Coming Soon! New M/M romance from Deirdre

I can't believe it is September already.  That means 2/3 of 2018 is in the rear view mirror. I had to run off to Arizona on some personal business related to the Walton side of the family and have been trying to gather escaping worms from the hugnormous can I seemed to have opened.  But that is not relevant here.

What is  turns out to be the next new tale coming from JMS. Rez Dogs and Scooter Trash has not been billed as a canine cupid tale but with dogs in the title, you can bet they are a future in the story. I also pay a visit to a region that holds a special place in my heart and touch on the conflicts when men from two totally different cultures and backgrounds clash and connect. This one will release on September 8 and you can grab it at JMS http://www.jms-books.com/  It will be on the front page very soon for pre-order; the holiday may slow that down just a bit since. the September 1 releases still show there.

Mike grew up in the south, in poverty, and under the hard thumb of his abusive Biker Gang father. He fled, tried the military and decided that was not the life for him. However, some experiences led him to the often thankless task of animal rescue which in turn took him to a reservation in the high desert of Arizona. Needless to say, he has a near phobia about "bikers." When one rolls up almost to the door of his brand new animal rescue site...

Adam,  Navajo and Kiowa, is a born rebel. He shows the world a bad-boy image with his lacquer black Harley decorated with native art and his habit of riding it hard and fast when he is upset. Feeling deep remorse over his younger brother's death while he was in the military, he's working hard to develop and improve a youth center to steer more of the local kids away from drugs, gangs and tragedy. When an outside group buys a vacant store he'd hoped to use for some more facilities, he has to go check it out. A  small animal rescue? On his reservation?  Are they crazy?

So let's see them meet:

Michael set another bundle of wire panels on the floor and dug a bandana out of the back pocket of his jeans to wipe his face. The wind had wolfish teeth, but he was still sweating as he humped load after load of cage parts and other gear into the building. This was going to take a lot of work, a hell of a lot of work.
Oh, the basic structure was sound, but it had been designed to be a retail store, not a shelter for dogs and any other critters he might be able to collect and save. There was a restroom--which would have to suffice for his needs for the time being. Some moveable partitions served to wall off a living area and a facsimile of an office. The technician was supposed to be here later today to install his Internet and telephone. He set up a battered iron cot and stacked the few boxes of his personal stuff in that same corner. A microwave, an ice chest, and a card table would serve as his kitchen and dining room. Maybe in time he could afford to rent a place, but living here would have some advantages as he worked to get the facility up and running.
As he stumbled back out the door again, he began to wonder how he'd crammed so much stuff into his old van. Maybe the stuff had reproduced as he drove west from the IFPCA offices in Illinois. Tomorrow, a bigger truck with yet more stuff was due in, so he had to get the van unloaded today and at least start organizing things.
Something made him look across the unpaved parking lot to the south side of the building. Later on he planned to fence part of the area and maybe develop some space for larger animals like horses, sheep and goats or cattle, but that would have to wait a while. But now, although he had not heard the machine approach, his gaze fell on a powerful black-lacquered Harley rolling slowly toward him decorated with tribal motifs in scarlet and gold.
The bike was impressive, but its rider even more so. The man had to be well over six feet for he straddled the bike and did not stretch at all to place both his booted feet solidly on the ground on either side. Everything about him seemed to carry a threat of power and violence, at least to Michael's perception. Memories of the father he'd feared until he'd finally left home swept over him, memories that still had him mentally cringing. He could feel the slam of a heavy fist, a metal-studded belt slashing across his ass or a backhand slap that sent him flying. Folks in his hometown had called them scooter trash, trailer trash and worse because his mother had been half black and his father a leader in the most bad-ass biker gang in the area.
The uptown kids didn't respect the wrong-side-of-the tracks folks, no matter how tough they were alleged to be, it seemed. They sure didn't fear bullying the "trashy" kids anyway. And Mike's dad would not defend him. "It'll make you tough," he'd always said. "Man up, boy."
While the stranger did not resemble the senior Dufrane in any way other than his black garb, Michael's gut clenched. Who was this guy--apparently an Indian--and what did he want?
Even behind the reflective lenses of the biker's sunglasses, Michael could feel the force of the man's stare. He stood there, one hand negligently resting on the left handlebar where a helmet hung, clearly seldom used. After a moment, he lifted that arm and crossed both arms across his powerful chest, his face impassive as if graven from the region's ruddy stone.
"So," he said, after a few silent seconds, "who the fuck is IFPCA and what are they or you figuring to do here?"
Damn it, I am not going to let anyone bully me or back me down. There are animals out here that need help, and I'm going to do the job. Michael set his burden down and took a step in the biker's direction. He paused, barely aware he'd adopted a similar stance, feet apart and braced as he folded his arms across his chest. It wasn't as impressive a chest as the other man's, but Michael was no ninety-pound weakling. He had muscle and wiry strength. He'd even been the boxing champ in his middleweight class in his army platoon. No Indian biker with an attitude was going to send him running with his tail between his legs.
"IFPCA stands for the International Foundation for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. The foundation's bought this building, and I'm going to be opening a shelter for abused and neglected animals, especially dogs, and care for them until they can be adopted into good homes. I plan to help educate people about taking care of their pets, too."
The biker gave a harsh laugh. "Good luck, buddy. We don't have that warm and fuzzy tree hugger philosophy out here on the Rez. It's enough struggle for most folks to keep a roof over their heads and a little food on the table. We're overrun with dogs. Some get a little care, while most just run wild and snag what they can. Hell, it's hard enough to keep the kids fed and clothed, much less every stray canine. Booze and drugs and a lot of prejudice to be overcome, poverty and... Oh shit, why waste my breath? But we don't need any more do-gooders trying to tell us how to live."
Michael recognized a subtle hint of despair and pain behind the other man's hard words. He knew about poverty and the ravages of drugs and alcohol himself--first hand. "I know things aren't easy," he said, keeping his tone mild and even. "That's true a lot of places. Still, I've heard about conditions on the Rez. Pretty bad. I guess it isn't much, although if I can save a few dogs, maybe I can start a change. Every bit of caring and kindness helps. It's never wasted. Someone sees how you make things a little better and gets inspired to try their own effort. Maybe some of the kids could benefit from taking responsibility for caring for a pet."
The Indian shrugged. "Do what you will. By the way, I'm Adam Bolt. Just wondered who'd got hold of the old Dollar Store here and thought I'd take a look. We were thinking of trying to rent it cheap for the youth center, to give us some more space, but looks like we got beat out."
"Sorry, but this is a good purpose, too. My name's Mike Dufrane. I just got here yesterday. Lots of work to do. When you believe in something enough, though, that's no barrier. It'll take me a couple of weeks, but I'll be open for business as soon as I can. I'd appreciate it if you'd spread the word; tell folks they can drop off an unwanted or injured dog here. Even call me to come pick it up. I'll have a few cages set up today and I've got food and some basic medical stuff."
"You're swimming against the current, Mike, but good luck anyway." The other man throttled the bike up to a smooth purring roar and wheeled around, scattering a bit of gravel as he turned onto the paved road that went by out front.