The Guest House by Bonnie Traymore Virtual Book Tour!

 April 1-5, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

He holds out his business card, and she plucks it from his fingers without touching them. “Hope to see you around, Allie Dawson,” he says. That was over a month ago. It seemed too good to be true, but Allie told herself to ignore the nagging feeling in her gut. That was her first mistake.

When she saw Laura Foster’s email welcoming her into a cohort of grant recipients, Allie literally jumped for joy. She was headed to Silicon Valley with a chance to bring her innovative product to market. She’s deaf with a cochlear implant, and she’s developed a screen that can clip onto eyeglasses and caption speech in real time.

But she had no idea how tight the rental market would be, or how cutthroat the competition is for everything from housing to venture capital. So, after a futile search to find a short-term apartment she could afford, she rented a guest house from a chummy real estate agent who approached her at a coffee shop.

But it’s clear now that she should have trusted her instincts. Because there’s something off about her landlord. And his moody wife. And the cryptic Hungarian guy renting his master suite.

Are they after her technology? She knows what it feels like to see her life flash before her eyes, and she doesn't need that kind of stress right now.

So why is she still living there?

And has she already seen too much?

Innovation, greed, and danger collide in The Guest House, Silicon Valley Series Book 2, a stand-alone sequel to the best-selling hit page-turner The Stepfamily.

Praise for The Guest House:

"This twisty, spine-tingling thriller will have you hooked to the very last page."
~ Leslie Lutz, Award-winning author of Fractured Tide

"The Guest House grabs you by the throat from the very first page and never lets go."
~ R.G. Belsky, author of the award-winning Clare Carlson series

"The suspense was at an all time high and I devoured this book in a few hours. The twists were twisting in this one! I was invested and very entertained while reading this. Traymore did a great job weaving a tale that was gripping while also educating me on the D/deaf or hard of hearing community"
~ NetGalley/Amazon

"This was a quick and easy read for me. As a reader who loves a psychological thriller it’s sometimes easy to see through the plots, but this story had me guessing for the most part until the end. Just the right level of spooky for me without the blood and gore that some authors choose to use. Would definitely recommend."
~ NetGalley/Amazon

"With its blend of suspense, mystery, and compelling characters, "The Guest House" offers a thrilling reading experience that will keep readers guessing and turning pages late into the night. Traymore's exploration of complex themes and her inclusion of diverse characters, including those from the D/deaf community, adds depth and richness to the narrative, making this a must-read for fans of psychological thrillers and suspenseful fiction alike."
~ Amazon

Book Details:

Genre: Psychological Thriller
Published by: Pathways Publishing
Publication Date: March 1, 2024
Number of Pages: 300
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes and Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

PROLOGUE

One thing I’ve realized over the years is that not everyone has what it takes to go the distance when the time comes. If you want something done right, you need to be prepared to do it yourself. I’m committed to reaching my goals, whatever the costs.

If I could achieve them without spilling any blood, of course, that would be my preference. I have killed before though, and I’ll do it again if that’s what it takes to succeed.

But only if I have no choice. That’s what separates me from the crazies. I get no pleasure out of harming people. In fact, it leaves me feeling very empty. But I won’t stop until I get what I need. And I’ll eliminate anyone who stands in my way.

 

ONE

Allie

I’m half awake when I feel a thud reverberate through my apartment and shake the bed. I spring up, and my heart is immediately in my throat.

Is this what an earthquake feels like?

Grabbing my phone, I check to see if there’s an alert. It’s 3:17 in the morning, and there’s nothing of concern on my phone, but maybe it takes a while to get the word out. I’m new to California, so I have no idea what an earthquake feels like or if anyone even bats an eye at something like this.

I hold still for a few minutes, and I don’t feel any more shaking. I reach for my speech processor on the nightstand. I’m deaf, and without my cochlear implant I hear nothing. Now I’m concerned there might be an intruder or some other threat lurking outside my door.

The small guest house I rent sits behind a stately, expensive home, and the owners have been away for the last week. There’s a boarder who rents a suite inside the main house. I thought he was still around, although it’s hard to tell with him. The guy’s kind of a ghost, and I don’t normally run into him much.

