Where The Rain Is Made
* Nominated for Bookie Award by Authors After Dark
* Nominated for Best Romance of the Year
* Book of the Month – Black Raven’s Café
* Top Recommended Read – 3 Professional review sites
A decadent savage has captured Francesca DuVall and her brother Marsh. Now she spends every waking moment planning an escape from the camp of the brutal Dog Soldiers.
Ethan Gray is a curator at a national museum... until he travels through time to help his beloved People. In the Cheyenne world he’s known as Meko, leader of the most revered tribe of the plains.
Cultures and hearts battle, violence and death haunt the road ahead, but when kindred souls collide, anything is possible. From the windswept plains of Colorado to the placid life of a curator, their love is fueled by passion and kindled by destiny.
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Setup and Excerpt: Francesca must endure three days under a blazing sun for helping her brother escape from the Cheyenne village.
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Offering herself to the evil form of torture, Cesca dropped to the ground and spread her hands and legs apart. Choking Wolf tied her hands and feet to four stakes on the ground, pinning her to the earth. She paced her breathing, willing her angry heart to quiet. If Black Bonnet or anyone else thought she’d cry, they were mistaken. She couldn’t afford to expend her energy on rage or self-pity, knew she must conserve every ounce of strength to last three days under the burning sphere above her.
The curious crowd loitered for an hour and then disbursed. They must know she’d last through morning. The sun beat down, hot and intense, but not unbearable. Not yet. Black Bonnet and her friends circled once or twice and kicked dirt over her body. A raised stick from Brown Wing sent them scurrying away.
Strikes First’s words found her. ‘You must go somewhere in your mind.’ She saw the smooth planes of the man’s face, strong, uncompromising, and courageous. ‘Above the clouds where the rain is made.’ Like Meko, an aura of mystery surrounded the man. He didn’t speak English as fluently as the dark warrior, or so she thought. This morning, while translating Choking Wolf’s words, his speech was faultless. Who are these people? At least Strikes First cared what happened to her. She saw it in his eyes during the council meeting and again this morning when he brought the clothing.
Hours passed and the sun’s harsh rays seared her skin. She wouldn’t think of water or beg for it, would push any thought of the cool, clear liquid from her mind. If anyone so much as offered her a drop, they’d face the same punishment. How could she place anyone in the same situation by pleading for help? She’d sing songs in her mind, recite nursery rhymes, and count the days of the calendar, month by month for every year she’d walked the earth. When it became too much to bear, she’d think pleasant thoughts, imagine her scorched body taking a long dip in a cold pool of water or recall an evening she’d walked beneath silver moonlight. She’d think of him, I Am The Wind.
How had he acquired such an unusual name? Brother to the wind, he blew east to west, north to south, and over the mountain tops. He swirled and dipped through the valleys, skimmed across lakes and streams, wild and free; twisted through the branches of the jack pines and rustled through the leaves of the massive oaks. The mighty wind could rip any structure to shreds, pull trees from the earth, scatter snow and dry up rivers. It could whisper in your ear, fan the wisps of hair at your temple and kiss your face like a lover. What a formidable traveler, the wind. Since the beginning of time it had existed between heaven and earth, would never retreat, had the ability to journey far and near in a heartbeat, reside in many places at the same time. Be everywhere, like him, I Am The Wind.
Her mind took a wandering path of its own by late afternoon. The relentless heat scorched every inch of her skin, exposed or covered. The all-consuming fire stole the breath from her lungs. She couldn’t recall Strikes First’s words now, but heard her father reading Psalms from the Good Book—prayers, fervent pleadings to the Virgin Mary. Oh, Virgin Immaculate, Mother of God, from your sublime heights, turn your eyes of pity on me.
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