Fate Trail

By A. L. Wilson

When a poor farmer's daughter is attacked by a large furred beast, the man travels to an adjacent town in search of aid. Rumor has it that there is a tracker who specializes in the 'strange and unusual.' Syllis Cox is a loner who keeps mostly to himself. However, a man would be hard-pressed not to have heard the tales of how Syllis bested ghosts and thwarted ghouls. At first Syllis passes off the attack on the young girl as nothing more than fear and superstition, but with the full moon quickly approaching, and a sinking feeling in his gut; perhaps there is more to this attack than meets the eye.

While investigating a bloody scene where more people have met with a gruesome fate due to this furred beast, an odd Texas Ranger suddenly appears before Syllis. The man is arrogant and rude, but unfortunately knowledgeable about the beast that Syllis is hunting. Even more unfortunate is how handsome the Texas Ranger is and how much attraction Syllis can feel building inside; along with an undeniable repulsion.

Can Syllis overcome his standoffish nature and join forces with the Ranger in order to save a young girl's life? Or will his repulsion at his own feelings keep him too far at bay? And what of this Texas Ranger? Is he truly a friend wishing to help bring a dangerous creature to justice, or some sort of fiend with a shiny silver badge?

Come chase the moon across the Heavens in the Prequel Adventure to the Stolen Elements Series - Fate Trail.

**Fate Trail is a m/m paranormal romance with some strong sexual and violent content. Please be advised that this content may not be suitable for all audiences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. L. Wilson
• Release date: Jun 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311995902

A. L. Wilson

As a young child A. L. held three aspirations which she vocally proclaimed to anyone that listened. She was either going to be an author, an actress or a psychologist. It was only after her brother was diagnosed with Autism and Pervasive Development Disorder that her aspirations shifted from theater and prose to exclusively studying psychology. However, she never truly left her flare for the dramatic behind. At the tender age of eight she was taking a starring role in Tom Sawyer; the following year it was Alice in Wonder Land. Then eventually her Senior year of High School she wrote and starred in the school's Senior play. The Case of the Murder that Wasn't, had her bouncing around stage as a savvy detective with a bumbling side-kick, attempting to solve the murder of a rich aristocrat. The off-color humor had audiences in stitches for three days and nights- to the delight of her and her family. However, despite the success of her writing and acting, the young A. L. graduated High School with honors and then immediately went on to start college in search of her (three) subsequent degrees in Psychology. It wasn't until years later that things would come full-circle as Indie Publishing has become more and more popular and the itch to write more overwhelming. Momentarily hanging up her hat as a Child and Family Counselor, A. L. has once again plunged her hands back into writing; spinning wild tales for her own enjoyment and hopefully the enjoyment of her audiences.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Fate Trail

© 2014 A. L. Wilson

Published at Smashwords

Cover art © 2014 A. L. Wilson

All original artwork © April Mayfield

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are entirely the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidence.

Edited by Deborah St. Arbor

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Chapter 1

Almost a Ghost Town

Heavy boots thudded across the creaking floor boards of the saloon. A worry-browed man leaned both elbows against the bar top, glancing nervously about the place as he fiddled with a wide-brimmed hat. It was just like every other saloon West of the Mississippi. There were men of all shapes and sizes huddled around small tables, slamming down rank amber liquid while chatting about the long harsh hot day. A few ladies of the evening fanned themselves as they wound through the crowd, flashing missing toothed grins to lure in potential customers. What’ll it be Stranger? A thin bald man called out from behind the bar. He was fussing with a particularly grungy-looking glass, ending up spitting into it before rubbing it down more. Ah, beggin’ yer pardon. Name’s Frank Tims. I’m from Cannonsville, ‘bout half a day’s ride to the North.