Once my speech processor is in place, I notice some kind of intermittent scraping noise outside. A tingling sensation crawls up my scalp. They have a dog, and she’s not barking. But then I haven’t heard her at all this week, come to think of it. Maybe they took her with them?

I peek out the window, poised to call 9-1-1 if someone is burglarizing the house, and I spot my landlord—at least I think it’s my landlord—dragging a large duffel bag across the lawn. It seems heavy, and he’s straining to move it. He whips his head around towards me, and I quickly duck down and out of sight.

Did he see me?

My heart starts to race.

I hear a voice call out. “Hurry up,” it says.

A woman’s voice?

I’m terrified of the dark, so I keep the bathroom light on when I sleep. I’m hoping it’s not bright enough for him to see inside my place. I lift the curtain just a hair and look out again. His back is to me, so hopefully he didn’t notice me.

What the hell is he doing?

I thought they were away until tomorrow. Did they come home early and I didn’t hear them? But this is strange. And this living arrangement made me uneasy from the start. Maybe I need to look for another place, although the thought of that puts my stomach in knots. It’s a nice unit at a decent price, and the rental market is extremely tight here. Perhaps he has a good explanation for what he’s doing, although I can’t imagine what it could be.

I double-check the dead bolt on the door, turn off the bathroom light, and get back into bed. I’m not taking my speech processor off though, so I probably won’t be able to get back to sleep; I’m used to total silence. I grab my phone, hold it under my comforter, and start thumbing through apartment listings as I wait for the sun to rise.

 

One month earlier

TWO

Allie

I rush into Starbucks to grab a pick-me-up before I embark on my next round of apartment viewings. It’s packed in here, and I need to use the bathroom. Badly. I’ve never been to this Starbucks before. Rancho Shopping Center, according to my app.

“I’ve got a to-go order,” I say to the barista. “Is there a restroom in here?”

“Over there,” she says, pointing towards the other side of the café. “Past the pickup area.”

I’m also hungry and hot. But I’m on a tight schedule, so although I’d like to chill for a while, I need to keep going. I locate the restroom and, thankfully, there’s no line. When I come out, I rush up to the counter to look for my drink order. I pick up a few cups that could be mine and examine them, but my latte’s not ready yet. I let out a long sigh and glance at my watch.

A frazzled worker glares at me but quickly softens her look. I offer her an apologetic smile, not wanting to stress her out any further. I’m surprised she heard me over the whir of the blenders and the milling of the coffee grinder. They’re very backed up and seem hopelessly understaffed. I worked my way through college at jobs like that, so I know exactly how she feels. And if I can’t get my idea off the ground before my funding dries up, I might be right there behind that counter with her.

But I can’t be late for my next appointment, so if my order doesn’t come up soon, I’ll need to leave without it. I’ve just finished a two-week boot camp along with the other women in my cohort, a requirement of the organization that gave me the funding for my start-up venture. I’ve also been looking at apartments on this visit, and I’m starting to think I might have to give up and go back to Milwaukee, at least for now, which is not an ideal option.

The man standing to my right says something, but I don’t catch it. I can’t hear anything out of my right ear, and the background noise is making it harder. And I remind myself that this is exactly why I’m here, trying to bring my concept to market.

I turn to face him so I can read his lips. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

“New in town?” he asks.

“Yes. Is it that obvious?”

“You went to the wrong side of the store for your pickup,” he says, “and you’re holding a rental car key.”

His wandering eyes look out from a kind, almost jovial face. I glance down at the key in my hand, wondering if I should be more discreet. I don’t need to advertise the fact that I’m a single woman traveling alone.

“You’re very observant,” I say.

“Not always,” he replies.

I hope he’s not hitting on me. He’s nearly twice my age if I had to guess. There are a lot of rich guys around here who can probably get women half their age to go out with them. He’s dressed down in jeans and a t-shirt, sporting a Patek Philippe on his wrist—and not an entry-level one. Money’s a compensating factor for some women, but not for me. Not for that big of an age gap. Then I notice a wedding ring and relax a little. Perhaps he’s just being friendly.

“Looking for a place to live?” he asks.

