... is something we're not supposed to do, right? But we all do it. In fact, during the month of July I need you to do exactly that.

If you like the cover of my book, Webs in the Mist: The Jessie Morgan Series, Book 2, please vote for it for the Cover of the Month contest on AllAuthor.com!

It would be so fun to clinch the "Cover of the Month" contest on AllAuthor! In order to do it, I need support from you guys.

Please take a moment to vote for my book cover here: Click to Vote! 

Thanks, everyone!

Here it is, coming very soon! Above is the Kindle e-book cover. Below is the paperback cover. Stay tuned, and take good care these days.

Happy May, readers! 

This is my favorite month here in western Montana. It's vibrant green everywhere and the flowers are budding, about to bust open.

All four of my advance readers love my new novel, Webs in the Mist. Three of them said that they like it better than Bell-Bottom Gypsy (Book 1 of The Jessie Morgan Series). I'm excited to hear that, and happy that now I can publish it on Amazon with confidence.

With that said, here is your third and final sample chapter from the new novel. Enjoy!

Chapter 3   (Webs in the Mist: The Jessie Morgan Series, Book 2)
 
In the damp fog, Jess kneeled on the driver’s seat and gaped at the VW’s back seat. Her heart sank as she stared at the open suitcase, the clothes tossed all over. Her stereo, camera bag, and vintage fur coat were gone. The passenger door was unlocked. She was sure she’d locked it. She slumped sideways, her legs sticking out of the car. At least the windows weren’t broken. The camera bag contained not only her 35mm Praktica and its lenses, it had her negatives and undeveloped film. Things she couldn’t replace. Things that would be dumped in the garbage. That’s what really pissed her off. Damn.  
Maybe she’d just go back to bed. Screw it. Maybe this was a “welcome to the city” initiation, she thought, swallowing back the lump in her throat. She’d call it in, but first she’d get everything else inside. Jess crawled into the back seat, gathered the clothes into her blue suitcase, latched it, and checked the trunk. That was where she kept pillowcases stuffed with clothes and bedding, when she traveled. Everything was still there.
She dragged herself back and forth, up and down the stairs, hauling everything to her room, her heart so heavy she could barely stand up straight. Donna was at work, so she had the place to herself except for Ramona, who was stretched out on her bed. Jess found the phone book, plopped onto the living room mattress, and called the cops on the black Princess phone. She recited her story three times before being told to come to the station on Fillmore and fill out paperwork.  
Jessie went back to her room and lay down, curling herself around Ramona. She felt like sucking her thumb. As if she weren’t feeling strange enough, in a new city. She and San Francisco were not off to a great start. Well, if she hated it here she could try Sonoma County. It would be fun to be near Liv and Pancho. She’d spent a night with them on her way down, and liked where they lived.  
She closed her eyes, imagining her negatives and film canisters in a garbage can. The current of rage pulsing through her body was too familiar. Jess pictured it: she’d tiptoe up behind the bastard, grab him, and kick him in the balls, hard. Once he passed out, she’d retrieve her stuff, kick him a few more times for good measure, and vanish into the fog.  
“Mew?” Ramona said in her delicate voice, tickling Jessie’s cheek with her whiskers, licking her tears. She hadn’t realized she was crying. Ramona was a softening balm, crumbling the rage into the raw hurt it really was. Jess stroked the cat’s head, loving the scratchy cat-tongue kisses even though they made her cry harder.
The stolen photos were of her life since Detroit, especially Twisty and Key West and Montana. Some of the negatives had never been printed. In Key West, Twisty had given her a great deal on his camera equipment. Now what would she do? Single lens reflex cameras were expensive. She took a deep breath, missing Twisty.
What was she doing, missing that no-good, lying bastard? Jess rolled onto her back, mad at herself. How stupid could she get? God!  
*
“Ocean Beach!” the driver called.
Determined to salvage her first day in the city, Jess had walked down to Market Street and caught the “N Judah” streetcar. Amazed that she could go to the ocean beach for a quarter, she’d gazed at sunny backyards with children riding tricycles and clotheslines full of sheets and jeans. As the streetcar made its way toward the ocean, they’d entered a murky fog. The closer they got to the beach, the darker the fog was.  
She crossed the road to the seawall and put on her sweatshirt, looking at the gnarled cypress trees silhouetted in silver fog. The sandy bluff was covered with a low, sprawling plant that had pink flowers. Mist washed over her face, cooling her skin as she studied the wild Pacific surf – white lines in the steel-gray sea. Jess wove her obsidian hair into a single braid and fastened it with a band she found in the pocket of her windbreaker. The damp, cool sand was soft on her bare feet, gulls screeching overhead as the Pacific roared, booming against the rocky cliff at the end of the beach. She walked into the shallow water and was shocked by how cold it was.  
Jess wandered down the beach, swinging her bag, aware that she was walking along the edge of the continent. She felt as small as a grain of sand. It was one of her favorite feelings. Montana’s landscape always made her feel this way, too. At Flathead Lake, where she’d spent the past summer, it was probably snowing by now. No, thanks. She’d grown up in Detroit, where winters were long and snowy, the Great Lakes wind cutting like an icy blade.
Turning to face the water, Jess spotted two ships – dim, steely shapes on the horizon, which was a blurry mix of pewter sky and fog. She walked the wide, long beach, emptying her mind, and when her legs got tired she sat on the sand near some suntanned hippies. The guy wore a lopsided Navy blue beret, loose marijuana-leaf print pants, and a sweatshirt that said “Drop acid, not bombs.” He sat on a Mexican blanket next to some bongo drums. The three women with him sat on the sand, long skirts tucked up around their brown legs. Jess wondered if they lived on the beach, and how they got so tan in the thick fog.  
“Peace,” the guy said.  
“Peace to you.” Jess noticed that his long, black mustache curled into his mouth.  
“Groovy day,” he offered.   
“Not really.”
“Having a bummer?”  
“Yep.”
He came over and sat next to Jess, looking into her eyes. His long hair was almost black and he smelled like Patchouli oil and something else she couldn’t identify. “What’s happening?” he asked. One of the women joined them, fanning her India print Maxi skirt on the sand around herself.  
“I got ripped off.”
“Shit.”
“I just got here yesterday.”
“That sucks,” the woman said, twirling her stringy brown hair around her finger.  
“It really does.” Jess sighed. For all she knew, they could have been the ones who stole her stuff.
“Seth.” The woman nudged his shoulder.
He took a baggie from his pants pocket, broke a brownie in half, and handed it to her. “This’ll help, luv.”
“Thanks.” Jess was game. The brownie tasted like cardboard.
“You’ll love San Francisco, though,” the woman was saying. “This is where it’s at…”
“It’s the best.” Seth picked up the bongos. “In the summer I live in a hollowed-out redwood, in Marin.” He smoothed his mustache and began drumming. A long-haired guy walking down the beach smiled at them, dancing to the beat.
“Most of the time we live near here,” the woman said.  
Jess stared at the patches of sunshine opening up over the water. “Good, the fog is burning off.”  
“It usually does,” the woman said, “depending on the time of year. This is the rainy season.”
“Ah.”
“I’m April,” she said.  
“Jessie.”
“See how fingers of mist swirl around the edges of the fog as it burns off?” April asked, pointing at the sunny spots over the sea.  
“Yeah.”
“I dig the mist, but hate the fog.”
Jess nodded. She’d never given much thought to the difference between mist and fog.
“It’s like the fog is a huge glob of mud blocking out the sun,” April continued. “But mist is light, wispy, and golden.”  
“Fog is thick and dark,” Jess agreed, “but you can see through the mist.”
“Right on.”
The other women, in low-slung floral skirts and cropped T-shirts that exposed their midriffs, picked pink flowers near the seawall and wove them into their waist-length hair.  
“What kind of flowers are those?” To Jess, wildflowers blooming in November were weird.  
“Ice plant.”
“I’ve never seen it before.”
“Where you from?”
“Detroit.”    
April nodded. “So, were you mugged?”  
“No, they broke into my Bug.” Jess put her head in her hands.
“They’re just things,” April said gently.  
“I know. But… They took my camera bag, which had negatives and undeveloped film in it. Things I can’t replace.”
“Gotta let it go.”
“I know.”
“Can’t let them win. Fuck them and their bad vibes.”
The other two women brought flowers over, nodding to the bongo beat, their glass-bead necklaces bouncing between their full breasts.  
“This is May, and this is June.”
“I’m Jess. Wait. April, May, and June?”
“Yes!” They collapsed into giggle fits.
“Ridiculous!” one wheezed.  
