Where The Rain Is Made, Keta Diablo [free novel reading sites txt] 📗

WHERE THE RAIN IS MADE:
DECADENT PUBLISHING, http://tinyurl.com/37oepsy
About Where The Rain Is Made:

A decadent savage has captured Francesca DuVall and her brother, Marsh. Now she must spend every waking moment planning an escape. However, she didn’t count on the powerful draw of desire interfering with her scheme in the camp of the brutal Cheyenne dog soldiers.

Ethan Gray is a curator at a national museum . . . most of the time, but when he travels through time to help his beloved People he becomes Meko, leader of the most revered and feared tribe of the plains.
Although their worlds are decades apart Meko can’t resist the dark beauty he kidnapped during a raid. He has many battles to fight but none he wants to win more than the one that will capture Cesca’s heart forever.

From the windswept plains of Colorado and the harsh life of a Dog Soldier to the placid life of a curator their love was fueled by passion and kindled by destiny.

What reviewers are saying about Where the Rain is Made . . .

“Diablo delivered an awe-inspiring novel that made me appreciate the Native American and their way of life. Where The Rain Is Made is a definite keeper that everyone should read. You’ll be hooked immediately!” 4.5 Stars –
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“Where The Rain Is Made has a lot of passion and a gripping, original plot, not to mention well wrought characters. An edgy, compelling story. A very solid tale - one rooted in history.” 5 Stars -
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“Where The Rain Is Made is an incredible read and stays with you even when not reading. There were times the description was done so well it made this reviewer a touch jealous as well as quite happy to enjoy it.” 4.5 Wings –
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“Where The Rain Is Made will remain on my shelf for years to come and be revisited often :) I cringed, flinched, sighed and shed a tear. Any story that can do that has my vote all the way. Ms. Diablo, I look forward to seeing more from you in the future.”
9 out of 10 –
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“Where the Rain is Made is a tale rich in history, emotions and love. Kudos to K. Diablo for penning such an impassioned story.” 4.5 Stars
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"Where The Rain Is Made is a historical romance sure to magically sweep you back in time. A must read!”
5 Stars –
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"Recommended Read & 5 Stars"
"Where The Rain Is Made by Keta Diablo is an intense, sensual, compelling, adventurous story that will have you biting your nails while sitting on the edge of your seat begging for more with the turn of every page."

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WHERE THE RAIN IS MADE
AN EROTIC PARANORMAL
KETA DIABLO

Buy the book here: http://tinyurl.com/37oepsy

Foreword

THE CHEYENNE DOG SOLDIERS

Of all the typical Plains tribes, the Cheyenne were most distinguished for warlike qualities. Few in number, they overcame or held in check most of
the peoples who opposed them, and when the westward movement of European civilization began, they made more trouble than all the rest combined. In short, they were preeminently warriors among peoples whose
trade was war.

As in other prairie tribes, the warriors of the Cheyenne were organized into societies or orders. These societies were fraternal, military, and semi-religious organizations with special privileges, duties, and dress, usually tracing their origin to some mythical culture hero or medicine man. Each society had its own songs and secret ritual, and exacted certain observances
and standards of its members.

Of these organizations, none has played such a part in the history of the Plains as the “Dog Soldiers” of the Cheyenne.

Chronicles of Oklahoma, January, 1921
W. S. CAMPBELL

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The awesome warriors were armed to the teeth with revolvers and bows . . . proud, haughty, defiant as should become those who are to grant favors, not beg them."

Ohio reporter covering negotiations at Medicine Lodge, Kansas on October 27, 1867

Chapter One

Present Day
Montana

Ethan Gray rose from his dingy cot for the tenth time and paced the small area of his jail cell. He’d survived another night. The thin, hard mattress
didn’t faze him, nor did the cold, sterile white walls and matching sink and stool. The metal bars were another matter. He hated being penned; needed
to feel the warmth of the sun on his face, breathe fresh air. The onslaught of a hard-driven rain chilling him to the bone would be preferable to caging him like an animal.

Next year he’d spend his vacation in a friendlier city, and one closer to home -- Washington, D.C. He thought about his job as Assistant Curator at one of the finest museums in the country. The position provided him with the opportunity to see and touch everything he cherished artifacts of the Cheyenne people.

He’d have a lot of explaining to do if his superiors found out he spent two nights in jail again. Hell, by now a copy of the police report from that minor
scuffle in Deadwood last year would be in the Judge’s hands. One road bump at a time, he told himself while limping about his cell.

Despite what it looked like, he’d try to convince the Judge he didn’t go looking for the fight. The judge would ask him what brought him to Montana. Easily explained. He never missed the yearly powwows or a chance to shake hands with old friends, watch the ceremonial dances, and smoke the pipe.

