Witch in the Wind (Bandit Creek Books)

by Brenda M. Collins

  Avy didn’t get it, but Pelles nodded. “I see your point, Marcus. Devlin wrapped Eavan in his cloak that night at the edge of town. I suspect that is when he misplaced his clock pin. If his pin was in Bandit Creek, Devlin had not only survived but left a trail. Whom did you tell about the pin, my boy? Who on the Witches Council is the traitor to us all?”

  Marcus seemed to fade under the weight of his guilt. The murky green of his aura told her the stress she was sensing was emotional and ran so deep he was feeling it physically as a sickness.

  “My father.” The words hung in the air like smog. His voice was so hoarse with guilt she could barely recognize it. “What we’re saying, Avy, is that your parents managed to keep themselves, you and even their amulets hidden for a hundred years—until, I gave away their precious secret. I told my father. He’s the one who sent Blake to kill your parents and try to kill you.”

  He looked at her then, and he was no longer hiding behind a mask. His father’s betrayal was carved into his face and was poisoning his soul.

  She reached up with both hands and brought his face in line with hers.

  “Don’t you dare think you caused this whole chain of events just by mentioning a pin to someone you should have been able to trust.”

  Now that she had his full attention, she slid her hands down his arms and held both his hands tightly in hers. “Did you tell your father that he should go after my parents?”

  “Of course, not,” he said without a second thought, his anger with himself and his father flashing in his eyes.

  She looked at Pelles and accepted his nod of support. “Did you help your father manipulate Blake?”

  “No.” As he accepted her point, fingers of green, orange, bronze, red crept into his aura. “Even if I hadn’t met you, I’d have stopped him. As soon as he started using Blake as his pawn, he broke our law.”

  She wrapped her arms around his waist and closed her eyes with relief when his muscles tightened as his magic regained its strength. Her words had sunk in. Her Marcus was back in the game. Without releasing her hold, she looked back at his mentor. If her parents trusted his advice, she would too. “What should we do with the amulets?

  “You must keep them safely hidden.”

  “How does that help?” Marcus asked. “My father and Tobias are still a threat to the power balance.”

  “Not as much as you think, Marcus. Who has the Egan family amulet?”

  Marcus reached up to cover the shape just under his shirt.

  Pelles smiled. “And you will keep it safe will you not? Even from your father.”

  “Yes, of course. But what about Tobias?”

  “None of the others would allow him to have power over them. It’s the one thing they would all work together to avoid.” They both laughed at the truth of that.

  Avy didn’t have the long experience with Council that the two men shared so she had to be sure she wasn’t missing anything. “So as long as we have four of the five amulets between us, Council is safe. Marcus has one, I have two, and you have another. All we have to do is hang on to them.”

  “That is correct.”

  She’d heard enough about this bunch to know there was another question to ask. “How long before the balance tips again?”

  “Long enough,” said the old man. “I suspect the Witches Council has served its purpose and soon, if the Goddess is willing, the barriers between the covens will disappear. A new governing structure will be needed. One in which the power is more evenly distributed and less likely to be corrupted.”

  “Will that happen in our lifetime?” she asked, wondering if she would get to cheer from the sidelines.

  “One must remain optimistic while preparing for the worst.”

  “What’s the worst?” Dread seemed to be her constant companion lately, especially when it came to The Otherland and its Council.

  Pelles looked at her and then spoke directly to Marcus. “When the 48 hours are past, you must be sure that your witchling and her familiar are far from Bandit Creek, Marcus.”

  Despair dropped to the pit of her stomach as what little of her old life she had left slipped through her fingers. Would she have to hide from them for the rest of her life—just like her parents had done? That thought sliced through her. “What about my parents? They need to be properly buried. I arranged the funeral.” She wanted to say more but her voice waivered and she couldn’t go on.

  Busby immediately rubbed against her leg as Marcus wrapped both arms around her.

  Pelles stepped closer as well and put a hand on her shoulder. “I will see their remains are properly returned to the earth, Avy. But you must know that your parents have already travelled to the next plane and will always watch over you.”