The bartender seemed bored with the conversation already, but he nodded a few times as he sat down the glass he’d been spit-shining and picked up another. Yeap yeap, I know where it be. Well met, Frank Tims. Now what can I do ya fer? The man shifted in his muddy boots, looking not much different than any of the other farmers, ranch hands, or cattle rustlers that were peppered about the sweat, chew and puke scented room. Well uh, to be honest. I’m lookin fer a bit of information. I hear-tell this ‘ere town is known for a bit of ‘strange goins on.’ The bartender abruptly spat into the cup he was working back and forth inside with a rag, jutting his nose into the air as he glanced away. Dun know what’cha talkin ‘bout, Son. Think ya might wanna turn right back ‘round an’ head North ways.

The stranger abruptly lunged forward, grasping the bartender by the elbow before the man could walk away to attend another customer. The bald man’s silvery brows started to crawl up his forehead. Ya bes’ be unhanden me, Boy. With a deep frown, the man released his grip and let his feet rest flat against the floor. Beggin ya pardon ‘gain, Sir. I ain’t ‘ere to cause no trouble. I’m jus’ lookin for this Negro I hear be livin up in a homestead nearby. The bartender’s nostrils flared and he pointed a boney finger towards the stranger. Now ya listen ‘ere Stranger an’ ya listen good. I don’t know what ya be goin on ‘bout, but ya need to get back on whatever horse ya rode in on an’ get on outta ‘ere or ya might have yaself a whole mess a trouble!

With desperation in his aging face, the man who identified himself as ‘Frank Tims’ suddenly took a palm-sized picture frame from his pocket. The photo inside was rumpled about the edges, but the browned depiction of a young girl seated in a rocking chair with her hands clasped was still clear enough. "Please, Sir I beg ye! My daughter—my only child! She was bitten by this—this creature! Now she real sick an’ no doctor can tell me what’s wrong. I hear from this Indian that there be this Negro that knows stuff ‘bout it. I’m jus lookin fer help. Please!"

By now all the chatter circling the saloon had stopped and the faces of the townsfolk had turned to look upon the man; listening to his desperate pleas. The bartender glanced to the picture, staring at it with a harsh gaze that eventually softened as he breathed a heavy sigh. A’ight, a’ight, calm down there. What’cha say ya name was? Frank was it? Jus’ take a breath, an’ a seat, Frank. One of the spit-shined glasses was set down with a click in front of the trembling man, and it was instantly filled with pungent near-brown liquid. The tender left the bottle beside it, watching as the man took a seat before gathering up the glass with a quivering hand.

It was the first time the tender actually looked at the man. Frank was probably in his mid to late forties but there was already salt and pepper in his hair and the stubble upon his chin. There were dark circles around aging blue eyes, and judging by the drab attire, sun-reddened skin, and worn boots; he was probably a farmer.

I tell ya a story, Frank. This ‘ere town was only established five year ago, but ya wouldn’t know it by lookin at Her. This place was supposed to be a tradin hub, but no one comes ‘ere, not even the Indians. During construction we lost at least a dozen good men, an’ they families mostly followed them to the grave. I buried so many friends an’ family I practically go ‘round in my funeral suit. The bartender took out another glass and placed it down, pouring the same whisky he’d offered the distraught father. The bald man slammed the liquid, letting out a faint ‘aaahh’ before he continued.

Hells, I had a full head’a’hair before tryin to help establish this place. There was a rumbling sad chuckle about the entire saloon. Word is that these lands are cursed, an’ had I not seen some’a’the things I’d seen with my own eyes, I’d just wave it off like every other new comer. But anyways…’bout a year ago this Negro rolls into town. We didn’t treat ‘im too kindly at first, but he didn’t start no trouble. Few days later the Sheriff’s son went missing.

There was a murmur from the patron’s within the saloon. The entire place was listening to the tale; even the ladies stopped to listen—sitting down on the stairs with their elbows against their knees, wearing forlorn expressions. "The boy took off after a ghost. An’ dun shake ya head at me. Ten grown men saw that damned specter. It looked jus like the boy’s dead mama. We was all scared unmovin’ in our boots. But that Negro, he weren’t scared.