Smith's Monthly #57: Smith's Monthly, #57

By Dean Wesley Smith

This 57th issue of Smith's Monthly contains more than sixty thousand words of original fiction from USA Today bestselling writer Dean Wesley Smith, including a new novel in his popular Thunder Mountain time-travel series and four new short stories from some of his most popular series; Marble Grant, Bryant Street, and Sky Tate.

Also included is Dead to Me, a collection of five mystery short stories from Dean's many mystery series.

Settle in for some great reading!

• Language: English
• Publisher: WMG Publishing
• Release date: Jan 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201253349

Dean Wesley Smith

Considered one of the most prolific writers working in modern fiction, USA TODAY bestselling writer, Dean Wesley Smith published far over a hundred novels in forty years, and hundreds of short stories across many genres. He currently produces novels in four major series, including the time travel Thunder Mountain novels set in the old west, the galaxy-spanning Seeders Universe series, the urban fantasy Ghost of a Chance series, and the superhero series staring Poker Boy. During his career he also wrote a couple dozen Star Trek novels, the only two original Men in Black novels, Spider-Man and X-Men novels, plus novels set in gaming and television worlds.

Book preview

Smith’s Monthly Issue #57

SMITH’S MONTHLY ISSUE #57

DEAN WESLEY SMITH

WMG Publishing, Inc.

CONTENTS

Introduction

Rainbow Peak

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Old Memories

Introduction

Old Memories

Dead to Me

Introduction

Introduction

The Case of the Pleasant Hills Murder

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Make Myself Just One More

Introduction

A Mary Jo Assassin Story

Husband Dummies

Introduction

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

An Obscene Crime Against Passion

Introduction

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Two Roads, No Choices

Introduction

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

A Song For The Old Memory

Introduction

A Song For The Old Memory

Dead Woman Walking

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Green Valley

Introduction

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Part II

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Part III

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Epilogue

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INTRODUCTION

Introduction to Issue #57

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STARTING SECOND YEAR AFTER RESTART

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One year ago I decided to restart Smith’s Monthly. It had been gone for almost three years at that point, since the time when Kris got sick in Lincoln City and we had to make an emergency move to Las Vegas to good doctors and no mold to save her life.

But why, in the middle of a pandemic, at the end of 2020, did I think it was a good time to restart a monthly magazine all filled with only my own stuff?

I have no idea. Maybe it just seemed like a good idea at the time?

I am fairly certain I can blame it on all the craziness that happened in 2020 and 2021. I’m going to go with that reason.

But amazingly so, I published a new volume of Smith’s Monthly every month in 2021. Twelve new issues.

I am very proud of those twelve issues sitting on my shelf. In normal times, doing that would be impossible for 99.9% of all writers. But it happened. I did it in far from normal times. Issue #45 through Issue #56.

Granted, it wasn’t as smooth as I would have wanted, and I turned in some issues so late that the wonderful crew at WMG Publishing had to rush to launch it before the month was over. But every month had an issue.

Here is what I do for each issue. I write all the stories and novels and whatever else is in the issue. I write all the introductions. I design and layout the cover, both for the electronic issue and the paper copy.

WMG Publishing does the copyediting and they run it through Vellum and send me back the file that I use to then go through in InDesign, in a double-column format, doing all the covers for each short story and all the ads that scatter throughout the magazine. I send WMG back the final covers and the interior files all done. They get it out to our stores.

So when this says Smith’s Monthly it really does mean I do most everything. All the mistakes are mine, all the stories I take responsibility for.

This is now Issue #57 of a 60,000- to 80,000-word monthly magazine, done by just me every month. Starting into year two since the restart.

I am amazingly proud of this magazine and the fact that it has gone on for fifty-seven issues. I plan on being at this computer writing an introduction for Issue #69 in December of this coming year.

With all the craziness in the world, we shall see how that goes. Stay safe, everyone.

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—Dean Wesley Smith

December 2021

INTRODUCTION

Time traveler and historian Spaulding Johns loved watching the sunrise on Rainbow Peak from his cabin in a valley in the Idaho Wilderness.

He stayed one more day just to watch the sunrise one last time before leaving for the harsh winter. That decision saved Faith Pullman’s life.

A Thunder Mountain short story about the dangers of the wilderness and smart humans’ ability to overcome those dangers.

CHAPTER ONE

Spaulding Johns loved sunrise in the Thunder Mountain region of central Idaho more than anything. Any season, the sunrises were always spectacular in their bright colors painting the steep rocky mountain slopes.

And being able to watch Rainbow Peak every morning was the best.

Spaulding had his heavy wool jacket on over his thick shirt, even though it was only late September. The damp morning air always had a bite to it as he sat on the front porch of his log cabin in the dim light, enjoying the silence of the narrow valley in front of him.

He clutched a large mug of dark coffee in his gloved hands and sipped on the strong flavor every minute or so.