  His words, spoken with such a depth of understanding of her parents’ pagan beliefs, gave her a peace she had not been able to feel at the Brubaker Funeral Home. The crushing burden she’d carried since the sheriff’s phone call, suddenly lifted. With her energy returning, the future didn’t look so bleak. “Will I ever be safe from Council?”

  Marcus pulled her closer as Pelles replied, “Once you are trained, young witch, the three of you will be a formidable team. The future will then be yours.”

  She took Marcus by the hand and reached down to stroke Busby’s ear. “Well, until that day, I’m not going anywhere without you two That Council of yours scares me to death.”

  He dropped a kiss on her forehead as his mentor disappeared with a flick of his hand. “Hon, I’ll make sure they can’t ever get near you again for as long as we both live,” Marcus said holding her tight. With a rumble in his throat, Busby added his support as well.

  She wrapped her arms around Marcus’s neck and looked up at him. “By the way, I've been meaning to ask you about that. How long am I likely to live?”

  He laughed and swung her up into his arms. “You’re stuck with me for another hundred years at least.”

  Busby howled as they stepped into a current of air.

  ~~~~~

  ABOUT Brenda M. Collins

  Brenda Collins has wanted to write romance since she was twelve years old. At the age of twenty, she spoke to an editor in Toronto, Canada, who expressed an interest in her story; however, she soon realized it takes more than an idea to be an author.

  She joined a number of writing groups to learn about ‘the craft’ and completed two mystery manuscripts. When the Bandit Creek opportunity arose, Brenda jumped on board immediately. The story that emerged started with a murder, but it came to life with witches, warlocks, a “familiar” and a magical dimension called The Otherland.

  To help her fellow writers develop strong business skills, Brenda has delivered workshops to hundreds of writers on career planning, professional networking and presentation skills, and regularly contributes articles on these topics to a wide range of publications, such as her recent piece, How to Improve Your Presentation Skills, in 2013 Writer’s Market Deluxe Edition (Brewer, R.L., ed., Ohio: Writer's Digest Books).

  Brenda is currently working on a collection of short romantic stories with award winning author, Roxy Boroughs, and she promises magical people from The Otherland will continue to slip through the portal to the mortal world for more adventures. And, of course, Marcus and Avy will have a role to play in resolving the situation with the Witches Council at some point.

  If you enjoyed Witch in the Wind, please help other readers find it by recommending it to friends or writing a review. Follow Brenda on Twitter. For new titles in the future, keep an eye on her Author Page at Amazon.com.

  ~~~~~

  And now here's a Sneak Peek of the next book in the Bandit Creek series:

  A BANDIT CREEK MIRACLE (Excerpt)

  A Bandit Creek Contemporary Romance

  by

  Brenda Sinclair

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Where is that damn hotel?”

  Amanda Bailey steered her three-year-old red BMW coupe along the streets of Bandit Creek, Montana. The tow
n’s population hovered at around three thousand, and she’d convinced herself she could locate her destination without directions. She hadn’t planned to arrive after dark.

  Glancing at her watch, she discovered the time was already twenty minutes after ten. Thankfully, the highways were clear. But having driven almost non-stop from Helena, she couldn’t wait for this day to end. Her eyes strained to focus on the road ahead, and she still hadn’t spotted the New Golden Nugget Hotel.

  She continued driving up one street and down another, convinced the hotel would appear around the next corner. As she spotted a diner, her stomach growled a reminder that she hadn’t eaten since noon. Several pickup trucks and two cars were parked in front. Amanda pulled into a parking spot across the street from Ma’s Kitchen.

  “Well, Ma, I hope you serve up directions as well as meals.” Amanda grabbed her purse off the passenger seat and clambered out of the car. She stretched her back, hunched and released her shoulders, and then inhaled the clean country air. There wasn’t any familiar city noise. No ambulance sirens screaming, no horns honking. Except for a dog barking in the distance, the town remained eerily quiet.