“Um, yes.”

“I’m in real estate,” he says.

“Oh.” I nod.

That explains it.

Now I’m going to get the sales pitch. I should tell him to move on and not waste his time. I’m not planning to buy. But I realize he’s just doing his job. Maybe I can learn something from him. Networking in person isn’t my strong suit, and I need to get better at it.

“Mike Tabernaky,” he says.

“Allie Dawson,” I reply.

“Is it just yourself, or do you have a family?”

“Just me.” Saying that out loud makes me feel vulnerable all of a sudden.

“Well, it just so happens we have a guest house behind our home that’s become available. It’s nearby, in Cupertino. Just over the border from Los Altos. Perfect for a single person.”

Generally, I’m a trusting person, but this seems a bit too good to be true. My mind flashes to the shower scene in Psycho.

“That’s great, thanks. But I think I may have found something.”

He nods as he chews on his lower lip.

“Allie? Your order’s ready,” the barista calls out.

“Well, that’s me,” I say. “I need to run. Nice to meet you, Mike.” I offer him a fluttery wave and flash my best Midwestern-girl smile. If I end up living in this neighborhood, I’ll probably see him again, so I don’t want to seem rude or unappreciative. Plus, he might know some venture capitalists he can introduce me to.

“Here. Take my card. In case it doesn’t work out.” He reaches out to me with his business card perched between his thumb and forefinger. I pluck the card from his fingers without touching them.

“Thanks,” I say.

“You’re welcome, Allie Dawson. Hope to see you around.”

I head outside and mentally prepare myself for another round of apartment viewings, trying to lower my expectations. The market’s supposedly softening for renters, but it doesn’t feel that way to me. And without a steady stream of income, I’ve been having a hard time qualifying for a place to rent. I gave up my stable job as a luxury branding specialist to pursue this opportunity. At the moment, I’m hoping that wasn’t the biggest mistake of my life.

It’s a competitive market, and I’m sure there are a ton of prospective renters who seem more desirable, with longer track records in the area. That’s why I’m a little overdressed for the occasion, in my red cap-sleeved Tory Burch dress paired with strappy black sandals. I want to make a good impression and try to appear a bit more mature than my twenty-nine years.

When I open the door to my rental, a white Kia Soul, the heat inside the car hits me and nearly knocks me off my feet. It’s late August, so hopefully it will cool down soon. They say it doesn’t get this hot here too often—just my luck. I see heat waves radiating off the black vinyl interior. I run around to the other side and open the door to air it out a little. I don’t want to show up sweaty and disheveled. Then I shut the passenger door, head back over to the driver’s side, and hop in.

The seat is warm but, thankfully, not burning hot. I sit down, strap myself in, and realize that I still have the business card in my hand. I tuck it into my wallet, start the car, crank the a/c, and pull up the address on my app. Then I take one last look in the rearview mirror, apply some lipstick, and fluff my hair. I make a mental note to find a hairdresser. My dirty blonde roots are showing, and I’m badly in need of a trim. Still, I’m presentable enough.

The dark circles under my eyes are gone because the loud people renting the front half of my Airbnb left yesterday morning, and I finally got a good night’s sleep. I’m not used to sleeping with my speech processor on, so any noise at all bothers me. I felt vulnerable sleeping without it in an unfamiliar place though, so it seemed safer to sacrifice deep sleep. Last night was better, and the extra hit of caffeine is starting to kick in.

I can do this.

***

Today’s apartment search was even worse than the previous ones, probably because it’s Saturday and everyone’s available. I had four appointments, and each rental had a steady stream of prospective tenants, including the unit that was totally unacceptable to me with no air conditioning, smelly, dog-pee-soaked carpets, and communal laundry.

Even the cramped one-bedroom suite I’m sitting in right now is better than that one, but I can’t afford this Airbnb for much longer, even if I could stand sharing part of a house with a revolving door of random travelers. I’m burning too much cash and energy on this trip, and although I filled out applications at the other three apartments, I’m not holding my breath.

