Lady Outlaws Available from Amazon

Lady Outlaws A week at Dry Gulch, a Western pioneer reality resort, is a holiday of a lifetime for Brandi, and to add to the fun she and her friend Sara adopt outlaw personas. A violent lightning storm, however, hurtles them from twenty-first century play-acting into the brutal authenticity of life in 1880’s Texas. The girls inadvertently find themselves on the run with two ruggedly handsome gunslingers, and slowly they begin to realize the seriousness of their situation- lost in time with two wanted men -- and facing a noose if caught by an infamous bounty hunter hot on the gang’s trail. Despite their precarious circumstances the Lady Outlaws learn fate is curiously at play and that love can reach beyond the centuries. That is, until lightning threatens to strike again...

Excerpt

"What do you think you’re doing with that?" Brandi asked, staring at the bulging carpetbag Sara had flung over her shoulder.

"Look," her friend scolded in return. "We were allowed only a few conveniences and I mean to keep them close at all times."

"But this is our room. No one is going to sneak in here to look at..." she pulled open the top for a quick glance. "Toenail clippers, toothpaste and tampons."

"I don’t care. These are the only things I have to remind me that civilization still exists, and I mean to keep them handy. Aren’t you at least taking your camera?"

Brandi tapped the handle of her Colt. "Nope. This here beauty is all the accessory I need."

Sara rolled her eyes. "Fine. I’ll take shots with film while you take shots with paintballs. And next week they’ll be printing our names in their information package— hung for reckless endangerment."

"Good thing I can easily overlook your biting sarcasm," Brandi said, locking the door and dropping the key into the deep carpetbag. "What you need is a dashing outlaw to sweep you off those flat feet of yours."

"I had one, remember, except he wasn’t so dashing after about a month."

Sara’s shoulders slumped, and Brandi decided it wise not to carry on with a topic that reminded Sara of Clyde Simpson. He was one of those men who race into a woman’s life, needing a safe place to hide for awhile, taking the comfort that a hopeful partner offers, and once he gets bored, races off again to start anew with another. Sara, for all her insightful wisdom, fell victim to just such a marauder and had been bitter ever since. Brandi, well, she had never been hurt like that because any man who couldn’t stand up against her Frontier measuring stick wasn’t even allowed through the door. For two different reasons they were destined to be lonely old women. Love in the twenty-first century hadn’t been kind to either of them.

But this week would change all that. Brandi’s step lightened as she considered her friend’s delight upon discovering the joyous masculinities of cowboys and gamblers. True, they were actors, but they must have had some historical training to play their roles with accuracy. It was better than nothing.

"Whatever it is you’re thinking, forget it," Sara said, pausing in the middle of the town’s dusty street.

"What? I’m not thinking anything."

"Normal enough. But you’ve got a funny little smile on that face of yours and it scares me when you do that."

"Stop being such a killjoy," Brandi said. "There’s someone for everyone, and our someone might be right through these doors."

They stood a moment in front of the three steps that lead to the boardwalk in front of the saloon. Brandi felt slightly awed by the scene: notes of a piano floating out with the occasional raised laughter, clinking glass, the smell of cigars. She closed her eyes to pretend this was actually a summer evening in 1885. As the fluttering butterflies returned to twist her stomach, Brandi headed for the entrance.

Deuce stood at the bar, none the worse for wear for having been gunned down in the street earlier in the day. His attacker, Black Jack McCall was sitting in the corner, playing cards with three men Brandi recognized from the trip over in the bus. One was the Wyatt Earp look-alike. When he saw Brandi and Sara enter, he chuckled snidely and kicked Black Jack under the table. Both turned to give them the once-over before returning to the card game.

"Terrific." Brandi sniffed. "Good ol’ Wyatt right in there bending Black Jack’s ear." She had a sinking feeling that contempt would be the flavor of the evening.

Deuce, however, must have spent the afternoon killing the pain of paintball injury with a bottle of something a lot stronger than sarsaparilla and was by far friendlier. His nose was red, while his bloodshot eyes struggled to remain open, and he wavered a little while hanging onto the edge of the bar. He was smiling mindlessly.

"Well, Brandi Glass," Sara whispered. "This is likely exactly how it used to be. Drunks and cynics. Some things never change." With that she pulled out her change purse and swaggered to the bar. "Whiskey fer me and my friend," she said loudly, giving Brandi a quick wink.

