Her thoughts continually came back to what had become of her younger brother. No one had seen him after the reception. Not a single sign or word from him at all. If he was around, hiding somewhere, he surely would have come for the funeral. Katherine wondered if he had befallen a similar fate as Cassandra and his body just hadn’t been found yet.

But, she forced out that thought and scrubbed down the dining table even harder, as if pouring herself into her task would silence those disturbing whispers of melancholy. There was quite enough sadness to go around and she wouldn’t add to it with her own suspicions. Men were already out searching for Dustin and she was sure that they would find him, alive and well.

As if her own thoughts on her brother had been spoken out in the open, Samuel replied to them.

“He did it,” the old man grumbled. “I know he did.”

Katherine straightened and fisted the washcloth in her hand. “What was that?”

Samuel blinked slowly and then rubbed the heel of his palm into his eye. It did little to hide the tear that leaked out and curled under his chin.

“He did this to her. I know he did.”

Her brows pinched together in confusion. “You’re saying Dustin…” She couldn’t even speak the words. It was inconceivable. Dustin loved Cassandra more than anything. She remembered in the early days of their attachment when he’d go on and on, speaking in such poetic prose that she thought he had lost his mind. He said that she was the reason he breathed, the only bit of happiness he could ever hope for in life – no offense meant to Katherine or their family as a whole.

To think that Dustin could have killed Cassandra in such a brutal, savage way… It was impossible.

“It was the beast,” Samuel muttered, so soft that if Katherine hadn’t stopped her cleaning, she would have never heard him.

“Beast?”

Samuel dropped his face into his hands, but he didn’t give himself over to the frenetic crying like she had expected to witness in the course of the evening. Instead, he fell silent again and didn’t utter another word. First he said Dustin killed Cassandra, and now he said it was some beast? No one else had mentioned seeing a beast or even an animal when they went to the Keith homestead late last night.

Katherine let out a tired sigh and gave up on understanding the grief-stricken father. He didn’t know what he was saying. Her own father had become the same way when her mother preceded him in death. He followed soon after, and Katherine wondered if Samuel’s broken heart would drive him to an early grave too. He might not have been in the best of health, but he still had several years of living left to do.

She left the man to whatever confused musings were rolling around in his head and took the bucket from the back door to fetch water. The few dishes they owned were all dirty and needed washing before she could even think about leaving.

The weather had turned cold in the progression of the afternoon and a stiff wind hit her face as soon as she came around the side of the house to the well. The bucket wasn’t halfway down the shaft when she caught a bit of movement out of the corner of her eye. Katherine looked up and saw a man coming forward out of the woods, his clothes sullied as if he had been on a long journey and feet completely bare to the elements.

It took a moment for her to realize who he was and she nearly let go of the rope between her hands. Too surprised to see her brother, she didn’t move from the well. Neither did she speak, though she wanted to start shouting at him for not only leaving Cassandra the night before, but also for not coming to the funeral to pay his respects. He had better have a good excuse.

Only when he drew closer did she see what kind of state he was in. The clothes didn’t fit him, so she knew they couldn’t have been his. And along with the muddy splotches of mud along his skin, she spotted some traces of blood around his chin and down his neck.

“Good God,” she whispered under her breath, even though she knew he wouldn’t have heard her. “What happened?”

He was still some distance off when he shook his head. “I don’t know,” he called back.

How could he have heard her? She made a motion for him to keep his voice down and pointed toward the house. “He’ll hear you.”

Announcing Dustin’s arrival to Samuel was unwise. If the old man somehow partially blamed his son-in-law for the murder of his daughter, they would have another funeral to plan.

Quickly, she lowered the bucket and brought it back up once it was brimming with water. Dustin came to the well and set something down on the stone ledge before slowly bringing the bucket closer to him. She let him take a long drink and splash his face before starting in with her questions.

“What happened last night? Where did you go? We’ve all been worried sick! I thought you were dead too.”

Dustin shuddered and turned his face away from her. Did he know what happened to Cassandra? By the way he didn’t probe into her suggestion that he might have been dead along with someone else, Katherine suspected that he must have known. At least he showed some remorse. Was that a good sign that Samuel was wrong about him being the murderer?

Dustin, his face dripping and the front of his shirt drenched, leaned against the well and wouldn’t make eye contact with her. “I was hoping you could tell me what happened,” he mumbled in monotone.

Katherine brought the bucket closer to her and unhooked it from the pulley. “No one really knows what happened and you would have been the only one to see it. They found her in the bedroom, torn to pieces.”

Uttering these few words brought a fresh wave of anguish to Dustin and he shook his head.

“I don’t remember anything,” he replied, voice thick with emotions that she couldn’t even begin to understand.

She had lost her parents, but never a lover. She didn’t even want to think about the day when she’d lose Shawn and hoped dearly that she would die first, so she’d never have to bear the loss.

“Not a thing? What happened after you came back to the house? Where did you go?”

“I said I don’t remember!” he snapped.

Katherine flinched away. Dustin wasn’t usually the one to lose his temper with her, but plenty of things had happened in the course of a day. He might not have been the same man anymore. Looking him up and down, he did seem a bit taller and broader in the chest than he had been during the wedding. That, joined with his disappearance and the sheer amount of blood that she could see through the thin material of his shirt, inspired even more questions.

“What was the last thing you remember?” she asked, lowering her voice, so she wouldn’t rile him into agitation again.

Dustin took a calming breath before saying, “We came back from the reception. We were in bed… That’s all. I blacked out and woke up a mile or two outside of Kenmare.”

“Kenmare?” she hissed. “How did you get to Ken-“ She stopped herself before she could finish, knowing what his answer would be. He didn’t remember. He couldn’t remember any of it. Asking him about the blood would prove just as pointless.

Dustin’s throat worked as he tried to form the next words. “I don’t know what’s happened to me. If I knew anything, believe me, I would tell you.” He lifted his eyes and regarded her with a certain pleading look that must have been mirrored in her own expression. “But something has happened to me… And I’m scared, Katey Kat.”

She pitied him, and though he smelled foul, she came forward to wrap him in a hug. “You lost your wife, Dustin. That’s what’s happened to you. It’s happened to many other husbands.”

He returned the embrace, his powerful arms encasing her. “No, it’s more than that… I can do things now. Things that no one else can do.”

Katherine pulled away and eyed him curiously. “What do you mean?”

He went on to explain how fast he could run and how he could almost hear her heartbeat when they were standing this close together. He could smell the stew on the stove inside the house and the leftover crops in the field that Samuel had neglected to take up during the harvest. She listened, and wanted to doubt him at first. But, when he mentioned the stew she prepared and the soap residue on her hands, she knew there was some credit to what he said. She couldn’t even smell either of these things and she didn’t tell him of it before.

She took a step back and remembered what Samuel had said about a beast killing Cassandra. Her eyes darted to the blood stains as her mind began to put each of the pieces together. Maybe Dustin did kill her, but not intentionally.

Katherine folded her arms and looked away. She believed in the fairy folk just as much as Dustin did – which was not at all – but she was raised up with the stories that had been passed down through the generations. Christian faith took the place of such beliefs, but some traditions were hard to kick, as was the case with Samuel. He believed in magic more than anyone she knew in Glengarriff. And the rampant thought entered her mind that, perhaps, he was right.

Though, all of this didn’t suggest that Dustin was a changeling. They didn’t kill people and it wouldn’t explain his heightened senses. A far darrig maybe? No, they didn’t kill people either. They were just mischievous spirits who went about wreaking havoc for the Irish.

If Samuel’s earlier mutterings about a beast were true, that meant Dustin would have shifted into another form. The form of an animal that could rip through flesh. An animal like a wolf.

“What is it?” Dustin demanded after a long stretch of silence between them.

Katherine looked up and searched his face for any sign to confirm her foolish assumption. None of them knew of Dustin’s heritage. Could he have been a faoladh? A descendent of the wolves of Ossory? They were alleged to be relatively harmless, unlike the wolf warriors of Tipperary who ate the flesh of babies in exchange for their mercenary services to the king. Both fables were so old. Ossory didn’t even exist anymore. Could Dustin have faoladh blood in him?

“Are you sure you don’t remember anything?” she asked again, tempting his rage. “Did you see an animal? Maybe a wolf that might have come in the house?”

Dustin shook his head, but a sudden look dawned in his eyes that told her he did remember something, but not until just now. He blinked a few times and then lowered his gaze to the bit of ground that separated them. His face lost all color, gone pale by whatever it was that gradually crept back into his mind. She could see the struggle as he tried to grasp that elusive memory.

Once he finally grabbed hold of it, she noticed his breath quickened into a panic. She reached out for him once again, but he shied away, refusing what comfort she was willing to give.

“What is it?” she begged. “What do you remember?”

A muscle in Dustin’s jaw jumped and he shook his head again. “I… I can’t stay.”

She stared in disbelief. “What? What do you mean?”

Dustin snatched up the flower from the ledge on the well and turned as if he were ready to bolt away into the forest again, but he came back to Katherine.

“Tell no one that you saw me,” he said hastily. “I was never here. Do you understand? I can’t stay. I… Please, forgive me?”

Katherine grabbed for his sleeve before he could run again. “Forgive you for what? Tell me, Dustin. You can tell me anything.”

He shook his head again, fresh tears filming over his eyes. “I can’t. Just say you forgive me.”

It was then she understood. He must have realized the truth that he had something to do with Cassandra’s murder. She nodded in response. “I forgive you,” she whispered, sorrow stealing her voice. If Dustin did kill her, it had to be unintentional. He didn’t know what he had done. Whatever he was, whatever happened to him, it was against his will and she could never blame him for that. And she’d take the secret to her grave.

They embraced for the last time and she couldn’t form the words she needed to say to him. If he had to leave Glengarriff, she only hoped that wherever he went, he would find some peace.

