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The police cruiser eased into the rest stop just across the Louisiana state line. The officer in the right front seat climbed out and opened the back door. “This is where you get off, Drifter.”
The cop pulled Joe out of the cruiser and unlocked his handcuffs. Then he reached back into the car for Joe’s belt and tossed it to him. “Here. You’re once again free to hang yourself, now that you’re out of Texas. And if you’re ever in the neighborhood of Easco again, be sure and don’t drop in.” Cross The Line is a novel set in the southern U.S. in 1960. Joe's been working his way across the United States. He's already been beaten and robbed. He crosses paths with an ex-con and his crooked pals, but when he meets a blonde with a killer figure, a nickel-plated revolver and a surly kid, things really go wrong! Content Advisory: Due to some coarse language and sexual references, this book is recommended for ages 16 and older. Where to find it: |
Further sample:
Joe picked up his duffel and jacket and walked around the concrete-block restroom. He found a fire ring with a small campfire. A fifty-ish man with gray whiskers looked up. “Greetings, young man. Care to pull up a stump?”
Sure enough, someone had left some cut-off sections of tree trunks sitting around the fire ring. Joe dropped his gear again, bent over, and maneuvered one of the sections toward the fire. Bending over hurt the muscles in his back, and lowering himself to the stump hurt, too.
The man pulled out a pint bottle and grinned. “Saw you got the official escort. So did I, earlier, from the county.” He reached the bottle toward Joe. “Reckon you could use some anesthetic.”
Joe reached for the bottle. “I’d appreciate it.”
Then things go from bad to worse ...
Joe picked up his duffel and jacket and walked around the concrete-block restroom. He found a fire ring with a small campfire. A fifty-ish man with gray whiskers looked up. “Greetings, young man. Care to pull up a stump?”
Sure enough, someone had left some cut-off sections of tree trunks sitting around the fire ring. Joe dropped his gear again, bent over, and maneuvered one of the sections toward the fire. Bending over hurt the muscles in his back, and lowering himself to the stump hurt, too.
The man pulled out a pint bottle and grinned. “Saw you got the official escort. So did I, earlier, from the county.” He reached the bottle toward Joe. “Reckon you could use some anesthetic.”
Joe reached for the bottle. “I’d appreciate it.”
Then things go from bad to worse ...
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Winter was no hardship for Ethan Beck. Plenty of firewood to heat his cabin, oats and hay for his horse, Zephyr, for Rebecca’s dapple-gray pony, Starlight, and for Moo, his Jersey cow. What's hard was losing his wife and son to the fever two years ago. So when the skies turned an ominous dark purple, and the sun went down, and the wind picked up, and any animal with half a brain took shelter from the coming storm ...
Snow Angel is a novella-length love story set in 1870's Colorado Territory. Content Advisory: Due to some coarse language and mature subject matter, this book is recommended for ages 16 and older. Where to find it:
The ePub file should work on most non-Kindle readers. |
If you enjoy the story, I would really appreciate it if you would post a review on the site from which you downloaded the book. Thank you! - Peyton
Sample from Snow Angel:
Ethan stepped up onto the porch. He checked the latches on one set of shutters and then the other. Satisfied, he turned toward the door.
An unfamiliar sound blew to him on the gale – a high-pitched wail, barely audible above the howling of the wind – not the steady whistle of wind through a crevice, but the varying pitch of … what? A cat? A wounded dog? Something – some poor creature – in distress.
He stepped to the edge of the porch and held his lantern to the side so it would not blind him. Nothing. Nothing but snow rushing at him. Then he heard it again! A wild animal? No, a human voice! Calling for help.
He stepped forward, out of the safety of the porch, into the storm. He lifted the lantern high, but could see nothing beyond the driving snow. He shifted the lantern to his other hand and held it low, but still he could see nothing but a few feet of snow-covered ground before him.
Ten paces now, he thought. This is madness, to leave the safety of the cabin to get lost in a storm. But there came the wail again, and he imagined he could hear his own name, Beck!
A ghost? Or a siren, calling him, the way the sirens called Ulysses’ men to their doom? He lifted the lantern high again, hoping to see the source, to see anything but snow.
“Please, Mr. Beck!”
The ghost, the siren, formed itself into the figure of a human, reaching out of the snow, reached for him. And then it fell into him, onto him, against him, clutching at his coat and at his knees. The ghost had turned solid in the form of a young woman, shivering from cold, crying, “Please help me!”
He reached down, grabbed her by the arm and pulled her up. She tried to stand, but fell against him. He hooked his arm under hers, turned in the direction of his cabin – of safety – and pulled. He retraced his footprints and found the porch. A few more steps brought them to the door. He pulled it open and she bolted through. He followed, pushed the door shut, and dropped the oak bar into place from side to side.
He turned to see what the storm had blown to him, at the same time pulling off his cap and gloves. The siren – the girl – had fallen to her hands and knees at the edge of his rug. He began to unbutton his coat as he knelt beside her. A red scarf was wrapped around her neck, its knitting packed tight with snow. No – a red and white striped scarf, like the one Mrs. Stampp had knitted a few years ago. Virginia Stampp? Back from the dead?
He asked, “Virginia?”
The frozen form kneeling before him answered, “Mr. Beck, it is I, ...”
Ethan stepped up onto the porch. He checked the latches on one set of shutters and then the other. Satisfied, he turned toward the door.
An unfamiliar sound blew to him on the gale – a high-pitched wail, barely audible above the howling of the wind – not the steady whistle of wind through a crevice, but the varying pitch of … what? A cat? A wounded dog? Something – some poor creature – in distress.
He stepped to the edge of the porch and held his lantern to the side so it would not blind him. Nothing. Nothing but snow rushing at him. Then he heard it again! A wild animal? No, a human voice! Calling for help.
He stepped forward, out of the safety of the porch, into the storm. He lifted the lantern high, but could see nothing beyond the driving snow. He shifted the lantern to his other hand and held it low, but still he could see nothing but a few feet of snow-covered ground before him.
Ten paces now, he thought. This is madness, to leave the safety of the cabin to get lost in a storm. But there came the wail again, and he imagined he could hear his own name, Beck!
A ghost? Or a siren, calling him, the way the sirens called Ulysses’ men to their doom? He lifted the lantern high again, hoping to see the source, to see anything but snow.
“Please, Mr. Beck!”
The ghost, the siren, formed itself into the figure of a human, reaching out of the snow, reached for him. And then it fell into him, onto him, against him, clutching at his coat and at his knees. The ghost had turned solid in the form of a young woman, shivering from cold, crying, “Please help me!”
He reached down, grabbed her by the arm and pulled her up. She tried to stand, but fell against him. He hooked his arm under hers, turned in the direction of his cabin – of safety – and pulled. He retraced his footprints and found the porch. A few more steps brought them to the door. He pulled it open and she bolted through. He followed, pushed the door shut, and dropped the oak bar into place from side to side.
He turned to see what the storm had blown to him, at the same time pulling off his cap and gloves. The siren – the girl – had fallen to her hands and knees at the edge of his rug. He began to unbutton his coat as he knelt beside her. A red scarf was wrapped around her neck, its knitting packed tight with snow. No – a red and white striped scarf, like the one Mrs. Stampp had knitted a few years ago. Virginia Stampp? Back from the dead?
He asked, “Virginia?”
The frozen form kneeling before him answered, “Mr. Beck, it is I, ...”
