Tywyn's Trouble: Tales from Biders Clump, #5

By Danni Roan

When a dark stranger rides into Biders Clump on a cool gray morning, turning the town's mind back to the trouble of a few months ago, even the most vivid imagination can't guess his true purpose.
Tywyn Spade has come to the tiny town looking for something he is uniquely qualified to collect, only to find far more than he expected. Through years of travel, over dark trails. the man with the slate gray eyes has seen hard days, but Biders Clump holds a secret that could end his quest and awaken his heart.
Loss is nothing new to Jillian Fort. Strong independent and collected, little touches her in her isolated mountain home. When danger comes calling she answers in kind, but will the revelations brought to her valley shatter her or will she find strength for a new tomorrow?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Danni Roan
• Release date: May 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781393536864

Danni Roan

About the Author Danni Roan, a native of western Pennsylvania, spent her childhood roaming the lush green mountains on horseback. She has always loved westerns and specifically western romance and is thrilled to be part of this exciting genre. She has lived and worked overseas with her husband and tries to incorporate the unique quality of the people she has met throughout the years into her books. Although Danni is a relatively new author on the scene she has been a story teller for her entire life, even causing her mother to remark that as a child “If she told a story, she had to tell the whole story.” Danni is truly excited about this new adventure in writing and hopes that you will enjoy reading her stories as much as she enjoys writing them.

Book preview

Prologue

Tywyn Spade turned his horse down Main Street in the pale light of a new day, his gray eyes taking in everything around him. Along the far lane, a group of rowdy boys dogged old women, and a young couple moved under the shadow of the boardwalk as the light of the rising sun painted the westward buildings a lemon hue.

The lean rider turned his attention back to his big pinto as it ducked its head after a lanky dog that had stepped into the dust, wagging its tail. Flipping his wrist negligently, the man stopped the horse's lunge, its teeth snapping closed mere inches short of the cur.

Ears still flat, the big brown and white horse chomped his bit, shaking his head in protest and glaring at a graying man who stood on the porch of a two-story house.

Tywyn pulled his hat low over his eyes and moved on down the street toward the sign that read Sheriff.

Behave yourself, Chip, the dark cowboy growled, swinging down and tossing the reins around a hitching rail, shifting out of the path of the animal’s steel clad hooves as he stepped up to the office and pushed the door open.

Sheriff. The tall stranger ambled into the office, his slate-colored eyes like a storm beneath the shadow of his hat.

Sheriff Pike rose to his feet, the hair on the back of his neck prickling upright at the sight of the rough character.

Ferd, why don’t you run along to the Grist Mill and fetch us some of them treats Mr. Rupert makes? The old lawman cut his eyes to his deputy, who jumped to comply.

What can I do for you? Sheriff Pike asked, eyeing the man with caution.

Silently the stranger reached into his coat and withdrew a folded sheaf.

Everything you need to know is in there. His voice came from deep in his chest, rumbling like a flooded stream.

Sherriff Pike glanced down at the packet. What's this? The sound of the door clinking shut was the only answer to any questions the Sheriff was likely to receive.

Ain’t you stayin’ for coffee, mister? Ferd drawled, walking up the boardwalk as the stranger swung into the saddle once more. I brung scon-s. he offered encouragingly, lifting the plate in his hand.

The man's hard, dark eyes fell on the deputy silently before turning the horse with the bisected white and brown face down the street.

Well that ain’t very neighborly, Ferd said, watching the rider move away and jumping as the big horse laid back his ears and snapped at another horse as it passed on the street. That’s a surly beast, he finished as the door behind him opened.

TYWYN SQUEEZED HIS knees tight on his mount, heading for the livery stable at the other end of town. He was bone-weary and dog-tired and in no mood for chit-chat. He would get his horse settled and find a warm bed away from prying eyes.

Howdy, a craggy voice called as he pulled up to the big barn with the label LIVERY plastered over its wide doors. You want me to take that cayuse for ya?

He bites, Tywyn replied, running a hand over his eyes and smoothing his beard. He’d pushed hard through the night to reach the backward town of Biders Clump and was feeling nearly as surly as his mount.

The old man looked up at him and grinned, Some of ‘em do. He reached for Chip’s bridle as the horse reached for him, almost catching his fingers between glinting teeth.

I’ll put him up, just tell me where, Tywyn said, his saddle creaking as he lowered his lean frame to the ground.