Rainbow Creek, often a loud background noise of water over rocks now barely broke the stillness. In the spring, the snow melt would keep the valley in a dull roar of water rushing to join Monumental Creek a mile below and then on down into the Salmon River.

His cabin sat up on the side of the valley about fifty feet above the valley floor on a natural rock ledge. He had built the thing new himself on every trip back here into the past. He loved it here that much.

He liked it better in the late summer and fall. And he liked it even more now that Roosevelt had been flooded a few years back in 1909 and very few mining claims were being worked in the entire area.

Every year at this time he considered staying over in his cabin for the winter. And every year he decided against fighting the harsh winter. This year would be no different. His cabin was so small as to be almost impossible to be in when surrounded by deep snow. He needed to leave today to beat the first harsh winter storm over the Monumental Summit. And even then he worried that he had waited to long. But he had work to do to keep him busy all winter back at the Historical Institute in Boise.

And besides, he missed those wonderful breakfasts at the Idanha Hotel.

At that moment the first rays of sun hit the top of Rainbow Peak, lighting up the colors in the rocks. Rainbow Peak had gotten its name from miners who noticed that when the sun hit the different types of rocks exposed near the summit, it reflected the light like a rainbow.

This morning was no exception. The entire peak lit up with a multitude of colors like someone had painted a rainbow on it.

There were a lot of stunningly beautiful things in the Idaho wilderness, but Rainbow Peak at sunrise was right near the top on his list.

He was staring up at the peak, taking occasional sips of his coffee, when the sounds of a horse coming up the trail from Monumental Creek caught his attention.

The trail led nowhere but to his cabin. The valley beyond his cabin climbed almost straight up over rock, so there was no reason anyone would be coming in this way at this time of the morning except to look for him.

Or cause him trouble.

He eased off his chair and silently went back into the warmth of the cabin, setting his coffee mug on the wooden kitchen table and then getting his rifle from where he kept it beside the front door.

He normally only used the rifle for the occasional deer to get meat for the summer, but twice over the years he had had to have it in his hand to chase off squatters who thought they should just take over his cabin or some part of his claim to this valley.

He was an historian by trade, born in 1990 in Portland, Oregon, and graduate of Stanford. But when he learned, while working at the Historical Society in Boise, that he could come back in time to other timelines to study real history, he had made sure he knew how to use a rifle.

And to ride a horse and take care of a horse. Two critical things as far as he was concerned.

He carefully watched out the window, making sure that the person coming up the trail couldn’t see him.

As he watched, a brown mare came around the bend in the trail. Riding on the mare was a woman in riding clothes meant for a summer’s day, not the cold and damp of this fall morning. She had on a thin white blouse, and had her brown hair pulled back and tied. She had on tall riding boots and dark slacks tucked into them.

And she looked like she was swaying and leaning forward in the saddle, like she might fall off at any moment.

There was no one else in sight on the trail behind her.

At a run, he was out the door, rifle still in his hand, bounding down the front steps of his cabin to the trail.

The horse just kept moving forward, clearly working on its own accord since the woman had let go of the reins and seemed to have her eyes closed.

The horse stopped as he neared it and the motion of stopping rocked the woman forward, then sideways. But she didn’t fall off because she, or someone, had tied her into place on the horse.

She looked almost blue from the cold and her blouse was soaked through completely. Her brown hair was dripping moisture and he had no doubt she was on the verge of hypothermia.

Miss? he asked. Miss, I’m going to need to help you off of there.

She just slumped forward, face down into the neck of the horse, and didn’t say a word.

He quickly untied the ropes holding her boots in place, then the ropes around her waist that held her to the saddle. Someone had done a good job making sure she wouldn’t fall off the horse for some reason.

He eased her down into his arms, surprised at how light and small she was. He stood barely five-ten on a good day. She had to be closer to five feet tall and as thin as a rail.

And she was completely soaked and her hands and arms looked blue.

He dropped the horse’s reins to keep the horse in place until he could get back to it, then carried her as quickly as he could up the trail and into the warmth of his cabin.

She seemed to be breathing, but shallowly.

He got a blanket around her, laid her on his bed, then peeled off his coat and stoked up the fire in his stone fireplace.

He then began taking off her wet clothes. As he peeled off her blouse, he could see that she wore a type of sports bra from his time made to look like it was made now. And her underwear was also modern to his time in 2021, not 1912.

So she was another traveler. But he didn’t recognize her at all. That didn’t mean a lot, since there were over forty historians and scientists and others sanctioned to go back into the past of other timelines. And he had only met a few of them.

She must have known somehow that he was here, which is why she ended up on the trail into this dead-end canyon.

He got her out of her wet clothes, dried her off as best he could, and got her covered with two warm blankets. Then he stoked up his fire in the stone fireplace and checked her again. She seemed to be breathing easily, not shaking yet, but he knew that would come.