While Sara politely dismissed Deuce’s growing enthusiasm for company at the counter, Brandi strolled to the table of gamblers. Knuckles curled on each hip she looked at each player in turn, stopping at Black Jack. "I hope yer not the John ‘Jack’ McCall who put a bullet in the back of Wild Bill’s head," she said loudly, as though ready to avenge the murder of one of history’s heroes herself.

This was a discreet test she wanted to try on the actor, to see if his knowledge of the West was in fact legitimate. John McCall, in the mining town of Deadwood, North Dakota, murdered Wild Bill Hickok, in August of 1876. It was a cowardly attack from behind on the once great plainsman; if he had seen his attacker coming the history books might have been written differently. As it was, John McCall eventually paid for the crime by being hung. He was twenty-five.

It was obvious to Brandi this fellow was beyond the tender age of twenty-five, and of course McCall’s hanging was nearly a decade preceding the staged 1885, so the dates didn’t correspond, but she asked the question anyway, just to study the reaction.

Black Jack lit a fat cigar, his cheeks puffing in and out like tent flaps in the wind. Then he slowly lifted his dark eyes. "Nope," he said in a low growl. "I ain’t. Different state, different year, different McCall." Blowing gray smoke towards the ceiling he added, "You might dress like a man, little missy, but underneath them fancy duds yer sure enough as stupid as any other woman."

The others at the table chuckled rudely, especially the counterfeit Wyatt Earp.

Brandi was mortified. Humiliated by the one man she considered might possibly be the ultimate manifestation of Western masculinity, her hopes of discovering a real man were foiled. Disappointment stabbed through her chest with double edged severity. Not only had her trumped up image of Old West chivalry crumbled, but he had picked up on her deviance from history and promptly thrown it all back in her face, a face that was growing hotter by the second.

To make the situation a little more painful for her, Wyatt Earp laughed the longest, and then shook his head with disgust as he fanned out his cards, preparing for another hand of poker.

Brandi fingered her Colt. "Keep laughin’ boys," she said through gritted teeth, "And you’ll find out yerselves I ain’t no dumb little missy." Her accent was staged but her anger wasn’t; it came through loud and clear. All eyes turned to her for the briefest of moments.

"Oh?" Black Jack smiled under a bushy moustache. "That so? Well, guess I best go change my underpants now."

This was too much for the others. Laughter erupted in a chorus, pushing Brandi’s humiliation over the edge. Her vision was so blurred with red sparkles that she didn’t even remember pulling the gun from her belt. The first paint pellet hit Wyatt Earp in the forehead, the second splattered into Black Jack’s embroidered vest. For good measure Brandi popped off one each for the others at the table. In reality the last two would merely have been wounded, paint oozed down their shirtsleeves, but she was dead on with her first couple of rounds. The laughter abruptly ended.

Black Jack was not amused. His chair went tumbling backwards as he thundered to his feet with a string of obscenities unheard of to Western ears. Brandi took several steps back, intimidated by the mountainous figure filled with rage, but she kept her gun pointed at him, ready for a further altercation. She had two pellets left.

"I thought I told you gals we don’t tolerate no crime in this town," came the sheriff’s strict voice as he dashed in from the boardwalk.

"He started it," Brandi complained, staring as threateningly as she could at Black Jack’s twisted expression. "He insulted my honor."

"That true?" Sheriff Rudin asked the gambler. "Ain’t right and proper to dabble with a lady’s honor."

Brandi threw the grinning sheriff a disgusted look. They were in on this together—she sensed the camaraderie between them—and her revulsion surged up in her throat like sour phlegm.

"I’ll have to ask you fer yer weapon," the sheriff said, straightening his crooked smirk.

"Be careful how you handle it," Brandi retorted, "I suspect it’s a bigger weapon than what yer used to." She handed over her Colt and stamped outside.

Dark clouds had encompassed the horizon and there was an eerie stillness in the air, hinting a storm was inevitable. Brandi decided to go for a walk along Main Street anyway to calm down. Sara rushed to her side.

"That was great," she said with glee. "You hit both of them right to mark. I’m impressed. But I was too surprised to get a picture. Next time warn me so I can have the camera ready."

"You were right," Brandi said sadly, stopping to watch a black cloud boil higher into the evening sky. "Men are men, regardless of what century they lived in."

Sara handed over the drink she had casually stolen from the bar when the commotion had everyone’s attention. "Don’t take it all so seriously, girlfriend. Like you said, these guys are actors. What do they know?"

