Tails of Ugly Creek

by Cheryel Hutton

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Tails of Ugly Creek

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc. and other major retailers

  I forced back the strong desire to laugh. Poor Hunter had a faery treed and didn’t know what to do with her. Didn’t even realize what she was. What was I going to do? I recognized what she was, but not anything about her kind. I did know at least some faeries spoke English. “Hello.” I tried to keep my voice quiet and friendly.

  She looked at me and blinked, let out another soft, musical sound, then took off out the bedroom door and down the steps. A shimmer followed her, and for a moment it looked like glitter hung in the air. Hunter rushed after her, probably trying to see where she was going. Personally, I was just relieved she hadn’t flown out the window.

  He turned and looked at me, his expression the textbook version of confused. I smiled in spite of myself. “We got sneaked up on.”

  “Boy, that’s the truth. Good thing she wasn’t armed and dangerous.”

  “Not much dangerous around here, really. Mostly just odd and unexpected.”

  He glanced toward the door. “I’m beginning to see that.”

  Tails of

  Ugly Creek

  by

  Cheryel Hutton

  Ugly Creek Series, Book 4

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Tails of Ugly Creek

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Cheryel Hutton

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Fantasy Rose Edition, 2018

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2163-9

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2164-6

  Ugly Creek Series, Book 4

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To the women of Chattanooga Area Romance Authors: Kelle Z. Riley, Nita Wick, Leigh Riker, Laurie White, and Carrie Nichols. I miss you all so much.

  ~*~

  CARA rocks!

  Chapter One

  The marauders fell upon us…

  Okay, it was a pack of teenagers. Wild, loud, disruptive teenagers grouped together by the desire to irritate adults as much as possible without getting in trouble. From what I overheard, these were advanced-level high school students who had been sent to the public library as a learning experience. Their task was to find books for reports. So began the invasion of the normally quiet Ugly Creek Library, bringing hope to the librarians that these kids would see the importance of libraries, and annoyance to the regular patrons.

  I was, of course, there to write. I was at my regular, excellent table near a window. I’d worked for hours at home, but my characters were still talking to me, so I’d taken my trusty laptop to this magical place devoted to books. Things were going well until the invasion. I like teenagers generally, act like one quite often, but this was my career. I’m a novelist with a rapidly approaching deadline, so I take scriptum interruptus seriously.

  It’s hard to break my concentration, I write to loud music, after all, but this pack was determined. In an effort to not allow frustration to screw up the flow I’d enjoyed all morning, I took my laptop and headed toward the back where I happened to know there was one tiny table. It wasn’t a lot quieter back there, but it was better, and I’d take what I could get. I was on a roll, and I wanted to keep rolling. And no, I didn’t bring my headphones. I don’t normally use them at the library. I write to classic rock music at home, so changing to a relatively quiet environment frequently stimulates my muse.

  It only took a couple of minutes to get back into the fictional world.

  “Mind if I sit here?”

  I looked up, and standing in front of me was a tall guy wearing a bow tie. A bow tie. What the flea-bite-heck kind of dude under fifty wears a bow tie? Then again, at least he was closer to my age than to the yapping hoard of hormone charged irritants. “Sure.”

  “Thanks,” he said, as he maneuvered extra-long legs so he could sit. “You seem to have the only relatively quiet table in this place.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  There was peace for a moment, then a hand came across the table. “I’m Hunter. Hunter Devereux, and I’m really sorry to have invaded your working spot.”

  I looked up, ready to tell him to either shut up or go play with the kiddies. But then I saw the most amazing pair of hazel eyes. My brain went on hold, and my hand moved toward him. “Terri Quinn.”

  He had awesome thick hair. Seriously dark brown that bordered on black, the strands glossy and cut to just brush his collar.

  “Where do I know that name from?”

  I smiled and tried to look properly modest. “I’ve made the New York Times list a couple of times. Well, four, actually.”

  “Wow! Congratulations. Fiction or non?”

  I smiled. He was not bad looking, even if he did invade my territory. “Fiction. Women’s Fiction, to be specific.”

  “Oh.” He busied himself with opening his laptop.

  Irritation ran laps in my stomach. He’d so better not be going where I thought he was. “Oh?”

  He kept his gaze on his computer as he shrugged.

  I leaned toward the bow tie wearing snob. “Let me guess, only literary works deserve to be on a bestselling list.”

  “Absolutely not. Commercial fiction can definitely be list-worthy.”

  Hot coals burned in my veins. “But not women’s fiction?”

  “Look obviously you’re an excellent writer, and I don’t know what your books are like, but the vast majority of women’s fiction is lightweight. It is simply women talking about their lives. But better than romance, of course.”

