What's Happening?

It's been a crazy month. Since I last posted I suffered a lengthy bout with a very severe eye inflammation issue that had me stumbling around close to legally blind for several days. I could not drive, read or use the computer at all. I could barely get around the house and use the facilities or pour a glass of water! That was scary but my eye doctor prescribed some powerful and expensive eye drops that eventually cleared it up. That happened barely in time to allow me to make a trip to Arizona and attend one of my old high school's multi-year reunions that happen every five years. I had missed 2008 so I really did want to make this one. And I did--I had a great time and reconnected with some folks I had not seen in many. many years and drove through some gorgeous New Mexico and Arizona scenery coming and going. It was a fine trip. I even got in a bit of research for my next writing project which is titled The Last Train to Clarkdale! More on that later.

Just as my eyes went bonkers, I did manage to get my Gothic story turned in and it will be coming out in July, probably the third weekend since that is the normal release date for the new PAX collections. Gothics Galore will be the July offering. And my contribution to it is Dark and Stormy. We have covers, too! And as always they are just gorgeous! Here they are. Pretty moody, tasty and enticing, no?

I'll give you all more about Dark and Stormy in the next couple of weeks and also some sneak peeks at Last Train as it starts to take shape. You know I am a rail fan and at least one of my heroes for this story is too. And he takes a life changing trip on a real excursion train that operates in the north end of Arizona's beautiful Verde Valley where I was blessed to live through my childhood and growing up years. And I did take the trip, not this time but back in 2007 I think it was. If the old saw of write what you know holds true, this should be a good story with a lot of realistic atmosphere. And I already love both my guys in it!

I cannot let today pass unremarked.  To commemorate I want to share a verse I wrote some years back. I wish I could share the picture that inspired it but I do not have rights granted although I did give the artist rights to use my verse if he gave me credit. The picture showed a young woman of times past in a long blue dress. In her hand she held a black-edged letter at leaning against a chair at her side was a cavalry saber and draped over the chair a flag of fewer stars than the one we now salute. . It was beautiful and immeasurably sad. I have to remember the widows and orphans today too along with those who gave all. This verse is copyrighted but may be shared for patriotic purposes with credit to the author. Here is the verse:

The Price of Freedom                 

The price of freedom is always high.

In each generation, some must die.

In each generation, some must mourn,

thus is the price of freedom borne.

The letter ‑‑ Dear Madame, I do regret

to tell you that your beloved met

with his Maker, a fortnight past.

I saw, at least, that death came fast.

Here is his sword, the flag he held high‑‑

In each generation, some must die...

Even ere the letter, somehow she knew

though she wished and hoped it was not true.

The price of freedom is ever dear

Oh, but why must it strike so near?

Each generation the price must pay,

in their own time, in their own way.

The price of freedom is never paid

in full; the mortgage is ere conveyed

to each generation, or else they lose

the right, the privilege to live, to choose.

With Washington, some crossed the Delaware

Before the English knew they were there;

With Jackson, some marched to New Orleans

and looked upon some hellish scenes.

At Gettysburg, brother fought against brother,

fighting the forces that freedom would smother....

They followed Teddy up San Juan Hill,
the Maine remembering, with a will,
and on from there to the trenches of France
where soldiers found not war's romance
but death in blood, in mud, in cold...
forever theirs, to have and hold.

The price of freedom must still be paid

with constant vigilance, bullet and blade.

The price of freedom is never low,

for in each generation, some must go.

The war to end all wars did not;

how soon the lesson they forgot.

Once again, young men and old

went to fight for what can't be sold

but must be bought in blood and tears,

bought over and over, through the years;

aye, over and over, for it is no lie

that the price of freedom is always high.

In desert and jungle and cold north lands,

still straight and tall the soldier stands.

                        Holding aloft the red, white and blue,

paying the price there, for me and for you.

But the price of freedom we all must pay

in our own time and in our own way.

Author's Note:

  This verse was inspired by a painting by western artist Harold I. Hopkinson which portrayed a young woman with a letter in her hand and a cavalry saber on a chair at her side.  My father was in World War II, my husband in Korea, friends went to 'Nam and my son and son-in-law to Desert Storm.  Though I am not ashamed to be a patriot, sometimes I wonder, like the sixties song: when will they ever learn?  But as a historian, I fear human nature will never change enough to end it all.

