Deadly Double-Cross
by Sherry Roseberry
Genre: Romantic Suspense
Crystal James operates Gemstone, a skiing resort her father owns, settled at the base of the Grand Tetons. She can survive in the wilds of the jagged range even if they are covered in snow. Lukas Guarrad, a Los Angeles detective, knows his way around the big city but is at a loss in the mountains. Especially when he’s afraid of heights. He’s trailing a cat burglar named Panther, who uses Gemstone to fence his stolen goods, because the thief murdered Luke’s partner.
Crystal witnesses a homicide meant to look like a heart attack. Later she inadvertently hears a death warrant taken out on her life. All other avenues blocked, she strikes out for the Tetons and stumbles across Luke who has sprained his ankle. Is he the assassin? If not, his life is in danger as well. Plus in his condition he’s no match for the elements. She is forced to haul him along.
There is a growing attraction between them. But can she trust him? Luke tries to protect Crystal from Panther, but in the end will she be able to overcome her paralyzing fear of guns to pick one up and save them both?
Love Only Once
by Sherry Roseberry
Genre: Historical Romance
Does love come again?
Granger Hawks firmly believes he can love only once. Not wanting a wife, but needing a woman who could educate and be a mother figure for his daughter, he answers an ad for a mail-ordered bride, requesting someone plain and unassuming, someone he wouldn’t become emotionally involved with. Without love, emotions fade, leaving festering sores.
Tired of living off charity, Falisha Harrington travels to New Mexico in answer to Mr. Hawks’s petition. Positive he doesn’t need a wife, but a governess for his daughter, she’s determined to convince him of that fact.
The woman with large slate-blue eyes and platinum-blond hair is not what Granger had expected, and he’s dead set on sending the beautiful Miss Harrington back to St Lewis. But a deserter kidnaps Falisha for the money she’ll bring South of the border.
It’s one thing for Granger to rescue Falisha from white slavery. It’s another for him to admit he can find love more than once.
Tender Deceptions
by Sherry Roseberry
Genre: Romantic Suspense
For all outward purposes, Michelle Grant is a sophisticated, San Francisco, society girl. But beneath her exotic beauty lies a daring spirit that leads her into the dark, perilous streets of Chinatown. Masked as a Chinese man, but named Mei Hwa, she’s part of a secret alliance that rescues innocent young girls from the brothel cribs.
Dirk Andrews is out for revenge. His younger brother died at the hands of Celeste Grant, and he means to make her pay. He’s found that the woman has made her fortune on coolie trade, opium, and brothel slavery. Going undercover, he works his way into Celeste’s confidence.
From the first time Dirk met her, Mei Hwa intrigued him. Why her deception? Why walk the streets at night dressed as a Chinese man? And why was she so intent on rescuing girls from the brothel cribs? It was dangerous work, and not fit for a woman. As Mei Hwa and Dirk work together fighting the slave girl trade, their feelings for each other grow. And he professes his love.
One morning Michelle hears a familiar laugh. With trepidation she glances into the drawing room to find her Aunt Celeste with her arms around Dirk. How could he? How could he hold that woman? Had she surrendered her heart to a traitor?
Prologue
Los Angeles
December
Who would have thought Lucas Guarrad,
of all people, would be looking forward to a toddler's birthday party? Not
anyone down at LAPD headquarters, that's for sure.
With a blue tank engine secured under
one arm, a yellow stuffed bear pressed against his chest, and a grin edging his
mouth, Luke stepped from his black sixty‑seven Thunderbird onto the curbed
lawn. He would have spent more on little Nicky, but he'd been asked correction
… ordered, to keep the cost in a reasonable range.
Well, so much for seats on the fifty‑yard
line at the Super Bowl.
Luke glanced up and, through the
picture window of his partner's enormous fixer-upper, he spied the birthday boy
as the two-year-old popped above the high‑backed couch. It took only a moment
before Nicky spotted him. A luminous smile spread across the child's cherubic
face.
The excited toddler made a trampoline
of the cushions and waved his chubby arms. Luke could almost hear the tyke give
his usual greeting, "Unka Ouke. Unka Ouke!" Then the little guy
jumped down from the sofa.
