A Grave Every Mile: A Pioneer Western Adventure David Fitz-Gerald Blog Tour! @AuthorDAVIDFG @cathiedunn @authordavefitzgerald @thecoffeepotbookclub#Pioneers #HistoricalWestern #WesternAdventure #BlogTour #TheCoffeePotBookClub

 Book Title: A Grave Every Mile

Series: Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail

Author: David Fitz-Gerald

Publication Date: December 24th, 2023

Publisher: David Fitz-Gerald

Page Length: 204

Genre: Western, Historical Fiction

Series Trailer: https://youtu.be/sWvp6dtbXvA 

Embark on a harrowing trek across the rugged American frontier in 1850. Your wagon awaits, and the untamed wilderness calls. This epic western adventure will test the mettle of even the bravest souls.

Dorcas Moon and her family set forth in search of opportunity and a brighter future. Yet, what awaits them is a relentless gauntlet of life-threatening challenges: miserable weather, ravenous insects, scorching sunburns, and unforgiving terrain. It's not merely a battle for survival but a test of their unity and sanity.

Amidst the chaos, Dorcas faces ceaseless trials: her husband's unending bickering, her daughter's descent into madness, and the ever-present danger of lethal rattlesnakes, intensifying the peril with each step. The specter of death looms large, with diseases spreading and the eerie howls of rabid wolves piercing the night. Will the haunting image of wolves desecrating a grave push Dorcas over the edge?

With each mile, the migration poses a haunting question: Who will endure the relentless quest to cross the continent, and who will leave their bones to rest beside the trail? The pathway is bordered by graves, a chilling reminder of the steep cost of dreams.

A Grave Every Mile marks the commencement of an unforgettable saga. Start reading Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail now to immerse yourself in an expedition where every decision carries the weight of life, death, and the pursuit of a brighter future along the Oregon Trail.

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Excerpt from Chapter 4:

Lone Elm, April 16, 1850

The unrelenting rain makes everything invisible, and I am surprised when the wagon in front of us finally comes to a halt. The wagons have circled, and I didn’t even know we had reached our destination.

It is still pouring, and Larkin insists that the boys grease the axles. I plead with him to let the boys alone. “Climb in the wagon and rest. We need a break, Larkin.”

“No, Dorcas. It doesn’t matter how miserable or sick we are. We must take care of the wagon. I’ll get the wagon jack.” We share it between our five wagons, and since Stillman and Carter’s wagon has the lightest load, they carry it in their rig.

Like everything else today, the task is more challenging than usual. The wagon jack sinks and tilts in the mushy earth. The boys place thick saplings underneath the jack and crank the wagon up enough to remove the wheels. Though they must be tired, they take the jack and muddy saplings to Cobb and Jennie’s wagon and help them. Finally, Larkin and the boys return. I have nothing but hard biscuits, cold ham, and water for their supper. It is hard to cheer up a miserable family with cold food.

We’re eager to get out of the rain, whereas Rose and Dahlia Jane have spent all day in the wagon. They are impatient to get out, even though it is wet.

I walk with the girls a short distance from the wagon to answer the call of nature. It is enough of a challenge as a lady, even under the best of circumstances. Typically, we would pay more attention to who might be watching or where we might be in relation to other people. Instead, we hurry when we should be careful.

After the girls finish, I attempt a squat. At the worst possible moment, my feet slip. I fall backward, and my naked rump lands in thick, squishy mud. I am unspeakably soiled and miserable to my core. I grit my teeth, trying not to complain. I’ll have to go back to the wagon and get a towel.

Ten feet from the wagon stands a cross, fashioned out of tree branches, strapped together with twine where they join. A pile of earth and stones lay in front of the crude crucifix. The weathered sticks tilt slightly to the left. The dirt pile doesn’t look large enough to be an adult’s final resting place. I think of the poor traveling family that must have lost a child here. Perhaps it was last year. I say a quick prayer in my head and continue to the wagon. I turn to help Dahlia Jane up, and she’s missing. Rose is gone too.