                                            (c)     GMW, 1995

Looking ahead--Dark and Stormy

A Different Drummer has been out on the streets and in cyberspace for nearly two weeks now and I hope it is finding a warm reception and happy audience! Time will tell. Meanwhile, though, life goes on and of course writing is happening. Like the proverbial excrement of the hippie era LOL but I can hope a bit more pleasant in the result. No malodorous residue at least!.

My next release is going to be a twist on the traditional Gothic 'dark and stormy' tale many of us may have grown up with, be it the Bronte sisters, Daphne DuMaurier or others' work. In fact at least the working title for my tale is Dark and Stormy. That alludes not only t the atmosphere prevailing as the tale begins but some aspects of life in the manor house at which my first hero arrives to begin a new life for himself after some unfortunate happenings alter his circumstances. He finds even darker events have taken place with the new circle in which he finds himself and must learn new loyalties ultimately finding even love.

Yes, for instead of the traditional young gentlewoman impoverished by events beyond her control who must take employment or seek shelter outside of her familiar environment, I have a young man who finds himself on a remote estate where he becomes involved with some tragic and violent events! I am having a great time creating the atmosphere, characters and events here, borrowing inspiration from a wide range of sources--some of those old books I devoured years back, a tiny bit of tongue-in-cheek parody and even an episode of Castle, one of the few TV shows I follow fairly consistently.

No cover yet but that will come before a possible release date of about July. Anyway, here, totally unedited and still a bit rough is the opening scene of Dark and Stormy. In it you will meet Martin Fitzhugh, the impoverished young man and a mysterious dark horseman... So without further ado:

Martin FitzHugh leaned forward and peered through the coach's rain‑streaked isinglass window.  Even when a flash of lightning briefly lit the night, he could see nothing.  The rest of the time, so deep was the darkness he felt it to be solid.  But sound made up for any lack of vision.  The wind, shrieking as if in torment, ripped the remaining leaves from the trees and hurled them down where a pounding rain flattened them into the mud.  The great hooves of the four horses squelched and shlupped as they strained into the traces. The coach itself creaked and groaned as it twisted and lurched along.

Martin slumped back, bracing himself in a corner and praying the vehicle would not upset, while he tried to shut the storm out of his awareness.  For the tenth or perhaps fiftieth time, he questioned his sanity.  What had possessed him to accept a position at some remote Welsh hold?  It might as well be Darkest Africa for all the civilization he had seen the past two days while they followed a deteriorating road deep and yet deeper into the hill‑cut region.  Surely by now they were in an impenetrable wilderness.

Although he could barely understand the driver's thick accent, Martin thought he had said something like "Ve iz nearly there now, Sor," in answer to his timid question as to their whereabouts.  That had been hours ago, around sundown, before the storm struck. 

I believe my life is turning into a cliché. Martin gave a wry chuckle at the wild thought. Indeed it was a dark and stormy night, surely the darkest and most stormy he had ever experienced.  His waning faith that he would arrive safely at Ravensrawn declined to nothing.  If the coach was not struck by lightning or crushed beneath a falling tree, surely the horses would bolt causing it to careen from the road and sink into a bottomless swamp or go flying off a cliff.

Abruptly, the coach halted.  Martin only realized it once he noted no more jolts, tilts and sloshes.  The storm had scarcely abated, but the wind carried broken snatches of speech to him, though too little to make any sense of it.  Much as he dreaded to sink his new boots into the muck, he contemplated alighting, simply to find out what had happened.  Had the coach mired or broken some critical part?  Surely there would not be highwaymen out on such a night as this.

Before he could act upon the thought, the door against which he had been leaning fell open so quickly he almost tumbled out.  Black against black, a hulking figure loomed near and a pair of quick, strong hands seized him before he actually fell, and before he could resist.  He  muttered an oath of protest upon finding himself borne through space.  For a moment, wind and rain lashed him. Then, he felt himself settle upon hard thighs and the rounded pommel of a saddle, as an enormous oily‑textured cloak enveloped him, cutting off the wind, the wet and the cold.  A powerful arm gathered him close as the horse surged and wheeled away from the coach.