Chuckling, Luke's grin widened. It
felt good to be wanted. Real good. He loved the boy and his five‑year‑old
sister, Rachael, as if they were his own. They made him, a professed bachelor,
think about the possibility that a cop could have it all … career,
spouse, and children.
A real family life.
Somehow, against all odds, his
partner, Detective Nicholas McCammon, made it work. A feat Luke swore a
policeman could never do.
The outside light flicked on, and
Nick stepped onto the porch. He smiled. "You're late."
"Only by thirty‑seven minutes
and…." Pushing the car door shut with the heel of his Wellington boot, he
made a great production of raising his arm to look at his watch. "Fifteen
seconds. I couldn't decide on the tank engine, or … the stuffed toy." He
nodded to each in turn.
"So, you got both.”
Luke shrugged. "What can I
say?"
McCammon shook his head.
"Party's out in the gazebo. Justine's setting it…."
Glancing at his feet, he paused and
picked up what appeared to be a small piece of paper. Brow puckered, he held it
up to the light. All at once he staggered back a step and jerked his attention
to the opened garage. A wrapped, glossy blue present sat on his gas heater. A
visible shudder passed through his now rigid body.
Just as he turned his horror‑stricken
expression to Luke, an abrupt explosion reverberated through the air. The blast
torpedoed Nick off the stoop as if his body were made of so many goose
feathers.
Stunned, Luke froze in place. His
heart stopped. His mind blanked out, and his blood turned to ice.
In shocked disbelief, he took a stumbling
gait forward, a cry escaping his constricted throat. The bomb ignited the
living room curtains, growing, consuming.
Justine. Rachael. Little Nicholas.
Did they make it to the gazebo? Or
were they still inside?
With a guttural scream, Luke dropped
the presents and bolted toward the house. He refused to admit it was already
too late.
The gas pipes detonated. In the next
instant, subsequent explosions worked their way through the home. Like deadly
dominoes, a wave of air pressure crumpled the ranch‑style structure as if it
were fashioned from graham crackers.
Glass splintered from window frames.
Smoke billowed from the foundation. Fire spurted into the pewter sky. Blinding
light chased away shadows hovering around the tops of nearby palm trees.
Resembling a colony of ravenous termites, flames ate at the wood frame. The
roaring noises had to be there.
But Luke couldn't hear them. Instead, a deafening quiet rang
in his ears.
Jetted debris knocked him flat on his
back. The impact punched the air from his lungs. Fighting for oxygen, he
covered his face with his arms and rolled onto his stomach. He knew shrapnel
struck him, although, like the thunderous clamor, shock sedated any pain.
Warm blood ran from his brow and
trickled down the side of his nose. It dripped onto his eyelid, and he scrubbed
his face against his shirt sleeve.
He scanned the yard for Nick, barely
making out the man's inert form among the rubble. Digging his fingernails into
the sandy earth, he dragged himself over to his friend and managed to pull
himself to his knees.
"Nick? Nick, can you hear
me?"
No answer.
Luke placed the pads of two fingers
at the side of the man's burned neck, trying to find a heartbeat. It was faint,
but there. He positioned an ear to his mouth and a hand on his chest.
Nothing.
With his pulse throbbing in his
temples, he tilted Nick's chin, pinched the man's nose and, with his mouth over
Nick's, administered two slow breaths. He watched his chest rise and fall.
Again, he checked for any sign of breathing.
Still nothing.
"McCammon, don't cut out on me
now."
Over and over Luke gently blew air
into Nick's lungs, while silently vowing to never give up. He rechecked for a
heartbeat and drew strength in finding a steady thump.
Yet the man would not breathe on his
own.
"Come on … come on! You
can't…." He choked on the words.
For the third sequence, he breathed
for his friend. All of a sudden, Nick gasped. He drew in a shuddering breath …
then another.
Relief washed over Luke. Salty tears
stung the gashes on his face. Grasping his partner's lacerated hand, he found
the paper Nick had been examining moments before the first explosion.