Doubling back, I find them standing beside the grave, hand in hand. The hood on Rose’s raincoat rests on her back. Her head lolls forward, and her stringy wet hair dangles all about, obstructing the view of her face. I prod, “Come along, girls.”

Rose drops Dahlia Jane’s hand and waves me away without looking up. Rose sniffles as I rush the toddler away and lift her into the dry wagon. I rifle around, find a small towel, and shove it into the pocket of my skirt. Rose still stands beside the child’s grave. I drape my arm across her shoulder, and she twists away from me. “I’m sorry, Rose. I know it is awful to imagine such a tragedy.”

Larkin appears beside me with the boys.

Rose says, “Leave me alone,” turning her back to us.

I turn toward Larkin and gesture toward Rose with open hands, imploring him to do something.

Larkin says, “Let her be. She’ll learn to deal with the idea of death on her own. We all do, someday.”

I protest. “I’m sure that Rose has many questions. I think we need to talk about this.”

He responds, “This is not the time or place.”

Rose turns halfway back toward us. She says, “I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to be alone for a while.”

Nevertheless, I step forward. Larkin raises his voice. “Let her be, Dorcas.”

I want to shout back at him, but think better of it. I say, “Rose, honey. Let me know if you need me. I’m happy to listen if you want to talk.”

Rose squats in front of the child’s grave like she’s about to warm her hands near a campfire. I look at Larkin. I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. My child needs something, I’m powerless to help her, and I haven’t the slightest idea what’s bothering her. It has been this way ever since she turned twelve.

Larkin points to the wagon with his chin, again telling me to leave Rose here, alone in the rain. I say, “I’ll be along in a few minutes.” Thick fog swallows me as I walk away from camp. I will not feel clean until I have a proper bath. I picture myself squatting on the prairie as I clean myself the best I can with a small towel and pray for an end to the rain.

When I return to camp, I see Rose waltzing about near the child’s grave. She leans down and forward like she is dancing with an imaginary friend. I cover my mouth with my hand. I can’t help thinking that Rose is losing her mind, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Larkin says to ignore her. I know he’s wrong, but I can’t think of anything that will work, and every time I try, Rose pushes me further away. I back away toward the wagon and shiver, thinking of my poor child, obliviously dancing in the icy rain.

I climb into the back of the wagon, which was never intended to house a large family. We huddle inside, glad to be out of the rain, snuggling together under blankets.

It's hard to leave a child alone in the wilderness, exposed to the elements. I plead, “Larkin, Rose is out there, and I couldn’t get her to come in. I don’t know why she doesn’t have the sense to come in out of the rain. I think you should go get her.”

Larkin shakes his head in disagreement. In an even tone, he says, “I’m sure she will return soon. We can’t let her ride in the wagon all day, even during bad weather. She’ll come in when she gets cold enough. You can’t coddle the children all the time, Dorcas.”

Do all men say such things? I counter, “But Larkin, there’s something wrong with Rose, isn’t there? Can’t you see that?” I don’t want to say more with the other children listening.

Dismissively, he replies, “I’m sure it’s just a phase she’s going through. You mustn’t worry so.”

I pass out biscuits and dried apples. Dahlia Jane asks Larkin to read to her. Andrew scratches words onto lined paper. “I didn’t get to post the news today, Mama. I’ll have to post two issues tomorrow.”

Larkin is right. Rose climbs into the wagon, dries her wet hair with a towel, and changes into her second dress beneath the cover of a blanket. Without a word to anyone, she begins writing in her diary. It has never occurred to me to read her private thoughts, but now I wonder whether I should.

As pitch-black darkness envelopes us, the children put their books away, close their eyes, and sleep. There isn’t room for Larkin and me to stretch out, so we slump against each other and fall asleep slouched against our provisions. The corner of a wooden box presses into my back, and I can’t seem to wriggle away from it.

Sleep comes in brief installments. The night seems as long as the day. I’m startled by a loud knocking on the side of the wagon. A man’s voice shouts over the rain. “Larkin, it’s your turn to take watch.”