Martin found himself bundled so thoroughly he could barely find a crack to stick his nose through.  He inhaled the cool, damp air and willed himself not to give in to the fear which threatened to overwhelm him.  Had terrible suddenly turned to even worse?

However, even terror could not nullify his native curiosity.  Although he doubted his captor could hear him above the noise of the storm to which was added the sounds of the massive horse, driving through the night, he framed several anxious and indignant questions.  "Who are you?  Where are you taking me?  What do you think you’re doing, anyway?"

The answer came in a low‑pitched rumble of a voice, somewhere above him.  "I do not think I am doing anything, I’m merely doing it. What I am doing is taking you to Ravensrawn, bypassing a bridge washed out by this devil‑spawned storm.  As to who I am, ‘tis nothing you have need to know.  It would never do to have the urgently needed tutor for the young earl and his sister swept away to sea in a flood, so I came to fetch you thither.  My apologies if the conveyance does not suit.  I could arrange for no better at short notice."

"You know me then, who I am, I mean?" The revelation took Martin by surprise.  How could this faceless man recognize him in the pitch dark night?

When the rider laughed, the motion rocked him a little in those powerful arms.  "But then, how could there be so many young gentlemen traveling to Ravensrawn, when the road leads nowhere else, and by his Grace's coach at that?  Who else could you be but young Master Fitzhugh?"

"Aye.  There is that.  I must admit, I am he.  Now, you are one better than I, for you know who I am, but I do not know who you are."

"I am but your humble servant who needs must remain nameless.  The deed is of moment, not the doer.  Hang on now, for Nightwind must leap a gorge.  It's not so very wide nor deep, but if you stuggle, it might unbalance him."

"I'll be very still," Martin managed, turning his face inward against the warm, solid bulk of the man's body. Although he considered himself a courageous person, he shut his eyes tightly. There seemed to be nothing to which he could literally hang on though he felt around inside the bulky cloak.

One had to be mad to go around leaping unseen gorges in total darkness.  He could come to no other conclusion.  He was the prisoner of a giant of a mad man taking him who‑knew‑ where.  With a free hand, he gathered a handful of the stiff cloak, the only thing within reach.  Before he was quite ready, he felt the horse gather itself and spring.

For a moment, it felt like flying and then he heard a splashy thud and knew they were again on solid ground.  He could not forebear from a sigh of relief.  In a few more moments, he heard the hollow clatter of hooves upon wood, perhaps another bridge.  Then, through a gap in the cloak, he could see light ‑‑ smoky, sputtering torches thrust at intervals into metal brackets on a stone wall.

Moments later, Martin found himself standing on wet cobbles.  He swayed for a moment, relieved of the cloak and surprised to feel the rain had ceased and the wind no longer reached him.  He turned to thank his strange benefactor, hoping for a glimpse of his face, only to find the dim lights did not penetrate the shadow of the rider’s hooded cape.  "Thank you, good sir, whoever you might be.  I do believe this is Ravensrawn and I have arrived safely due to your concern."

His benefactor replied to that appreciation with clipped, terse words.  "T'is of no moment.  I’d have been riding anyhow.  ‘Twas but a short distance out of my way.  Good morrow, Master Fitzhugh.  I must be off now."

"Stay," Martin called.  "At least tell me your name so I may inform my employer of the service you’ve done for both him and me."

"He'll know."  Those final words were flung back as the stranger wheeled the tall, dark horse and it leaped away into the gloom. Horse and rider seemed almost to vanish in front of Martin’s eyes, swallowed by the night.

A Different Drummer--First Peek

I know, I said yesterday. Well, yesterday was one of our infamous brown-out dust storm days and my eyes would not cooperate since I could not take them out for the wash they needed! I'm doing the best I can!!
Anyway here is the first look at Drummer.