They released and Dustin gave her one more heartfelt, apologetic look before he fled for the forest again. She saw the kind of inhuman speed he mentioned. Her brother was no more than a blur, and if she had blinked, she would have missed his departure entirely.

With shaking hands, she picked up the mostly-full water bucket and went back into the house. It would take a moment for her to compose herself before facing Samuel, but at least no one would question her sorrow. She not only lost a dear friend in Cassandra, but also her beloved brother to a future that she couldn’t begin to imagine.

Something About Sheritta #3

What kind of research do you do before you begin writing a book?

While I write a lot of urban fantasy and paranormal, I also seem to set up camp in the historical department. For that reason, I love research. By The Book didn’t require a lot of the kind of research I’m used to. I watched hours of country line dancing videos the chapter before they all go dancing, which came in handy a week later. My husband and I were at a party and they played Copperhead Road. I had never done the dance before, but I got up and was able to join in all because of my research that I did for this novella. In other books – particularly my historical series – I do extensive research. One time, I spent days trying to look up what a particular bath house in Pompeii looked like for a three or four paragraph scene in my shifter series, The Decimus Trilogy. I watched countless documentaries, read articles, looked through Google Earth, but I couldn’t find this one bathhouse. Then, I went to YouTube and a tourist had shot a five-minute video with their phone of the exact bathhouse I was looking for. I was overjoyed, but furious at the same time because I had held up work on the story until I had this one detail right. Part of my obsessive personality is that I want to make things just perfect, because I fear some history buff will come in and blast me for an inaccuracy.

The series I’m working on right now, The Legacy Series, stretches across time from 1555 England to Chicago 1920s. Each novella skips around countries too. I’ve learned so much through writing that series, probably more than any one person should know. I learned how to cuss someone out in Irish Gaelic, how to present myself in Navajo (in correct clan order), and the history of Australia down to how many people were on the prison ships as they were coming over to colonize New South Wales. I know some of these little details may never make it into the story, but knowing them as a writer helps me to flesh out my characters and know what is and what isn’t possible for the story.

It’s just a gift…

Here’s a sneak into the most recent novel work. Crossing my fingers this can be traditionally published. Caution: very raw, no editing.

 

Chapter 2

Erica hadn’t realized how much time had passed until Tracy and Burt had left and all the boxes were dispersed into their separate rooms. Looking around her new home, she knew she’d be in need of new furniture. Her skimpy futon couch, particle board end tables, and the folding card table set up in the breakfast nook were almost painful to look at in the elegant rooms with their beautifully carved chair rails and flowered wallpaper.

She needed good, vintage furniture worthy of a place this gorgeous. Images of patterned cushions and marble in-laid coffee tables came to mind, along with a hefty price tag. As soon as her business took off, she’d put all her profits toward fixing up the interior, along with the accents to make it even more stunning. She wanted her clients to be transported the moment they walked through the doors. Not to be thrown when they expect old world grandeur and are greeted by a poor, contemporary excuse for a dining table. It was all she could afford at the time.

But it’d be a while before she’d invite her clients into her home for photoshoots. For now, she resolved to utilize the simple beauties of nature for her backdrops and more involved photo sessions. She had seen an abandoned farm just outside of town and Jade Lake could always be relied on for a stunning backdrop. If she could clean up her own yard and put some of her mother’s landscaping tricks to good use, that could be another location for family portraits or graduation photos.

For now, Erica’s stomach demanded she stop looking to the bright and promising future. She hadn’t taken the time to go grocery shopping, but she wanted to indulge in another childhood fantasy that resurfaced when she arrived in Tolstone square. There was a little diner she had wanted to visit during their trips to the town, but her mother always said they couldn’t.

So, she grabbed her purse and stepped out on her front porch. Perhaps her one regret was that it was too early in the season for the gardenia bushes to be blooming. She didn’t necessarily believe in signs, but if there ever could have been a sign that her mother approved of her decision to move to Tolstone, blooming gardenia bushes would have been it.

Though her jeep sat waiting for her to take a ride to the square, she passed it by in favor of walking. She wanted to see the other houses and secretly compare them to her own. Growing up, it was as if she wore blinders when riding down these streets. She never noticed any of them. Her eyes were always glued to the next corner, willing her mother to drive a little faster or ignore the stop signs at each intersection.

Passing by all the other grand, older homes along Crescent Lane and down toward the square, she realized there was nothing particularly special or extravagant about her new home. All the others were just as old, just as beautiful in their own way with manicured hedges and decorated front porches. That realization, that her house was just another matchstick in the box, didn’t dim her love for it. The house she and her mother had practically worshipped was still her own and no one could take that from her now.

Over half an hour of walking brought her to Tolstone town square. Some were leaving their places of work, cars pulling through the roundabout as they had been all day long. There were few pedestrians out on the sidewalks and the benches around the fountain sat vacant and lonely. A pleasant idea entered her mind that perhaps she could take her lunches by the fountain every day when the weather permitted. She could never do something like that in her old home. Her neighborhood was too far from any place worth going and it would have been dangerous to walk in the streets by herself. Here, the air seemed infused with a safe, welcoming vibe that endeared Erica to the town even more.

She turned to her right to walk under the awnings stretching out from the tall buildings that boxed in this piece of small town treasure. Many of the shops were already closed, which is something she’d have to get used to. Even shop owners had families and homes to go to in the evening. She guessed every place in town was closed on Sunday, too.

She found her way to Lunar Lantern Diner easily. It was the only place still open, a golden glow filtering out like a guiding light for the hungry and bored. Inside, several booths and tables were already occupied by couples and families.

Erica had never gotten a good look through the wide windows when she and her mother passed it by on their way to Jade Lake, but what stood out most in her memory were the smiles. Everyone inside was happy to be there, talking and laughing with their friends.

She stepped inside and felt inquisitive eyes fall on her. In a small town like Tolstone, a newcomer must have been a rare sight, especially if they saw her walking up along the sidewalk instead of sliding out from a car. But she paid them no mind as she gazed around and grinned like a child who just walked into a candy store with a twenty-dollar bill in her fist.

The interior was everything she imagined it would be, just like with her new home. The checkered tile floor, teal polyurethane booth coverings, chrome trim around the edges of the grey countertops and tables, and even an old jukebox in the far corner with neon light tubes arching around the top. The waitresses were dressed in pale blue dresses with white aprons, while the short-order cooks had bandanas fashioned across their foreheads to keep hair and sweat out of their faces. The counter that separated the cooking station from the rest of the dining area was packed with older men talking in deep, grisly voices while the booths were occupied by the sweetest-looking families.

A heavy set, middle aged woman stood at the register and greeted her. She swept back a little of her black hair that was beginning to show a touch of silver. “You can seat yourself, sweetheart,” she cried with a grin, adding an attractive quality to a pair of eyes that appeared almost black from a distance.

Erica glanced around and her smile faltered. There were plenty of seats, but perhaps she hadn’t thought this through. It had been so long since she dined inside a restaurant, and even then she wasn’t alone. She was never alone. Not like this.

It was just one more reminder that her mother wasn’t there any more and she was far from the home she had known. Erica had left behind friends she had since she was in school, girls who stuck by her when no one else would. If she wasn’t with her mother, she was certainly by their side.

But now, she had no one, and though she could never regret her decision to move, she might have regretted being so isolated. She had to remind herself that she’d make more friends in Tolstone. Just not tonight.

Erica strode up to the register. “Can I just order something to go?”

Undaunted, the woman reached down and pulled out a menu from underneath the counter. “Sure thing.”

Erica thanked her and stood off to the side to let an older couple pay their bill. So sucked into reading through the variety of different burgers, she didn’t hear the register drawer close or see the woman lean over.

“My name’s Gwen Gabors, by the way,” she said, offering out her hand.

Erica looked up in a daze and shook her hand out of reflex, but it took her a second to reply with, “Erica Barrett.”

“You’re new in town, aren’t you?”

She smiled. “What gave me away?”

Gwen gave her a once-over and a sparkle came to her dark eyes. “I know pretty much everyone in town, but I’ve never seen you before.”

Erica turned back to the menu. “Yeah, I just moved in today.” Thinking on her feet, she said, “That’s why I’m taking this to-go. I still have a lot of unpacking to do.” She pointed to a particular burger that was described as the Lunar Lantern’s particular specialty. “Three meat patties, bacon, mushrooms, and steak sauce?”

The woman laughed. “It’s a favorite around here. You want that?”

Before she could pull out her notepad, Erica waved her off. “No, no. Not today anyway. I’ll just have the regular cheeseburger. No pickles.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart.”

Gwen wrote up the order and passed it along to her cooks who slapped on a fresh patty of ground beef. The two ladies made a little more small talk while Erica waited for her burger and she discovered that Gwen and her husband, Jaime, owned Lunar Lantern and had been running it for nearly twenty years. It wasn’t the only restaurant in town, but it was certainly the most popular with the locals.

She pointed out the “Wall of Fame” where pictures of heavy eaters and some loyal regulars were tacked up in a collage.

Before Erica could get closer to examine the many faces of the townspeople, her order was ready. Not wanting it to get cold, she started out straight away after saying goodbye to Gwen.

When Erica stepped back out into the square, her eyes trailed up to the evening sky. Thin, cottony veils of clouds stretched across the horizon as the sun’s harsh amber glow chased away the blue from earlier that day. She stopped and stared up at the sunset, wishing she had brought her camera with her. If she hurried home, perhaps she could take her first photo in Tolstone from her porch.

Erica was nearing the corner of Second Avenue, ready to turn left and back into the residential part of town when she nearly skidded to a stop in front of an antique store. The glare from the setting sun caught on the glass lens of something on an old sewing tables with the foot pedal. Sitting on the scratched and pitted surface was an array of old photographs and picture frames. But as beautiful as they were, they didn’t hold her attention like the vintage camera propped up in the center.