Larkin grumbles as he rises, puts on a raincoat, and disappears into the night. I feel sorry for him. Of all nights to have to stand watch. What can he see or prevent anyway? Then I feel guilty, enjoying the extra space, as I stretch my body, wedge between warm, sleeping children, and fall fast asleep.

David Fitz-Gerald writes westerns and historical fiction. He is the author of twelve books, including the brand-new series, Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail set in 1850. Dave is a multiple Laramie Award, first place, best in category winner; a Blue Ribbon Chanticleerian; a member of Western Writers of America; and a member of the Historical Novel Society.

Alpine landscapes and flashy horses always catch Dave’s eye and turn his head. He is also an Adirondack 46-er, which means that he has hiked to the summit of the range’s highest peaks. As a mountaineer, he’s happiest at an elevation of over four thousand feet above sea level.

Dave is a lifelong fan of western fiction, landscapes, movies, and music. It should be no surprise that Dave delights in placing memorable characters on treacherous trails, mountain tops, and on the backs of wild horses.

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Plucked by the Orc by Jenna Larkin Book Blitz! ⁣⁣#JennaLarkin ⁣#PluckedbytheOrc #XpressoTours

 

Plucked by the Orc
Jenna Larkin

(Regency Monster Romances, #1)
Publication date: February 5th 2024
Genres: Adult, Historical, Romance

Carnival Row meets My Fair Lady with a steamy sensibility. Welcome to the first Regency Monster Romance, in which the Lords of the Hidden Realm have a place in Society but never in the hearts of London’s fine human ladies.

Until Now.

Scratching by as a flower girl, Iris Gabbert speaks first and asks questions later. All the better to survive the rough and tumble East End streets. So if an odd-looking bloke knocks over a basket brimming with a girl’s means of making a living, what else is she to do but give him a tongue lashing he won’t soon forget? Even if it was an accident. Even if his lordship dresses like a right dandy. Even if he is more alluring than any gent who has passed her way before.

Broad of shoulder and abrupt in manner, the infamous Lord Barrington presents a proposition that promises all the honey with none of the bee’s busy work. And no one ever accused Iris Gabbert of passing on an opportunity. Especially not if it brings her one step closer to her dream of buying a shop. For the small price of improving her manners and donning gorgeous gowns, no less.

Duncan Higgins, Second Duke of Barrington, prides himself on his astute observations of human behavior. All the better to mask the pain of never truly belonging in their sphere. Rejected by the woman he’d hoped to woo, Duncan has withdrawn from Society to focus on his anthropological magnum opus: The Curious Customs of the Human Ton. But when his mischievous younger brother Albion presents him with a dare, Duncan quickly embraces the challenge.

To win the wager, Duncan must transform a humble flower girl into a lady “worthy” of acceptance in Society. His work is cut out for him. The girl he intends to slip into their ranks is uncouth. She refuses to soften her voice. Her favorite bonnet sits crooked on her head, and the rest of her wardrobe is appalling. Yet when Iris Gabbert emerges from her first bath at his elegant Mayfair townhouse, the power of Duncan’s desire ignites.

With sufficient income from his family’s mines to indulge her every whim, Duncan draws Iris into his private and luxurious world. Duncan intends to fulfill her every desire. Every last one. But as a newly refined Iris makes her debut, she catches the eye of the Season’s most eligible human bachelor, triggering Duncan’s deepest fears of rejection. Faced with jealousies, misunderstandings, and a treacherous social landscape, can true love—and lust—prevail?

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Duncan Higgins, the Second Duke of Barrington, tucked his muslin cravat tighter underneath his Parisian greatcoat. The evening performance of How You Like It had been crowded with patrons eager to see the new gas lighting at the Theatre-Royal. It was difficult to tolerate the stares his massive form and green-tinged skin attracted, but he could ensure his attire reflected the latest demands of the season.

Better to be respected, or even feared, than to find himself an object of scorn.