A Different Drummer by Deirdre O'Dare www.amberquill.com/AmberAllure  (It will be on the home page for a few days come April 21 and then on my page--www.amberquill.com/AmberAllure/bio_ODare.html

Blurb:
Jest has been on his own since his mid teens and still blesses the chance that let him realize his dream of playing percussion in a band, one who has become his substitute family. Although he misses the close sharing, he doesn’t expect to find a partner and certainly not one as clearly out of his element as the man who one night wanders into the club where Jest’s band plays, looking totally lost and friendless.

Greene has struggled to build himself a life far from the undisciplined communal community in which he grew to his mid teens. He’s lonely though and not sure how to remedy that so he keeps working as a game programmer in Silicon Valley until he makes a faux pas at a party. Traveling aimlessly, he meets Jest and the other members of Taken By Storm, and is intrigued but terrified of slipping back into a disorderly world like the one of his childhood. 

Excerpt From Chapter One--Meet Jest and Greene and share their initial contact!

Jest had almost forgotten his real name. It had been that long since he’d used it. Maybe he’d done a little too much coke and certainly way too much cheap whiskey, although he was off that stuff now. Oh, he still wore his spiked hair in rainbow colors and still played drums like a mad man, but gradually he’d gotten clean, gone straight. Well, as straight as a guy could be who’d known he was gay since he was twelve.

Marcus Jestyn Ballard III was much more name than he needed these days. He’d lived by his wits and will from the time his parents discovered him in bed with a buddy and threw his sixteen-year-old ass out to fend for himself. He’d done a lot of crazy things to survive before fate—or fortune—led him to Tom Holden and his rag-tag band.

It had happened at a low-end bar and grill in Atlanta the night Swamp Rats did their first gig there. Jest had been washing dishes in the place for about ten nights. Bussing and washing in a joint like Bubba’s Beef and Beer was about as low as you could go and still call it a job, although he’d done worse. He’d quickly discovered being party boy for the night to anyone who had a dollar or two just to get food to survive sucked a lot worse than any job. Even without skills and references, he wasn’t afraid of work.

Once he’d dreamed of being a drummer in a big name band. He’d played in middle school and two years of high school before he left home. Even if everyone said he was good, nobody wanted to hire a skinny, scruffy teenager, not even groups barely making it. Tom’s crew was one short step above that bottom rung.

Caught up with bussing/washing/drying the glassware and dishes as business slowed just before the night’s live music began, Jest heard a commotion in the hallway behind the makeshift stage in the bar. Someone was yelling and cussing. He could only make out a few words, among them “drummer,” “late again,” “stoned,” “out of my fucking mind” and a disjointed string of very colorful profanity. Curious, he stuck his head around the corner. A lanky man in worn denims holding a beautiful black Telecaster was in full rant.

“We can’t fuckin’ do a gig worth hog shit if we haven’t got a drummer. Where’s that worthless turd tonight?”

No one had an answer. That’s when Jest got the wildest idea he’d had in donkey’s years. “Need a drummer? If you’ve got the drums, I can play ’em.”

The tall, dark-haired guitarist swiveled on his worn cowboy boots and shot Jest a sharp glare. “You? You really play drums?”

“Damn straight,” Jest declared, with way more confidence than he felt. “I’m just— Well, kinda between gigs right now.”

“Humph. Let’s hear what you can do.” The man waved at the partly assembled drum set and hit a couple of chords on his guitar before he launched into a Creedence standard. Jest dropped into a folding chair and reached for the sticks. For a few seconds, his heart stopped. Then he felt the beat, picked it up and began to play. He played his soul out, scared to believe this was not just some weird, dope-fed hallucination. Afraid to hope, yet daring to dream, he pounded away.

When the piece ended, the tall man looked at him with a new respect. “No shit. You can play. Awright, I hope you pick up most songs as fast as you did this one, or you know a shitload by heart. I’ll give you a chance tonight. Not that I have a choice. Still, you’re way fucking better than nothing.”

That was how it began. Swamp Rats struggled, traveled, barely hung on when Tom Holden got called up in the National Guard and went to the sand box, but they kept going. By the time Tom got back, they’d settled in Las Vegas and had found a couple of regular bars to play in. They lived out of an old bus for a while…the one that broke down just when they hit Sin City. They’d lost some members and gained some more. Through it all, Jest stayed with them.

Once back, Tom renamed the group Taken By Storm and from then on, things got better.