Now I’m taking some time to regroup. I decide I’ll reach out to the organization that helped me with my pre-seed funding and see if they can give me some suggestions. I reach into my wallet to grab the executive director’s business card. But I come across the card I got from Mike Tabernaky, the real estate agent I met at Starbucks, with the guest house. I pull that out instead. He’s a luxury property specialist and the principal broker at the firm. Maybe he does have a pipeline of wealthy venture capitalists he can introduce me to. At the very least, I should try to connect with him on social media.

But why would he be giving his card out to people at Starbucks when the rental market is this hot? Perhaps he doesn’t want to deal with a parade of random strangers at his home? Or maybe he wants a single person, but he can’t say that in the advertising because of antidiscrimination laws. I do a search and find his website. It’s a small firm with two other agents and a few upscale listings on the site.

I tell myself that if I’m going to be a successful entrepreneur, I need to take some risks. If an opportunity like this dropped in my lap, maybe it’s fate. Part of the success story I’ll tell one day about how I was ready to give up when I found a place to live from a random guy I met at Starbucks who introduced me to so-and-so…and then it all fell into place.

Am I this desperate?

Yes, but I’m also not stupid. I’ll make an appointment to see the unit, and I’ll have my brother on the phone with me when I go see it, just in case.

It’ll be fine.

I pull out my phone, take a deep breath, and punch in Mike’s number. I’m a little surprised when it goes to voicemail and a little relieved. It would be more concerning if he was sitting around waiting for my call. Perhaps it’s rented already and I missed my shot. The thought of that makes me want it more.

I open up my email and start drafting a message to Mina Rao, Executive Director at Start-Her, the accelerator that’s sponsoring me, hoping that something comes through before I have to hang it up and head back east rather than burn through the money they gave me before I even get started.

 

THREE

Laura

It’s Monday morning and I’m in my home office when Mina calls. The ringtone wakes my sleeping three-month-old, and Kai starts wailing. I could kick myself for not remembering to silence my phone. I pick up the call, put it on speaker, and reach for him.

“This can wait, Laura,” Mina says to me as Kai continues his fussing.

It annoys me that my subordinate is second-guessing my decision to pick up the call, and I fight the urge to snap at her. She means well, but Mina’s not the only person in my life insinuating that I should take more time off. It’s wearing on my frazzled nerves. It’s not the baby or my career that’s making me stressed. It’s the horrible image that haunts my dreams. The one I can’t tell anyone about. But that’s not Mina’s fault, so I take a deep breath and let it go.

“No. He’ll settle down. Hang on a minute.”

“Take your time.”

I lift my shirt, place him on my breast, and grab a pen.

“Okay. What’s up?” I ask.

Mina runs through a slew of information in record time. She’s my executive director. We met at a now-defunct start-up that folded a little over a year ago. I’ve since founded an accelerator for female entrepreneurs, and my first class of ten awardees has received an initial round of funding. The timing is less than ideal with a newborn, but I’m not letting motherhood stop me. There are some promising ideas on the table, ones that could really make a difference in the world.

One woman developed a prototype of a blood-testing machine that could be a game changer in health care, if she can bring it to market. Another is working on a clip-on screen that would allow eyeglass wearers to read captions of conversations in real time. Now is not the time to step back.

“What happened to Allie Dawson? Did she find a place yet?” I ask.

Allie Dawson is working on the caption device, and her project excites me because it serves an unmet need in the market, it won’t get bogged down in a ton of regulatory red tape, and it’s not overly capital-intensive to produce.

“Not yet, but she has a lead on a unit in Cupertino. She’s got an appointment this afternoon, and she’s a little wary of going by herself, so I offered to go with her,” Mina says.

“Why?”

“It’s a guest house. Of some real estate broker guy who approached her at Starbucks.”

Mina gives me the rundown. It sounds fine to me, but I can see how a single woman might be a little uncomfortable renting a place from a stranger who befriended her at a coffee shop, although that’s what real estate professionals tend to do. It’s nice that Mina offered to go with her.

“Give me his name and I’ll check him out,” I say.

We go over the rest of the items on my list and sign off. I’m more tired than usual this morning and not only because of Kai. I had the nightmare again. It took hours for me to fall back to sleep, only to be woken again an hour later by my baby’s cries.