  I leaned forward, the better to smell his anxiety. “Would you like to tell me what’s wrong with romance fiction?”

  He straightened his back, and I waited for him to make a cow turd of himself.

  “Romance,” he said, “tends to be formulaic and predictable. The genre also suggests that women are nothing if not connected romantically to a man.

  My hands clenched, as fire filled my veins. The growl deep in my throat was out before I realized it was coming. Hunter’s eyes widened, and I smiled. “Just how many romance novels did you read before coming to that conclusion?”


  He made a dismissive little noise. “Why would I waste my time reading romance?”

  I stood so fast my chair tipped over backwards and hit the floor with a loud thunk. I put my palms on the table and leaned so close, his pupils dilated. “You are an arrogant hair on the butt of a flea.”

  “Hairs can’t be arrogant.”

  “Oh, get over yourself.” I picked up the fallen chair and planted my derriere back in the seat. No way was I letting this overgrown spoiled child bully me into leaving. This was my library and my table. I looked down at my laptop screen, put my fingers on the appropriate keys, and started typing in spite of the fact that I had no idea where the scene was going. Or what I was typing, for that matter. I felt Hunter’s gaze on me as I finally managed to pick up the thread of my manuscript. I ignored his idiotic self and kept on putting words on the page.

  “I’m sorry, I need to learn to keep my big mouth shut. I teach English and American Literature as well as creative writing, so I’m used to being verbal about my opinions.”

  I looked over my computer screen to meet his gaze. “You teach creative writing?”

  “Yes, at Laurence Talbot College.”

  “Your poor students.”

  He winced. “I guess I deserved that.”

  “I mean it. Teachers like you can damage a student enough to prevent them from ever trying what they’re hardwired to do. Stories for and about women are just as important as those for and about men.”

  “It’s not about gender, I just try to point students toward emulating quality writing.”

  I respected the library too much to deck him right there. I’d catch him later and show him how female genre writers fight. “You need to quit before I do something you’ll regret.”

  He blew out a breath. “I insulted you, I know—”

  “And my cousin, the contemporary romance writer.”

  “And your cousin.”

  He wasn’t sounding nearly contrite enough, so I let some of my predatory instinct show through. “And every women-centered genre writer in the world.”

  He opened his mouth, looked into my eyes, and his expression shifted. Maybe it was a sliver of understanding, or a subconscious reaction to my desire to chew his leg off. Either way, he sounded serious when he repeated, “And every women-centered genre writer in the world.”

  Satisfied, for the moment anyway, I turned back to my manuscript.

  “I really am sorry. This research is driving me crazy.”

  I looked at the stack of books beside his laptop. They all involved local history. “Why are you researching Ugly Creek?”

  “I saw a documentary about this area and was intrigued. I started digging, and decided it would be a great subject for a book.”

  So he thinks he can write, huh? I glanced toward the stack beside his computer again, then met his gaze. “Like that’s never been done before.”

  “I’m hoping to put a new spin on the subject.”

  “Of course.”

  He looked at his watch. “I have a phone call I need to make.” He stood and gathered up his things. “Later.”

  I gave a little nod. He left and I turned back to my own work. I was surprised at how hard it was to push my irritation with this Hunter person out of my mind long enough to finish the next scene. He was handsome, his voice was deep and sexy, and there was something about him that intrigued me.

  Too bad he was a pain in the butt.

  ****

  It should have been a perfect afternoon. My writing work had been smooth and fun. It was early fall in Tennessee, the perfect place to enjoy the season. I sat on the couch in my Aunt Ruth’s house, watching the sun dip behind the mountains. The light reflecting off the autumn leaves cast brilliant shades of gold and red and yellow and orange, creating a beautiful landscape just begging to be admired and enjoyed.

  Unfortunately, I was in no mood for gorgeous colors. This was release week for my latest book, and when my phone rang I was expecting good news. I was wrong.

  My heart dropped and bounced off my stomach. “What do you mean, I’m not on the list?”

  “I’m sorry,” my agent said. “I know this is upsetting, Terri, but very few authors make the New York Times Bestseller List even once in their careers. Making it with every single book would be a miracle.” Hannah’s usually comforting voice wasn’t. Not today.

  “It’s release week, if not this week, then never.”

  “Sometimes it just happens, Terri.”

  I wanted to scream, but it wasn’t my agent’s fault my latest book wasn’t happily climbing the New York Times bestseller list like a good little women’s fiction. “What did I do wrong?”

  “Nothing I saw. You know publishing is a crazy business, especially when you factor in the always shifting propensities of the reading public.”

  “Bull baloney. Something didn’t work. Something in Sisters, Sand, and Secrets wasn’t as good as the four books before it.”

