The Legacy of Boone Wilson - the back story!

 

 

 

Early Laredo, Texas

 

Sometimes readers ask how I come up with my ideas, how I spin inspiration into a story. My next release, “The Legacy of Boone Wilson” will appear on March 11, 2024. It’s the first in the Laredo series and the second title, “The Endurance of Moses Wilson” is already under contract with World Castle Publishing. Waiting in the wings are more in the series. Written or in process are the following titles:

The Legacy of Boone Wilson

The Endurance of Moses Wilson

The Birthright or Heritage of Ezekiel Wilson

The Heart of Jacob Wilson

The Nature of Garrett Wilson

The Hope of Jemima Wilson

The Courage of Faith Wilson

The Resilience of Hope Wilson

It’s a family saga as big as Texas but how did I come up with the idea?

Boone’s book began when I was still a newspaper editor in the extreme corner of Southwest Missouri, over both The Neosho Daily News and The Aurora Advertiser.  By the time I parted ways with the parent company through a voluntary severance package offered to me (and other editors throughout the nation), Boone’s story was underway. I left the newspaper business behind on December 1, 2020.

Part of my decision to bow out came from a desire to write full-time.  Once I had the opportunity Boone’s story blossomed. If you follow my work at all, you’re aware I’ve had quite a few titles released since 2020 and more to come.

Here’s how it began. One day, wandering around the world wide web, I saw a photograph of an unidentified Confederate soldier. Something about him caught my fancy and I began building a story. He became Boone Wilson, late of Kentucky.  Here’s the photo:

 

I saved the photo and in my mind heard one of my favorite, if sad, classic Western songs, “The Streets of Laredo.” The tune is older than the lyrics and comes from an Irish song, “The Bard of Armagh”. If you want to listen, this is an excellent comparison:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qotwe2loixw I named my character Boone Wilson and put him in Laredo in the years after the Civil War. The story begins with Boone propped out on the porch of the local saloon, wrapped in white linen, dying. But schoolteacher Rachel Rose Shaw happens to pass and she is struck by the dying man. Stubborn to the core, she believes he doesn’t necessarily have to die and sets out to help him to live.

 

That’s where my story departs from the song. It’s called fiction for a reason. In my story, Boone survives although he has a rough time in the process.

Here’s the blurb and cover:

 

Boone Wilson, a Civil War veteran and cowboy, figures he’ll die before the month is out after he was shot in the chest playing cards. His comrades talk the owner of the local saloon, the aptly named Out of Luck Saloon, to provide a bed that he can die in, and while the weather is warm enough, they carry him down to the porch each day for some air, wrapped up in blankets. That’s where new schoolteacher Rachel Rose McGarrity first sees him. When she stops to see if she can offer any help, she has no idea what she’s getting herself into, but she’s taken with Boone and vows to keep him from dying if she can.

That desire leads to the loss of her job as a schoolteacher because nursing a cowboy in a saloon isn’t respectable. As the wound festers and his fever rises, Rachel remains determined to save his life with the help of his two friends and his fifteen-year-old brother.

While his life hangs in the balance, there will be a reckoning for Rachel’s actions, and if there is a chance at a future, Boone must first survive to find it. A false accusation leads to jail time and a threatened hanging, further complicating his life.

Will Boone survive? And, is love enough? That’s for Boone and Rachel to figure out.

Here’s a snippet from Chapter One:

 

            Boone Wilson knew he’d die before the month was out, and although he would rather live, he accepted his sad fate. After all, with a bullet lodged in his chest, he couldn’t expect anything else. Two weeks after he’d been shot, playing faro at the Out of Luck Saloon in Laredo, he remained both alive and sore. The sharp, burning pain he’d experienced when the bullet slammed into his chest had faded, but he still hurt. There hadn’t been any more bleeding, not since that first night when not only had the wound bled like hog killing time, but he’d tasted the iron bitterness of blood in his mouth.  He’d wondered if there might be pus inside the wound, but the sawbones who told Boone that he was as good as dead hadn’t offered any further treatment. Doc Smitty – likely not the man’s actual name – spent more time drunk than anyone Boone had ever known, and that was a remarkable record.  The fever that still made Boone’s bones ache and his skin burn were the reasons he thought it might be infected, but since no one figured he’d live, no one bothered to do anything.