He went to make her a cup of tea, bringing more water to a boil. He then took some washcloths soaked in hot water and wrapped them around her small hands and on her neck.

He took two other hot, wet cloths and wrapped them around her feet, although it looked as if her boots had kept her feet in better shape.

He changed off the hot cloths after a minute. Color seemed to be coming back into her hands and face and she was breathing strongly.

The fire was burning so hot, it felt almost stifling in the cabin, but he needed to keep it that way

He stripped down to just his jeans and T-shirt.

There just wasn’t much else he could do. He got her clothes hung up near the fire and drying and then went outside and got her horse into the stable with his horse.

If she wasn’t up for traveling again by later in the morning, the two of them were going to spend a very long winter trapped in a very small cabin together. A fall storm would hit this area tomorrow and block all the trails out of the area until next April.

So he sat in a chair beside the bed, her cup of tea on the nightstand, waiting for her to wake up.

He doubted she was going to die on him, but just the idea of that scared him more than he wanted to admit.

Almost as much as being trapped here for the winter with a woman he didn’t even know.

CHAPTER TWO

Faith Pullman fought against the dream that she was on a hot desert, sweating. Somewhere in the back of her mind she remembered being cold, so cold that nothing made sense.

She remembered turning up a trail off of the main Monumental trail to find help from another traveler. She knew that she would have never made it up the mountain to the Monumental Summit Lodge in her condition.

But now she was dreaming of too much heat. Was this part of dying from hypothermia?

Something heavy was holding her down and she kicked at it.

Hang on, a smooth, deep voice said.

She eased her eyes open to look into the smiling face of one of the most handsome men she had ever seen.

Glad to see you awake, he said.

Spaulding Johns? she asked, then coughed and he carefully handed her a cup of warm tea. She sipped it, managing not to spill it with her shaking hands as he held it steady for her.

I’m Spaulding, he said. Traveled back here from 2021.

Faith Pullman, she said. 2021 as well. Mind turning down the heat in here some?

She started to push aside the heavy blankets that covered her, then realized she was naked and stopped, trying not to think about how Spaulding must have undressed her.

So what happened to you? he asked, moving to the front door and opening it, blocking it open for the fresh mountain air to flow in.

Got myself into a bit of a fix with some drunk miners down below what remains of the mining town of Monumental, she said, shivering at the thought of what might have happened, what came damn close to happening, actually. I was headed for the Monumental Summit Lodge today when they decided I looked like I might be some fun.

Oh, shit, Spaulding said.

Oh shit was right, she said. I managed to get them stumbling drunk enough by pretending to party with them until I could escape and ride up the Monumental trail in the dark. No time to grab a coat or any of my gear, though.

And you knew I was here? he asked.

I knew I couldn’t make it up to the lodge on the summit, and I had heard you had a cabin up Rainbow Creek, so I took a chance you might still be here. Otherwise I was going to find myself back in the Institute. Never died before in the past, was hoping this wouldn’t be my first time.

Yeah, I understand that, he said, nodding.

She could tell from the faraway look in his brown eyes that he had died once or twice along the way.

What time is it? she asked, suddenly panicked and almost sitting up in bed and forgetting she was naked.

Noon, he said.

We have to get going, she said.

You think you are up for riding?

If I don’t, we’re stuck here for the winter, right?

He nodded. It wouldn’t be pleasant, but we would survive.

You ever tried it?

No, he said, laughing a laugh she knew she could get used to. Keep thinking about it, then changing my mind.

And this is the entire size of your cabin? she asked, looking around.

All two hundred square feet of it, he said. If you don’t count the outhouse in the back.

Let’s make a ride for it, she said, laughing. If we have to, we can tie me in the saddle again.

He nodded. How about you get dressed while I saddle up our horses. Then I will put us together something to eat along the way and we can get started.

She looked at him and the worried look in his eyes. Do we have time?

We’ll be riding the last part of the trail up into the lodge in the dark, he said. Not something I ever wanted to do, but I think we can make it if we lead our horses. I got a couple lanterns we can bring along.

She smiled. Where’s a good flashlight when you need one?

About a hundred plus years in the future, he said. Now go slow.

With that he turned and headed out the door, turning to the right.

She pushed back the covers and eased herself around to a sitting position on his bed. She was attracted to Spaulding, but not enough yet to stay in two hundred square feet for seven months, trapped by deep snow.

She braced herself and stood, making her way slowly toward where he had hung her clothes to dry.

So far she had been lucky. Very lucky to get away from those miners and to find a nice traveler from her time.

Now if her luck would just hold a little longer and let them get up to the Monumental Lodge that was run by Dawn and Madison, two other travelers. That would not be a bad place to be stuck for the winter if they had to be stuck.

The Monumental Lodge was huge and comfortable and had more than enough supplies.

Not bad at all. She had stayed there many times over the different trips back into the past and she loved it. Better than in a small room with one bed and an outhouse they would have to wade through the snow to get