They cut a record, they opened for a couple of big name acts, and they gained an amazing chick singer who put the cherry on their sundae. Stormy Alcott had been a cross- country trucker before she picked Tom up one night when he was coming back from his tour overseas, trying to catch up with his old band. She sang like a whiskey-voiced angel and provided just what the band needed.

The rest, as the saying goes, was history. They’d gone full country now instead of the swamp rock mix they’d started with. Jest didn’t care. So long as he could beat those drums, he was happy. Life could only get a little better—if the right guy came along and they hooked up. He didn’t think that was going to happen, not really, but he told himself he’d be okay anyway.

Tom was a good boss, fair and firm, and always honest. He made sure they stayed pretty clean. He took care of his crew. Stormy had become a big sister to them all. Jest wouldn’t have come on to her, even if she wasn’t beautiful, sexy and joined at the hip to Tom. That didn’t mean he didn’t love her to pieces, just more as a big sister or aunt. He could appreciate without wanting. He finally had the family he’d lost so far back down a long and broken road.

*          *          *

The birth certificate of the man now known as Greene Wilder might read Green Man Shasta Wildwood. That was the last name he wanted to be known by. Bad enough, Greene S. Wilder was the best he could think of fast when he petitioned for a name change upon attaining his majority, three years ago. By then, he was working in Silicon Valley and putting as much distance between himself and his birth commune somewhere near Mount Shasta as he possibly could.

Since he graduated from high school at sixteen with a full scholarship to UC Davis and been declared an emancipated minor, he’d spent every minute striving toward two goals: to become a strait-laced, tax-paying—the more the better, for that meant success—upscale citizen and to get one hundred eighty degrees and as many miles as possible away from any hint of that stupid hippie, back-to-nature, New Age shit from his youth. Two alienated generations behind him or not, that life wasn’t for him. He wanted no part of it.

Things had been going well, too. That is until this Friday at the office’s annual anniversary party. He’d finally gotten enough alcohol into his system to gather his courage and tell Mickey Wong just how badly he wanted them to hook up. Mickey was a full partner in MegaGames Ltd. He was also a beautiful, athletic genius who captained the company’s soccer team, led the crew keeping new versions of Deth Dealers and Uber-Strike Force coming out regularly and Mega well ahead of the entire video game pack. Blatantly bi-sexual, he changed partners like Greene changed socks. Mickey had just laughed.

“You, Greene? You? Yeah, you’re a coding genius, have a gift for anticipating what teenage boys want, and you’ve been a critical part of the team. Despite that, you haven’t got it. Dude, you’re stuck in the twentieth century in your personal life. Suits and ties? Shit, a person would think you worked for the prehistoric Xerox or IBM. Frankly, I wouldn’t take you to a dog fight and I’d rather kiss my kid brother, nerd-jerk that he is.”

Too many Mega folk had seen and heard the whole debacle. Greene was not sure he could face them again—ever. Thank the powers, he had two weeks of vacation coming and already scheduled. He fled the party, threw a few things into his Volvo and headed out to the Interstate, not sure where he was going or if he’d ever come back. Somehow, he ended up in Las Vegas, with only the vaguest memory of how he’d gotten there.

Greene cruised slowly down one of the streets well back from the strip with no particular goal in mind. He was getting hungry and very tired of driving, but not quite ready to look for a room, much less decide what he was going to do in the near term, to say nothing of farther into the future.

A flashing sign caught his eye. Without giving himself time to think, he pulled into the half-full parking lot and eased the Volvo between a couple of huge pickups. Not a single “save the whosis” bumper sticker in sight. Good. Surely a place that called itself a bar and grill would offer something to eat as well as libations. Probably liquor was the last thing he needed, considering how overindulging was behind his current fix. Still, a beer with a burger or a plate of barbeque might not be so bad. His stomach growled at the thought.

He still wore the suit he’d had on when he went to the party straight from work. Was it only yesterday evening? The summer-weight fabric was now crumpled and drooped, looking as if he’d slept in it. In truth, he had—a few hours at a rest stop when he caught himself nodding off as he drove down I-5 in the deepest darkness of the previous night. That was probably dangerous and doubtlessly stupid. He really didn’t care. If he got mugged, car-jacked or shot in cold blood, it didn’t make a rat’s ass to him. Who’d even want to car jack a four-year-old beige Volvo badly in need of a good wash?