Luke didn't have to look at it to
know what it was. Shaking, he withdrew the business card and stared transfixed
at a glossy insignia.
In gradual succession, he became
conscious of shouts from somewhere down the street, a siren howling in the
distance, and a relay of barking dogs. Pain crawled into his being, consumed
his mind. But it failed to match the burning ache in his heart. A gathering
blackness tunneled his vision.
As he caught the flash of the blue
engine and the yellow bear heaped by the bumper of his car, he slumped over
Nick's body; the card clenched in his fist.
Chapter
One
"I’m so close, Chief, I can
smell the musk in his aftershave."
"I don't care if you can smell
Panther's armpits. You're off the
case."
Luke paced Chief Graystone's
confining office. His agitation grew with each creak of the antiquated hardwood
flooring. The muffled voices, the intermittent phone calls, the whir of equipment
filtering in from the department, compounded his turmoil.
"A week is all I need. Just give
me a week."
"How many times have you said
that?" Graystone finished cleaning his brown horn‑rimmed glasses and slid
them back onto his broad face. "It's been four months since....Well, it's
been four months, and you're no further ahead than you were before."
As the weeks passed, and Luke's
physical wounds healed, the rage he felt intensified. He would never grow
accustomed to the anger twisting his gut. He would never grow accustomed to the
loneliness.
"But this time"
"Guarrad, I lost my partner,
your father, remember? I know how
you feel." He gave a quick shake of his head. "McCammon was a fine
man. Well liked. And, I might add, the only one who didn't hassle you
about all that engraving on the slider of your gun."
At the mention of his Glock 19, a
bittersweet smile caught one corner of Luke's mouth. Ever since he was a child,
watching old cowboy movies on cable, he'd wanted a fancy looking pistol. As a
detective, he gave in to his boyhood whims. Because of that, he'd suffered a
lot of ribbing, some good‑natured, some downright disagreeable.
But not from Nick.
"He was topnotch, all
right."
"That he was. And the best
partner anyone could ask for. One of the few you got along with." The
chief thumped the end of a chewed‑on pencil against his calloused palm, then
skidded it across the water ring‑marked surface of his desk. He sat back in his
seasoned leather chair, the springs creaking in protest under his large‑boned
build. "You're too close, Guarrad, You, of all people, should know—"
"I, of all people, should be the
one to go after Panther!"
Hate warred for dominance within Luke
at the mention of the perp who'd killed Nick, maimed his wife, and injured his
children, Nick, Justine, Rachael, and Nicky. All at the price of being a cop with a family. The
sights and sounds of that tragic evening echoed through his mind.
Spent gunpowder.
Splintering glass.
Consuming fire.
The gut‑wrenching images were as
fresh as the moment they happened. Fragments stung his forehead, bit into his
chin, and gouged his back and legs. Even now, he discerned the metallic taste
of blood in his mouth, smelled the bitter odor of sulphur.
Since that day he’d had enough of
this thankless job that peeled away at a man's soul. More and more thoughts of
duty in a small town appealed to him, where the biggest problems were who picked
Mrs.-avid-gardener's prized roses or rescuing a cat from a tree without being
clawed to pieces.
But first, he had to track down
Panther.
Luke walked to the smog‑stained
window and stared down at the Los Angeles traffic below. The cars and buses
resembled toys on a child's play mat. Suddenly, he felt as small and
insignificant as they appeared.
"It's personal. Nick was my
partner," he said, his voice low. "I’m the one who lost the most.
I'll take care of it."
I
need to take care of it.
Like a brave on the warpath,
Graystone lunged to his feet, knocking his swivel chair to the floor,
"Look, Guarrad," he growled, slamming his burly hands flat on the
desktop. "You're not the only one who has something at stake with all
this. And you sure as shootin' don't have the corner on pain. What happened to
the McCammon's you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy. It hit us all hard. So
don't think you're the only one hurting here!"
Graystone's thunderous voice startled
Luke into a new vein of thought. He realized he'd been selfishly thinking only
of himself lately and
how his life had been
flushed down the toilet. He was filled with guilt.