Jess laughed, too, getting off from the brownie.
May moved behind her, took out her hair tie, and combed through Jessie’s almost-black hair with her fingers. “Pretty.”
“Thanks.” She could feel the dope working as her shoulder muscles relaxed. 
“Are you, like, Indian?” May asked.  
Jess shook her head. “Dark Irish.”
The other women swayed to Seth’s bongo rhythms as May braided Jessie’s hair, weaving the flowers into it. Jess closed her eyes. She loved having her hair played with.
May tied it off. “There, you’re a flower child.”
“Thanks.” Jessie grinned. “What’s that scent you’re wearing?”  
“Cedar oil,” April replied.
“I love it.”
The women kept laughing.
“What’s funny?” Jess hated to miss a joke.
“Shrooms!” One of them managed. The three of them giggled so hard they coughed. “We ate ‘em all!”
Seth laughed as he drummed. May and June stood, tied their shirts up under their breasts, pulled their skirts down so they were hugging their hips, and danced around the beach. May played little cymbals she wore on her fingers, the curves of her bronze belly glowing in the sunshine. The women dipped and swayed in a Middle Eastern style, twitching their hips to the beat. June twirled, her arms out. She stopped and arched back, rolling her shoulders and making her coffee-colored belly ripple. As she danced, she wrapped a fringed, plum-colored scarf around her hips, her beads clicking.
“Come on!” May called.
Jess and April joined them. Meanwhile, a few people gathered to watch. Jess got into the drumbeat and did her own thing as the ocean waves whooshed.   
“You’re a good dancer, chica!” May told her.   
“Thanks! So are you.”
“Awww.”
“Maybe you guys can teach me how to do that,” Jess said.
“It’s belly dancing!” April smiled. “June’s the teacher.” 
June nodded and arched way back again, her gorgeous belly rippling more this time.  
After a while, Seth slowed his drumming. They looked at him. “We gotta go,” he said.
June groaned.
“It’s our turn to cook at the commune.”
Jessie’s legs were tired anyway. “Commune?” She sank onto the sand.
“Yeah, it’s cool.”
May dropped her finger cymbals into a fringed leather pouch. “We share everything!” 
“Feeling better, Jess?” Seth grinned at her.
“You bet!” She laughed. “Thanks.”
“De nada,” he answered.
Jess wondered what that meant. 
“Toodles!” April called. The other women waved good-bye as they started toward the seawall.
Jess smiled and waved. What a different world it was out here when the sun was shining. Shivering, she realized she was cold. She walked to the Cliff House café and warmed up with hot coffee and creamy potato soup, staring out the window at the gleaming expanse of the Pacific. A gray strip on the horizon looked like fog lurking offshore.
As Jess walked back down the sand, a brisk breeze picked up and the beach turned amber in the late sun. It was cooling down. Near Judah, where a streetcar sat idle, drummers sat in a circle around a bonfire. Climbing the stairs to the seawall, Jess moved to the rhythm. What was with all the bongos here?
She sat on a concrete bench facing the ocean, her upper right arm burning again. Shit! Jess rubbed her neck, wondering what the hell was wrong with her. Since the wreck two months ago, she’d noticed this prickling feeling. It came and went, sometimes in her hands and other times in her arms. Stretching her neck and shoulders, she remembered the note Twisty had sent from jail, begging her to come to North Carolina. The doctor thinks the judge should send me to treatment because of the drugs, he’d written. I don’t give a shit. I couldn’t even kill myself if I wanted to, now. She’d written back once, telling him she wouldn’t be coming. I can’t help you, she’d written. I can’t take any more of your lies. They hurt too much. A familiar pang of guilt rushed through her and she shrugged it off. Why the hell did she feel guilty, for God’s sake? Moving on was best, for both of them.
The sun went behind a patch of fog and Jess shivered. This formidable ocean was worlds apart from the calm, sunny sea she’d enjoyed last winter in Key West with Donna and Twisty and her other friends. That seemed like long ago, so much had happened since.
A new ocean, a new beginning. Jess was counting on it.
*
“I feel bad,” Donna said as they lurched down Market Street in an electric Muni trolleybus. “I should have helped you bring your stuff in when you got here.”  
“No way, totally my fault.” Jess peered out her window at the bustling street lined with stores, hotels, and theaters. Earlier it had rained, but now the sun was out. The city looked fresh and clean. They were on a whirlwind bus-and-cable-car tour of San Francisco, to get Jess oriented.   
“Our neighborhood is funky,” Donna was saying. “That’s why the low rent.”
“Right. Wow, what’s that?” Jess pointed at a domed structure behind a plaza. It looked like a capitol building.
“Civic Center. City Hall. The civic center has the opera house and the main library.”
Jess smiled to herself, amazed by how much her friend knew about things. A regular walking encyclopedia, Donna had taught her about the history of Key West when they lived there. They got off the bus and hustled across Market to the cable car that said “Fisherman’s Wharf,” hopping on as it was leaving. Donna sat on a wooden outside bench and Jess stood, hanging on. She could see everything and feel the cool breeze.  
“I smell coffee,” Jess said, handing the conductor her bus transfer.
“It’s the Hills Brothers factory.” Donna pointed toward the Bay Bridge.
Powell Street pulsated with life, musicians playing on each corner. There were more bongos. Jess stared up at the buildings around Union Square. A limousine pulled up in front of a fancy hotel as people hurried down the sidewalks, their faces a variety of colors and ethnicities. Some men wearing turbans entered the hotel; across the street, Chinese women in embroidered silk jackets walked across Union Square under palm trees; an elderly woman with a black scarf tied over her hair was feeding clouds of pigeons.
“Ding, DING, ding!” The gripman rang the bell to warn motorists that he was coming. Tall and thin, with a goatee and rust-colored beret, he looked like a ’50s beatnik. Children on the sidewalk waved to him and he waved back, grinning.
“Is that Chinese food I smell?” Jess asked, detecting ginger.
“Probably. Chinatown is right down there.” Donna pointed to the right. “Walking on Grant is amazing. In a block, you go from Chinatown to North Beach, the Italian neighborhood.”
“It sure is compact.”
Donna nodded. “Seven miles by seven miles.”
“That’s small, right?”
Her friend nodded again. “It can’t expand because it’s surrounded by water.”
The crowd on the cable car thinned and Jess grabbed the seat next to Donna. At one intersection, she caught a gorgeous view of the city, the bay, the Bay Bridge, and low-lying ridges to the east. “Wow,” she murmured.
“I know,” Donna said.
 They climbed a hill where the only flat places for the cable car to stop were in the middle of the intersections. The motorists had to wait, but no one seemed to mind. On top, the view to the north was a dramatic sweep of the cobalt bay, piers, waterfront buildings, cargo ships, ferries, sailboats, a fishing boat marina, a rocky island, and the rounded mountains beyond.
“That’s Alcatraz, straight ahead,” Donna said.  
Jess grabbed the nearest pole as the car tipped over the edge and began its steep descent. She smelled something burning as the gripman controlled their speed. “Is that smell normal?”
“Yeah, the brakes are wood. They get hot and scorch.”
“Wow.”
“Let’s get something to eat at the wharf.”  
“Great.”
“I want to buy food to give to the panhandlers.”
“Panhandlers?”
“Yeah, I give ‘em food. That way they eat instead of getting drunk, or worse. Sometimes it pisses ‘em off.”
Donna was right: Fisherman’s Wharf had plenty of panhandlers. There were also tons of street performers – jugglers, mimes, musicians. It was a Saturday and the sidewalks were crowded with sightseers, so they decided not to hang around. As they walked to Alioto’s for chowder in sourdough bread bowls, Donna quickly gave away all the bananas she’d purchased. The panhandlers seemed to appreciate getting food. Jess wondered where they went at night, or when it rained.
They caught the next cable car headed back downtown. This time they transferred to the California Street car, which dove down an even steeper hill and into a canyon between the lofty skyscrapers of the Financial District. The Bay Bridge was at the foot of the street.
Jess thought the California car’s mulatto gripman might be the best-looking man she’d ever seen. He had exotic, jade-colored lion eyes and a brown Afro with red streaks running through it. He also had style, ringing his cable car bell in a unique rhythm. She watched him play it as they approached an intersection.   
“They have bell ringing contests,” Donna said.
“Really?”
“Yep.”
Jess turned again in her seat. “Are you a bell ringing champ?” she asked him.
“Not yet,” he replied in a bass voice, winking at her.
Donna took a newspaper clipping from her bag. “Two moving sales on Fulton, a block apart,” she said. “We can find some things for your room.”  
“Sounds good.” Jess glanced at the gripman just as he turned his head toward her, smiling. They locked eyes and his smile widened. She looked away, embarrassed that he’d caught her looking.