            He’d trailed cattle all summer long, as he had for the past five years, driving herds from southern Texas to Dodge City or Colorado. If he’d made a mistake, it’d been taking that last drive, one in the fall after the summer grasses were about gone on the trails, then coming back to Laredo to spend the winter. Boone bunked on a ranch that lay between San Antonio and Laredo, but he liked to gamble, so he’d come into Laredo to play.

            Boone regretted that now. If he’d stayed on the ranch, he wouldn’t be about to die. After spending a week or more tucked into a bed upstairs at the saloon, he had begged to go outside, and so, each morning, his buddy Deacon Lee carried him downstairs, then tucked him into a chair on the saloon’s front porch. His feet were propped onto part of a busted table, so he was lying down more than sitting up.

Miss Mary, who owned the place, objected and said it was bad for business, then relented. She’d decided Boone could be propped out on the porch each day, at least till it turned cold, and spend his nights in the smallest room upstairs.  After all, she’d figured they would bury him before long, but he hadn’t died.

            Since it was too hot for a blanket, they’d kept Boone wrapped in white linen sheets. He hated them – they were too much like a damn shroud, and each day, they became filthy from the dust that blew through the streets of Laredo. Because just about everyone believed in the adage feed a cold and starve a fever, he figured if the bullet didn’t kill him first, he’d starve to death. He drank all the coffee anyone would bring him, but he was lucky if he got a biscuit or bite to eat. Most everybody who patronized the Out of Luck knew who Boone was and what had happened to him, so they didn’t waste much time passing pleasantries or sitting down for a conversation. More than once, he heard them whisper that he had one foot in the grave.

            Boone was mortally wounded, grave bound, hungry, usually thirsty, and lonely, none of which made him happy. He had no legacy to leave to anyone, not his compadres here, his friends, or his family in faraway Kentucky. That changed, though, the day Miss Rachel Rose Shaw stepped onto the porch and took a seat near Boone.

            He knew who she was – the school marm who’d arrived for the new school term, a pretty woman with her waist-length hair pulled up into a tight bun at the back of her head. Miss Rachel didn’t look any older than Boone, who was twenty-six.

            “Good afternoon,” she said. Her voice was soft and melodious, not the sharp teacher tone he’d expected. “Is there anything I could get for you? You look so uncomfortable. I’d be happy to get you some water or food or fix that sheet so it’s not so tight.”

            Boone cleared his throat. “I’d be most obliged, ma’am, if you could bring me something to eat. I’m near starved.”

She reached out and messed with the sheet bound around him until it was looser. “I can do that. I’ve seen you out here for a week or more. Have you been sick?”

            “I’m dying,” he told her. “Got shot in the chest near two weeks ago, and the doc said there wasn’t naught he could do about it. Guess that’s why no one wants to bring me much to eat.”

            “I’ll get you some food,” she told him. “I’m Rachel Rose Shaw. I teach school.”

            “Boone Wilson, cowboy, from the Double B Ranch,” he replied. “I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Rachel.”

            She nodded. “I’ll be back.”

            He watched as she picked up her skirts and marched into the saloon. Boone waited for an outcry, figuring they would toss her out. Mary didn’t like respectable women in her establishment. He heard Mary’s strident voice, then Rachel’s gentler tone. When Rachel returned, she had a tin plate heaped with frijoles, refried beans topped with a bit of salsa, and a spoon, along with some water.

            “There weren’t a lot of options,” she told him as she settled onto a chair. “I hope these beans will do.”