Of course, the others felt a deep
loss at Nick's death. He had a lot of friends in the precinct. Luke massaged
the base of his skull, as if doing so could make sense out of the whole rotten
business.
"You're right, Chief." He
took a steadying breath. "I'm sorry. I'm usually a pretty amiable
guy."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah."
Graystone jerked his chair upright and settled down.
Luke jammed his hands into the
pockets of his faded jeans. He felt a thick‑edged, business card like the one
Panther had left on Nick's porch. Only the card targeted for Nick was meant to
be a warning. A warning for the rest of them to back off their investigation or
someone else would be killed or badly hurt.
The "greeting" was simple
enough, white paper bearing a paw print of a predator cat. Luke kept a copy
with him as a constant reminder of what he had to do. He had to bring the guy in.
He owed it to Nick. He owed it to his
partner's wife. He owed it to his children.
Unbidden, the stark image of Little
Nicky jumping on the couch, waving his pudgy arms loomed up in Luke's mind. He
squeezed his eyes shut at the tormenting memory that never seemed to dull with
time.
"Look, Chief, I don't mean to
take my frustrations out on anyone, especially you. The thing is, I've a gut
feeling we're—"
He stopped short. There was no we now. Nick was gone.
Luke stared at the spidery cracks on
the plastered wall, "I've a gut feeling I'm close. You and Dad talked
about your premonitions on different cases. So you, most of all, know about
this kind of instinct."
"My instincts have no bearing on
this case. Besides, how would it look if I go upstairs and tell them you need
to stay on Panther's tail because a little voice said so? They'll think I'm
nuts. I know." Graystone seemed to speak more to himself than to Luke.
"I've been there enough times in your father's case."
"We have Nick's description of
the perp," Luke persisted. "Such as it is. And I'm waiting to hear
what more my informant can dig up."
Resting his hands on his stomach, the
chief steepled his long fingers. "Personal vendettas make for deadly
bedfellows, Guarrad. You know that. Or don't you care?"
"Chief, I just—"
"You're not doing anybody any
good pushing yourself like this. The doctor said if you don't slow down, give
yourself more time to heal, you'll have complications with the wounds. Not to
mention that eardrum."
"The lacerations are fine. I'm
fine. Everything's fine!" With a tired sigh, Luke closed his eyes and took
a calming breath. "Just ... just let me finish this. I can get him. I've
never asked for special favors, but all I need are a few days."
"You have a mandatory three
weeks of sick leave, however." Graystone sounded as drained as Luke felt.
The time isn't to be used to chase after Panther. Use it for a rest. A much
needed rest. Copy?"
"I don't need—"
"Guarrad, this isn't a request.
It's an order."
"But you could—"
"My hands are tied on this. I
can't help you even if you are my godson. Word came down this morning that if
you don't comply, you will be
put on suspension. You are so wired, you're not only a danger to yourself but a
detriment to others." He leaned forward. "And you're to give your
file on Panther to Widmark."
"That weasel‑mouth reject from
Mammoth Caves?"
"That weasel‑mouth...." He
sucked in a calming breath. "That officer can
work with the FBI. Which is more than I can say for you."
"Well, bully for the Feds,"
Luke muttered.
He glanced through the office windows
at the individual who stuck in his craw. Widmark was a poor substitute for Nick
McCammon. The stuffy detective couldn't compete with Nick's backbone and savvy.
Couldn't even come close.
Not only that, at times Widmark
didn't even act like a cop, setting himself apart from the rest of the
precinct. The scrawny man sat at a desk that was butted against Luke's. An
invisible line separated the officer's spit and polish from Luke's disarray.
The fact was, he really didn't like the clutter either. He simply didn't clear
his desk to annoy Widmark.
Luke turned his back on his new
partner, wishing it could be just as easy to blot the man from his mind,
"Why should I give up all my
hard leg work? Make him pound the pavement like I did. Sunshine will do him
wonders."
"He has a skin problem."
The chief pulled off his glasses, tossed them onto the marred desktop, and took
a moment to rub his eyes. "This might come as a total shock, but there's
no contest here. Widmark is on the same team we are. Just follow orders, Luke.