Happy Earth Day, everyone! I hope you're all doing OK during this difficult time. May we all stay healthy, and may this pandemic pass into history one of these days.

Here's your second sneak peek at the new novel, Webs in the Mist. Enjoy!

Chapter 2
Twisty
He sat on his bunk, slouched over his letters. Each envelope was stamped “Return to Sender” in crimson ink. Shit! They were meant for Jess. Twisty got up and paced around the cell, crushing the envelopes in his hand. Why hadn’t she written? Where the fuck was she?
“Huh?” Jimmy, his cellmate, stirred in his bunk.
“Nothing, go back to sleep.”
“’K.” Jimmy went back to his nap.  
Twisty hadn’t seen Jess since the wreck. She’d looked dazed, sitting on the grass with a cop and staring at his Cadillac, which had been perched precariously in the barrow pit and about to roll. From the back of the cop car, Twisty had watched the ambulance pull up. An ambulance. For Jess.
She’d never come to see him. He didn’t even know if she was OK. Jess had hit her head pretty hard. She’d sent one note, but hadn’t said much. It would take time for her to get over the crap that had happened, but Twisty knew he’d get her back. He had to. Jess was his woman. No way would he let her go.  
What the hell could he do about it from this shithole?
First, he could get his poop in a group. He was working on it. Hell, he’d been clean for two months. At first it had been a bitch on wheels. The doctor was still talking about sending him to treatment.
He recalled how Jess had looked when they met in Kentucky a little over a year ago. Tall and lean, she was a natural beauty who didn’t need makeup. Her raven-black hair and cat eyes had made him think she was Native American. No, she’d told him, she was dark Irish. His own coloring came from his Cherokee blood. Both tall and dark, they made a great-looking couple, Twisty thought. He’d never forget the first time Jess wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. He’d felt like a real man.
Twisty caught his angular image in the funky cell mirror. Man, he’d lost weight. He’d always been sharp-featured, but now he was gaunt. The food here was gross. But it was time to force himself to eat more, and start working out. That way he’d look good for Jess.
Twisty leaned against the bars, the cold metal soothing his feverishly hot face. Maybe he could pay someone to track her down. There was money in his Asheville bank account. Ma was coming to visit in a few days. They could talk about hiring someone.
The buzzer echoed off the naked concrete walls. Rec time. Good. Some air, and walking the yard track with Carl. That crazy redheaded fucker was full of good bullshit.
Maybe Carl could help get his mind off this crap.

Greetings! I know, it's been WAYYY too long. I've been busy writing Book 2 of The Jessie Morgan Series.

Lately, with the Covid-19 lockdown, my writing has been a real blessing. Working on fiction is a great way to get one's mind off the current calamity. It seems crucial to take a thorough mental break every day from the frightening news.