His father had stepped foot in London eighteen years prior, the first orc to do so. But Duncan’s height, the horns curling back on his head, and his unusual coloring—unusual on the streets of this city, at least—still drew stares. As in all things connected to the frivolous ton, no one stated anything outright. Rather, he was subject to the averted glances of children seeing one of his kind for the first time. Or the pursed lips of a mother with a daughter of marriageable age looking to catch a gentleman’s eye. A gentleman of wealth, manners, and title.

A human gentleman. They were not eager for their daughters to marry Duncan Higgins, even if he were five and twenty and met their other requirements. He’d learned that lesson well enough.

So be it. Duncan would remain at a distance, observing and taking notes on human society as a scientist would a colony of lemurs or some such.

His younger brother, Albion, would have deemed that too harsh. Albion and their mother came to London from the Hidden Realm two years after Duncan accompanied Father here. He didn’t understand what it had been like for Duncan in those early days. When grown women had screamed at the sight of orcs, no matter how fine their English clothes, and boys hurled rocks at their backs.

As he stepped out to the street this evening, an assortment of dandies packed the space outside the venerable theater, waiting on the carriages that would propel them to the next stop on their nightly rounds about the city. Despite the chill in the air, they left their greatcoats open, the better to showcase ruffled shirts, cravats folded crisply on the cross, and fitted trousers.

Albion often laughed at Duncan’s propensity for tracking human fashion, whilst Duncan argued that all manner of human customs were of interest. The apparel chosen for a particular season spoke to the values and aspirations of the ton. When living as an outsider, one could never know too much about a culture.

And Duncan was an outsider who literally stood out in a crowd. He ducked under the arches outside the theater’s foyer, side-stepping a matron with two daughters prancing before her. The ladies wore stunning multi-colored sapphires—pink, orange, amber, in every shade and gradient—sparkling on pendants hanging from the short pearl necklaces that were all the rage this season.

The rare gemstones originated in his land and were the source of his family’s wealth. Nevertheless, when the mother caught him glancing at her daughters’ jewels, she called them closer to her. Their finery was for the benefit of the human dandies. Not Duncan Higgins. Even if he could have made either of them a duchess.

At one time, such a snub would have caused Duncan great shame. Now, however, these women meant no more to him than the portraits he might examine at a public exhibition in one of the city’s galleries. He tipped his bespoke hat in their direction and continued, wanting only to locate a hackney coach so he might return to his townhouse in a timely manner.

Despite the indulgence of taking in a performance this evening, he wished to abide by his customary schedule, drafting three pages over a glass of port prior to retiring for the night. Duncan aspired to publish a book in the Hidden Realm so the orcs who came to London in the future were better prepared than he had been.

Considering additional comments for his section on the shenanigans of human mothers, Duncan neglected to mind his feet. Distracted, he stumbled over one of the humans milling in front of the theater, tipping a woven basket filled with flowers over in the process. The blossoms hit the sodden ground in a colorful spray of wilting clumps—pansies, snowdrops, and clematis. He nearly tumbled down beside them.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, reaching for his handkerchief, twice the size of those used by other gentlemen, to wipe away the mud that had spattered his new coat. And just as the French styles were once again making their way across the Channel. Thanks to that scoundrel Napoleon Bonaparte, London had been deprived of Parisian fashions for several years.

“Hey there, ‘ya big lug!” a female voice called, rising above the din of the humans still bustling out of the theater. “Watch where you’re putting them huge green feet of yours, kitten.”

Duncan had been called many names in his life, but “kitten” had never before counted among their number. It took him a moment to realize the young woman was addressing him.

She clicked her tongue between her teeth as she attempted to reclaim the flowers. “A girl’s tryin’ to make a living here, you know.”

Her voice held the distinctive tinge of the East End, an accent he sometimes heard from shopkeepers. This woman’s outlandish appearance matched the Cockney drawl. Her walking dress and pelisse, both of which might have been a startling bronze hue when in fashion five years ago, clung to her slender figure in an indecent manner. A flamboyant blue-purple iris, its petals shaped like the fleur-de-lis of the old French royal family, with a jagged shot of golden color in the center, topped her bonnet.