She sucked in a tight breath when she saw the tiny words “Rolleiflex” in faded lettering above the twin lenses. Its ebony, grainy body was old, and the white trim had been partially worn away by the ravages of time. The names of the German manufacturers were printed just below the brand name and she was impressed that the rawhide strap was still attached. The numbers on the diodes were still clearly legible, which was a miracle since the oils from its previous owner might have completely worn them away after so many uses.

Though her food was getting cold and the sunset behind her would soon be gone, Erica had to take a look. If she didn’t, she’d be thinking about that camera all night long. Glancing up, the lights were on and the buzzing neon sign above the door stated the store was open for business.

Erica rushed inside and jumped at the frantic tinkling of the bell above her head. She stood on the welcome mat and stared into the reverent silence of the antique shop. She had been in plenty of stores like this before since she adopted her love of old, vintage things from her mother. They had trekked through dozens of stores in her early years, but never one this packed. She was almost afraid to move for fear that she would upset something and cause the whole fragile arrangement to come tumbling in a heap.

Canes, clocks, tables stacked with crystal goblets and porcelain tea sets, paintings, display cases of guns and knives, boxes of coins that were out of circulation, old licenses plates hanging on the walls, barrels of toys from before World War II, mannequins fashioned in old military uniforms and formal gowns from the Antebellum era, shelves lined with pottery and vases that looked to be from all over the world.

The musty air didn’t bother her in the least. This was the smell of priceless treasures.

“I don’t allow food in my store,” a deep, masculine voice called from somewhere in the assorted chaos of antiques toward the back of the store.

She looked around, trying to find the source, then down to her food. How could anyone smell the burger from that far away?

“I just stopped in to look at something in your window,” she replied, her eyes still combing for the man somewhere behind all the shelves and aisles that seemed to go on forever. Erica guessed that he must have seen her come in or maybe heard the static rustling of the plastic takeout bag.

“Leave it by the door.”

She did as she was told, knowing it’d be much easier to handle the camera if both her hands were free anyway. Without another word, she moved around to the display window, cautiously tiptoeing down the narrow path that wound up to the sewing table.

Erica leaned over, being mindful not to let her sleeves catch on any of the frames and plucked the camera from its resting place. It was like holding something sacred and she felt a spark of awe when she examined it in the light. She had only ever seen photos of the Rolleiflex but never had the privilege of handling one herself.

She turned it over in her hands, marveling at the details she didn’t see from the pictures in her textbooks. The silhouette of the shop owner passed through her peripheral and she turned to face him.

Somehow, she had expected an old man, though his voice form earlier was clear and melodic, despite the flat remarks he gave. But it wasn’t an old man that strode up to meet her. He was probably only a few years older than her, and at least half a foot taller.

Her eyes trailed upwards from his dark jeans to his broad, muscles shoulders. A thick chest narrowed down into a slim waist that was only partially concealed by the white, undone button-down shirt that hung over his body. But that did little to hide the way his dark blue shirt clung to his tight, firm physique. He looked more at home on the cover of a sports magazine than in an antique shop.

His short raven hair paired perfectly with the thick layer of stubble that covered the bottom portion of his face and trailed down his neck, completing his look of masculinity. But it was his eyes that made her speechless. As clear and blue as a summer sky, Erica was sure she had never seen eyes so stunning, so arresting and intense in her life. She had seen plenty of pretty blues in her time as a photographer, but never a set so utterly and decidedly one color and nothing else. Not a hint of green or darker shades to contrast. They were pure, honest, and penetrating as they watched her.

A familiar, but long overdue sensation streaked through her core. This man was handsome, without a doubt, but it had been years since she felt this attracted to a complete stranger. She knew nothing about him, but she certainly wanted to. If her mother were here, she would be jabbing her elbow into Erica’s ribs with a cunning smile. They shared an interest in handsome men, making for some rather playful conversations.

“That’s an Original Rolleiflex,” he said.

That statement alone confirmed that this man did own the antique shop. It was the same deep, almost bass-level voice that spoke to her earlier. She might have been expecting him to be an assistant or maybe the son of the owner. In all the shops she had visited before, the owners seemed to be just as old and frail as the wares they sold. But there was nothing frail about the guy that stood in front of her now.

His words broke the spell he had unwittingly cast over her and she looked back to the camera that had almost been forgotten. “An original?” she gasped. There were dozens of Rolleiflex models manufactured over the last century, but an original was fairly difficult to come by.

He offered out his hand and for a moment, she wasn’t sure what he wanted, then she handed him the camera. Their fingers grazed in the transfer and Erica instantly felt dizzy. No, she had never felt such a strong pull to anyone before.

The shop owner then proceeded to tell her all of its features and how the strap, diodes, and lens are all directly from the manufacturer – not a replica or refurbished model.

“It was made by Franke & Heidecke, a German company,” he continued, hypnotizing her with the way the words seemed to roll out of his perfect lips. “The first Rolleiflex was released in January of 1929 and they stopped making this model in –“

“1932,” she finished, hoping that she wouldn’t come across as rude. Erica knew everything he was explaining to her. Photography wasn’t just a job. It was a passion. And she made it her business to know everything about the history of cameras, photography, and film. It made her appreciate how far they had come in the technological age.

A flicker of something like amusement danced in those perfect eyes and Erica hoped that he was impressed. “You know your cameras,” he said with an approving smile.

With slightly trembling hands, she took the Rolleiflex back and tapped her nail on the side. “You forgot to mention how the metallic bellows were a huge thing back then. The bellows on older cameras were leather and Heidecke wanted to make a camera that was compact enough to travel with and survive storage.”

The man nodded. “Yeah, they had a problem with rats eating the bellows or rotting out in humid climates because of the moisture in the air.”

Erica couldn’t hold in her grin and felt a wave of heat rise up her neck to bloom in her cheeks. Why was she getting so turned on from a simple, but rather nerdy, conversation with this perfect stranger? For a moment that seemed to stretch on forever, they gazed at one another and Erica wished the Rollieflex had any film still in it. If it did, she would have tried to capture the way this man’s eyes seemed to brighten in the light of the sunset.

“How much?” she asked breathlessly.

As if coming out of a daze himself, the shop owner blinked and looked to the camera. “Well,” he began as slid his thumbs into his jean pockets. “According to the serial number, this is a 611 model, made in 1929. It’s in very good condition and still has all of its original parts. I don’t have any film to go with it, but I think I’d price it at three hundred and ten.”

Erica’s eyes went wide. Thinking she might drop it out of shock, she held it a little closer to her stomach. “Three hundred and ten?” she repeated. “I don’t suppose you’d be open to haggling?”

The man chuckled, such a resonating and soothing sound that she wished she could come up with clever things to say all evening just to make him do that over and over again. “I don’t like to do it, but I’ll make you a deal.” Erica listened, hoping whatever kind of deal they could work out would mean she didn’t have to pay so much for this piece of photographic history. “I’ll give it to you in exchange for an introduction.”

Was this the way an antique shop owner flirted? If it was, Erica could play this game all day. But common sense caught up with her and she shook her head. Her mom had taught her better than to accept a seriously expensive gift without properly repaying the giver. “I couldn’t just walk out of here without paying for it.”

He took a step closer and she could smell his clean, spicy cologne.

“You would be paying for it,”

Erica lifted an eyebrow at him. “So, knowing my name is worth three hundred and ten dollars?”

He chuckled again, and her knees went weak, but she forced herself to stay standing. Part of her wanted to prove that she was strong and wouldn’t be so won over by his charms – even though she was drawing dangerously close. It was clear that he was interested, and so was she, but she had never done anything like this before. She knew how to flirt casually with someone she might never see again, but it was all for fun. This was getting too serious.

“I also see that you appreciate the camera,” he said. “I don’t get that from too many people who come in here. They buy something because it looks pretty, or it’ll match some décor in their home. It’s been a long time since I had someone walk in, pick up a piece, and I don’t have to make them realize it’s more than beautiful. It has meaning.”

She colored at the compliment and bit her lips together to keep herself from saying something that would ruin the moment. This man trusted her to take care of this camera, to love it and give it a good home. This might not have had anything to do with a proper introduction or genuine flirting, but at least she knew she had won his respect.

“My name’s Dominic Beaumont,” he said, offering out his hand for her to shake after it became clear that she had nothing more to add.

She could have laughed at the irony. They were neighbors. Tracy’s remark about Dominic knowing so much about old houses made sense. If he knew this much about antiques, then he surely would have known a lot about Victoria architecture and maintenance. Yet, the image of this handsome man seemed incongruous with the stereotype of a history-buff.

Fantasies flashed through her mind as quickly as the shutter speed on her camera back at the house. They could talk about history, about everything in this shop. Their connection would deepen and soon their conversations would turn to coffee dates, dinner dates, then to something more intimate. Erica caught herself wondering what he looked like under that cotton shirt and her mouth watered.

It only took a short second for her to go from respecting Dominic to wanting something more than friendship from him. Erica desperately hoped it was the hunger making her go out of her mind like this. Or maybe it was a combination of the shop, his cologne, and those striking blue eyes, that made her think about such things. It certainly wasn’t like her.

Resolving to be professional and sensible, she straightened up and firmly took his hand. But there was little to stop her from savoring the warmth from his palm. “Erica Barrett.”

Now would have been a good time to mention that they lived next door to one another. If he had been at the shop all day, he wouldn’t have seen her, Tracy, and Burt bringing in all her things. He’d probably find out soon enough and they could laugh about it later.

His smile widened. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Erica. The camera is yours.”

She glanced down, almost forgetting about the Rolleiflex again. “I was serious about paying you,” she said quickly. “I don’t have that much right now, but maybe I could put it on layaway and pay you off a little at a time?”

“And I was serious when I said you could have it.” Dominic shoved his hands back into his pockets. “Giving away one camera will not make me late on my rent.”

As stubborn as Erica wanted to be, she sensed she was going nowhere with his argument and finally nodded her acceptance, however much it went against all her principles. “Thank you,” she said, trying her best not to look like she had just been gifted with the royal jewels or something ridiculous like that. It was just a camera, but it truly meant so much more to her than that. Dominic may never realize it, though.