Both our careers might depend upon it."
Wrestling with the anger gnawing his
gut, Luke stared at the discarded wads of paper that didn't make it into the
trash can.
"Is that clear? Guarrad...?
Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir. It's clear."
"Good!" A smile split Graystone's
beefy face. "Now, don't come around here for three weeks."
Luke moved to the door and grabbed
the knob.
"Oh, and Guarrad...."
Luke paused, angling a glance at his
boss. "Don't tell me. Widmark's been assigned as my nursemaid."
The chief chuckled, "Just think
of it this way. Now you won't have to get that haircut I've been after you
about."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah."
Resigned to his fate, Luke returned
to his desk, slumped into his chair, and leaned back against the cracked
Naugahyde. At least being officially off duty, he wouldn't have to deal with
the bonehead sitting across from him.
"Hard day at the office?"
Widmark's pinched tone was the last
thing Luke needed to hear. In frustration as much as agitation, he snatched a
sheet of paper from the disarray on his desktop, crumpled it into a ball, and
pitched it into a wastebasket twenty feet away.
Widmark snorted,
"Guarrad if you spent as much time clearing your desk as you do in
your adolescent play, you'd be further along in your work."
"That so?"
"Proven fact. A cluttered
workplace—"
"I've heard it all before."
"From your wife, no doubt."
"Not married."
The officer smirked, "I can see
why."
The man's droll remark irritated.
Widmark could see nothing of the kind. Luke chose the single life because, to
him, being married to a cop was, in itself, abuse. A different kind of abuse
than he had to deal with while investigating battered cases, to be sure, but
the results were the same.
First hand, he had seen how the wives
of fellow policemen molded their existence around their husbands'—wondering,
worrying, waiting to receive word that he'd been killed on duty.
That was abuse.
Even Justine McCammon inadvertently
proved his theory by her serious injuries. If she hadn't been a cop's wife, she
wouldn't be in a wheelchair right now. He couldn't do that to a woman. Not to
someone he loved.
Widmark's lips curved in a sneer.
"What? No glib retort? No scathing comeback?"
The black, touchtone phone on Luke's
desk rang, preventing any reply. He let it ring.
"Aren't you going to answer
that?"
Luke shrugged, swinging his booted
feet atop his desk, then crossing them at the ankle. "I'm on leave."
With a disgusted grunt, Widmark
stretched over to Luke's side and grabbed the receiver, "LAPD." He
listened for a moment, then held the handset out to him. "It's for
you."
Luke cradled the phone between his
ear and shoulder and sprawled back in his seat. "Guarrad here."
"Sergeant?"
At the sound of the breathy, female
voice, Luke sat up, losing his grip on the receiver. This was the call he'd
been waiting for. He juggled the handset back up to his ear.
"You got something for me?"
Normally, he used the placid tone he'd perfected when dealing with police
matters, but now he had a hard time keeping the excitement from his voice.
"If I do ... are you gonna do
what you promised? You gonna help me get outta here?"
"That's the deal." He
glanced up at Widmark who, all of a sudden, rearranged the already precisely
stacked reports on his desk. Luke turned the back of his chair to the
irritating man. "Talk to me."
"Berg thinks he's been handed a
bum deal. Wants more of a cut. Especially on this last heist. That traveling
art exhibit was his baby. He bought a plane ticket yesterday."
"Destination?" Luke
swiveled around and reached for his last workable pen, only to knock it into
his overflowing trash can. "Hold on."
Grumbling, he grabbed the basket and
anchored it between his boots. He rummaged through wads of papers, managing to
stick his thumb in a half‑eaten cheeseburger. The pen slid down a ketchup‑soaked
napkin and fell to the bottom.
On the scale of one to ten, Luke's
patience was a minus two. He dumped the entire contents onto his desktop,
spilling the remaining coffee in a Styrofoam cup. Shuffling through wet papers
and stale French fries, he found his errant pen. He smoothed out a crumpled
report form and prepared to write. Widmark groaned.