After he got out, he took off the coat and threw it back on the seat. As an afterthought, he removed his tie as well. The wrinkled shirt and trousers would have to do for now. He wasn’t about to drag a bag into the place and try to change in the men’s room. The chance he’d see anyone he’d ever cross paths with again was slight indeed. If the patrons chose to laugh at his appearance, let them. He was tired of a bunch of mother humping fools judging him and telling him he came up short. From the looks of the vehicles parked in the lot and the décor visible at the front of the place, it was a cowboy and trucker bar. So he didn’t own one item of clothing that would fit in, anyway.

Greene found a table, back in a corner away from the bandstand and the dance floor. A table-hop in flame red Daisy Dukes, matching silver-stitched boots and a top showing lots of skin sauntered over to take his order—after the more alert bartender spoke to her.

He ordered a Bud Light with a burger and fries, determined not to overindulge. As he’d guessed, this was a workingman’s place. The room was jammed with boots, big hats and garish shirts. The women dressed much like the men in tight jeans and bright tops, many sporting wide-brimmed hats in a rainbow of colors. Although he felt as out of place here as with the hip crowd in San Jose, no one paid him any attention.

Across from his corner, he noticed an alcove filled with arcade games and slots. He smiled to himself when he saw the familiar logo of Deth Dealers on the panel of one game machine. That would be the arcade version of MegaGames’ newest rage. Every time someone played it, a few cents flowed to the Mega coffers and of that, a fraction went to Greene’s growing investment account.

Right now, the game room wasn’t busy, though because the band had taken their places and begun to play. The group was evidently known and favored by the regular customers because they whistled and stomped in boisterous appreciation, especially when a gorgeous redhead in black, skintight jeans and a sparkling, clingy top approached the mike.

Greene might not be into girls or country music, but he had to admit she was good. A whiskey-silk voice with an impossible range from growly bass notes to bird-clear trebles took familiar, ordinary songs to a new level. The back-up music supported her perfectly. A spark of unexpected color drew his eye to the back of the band. The elaborate arrangement of percussion instruments almost obscured the drummer, although his multi-colored topping of mohawk mixed with mullet could not be ignored, anymore than the flashing neon it resembled.

Finally, Greene got up and moved along the wall to a spot where he could see the drummer clearly. He wasn’t sure why. He only sensed he had to see this man and watch him play. Although every musician in the band was good, better than good really, there was something special about the drummer. The rainbow-haired musician almost seemed a misfit, despite the seamless way his input melded with the rest of the band’s sound.

Certainly his whole appearance was at odds with the group’s typical 2013 country look. He was almost a sixties refugee, a throwback who could have supported Jimi or Janis, played with Starship or Iron Butterfly. Not at all what Greene normally wanted to see or hear because it took him right back to the hated roots from which he’d torn free and fled with all his might. It felt as if an outside force drew him with the power of a strong magnet. Who was this mad drummer and what was his magic?

Before the first set ended, Greene had almost reached the edge of the bandstand, elevated a foot or so above the jam-packed dance floor. He wedged into a corner, unable to move until the sweating dancers halted and the crowd began to shift back to stools and tables to grab another beer or step out for a short break. Then, suddenly, he was conspicuously alone, a solitary stranger in a rumpled white shirt, as obvious as a burned-out bulb on a game board.

The drummer stood and stretched, rolling his shoulders so the tattered camouflage shirt pulled out of his jeans and stuck out at the waist between the bands of his striped suspenders. Then he turned and looked straight at Greene from less than a yard away.

“What the fuck?” His lips shaped the words clearly, although Greene could not hear him speak. The next words were all too audible. “Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?”

A Different Drummer--almost here!

I've been talking a little bit about this story for several weeks. Not only is it my first new release for awhile, it is one of those that seems a bit special, one that almost wrote itself when the characters spilled their tale as quickly as my fingers could fly over the keys and take it down. So I can't help but be excited about it.