“You’re most welcome,” he replied in such a gentlemanly fashion that Erica wondered if her cheeks could get any redder. “And I hate to do this, but I’m technically closed for the day and – “

“Oh!” she cried. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even look at the hours on the door. I just saw the open sign on.” Erica made an attempt to slid past him, nearly knocking over a basket of raw wool in the process.

“It’s fine,” he replied. “The lights are all wired together so if the shop lights are on, so is the open sign.”

It wasn’t until she was at the door and reaching down to pick up her take-out bag that she realized he had been following close behind her. She hadn’t even noticed that the sun was sinking deeper toward the horizon now. The golden sunset darkened into a somber bluish-gray, the clouds nearly black with the faint twinkling of stars against the coming night.

“Well, thanks for letting me stay for a little while.” Erica braced the camera against her as if it were likely to be stolen at any moment.

Dominic opened the door and the bell caught her off guard again. “Not a problem.” He looked up toward the street as she exited. “Did you park on the other side of the square?” he asked, peering around for any sign of her vehicle.

“No, I walked. I live just around the corner.”

An expression similar to concern passed over his face and Erica was flattered, more than she had been when he talked about her enthusiasm for the Rolleiflex. She watched a silent struggle take place behind those eyes of his and finally he let out a sigh.

“Well, be safe walking home,” he said. “We don’t exactly have any bad neighborhoods here, but there are still plenty of potholes you could trip into.”

A bit of Erica felt crestfallen. The dying romantic in her wanted Dominic to offer her a ride home, even though she would kindly refuse anyway. Once again, it went against so many of her principles that a lady could take care of herself. She could change her own tires, kill her own spiders, and walk herself home without the help of a man. He wouldn’t have offered her a ride home if she were a guy.

At the same time, she admired him even more. He wouldn’t make concessions for her or assume that she wasn’t fully capable of walking home in the waning light. Or maybe it had to do with his own agenda. He might not have had the time. Did that mean he wasn’t really interested in her?

Either way, she assured him that she would be fine and walked toward Second Avenue. Erica’s ears listened in for the tiny tinkling of the bell to tell her that he had closed the door. She didn’t hear it until she was well around the corner.

Was he watching her leave? What did he think of her? Did it really matter? In the deepest, most guarded part of her heart, Erica wished that she could let it matter. But Dominic’s opinion of her wouldn’t change who she was or how she felt about herself. That was one thing her mother had drilled into her. She didn’t need a man to determine her worth or importance. Erica was her own person and her introduction was worth far more than a vintage camera, though she still thought it was silly that a man would throw away the chance to make an honest dollar just to know her name.

Over and over in her mind, she replayed their first meeting. Despite herself, she couldn’t stop smiling at the pavement and fingering the edges of the camera in her hand.

She knew in a few hours, this buzzing feeling in her gut would go away. It always did when she met a cute guy and he showed her the least bit of kindness. In the end, it was just that. Kindness. It meant little and no matter how much she and her mom tittered about hot men, Erica never lost her head over one. And she didn’t plan on starting now.

Travel to Ireland in this New Novella!

Everyone’s favorite surly Irishman has a novella of his own in The Legacy Series! Find out how Dustin Keith become a faoladh – werewolf – and how he came to become part of Darren Dubose’s pack! This novella has all the feels you expect, knowing a piece of Dustin’s past from what’s been mentioned in the Loup-Garou Series. This novella was so fun to write, but my heartstrings were rubbed a little raw at some parts. You don’t want to miss the next installment of this novella series!

Releasing May 18th! 

[image error]*Ireland, 1770*

Dustin Keith only wants two things in life; to have fun and marry his childhood sweetheart. When he finally wins the approval of her traditional father, he thinks that things couldn’t get better. But when what should have been a blissful wedding night turns into a walking nightmare, Dustin must come to grips with a part of himself that harkens back to the old-world superstitions that he thought he could leave behind when he said his vows. After shifting for the first time into a faoladh – werewolf – Dustin flees from his homeland and washes up on the shores of France, where an alpha and his family take him in to nurse him back to health. But Dustin couldn’t completely escape Ireland and danger follows him all the way to Darren Dubose’s homestead.

 

 

Something About Sheritta #2

(Talking about my latest, steamy romance novella, By The Book)

How did you come up with the concept and characters for the book?

By The Book was actually a very small concept at first. It wasn’t even really sure how to flesh it out until one of my other author friends decided to start and anthology project. I elected to be part of it and finally decided to dust this idea off the shelf and give it a go. There were some stipulations about the anthology project that actually helped fill in the blanks, so to speak. For instance, the fact that it takes place in Texas was a requirement for the anthology and it ended up adding a lot of meaning to the story.

The whole story started with a meme I saw on Facebook and the jist of it was the idea that a character from a book could fall in love with the reader. The first scene of By The Book played out in my mind, when Tara is in the bookstore and Beau walks in. I imagined how confused she would be to be reading about herself in the book, and then read about this handsome stranger who walks in and looks just like the model on the book cover. That was all I had to start with, and like I said, having those few requirements for the anthology really helped. The project fell through before it could start and I was free to do what I wanted with the story. I finished it and went back, adding a few details like the fact that Beau had a crush on Tara in high school, and I added some background drama about his family dilemma with the ranch.

The characters have never been difficult for me to create and my beta readers all love Dixie, Beau’s niece, because the way I’ve written her is so accurate to how a little girl would behave. The only character that I struggled with was Daniel. I wasn’t sure whether to make him a cold, unfeeling kind of guy who was shy and still mourning the loss of his wife, or the resentful older brother who harbored some bitterness about having to take care of the ranch when Beau was a better candidate. Tara’s love for line dancing stemmed from my own passion for country music. I often picture Beau as a counselor I had at a summer camp I went to in Hunstville Texas. Broad shoulders, strong, compassionate. He’s both dynamic and single-minded in that he wanted to do everything he can for his family, while still struggling with what he wants in the end.

Something bewitching…

Here’s a sample of something I worked on a while back. Enjoy!

Chapter 1

“I already fed you, Artemis,” Krystal whispered to the long haired – and slightly pudgy – Siamese cat that brushed in and out between her legs. The cat meowed loudly and looked up to his owner with crystalline blue eyes as she inspected her hair in the hall mirror.

Krystal plucked at her black bangs to even out the strands, even though she knew the autumn winds outside would toss them to one side or the other. She shushed the greedy cat again and stepped over him once she was somewhat satisfied. Her sister, Sierra, was still asleep in one of the upstairs bedrooms and the walls in this old house weren’t exactly soundproof. And Krystal knew how grumpy her sister became when she was woken up too early.

It was a good thing that Krystal was a morning person, otherwise waking up at five o’clock every day might have been rather detestable. Apart from the fact that she had to practically tiptoe across the hardwood floors, Krystal enjoyed taking her time to fix her breakfast, have her first cup of generic brand coffee, and read a little, before stepping out onto their front porch.

Artemis could care less about silence or food rations, and Krystal was sure that Sierra was sneaking the fat cat treats and extra helpings after she left for the coffee shop each morning.

Krystal checked the time on her phone. She was running right on schedule, as always. She fled from the begging cat to sit on the antique mahogany hall butler bench and slipped on her knee-high black boots that accented her creamy heavy woven skirt well. Artemis thought he was awfully clever when he hopped up onto the other side of the bench and pranced down to rub against her elbow.

“I told you no,” she hissed and snatched up her canvas coat from the hook above her head.

Artemis gave her a displeased look, and watched Krystal grab her purse as she hurried toward the door. Krystal knew something would get peed on during the course of the day; that is if Sierra didn’t dish out the cat’s second breakfast before he grew too impatient.

Krystal exited the house and locked the intricately carved set of doors behind her. The house, almost a century and a half old, was the jewel of the Goldcrest Cove historical society. The sign that was permanently fixed in front of their house was a testament to that. It had been passed down through her family for generations, and it was her and her sister’s turn to take care of it.

Sometimes that meant calling a specialist carpenter all the way from Boston, nearly an hour’s drive away, to fix some of the resin details on the staircase balusters. It also meant paying an arm and a leg for carefully done repair work on the electric wiring that had been installed throughout the house long after it was first built.

Krystal made her way to the sidewalk and looked up at her beloved home. No matter the cost of the maintenance, it was worth it to keep this precious piece of her heritage alive. If only her older sister felt the same.

The sun hadn’t risen just yet, but the night was slowly being chased away by the coming dawn. Krystal loved this time of the morning when the sky wasn’t black, but a light, smoky blue. Birds that hadn’t flown south for the winter already, could be heard chirping and twittering in the nearby trees that lined the street leading into town. Otherwise, Pinkerton Street was peaceful and quiet.

The Perfect Books and Brews Coffee Shop wasn’t far from her home, just five blocks and nestled on one of the main thoroughfares that snaked around the center of town. Johnson Avenue and the south side of Goldcrest Cove was the picture of small town America. The gardens lined the front walkways that lead up to Victorian style homes, and the independently owned shops and restaurants that keep tourists flocking here for decades.

Nestled on the north Massachusetts shore, Goldcrest Cove attracted people from all over the northeast – and some from the south – with its seaside harbor and marina. It was a quaint retreat from the bigger cities. Krystal was glad for that, not only because it meant Goldcrest Cove was considered a haven for the weary and exhausted businessmen from Boston and New York, but because it would also mean her coffee shop would never go out of business. Someone has to serve tourists their caffeine.

Krystal stepped up to her glass-paned shop door and already there were some motorists making their way up the avenue. She looked down the sidewalk and saw the lights in McRae’s Morsels flicker to life. She and the old woman who ran the shop made an agreement long ago that as long as Krystal didn’t sell pastries, Mrs. McRae wouldn’t serve coffee. That was the kind of “help-thy-neighbor” attitude that she loved about this town. With luck, it would never change.