If you're not a writer, READ your favorite books and stories. Maybe you're already doing this. I've been re-reading my favorites, and loaning them to friends. Our local library is closed due to the pandemic, so this is a way to help each other.

I'm doing everything I can to get the new novel released. Right now it's in the hands of three advance readers. One of them is terribly busy... she's an accountant who's trying to find her clients money so they can stay in business. Scary, strange times. Anyway, before I can comfortably publish the new novel, which is entitled Webs in the Mist: The Jessie Morgan Series, Book 2, I have to go through the entire thing at least one more time to make it better and find any mistakes I may have missed.

Meanwhile, here is a sneak peek at the novel's first chapter. I hope you enjoy it.

Please stay safe and healthy, everyone!
---------

Chapter One   
 
Jessie Morgan rubbed her sore neck, gazing at the pastel San Francisco skyline shimmering in the golden afternoon. The burning sensation in her right arm made her think of Twisty, and the wreck. She shivered, recalling her friend Betty’s words: “Mean guys just get worse.”  
It was a clear November day, not a wisp of the city’s legendary fog in sight. Except for one dark building, San Francisco’s skyscrapers were white, their rose-tinted windows glittering like well-polished rhinestones. Gilt mist, backlit by the low sun, rolled through the cables of the Golden Gate Bridge. Jess got out of her VW, the chilly gusts off the Pacific making her reach for her windbreaker. She’d stopped at the vista point to absorb the moment and study her city map. A few other cars occupied the parking lot, but everyone else stayed in their vehicles. Maybe they figured they’d be blown right off this howling headland.
The city across the windswept bay was Jessie’s latest adventure. This past year she’d driven alone, mostly on back roads, from Detroit to Kentucky to Key West to Montana to here, her Bug crammed with everything she owned. Along the way she’d worked seasonal jobs – race horse hot walker, waitress, fishing boat mate, bus girl, apple picker. She was out to experience everything, and it was time to live in a cosmopolitan city – far from her family. The Bay Area was a mecca for hippies, misfits, and dissenters. People from all over the world were drawn here as if pulled by a powerful magnet. San Francisco’s rolling hills seemed to hum with energy.
Jess sat on a bench facing away from the wind and contemplated the orange-vermilion bridge stretched out before her, its color contrasting with the royal-blue Golden Gate Strait. The sky was the same shade of azure. Far below the vista point, cargo ships passed each other under the bridge. Out on the bay, further east, a dozen white sailboats leaned sharply, skimming across the water. An expansive park bordered by verdant forests occupied the city end of the bridge.
She studied her city map, holding it tight so it wouldn’t blow away. The park was the Presidio, a military fort. She’d follow highway 101 through there to Divisadero, turn right, and go down to Haight. There, she’d turn left, go a few blocks to Pierce, and turn right to her friend Donna Wolf’s place. They were going to share the apartment. On her first day in Key West last winter, Jess had met her on the beach. They’d been good buddies ever since. Donna and her Navy boyfriend Rich were from Omaha. Jessie hadn’t seen her since leaving Key West last spring. She couldn’t wait to hang out with Donna again.
As she drove across the bridge, Jess caught glimpses of the ocean and the misty headlands, gilded by the slanting rays of the sun. From city intersections she spotted views of the bay and the flatter neighborhoods that stretched toward the ocean. She bounced up and down steep streets where the buildings looked old, European. The colorfully-painted Victorians stood in rows, almost touching. Jess caught a whiff of Thai food and noticed an Ethiopian café. Ethiopian! The bars looked interesting, too. She was glad she’d finally turned twenty-one and could go to bars. The sidewalks were full of people, most in T-shirts and jeans with a sweater or jacket tied around their waists.    
She found Pierce and the skinny, gray Victorian. Parking half a block down, Jess grabbed her overnight bag and locked the Bug tight. The street, which ended at a park a few blocks down, was quiet as she climbed the steps and rang the doorbell labelled “Apt. B.”
She heard Donna shrieking as she thumped down the stairs. The door was flung open. “Jess!”  
“Donna!” They fell into a tight hug, and Jess caught the scent of coconut.
“You look great!” Donna grinned.
“So do you!” Jess hugged her again. Donna looked the same as she had in Key West: barefoot, in T-shirt and cutoffs, her curly hair loose around her shoulders. The lavender, tie-dyed shirt she wore today said “Women United for Peace” and showed a clenched fist in the middle of a peace symbol.
“I can’t believe you’re finally here! Come on up.” Donna tucked her gold-brown curls behind her ears and bounded up a long flight of stairs to a half-open door toward the back.
Following her, Jess smelled something cooking. Something garlicky.  
Rubbing against the door frame was the gray and black tabby Jess had taken in, down in Key West. “Ramona Magnolia!” She picked her up and cuddled her. “Thank God!” When she’d left Key West, she couldn’t figure out how to travel with the cat, who was so terrified of riding in the car she’d trembled and panted and clawed, and peed down the front of Jessie’s shirt. But here she was, purring like a little engine. “How did you get her to travel?”
“The vet said I could keep her sedated, in a carrier.” Donna reached over and pet Ramona’s head.     
“I should have figured that out.” Jess stroked the short-haired kitty. “I’m sorry,” she crooned as Ramona scrunched the air with her front paws. Jess followed her friend into a cozy living room with orange shag carpet, yellow beanbag chairs, a mattress covered with pillows and an Indian print bedspread, wooden crates, and a small marble fireplace. “A fireplace!”
“Yep. It’s the back half of a flat… really a one-bedroom. It’s small but we’ll save tons of bread splitting the rent.”