            “Ma’am, they’re like manna from heaven. I haven’t had much but coffee and a biscuit on occasion.”

            Boone reached for the spoon, but she shook her head, filled it, and extended it toward his lips. He opened his mouth just in time and sighed with pleasure as the rich taste of beans filled his mouth. The warm food slid down to his stomach and he managed to eat about half of what she brought.

            “Thank you,” he said. “Bless you.”

            “I brought you some water, too.”

            He sipped the tepid water and then closed his eyes. Rachel laid one hand across his forehead, and he opened them again.

            “You’re feverish,” she said. She pulled a handkerchief from a dress pocket, wet it, and laid it across his forehead.

            “That’s nice.”

            She gave him a smile. Then, she tried to reposition him into a more comfortable position.

            “I’ll be here again tomorrow,” she told him.

            “Don’t you have school?”

            “Today’s Saturday, so no, not on Sunday tomorrow.”

            Boone liked her company, and he enjoyed the way she fussed over him. He might be dying, but he wasn’t dead yet. “Can you stay awhile?”

            Rachel scooted her chair closer, and when she did, he caught a sweet whiff of the sachet she wore. “I certainly can, Mr. Wilson.”

            “Call me Boone, please.” He hated the way his voice sounded so weak and the fact fatigue made him want to sleep. He’d rather savor every moment the lady spent at his side.

            “Boone, then,” she said. “You may call me Rachel, no need to stand on formalities. How do you feel?”

            “Hot and tired,” he said. “And I hurt.”

            She removed her bonnet and fanned him with it. Boone welcomed the rush of air.

            “Sleep if you can,” Rachel told him. “I won’t leave until you’re asleep. I promise.”

            “I’ll hold you to that,” he said, as if he could. He didn’t have the strength to shoo away a fly.

            The last he recalled before he drifted asleep was that she had refreshed that handkerchief across his head and the rhythmic sway of her bonnet as she waved it back and forth.  Boone thought she might have been singing to him, not the songs they sang to the cattle on the trail but old, familiar songs, maybe hymns.

            When he woke, he realized he was holding her hand tight. For a moment, he had trouble remembering where he was and what had happened.  He started to stretch, then winced when it hurt.

            “Rachel?”

            “I’m still here,” she said. “It’s getting close to evening. Some of your friends wanted to carry you upstairs, but I asked them to wait till you were awake.”

            “Who was it?”

            She touched his forehead and cheeks again, then frowned.

            “One said he was named Deacon, the other one Mac.”

            “They’re two of my pards,” he said.

            “I gathered that,” she said, stroking his hair back away from his face. “They were fierce until they decided I was helping, not hurting you. They’ll be back soon – I should go home.”

            “Wait.”

            Rachel remained until the cowboys came back. Boone saw her flinch when they lifted him up, and he jerked his head to indicate he’d like her to come upstairs, too.

            “I think he’d like you to go with him,” Deacon said. He’d noticed, and Boone was glad of that.

            She hesitated, but not for long. “I will,” she said. “But will one of you please tell that Mary to leave me alone? She tried to throw me out earlier.”

            Boone tried to laugh. “She don’t usually let nice gals in the saloon, Rachel. I’ll square it with her.”

            “Save yer strength,” Mac said in a gruff Scots accent. “I’ll tell Mary for ye.”

            Whatever he said, Boone couldn’t hear, but Mary didn’t protest when his pals trailed him up the stairs at the back of the saloon. He kept his jaw clenched tight, and his lips pressed in a hard line to avoid groaning, but by the time they laid him on the narrow bed in the smallest room, he wanted to moan aloud. He did cry out as he tried to settle into a position he could stand. The exertion of being brought up, then settling in, took a toll, and Boone shut his eyes, willing himself to catch his breath. Then, maybe, the pain would return to a level he could stand.