She unlocked the door and stepped inside to hear the tinkling of the little brass bell above her head. The inside was dark, but the overhead lights behind the counter were still on from the night before and helped her maneuver her way through the maze of café tables that were spread out across the floor.

Krystal stopped when she bumped her hip into one of the sharp table corners, and silently berated herself. “Lights on,” she sighed with a flick of her hand toward the backroom where the main switch was located. Instantly, the overhead can lights popped on and she could see her way around even better. A lot of good her powers did if she didn’t use them every once and a while.

Floor to ceiling bookcases consumed the far wall of the coffee shop, every shelf filled with novels and reference books that were available to her patrons to browse through or buy. Krystal first got the idea to open a bookstore-slash-coffee shop when she was a senior in high school. Her and her two best friends, Alex Boyer and Valerie Lloyd, decided that as soon as they were able, they would open the shop together. The community needed a casual meetup place besides restaurants and gas stations.

Five years ago, they did it, and life had never been better. Sure, it was a little rocky at first, but Alexa’s knack for numbers came in handy. She had even earned her degree in accounting at the community college once the three of them found out that running a business wasn’t going to be all sunshine and roses.

While Alexa served as the bookkeeper, Valerie set to designing the interior. It was her idea to lay real bricks against the sheet rock walls to give it that vintage, cozy feel. She even picked out the distressed oak flooring that almost matched the countertops and tables. She didn’t go to school for design, but they all agreed that she had an eye for matching colors and finding out what looked warm and inviting.

That was what they wanted this coffee shop to be. Warm and inviting. Krystal wanted it to be a home away from home for loyal customers. It became that and so much more. Like the historical landmarks and statues on Main Street just a couple of blocks to the north, Perfect Books and Brews had become part of the community. A live and breathing piece of their community culture.

She wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Krystal was the one who came up with the personal touches that made Perfect Books and Brews so appealing. She hung her coat on the driftwood plank coatrack just beside the sales counter, where every guest was offered a hook if one was available. Behind the counter were several shelves where personalized coffee mugs sat, waiting for their owner to come in and use them. They had a mug for the police chief and his officers, the mayor, some of the other shop owners on Johnson Avenue, and many other citizens like teachers, lawyers, single moms, doctors, construction works, and anyone else who came here to take a break from their everyday lives.

Krystal picked up her mug, a beautifully crafted piece she bought at a craft fair years ago with a shiny, green and blue glaze. The images of leaves and vines encircled the body of the mug and wound around the handle.

After starting up the coffee grinder on the far back counter of their brewing station, Krystal set to making her own drink for the morning. The coffee she kept at home was fine, but she couldn’t really start her workday without her chai tea latte.

Just as she was sprinkling the bits of cinnamon on top of the white foam, the shop door opened, and the bell heralded the arrival of Valerie.

Krystal glanced up as her friend shuffled across the floor and her hip bumped into a corner of one of the tables. Ironically, it was the same one Krystal had pumped into just a couple of minutes ago.

Valerie let out a whimper and continued on her zombie-like walk toward the sales counter.

“Want me to make your café mocha?” Krystal asked as she pulled back her long, straight black hair into a high ponytail, leaving her bangs to tickle the tops of her brows.

Valerie let out a grown and blindly grabbed for her simple black mug from the shelf behind the counter. She dropped her equally black messenger bag on the floor and deftly set to work on her own morning wakeup juice.

“At least you’re on time,” Krystal remarked as she turned and sipped on her latte. Perfection.

Valerie ran her fingers through her short brown hair and in this light, Krystal could see the streaks of dark red stand out. Sierra, another entrepreneur of Johnson Avenue, had dyed Valerie’s hair dozens of times, trying out new and exciting colors that her friend would have never been able to get away with at other jobs.

“Shane was playing videogames all night,” she grumbled.

Shane Stokes was a history teacher and a roommate of Valerie’s since she moved out of her aunt’s house just a year or two after high school. He was at least five years older than the girls, but you would never guess it, judging by the way he behaved like a kid at times.

“And the noise kept you up all night?” Krystal guessed.

Valerie turned around and leaned against the counter. Dark circles hung under her heavily eye lined green eyes. “No, I was playing co-op with him,” she replied. “I didn’t even realize what time it was until I checked the clock and saw it was two in the morning.”

Krystal winced. “You better put some espresso in that mocha then.”

“Blessed be!” a cry came from the door, preceding the brass bell alarm. Krystal didn’t need to turn to know that it was Alexa who came skipping between the tables, her loose blonde curls bouncing against her shoulders.

Valerie rolled her eyes and slumped a little, but Krystal couldn’t help but smile. Alexa had enough energy for all of them, and probably enough to power the whole city. If only they could find a way to bottle it and sell it with their house blend coffee grounds.

Alexa hung up her white cashmere coat and stowed away her designer purse under the counter with Krystal’s. “And how are you two lovely witches this morning?”

If they weren’t alone, Krystal would have shushed her friend. Since they were alone, she let it slide. The shop didn’t open for another few minutes and they were free to talk all they wanted about witches, magic, and their charm goals for the day.

“Val’s sleepy,” Krystal said with a sympathetic flavoring to her words.

Alexa snatched up her bright purple fairy mug so she could make her usual caramel macchiato.

Like she needed any caffeine.

“Sleepy is an understatement,” Valerie corrected as she pumped chocolate into her coffee. Krystal wondered if she realized she just put in twice the usual amount, but she wasn’t going to question it.

“Okay, Val’s running on fumes,” Krystal said with a shrug.

Alexa set her mug down and skittered over to her tired friend. “Here, let me help.”

Valerie quickly edged away and lifted her coffee out of reach from the petite blonde. “No way,” she barked. “The last time you charmed my coffee too early in the morning, I was shitting glitter for a week.”

Krystal laughed, remembering that time when Alexa snuck a quick joy charm into Valerie’s drink.

Granted, she was being a general grouch that day and Alexa was just trying to help. Yet, being only a

half-blooded witch, many of her charms didn’t go exactly according to plan. Some could have nasty side effects, which was why Krystal and Valerie were in charge of charming the coffee while Alexa served the customers. With her peppy attitude, it was a good fit.

Alexa crossed her arms over her chest and pouted. “How am I supposed to get better at charms if you guys won’t let me practice?”

“You can’t practice on the customers,” Krystal countered. “And we do let you try sometimes.”

Alexa rolled her pretty blue eyes. “Yeah, only the really basic ones. I’m ready to move on from charisma charms.”

They had been working with Alexa for almost all her life and she still struggled with the simplest of spells and charms.

Krystal, Valerie, and Alexa were witches and had been since birth. Krystal was older just by a few months, but they been the best of friends since they could walk. Krystal’s parents encouraged the playdates, especially when Valerie’s parents died and Alexa’s single mom became busy working long nightshifts.

Out of them all, Krystal was the most fortunate. She had come from a long line of witches and warlocks and her family had always been supportive and helpful in her training. Her two friends were not so lucky and they clung together, somewhat out of necessity. Despite the obvious and drastic differences in their personalities, the three of them got along surprisingly well even from the beginning.

When Krystal confessed her motives for opening the coffee shop, she wasn’t too shy to tell them the truth. The cardinal rule of their witchcraft order was that they could never use their powers on non-magic folk. Krystal never agreed with that. What good was having these miraculous powers if they couldn’t heal and help people?

The coffee shop would change all of that. If a customer came in with a problem, anything from their hair falling out to a disagreeable impending divorce, the girls helped in what way their magic would let them. They charmed the drinks with exactly what the customer needed, whether it was a little confidence to finally ask their secret crush out on a date or a financial blessing that would help them get through a rough patch in the month. It was their way to give back to the community, to pay it forward and use their powers for unselfish reasons. Valerie and Alexa were totally on board as soon as Krystal was done explaining her plan.

At first, they were a little reckless with their charms and helped everyone who came in with the tiniest of problems, so Krystal had to set a quota limit for them each day. They would only pick the most desperate customers, the ones who were diagnosed with cancer or at risk of losing a job that was helping to feed their family of five. They had to carefully choose who would benefit from their powers that day.

Five became a fairly comfortable number, so Krystal had set up a little chalkboard by the counter and they would keep a daily tally. She took up the board and used the rag to wipe it clean for a new day.

“We can work on different charms on your day off,” Krystal told Alexa as she hung the small chalkboard back on the hook.

“You mean half-day off,” Alexa quipped as she turned back to working on her macchiato.

To Krystal’s chagrin, she was right. There were plenty of perks to being a witch running a coffee shop, but one major downside was that they could only hire magic folk for help. There was no shortage of them in Goldcrest Cove, but they all had stable jobs of their own.

Sierra owned a salon down the avenue, Amber McCain ran her own bed and breakfast on the outskirts of the town, and Taylor Morrow had her plant nursery just a little farther south of Krystal’s home. Unless another witch came to town looking for work, the three girls were slap out of luck. And with the holidays just right around the corner, Krystal may have to beg and plead her friends to take extra shifts to handle the hours.

However, Thanksgiving was still a month away and the annual Fall Harvest Festival was in the forefront of Krystal’s mind. They had a lot to do to prepare for Samhain and Halloween this year, including making sure that they were well stocked on everything they would need for their hot chocolate booth on Main Street.

***

“Walking two blocks to this coffee place is worth it?” Devin complained after his new partner, Aaron tried to convince him that braving the task of finding a parking spot along the curb of Johnson Avenue was well worth the effort.

“Totally,” the cop replied as they passed by an older couple on the street, both holding to-go coffee cups with the Perfect Books and Brews logo printed on the sides. “It’s the only coffee shop in town and I want you to get a taste of what real, small town coffee tastes like.”

Devin’s mouth quirked in a disbelieving grin. “Seriously? Coffee in Boston is nothing special and the coffee at this place won’t be either.”