To make matters even more ridiculous, he found himself staring at this woman, whose delicate form and features were at odds with the boldest feminine voice he’d had the pleasure of hearing since he left the Hidden Realm. In Duncan’s homeland, women were not given to the performative modesty of the ton. What was that phrase he’d heard a human gentleman use to describe a beguiling young lady who had only recently arrived in London from the country? A diamond in the rough. At the time, the expression had confused him, but now he thought he understood what it meant.

Jenna Larkin writes historical romance and fiction under different pen names. She is now ready to enter the world of monster romance with an alternate Regency era featuring the brash and powerful Lords of the Hidden Realm.

Jenna lives in California with a spoiled tabby cat named Jonesy. When not reading or writing, she enjoys planning cosplay for the next San Diego Comic-Con, experimenting with vegetarian recipes (to mixed results), and obsessing over House Targaryen.

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Honey Moon Murder (Honey Bear Cosy Mysteries Book 3) by Dahlia Donovan Book Tour! #HoneyBearCosyMysteries @SilverDaggerBookTours @DahliaDonovan @dahliadonovanauthor

 

Honey, Romance, and Danger…

Honey Moon Murder

Honey Bear Cosy Mysteries Book 3

by Dahlia Donovan

Genre: LGBTQ MM Romance, Cozy Mystery

Honey, Romance, and Danger…

As August winds down, George Sheth and Murphy Baird are ready to put months of murder mysteries behind them. They hope for calmer days as they move in together. But it’s all for nought when his pug, Bumble, stumbles on the body of a new bride in the middle of the lane.

It’s clear Bumble didn’t kill anyone, but someone did—and they may have set their sights on George.

With a wedding party full of potential suspects, they find themselves caught between the police and angry family members. Can they make it safely through the end of summer alive?

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Honey Mead Murder

Honey Bear Cosy Mysteries Book 1

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Honey Bear Cosy Mysteries Book 2

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“Moon’s out.” Margo lazily raised her arm to point up into the midnight sky. “Days are finally starting to get shorter again. We’re ready for the steep descent into autumn.”

“Yes, that’s what happens in August.” George smothered a yawn into his shoulder, unable to move his hands since his elderly pug, Bumble, and Margo’s Chihuahua, Treacle, had taken up possession of them and his lap in general. The two pups were the best of friends. “I’m glad. It’s been a bizarre summer. Dead bodies practically falling out of the sky.”

“There were two murders. A month apart. And neither body fell out of the sky.” Margo poked a hole in his dramatic retelling. “It hasn’t been all bad. You’ve finally admitted to being in love with Murphy Baird. You’re moving in together. I’ve started dating Teagan. We’ve had good things this summer. Don’t let your mind trick you into focusing on the bad.”

“My mind is not always my best friend.” George accepted and appreciated all the quirks that made up who he was. But there were times when being autistic added additional hurdles to his life. “It does make things interesting, though.”

It had been a busy summer for George Bernard Sheth. Maybe the most active since he’d moved from Edinburgh to a little cottage in Dufftown, where he’d created his perfect wild garden, complete with multiple beehives. They were his greatest passion.

The swarming had died down at the end of July. He’d spend August harvesting honey and preparing his colonies for the onset of the cooler months. It was a routine he knew well after several years of tending to his bees.

Closing his eyes momentarily, George allowed himself to enjoy the calm of Margo’s garden. His cousin didn’t go beyond their cosy little corner of the village often and rarely got into a car, still struggling with post-traumatic stress brought on by an accident during her time as a paramedic. They visited each other daily since he lived just down the lane.

They shared their love of gardens and calm, along with the thick black hair and deep brown eyes inherited from their fathers. The Sheth brothers had moved from Udaipur to Edinburgh with their parents years ago, but his uncle had been the one to move to Dufftown. His mum and dad had remained in the larger city, preferring it to quiet village life.

“You’re due a cut.” Margo interrupted his thoughts.

George reached up to clasp the end of his ponytail. “Back, demon.”