            Before he could, however, Rachel leaned down. “I’m going to move you,” she told him. “It’s probably going to hurt, but when I’m done, I think it will be better. Will you let me?”

            He’d rather fight a wild steer, but he nodded. Deacon tried to intervene. “It’s gonna hurt him,” he said. “We been keeping him shaved ‘cause he wants to be, but every time, it puts him in mortal agony.”

            Boone gave a faint nod in agreement. Rachel took it as permission to put him in a different position.

            For a woman who couldn’t stand any taller than five feet and appeared slight, he thought she had a lot of strength. With a few moves, Rachel had him rolled onto his right side, his head propped against the pillow. He wore a pair of long-handled underwear pants and a worn shirt. When she tugged at the shirt, he raised a feeble hand to stop her.

            “Hurts,” he said.

            “I imagine so, but you should have clean garments. Do you have more?”

            Boone shook his head. “At the bunkhouse in my pack, but I’ll need ‘em to be buried in.”

            The sentence took more effort than he had to give.

            “I gotta rest,” he muttered.

            From the swish of her skirt, he could tell that Rachel had stepped away from the bed.

            “Ye do ken he’s dying?” Mac asked, making no effort to soften his voice. Boone heard it, but it wasn’t anything he didn’t know.

            Her reply, however, surprised him. “I don’t know anything of the sort. He may well live if he’s not starved to death and allowed to get some strength back.”

            I might not die? She’s the only one who seems to think so, Boone thought with something like wonder and a faint stirring of hope. He struggled against sleep to eavesdrop.

            “Bullet’s still in,” Deacon told Rachel. “Digging it out now would be more than he could take. The doc said so.”

            “Would that be the one who stays drunk?” she replied, her tone sharp as vinegar. “I don’t know as I’d trust his opinion.”

            Deacon’s voice lowered. “Do you know any healing? Cause unless you do, you can’t give Boone or us any hope.”

            “I know a bit,” Rachel said. “I was raised by my granny, and she was a mountain healer. The shape Boone’s in, nothing I try will hurt him, and it might help. If nothing else, he might die – if he does – with some comfort.”

            “The thing I’m wondering is why ye took up with Boone.” Mac sounded suspicious.

            Boone inhaled her lavender scent and sighed when Rachel put her hand across his forehead, light and gentle.

 “He looked like he needed someone,” she said.

            God knows he did, Boone thought, and then he let his body relax into sleep with one precious thing he’d lacked until now – hope.

 

 

The Legacy of Boone Wilson will release in eBook, hardback, paperback, and audio. Until March 11, you can preorder the eBook version but all these outlets will have the other editions on release day.

 

The Legacy of Boone Wilson links:

 

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/209018340-the-legacy-of-boone-wilson

https://booksprout.co/reviewer/review-copy/view/155027/the-legacy-of-boone-wilson

https://www.amazon.com/Legacy-Boone-Wilson-Laredo-Book-ebook/dp/B0CW1NBSB4/

https://www.worldcastlepublishing.net/lee-ann-sontheimer-murphy

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-legacy-of-boone-wilson-lee-ann-sontheimer-murphy/1144943447

https://play.google.com/store/audiobooks/details?id=AQAAAECSO1p72M

https://books.apple.com/mt/book/the-legacy-of-boone-wilson/id6478323004

https://www.amazon.de/-/en/Lee-Ann-Sontheimer-Murphy-ebook/dp/B0CW1NBSB4/

 

 

Boone's youngest brother, Ezekiel, is a character in the story and book three in the series will tell his story!

Huck's Legacy - free first chapter read!

 

If you like to try before you buy, take a taste before you make a shopping choice, or test drive a car, here's a chance to read the first full chapter of Huck's Legacy (Evernight Publishing).