Aaron held up a cautionary finger. “You haven’t had an espresso brewed by these girls. I don’t know what they put in it, but it’s nothing like any I’ve had before.”

Devin shrugged and hooked his thumbs into his uniform pockets. “Again, an espresso is an espresso. Just don’t be disappointed when I’m not impressed.”

They passed by a donut shop that boasted a relatively long line on the inside. Devin peered through the bay window and saw some of the customers eating their breakfast pastries and treats at the little café tables on the inside.

“Why not get coffee there?” he asked. “They’ve got bagels.”

Aaron was now a little farther ahead of him and didn’t even seem to notice the scent of deep fried dough and powdered sugar. “Mrs. McRae’s doesn’t sell coffee.”

Devin’s brows shot up as he hustled to catch up. “A donut place doesn’t sell coffee?”

A chilling breeze blew down the street, another sign that autumn was in full swing for Massachusetts. Devin was glad for the warm uniform shirt and jacket that the department issued for the coming winter season. The light windbreaker with the police department logo on the chest and upper arm was warm enough to fight off the cold, but when winter fully set in, he knew he would need something a little heavier.

Aaron ran his fingers through his blonde hair to push aside a strand that had fallen in his face. “That’s right,” he replied. “McRae’s doesn’t sell coffee and Perfect Books and Brews doesn’t sell pastries.”

“That seems a little counter intuitive for business, don’t you think?”

Aaron chuckled just as the bright gold and blue sign of the coffee shop came into view. “Not at all. It’s actually a pretty good setup. No competition.”

Devin looked ahead and somehow, he had hoped that the line of customers that were been standing outside on the walkway didn’t belong to the coffee shop. Upon Aaron’s insistence, he hadn’t had any of his usual coffee that morning, and though he’d already been awake for a few hours, he was ready to crawl back into his wrought iron bed and call it a day. It wasn’t even nine o’clock yet.

“Did they just open?” he asked as they stepped up to the end of the line that was straddling the curve. Devin cast a glance down either end of the street and saw how the line of parallel parked cars seemed to stretch on indefinitely. The same went for the other side of the narrow, two-way street lined with thick manicured bushes and towering trees that were beginning to lose their leaves. He imagined spring in Goldcrest Cove would be absolutely beautiful, especially on Johnson Avenue.

“They’ve been open for probably five years,” Aaron answered.

Though he was impressed that such a business was doing so well, even after five years, Devin shook his head. “No, I mean did they just open a little while ago? The line seems pretty long.”

Aaron checked his watch. “They open at seven in the morning.”

“And they’re still this crowded?”

Aaron slapped a hand on Devin’s shoulder. “Come on, man. Just be patient. It’ll all be worth it.”

That’s what he kept saying, but Devin still had his doubts. The line moved surprisingly fast and once they were inside the warm lobby, Devin stole a glance toward the front counter. His brows furrowed in confusion. There were only three women working the morning shift. That didn’t seem right for the kind of customer flow they were having to handle. These kinds of lines warranted at least five, maybe six baristas running around filling coffee cups and taking orders. There was only one cash register open. For being in business for five years, he imagined they should have been more efficient than that.

That didn’t improve his first impression of the place, but the interior certainly did. He could see why people loved to come here. The space was a little dark, but not too dark since the sunlight streamed through the expansive windows at the front of the shop. The air was warm and saturated with the strong, savory smells of coffee and herbs. Neither was it too loud, despite the fact that he couldn’t see an open table anywhere.

It was hard to miss the bookcases that lined one of the long walls of the shop. That’s when he noticed that several customers were busily reading while they sipped on their drinks. A couple of college kids were huddled around a bigger table, tapping away on their laptops. A few people were reading that morning’s newspaper, and couples were enjoying each other’s company while their hands wrapped around their steaming mugs.

“They’ve got real mugs,” Devin commented quietly to his partner.

He nodded. “Yeah, that’s another cool thing about the place. The customers who come in almost every day bring their own mugs, or have the girls keep their mugs here so they can just fill it up whenever they come in. Less waste that way.”

Devin also nodded in approval. “I assume you’ve got a mug?”

“Yep,” he announced proudly as they neared the front counter. “I snitched a mug from the station and told them to keep it here for me. It’s bigger than the other mugs I have at home.”

“Remind me to tell Chief Nickels that you stole department property.”

Aaron shot him a devious look. “Chief Nickels has his own mug here too. It’s the one with the basset hound on it.”

Devin shrugged, admitting defeat.

He heard the bubbly laugh of the barista manning the counter and leaned around the portly businessman in front of him to take a peek. The blouse the women wore sported billowy, long sleeves that were pulled up around her elbows by pull cords that scrunched up the grey-blue fabric. Her long ponytail of shiny black hair draped over her shoulder, and her brown eyes danced with genuine delight that made Devin stare a little longer than he normally would have.

She certainly was beautiful with her slender nose and high cheekbones. His heart thrummed hard in his chest as the line moved forward. Soon, he’d be the focus of those brilliant eyes that were offset by her dark bangs that curtained over her forehead. The shop lights caught the tiny fragments of gold in her irises and one corner of his mouth twitched into a smile.

“Do you know what you want?” Aaron asked, snapping Devin out of his daze for a moment.

Yeah, he knew exactly what he wanted, but it wasn’t anything that could be poured into a mug.

He finally looked up to the huge menu board above the barista station and blinked at the wide variety of choices. Their selection was just as varied as any big name coffee shop like Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts. There were coffees, teas, and other drinks like hot chocolate and smoothies.

“Don’t they just have regular black coffee?” he mumbled as his eyes poured over the options.

“Sure, but you’ll probably get a weird look from Krystal.”

“Is that the girl at the front counter?” Devin hastily asked, hoping his partner wouldn’t pick up on his obvious interest. The last thing he wanted was an earful of ribbing in the squad car while they patrolled the town.

Aaron slid him a knowing glance. “Yeah. The blonde is Alexa and Valerie’s the one with the red streaks in her hair. Don’t cross her on a bad day or she might put something in your coffee.”

“You speak from experience,” Devin chuckled, watching the way the taller girl with short brown hair fixed the mixed hot drinks with such speed that he couldn’t begin to figure out what she was doing.

Aaron laughed. “Oh, yeah. One time, I made some crack about a piece of studded jewelry she was wearing. After I left with my coffee, I had gas all day. And not the good kind.”

Devin held his lips tight so he wouldn’t laugh out loud, because they were next in line.

When the businessman paid for his highly modified and customized espresso, the two cops stepped up to the counter. Krystal didn’t look at him right away, but turned to Aaron first.

“Good morning, Aaron!” she said with just about the prettiest smile he ever saw, then turned to fetch his Goldcrest Cove Police Department mug off the shelf.

“Good morning, Krystal,” he returned. “You girls are a little busy this morning.”

“Tell me about it,” said the little blonde barista, Alexa, as she came forward with two cardboard drink holders loaded down with to-go coffee cups. She delivered the order to another lady waiting near the counter wearing a black polo and pair of faded jeans. The logo on her left lapel told that she worked for a furniture store just down the road. She must have been sent to get the company their coffee.

When Krystal came back to the register after handing off Aaron’s mug to Valerie, she finally looked up to Devin. He gave her his best, friendly smile and he could see the faint pink color rising to her cheeks. At least he knew he was making a good impression already.

“You must be that new cop from Boston,” she said.

“How did you guess?” he asked, his smile faltering a bit. Did news of what happened on his previous job reach all the way to this little coastal town?

Krystal leaned against the counter and he saw the way she popped her hip out just a little. Her navy blue apron covered much of her front, but he could tell she had a nice set of curves underneath.

“You’re a new face,” she replied. “The entire department has come in here at least once or twice, but I’ve never seen you before. I hope you’ll come around more often.”

Devin wanted to think something in the way her gaze roamed over his torso made her say that, but it was far more likely she just wanted his business.

“If Aaron has his way, I’ll be here every morning,” he half-way promised.

“I guess we’ll get to see a lot of each other, then.” There was a little glimmer in her eyes that he couldn’t ignore. A hungry, flirty look that made his pants feel a little tighter. What the hell?

“You having the usual, Aaron?” she asked his partner.

Aaron shot her that corny finger-gun gesture and winked. “You got it.”

Krystal glanced over her shoulder to Valerie, but before she could call out the order, her coworker waved her off.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Double espresso with coconut.”

Devin looked to Aaron in utter disgust. “Coconut?”

“And what can I get you, mister…”

He immediately snapped back to Krystal. “Devin. Devin Daniels.”

Almost out of reflex, he offered out his hand to her over the countertop. He had gotten so used to shaking everyone’s hand nowadays that it had grown into a weird sort of habit.

Krystal didn’t seem bothered and shook it in return. He loved the way her hand felt so warm in his. More than that, he admired her strong grip. “Krystal Hayden. Owner.”

“Yeah, Aaron was telling me how you and your friends run this place. Impressive.”

She shrugged one slender shoulder up in a shrug of modesty. “We try.”

It was then he realized they were still shaking hands and he finally let go, though he would have loved to keep touching her skin all day long. “And I’ll just have coffee. Black.”

Krystal seemed pleasantly surprised. “We can make anything your Boston coffee shops can make,” she said. “No need to go plain on us.”

Devin slid his hand into his back pocket to fish out his wallet. “I got black coffee in Boston too.

I’ve just never been one for all these fancy drinks.”

Krystal nodded and passed the order onto Alexa as she came back around the counter. “Well, I think you’ll like our house blend. It’s a dark roast and I’ve been told it has a hint of nutmeg. Totally unintentional, but it’s pretty popular.”

She took their money, but Devin kept his eye on Krystal, studying the way she moved and typed in the orders on her register screen. Everything about her was absolutely entrancing, from the way her lips moved when she formed her words to the slight scent of flowery perfume that seemed to fight its way past the overwhelming aroma of coffee grounds.