  Amanda dashed across the pavement, dodging a few puddles of snowy mush that threatened to ruin her new leather fashion boots. A tiny bell tinkled overhead as she entered the diner, and the aroma of strong coffee teased her nose. All conversation ceased, and a dozen heads swiveled toward the door to acknowledge the new arrival. Surprised expressions replaced the locals’ welcoming smiles when they spotted her. Obviously, at this time of night, they’d expected to see a familiar face.

  “Come in, dear.” A plump woman with tight curly silver hair done up in a bun strode toward her carrying a menu. Her cheery floral apron covered a short-sleeved white blouse and neat navy slacks, a tea towel rode her right shoulder, and keen eyes peered at her from behind out-of-date eyeglasses.

  “Hello. I’d kill for a cup of coffee.” Amanda glanced around the diner. A horseshoe shaped counter with red-vinyl upholstered stools caught her eye. A row of booths sat against the far wall, and various square wooden tables and low-backed chairs utilized the remaining floor space. Flimsy red gingham curtains framed the front windows and a variety of historical photographs hung on the white painted walls. The term ‘quaint’ flashed through her mind. A perfect setting for a 1950’s diner scene in a movie, she thought. Do the big-name California film producers know about this place?

  “Often hear ‘kill for a cup of coffee’ first thing in the morning, not at this time of night.” The woman chuckled and motioned Amanda forward. “We don’t bother with a PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED sign like you see in the city. Just pick a seat and plant it, honey.”

  As Amanda cautiously stepped across the slush-spattered linoleum floor, she removed her black wool ¾-length coat revealing a white cashmere sweater tucked into black dress pants. She chose a table beside a window and slung her coat over the chair back. She lowered herself onto the seat, placed her purse on the table, and loosened the aqua cashmere scarf wrapped around her neck.

  Her server set the menu in front of her and then stood hands on hips.

  “Thanks, Ma.” Amanda picked up the menu.

  “Actually, honey, the name’s Lucy. And that’s George over there inside the horseshoe jawing with them cowboys.” Lucy pointed in the gentlemen’s direction with her thumb as if hitchhiking on the I-90. Hearing his name, George looked up and waved.

  “Sorry, the sign outside…”

  “Most newcomers to town make the same mistake. Usually, I don’t even bother to correct the tourists.” Lucy cackled and stuck out her beefy hand. “You must be the gal replacing the manager at the Ellis bank during her maternity leave. Catherine dropped by for lunch and mentioned you’d be arriving today.”

  “Amanda Bailey.” She shook Lucy’s slightly calloused hand. “Sorry, my hands feel like ice.”

  “As soon as the sun goes down seems the temperature takes a nose dive. I’ll fetch you a mug of coffee to warm your insides and lift your spirits.”

  “Just black, please. Do you have decaf?” Amanda required something stronger than coffee to drag her out of this dark mood, but it didn’t look like they served wine here.

  She detested winter weather and she hated small towns. Her parents insisted she and her siblings spend summers with her grandparents at her mother’s small Minnesota hometown. There was no movie theater or even a library, and she soon discovered that her grandmother’s sole source of entertainment was gossiping with her lady friends.

  “Nope. None of them fancy lattes and such neither, just plain old coffee.” Lucy turned and scurried away.

  “Why am I not surprised?” muttered Amanda. Bandit Creek was the last place on earth she wanted to be. A city girl through-and-through, she’d attempted every means possible to avoid this small town purgatory. But her boss and best friend, Susan Sanders, warned her that if she expected a future promotion to manager of a city bank she should accept this temporary assignment.

  She’d barely glanced at the menu before the server returned to the table and plunked down a white ceramic mug of steaming brew.

  “Decided what you want?”

  Amanda thought the woman appeared a-little-rough-around-the-edges. But a rough edge here and there never hurt anyone.

  “I’ll have a bowl of the homemade chicken noodle soup, a cheeseburger, loaded, and sweet potato fries, please.” Amanda passed the menu back to Lucy. “Does salad come with the burger?”