He's an undercover DEA agent, trying to infiltrate The Diamondbacks, an infamous motorcycle club, in Hollywood. When Huck sees a beautiful woman who intrigues him, he wants her. Summer is on the run from an incident back in Nashville that put her in fear for her life. Working as a waitress in a diner near Hollywood Boulevard, Summer is drawn to the bad boy biker. Their mutual attraction fires a wild passion and shared nights but as the danger increases, passion turns to something deeper, something real.  When he's outted as a Fed, he's about to be executed when Summer steps in to save him. Although he's seriously injured, they escape the Diamondbacks and leave Hollywood but trouble follows them all the way back to his hometown in Mississippi. The stakes are high – life or death – and the chance for a happily ever is in jeopardy.

Chapter One

 

Huck

The first time Huck spotted her strutting along Hollywood Boulevard, the white leather fringe on her denim jacket swaying as she walked, he figured she was a new hooker so he paid little attention. Two days later, he saw her again and realized she wasn’t a prostitute. Whoever she was, she possessed a soft beauty not yet tainted by a hard life on the street. Maybe she was a tourist, but when he noticed her again several weeks later, he rejected that theory. A curious man, he watched her and waited. Patience might be a virtue he’d yet to perfect, but he possessed more now than ever before.

On his seemingly endless rides along Hollywood Boulevard and the surrounding streets on his 1998 Harley Davidson Road King bike, Huck watched for her. About the time he had all but given up on finding her, he glimpsed her ducking into a retro diner not far from Hollywood and Vine. He knew the place and suspected it of being an outlet for drug trafficking. That was reason enough to park and go inside for a cup of coffee, maybe a slice of pie ala mode. The woman’s presence intrigued him.

Huck slid into a red vinyl booth and waited, scanning the place for a glimpse of the gal. Maybe he’d been wrong because he didn’t see her at any of the tables or at the counter. He had almost decided he’d been mistaken when a waitress decked out in a 1940’s style waitress uniform, including a tiny white hat perched on her head, stepped up to his table.

“Welcome to Neon Nights,” she said in a patented singsong. “Would you like a cup of joe while you look over the menu?”

Her voice poured over him like rich caramel or soft velvet. He caught a hint of a Southern accent, one with slow heat and some Tennessee twang. Intrigued by the way she spoke, Huck glanced up and did a double take. At close range, she was beautiful when he’d thought her merely pretty.

“I’ll take a cup of coffee,” he told her. “What kind of pie you got?”

“Chocolate, coconut cream, banana cream, apple, pecan, and strawberry.”

So he could hear her voice one more time, Huck asked, “What’s the blue plate special?”

“Beef stroganoff or Cobb salad,” she drawled. “If you look over the menu, there’s plenty more—burgers, hamburger steak with gravy, sandwiches hot and cold, meatloaf, chicken, or you can order breakfast anytime, 24/7.”

“What do you recommend?”

Her lips twitched. “What’s next? Are you going to ask for the wine list? If I had a choice, I’d go with the beef stroganoff. It’s the best of the specials in my opinion. That, or just get a burger run through the garden, maybe a Jack Benny.”

Huck knew a little diner lingo. “Grilled cheese with bacon? All right. I’ll take one with a side of fries.”

“I’ll be back with your coffee.”

Her name tag read “Summer” and he wondered if that was her real name. If so, it suited her. She radiated a sense of calm, quiet beauty that evoked the serenity of summer.

When she brought the coffee pot, she turned over the cup already on the table and filled it. “Your food should be up before long,” she told him.

“Thank you. I’m Huck.”

“As in Huckleberry Finn?” she asked, with one raised eyebrow.

He laughed. “No, not quite. More like ‘I’ll be your huckleberry,’ an old Southern saying.”

With a quirky grin, she said, “You know, it rhymes with…”

Huck completed her sentence. “Fuck. Yeah, I’ve heard that one so often if I had a dollar for every time I have, I’d be a rich man. It’s Huck Morgan, by the way.”

He expected she’d offer her name in return, but she hesitated before she did.

