Dean smiled at me. “I’m about to show you what I accomplished on those little trips you couldn’t figure out. I just didn’t want to say what I was up to until it was a done deal.”
He turned and drove under a raw lumber arch—the Prestons’ arch. I had gone to school with their daughter. Dean followed a lane through grain fields that were turned fallow, waiting for next spring’s planting. Just beyond them, we traveled up a hill to a log house tucked in trees above the river.
We parked and watched the Flathead River flow below us. He took my hand and rubbed my fingers with his. “I was checking out small farms to buy. I’m ready to downsize from the ranch in Colorado. I just bought this spread.”
I searched those eyes of his and saw the clear honesty in them. My distrust of him had actually been due to my feelings of fear and guilt about what had happened to Edgy.
Dean put my fingers to his lips. “I want to share it with you, if you’re willing.”
I fought the temptation to say yes. My thoughts swirled. How could I let him love someone who had never completely satisfied her husband? I was unworthy. I might never be able to fully trust anyone again.
“Corinne, take your time. I want you to be sure.”
I recalled Edgy’s words at the honkey tonk. He looks like a date to me.
I smiled slightly at the memory as I studied his face. “There’s a condition.”
“And?” he asked.
I softly touched the back of my neck in the exact spot his warm moist whisper had caressed when Edgy was playing pool at the Blue Moon. I had trusted him then.
“You see right here?” I tapped the spot. “You have to kiss me right there every day. Are you willing?” I rested my eyes on his sweet lips. They curled into a sexy grin and then parted.
“I am,” he vowed.
Our lips joined.
The End
The following is a sampling of Marie F Martin’s book “Ratham Creek”
“There is a forest where the din
Of iron branches sounds!” Longfellow
Ratham Creek
Chapter One
The debt is large.
Liquidate.
Sell the house.
A rianne Hollis held up her palm as though to block whispers chasing across the choppy surface of Avalanche Lake. The words made no sense. Her husband would never play the stock market while cancer cells played with him.
But Garth had. Her lawyer confirmed it this morning, October 10, 1988. A day that did not compare to the day Garth died, but this one held just as much change.
She sat on a fallen log near the shore, huddling into his old sweatshirt, knowing it would be smart to leave the mountains before the brewing storm hit. One was coming. The odor of it was sharp.
The two-mile uphill trek in Glacier Park’s drizzling forest had eased some of Arianne’s grief, enough so that she actually noticed droplets of rain sliding from cedar trees. Mountain moss shown a bright green even against the wet darkness of boulders and cliffs. Arianne had not felt damp until she sat beside the lake and stared at a dusting of snow across the tops of high peaks encircling the lake. Early October and snow season was starting already. She huddled deeper into Garth’s heavy sweatshirt, but continued to sit. The waves deepened and rose in white caps.
The wind gusted down Sperry Glacier and whipped the branches on cedar and western larch. Quickly, Arianne rose and looked at the mountain tops behind her. Black clouds boiled across the top.
Leave now. It seemed as if Garth spoke.
Her pepper spray holster bounced against her thigh. She sought its leather flap and held it steady as she hurried for the trail. Behind her the lake now seemed to mock. Alone--alone. The silent words chased her uphill through bracken fern and underbrush.
Before beginning the sharp descent, the powerful roar of Avalanche Gorge joined the swaying, creaking trees. Together they drowned out the soft jingle of her bear bells.
Arianne stopped in mid-stride. She shot a look toward a rank scent and locked eyes with two black, glaring orbs almost hidden in Thimbleberry bushes. She froze, wanting to bolt down the mountain, but her mind held her in awe.
So, this is how I'm to die and join Garth.
The large grizzly lumbered from the bushes, fur standing high on his hump. He twisted his enormous head, eyeing her and then he pranced. His front paws pounded back and forth, inviting her to a primeval dance. His guttural sounds of proud ownership reverberated through the trees.
His eyes glazed with distain. This was his mountain and he was lord. He roared and slashed his head to and fro. Slimy froth dripped from his open jaw. Jagged, yellow teeth showed stark. The low-slung body rose to his full height, pawing the air. His horrible wrath poured out in ever deeper hostility.
Arianne's heart thundered. Shallow gasps escaped between slightly parted lips. Hands clasped over her ears, she tried to shut out the thunderous wind, water and this terrible fury.
This is the first three unedited pages from Marie F Martin’s next novel she is working on.
It will be her next book sometime in 2019 or 2020
D id she dare? Reba Bicknell inhaled her doubt and signed on the dotted line. She rubbed the key for her 1938 Chevy one last time and handed it to the car dealer at Jorge’s used car lot in the eastern outskirts of Wichita. Her heart raced a little as she accepted the key and title to her new purchase.
Salesman Duffy smiled at her. His lips barely moved in his boney tight-skinned face. She couldn’t tell if the growths near hi Where’s Joe?
s attentive eyes were warts or moles, but she was sure his skin was a little green. Maybe the light caused the color, or her disgust with him.
