“Don’t be a fool, son.” The saloon’s bartender nodded toward the revolver holstered on my belt. “This town got a history. On the full moon—”
“I ain’t scared of no Wyatt Earp. No killer, frontier, quick-shooting lawmen are going to get me, no sir.” I downed my drink. “Pretty sure Johnny Ringo and his outlaws are six feet below, too.
Let me tell you a love story. No, it’s not a fallin’ story—fallin’ in love’s the messy bit. This one’s about old love, the kind that’s lived a handful of years, that’s aged into something stronger and softer. That’s where the best stories are found.
Slim was a man of few words…
I first consider a 1600s castle but prefer something more thrilling.
I leave the grand castle painting and wander through the antique store, one of the few places where I can truly be myself—free and unwatched.
What would it be like if I did this with a friend? I wonder. But no one
“Daggum scientists!” Penny growled. Hefting her skirts higher, she tore through the brome toward a cluster of cottonwoods. A raspy roar echoed across the open plain, and she glared back at said scientist. “You just had to poke the Prairie Dragon!”
“Actually, dragon is a misnomer,” Benjamin huffed, struggling to keep up.
Theodore Roosevelt clicked the hammers back on his double-barreled shotgun. The mustache atop his upper lip crinkled in a defiant sneer. “Steady, Bill. The hunt’s underway, and we’re the hunted.”
A low moan echoed amongst the ominous hilltops, climbing into an ear-wrenching wail that rattled my bones. I lifted my rifle and
I knew I would regret taking Cuthbert Devereaux’s navigation advice.
When my old nemesis butted into my mission in Nazi Germany, he brought nothing but trouble. It’s entirely his fault we landed in colonial Australia. Now we’re trussed like roasted chickens and propped against a pile of dusty saddlebags in an outlaw camp.
She swept into town like the swirls of dust that haunted the desert plains, a lonely traveler like a bounding weed, and struck out to seek what was lost.
The town, its decrepit buildings leaning into the incessant south winds, swiftly spread the name of Mellie Rembrandt. Nobody forgot a name like Rembrandt…
Clowns. Dudley Keene dismounted from his sorrel and cursed. He unsheathed his Winchester rifle from its saddle scabbard and pumped the lever. I hate clowns.
His dirt-stained boots plodded through tall grass until he reached an island of wreckage in the sea of prairie. An abandoned carriage stood idle beside a caravan of upturned covered
Hayden DuPont peeled away the bear’s gut and poked his head into the morning air. Mushy fur sagged as Montana wind sliced through the beast’s opening. Intestines and fluids dripped. DuPont’s breath plumed. Relief flooded his chest.
Alive.
Naked and caked in dried blood, he crawled from the bear’s protective womb and toddled
The desert stretched as far as Ben could see, the horizon disappearing in a haze of heat waves. He touched a hand to his black mustache and attempted to ignore the boasts coming from the man walking beside his horse.
“My men are comin’ for me, marshal,” said Jack Chase. He wore a smile
Slade Cartwright adjusted the scope on his Sharps rifle and awaited the Devil’s stagecoach. The Texas Ranger tipped the brim of a sweat-stained hat, swigged from his canteen, and wiped perspiration from his forehead. Mesquite trees and cacti provided limited shade underneath the unforgiving sun, but he made do amidst the desert rock outcropping.
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“Vampires, Marshal. Was a vampire that did it,” said the stout hotel manager.
Roland Chadwick, Deputy US Marshal, removed his fingers from the bite mark against Judge Wilkens’s neck. “Should send for a doctor.”
The manager leaned over the lawman’s shoulder. “Ain’t one in town, just the barber. He’s only good with stitches
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