"Okay, shoot."
"He's going to Idaho."
"When?"
"Tomorrow."
"Time?"
"Not sure. But I do know he's
going to a skiing resort called Gemstone. He'll be staying at the Gemstone
Lodge. He's supposed to.... Wait." Her breathing quickened. It sounded
tense. "He's supposed to," she finally continued, her voice lowered,
"meet Panther there. Have you got that?"
Luke had a hard time hearing her, but
what he thought she said made his heart pound. "Say the last part
again?"
She took a shaky breath. "He's
to meet Panther. Got it?"
"Got it. See you soon."
He dropped the receiver onto the
cradle, staring at it a few seconds before looking up. "Widmark, tell the
Chief that if it's R&R he wants, it's R&R he'll get. I've a hankering
to build a snowman."
He slung his leather jacket over his
shoulder and headed for the stairs.
"Hey, wait a minute,
Guarrad," Widmark shouted after him. "Where's the file on
Panther?"
Luke chuckled to himself. "It's
on my desk."
Chapter
Two
Gemstone Lodge, Idaho
"Be careful what you pray for.
You just might get it."
Crystal James sat at her favorite
corner alcove in the deserted dining room at Gemstone Lodge. She looked up from
her bookkeeping just as Betty sat a platter full of fresh-from-the-oven
cinnamon rolls, two small plates, and two cups of steaming coffee on the
laminated table. Grabbing some silverware from the waitress' stand, she
smoothed her apron over her rounded midriff, and settled herself across from
Crystal.
The delectable aroma helped revive
Crystal's flagging spirits. Her taste buds salivated. "What made you think
of that old adage?" she asked, as she leaned against the teal-blue
upholstery and closed her eyes a moment. Her lids felt as rough as sandpaper.
"Because we prayed for moisture
during those years of drought. Now, it seems, we're in for another storm."
Betty patted down her French twist, tucking in a strand or two of brunette
hair. "I can't remember when we've had so much snow."
Crystal stared out the window at the
darkening skies. Nickle-sized snowflakes floated to the ground. A deceptive
beginning for what could end up a total whiteout. Thoughts of the flakes
melting on her skin pebbled her flesh with goosebumps. Seeking warmth, she
wrapped her hands around her mug of coffee.
What her friend said was true. The
Grand Teton mountain range was having a record precipitation year. Down in the valley,
starts from tulip and daffodil bulbs poked through the ground. Up here in the
higher elevation of the basin, however, winter wasn't about to leave without
giving one last final punch.
"We can't complain." She
stifled a yawn and kneaded the taut cords up the back of her neck and head.
Lately, her efforts to relax the sore muscles had proved pointless. Using her
fingers, she combed her short hair back into place. "For the first time in
seven years, we're operating in the black."
"Yes, and at what cost?"
After Betty stirred sugar into her cup, she took a tentative sip. When I first
came here to work, you reminded me a lot of Tinker Bell. Suntanned from the
slopes, and flaxen- blonde hair. Why you even seemed to flit about from project
to project. But lately, you look like you could fall asleep standing up, you're
pale, and you've lost some of that sparkle in those blue eyes of yours."
She shook her head for emphasis. I don't know why Michael works you so hard.
And I don't like what it's doing to you."
"It isn't Dad's fault. It's
mine. I'm the manager, remember. Comes with the territory."
"I've said it before; I'll say
it again. You're dead on your feet because you try so hard to please everyone
else and have no time for yourself." The woman scooped up one of the
pastries with a spatula and slid it onto a plate. Creamed frosting angled down
the side. "The calendar says the season's over. We should close."
If
only we could.
Crystal sighed, more she realized
because of her own disconcertment than because of what Betty believed. Her gaze
caught sight of the new restaurant menus featuring Gemstone on the cover. Many
shops flanked Gemstone Lodge. Her father had renovated the lobby in keeping
with the rustic flavor of the main hotel. The new entrance, constructed of huge
logs, rock, and windows, rose to a majestic inverted V two-and-a-half stories
high. All this with the towering Tetons she loved as a backdrop.
