(MSRP: 3.0000)
Two hundred years in the past, an Apache Shaman mixes his potion, chants over his magic bones and calls to the four winds to bring a woman to save Raphael Sinclair.
Professor of American History, Isabelle Landers lives by the “Murphy’s Law” creed. If it’s going to happen—it’s going to happen to her. While vacationing at a charming ivy-covered cottage in Bury Lancashire England, Isabelle walks through the garden gate and into a time portal that lands her smack dab in Arizona’s outlaw territory.
Yuma, 1870. A hanging should never go bad. Raphael Sinclair struggled and demanded he was innocent and if they’d wait there was a telegram coming to clear his name.
Miniature
67 Pages Spicy
Excerpt:
The renegade Apache pulled the teepee's flap to one side and gave her and unceremonious shove through the opening.
"Hold your tongue, woman, or I will cut it out." The knife's blade glinted in the fire-light as he drew it from the leather sheath at his waist.
To keep her hands from shaking out of control, she stuffed them inside her pant's pockets.
"Shaman, I have brought the one called, Woman," Chato said, icily.
Her gaze shifted to a wizen old Indian sitting cross-legged on a buffalo rug. He reached over and touched the sleeping man on the shoulder.
"Wake now, Wasihu. I have summoned the spirits, and they have brought Far Away Woman to help you."
Rafe opened his eyes. In silence, he watched her standing there in the shadows and wondered if he were going mad. A chilled racked over his fevered body. An unnamed fear stirred in the pit of his belly.
The shaman swept a rattle over him and muttered some words. With a slight nod, he indicated that Chato and the old woman should leave the teepee.
"Are you an apparition?" The words strained from Rafe's lips.
"Wow," she said, with a little too much enthusiasm, "This is some dream, and I'll be glad when I wake up."
He raised one eyebrow, as he watched the bafflement on her face.
"Who are you?" he demanded, his gaze moving over her in an imperious sweep of assessment before swinging back to her face. "And why are you dressed like a man?"
He propped himself up on one elbow, and as he waited for her answer observed her strange mode of dress. The tight pants and tucked in shirt did little to disguise the lush femininity of her body. Jets of sweet fire shot down to collide hard at the crux of his thigh, taking him by surprise.
He noticed her face flushed a beguiling crimson and she stuttered. "I-Isabelle Landers," she swallowed and pulled her body up straighter. "And I'm supposed to be on vacation--in England. I walked through a gate..."
At her hesitation, he prompted, "What gate?"
She bit her lip and appeared in thought before she blurted, "It seems I've walked through a time portal."
Rafe indulged himself in her delicate fragrance. She smelled of fresh air and honeysuckle, and her honey-toned hair looked like it had been kissed by the sun.
She placed a finger against the dimple in her cheek. "My friend, Dr. Samson, teaches paranormal sciences at the university. I've never put much stock in that sci-fi stuff--that is, until now."
"You're gibberish confounds me, Isabelle Landers. What language is this sci-fi?" What the hell are time portals and black holes? Either she's insane, or I'm delirious.
"Sit down, Isabelle. It strains my neck to look up at you."
She bent down to rest on her knees. Her gasp reminded him of a trapped mouse. Genuine shock widened her eyes as she gaped at the raw wounds on his neck and wrists.
"Dear God," she breathed. "What happened?" Her mouth pinched into a fine line.
He liked what he saw in her face--the gentle hue of distress upon her cheeks, the slight tremble of her mouth, the way her gaze dropped, then rose again as if she wanted to ask more questions.
"Unfortunate accident." As her almond shaped eyes quizzically held his, he smiled a mirthless smile. "This word, Sci-fi, what is it?"
"Why, time travel and black holes in the universe, of course."
"Bah." He glowered at her, his expression ominous. "I once met a man from a traveling medicine show. He spoke of such nonsense. I believe both of you are loco."
He found himself fascinated with her expressive face, the way emotions came and went.
Isabelle loosed a resigned sigh. "Could you ask your friend, Chato, to take me back to the gate, please?"
"I don't know what method of divination the shaman used to bring you here, Isabelle Landers. But I will not ask Chato to return you to England until you have helped clear my name."
Weariness settled over him as he lay back against the buffalo rug and closed his eyes.
Deep within, Isabelle knew him. He looked exactly the way the tin-typed pictures and artist renditions in her textbook on American outlaws portrayed him. She knew more about him than he of her.