  “Yep, coleslaw comes with your meal.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t consider coleslaw to be salad,” stated Amanda, smiling. She caught a glimpse of one of the guys seated at the horseshoe counter. The Hollywood-handsome cowboy faced backwards on the stool, slouching, resting his elbows on the counter behind him. He smiled broadly and his big brown eyes met hers for several seconds causing her heartbeat to race. Thankfully, the waitress had seated her before she’d fallen weak-kneed under the spell of this good-looking cowboy. After the horrendous year she’d just endured, Amanda enjoyed the attention he bestowed on her.

  “Close enough. We put two kinds of cabbage in it – green and red.” Lucy tapped her pen on the order pad. “So that’s soup, cheeseburger, sweet tater fries and coleslaw. You’re my kind of gal. Healthy appetite.”

  Amanda grimaced at the comment. She still struggled to maintain her weight, having lost so many pounds during the year-long chemo and radiation treatments and recovery. All of her girlfriends back in Helena envied her ability to eat everything in sight, one consolation for surviving the cancer. She leaned her elbows on the table, tented her fingers. “I might be tempted to order a piece of lemon pie.”

  “There’s one piece of lemon meringue left. Those cowboys dropped by after the cattlemen’s meeting for coffee and pie. And the other folks arrived when the movie theater let out.” Lucy whispered in a conspirator-like manner, “I’ll hide that last piece under the counter until you finish the first course.”

  “I wondered why there were so many people in here at this hour. Thank you for saving the pie.” Amanda smiled. Dessert always cheered her up. “Where’s the Ladies’ Room?”

  Lucy pointed toward the overhead sign in back and then headed toward the kitchen.

  Amanda blew on the steaming coffee, took a sip, and then glanced toward the horseshoe counter. The cowboy met her eyes again, and his bushy moustache twitched slightly as his full lips hinted at a grin. She’d spent most of the past year bald, her head covered with a scarf, nauseous and weak as a kitten. Being admired by a handsome cowboy brightened Amanda’s mood a notch and ignited her playful side. She copied his position: slouching in her chair, crossing her ankles and arms, staring right back at him. His grin broadened.

  A minute later, Amanda regretted her playfulness, her body aching from sitting in a fixed position while driving for so many hours. Her leg muscles screamed ‘what the hell are you doing’? And she fervently prayed she didn’t slide off the edge of the chair and land on her but
t under the table. Feeling her face redden, she struggled to stand, grabbed her purse, and headed toward the restrooms in back.

  As she wended her way between the tables, she observed the other patrons. A gray-haired couple occupied a corner booth, and they smiled as she glanced in their direction. The cowboys seated around the horseshoe nodded and touched the brim of their Stetsons as she approached. One fellow appeared older than the others, but none of them stood out as anything other than typical small town guys. Mr. Hollywood-handsome being the exception.

  “Evening, ma’am.” The handsome cowboy’s deep masculine voice rumbled in his broad chest, and he removed the Stetson and set it on his thigh. He wore jeans, a chambray shirt, open denim jacket and well-worn cowboy boots which suggested he was the genuine article.

  “Good evening.” Amanda stopped directly in front of the good-looking fellow.

  “I wasn’t eavesdropping, but I couldn’t help overhear your conversation with Lucy. So, you’re the gal replacing my sister-in-law, Catherine.” The cowboy leaned forward, extended his hand. “Jeremy Branigan.”

  “Please to meet you, Mr. Branigan. I’m Amanda Bailey.” Amanda shook his hand and felt an electric current race up her arm. She’d never felt such an immediate attraction to a guy before, and she imagined running her fingers through his dark brown, almost shoulder-length curls. The laugh lines around his eyes hinted at his sense of humor, and she’d always been attracted to a deep male voice that rattled her mind in equal proportion to the degree of rattling in the fellow’s chest.

  Jeremy introduced her to the other gentlemen seated around the horseshoe, and Amanda shook their hands. She’d never remember them all, but the name Jeremy Branigan was permanently burned into her mind like a brand on a steer’s hide.

  They just stared at each other for an embarrassing length of time. Amanda cleared her throat and shifted to her other foot. Her brain had dissolved into mush, and she couldn’t think of one intelligent thing to say. Those beautiful brown eyes almost spoke to her when he smiled. She mentally shook herself, fearing she might melt into a puddle at his feet.