She handed Devin’s credit card back to him and their fingertips brushed. His lungs nearly seized at the slight twinge of shock that passed along his skin when they touched by accident. He looked up and saw that there had to be something just on the tip of her tongue. She had that look like some people did when they were ready to confess something, but didn’t know how to quite say it.

Aaron moved to the side to wait for his order, but Devin didn’t move.

“You were going to say something?” he questioned as he slipped his wallet away. He was well aware that there were customers waiting in line behind him, but he didn’t care. Probably the only reason they weren’t throwing a fit about tying up the barista’s time was because he was a cop. He normally wasn’t the kind of misuse his authority, but he’d take full advantage of it if it meant he could talk with Krystal a little longer.

She seemed surprised, but spoke anyway. “I’m usually pretty good at judging someone based off of their choice of coffee.”

“Oh?” he asked and leaned his elbows against the high counter so he could talk more intimately with her. No reason that anyone else needed to hear this conversation. “And what does my coffee say about me?”

Krystal mimicked his pose and grinned. “That you’re a realist,” she said softly, just loud enough for him to hear. “You don’t like your reality watered down or sugar coated. You want to experience every bitter and bold moment that comes your way. So, naturally you appreciate honesty and justice, which is probably why you’re a cop, right?”

Devin prided himself on his poker face. He had to use it a lot in the last few months while he gathered up the sharp, broken pieces of his life so he could move on from what happened in Boston. He didn’t want to use it on Krystal, but for the sake of his image, he had to. If he let his face do what it wanted, she would have seen the look of utter shock that mirrored what slithered down his spine when she pegged him so unerringly.

“Well, I’d say you do have a knack for judging people,” he replied and then reverted the conversation right back to her. “And what does your coffee say about you?”

The tip of her hair grazed the polished wooden countertop. “I like the chai tea latte with a little cinnamon on top. Have you tried that before?”

Devin shook his head, staring into her dazzling, almost hypnotic eyes.

“You should try it sometime. I like to say it’s like a holiday craft store exploding in your mouth. It reminds me of when my mom would take me shopping with her when she needed to get more yarn or beads for her little projects. I add the cinnamon on top because I love the added flavor.”

If he wasn’t completely enraptured by her before, he was now. “I’ll certainly have to try one of those sometime,” he said through a grin. “Sounds like I could get to know you pretty well just by sipping on a drink like that.”

That coquettish glint in her eye reemerged. “There are plenty of other ways you can get to know me, but I will definitely make you a chai tea latte whenever you’re ready to try it. On the house.”

Oh, yeah. His pants were definitely getting a little tighter around his crotch. He nodded. “I’d like that.”

Valerie broke into their discussion when she came up with a to-go cup in one hand and Aaron’s mug in the other. “You mind wrapping that up?” she quipped as she blew a strand of her hair out of her face. “We do have other customers.”

Devin laughed, took the drinks and thanked her. “I guess I’ll see you around,” he said to Krystal as he began to move out of the way so the lady behind him could step up.

“You know where to find me,” she replied before turning to her next customer.

Something About Sheritta

So, I’m going to start doing these little posts where I take a generic question about myself, my author career, or my books, and answer them here on my blog once a week. Just a way for you to get to know me a bit.

When did you first consider yourself a writer?

I’ve always been a creative person. I’m an only child and my parents divorced when I was young, so when my mother was working or too busy to play with me, I’d play pretend and come up with stories. My cousins lived right around the corner from me, so I’d sometimes go over there to play. These were the days before internet, cellphones, electronic interactive games, etc. So all we had was each other. We came up with stories together and I found that I always wanted to keep the game going long after we were done. As I grew up, I discovered libraries and books where I could go on adventures from the safety of my own living room. When I learned how to write, I would make these little picture books for my friends. I even came up with a play for my second grade class to perform. I’d done a few short stories here and there through elementary school, but middle school is when I first decided to try and write something a little longer. My English teacher was phenomenal and would have us do these writing prompts first thing before class. I remember one asked us to describe how our morning went. That particular morning, I threw up in the bathroom, so I described that in full, unashamed detail. Everyone loved it! It gave me the courage to explore the craft. By the time I graduated high school, I had written four novels, a screen play, and a short story that I hoped to publish one day. It wasn’t until three years after I graduated that I began to take the self-publishing route seriously. So, I’ve always been a writer. I’ve created characters that have grown up with me and helped me discover more about myself and how I view the world. I’ve developed as a person through my passion and dedication to writing and I can’t imagine doing anything else.

 

The Native Is Live!

It’s finally here! Go enjoy the next installment of The Legacy Series with The Native!

Get It Now!

[image error]Navajo Territory – 1734

Adam, the mixed child of a Navajo woman and European trader, makes the unsettling discovery that he is not any normal man. When Geoffrey Swenson shows back up to the village, prompted to visit his son for the first time since boyhood, it’s for a more disquieting reason. Adam is coming into his true identity as a werewolf and must leave behind his old ways of life, his traditions, and everything he’s known, to train with his estranged father. But with a new sickness sweeping through the tribes, leaving may prove harder than they ever imagined.

A mistake made in his early years has formed a rift between father and son, but now Geoffrey is Adam’s only hope for mastering his new werewolf abilities. After being abandoned by his own father before his first shift, Geoffrey knows how difficult it is to cope with these changes. But he begins to realize that maybe Adam is the one who can teach him a thing or two about what it means to be a werewolf.

Adam Croxen’s Story

The 20th is right around the corner! I can’t wait for you to meet Adam in the next novella of the Legacy Series! Here’s a portion of the first chapter that tells about Adam’s relationship with his father, Geoffrey.

Navajo Territory, 1721

Adam sat cross-legged in the threshold of his family’s hogan, drawing figures in the sand with a stick. The evening sun began its slow descent behind the sacred mountains, alighting the sky in brilliant shades of deep orange, like the earth from which his people built their homes. Soon, the moon and stars would rise in the east and bring the night. One more day and no sign of his father.

The hunting party had already returned from their journey, bringing with them a pair of deer for the communal meal. He could smell them preparing the fire somewhere towards the center of their village.

Behind him, Adam could hear his mother beating down the wool yarn with her wooden comb as she weaved a blanket upon the upright loom. There wasn’t much daylight left to weave by, but she had been sitting in their hogan all day working on this new project.

His mother was known for her beautiful blankets and rugs. No one else in the village could replicate her intricate diamond designs, making every piece one of a kind and prized by others outside of their tribe. That’s why father was so late in returning home. He said he would travel all the way to the Ute people to the north to trade her blankets for something special.

“Why don’t you go play with the other boys?” she asked as she wove the white and gray yarn between the taut strings. “Staring won’t make azhé’é return sooner.”

Adam sighed. The last thing he wanted to do was go play with the other boys of the village. “Have you heard what they’re calling me?” he questioned as he looked over his shoulder.

His mother didn’t even look up from her project. “What? Ashkii Bináá’ Ch’ilgo Dootł’izh?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “Boy with Green Eyes. I like my eyes. Why should they make fun of me for them?”

A slow smile curled across his mother’s lips. Perhaps he was biased, but Adam thought his mother was the most beautiful woman in the village. If he had been to any other of the Diné villages, he knew he would find no one who could compare to her. He enjoyed helping her comb her long, silky black hair in the early morning before she wrapped it up into a bun with her strip of white cloth.

Adam’s skin wasn’t as dark as hers, or any of his people for that matter. Even his hair wasn’t black like theirs, but a dark brown. Everything about him was just slightly lighter than the others in the village. Except his eyes. Adam’s eyes were the color of rich sagebrush, just like his father’s.

“They’re not making fun of you, Adam,” his mother said, her words like a gentle caress to his nervous spirit. “The name your father gave you means nothing to them, so they look for something else to call you.”

Adam turned himself around, discarding the stick he had been using to draw pictures since earlier that afternoon. The dirt beneath him scraped against the rough hide of his deerskin pants. “Then why can’t they call me something like Ashkii Dilwo’ii? Everyone knows I run fast.”

She only shrugged. “Maybe you should go now and suggest it.”

He rolled his eyes. If he went and told the other boys that he wanted to be called something else, they would only tease him and know that his bestowed nickname bothered him enough to say something. His father told him once to never let others know that something upset him. It would only give them the power to use his feelings against him. Adam saw the easiest way was to just leave the matter alone. He might have only been eight summers old, but he was learning much wisdom from his father.

Besides, he enjoyed sitting and listening to his mother hum her songs while she weaved. When all the other boys were practicing shooting their bows, he was content to sit and stare at the horizon and wait for his father.

He absolutely hated the days, and sometimes weeks, when his father and uncle were away to trade. When they were in the village, Adam didn’t feel so different from the rest. His father’s golden hair, the color of ripe corn, made him stand out among the rest, even if his eyes weren’t so green. Both his father and uncle were pale, much paler than the Diné, but not quite as pale as the men from the south who called themselves the Mexicans and Spanish. Adam always heard the elders whisper about how strange it was that Asdzáá Yanaha, his mother, would find such a strange man attractive enough to marry. That’s why they called her Brave Woman.

Whatever it was they saw in each other, the Diné accepted the union and the men called Geoffrey and Hugo were allowed to live amongst them as if they were part of the Diné. It was an agreeable arrangement for everyone. Geoffrey and Hugo were accepted in almost all the other tribes, even the Comanche, so the Diné could trade with them without ever having to leave their sacred lands between the four mountains.

Adam heard a shout coming from somewhere inside the village and scrambled to his feet to peek to the north. He could see four bobbing specs in the distance, ambling at a slow pace. He peered against the waning light and spotted his father’s golden hair.

He took off just as his mother was rising from her place in front of the loom to see what the commotion was. Adam’s feet pounded against the parched earth and some of the other boys in the village joined in their race to meet the two traders. He was faster than all of them, though, passing by the fields of crops and herded sheep tended by the young women of the village.