“Summer Tatum,” she told him. Then, she walked away, her sweet ass bouncing to an unheard beat beneath the cheesy uniform. She intrigued him, so much he’d almost blundered and told her his real name and why he was nicknamed Huck.

I never fucking screw up like that. I can’t. I won’t. If I do, the entire investigation is gone and with it two years of my life.

Using his lifelong nickname had probably been a mistake, but it had been made too long ago to change now. Sometimes Huck wondered if his efforts would ever yield anything or be worth the years spent undercover.

Summer delivered his meal, grilled cheese and bacon garnished with a dill pickle spear and plated with a heap of fries. She plunked a bottle of ketchup on the table. “Can I get you anything else?”

He held up his now empty cup. “A refill.”

Summer nodded. “Coming right up.”

When she topped up his coffee, she also laid the ticket face down beside his plate. Huck caught her hand before she could remove it and stroked it with a single finger. The slow caress fired heat within him and his dick perked up with interest.

Huck thought she shuddered, just a little. Maybe she liked it too. “Thanks.”

She shrugged. “De nada. Tomorrow’s special, just in case you’re interested, is meatloaf with red gravy or chicken ala king.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. If you still have pecan pie, I’ll take a piece.”

“Sure thing.”

The pie combined richness with sweetness and he savored it. With each morsel, Huck wondered if Summer’s lips would taste as delicious. After one more cup of joe, he figured he’d stretched out the meal as long as he could without being obvious. Huck didn’t want to seem like a stalker so he paid the tab after leaving a generous thirty-dollar tip under his empty cup.

Restless as ever and edgy, Huck decided he’d better head over to the bar where the motorcycle club hung out. He wasn’t a Diamondback yet but members allowed him to ride and hang out with them. Huck could almost taste full membership, what he’d worked toward for the past eighteen months. Only then would he be able to get inside information, enough to bring the club down, especially the founder and leader, Scarman.

Scarman’s real name was Seth Manning and he had earned the nickname with a facial scar. The jagged gash began below his right eye and cut a deep diagonal line that stopped two inches from his mouth. Another two marred the otherwise clear skin of his throat, low, as if someone had tried to cut Scarman’s throat. Huck had no doubt that someone had. Scarman could best be described as a mean motherfucker. The leader wore both an Ace of Spades patch and one proclaiming him one of the “filthy few”. Both meant he’d killed for the sake of the club—or would.

Huck mounted his Harley and headed for Chain Lighting. Located under and east of Highway 101, the dingy bar had been a hangout for the Western Diamondbacks for decades. Like most dives, it reeked like stale beer and old cigarettes. Beneath Huck’s feet the floor was always sticky with spilled drinks and a hint of weed floated in the air. He loathed the place and always felt like he needed a hot shower after an evening spent there.

Huck barely made it through the door before several woman accosted him. Two were what the club called “lays,” women they could do without any morals or remorse. Three were “Mamas,” the chicks who hung around sucking up and sucking off. Most hoped to become a biker’s old lady, a committed companion, sometimes even a wife. The other was a “house mouse,” an underage girl seeking protection, attention, or both.

“Hey, Huckie.” Venus Delight, one of the Mamas greeted him. She wrapped her arms around him, pressed her flesh against his torso and planted her lips on his mouth. Venus forced her tongue into his mouth for a French kiss, but he wasn’t in the mood. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Shouldn’t have wasted your time,” he growled. Nothing about the emaciated woman appealed. She did meth and any other drug she could score. Her breath stank like nail polish remover and she reeked of body odor. If he lived to be a hundred, Huck would never understand how any of the club members could get intimate with Venus or most of the others.

“Go on, don’t be bashful,” Scarman said as he approached, a wicked grin lighting his ugly face. “You got time, Huck, go do the bitch.”

“I’ll pass,” he told the leader.