A fickle breeze sneaked through the barred window in his cell. Jesus, he could barely tolerate his own stench. What he wouldn’t give for a change of clothing and a bar of soap before he appeared before the Judge. At the moment, a transient moving from shelter to shelter put him to shame.

His only visitor had been a geriatric doctor scrounged up from God knew where. Arthritic fingers had poked around his torso and head before he
delivered his assessment to the sheriff. “He’ll live.”

Damn, he shouldn’t have stopped in this flea-bitten town for a cold beer, and he should have kept minding his own business when the platinum blonde with the big breasts sidled up to him at the bar. She’d asked for a light before three men surrounded them—blathering idiots well into their liquor and itching for trouble. A flicker of fire sparked in the man’s pupils, so fleeting most wouldn’t have noticed. Ethan’s life, however, depended on his ability to recognize danger.

The woman knew the cowboy, had called him by name before she warned the bowlegged saddle-jumper to stay the hell out of her life. The feral beast
awoke in Ethan when the man lunged and wrapped his hands around her throat.

Cowboy shouldn’t have done that.

Chairs flew through the air, and next bodies. By the time the fisticuffs ended, it looked more like a firestorm had blown through than a bar fight.

Ethan had dusted himself off and strolled to the bar to finish his drink. The next thing he knew, a freight train roared in his head and white lights
exploded behind his lids. He’d awakened in this damn jail cell with the cold-fingered doctor poking around his bruised body.

Ethan stopped his pacing long enough to cock his ear toward the hallway. Yep, as suspected, the soft padding of footsteps, moccasins.

Moments later, the sheriff stood before the iron bars, unable to hide his smart-ass smirk. “You got company. You also got ten minutes before you appear in front of the Judge. Make it quick.”

Ethan knew about his visitor the moment the woman stepped through the sheriff’s front door. Stands-In-Light, the ancient medicine woman of the
Cheyenne, wrapped her spiny hands around the bars when the man walked away. “Heightened senses come in handy now and again.”

“It’s good to see you again so soon, Esteemed One.”
The same yellow blanket she wore at the powwow clung to her slender shoulders, and today her long, silver plaits were braided and interspersed with colorful beads. Her face looked the same though, still time-worn after eighty years beneath a pitiless sun.
“Yes, well, I didn’t expect to find you here.” She scanned the jail cell. “In any event, the spirits call out for you, I Am The Wind.”

Ethan had lived the last ten years of his life between this world and another. At twenty-five years of age, the Council considered him a seasoned veteran.

He knew why he’d been chosen—his love for the Cheyenne and family connections. His brother, Noah, was a time wanderer, his grandmother a member of the
Sacred Council of Arrows. Even without the family associations, he wouldn’t have questioned his duty to the People. Never. He’d do whatever the Sacred Council asked for his People, his grandmother’s People, one and the same.

He often wondered if the blood of his ancestors triggered his violent streak, so forceful at times he thought he might implode from the pressure. He’d
made a vow to never call forth the virulent brutality, but rather embrace the feral demon when it reared its ugly head.

He looked beyond the window in his cell before meeting her gaze again. “I’ve heard their pleas in my dreams, old one.”

She took in his bruised body, her dark eyes settling on the gauze strips wrapped around his torso. “It’s not a journey of peace this time but one of great violence and sorrow for the Tsitsistas.

Tsitsistas - the Cheyenne. He nodded and released a drawn-out breath.

“Sweet Medicine’s prophecy has arrived. Though we have welcomed the white-eye with open arms, he’s like the fox, a trickster that smiles while stealing the hen from under your nose.”

Ethan glanced around the metal pen and decided her visit couldn’t have come at a better time. “I see many soldiers in my visions, and blood—endless blood.”

“You cannot change events.” Her voice a whisper, she closed her eyes for a moment, perhaps seeking the same visions. “If you accept the mission you’ll
save as many Cheyenne as possible.”

He paused and thought about the danger, but only for a second. “What else will the Sacred Council require of me this time?”

“You must resurrect your battle skills from past lives, lead them, and . . . .” Her voice faltered. “Cry with them in times of sorrow.”

He sensed she had more to say, but common courtesy and a lifetime of knowing Cheyenne custom compelled him to wait.

Stands-In-Light’s eyes took on an insightful gleam. “What else do you see while you chase dreams?

He saw her as clearly as the fingers on his hand. “A woman with hair the color of the magpie and eyes greener than pine needles.”

“Your visions reveal the truth.”

The significance of the metaphors hadn’t been revealed to him, but his journey to the past this time would be cataclysmic. He felt it with every
drop of blood in his veins, every breath passing through his lungs. “What of me? Will I be allowed to return to my life here?”

“You always have the choice, Ethan, but remember the decision must be made in the whisper of a breath.”
Her words