She had put up with a lot in her search to find Joe. She just didn’t know what else to do. Or how she was ever going to explain to her father why she traded off the car he had given her for graduating with a two-year degree in marketing from Neosho County Community College. He was proud of the gift and thought it would keep her home.
“Go ahead, Reba,” Duffy said. “The mechanic has it ready and it’s parked in the lot.
Outside, the bright red fenders on the 1940 Indian motorcycle caught her eyes first. She jumped just a little and hurried to it, running her hand over the wide black leather seat, wondering who else had ridden it.
Duffy had taken her for a test run so she wasn’t afraid to ride it. Thank heavens she’d worn her old tan trousers instead of the usual A-line skirt and sweater. He had ridden behind her and showed her how to start and stop and all the essentials she needed to operate it safely. And several times he had pressed his legs against hers tighter than necessary as they rode, and she didn’t much like it. She’d put up it with only because she had to find Joe.
Reba rubbed her hands along the handle bars, touching the front brake lever and cute little rearview mirror. For an eight-year-old bike, the exterior showed very few rock chips in the paint. She hooked the strap of her purse over her neck and one shoulder, tucked her ash blond hair behind her ears and pulled the cork and cloth head protector into place.
Duffy had handed her the helmet, saying, “I’m giving this to you because above all else you have to return in one piece.” She fastened the strap under her chin, lifted her long leg over the seat and straddled the bike. Drawing a deep breath and with all her strength jammed her leg downward on the starter lever. The engine fired and rumbled to life. She raised the kickstand with her heel, leaned forward and turned the throttle with her right hand. Powerful vibrations fed up her arms as she gained speed. She didn’t dare look back at the salesman who she sensed was waving her a sendoff. If she ever saw him again, he would pay for his lechery.
She kept the speed low as she worked through the edge of town, heading back the hundred plus miles along highway 39 to Chanute and to the country road she couldn’t forget.
Reba lost track of time as she held her arms steady. The wind chilled her cheeks and snarled her hair hanging below the helmet. She lost herself in the pulse of th
e engine and she floated back in time. Was it only two years ago that she found Joe? Only to lose him? She remembered the day she met him.
On the evening of June 20, 1946, Reba had followed the sidewalk toward the small stucco poolhall. She reached for the doorknob but couldn't bring herself to enter. Instead she stood aside and stepped into a shaded corner, struggling with her emotions, trying to find composure after another battle with her mother. What difference did it make where she went for dinner? Her values were secure, put in place by a good, but overly-protective parent.
A cool evening breeze lifted away the last of the day’s heat as Reba leaned against the rough stucco wall. A bee searching for nectar buzzed beside her ankle. She swatted at the pest. The sound of a rhythmic, pulsating engine drew her focus. A large black and chrome Harley cruised down West Main. The size and power of the machine thrilled Reba. Her breath caught when the rider glided to a noisy stop near where she stood in the shadows. She stepped forward.
Feet on the ground, the man straddled his throbbing machine and stared at her. He let the engine idle. Its pulse matched hers.
Reba stared back at his weathered face and the black leather jacket. She noticed the four-inch cuff he’d rolled in his Levi’s. The inside light color stood out, almost daring. That was it. Her heart pounded the instant he lifted his goggles and his eyes glimmered, appeared full of fun.
He revved the bike's motor. It popped alive with a throaty roar, matching her heart as his chin nodded toward the seat behind him. “You want a ride?” he asked.
“No.”
“What would it hurt?”
“I'm not dressed for it.”
“You look pretty to me.”
Reba's cheeks grew warm and she glanced down at the gathered skirt of her green floral print sundress.
“You can tuck it under.” His voice sounded sincere, only wanting to solve a problem.
But she couldn’t do something so daring, so wild. “I can’t,” she said.
He shrugged and roared away.
The moment had lasted such a short time, yet Reba savored it as she watched the big machine disappear around a corner. She didn’t know any other twenty-two-year-old women who had to explain going for a burger with her coworkers. How could she ever explain a joy ride with a complete stranger?
About the Author
M arie F Martin, author, storyteller and weaver of suspense, spunk, and sass in her Historical Fiction, Thrillers, and Mysteries. Together her novels have over 500,000 Kindle downloads and over 700 five-star reviews.
Marie lives in a fertile valley at the base of the Rocky Mountains. She enjoys a quiet life where laughter comes easy, love easier. She invites you to join her on her website and read about her rich, rural memories in a memoir of her early childhood and raising her own family of four children. If you have any questions, she will be happy to answer them. Her email address and other social media are listed on her website.
https://www.mariefmartin.com/
https://mariefmartin312.wordpress.com/
https://www.facebook.com/mariefmartinauthor/
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6527420.Marie_F_Martin
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Blame the Car Ride Page 24