Stranger Than Fiction
Copyright © 2016 by Jeanine Hoffman
Acknowledgments
Dedication
An Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Other Titles from Jeanine Hoffman
Other Books You May Enjoy
About the Author
Visit Us On Line
Stranger Than Fiction
by
Jeanine Hoffman
Mystic Books
by Regal Crest
Tennessee
Copyright © 2016 by Jeanine Hoffman
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The characters, incidents and dialogue herein are fictional and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Print ISBN 978-1-61929-274-1
eBook ISBN 978-1-61929-275-8
First Printing 2015
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Cover design by Acorn Graphics
Published by:
Regal Crest Enterprises, LLC
1042 Mount Lebanon Rd
Maryville, TN 37804
Find us on the World Wide Web at http://www.regalcrest.biz
Published in the United States of America
Acknowledgments
As always I need to thank Cathy and Cindy Bryerose for taking me into their family and helping bring my stories to life with a great house and fabulous covers. Speaking of covers, a huge thank you to Ann McMan for such an amazing cover. I’m truly awed and humbled by her talent for cover art. Patty Schramm for her support and willingness to call me a dumbass when it is needed. Believe it or not, I thank you for it. Staci Blevins for saving my bacon on a couple of continuity issues that I missed when I made some changes partway through the book. Heather Flournoy, you have taught me so much and been amazing to work with through this book, as always. I don’t think I can thank you enough for your wonderful approach to editing.
No author works entirely alone. People around us give up time with us, get unintentionally ignored while we work or have thoughts pop in our heads, or get told at the last minute—nope, can’t go out, I got my edits back. My wife, Heather Jane has been a rock in the storm of my writing frenzy. She makes sure that the animals are taken care of while I peck away at my AlphaSmart and helps with edits when my eyes are shot. I love you through all of space and time.
Dedication
This summer I lost my writing pal and self proclaimed editor, Sabrina. I don’t care if she was a cat, when she turned away from my writing, I rechecked my work and usually found a problem. Our princess is missed and since she sat on me for so much of the writing of it, this one is for her memory.
An Introduction
MY NAME IS Tori Monroe. What I’m about to tell is my story. If it hadn’t happened to me, I wouldn’t believe it, but I can assure you, this is my truth. I’m mixture of Lakota on my mother’s side, English and Scottish on my father’s side. I guess both sides lend themselves to myths and such. Maybe that is why I didn’t lose all my marbles. At least, not yet.
First, background. I’m a thirty-year-old woman. I have always considered my self a lover of women, which, in my Lakota heritage, is actually considered a good thing. I’m sort of a recluse. I live, well, lived, in a small cabin out in the middle of nowhere, really. I still hope to move back there. I had a good hour’s drive to the closest town. I went in for supplies about once a month and supplemented my meals with produce I raised and preserved for winter as well as hunting for venison and small game. All of my electricity was from solar and geothermic sources. It was a mostly self-sustaining property and I was damned proud of it.
I’m a writer and a painter. I published my books under a pseudonym. Well, two actually. I write fiction adventure stories with a big, gruff, male lead character. That was my moneymaker, but now I’m not certain if I can ever get back to it. My other name wasn’t as lucrative but it was what I wished I could write full-time. Lesbian romance and adventure stories that women like myself could find themselves in and enjoy. Neither brand was all that deep, but they sold well and I loved writing them.
My painting, well that started out more for pleasure. I gifted a piece to family and friends on occasion and somehow, that turned into a small market segment interested in my work. I never took commissions. I never stood at a gallery making small talk with pretentious art collectors. I simply painted what I felt like and sent some of my canvasses to my agent who handled sales and showings.
The thing is, my entire happy and almost off the grid existence changed. I didn’t ask for it, and I’m still not certain if this will be a positive change or if I can ever fully regain my former life. I’m pretty sure that I can’t go back. The real question is, can I go forward? Let me explain and maybe this writing can help me come to terms with everything. At least the shrink I’m seeing thinks writing it out will help.
IT WAS A dark and stormy night. No, really, it was dark and stormy but it was more like late afternoon. I was working on a project that my male alter ego starred in and was making good progress. I was in the editing stage, which meant that a heartless and soulless creature called an editor had struck through, suggested changes, and deleted bits and pieces of my baby. Ask any writer. I’m sure the majority of them feel the same way.
I was working through things, grumbling and occasionally cursing, when I decided to take a break and see what I could scrounge up for dinner. I checked my fridge and freezer and saw that I had one more container of venison stew. The idea made my mouth water. I make a mean stew and this had been a really good batch. I popped it in the oven to heat up and decided to take a brief look at my supplies to figure out what I needed to restock. A trip to town was coming up as I had a bunch of canvasses to send off. Plus, I love to make bread but I was running low on flour and yeast.