“Cool.” Jess kissed Ramona’s silky head as they moved to the kitchen. It had a beat-up linoleum floor and a pegboard on the wall, from which hung spatulas, wooden spoons, graters, an antique egg beater, and two cast-iron skillets.  
“I’ve gotten into cooking,” Donna said.
“And collecting?” Jess shifted Ramona higher in her arms and pressed her cheek against the cat’s cheek. 
“Guilty. Flea markets. Here’s your room.”
Off the kitchen was a glassed-in porch with a twin mattress on the floor, and tall windows that could swing open. “Neat!”
“But… we have to walk through here to go to the bathroom,” Donna said.    
“Cheap rent is worth it.”
“Rich stays over sometimes.”
“I’m not worried.” Jess smiled at her.  
“You can use this mattress for now. A double will fit…”
“I love it. What direction is this?” Jess pointed to the windows.  
“East. Oh! Your key!” Donna went into the kitchen, came back, and put a key in Jessie’ palm. “Forty-five a month, due on the first.”
“Far out.” Jess put Ramona down and put the key on the ring with her car keys.
The bathroom didn’t have a tub. “Good shower, though,” Donna said, “and plenty of hot water.”  
Off the living room, Donna’s dark bedroom had the same orange shag as the living room. A skinny window faced the building next door, which looked close enough to touch. Two vintage floor lamps flanked a queen-sized mattress covered with a blue granny-square afghan.
“Cute,” Jess said.
“I made this.” Donna touched the afghan. “I’ve gotten into crocheting, too.” She pointed at an entire wall of stacked wooden crates full of colorful skeins of yarn.
Jess laughed. “You’re crazy!”
“Guilty.” Donna’s green ten-speed bicycle leaned against another wall. “I ride to work sometimes. You have to watch out for streetcar tracks, though. The skinny wheels can get stuck in them and dump you.”
Jess flopped into the beanbag chair next to the fireplace.
“Wine?”
“Sure.”
Donna handed her an empty glass, showing her the bottle of Sebastiani Cabernet Sauvignon.
“Looks expensive.”
“Not at all. It’s from Sonoma.” She poured the wine and made a small fire.
Jess sipped. “Nice.”   
Donna nodded. “California wines are the best things about living here!”
“Cool. Sonoma, you said.”
“Yeah.”
“My friends Liv and Pancho are there. I met them in Colorado when we were stuck in that blizzard.”
“Right, you wrote me about that.”
“We traveled together, and they came to Flathead Lake. They’re working for Liv’s cousin Delilah.”
“At a place called Delilah’s?”
“Yep.” 
“I’ve heard it’s great. I wanna go there.”
“Let’s do it. You’ll love ‘em. Hey, have you heard of a church called the Table of Faith?”
“Nope. But you know me, not into churches.”
“Same, but Liv says it’s cool, helping poor people, changing the world. She thinks the leader, Jerry Owens, is a rock star.” Jess lit a Benson and Hedges 100, and offered Donna one.
“Thanks, but I like Menthol, remember?”
“Oh, that’s right.”
Donna got a cigarette and sat on the floor next to the fire. “I sit here when I smoke, so the stinky stuff goes up the chimney.”
“Good idea.” Jess joined her. “So, who lives in the front?”
“Two guys. Probably gay. They stay to themselves.”
“Tell me again where you work?”
“Bechtel, a huge engineering firm downtown. I have to work tomorrow, but this weekend I want to show you the city.”  
“OK.” Jess couldn’t believe how good the wine tasted. It was dry, but not too dry – worlds beyond her usual crappy Spanada.  
“Maybe we can hit some flea markets, too,” Donna said, puffing on her cigarette. “So, tell me what happened with Twisty.”
“Oh, my God.”  
Donna looked at her, waiting.
“He showed up in Montana, and, man, was he weird.”
“That’s nothing new…”
“Extra weird. Hyper. We were partying and he was just … wild. He had this Cadillac convertible and he was drunk and I wanted to drive, but he wouldn’t let me. Stupid me, I rode with him even though he was shit-faced. We had a wreck…”
“Holy crap!”   
“We almost hit a telephone pole and the car almost rolled. I hit my head… Hard.” God, that day was a blur.
“You OK?”
“I had a concussion, but I’m fine. Well, my neck is weird…” Jessie’s hand automatically went to her neck, rubbing the stiff muscles.
“Damn! I KNEW that son of a bitch would screw you up. Remember that day Betty and I tried to warn you off him?”
 Jess nodded, taking a deep drag from her cigarette and remembering the last time she’d seen Twisty. He’d been handcuffed, in the back seat of a cop cruiser.  
“Swear to God, you play with fire with that guy.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”  
“Give!”
“They arrested him and it turned out he was wanted in North Carolina on drug charges and for bail jumping, plus he’d skipped out on his car payments. They were looking for him and that fancy land barge.”
“Jeez.”
“He’d kept all that from me.”
“Now you’re done with him, right?”
“Right,” Jess said. “He’s in jail in North Carolina, and wanted me to move there. I wrote him that I wasn’t coming, that I couldn’t take any more of his lies.”
“Good for you!”
“I need a fresh start.”
“Nice guys, Jess.”
“Like Rich?”
“Yeah, like Rich.”
“How are things with him?”
“Good. The same. I love his stupid ass.”
“But he’s a nice guy.”
“Yep.”  
“Why don’t nice guys do it for me?” Jess tossed the rest of her cigarette into the fireplace. “How come I only like the mean ones?”
“You’ll figure it out.”
“Man, I hope so.”  
“But Montana was good?”
“The best.” Jess smiled.
“How was your trip, coming down?”
“Good, but I miss the convertible.” Her ’65 VW convertible had broken down last summer. Now she had a Bug sedan. “I loved the Oregon Coast. How was your trip across the country?”
“Bitchin. We drove straight across, then hung out in Vegas, Death Valley, and Yosemite.”
“I’d love to see Yosemite and Death Valley.”
“We’ll go.” Donna grinned. “Girl, we’re gonna have fun! Oh, some friends are having a brunch on Sunday, a potluck. We’re invited.”
“Great.”
“It’s a gay commune,” Donna explained. “San Francisco is full of gays and radicals.”
“Far out. Doesn’t that drive Rich nuts?”  
“He’s getting used to it. He only deals with the city on his days off.”
“It’ll be good to see him.” Jess finished her wine. “I’m starving!”
“Me too. Fish and chips? There’s a great place down the street.”
“Sure! Let’s go!”