Geoffrey, his father, dismounted from his horse and caught Adam in his arms as he slammed into him at a full run. From atop his own mare, Hugo laughed and joked about the boy cracking a rib.

“That’s all right,” his father said with a laugh. “I’ve missed you too, son.”

As soon as Adam was firmly planted on the ground once more, his eyes drifted up to the bound load atop his father’s packhorse. “What’s the special thing you traded mother’s blanket for?” he asked in Geoffrey’s tongue, the tongue of the English. He had learned it aside his mother’s language since he was old enough to speak.

“It’s not anything on there,” his father replied, then motioned toward the unburdened horse tied to Hugo’s saddle. “This is for you.”

Adam’s mouth gaped open with delight. “A horse? For me?” he screeched.

By now, some of the other village boys were coming upon the group that had been brought to a standstill.

Geoffrey nodded. “It’s yours.”

After giving his father another hug to show his appreciation, Adam fled to his gift. Horses belonged to those within the village who had use of them. The men who went hunting, in particular. None of the younger boys had their own horses until they were of age to join the hunting parties. Adam had many more summers before it was his time. He’d be the envy of every boy in the village and perhaps they wouldn’t call him Green Eyes anymore. Maybe they’d call him something more heroic like Horse Warrior.

Adam reached up and petted the neck of the young chestnut brown stallion. The horse nudged his shoulder with his thick muzzle, a dark eye watching his new master with interest. Hugo dismounted his own steed and pushed his way through the tiny crowd of boys who were busily gawking over Adam’s gift.

“Come here, boy,” he said as he easily lifted Adam onto the stallion’s bare back. “He’s quite tame. Just take a bit of his hair to hold onto.”

Adam grinned so hard his cheeks began to hurt. “What should I call him?”

“Whatever you want,” his father replied from the other side of their group.

After a moment of thought and unwarranted suggestions from his peers, Adam announced in both of his parents’ tongues, “I’ll call him Gift, since that’s what he is.”

Geoffrey nodded his approval and began to guide his two horses toward the village where a sizable crowd was forming just on the edge, waiting for his arrival. Adam watched as Hugo reached over and untied the rope from around Gift’s neck.

“Take him for a ride,” his uncle offered with a wink.

Adam didn’t have to be told twice. He kicked Gift and off they sped, leaving the jealous boys behind. He heard his father shouting out his feeble warnings to be careful, but caution was the last thing on his mind. With the wind tossing his hair and beating against his face, who could think of safety? All he could think of was that the boundaries of his home had just expanded. With a horse, he could go anywhere, even to the sacred mountains if he dared.

***

Geoffrey’s gaze skimmed over the crowd of dark heads that moved toward them with raised arms and shouts of joy. There were plenty of women coming to meet him and Hugo with expectant looks, but not one of them belonged to him. He spotted her toward the back, standing apart from the others with a soft smile as she wrapped her striped blanket about her shoulders.

He blindly handed the reins of his horse to his brother and edged through the natives to meet her. Geoffrey had been all over the known world, and traveled through parts that had yet to be trodden by Europeans. But not one face could capture him as hers did.

When they first met, even his inner wolf salivated for the chance to claim her for his own. They came to, what they learned to be called, the Navajo Territory a decade ago, continuing their search for myths and legends about their own kind. Many of the native tribes they encountered had a shapeshifting story, some related to wolves and other animals like crows and coyotes. Geoffrey and Hugo hadn’t expected to stay in the Navajo Territory, not when the promise of further exploration drifted from further south. The Spanish and Mexican colonies were sure to have their own brand of legends mingled in with the native folktales, but Asdzáá Yanaha changed all that.

It was difficult to form the sounds of their unique language at first, so Geoffrey gave her another name. Rebecca. It was reserved just for him, in the same way that she called him Hastiin Bitsii’ Łitso because of his blonde hair. After they learned to speak one another’s language, communication became much easier – as did other things.

Many of the native tribes they encountered warmly received Geoffrey and Hugo into their villages, eager to share their way of life, so different than what they were familiar with. They learned typical trading customs, languages, and varying cultures that seemed to be so in tune with the natural world. Hugo had once remarked that his wolf never felt more at ease than it did amongst the tribespeople, especially when they sang their haunting chants. Geoffrey felt it too, which was why when Adam came along, it was a simple decision to stay with the Navajo. For now.

Geoffrey watched as a stray strand of dark hair came loose from Rebecca’s tight bun and fell across her face. When she made no move to tuck it behind her ear, he did it for her.

“You look well,” he said softly in English, smiling down at her and wishing they could retreat back to the hogan for some privacy.

Rebecca nodded. “You too,” she replied, his own sentiments mirrored in her dark eyes. “Adam has missed you.”

“I hope someone else in the village missed me too,” he remarked, taking a tiny step closer so he could hear the way their heartbeats became one.

Rebecca slid a glance toward the group of villagers collecting the new goods as Hugo distributed them. “Skipping Woman asked almost every day when you’d return. She wanted more beads for the necklace she’s making for her daughter.”

Geoffrey couldn’t contain himself any longer and guided her chin back toward him so she could receive his kiss. They had been together for so long, but the scent of her raw arousal never grew old. Despite what she so obviously felt, she pulled away and giggled like the young woman he had met ten years ago.

“What’s this I hear about the boys calling Adam a name?” he asked as they began to make their way into the village, walking past the other hogans with their wisps of campfire smoke curling upwards through the hole in the earthen roofs.

“It’s just a season,” she sighed. “The boys will find something else to amuse themselves and they’ll call him a different name.”

Geoffrey nodded, though the prospect of his son being ridiculed in such a way unsettled him. “Believe it or not, I was a boy once too. I remember being teased and bullied. I just want Adam to have the best childhood that he can.”

Rebecca slid a glance his way. “Until you take him from me.”

For the sake of not repeating Hugo’s mistake, Geoffrey was completely honest with Rebecca from the beginning, even before Adam was born. He told her all about werewolves and how they were not the same thing as the yeahnáglóshii – the skinwalker – that was considered an evil shapeshifter in the Navajo culture. Once she saw his golden eyes and watched him shift for the first time, Rebecca seemed rather accepting of him and Hugo. The rest of the village didn’t know and they wanted to keep it that way.

However, when Adam was born, Geoffrey told her about what would happen when he came of age. It’d be too dangerous to keep him in the village, and they both agreed that taking him away for his training would be best for everyone. That didn’t mean she had to like it.

“You still have several more years with him,” Geoffrey encouraged as he hung his arm around her shoulders to draw her closer.

“You must promise that you’ll come back with him before I die.”

It was such a morbid thought for a woman still in her prime, but Geoffrey wouldn’t allow himself to be naïve. Rebecca was human and would pass away some day. Geoffrey, Hugo, and Adam would not. Geoffrey would look as young as he did now by the time they left the village for the last time. Rebecca’s beautiful face however, would boast a few wrinkles and her body wouldn’t be so lithe and supple between his arms. He knew when he fell in love with her that it wouldn’t last forever, however much he wished it could.

“I promise I will bring him back to you,” he said as they ducked into the cool air of the hogan they shared. “I see you’ve been working hard on something beautiful,” he remarked in regard to the stunning blanket stretched on the loom.

Rebecca turned to him. “That reminds me. What was this special gift you were hoping to trade? If you wasted a trade on some silly beads or jewelry…”

Geoffrey kissed her cheek, admiring how she was never in want of anything but his company. “No, nothing like that. I got Adam a horse.”

Her eyes went wide. “You didn’t!”

“What’s wrong with getting the boy a horse?” Geoffrey laughed at her startled expression. “Every boy needs a horse.”

Rebecca unwrapped her blanket from around her shoulders. “I will never see that boy again,” she fumed as she folded the thick cloth. “He’ll be out all day, riding about while I need him to tend after the sheep or collect water. What is that word you use… Spoil? You spoil that child.”

Geoffrey only shrugged. “That’s what a father should do.”

Her lips that were puckered into a stern pout, melted into a grin again and she shook her head ruefully. “Making up for what you didn’t have, I assume?”

That was another thing that he made perfectly clear with Rebecca when Adam was born. Geoffrey knew little about what it meant to be a father, much less a successful one. He loved the boy just as much as he loved Rebecca, but even after eight years, he still fumbled through the hard lessons.

Geoffrey’s father wasn’t around to teach them the things they needed to learn. When he abandoned him and Hugo with their heartbroken mother, he left without a word or any hint as to what would happen to them when they became men. Geoffrey wouldn’t allow that to happen with Adam. And if that involved spoiling him with gifts along the way, he’d do it gladly.

He kissed her again instead of replying to her question and moved toward the doorway. “I need to go help Hugo take care of the horses before it gets too dark.”

Rebecca placed a delicate hand upon his arm. “Will you be home tonight, or…” She gave him a look, the one that reminded him of how she knew him all too well. It might have been something in the way he stood, or a subtle look in his eyes. Either way, she could always tell when it was his time of the month to change.

Geoffrey let out a breath and shook his head. “I won’t be sleeping with you tonight,” he said. “I’ll stay as long as I can for the evening meal, but then I have to go.”

Looking not the least bit distressed by his answer, she nodded. “Just be careful,” she warned before giving him one last kiss and turning away to the loom. There wasn’t much light to see by, and she began to put away her supplies so she could continue the next day.

Geoffrey gave her one more appraising look and then left the hogan. It had been several decades since they first stepped onto this new, unexplored continent, but it all passed by too quickly. If only the next years he had left with Rebecca and the Navajo could pass just a little more slowly, then maybe he’d be content.

But as long as the reality of their shortened stay loomed over them, Geoffrey couldn’t allow himself to be as blissfully happy as he would like. If only there was some way to keep Rebecca a little longer, to keep the ravages of time from touching her beautiful soul. To stave off death itself from seizing her spirit before he had a chance to fully appreciate it through centuries of being with her. Then, he could ignore that dull ache in his throat as he walked away from their hogan.