Where The Rain Is Made, Keta Diablo [free novel reading sites txt] 📗
- Author: Keta Diablo
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never see him again tore at her innards.
In the pale light of morning, Francesca spied the tall prairie grass ahead, smelled the ashen waters of the river. A blue jay screeched from a low-hanging
branch as she passed, the derringer clutched in her hand. Thank God her father had taken the time to show her how to shoot. A single shot, that’s all that stood between her and death.
She remembered the acrid, black smoke and the direction from which it had come - Auraria, the miner’s camp. Her father must be dead too. Please,
God, don’t let them find me. Tall spikes rose to her hips and rustled against her twill pants as she threshed toward the river. A desperate desire to
survive coursed through her blood. She’d grab a hefty branch, float down the river so they couldn’t track her, would never find her.
Moments later, she emerged from the tall grass and her stomach lurched. On the opposite bank of the river stood the most frightening sight she’d ever laid eyes on.
She froze, her heart pounding in triple beats. Pewter eyes locked with hers and she uttered a low cry of fear. Grotesque war paint covered his face, and bloody scalps hung from his waist.
She was as good as dead.
Recovering her senses, she raised the derringer, her hands shaking like a rattler’s tail. “Don’t come near me! I know how to use this. Take one step and I’ll shoot.”
A flicker of admiration flashed in the gunmetal orbs. And something else. Oh, God, had he seen through her ruse, knew she wasn’t a boy? Her heart
sank.
Treading through the shallow water, he advanced and she retreated, tripping over her feet. She drew back on the trigger and fired. Morbid fascination gripped her when the bullet whirred by his head and carved out a shallow furrow along his temple. A stream of blood trickled from the wound and ran down his cheek. And what cheekbones they were. Every feature of his face was finely chiseled, reminding her of the savages in her father’s picture books.
She sprinted toward the marsh grass, only to be knocked to the ground when a rock-hard body struck her from behind. Crushed by the man’s weight, she clawed at the earth. Gritty sand and damp moss spiraled up her nose. Amid the white-hot pain in her ribs, she struggled to remain conscious. Her life depended on keeping her faculties.
Strong hands bound her hands behind her back before darkness found her.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Keta Diablo lives in the Midwest part of the country on six acres of beautiful woodland. When she isn’t writing, she loves to read, garden and spend time at her local animal shelter trying to wrangle a way to bring them all home.
You can visit Keta at the following sites on the Net:
www.ketadiablo.com
http://ketaskeep.blogspot.com
http://thestufofmythandmen.blogspot.com
Thank you for reading Where The Rain Is Made. I hope you enjoyed reading about the Cheyenne Dog Soldiers as much as I enjoyed writing about them. If you’d like to see a sequel to Where The Rain Is Made, please spread the word about how much you enjoyed the book. As always, thank you for your continued support and loyalty. Without fans and readers, my
incentive to continue writing would wan.
PURCHASE WHERE THE RAIN IS MADE HERE: $4.99 full length novel, http://tinyurl.com/37oepsy
Where The Rain Is Made was recently nominated for BEST BOOK OF THE MONTH at several well-known blogs and I happy to see we WON!
Watch Where The Rain Is Made Video Trailer here. You'll love the haunting music taken from a Native American album called Sacred Spirits.
http://www.youtube.com/user/KetaDiablo?feature=mhum Imprint
In the pale light of morning, Francesca spied the tall prairie grass ahead, smelled the ashen waters of the river. A blue jay screeched from a low-hanging
branch as she passed, the derringer clutched in her hand. Thank God her father had taken the time to show her how to shoot. A single shot, that’s all that stood between her and death.
She remembered the acrid, black smoke and the direction from which it had come - Auraria, the miner’s camp. Her father must be dead too. Please,
God, don’t let them find me. Tall spikes rose to her hips and rustled against her twill pants as she threshed toward the river. A desperate desire to
survive coursed through her blood. She’d grab a hefty branch, float down the river so they couldn’t track her, would never find her.
Moments later, she emerged from the tall grass and her stomach lurched. On the opposite bank of the river stood the most frightening sight she’d ever laid eyes on.
She froze, her heart pounding in triple beats. Pewter eyes locked with hers and she uttered a low cry of fear. Grotesque war paint covered his face, and bloody scalps hung from his waist.
She was as good as dead.
Recovering her senses, she raised the derringer, her hands shaking like a rattler’s tail. “Don’t come near me! I know how to use this. Take one step and I’ll shoot.”
A flicker of admiration flashed in the gunmetal orbs. And something else. Oh, God, had he seen through her ruse, knew she wasn’t a boy? Her heart
sank.
Treading through the shallow water, he advanced and she retreated, tripping over her feet. She drew back on the trigger and fired. Morbid fascination gripped her when the bullet whirred by his head and carved out a shallow furrow along his temple. A stream of blood trickled from the wound and ran down his cheek. And what cheekbones they were. Every feature of his face was finely chiseled, reminding her of the savages in her father’s picture books.
She sprinted toward the marsh grass, only to be knocked to the ground when a rock-hard body struck her from behind. Crushed by the man’s weight, she clawed at the earth. Gritty sand and damp moss spiraled up her nose. Amid the white-hot pain in her ribs, she struggled to remain conscious. Her life depended on keeping her faculties.
Strong hands bound her hands behind her back before darkness found her.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Keta Diablo lives in the Midwest part of the country on six acres of beautiful woodland. When she isn’t writing, she loves to read, garden and spend time at her local animal shelter trying to wrangle a way to bring them all home.
You can visit Keta at the following sites on the Net:
www.ketadiablo.com
http://ketaskeep.blogspot.com
http://thestufofmythandmen.blogspot.com
Thank you for reading Where The Rain Is Made. I hope you enjoyed reading about the Cheyenne Dog Soldiers as much as I enjoyed writing about them. If you’d like to see a sequel to Where The Rain Is Made, please spread the word about how much you enjoyed the book. As always, thank you for your continued support and loyalty. Without fans and readers, my
incentive to continue writing would wan.
PURCHASE WHERE THE RAIN IS MADE HERE: $4.99 full length novel, http://tinyurl.com/37oepsy
Where The Rain Is Made was recently nominated for BEST BOOK OF THE MONTH at several well-known blogs and I happy to see we WON!
Watch Where The Rain Is Made Video Trailer here. You'll love the haunting music taken from a Native American album called Sacred Spirits.
http://www.youtube.com/user/KetaDiablo?feature=mhum Imprint
Publication Date: 10-06-2010
All Rights Reserved
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