I will grow, harvest, and forage for a lot of my provisions, but I draw the line at trying to grow and grind my own wheat. After all, I still use a laptop, I have Internet access, and a host of other modern conveniences. I gather my electricity and heating from Mother Nature, but I’m not a total bohemian. Thankfully, I’m not trapped here during the winter. I can usually make my treks into town thanks to my hybrid four-wheel drive and a county that eventually plows even the remote roads. If I can plow myself out of my mile-long drive, I can get to town.
I made my list and realized that it was getting time to go hunting again. I had used the last of my venison steaks the previous night and this leftover stew from my freezer was the absolute end of it. I still had some rabbit, and I could harvest one of my chickens if I needed to do so, but a hunt was definitely in my future.
The oven timer sounded and I eagerly gathered my dinner supplies and sat at my desk to enjoy. I popped in a DVD and watched a movie while I ate. Life, other than edits, was good, and I enjoyed my peace and solitude even as I planned to head to town the following day.
THE SUV WAS packed and ready to go. My canvasses were crated, my canvas shopping bags were loaded, I double-checked to make sure I had my wallet, and
then I headed out. Thankfully, the day had cleared, making the drive to town a pleasant and meditative ride through the country landscape. I listened to the radio and hummed along in my raspy way to songs I didn’t really know. I planned to stick to my regular visit to town routine. I always start at the UPS store so that I can ship canvasses out. The art supply store is logically next so I can pick up any supplies I am running low on, and see if there are new things I might want to try. I tried my hand at oils once. Bad choice. I’m sticking to acrylics. I do stretch my own canvasses but I usually buy frames. I’ve been known to knock together frames if I decide to do something of an odd size or I run out, but it isn’t a favorite pastime.
Next stop, the diner. I’ve always been a sucker for a good diner. I’ve always had access at the cabin to beef as I buy it from a local farmer who raises his cattle organically: grass fed, no antibiotics or other nasty things. I buy a side at a time, butchered, and it and some lamb purchased the same way keep one whole freezer busy. I have a second I use for my hens if I need to thin them out, and I use that one for my hunting efforts of rabbit, venison, and the occasional fishing trip spoils.
Yes, I was a carnivore and I delighted in it. I always kept a good balance between fruits, veggies, grains, legumes, and meat, but I loved a good steak or burger.
The diner was known for killer good milkshakes and ice cream was something I didn’t make for myself. I used a lot of powdered or shelf-stable milk for my cooking and cereal needs. I’ve never felt as if it made good ice cream. I get that in town along with a burger the size of my head, fries that can only be that good if they are deep fried twice, and sit in a booth and watch the townspeople. I may not be a very social person but I do enjoy people watching on occasion. It’s educational as well as entertaining, and something that I think all writers should take the time to indulge in from time to time.
I hit the gas station and filled up my hybrid and headed to the Lowe’s in town. I need some supplies for a few repairs and I like to look at the workshop tools. I also needed to get more frame making supplies.
I ran a few more errands and my last stop was the bulk food store. I was able to buy things like flour and cereal in big enough quantities that I can keep my trips down to once a month most of the time. I admit, during the summer months, I’ve been known to head to town just for some ice cream. Call it a weakness, but I call it a well-deserved luxury. I filled the two coolers I brought with ice cream, fresh milk and other sundries, loaded the rest in the truck, and headed home.
AFTER UNLOADING THE hybrid I decided to ready my gear for a hunting trip and spent the rest of the day relaxing and finishing my edits. I hit the send button on the e-mail, swiftly whisking the story changes to my editor just before I called it a night. A hunting day meant an early start so it also meant an early night.
As I settled in, I gave thanks as always to the Wakan Tanka, or Great Spirit, as my mother taught me to do as a small child. I prayed for a successful hunt, and quickly fell into my dreamscape.
Chapter One
I PULLED MY hunting bow, hand crafted the old way, not using any fiberglass compound nonsense. I tried to honor my mother’s heritage and way as much as I could. I believed in modern weapons just in case I happened across something I couldn’t take down with my more traditional arsenal, but for deer hunting, I used the bow. Since I owned the land, I didn’t have to worry about bow season. I took from the land only what I needed to live and I used as much of the animal as possible. What I didn’t use, I gave back to nature.
Packing my thermos of tea, food for the day consisting of homemade energy bars and jerky, plus several water bladders in my pack, I headed out. It felt good to be out on the trail and away from the computer and modern world. I tried to become one with my surroundings, especially as I stepped off the trail and followed a deer path. I left salt licks in a few areas and kept them supplied year-round. That way, I had a possible hunting spot when meat ran low. I sat in a small blind I had fashioned the previous spring and settled in to wait. Patience would be the game until a properly sized target crossed my sight.