Howdy, everyone. As I post this Chapter Two 'sneak peek' from my new novel, Bell-Bottom Gypsy, the February weather is still howling and drifting white out there. A perfect time to work on all of this.

The new novel should be coming very soon. I am all finished, but am waiting to see an actual paperback proof copy before releasing the book. Very exciting! Baby boomers and wanna-be baby boomers are going to love this one! OK, here's your chapter:


Chapter 2
 
Jess ladled steaming Kentucky Burgoo into Hank’s large mug. It smelled good and her stomach growled as she put the mug on the counter. Hank was her favorite regular at the concession stand. The older man came by every day, friendly and smiling. His coarse red hair stuck out underneath a traditional Kentucky driver’s cap. A horse trainer whose weathered face testified to a life lived outdoors, he wore a plaid flannel shirt, which was apparently the uniform of folks who worked in the horse sheds behind Keeneland Race Track.
Jessie’s stand was in the thick of the Keeneland action, across from the betting windows. People stopped for burgoo after picking up their winnings. Now and then a winner dropped a fifty-dollar bill and told her to keep the change.
She could get used to that.
“Gotta run,” Hank said, crumbling crackers into his stew. “I wanna talk to you, though.”
“OK.” What on earth did he want to talk about?
“Tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here.”
“Great. Have a good one.”
“You too, Hank.”
Jess dished burgoo for two women in wide-brimmed, colorful hats.
“Do y’all have hot sauce?” one asked.
“Yep, here you go.” Jess put it on the counter.
“Thanks, darlin’…” The woman helped herself, stirred her stew, and tasted it. “Mmm.”
They gave her a generous tip.
The lunch rush was over, so Jess fixed herself a bowl of stew and perched on the stool to enjoy it. Burgoo – made with hickory-smoked meat, beans, corn, okra, tomatoes, cabbage, and potatoes – was part of the Kentucky horse race tradition, although no one seemed to know how it had begun. Her boss said burgoo was as important to the Kentucky Derby as singing "My Old Kentucky Home" and parading sleek Thoroughbreds.
At first Jessie had said “bur-GOO,” but the horse people corrected her. It was pronounced “BUR-goo,” they said, emphasizing the first syllable. She said it that way now, and had already picked up the gentle Kentucky “y’all.”
Arriving in Lexington in time for Keeneland’s October race meet, she’d landed this short-term job that put her smack in the middle of Kentucky’s horse culture. Keeneland figured prominently in Lexington’s being the "Horse Capital of the World." The park-like grounds around the track were gorgeous and open to the public. On the edge of town, the famous old track had ivy-covered stone walls, graceful trees aflame with fall foliage, and neatly trimmed Japanese yews in the infield that spelled out “Keeneland.” Founded in 1936, Keeneland prided itself on being what horse racing was meant to be. The sprawling stone clubhouse and grandstand were quarried from native limestone. This was a place where horse lovers could savor the favorite sport of the Bluegrass.
Jessie loved it.
Her brother’s friend Steve had rented her the attic room in his university neighborhood house. She liked Steve’s easygoing ways. Jess hadn’t seen much of her brother, but that was OK. They’d never been close. They often had trouble communicating. Still, it was nice knowing that James was close by.
Jess liked driving through the countryside and gazing at the elegant thoroughbred farms with their lush, rolling pastures and old trees. Horses, cattle, and sheep grazed under blazing fall foliage. The paved backroads were flanked for miles with mossy stone walls and white fences. Stately homes were set back from the roads, in groves of massive oaks. The stables, painted to match the main houses, were fancy barn mansions with steeples.
Three thin women in enormous hats approached the burgoo stand.
Jess got up, wiped her mouth, and went over to wait on them.
~
It turned out Hank wanted to hire her as a hot walker. That meant walking his race horses about twenty minutes each after their early morning workouts. That was when the horses were exercised and trained, he explained. The Thoroughbreds had to be walked until they were cooled down, to prevent the sweating animals from getting colic, which could be deadly for them. Hank said that hot walking also helped the young horses calm down before they were returned to their stalls.
So here she was, driving out to Keeneland before dawn. It was a different world out here this time of day. Hushed layers of mist enveloped the trees as the trainers and exercise riders put the Thoroughbreds through their paces on the workout track. It was separate from the racing track. The horses’ hooves pounded the dirt, their snorting breath sending steam clouds into the air.
As dawn broke, Jess watched the sleek animals galloping full speed, stretching out. With their flying manes and powerful muscles, they were magnificent. She had to pinch herself, wondering if she was really here.
Hank taught Jess to hold each horse while the groom washed him and threw a “cooler” blanket on him. Then she was to lead the animal around the shed row until he had cooled down thoroughly. Hot walkers usually traveled with trainers to tracks and training centers to help care for the Thoroughbreds. Hank had fired his main walker recently, but didn’t say why.
Managing high-strung horses was part of the job. “Gentle but confident, that’s how you want to be,” the trainer told her. “They’ll know if you’re afraid.”
Jessie was inexperienced but tall and strong enough to handle it, Hank said. If a Thoroughbred got frightened and reared up, the thing to do was back away and give the horse plenty of slack in the lead rope. The horse would calm down right away, Hank told her.
She sure hoped he was right.
Jessie learned the hard way to put plenty of space between herself and the shed. The way they walked put her between the massive animal and the shed. One horse had tried to smash her into a corner of the building. She’d pushed back, as hard as she could. The huge horse had just grunted and given her a sideways glance.
Other than that, things had gone smoothly as Jess walked the tall Thoroughbreds. Now she came around a corner and saw Hank waiting for her with a horse named Flash. “Good morning,” she said.
“’Mornin’…here ya go, he’s already washed.” The trainer handed her the lead rope.
Flash, a stunning dark stallion, was probably Hank’s most nervous horse.
“Come on, boy,” Jess crooned, slowly leading him around the shed.
He pushed his muzzle into her hand, looking for a treat.
“No, no,” she told him.
All was peaceful until a tiny kitten sneezed in the corner about twenty feet away. Flash snorted and reared up, pawing the air like a maniac. Her heart in her throat, Jess backed up and gave him lots of slack. It took her breath away, how enormous and powerful these horses were. Hank was right: Flash settled down immediately. Thank God. Whew! These Thoroughbreds were beautiful, but they sure were crazy.
“All right, boy, let’s go,” she murmured as they resumed their walk. Jessie watched the rising sun drench the lovely, gnarled trees in golden light. The fall colors were at their peak. “Look at that, Flash,” she whispered.
He swished his long black tail.
She patted his neck. “You big ole scaredy-cat.”
Jessie liked talking to the Thoroughbreds as they walked. She’d always been fascinated by horses, but had never gotten to be around them. Most of the time it was calming, strolling with these tall animals around the shed row.
They rounded another corner, and there was Hank talking to a young man. “You finished with Flash?”
“Just about. Once more around and we’ll be good.”
“OK. This is Tommy Trisdale, my new groom. Tommy, this is Jessie Morgan.”
They nodded to each other as Jess walked Flash past them.
When she was finished, Tommy walked up. “Hank wants me to put him away,” he said.
“OK.” She handed him the rope and patted Flash’s warm neck again.
“Wanna get some breakfast when we’re done?”
“Sure.” He seemed nice enough, and she was curious about the track cafeteria.
                                                                        * * *
“Everyone calls me Twisty.”
“OK.” Interesting nickname. Jess sipped black coffee and studied the sharp angles of his dark face, waiting for her biscuits and gravy to cool off.
“You work at that burgoo stand, right?”
“Sure do.” She had an hour to relax before she had to go to work there.
“Love me some burgoo,” he drawled in a soft southern accent.
“Me, too. Where are you from?” Jess liked the way he talked. The way he looked wasn’t bad, either. He was maybe five years older than her.
“Asheville, North Carolina. You?”
“Detroit.”
“Motown.” He smiled.
“Right.” She smiled back, looking around the noisy cafeteria. Most of the shiny tables were full of horse people eating, laughing, and hollering across the room to each other. Jockeys, trainers, exercise riders, and everyone else who worked at Keeneland rubbed elbows here.
“What are you doing way down here, Jessie?”
She noticed that his smile reached into his dark brown eyes. “Just seeing the country. My brother lives here…”
“Ah.”
“How about you?” She dug into her breakfast.
“I’m following the race horse circuit,” he replied in his soft-spoken way. “I’m late cuz I had to go home for a bit.”
“Mmm.” Jessie’s mouth was full.
“I’m hoping to stay on with Hank, to New Orleans.”
“New Orleans, huh?”
“Yep.”
“Neat.” It was on her list of cities to experience.
“You didn’t know that’s where they’re headed next?”
“Nope. I’m new to this. Hank fired his hot walker, so he hired me even though I’ve never worked with horses before.”
“Cool.”
“I love horses.”
“Me too.”
Twisty seemed nice, but something about him made her nervous. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was.