“I’m serious. It’s longer than you usually let it get.” Margo laughed when he tried to fend her off with a made-up prayer. “George.”

“Margo.” He hated having his hair trimmed, often going years between cuts to avoid the experience. He occasionally tried to do it himself. “My heart weeps for your lack of empathy.”

Dahlia Donovan wrote her first romance series after a crazy dream about shifters and damsels in distress. She prefers irreverent humour and unconventional characters. An autistic and occasional hermit, her life wouldn’t be complete without her husband and her massive collection of books and video games.

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The Master of Midnight by William Michael Davidson Book Tour! ⁣⁣#MasterofMidnight #WilliamMichaelDavidson #XpressoTours

 

The Master of Midnight
William Michael Davidson

Publication date: May 10th 2024
Genres: Adult, Thriller

Finding bodies is part of the job for Detective Otto Haines, but when a victim’s limbs are found in two public parks miles apart from each other, he is utterly confused. Most speculate that it must be some sadistic killer, bent on mutilating his victims and leaving his “calling cards” behind in the ghostly hours of the night.

And there are problems along the way. As Detective Haines tries to hunt down this killer, he must also deal with his rookie partner, Serena Grimm, while trying to keep a secret from his past out of the spotlight. As the trail to the killer becomes a labyrinthine search with shifting suspects and no end in sight, the impossibly horrific nature of these crimes forces Otto to reconsider everything he has known about good and evil.

Goodreads / Amazon

Otto Haines climbed out of his black Dodge Charger and noted the time. It was nearly one o’clock in the morning. The crime scene tape had already been set up and blocked off a section of Marina Vista Park. Crime scene technicians worked beneath the ocher-colored glow of streetlights and the briny ocean mist that rolled in from Marine Stadium, only a stone’s throw away.

Officer Dave Hemelrick of the LBPD greeted Otto as he strode toward the perimeter.

“Finally made it, huh?” Dave asked. “And no partner tonight? Already scared off the rookie?”

“She’s on another call,” Otto said without telling him the full story: two incidents had been called in, nearly back-to-back. The other was a few miles away, in front of Wilson High School. It was unusual, for sure. Two homicides called in minutes apart from each other was an aberration. Otto couldn’t remember another instance of it.

“Any witnesses here?” he asked, and Hemelrick’s expression darkened as he cleared his throat.

“We got two. One homeless, probably on drugs. We have a young woman too. She’s the one who called it in. Finishing up questioning now.”

“Good. I’d like to speak with both—especially the woman. Have them wait.”

“Will do.”

“Any ID on the victim?”

A similar, grave expression passed over Hemelrick’s face. The flashing lights of the emergency vehicles reflected in his large, dark eyes.

“No, no ID. Not much of a body either.”

Otto understood what Officer Hemelrick meant only a few moments after showing his badge to several officers along the perimeter and ducking below the crime scene tape. Where Otto normally would have found a body—shot, stabbed, or strangled—there was only an arm on the sidewalk, mere inches from the grass. Nothing more. For a moment, it didn’t look real. While a technician snapped photographs of the scene, Otto bent down to examine the grotesque sight.

There was a very small splatter of blood on the sidewalk near where the arm had been severed, which was just below the elbow. It appeared to be a grisly, jagged dismemberment; if this were a horror movie and not a crime scene, Otto might have guessed the arm to have been bitten off and spat onto the grass by some foul creature.

He was able to determine a few things. This appeared to be a male. Thick arm. Dark hair. Caucasian. It took him a moment to note by position of the thumb that this was the left arm. The fingers were ringless.

“Where’s the rest of him?” Otto asked without turning around. When Hemelrick didn’t respond, Otto turned to him.

“That’s what I’m saying. That’s all we’ve got.”

William Michael Davidson lives in Long Beach, California. A believer that "good living produces good writing," Davidson writes early in the morning so he can get outside, exercise, spend time with people, and experience as much as possible. He is a writer of suspense and speculative fiction. If he's not writing, he's probably at the beach.

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