A couple of hours later, I saw the buck. I don’t take bucks lightly. Partly because they are larger and harder for me to kill cleanly with my bow, and partly because they are harder to get home and butcher. The meat is also not always as tender as a doe. I couldn’t help myself. He was a small buck—a five-point rack— and he was stepping up to the salt lick as if he had done so numerous times. He didn’t seem interested in the salt. He just sniffed around it and stepped back.
I set up my shot after checking the wind and with a quick whiz and a soft noise, the buck dropped to the ground. I was excited and I jumped out of my blind to get to the clearing and claim dinner. First, I gave thanks the Great Spirit for honoring me with a successful hunt, and I thanked the buck for giving his life so that I might eat. I pulled out my hunting knife and got to work on field dressing my kill.
What happened next is hard for me to remember exactly but I’ll do my best. I remember the crispness of the air, the feel of the warm buck under my hands. A light breeze caressed my face as the sun shone through the break in the trees. It was a wonderful morning to be alive and to be living with the land. I started to field dress the buck just as I’d done dozens of times in my life. I don’t know if it was a noise or a feeling, but something drew my attention for just a moment. When I shifted my focus back to the work at hand, something seemed wrong about the arrangement of the organs. I leaned in to take a closer look. That’s when my knife slipped and I cut my left hand. As my hands were covered in gore, I couldn’t tell how bad it was as my blood mixed with that of my buck.
No longer worried about paying attention to the field dressing, I pulled water out of my pack and cleaned my hand. It was deep enough to need stitches and I was due for a tetanus shot as well. I bandaged my hand with the emergency first aid supplies that I always carried in my pack and pulled a glove on to further protect the injury as well as keep it clean. I had a choice to either string the buck up and hope the forests inhabitants left me some, or I could quickly clean it out and drag it back. I had a portable sling and harness that I rigged to help me drag my hunting spoils back with me so I checked my hand, pulled out the sling and got to work. In short order I was able to rig the buck up for transport. I struggled to dispose of the entrails but finally gave up. I would end up losing this site for hunting if I didn’t move them, but my hand was throbbing and I didn’t have the patience needed to do the job right. With a shrug and a final thank you to the buck, I headed for home as fast as I could.
THE TREK HOME was harder than usual but I managed to get home in one piece with my kill intact. I hung him in the cold shed and dropped the rest of my supplies in the house. I headed for my hybrid and to the closest medical clinic, about forty minutes away. It was in more of a settlement than a true town. The people there generally kept to themselves but they had a great medical center and it was closer than the larger hospital in the town where I did my shopping. At least they took walk-in emergency patients and it would be faster and friendlier than a bigger hospital. I just wanted some stitches, my shot, and to get back home so I could skin and butcher my buck. I already had plans for the skin. I wanted to make a traditional pair of moccasins for my mother’s fiftieth birthday in a few months.
WHEN I ARRIVED at the medical center, it was already midafternoon and I was starting to hurt pretty badly. I’d driven the whole way using my right hand on the wheel and holding my bandaged arm upright against the window to help aid in controlling blood loss. I felt fairly normal all things considered, but I was still aware of my thirst increasing. I took small, measured sips from my ever-present water bottle and finished it just as I hit the turn for the clinic.
I parked in the emergency outpatient lot and walked in, patting my pocket again to ensure that I had my wallet and insurance card on me. When I found my way to the desk, a male in light blue scrubs looked up from his desk.
“I need to see someone. Hunting
knife accident. I think it’s still bleeding and it’s been probably three hours now.” I could see the blood seeping through the last layer of gauze wrap that I had added before leaving home. If I was willing to admit it, I was a bit light headed as well once I got out of the car to walk into the clinic.
“What’s your name? Where did it happen? And how much blood do you think you’ve lost?” The man was wearing a stethoscope that swung from around his neck as he stood to hand me a clipboard full of forms.
“I’m Tori. I was field cleaning a white-tailed buck I took down. I had both hands in and my knife got slippery and I got my hand pretty deeply. Not sure about the blood because I’m not sure what I lost at first and I haven’t removed the original bandage that I used in the field. I just kept adding layers.”
“That’s actually good. That’ll have kept the blood loss down as you didn’t keep removing the bandage and disturb any clotting. I’m going to bring you back to a treatment room. It’s slow in here today and we need to take a look and figure out what’s what in there.”
He guided me back through double doors and into a larger space filled with curtained rooms surrounding a nurses’ station. There were computers on carts in the hallways, monitors beeping at the desk, and a low hum of hospital noises. The biting smell of hospital antiseptic was strong and made me wrinkle my nose as we entered a cubicle.
“My name is Scott and I’m going to grab a quick set of vitals then I’ll get someone to help with the forms while you wait for a doctor.”
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