 

Greetings! I am coming down the final home stretch, editing and revising my new novel, Bell-Bottom Gypsy (A Jessie Morgan Novel). Here is a sneak peek for you: the novel's Prologue and Chapter One. Enjoy! Please feel free to leave comments. Thanks!

Prologue
 
Jessie carefully folded her favorite bell-bottom jeans – the raggedy ones that dragged in the dirt around her bare feet. They were worn out enough to be soft and comfortable. She’d sewn a peace symbol patch on one threadbare knee; a flower patch on the other.
She was packing all her bell-bottoms, even though space in her Bug convertible was limited. Among them were second hand store treasures and flea market masterpieces: denim jeans hand-embroidered with flowers; fitted hip huggers with pleated bell-bottom inserts and a colorful, fringed scarf belt; and a psychedelic, wide-legged swirl of lavender and lime paisley. Jess picked up the folded pants and stuffed them into a pillowcase. There. That would fit in the car’s miniscule front trunk.
It would have been more sensible to get a hippie bus she could sleep in, since the plan was to drive all over the United States and maybe Canada, too. But Jessie had to have a Beetle convertible. Nothing else would do. She had this thing about being able to take the top down. It was about sun, fresh air, smells, and feeling the places she drove through. She’d found her 1965 Bug convertible in Chicago that summer, plunked down five hundred bucks for it, and was on her way.
The bell-bottoms, the car – none of this was practical.
She didn’t care.
That was Jessie for you.
 

Chapter 1
 
“Toledo, next exit.” Jessie Morgan steered the convertible onto the southbound exit ramp. In the thick of Detroit’s dreary Tuesday morning rush hour, hers was the lone car on the exit – a sunny, mustard-yellow speck arcing up and away from the gray river of V-8 sedans streaming along the Edsel Ford Expressway toward the city’s grimy factories.
The Stampeders’ “Sweet City Woman” came on the radio, filling the Beetle with banjo strumming. Jess turned it up and sang along, elated. A perfect soundtrack, she thought, drumming on the steering wheel in time to the banjo.
Robert Frost called this the road less traveled.
A butterfly breaking out of its cocoon and taking wing, twenty-year-old Jessie was headed for Lexington, Kentucky. It was September and too chilly to drive with the top down. Later for that. Excited to be leaving the washed-out factory metropolis where she’d grown up, she bounced along in her scruffy bell-bottom jeans. Detroit was an ashen brute where grim motorists drove alone in oversized land barges to mind-numbing assembly line jobs. It was the “Murder City.” Since the 1967 riot, Motown had been caught in a downward spiral of rage, frustration, and drugs.
For Jessie, Detroit had always been a foul mess. Better things were happening elsewhere and she couldn’t wait to experience them. It was fall 1971, a time of sex, drugs, rock and roll, hippies, birth control pills, students protesting the Vietnam War, back-to-the-earth ecology, and anti-capitalism. National Guardsmen had shot anti-war demonstrators at universities. Anti-establishment songs filled the air waves and young people were reading about spiritual enlightenment. Jess had packed Siddhartha and The Little Prince in one of her suitcases. Some called the hippie movement an intellectual renaissance. Others felt it was the end of the world.
As she drove toward Ohio, Jess had to admit that under her excitement she felt strange and scared. This was the first September in fifteen years she wasn’t going back to school.
She was finally breaking free.
In their dorm rooms, Jess and her college girlfriends had come up with the idea of traveling around the country working seasonal jobs. They would hit the road and have a blast, they said. During her boring sophomore year, Jess had decided to drop out. She had no idea what to major in and was sick of the pressure. She agreed with Timothy Leary: It was time to drop out, tune in, and turn on.
But Jessie’s friends had backed out. One couldn’t go because of her boyfriend. Another said her father would disown her if she went.
It was disappointing, embittering, to embark on this adventure alone. It wouldn’t be the same, travelling by herself. Thinking about her flaky girlfriends made her itch. She rubbed her olive green eyes with one fist and flipped her dark hair behind her shoulder.
Jess had decided that she’d rather hit the road alone than sit around wishing she’d gone. Determined to live life on her own terms, she was hell-bent on getting out there and experiencing things. Even scary things. She would push through her damned fears, take risks.
Maybe that was the definition of courage.
Honestly, she felt there was no choice. Jessie needed to find out who the hell she was. She would strip away everything familiar and see what was left.
She’d be free, the opposite of her inhibited mother and verbally abusive father. Of course her folks weren’t all bad. Dad was a good provider. An avid booklover, sometimes the thick, heavy volumes he loved fell on his face when he tried to read in bed at night. Mom was always there with good, homemade food. It must have been exhausting, cooking and keeping house for a big family.
Jess glanced at her rearview mirror. The leaden Detroit skyline behind her was punctuated with factory smokestacks spewing columns of curly steam into the gray air. Soon she’d be far away from all of it: her Irish Catholic family; her way-too-strict dad; her straight life.
Jessie knew she had a lot to learn, a long way to go. She tended toward blinding anger – free-floating wrath. It was as if she’d been born pissed off. Sometimes she suffered from Classical Migraine Syndrome attacks that made her horribly sick. When she was nine she’d had the crippling migraines once a week. No one had taken her to a doctor.
These days she was often caught up in irritable bitchiness. In short, she was too much like Dad. Dad! The last person she wanted to be like.
But there it was.
Jess flipped her hair back again and reached for a cigarette. She would change, or die trying. Actually, she’d already made changes: At Western Michigan University, she’d quit wearing makeup or shaving her legs or wearing a bra. It took a while to get used to looking at her own jade, almond-shaped eyes – like Mom’s – in the mirror without the heavy black eyeliner she’d become addicted to in high school. All in all, she felt good about her looks, except for her nose. Jess had her dad’s Irish pug nose.
It was inner change she craved. Jess wanted to re-create herself, getting rid of the parts she didn’t like – the angry, unkind, uptight parts. Out from under the pressures of school and home and church, she hoped to grow into her whole self. She’d expand her mind and learn things only life could teach, peeling away the layers of crap. Jess would become a better person – more open-minded, loving, and calm.
Oh, to be calm.
She’d tried living at home for the summer, resuming the same job as last year – as a Good Humor ice cream girl. As summer jobs went, it was a good one that paid well. But when she got out on her route, she’d felt as if she’d been driving around that suburban neighborhood all year. Meanwhile, Dad had driven her nuts at home.
So she’d run away.
Mom was ironing as Jess explained why she was leaving. Hell, Mom understood better than anyone how difficult it was to live with Dad. Then Jess had caught a Greyhound back to her college town, Kalamazoo, where she had a few connections. Her former boss from the dorm cafeteria had introduced her to the nearby Lake Michigan shore and a cool resort town called Saugatuck. He’d helped her get her first waitressing job there. Jessie had rented a room from a family and gone to work.
Saugatuck. An old-fashioned village on the Kalamazoo River, it sat amidst the rolling sand dunes along Lake Michigan. Some called it the “Art Coast of Michigan” because of the many galleries and studios. The hand-cranked Saugatuck Chain Ferry took people across the river, where they could walk to Oval Beach or climb Mount Baldhead.
Jessie loved Oval Beach. It was rated one of America's Top Ten great beaches. When Jessie’s sisters Jen and Janet had visited, she’d proudly shown it off. They’d ridden horses down the beach, swam and floated in Lake Michigan, and taken in the view from Mount Baldhead.
Most of her Saugatuck summer, though, Jess had worked. On breakfast shift at the Coral Gables, she’d learned that her customers were happy if she kept the coffee coming. Trying to save money for her first car, she’d picked up odd jobs in addition to holding down her full time one. She’d had her heart set on a Bug convertible. When Jessie had saved enough, she took a bus to Chicago and found her Bug convertible at a suburban car lot. Crazily, she’d never driven a stick shift before. The salesman taught her how, right there in the car lot.
Then she was on her own, in the middle of rush hour – on Chicago’s infamous Dan Ryan Expressway. Not only was Jess unfamiliar with driving a stick shift, she didn’t have the convertible top down correctly. It sat too high, blocking her view of anything behind her. Then she’d had to figure out which lane to get in for the toll booths.
Jessie was so freaked out, the toll booth guy had asked her if she was OK.
“Not really,” she’d replied.
He’d encouraged her to pull over and wait by the booth until the traffic eased up. What a nice guy. She’d rested there, sipping on some coffee he’d given her.
Later, enjoying the sunset as she drove through spacious countryside, Jess had gotten into the car’s rhythm. Watching a round, amber moon come up over misty fields, inhaling the wet-dirt scents of farms and woods, she’d fallen in love with the little convertible. She’d left the top down, feeling cool pockets of night air on her skin as she made her way back to Saugatuck.
Jess had gotten attached to the beach town. Maybe someday she’d live permanently near the Lake Michigan beaches with their soft sand that squeaked when you walked on it. She could see herself eventually settling down close to the towering, wind-whipped dunes and clear water.
Her favorite way to relax in Saugatuck was bobbing in Lake Michigan on an inner tube, riding the waves as she gazed at the honey-colored dunes. Then she’d stretched out on the silky, hot sand. A grove of birch trees appeared to grow out of the sand on the sheltered side of the tallest dune. That was the dune she and her sister Jen had perched on, drinking wine and watching an ominous thunderstorm march across Lake Michigan toward them. Then they’d run for the shelter of the car.
She glanced in the rearview mirror again. Now the flat terrain was the same behind her as it was in front. Trees and bushes dotted the area alongside the expressway. It took a while to get out of Detroit’s downriver suburbs. Exit signs listed Romulus, Wyandotte, Flat Rock. She’d take the expressway through Toledo and then find a smaller highway south from there. The traffic was thinning as the day warmed.
Jess hoped she’d find a decent temporary job in Kentucky. James, her oldest brother, was in graduate school at the University of Kentucky in Lexington. Having him near would give her a safety net of sorts. She saw Kentucky as a stepping stone, plus autumn in Bluegrass Country was bound to be interesting.
From there, she’d figure out where to go next. Most likely it would be south, for a warm winter. That sounded good.