"They know how to be pigs," Brandi sighed. A streak of lightning silently flickered through the darkest part in the growing cloud. "Please tell me they weren’t all like that."

"No more than all women were like the character you’ve chosen. Come on," Sara diverted Brandi back to the hotel. "One good thing about me toting round this bag," she said with mischievous glee. "I managed to slip in a bottle for us to share later."

"Why, Sara, you thief," Brandi scolded. "Yer a lady outlaw after all."

"A thief and a gunslinger," she chuckled. "We’ll give them all a run for their money, if we have the chance."

"Oh," Brandi whispered with prayer-like reverence, the first few drops of rain tapping into the dusty street. "Please, to only have the chance..."

White lightning lit the night sky for what seemed like hours. Their stolen bottle drained, the oil lamp turned low, Brandi snuggled beneath the quilt to watch the quickening flashes and think about all the misconceptions she had so naively clung to. Arrogant, rude and self-centered. Yes, these were actors, but how different were men from the history that had once held her imagination captive? Cowboys and gamblers were probably far worse than their modern-day counterparts with male-dominated attitudes, especially towards women. But surely they were more passionate about life and love, both so often too short. Their world was vicious and those who lived by the gun often died by the gun. They depended on sheer brawn to survive. Violence was truly horrible but passion was thoroughly felt. And surely Brandi’s exhibition of protecting her honor with a gun would be applauded, just as her passions would surely be welcomed, if that situation were presented. It was, as always, a comforting thought, one that lulled her into a restless sleep.

A smash of thunder woke her with a start. Bolting straight up in bed, a spray of rain dampened her face. The balcony doors had sprung open, the white curtains swirling to the increasing gusts of wind. Throwing back the quilt, she padded across the wet floorboards to shut the wildly swinging doors.

Sheets of silver rain slammed into the deserted street. Between the cool rain and the ghost town scene below, Brandi shivered. No soul ventured out in such weather, and she wondered just how stable the buildings were against a storm like this. The barrage of nature’s fury must be common for these parts. Even in the past century buildings must have been built with this ferocity in mind. Still, her heart beat double time. Thunderstorms had always made her nervous.

Another flash was quickly followed by a loud menacing growl; even the boards beneath her feet vibrated. As the light resonated throughout their room she saw Sara sitting upright in bed, her eyes as wide as saucers. Sara hated thunderstorms more than Brandi did. There’d be no more sleeping for either of them till the fury had ceased.

"I don’t recall this being mentioned in the brochure," Sara said, a weak attempt to joke away trepidation. Her feet hit the floor with a thump; she was reaching for her clothes.

"What are you doing?" Brandi asked.

"We should be ready, you know, in case we have to take cover." Within seconds she was not only fully dressed but clutching her carpetbag.

Another blinding flash initiated Brandi’s hasty retreat from the glass doors. Sara’s nervousness was infectious. Brandi decided the decision to dress was a wise one. She, too, reached for her clothes.

Then, like the flick of a switch, all sound ended. The pounding silence vibrated the heavy air. The curtains fell limp, the doors stopped shuddering, and there was no longer the hard drumming of rain on the roof. The room was so void of noise that Brandi’s thrashing heart thumped in her ears like a maniacal drum beat.

A soft yellow glow filtered up from outside, around, below, and Brandi glided to the wavering balcony for a closer look. Sara bumped her shoulder, still clutching the carpetbag; life, it seemed, depended on that clutch. Something was dreadfully wrong. What could cause such a drastic storm to stop so quickly? Brandi couldn’t clear her thoughts or find the strength or the inclination to form the words to express concern.

She watched, frozen, as the storm swung its dark cloak aside and spit a final gesture of sheer wrath.

A crooked finger of white light jabbed straight from the heavens, smashing into the earth below. It tore the sky in half. All creation recoiled in horror at the onslaught; its shriek reverberated in Brandi’s ears and her helpless scream of shock and despair joined with nature’s protest. A blast of ice-cold air threw her backwards, a weightless rag doll being tossed aside by a spoiled child. Tiny sparkles, stars that shimmered red and white and yellow danced before her eyes. They danced on and on, happily popping into every corner and back, until finally tiring. The particles culminated into one huge glowing ball. It hovered over Brandi like some malevolent spotlight.

Please... to only have the chance.

And then it was gone.