Scarman chuckled, although it lacked real mirth and always reminded Huck of dry leaves rattling in an autumn gutter. “You’re too picky, my friend,” he said. “No wonder they call you ‘Clean Guy’.”

The guys who nicknamed him after the longtime mascot of cleaning products hadn’t meant it as a compliment but an insult. With his rugged built, full hair of tousled, wavy hair so brown it came close to being black, steel blue eyes, a face that could have been chiseled out of solid granite, and a generous mouth, Huck bore no resemblance to the bald old guy noted for his wild cleaning skills, famous for his bald head and white eyebrows. Unlike Huck, who generally wore black, the cleaning guy was portrayed in a white t-shirt and pants, making him resemble a cook or maybe a sailor on shore leave. Huck took more showers, smelled better, and maintained a level of hygiene above and beyond. He worried they might think he was too much of a Boy Scout, not a serious club member, but he’d proven himself many times.

“Cleanliness is next to godliness,” Huck intoned and Scarman along with his gathered minions brayed with laughter. His grandmother used to say it and meant it. So did Huck, but they figured it was rank sarcasm. “Got any errands for me tonight?”

“Need you to do a little enforcement,” Scarman replied. “Got a guy over in Anaheim who doesn’t want to share a little of his profits for protection. Don’t ice the bastard unless it’s necessary, but rough him up enough that he realizes who he’s fucking with. It’s a used car lot, a huge one. We launder money through it and take some kickback for the privilege.”

“Name?”

“The lot’s called Clunkers by King—the dude’s name is Carlton King,” the boss told him. “He’s nothing, though. Thinks he’s royalty and he’s shit. Take care of his attitude and remind him next time, it’ll be fatal.”

Huck gave a small salute. “You got it. Am I going solo or with backup?”

“Ty-Rex will have your back.”

Ty-Rex would do as well as anyone, Huck thought. The man was a mountain, tall and broad with a mean streak that would make a cobra appear kind. He had no doubt that Ty-Rex’s presence was more to keep an eye on him than provide support services. “Then let’s go and get it done,” Huck told him.

Ten minutes later, their Harleys flew through the night like winged vultures, ready to pick out the eyes or the bones of their prey.  Huck’s Harley Road King ate up like the pavement like a greedy man’s dessert. Ty-Rex’s Dyna Super Glide kept up and they were in Anaheim before long.

Carlton King lived in a travel trailer parked behind the lot and since a light shone through the window, it appeared he was at home. Once he’d rolled his Harley to a stop, Huck went into full battle mode. He kicked in the door with one booted foot and charged inside.

The used car king stood up and spilled a bowl of popcorn. Kernels flew in every direction as the man cried out with wordless fear. Huck growled like a beast as he grabbed the scrawny man by one shoulder and pulled him close.

“If you’re wondering why you are privileged to get a fuckin’ home visit, here’s why,” Huck shouted into the guy’s face. “You must be a little stupid, trying to hold back on paying what you owe. The Diamondbacks sent the money through here, it comes back clean just like at the laundromat, but you must have forgotten that you pay us for some protection. Fail to pay, get a reminder and that’s what we’re here to do.”

Arms crossed. Ty-Rex held his position like an avenging god. “Yeah,” he added.

His tattooed arms were muscled and his body buff.  His large hands were balled into fists roughly the size of cantaloupes. One heavy punch from one of them would put King on the floor and probably out.

Huck didn’t hesitate. Once he’d explained his presence, he backhanded Carlton King across the face. The first blow to his nose broke it and blood erupted from it, pouring down the man’s face. Beneath that crimson tide, Carlton went ghost pale.

“I understand,” he cried. He had a slight Southern accent, not too different than Huck’s. “I do. I’ll pay. Please, stop.”

The direct punch split the car dealer’s upper lip and the next drove a hard hit home in his belly. With a loud cry, the man doubled over clutching his gut and staggered a few steps back. That left Huck the option to either pound him senseless into the floor or walk away.