Any place that’s open will do, the old hostler said. I’m Byron by the way. You going to want a feed for that critter?

Whatever you’ve got. Tywyn pushed his hat back on his head, walking into the relative darkness of the barn, leading Chip on a short rein as the gelding snapped, stomped or glared at the few horses in the stable.

Here ya go, Byron said, carrying a sack of grain toward the stranger. You gonna stay long?

Depends on business, Tywyn said, putting the horse in a stall and stripping off his rig before hefting his saddle bags over his shoulder.

There’s a mighty fine boarding house down the street if you need a place to put up for a while. Ms. Polly Esther and her husband George are good folks and will see you right.

Tywyn tipped his hat at the old man, tossed him a silver dollar and strode into the burgeoning day.

Ma, we got comp’ny, George called as he watched the newcomer sidle down the road toward the front porch.

You reckon he’ll want breakfast? Polly asked, walking to the front screen door to join her husband.

Looks kinda like the hungry type to me, George said, wrapping an arm around her protectively.

The sound of boots on the boardwalk had them both ducking back into the house, but George called out even as the man lifted his hand to the door.

Come on in, young fella.

Sir. The lean man was tall, a rough beard covering the lower half of his face and a dusty hat covering his dark hair.

You want breakfast? George asked as he opened the screen door.

No sir, I’d just like a bed.

George studied the man a minute longer, then gestured with a hand. This fella needs a room, he said to Rebecca as she tidied the parlor. I’ll take him up to the white room, you tell Polly.

George Olson turned toward the stairs, listening as the younger man followed him up along the polished banister. Didn’t catch your name, young fella. George’s voice was casual.

Didn’t give it, the man replied. It was obvious the white-haired man was an old fox but the bantering game could prove useful.

You takin’ the train tomorrow? George tried again.

No.

They carried on down a long hall past a modern bath and a small room full of sunlight to a dark door in the middle of the hall.

Well I’m Mr. Olson, and I own this here house, so lets not have any funny business about it. George offered, his dark eyes firm as he opened the door.

Tywyn wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but this was not it. He blinked at the soft white light that reflected from the interior of the room. White curtains filtered the morning sun, diffusing it into something soft and ethereal.

Perty, ain’t it? George smiled, but his eyes were still serious.

Tywyn Spade, the stranger offered, with a hint of light in his eyes. Call me Ty. He extended his hand, wondering if the old man would take it.

George. This time the smile reached the other man's eyes as he shook Ty’s hand. You look like a few hours of shut eye will do you a world of good, George continued. Sleep sweet. he added, then closed the door and was gone.

Tywyn grinned despite himself. The old fella had found a way to put him back a step, something no one had done in a longtime. Shrugging the saddle bags off his shoulder, he scanned the room. A wooden chair, white as a lily, sat near the door and he placed the battered leather bags on it.

The four walls were covered in a strange white wallpaper that was stark yet somehow soft at the same time. At different angles, fine lines of embossed print could be made out running vertically from floor to ceiling.

Even the bed was white; a filigree of interwoven cast iron painted white as if a plant had twisted itself into a bed, inviting the intrepid traveler to rest.

Stripping off his heavy duster and pushing off his boots, he fell into the white coverlet and thick down mattress with a sigh. It was like landing on a cloud, and it carried him away to blissful sleep.

GEORGE OLSON, YOU GAVE that man my best room, Polly groused as she poured him a cup of coffee in the kitchen below. If he hasn’t got the decency to take off his boots, Becky here will be scrubbing those sheets for a week.

Maybe, George grinned, but you should ‘a seen his face when he saw that room. I could have knocked him over with a feather. He chuckled, his eyes bright as he sipped his coffee.

He looks like a mighty rough brute if you ask me, Polly said. He’d best not scuff my wallpaper.

George chuckled, kissing his wife's cheek. I'm gonna head over to see Byron, he said, lifting his hat from a peg and heading out the back door. We're still working on that game of chess we started last week.

Polly shook her head as the door closed, smiling when the young woman who helped around the place joined her in the kitchen.

You don't think that man will be any trouble do you, Ms. Polly? she asked, brushing a lock of ginger-brown hair from her eyes.

There's no tellin' around these parts, Polly said, moving the kettle to a hot burner. "We'll make up a nice lunch.