  “Actually,” I heard the reluctance in her voice, “Your sales were down for Sand and Margaritas, just not as significantly as for Sisters, Sand and Secrets.”

  I swallowed. “You’re saying the ‘Beach’ series isn’t working.”

  “It’s working, just not the way it did at the beginning.”

  My heart beat so hard I could feel it in my throat. “My publisher isn’t going to drop me, are they?”

  “No, but I doubt I can get the same terms for your next contract.”

  Less advance, fewer perks, big sense of failure. “What can I do, Hannah?”

  “You’re a fast writer. You could look at a different direction, maybe even with a different name.”

  For a moment I couldn’t breathe. “You mean starting all over again.”

  “Not if you get in front of this. Maybe try a different genre and let me get it out there before your next ‘Beach’ book comes out.”

  Tears burned my eyes, and I fought hard not to fall apart.

  “Look,” Hannah’s gentle voice reached out almost like she was physically touching me. “How about you think about what you’d be willing to do, and I’ll get in touch with your editor and see if we can figure something out.”

  We ended the call, and I leaned back with a big, deep, pathetic breath. I had to think. No it wasn’t the end of the world, but it was a big blow. I didn’t intend to go down without a fight. I just had to figure out a plan.

  Scrappy, my white and yellow ball of kitty fur, leaped onto the couch then climbed into my arms. She snuggled against my belly and proceeded to purr. As upset as I was, it was impossible to not smile at the little creature.

  Even with Scrappy’s comforting warmth and sweet purr, it didn’t take long for me to realize I couldn’t think sitting and staring at the wall, so I got up and headed toward the kitchen. Near the back door, I put Scrappy down on the floor, slid out of my clothes, and allowed my body the freedom to alter. Thirty seconds or so later, I burst through the doggie door as a collie. Scrappy, familiar with the procedure, had gone on through the door and was waiting for me outside.

  Racing around the house and back and forth across the yard, relaxation loosened the tension in my body. The best thing about being a shifter is having the ability to run full-tilt on four paws on soft grass with the wind in my face. There is nothing better in the world!

  As I came around the house, I noticed our neighbor Miz Carlisle, AKA Miz Pain-In-The-Butt glaring hard at me. Figuring irritating her would be a decent way to kick all the worrying out of my system, I headed toward the white picket fence. Yes, really. It might be cliché, but the neat white lines are a beautiful finishing touch on my aunt’s home. A few bits of hedge and Miz Pain’s flower garden completed the divider between the yards.

  “Go home, you smelly beast!” my neighbor yelled.

  Since I couldn’t speak English in this form, I did not point out that not only did I have a lovely canine smell that other dogs frequently complimented me on, but also that I was, in fact, on my side of the
fence, and thus at my current place of residence. Instead, I answered in my most adorable bark.

  “Stop that horrid barking, you mangy mutt. You’ll scare my Bumpkins.”

  I wasn’t a mutt, or mangy, and that… Wait a minute, where was that spawn of Satan? I spun just as the feline scent reached me.

  The cat was a beautiful black with white paws, chest, and nose-mouth area. You’d never know by looking at him that he wasn’t a sweet, friendly cat. But he lived to torment dogs. His paw raked at my face, and I barely missed a scratched nose. I backed up, and he followed. I could see by the look in his eyes he was hoping for another shot at me.

  I growled, and he smiled. The furry terrorist knew I’d never hurt him. He swiped at me again, and I reached out and pushed at his shoulder. I barely touched him, but he reacted with that high-pitched yowl only cats can manage. Streaking through the fence boards, he was beside his human slave in seconds. She scooped him up, giving me a scowl that would probably freeze me solid if she kept it up long enough.

  “Good boy,” she told the demon cat. “You keep that nasty creature on its side of the fence. It wouldn’t do for it to dig around in my flowers, would it? No it wouldn’t.” She headed toward the house, babbling about her flower bed.

  The woman was obsessed with her stupid flowers. As she walked across her yard, she kept glancing back toward me, as if she thought I was planning something.

  I considered hopping over and digging in her precious New England Asters, but that would be mean. Right?

  A red car pulled into our driveway, and I headed toward the house. I couldn’t wait to hear about my cute, red-headed cousin’s latest romantic adventures with her handsome boyfriend, Ace. I was still pulling my clothes back on when Shay strolled into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, took a long drink, then leaned back against the counter. Her smile was wide, her expression relaxed.

  “You look like one seriously satisfied woman.”

  She didn’t even glance my way, just smiled wider. “What can I say, Ace is a talented man.”

  “Well, that’s an interesting statement.”

  And the smile got even wider. Any more and her face would tear.