"We can't close. We're expecting
a few more guests."
Setting aside the ledger, she took a
bite of her roll, savoring the mouth-watering sweetness.
"Skiers!" the cook
snorted. "I don't understand them. If there's still a chance for some
skiing to be had, the diehards have to get in one last day. Despite that, it’s
April, and the snow's beginning to melt."
"This is what we wanted,
remember? A profitable year? Betty, these are wonderful, as always. Just
what I needed. Thank you." Crystal licked glaze off her finger.
"You'll have to share your secret. I knew the moment I hired you that you
were the best."
"Apparently I'm not as good a
cook as you think I am. I can't seem to make you gain weight."
"I don't need—"
"Nonsense. You're much too thin.
But don't think you're going to get me off the subject that easily, young lady.
I know the year's been profitable, but I don't like the effect all this extra
business has had on you. Wes should pick up the slack."
Wes Appleton, Crystal's fiancé,
helped her operate her father's ski resort. If he weren't overseeing the many
stores or procuring a varied range of art to display or sell, he was on a
business trip.
"Wes is just as busy as I
am."
"We've been so swamped this
season; he could stay home more often. We can use his help. You've had to
accomplish more than four people combined. You need a rest. Although," the
cook leaned forward, her Hazel eyes twinkling, there's one good thing coming
out of all this. We'll finally be able to plan that wedding of yours."
Yes, the wedding!
She waited for that familiar surge of
excitement. For some odd reason, it did not come.
***
"Cici,
how could you do this to me?"
He
held his hand to his chest. Blood seeped up his sleeve and oozed across his red‑checkered
shirt.
"No.
No!"
"No!"
Crystal bolted upright in bed. Her
cotton nightshirt, soaked with perspiration, stuck to her skin. Hot tears streamed
down her face. Again and again, she heard the sudden explosion of the 30.06.
The sound reverberated in her ears, filling her soul. The acidified taste of
Sulphur settled on her tongue.
"Didn't
I tell you not to touch the gun?" he cried out in pain as he crumpled to
the ground. "Didn't I?"
Her childhood nightmare had taken on
a life of its own. Even though she was awake, disjointed fragments of the dream
played out in her mind's eye. Lying back down, she couldn't wipe the images
from her brain or her senses, horrifying images that took form and grew out of
her childhood fears.
Vivid imprints of that fall morning
mocked her: the pungent scent of rain‑soaked pine, the spongy earth, the crisp
air. Blunt, controlling reminders chilling her to the bone. She felt entombed
in her own body.
The
hunting rifle discharged. The resounding crack ricocheted all about her.
Startled, she looked at the gun she could barely lift, staring at the heavy
object as if it were some prehistoric lizard come to life.
"Cici.
Cici…."
"Daddy,
I…."
Blood.
Blood was everywhere. She stood transfixed as the purplish gore matted her
father's sleeve and spread across his chest.
"I
didn't mean to. I didn't. I didn't."
"Stop it. Please, stop it!"
With a bitter aftertaste pressing in
on her from all sides, Crystal pulled her legs into the fetal position and
cradled her throbbing head in her hands. She willed her pounding heartbeat to
slow to some semblance of normal, willed the haunting echoes of her cries to
fade. She hadn't relived the horror of that day for several years. Until
lately. Tonight made the second time this week.
Why now? What had brought it back?
And with such a vengeance?
She'd tried to tell Wes about the
last one, but he, being fifteen years older said he was ill-equipped to handle
a dream she had as a child, much less how the nightmare affected her now.
Was he ill-equipped? Or did he just
not want to be bothered?
Crystal gave an exhausted sigh. Maybe
she was expecting too much from him, as he pointed out. But shouldn't a fiancé
be the first person someone could confide in? A person not only to share joys
and passions with but also to ease the pain and drive away demons?
She yearned for all of that.
To appease her, he'd gathered her
into his arms, given her a squeeze, and kissed the top of her head. Still, she
couldn't help but feel rebuffed.