Then, too, it is always a treat to be a part of an Amber PAX collection and see what some other writers have done with the theme that triggered your own idea. We have done several PAX collections with song titles, so music is not a new area but this time we may have ranged a little farther afield if the titles I saw in the announcement of the April 21 release are a clue. Obviously the musical tastes of the five authors vary widely as do the stories that come forth. For more on this you can check out the AmberPAX blog where each new group of tales is featured for the two weeks after it is released. That's at www.AmberPAX.blogspot.com

Anyway, Jest first appeared in another music tale I did, part of a Heartsongs PAX which was treated as both an Amber Heat and Amber Allure release since the main romance was hetero but there was a f/f/f scene in it. The title of that one was Take It Easy and yes, the heroine did pick the hero up in Winslow, Arizona! I grew up in central Arizona and normally associated Winslow with the Santa Fe railroad since it was a division headquarters with a lot of related rail stuff but as a huge fan of the Eagles, I did love that song and it was one of the first things that popped into my mind when the PAX began to take shape. Stormy drove an eighteen wheeler instead of a flatbed Ford but ...well, you can always go back and read that one. It is on my backlist page at www.amberquill.com/AmberHeat. bio_ODare.html

Before Different Drummer began to shape up, all that I had of Jest was a brief scene where Tom Holden, hero of Take It Easy, introduces Stormy, the heroine, to the members of his band. Still this somewhat mysterious and unusual young man intrigued me, and even then I thought he'd probably have his own story in time. And now he does! A Different Drummer is definitely Jest's story, for my readers can now discover his past and a bit of what makes him tick. But it is also Greene's story, another off-beat and troubled character who appeared as Jest began to share his life with me. The two of them are definitely an odd couple, but that's what makes it fun!  This one is much more character-driven than are many of my stories but that was fun too. Tomorrow I will give you an excerpt of their initial meeting and an idea of how different the two of them are!

A Different Drummer--coming next week!!!

I'm really excited to announce that A Different Drummer will be available next Sunday, April 21 along with four other music-themed stories by some of the wonderful Amber Allure authors in Melodies From the Heart!! For the next two weeks this Amber PAX (C) will be featured on the special blog where each of our great groups of five themed tales are featured as they are released together, normally about one group a month. Most of you readers are probably already familiar with the PAX format and pattern but if you aren't you are really missing out!!

As a reminder, here is the cover for my story and also for the collection. This week I will be featuring excerpts from mine and some back story/story behind the story stuff as well. There will also be a link to the PAX blog so you can check out the others. Music is so evocative and so closely tied to many emotions that I think it makes a tremendous jumping off point for some amazing tales. I hope you will agree!

A Celtic-Inspired Rural Fantasy--Beyond the Shadows

Some time back I wrote the first of what was to become the Thin Green Line series about the fictitious Paranormal Operations Unit of the US Border Patrol. When I wrote Beyond the Shadows, I had no notion it would spawn a number of tales and that Liam and Rhys would appear in cameo spots in some of them. But of course most of us writers fall in love with all the characters we create, some more than others but I don't think I have invented a couple I was glad to say goodbye to. Liam and Rhys were certainly well up in my favorite list!

I had only a vague idea at first what the story was going to be about. The core was simply two men who had been near-lifelong friends and both denied the attraction they felt for the other because they feared to lose the very strong and valued friendship they shared. I frequently come up with characters who are of Celtic ancestry and these two were no exception. Liam is of course Irish and Rhys is Welsh. Finally I began to recognize that it would take some life-threatening emergency to bring their real love to the forefront for both of them. How and what would this be?

I ended up slipping up on it by way of dreams they both experienced which seemed to imply a shared life in the dim and distant past! You can either share my belief in reincarnation or not but that was the premise I used. In that long ago life they had become true partners and forged a bond which allowed them to triumph over a ghastly demonic enemy. They had vanquished it, but over the centuries, it found its way back! Now again it is threatening them and wreaking havoc in a remote region along the southern New Mexico and Arizona border.  Since the tale is romance, they do hook up and do succeed in banishing the evil being forever; more I will not reveal lest it become a spoiler!

Anyway it seems fitting to feature and share this particular tale today so an excerpt, the cover and buy link info will follow in a second post!