“Help meeeeee!”

In bed on the cabin’s screened-in sleeping porch, Jessie jerked awake. Jarred and half asleep, she searched the inky-black darkness with wide eyes. Nothing but black Montana night.

“HELP MEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” came the spooky wail again, its mournful tones echoing off the island cliffs across the Narrows. It sounded like two children calling from somewhere out on the lake.  

Jess lay there in the pitch-black dark, her eyes popping out of her head, her heart pounding. She lay on her back in her warm sleeping bag, stiff as a board with fright. She was alone in the cabin, her uncle having gone home. It was plenty isolated out here, especially in May. There was no phone, and none of the neighboring cabins she knew of were occupied this time of year. She cursed herself for not thinking to have a good flashlight handy. This was her first time staying by herself in the woods, and she had everything to learn. Maybe living out here was a bad idea. She--

“HELP MEEEEEEEEEEEeeeee!” the eerie wail sounded again, its haunting notes slowly fading into the Flathead Lake silence.  

The hair on the back of Jessie’s neck stood straight up. She couldn’t move. Not even an inch! She wondered if she was hearing a ghost. It was that kind of spine-chilling, unnerving sound. What should she do? What if someone needed her to help? She felt paralyzed, but her mind was racing. The only thing she could do was drive into town, she figured, since no one was staying out here this early in the season.

Again she tried to see something in the moonless night, anything. The lake was quiet. Through the screen, she finally could make out a patch of starry night sky and the dim silhouettes of the fat old ponderosa pines that stood just outside the sleeping porch. After a few more seconds she could see the lofty tamaracks, too.

Once more the call pierced the night. “HELP MEEEEEE!”

This time it was strangely dissonant. What if she lay here doing nothing, and whoever was out there drowned? What if they were children needing her help? Sometimes boaters out here needed rescuing. She waited, listening hard and barely breathing. Maybe someone had broken a boat propeller, or couldn’t get their boat motor started. She had to get up and try to find the flashlight in the kitchen.

But she still could not get her legs to move.   

Then a weird yodeling punctured the silence. It was long, rising, and crazy-sounding. Now what the heck was it? This was not children, for sure. Relieved, Jess took a deep breath. Just then another shrill yodel reverberated across the water.

Crazy.

Loony.

Loons!

She’d heard about loons yodeling like this. That must be it. It was May, probably their mating season or something. The loons were having a spring fever party on the lake.

Jess took some more deep breaths and finally relaxed enough to turn onto her side facing the trees outside the porch. A gentle breeze rustled the pine needles.

All was quiet on the lake once again.

But it took hours for Jess to fall back asleep.