Taking a deep breath, she scooted to
the edge of the mattress. After a moment, she stood on unsteady legs. Maybe if
she washed her face, moved around a little, she could shake the repercussions
of the dream. She made her way into the moonlit bathroom, ran a washrag under
the cold tap water, and buried her hot face in the terry cloth.
The
rifle clattered to her feet ... a shot rang out.
"Cici,
how could you do this? Didn't I tell you?"
With slow, mechanical movements
Crystal raised her head and gazed into the cabinet's mirror bathed in
moonlight. Instead of her own reflection, she saw a terrified nine‑year‑old
girl clutching a rifle. Saw her dad prone at her feet.
"I'm
sorry. Please be all right. I didn't mean to. I didn't."
I CONFESS
by
Sherry Roseberry
As writers we are often asked where
we get the ideas for our books. This question, more often than not, has left me
at a loss for words until I realized that I’ve gleaned some terrific ideas from
old movies, especially those of the 40's and 50’s found on cable. Where else
can a person discover such a large range of juicy tidbits, one liners, gags,
and plot ideas in a day except from TV?
Did you know that: if you want to
shoot at a horseman riding downhill, you aim at his knee? For a time bobbies in
England were called crushers? Adding nickel to gold will harden it? If an Adult
swallowed enough table salt, he could die of heart failure?
(What a nifty way for an undesirable
character to rid her/himself of a rival, especially if the victim is a fanatic
on taking herbs in capsules. Someone could easily replace the herbs with salt.)
Old movies are my downfall. I
thoroughly enjoyed the beginning of I Was A Male War Bride starring Cary
Grant. He marches into the heroine’s office with an armload of clothes and
dumps them on her desk. Their laundry got mixed up, but he purposely gives
everyone the idea that she’s left her things in his apartment. The more she
denies the implied accusation, the more he “tisks.”
What a cute scene! With a different
setup, this could be a delicious way for the protagonists to meet, or to create
friction, or it could be a means for them to see each other again and make up.
In Mazy in the Congo starring
Ann Sothern, Mazy, a show girl, dresses up and convinces the attacking natives
that she is a witch by doing simple magician’s tricks, thus saving everyone.
The locale could easily be changed to the early West and the natives to Indians.
The heroine could be running a friend’s traveling magic show when the scene
unfolds.
But why stop there? What if the
heroine is actually using the show as a cover in order to dig up evidence that
could clear her father of fraud, but the way she goes about it could send her
to prison? What if the hero is sent out by Pinkerton Detective Agency to
investigate the case and rumors pertaining to a certain young lady only to
find...by golly, I think I’ve come up with another plot.
From the cop shows, I’ve found
different ways to defraud people out of their money, learned what can spoil a
good murder, and figured out how to set up clues. Thanks to the talk shows,
I’ve gathered a wide range of scholarly nuggets from the molding of a serial
killer and the psychological makeup of a schizophrenic, to split personalities
and extreme life styles. All fodder for a good plot.
There are other pluses! I’ve copied
down last names from the list of credits, written descriptions of the
actors–-their personality quirks, facial expressions, the way they walked,
talked, acted,–-and put what I’ve found on cards to file away. I’ve watched
movies and come up with a twists of my own.
If you want to try it, come on over.
You bring the popcorn; I’ll furnish the drinks. And if anybody asks, we’re
doing research.
Sherry Roseberry was born and raised in a small town in Idaho. There were two things she wanted to be when she grew up, a mother and an actress. From middle school to college her focus was drama. While in a seventh-grade class her English teacher said that if they ever wanted to write for magazines like The Readers Digest the articles had to be perfect in spelling, grammar, and punctuation. She admonished the students to take English classes seriously
Roseberry remembers thinking that advice didn't pertain to her because she wasn't going to be a writer. She was going to be an actress. Little did she know she would end up being an award-winning author.
Her drama training hasn't been wasted, though. She's been in several community productions and written, acted in, and sold four plays to Eldridge Play Company. Three are still in print. She has adapted the acting methods she's learned to accentuate her writing, and she's given numerous workshops teaching others the same techniques.
But, she still remembers her seventh grade English teacher. She wishes she'd paid more attention.
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