Jillian Chantal

This week’s word is Bar for Tuesday Tales. You know the drill- there’s a group of us writers who write to a word prompt each week. I’m still in the Christmas story I’ve been working on.  The hero is torn between two women in this snippet- the girl he’s been dating who has flipped out on him and the girl he’s been friends with since childhood.

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“We sure did and now I think we should check out the cookies. I’ve heard there are some pretty special ones to be had.”

Dana led the way to the other side of the room. He followed and admired the way her hips swayed as she walked. She seemed to have a different gait without the tool and gun belt she wore with her uniform.

He chose a couple of iced Santa head cookies from the bar full of all sorts of sweets and moved to watch the crowd as he munched on them. The band played Christmas songs he knew and remembered from childhood as well as some updated versions. He supposed he should ask Dana to dance but he didn’t want a scene with Carolyn.

When the thought of Carolyn popped in his head, he glanced around to see if he could spot her.

To his surprise, she was standing close and appeared to be arguing with some elderly woman. What was this about? Had she already been here long enough to make an enemy and if so, how?

Colin took a step toward them to see if he could help straighten out whatever was happening.

As he reached her side, the old woman said, “You can’t lie to me, Dearie. You look exactly like your mother. You must be old Henry Thornton’s daughter. You were young when you disappeared but I’d know you anywhere. Your mother was a beauty. I recall your daddy making her stay up there on his property because he was so afraid someone would steal her from him.” The old woman laughed, a bitter, ugly laugh. “She fooled him, though, didn’t she? Ran off in the middle of the night, didn’t she? Hustling her kids with her.”

Carolyn’s face reddened. She opened her mouth to say something but Colin took hold of her arm. “Come on, let’s go.”

She stared at him for a moment as if she didn’t recognize him but finally, she seemed to realize he was trying to help her. “Thanks. Yes, get me out of here. I should’ve known better than to come.”

Puzzled by Carolyn’s words, Colin decided to ask her about them later—once he got her out of the hall and somewhere quiet.

This week we have a picture prompt and each post is limited to 300 words. I was going to be a rebel and put up 337 as that was the end of a paragraph but then I decided to conform and stick to the rules, so apologies for ending so abruptly. This is a very rough draft of a Christmas story I was hoping to publish this year but it may not happen after all.

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Two shots rang out in short succession followed by a screech of pain. The man in the cabin sat up from reading the latest issue of Men’s Health and, tossing it to the floor, leapt from his chair. On his way to the side door, he grabbed his coat and gloves. Snatching his medical bag as he passed it on the table, he was outside in the brutally cold weather within moments. He strode across the part of the property where he parked his car and on into the woods.

A light dusting of snow covered the ground and sprinkled down on Colin Danson’s shoulders as he passed under an evergreen tree on the land he inherited from his grandfather. He followed the blood trail leading away from his cabin, wondering what kind of animal he would find at the end of the path or if the person with the shotgun already had the victim in his clutches.

“Blasted hunters on my property. I wonder who think they are to shoot so close to my porch,” he muttered as he tracked what he hoped was a wounded animal and not a dead one. Or even a human being. That screech sounded like a wild creature but it could very well be a person. His gut clenched at the thought of what he was really stalking and what he’d find at the end of his quest.

It had only been a few days since he came to prepare the property for the winter. His grandfather had always said it was almost impossible to get up the mountain pass once the snows came. Even in a four-wheel drive vehicle. And the terrain was too steep for a snowmobile to make sense after a certain elevation.

A large blotch of blood at his feet concerned Colin.

This week’s word for Tuesday Tales is bread. I’m less than 2000 words from the “win” of NaNoWriMo with my regency story. In this scene, the hero has gone to visit his father in disguise and is almost discovered by his bratty younger half-brother.

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The sound of labored breathing alerted Jemison that his father was asleep. He whispered to Reeves, “Which way out?”

“Back down the servants’ staircase and then out the side door. Let me see if the corridor is clear.”

Jemison held his breath until the butler returned and indicated he should follow.

Making their way to the stairs, Jemison prayed his half-brother was either in his nursery having his bread and milk or, if he was allowed to dine with his mother, that he’d stay put while Jemison made his escape.

Making it down the stairs without seeing anyone, Jemison allowed himself a moment to exhale and relax.

“I tell you, you lazy footman, I will do as I please and you shall not stop me.” The whiny voice of William preceded him toward the corridor in the servant’s area.

Jemison lunged for the door and jerked it open. He stepped outside and jogged as quickly as he could without causing too much attention to himself.

This was the closest he’d come to being discovered. Twice in one visit. By the same person. He’d have to be more careful and only call at the house when the young man wasn’t home. Which, unfortunately wasn’t often.

As he made his way back to the stables, his heart ached. How he wished things were different.

Avoiding scandal was vital or he’d report his stepmother to the closest magistrate. But it would kill his father faster.