January's Free Book



All email subscribers will receive a free copy of my latest western, THE GUNSLINGER, Book 1 of Renegade Brides. To join, visit me on the web www.feelgoodromance.com and look in the left-hand column. All emails are powered by Feedblitz and guaranteed spam free. You must join by 7 a.m. 1/31/2019 to receive the download.

For a FREE excerpt, scroll down below my signature.

Also, remember what's on sale for 99 cents:

Not Done Living
Contemporary Version
Historical Version
Love & Roses
 

And Flight Risk (The Italian Series) Book1 is FREE everywhere the ebook is sold.


--------------------------
Suzanne D. Williams
Florida, USA 


★EXCERPT from The Gunslinger (Renegade Brides) Book 1: 

1872, West Texas

A bullet sang his name in passing, ending its hum in the silk-fabric over the bed, and he sprung out, his pants around his knees, barely missing the dirge played by the second. One hand fumbling with his buckle, with the other he scrambled for his gun and fled the room, his shirt unbuttoned, his boots half off his feet.

Call girls dashed in either direction out of his path down the long, narrow hall, their Johns peering out curiously at the ruckus. Paying them no mind, he took the stairs two at a time and plunged out the back door into the alley. His horse in sight, the beast unfazed by the rising clamor, he hitched his pants up again, one foot raised toward the stirrup, but a woman, appearing from a doorway on the left, blocked his path. Her plaid skirt swirling around her feet, cheeks pink and eyes bright, she halted in place, a gasp rattling from her slender throat.

Aware of his exposed state and the sensibilities of a girl like her, he attempted to pull himself together, but feared, given the look in her eye, that the damage had already been done.

“Samson Renegade …” A man called from the street. “I know you’re back there. This is Sheriff McCann. You’re surrounded, and there’s no escape.”

He considered that, rolling the sheriff’s words in his mind, and sensed an unplanned chance to change things. “Pardon me,” he said to the woman. Swinging her to him, one hand around her waist, he tossed her like a rag doll atop the horse, rising behind her into the saddle. She squeaked, her hands flailing, one foot striking the horse.

The horse never flinched. Best horse he’d ever had, and he’d taken it from the previous owner when a bullet buried itself between the man’s eyes.

“Come out with your hands up,” the sheriff called again.

Samson flipped the woman upright, her legs draped on one side of the horse, and her rounded curves pressed against him, pleasant. He spoke low, for her ears alone. “Here’s how this’s going to work.”

She’d settled some, but, fright still evident in her rushed breaths, retained some stiffness in her limbs.

“I got no problem shooting a woman if she displeases me,” he said. “I’ve done so in the past. You consider that in your behavior from here on out. I mean to leave this town and get away from the law. You’re my ticket. Nod if you understand.”

She quivered, tiny vibrations rippling down her frame. She dipped her chin.

“Timing’s everything,” he continued. “If you hadn’t been here, I’d be out there, swinging by the neck. Cooperate and I’ll owe you, and a Renegade always keeps his word, whether that be good or bad.”

With that and having the woman clutched to him, he rode toward the end of the alley, halting out of view. He raised his voice. “I got me a hostage,” he said. “Fine, tasty woman who just happened in my path. I don’t think you want me to hurt her … and it so close to Christmas.”

There was silence from the street, followed by the sound of horses and men shuffling. The sheriff spoke again. “I think you’re bluffing.”

From their perspective, he might be. Always trust a Renegade’s word, but never trust a Renegade. Samson poked the woman in the side. “Say your name loud enough he can hear it.”

She trembled even more, her hands buried in her skirt, and cast him a glance that shot down deep to his soul. She was a rare flower, the finest blossom tended with held breath and set on display for the entire earth to see. He’d had many women, done his business and moved on, but none of them with the refinement of this one.

“Go ahead,” he said, his throat thick.

“Lillian M-McCann …” she stuttered.

Samson started.

“Lillian?” called the sheriff. “That you?”

 “Daddy!” she called.

“All right now, you scoundrel,” the sheriff replied, his voice gruff. “You harm one hair on my daughter’s head …”

“Back up and toss the guns in my view,” Samson said. Things had swung decidedly in his favor. Maybe that was a miracle of the holidays. Maybe it wasn’t. His brother, the good Reverend Renegade, believed in such things.

He rode forward for a better look and counted six men on the street, two on the roofs of the buildings opposite. “Have those two come down,” he added. “I’m not moving ’til you do.” One of them had almost winged him, after all.

He was a patient man, had learned that from his father, who could outlast the longest summer waiting for what he wanted and had trained his boys to do the same. Of course, as boys, standing still in anticipation for anything had come hard. He’d always wanted to rush ahead, giving his actions no thought. But it was thinking that’d kept him alive, and he owed that to his papa.
A pile of weapons appeared in the street, the posse reversing away from them. The two men on the rooftop also appeared and added their guns to the lot. Samson pressed the barrel of his pistol to Lillian’s throat, squeezed the horse’s sides with his knees, and rode out of the alley far enough he could scan the street.

He focused his gaze on the sheriff, his tin badge catching the afternoon sun. It was unusually warm for December. “No one moves, or she gets it,” he yelled. “Anyone tries to shoot me in the back, and she gets it. I have an edgy finger today with a hankering to pull it. I don’t want to see or hear a horse or a gun in my pursuit. Soon as I’m sure no one’s on my tail, I’ll deposit her somewhere safe.”

“I’ll see you hang, Samson Renegade,” the sheriff replied.

“Not today, you won’t.” Or tomorrow or next week. He aimed to keep his head on his shoulders, his feet in the saddle. He aimed to see Christmas.

Samson breathed in, the light fragrance of Lillian’s skin whispering seductive in his mind.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular Posts