Few men were tougher than Huck but under that stern exterior, he had a streak of compassion he preferred not to reveal and he didn’t now. Using his left foot with the grace of a dancer, Huck brought King to the floor. He delivered a quick kick to the man’s unguarded balls.

King cried like a baby, tangled into a fetal position. He stared up at Huck with frightened eyes and something flicked in Huck’s memory. Crazy, but the dude seemed familiar, like he’d seen him somewhere before, that maybe he had known him once.

“Enough.” Ty-Rex proclaimed. “I think he’s got the idea.”

“I-I-do,” the man on the floor stuttered.

“Someone will call for the money tomorrow,” Huck said. “Don’t make me come back. Next time I might just kill you.”

He turned around, stalked out to his bike, donned his helmet and without a word to Ty-Rex, Huck rocketed out of there. His motorcycle flew as he wrapped his mind around what he’d just done. It didn’t make him proud or pleased but more than a little sick inside.  He couldn’t let that weakness show or he’d be at the mercy of the Diamondbacks. To shed the guilt and the dark emotions, he skimmed over the freeway at insane speeds, flirting with death.  Huck took the 405 over to Malibu then drove up the Pacific Coast Highway. At Zuma Beach, he pulled in, secured the bike, and hoofed down to the beach.

By then, it was the wee hours and the sand loomed empty. In theory, the beach was closed till morning, but no sign was enough to deter Huck. He squatted down and let the next wave wash over his hands, removing all dirt and blood. Then he splashed the salt water over his face and enjoyed the cool temperature. With a sigh, he ambled along the beach and when he found a spot that suited him, Huck sat down. He took off his boots and socks, then let his toes wiggle in the night air.

The soothing rush of the sea, the sound of the surf hitting the beach and the night wrapped around him like a blanket. He let nature bring calm to his turbulent spirits then relaxed. After more than two years undercover, he was losing the hard edge that had carried him this far. It wasn’t his true nature to be cruel. Tough, yes, but not mean. He lingered for more than an hour, then Huck climbed back into his boots and trekked back to the bike.

As the dawn rose east of LA, he traveled back to North Hollywood, where he lived in an old tourist court with individual bungalows. Although the glory days were long past, it had some appeal. The bungalows weren’t totally derelict and were maintained in a livable condition. Dark pink bougainvillea vines thrived around each doorway, including his, the blooms wafting their soft fragrance through the place. It reminded Huck of honeysuckle on sweet Southern nights in another time and place, so he liked it.

That idea niggled at him again, that he knew the used car guy from somewhere, but no matter how hard he concentrated, nothing came to mind. He dismissed it. Probably a stupid notion, he thought. Maybe he’d seen him on a TV commercial or a billboard or something.

After a long, hot shower to wash away any effects of his enforcement and lingering sand, he collapsed naked onto his bed and slept. Huck didn’t dream and he didn’t wake until about 4:00 PM, hungry and ready for action.

Although he could have eaten at any number of places ranging from posh to greasy spoons, on a whim he headed for Neon Nights, the diner near Hollywood and Vine. Food was tasty and plentiful there. He could consider it part of his investigation, and maybe Summer would be his waitress.

The woman intrigued him and although he had no room in his life for a relationship, if he did, he’d want to pursue the possibility with her. If Huck was honest with himself, he wanted more than that—he wanted her down and dirty and beneath him.

 

Buy links:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CKWFLB4W

https://www.evernightpublishing.com/hucks-legacy-by-lee-ann-sontheimer-murphy/

 https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/hucks-legacy-lee-ann-sontheimer-murphy/1144198314

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1463147

https://www.bookstrand.com/book/hucks-legacy-mf

https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/huck-s-legacy

https://bookoftheday.org/unfiltered/hucks-legacy-lee-ann-sontheimer-murphy/

https://booksprout.co/reviewer/review-copy/view/137820/hucks-legacy