I can’t go on like this. I search my inbox for the therapist I contacted a few weeks back, to finally schedule an intake appointment. But a call comes in from a venture capitalist I’ve been courting, and then Kai needs to be changed, so it goes on the back burner once again.

***

My husband, Peter, enters my home office, and I glance at the clock. It’s after six already. The hours flew by, and I still haven’t reached out to the therapist.

“How was your day?” He places his hands on my shoulders and kisses the top of my head. Then he scoops up Kai and cradles him in his arms.

“Fine. And yours?”

“Always a ten.”

My husband’s been on cloud nine since I told him about our unplanned pregnancy. I must admit, I’d been looking forward to an empty nest after over a decade of raising my stepchildren. It took me a while to get used to the idea of starting all over. But I’m enjoying motherhood far more than I’d anticipated.

It doesn’t hurt that we came into some substantial money around the same time we found out about the baby, from stock gains at Peter’s biotech company, which brought a cancer drug to market. There are no financial pressures bearing down on us anymore. Not like there were before. But I’m not about to back down on my career, partly because I love what I’m doing, but also because slowing down might give me too much time to think about the craziness of last year.

Four attempts on my life.

The threat is gone, but not the anxiety. I sometimes wonder if Peter’s as jubilant as he seems. How can he be, after everything that’s happened? But his happiness seems genuine, and I’m even a little envious of his ability to move on and forget about it.

“I have some more work to finish up. Can you take him for a bit?”

“Just try and stop me.”

“Thanks.”

He starts walking out the door, and I go back to my inbox to search for the therapist’s email. Then he interrupts me again.

“Laura?”

“Yes?”

“Why don’t you try and move the nanny to full-time?”

Ugh. We’ve talked this to death, and I’m so sick of repeating myself.

“I can manage for now. I don’t want someone here all the time, hovering over me. I told you.”

“You like her?”

“I do.”

“Then just get her here full-time. You can lock yourself in your office, and she can sit and wait around until you need her. It’s better than losing a good nanny. What if someone else offers her full-time?”

“Peter. Enough!” I throw up my hands. “I need to focus right now. If you want to help me, then please, give me some space. This isn’t helping.” He thinks I’m on edge because the baby and my career are too much for me. But that’s not the reason.

His eyes widen, and then he lowers them in defeat. It’s obvious my words stung. His expression is somber as he turns from me and walks out the door.

“Close the door, please,” I say, in a softer tone. Then I rest my heavy head in my hands and take a deep breath. I remind myself that he means well, even if he is annoying me.

I know I’m being short with him, and that’s another thing to put on my list for the therapist. How to get over the resentment I feel towards my husband. I pull up the therapist’s email, click on her scheduler, and secure an appointment for next week. Next, I locate the web page of Mike Tabernaky, luxury real estate broker. At first glance, he seems legitimate. But it does give me pause that someone like him is renting out his guest house. The market’s pretty hot right now, and he has some high-end listings on his page. It seems a little desperate.

I check his broker credentials on the state website, and he’s in good standing. No formal complaints. No red flags. There’s nothing in the criminal or civil databases either, aside from a few speeding tickets. Maybe he has kids in college, or perhaps he’s just the kind of guy who likes to maximize his property value. We live in an expensive area, and people do rent their guest houses. I tell myself it’s fine and mentally cross it off my list.

There’s more to do, as always, but none of it is urgent. It’s dinnertime, so I close my laptop and head out to join my family, vowing to be more congenial to Peter. But I’m not telling him about the therapist. He doesn’t know what’s bothering me, and it needs to stay that way for now.

***

Excerpt from The Guest House by Bonnie Traymore. Copyright 2024 by Bonnie Traymore. Reproduced with permission from Bonnie Traymore. All rights reserved.

Bonnie Traymore is the award-winning, Amazon best selling author of page-turner mystery/thrillers that hit close to home. Her books feature strong but relatable female protagonists. The plots explore difficult topics such as jealousy, infidelity, murder, and the impact of psychological disorders, but she also includes bits of romance and humor to lighten the mood from time to time. She's an active status member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America.

Catch Up With Bonnie Traymore:
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Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail by David Fitz-Gerald Book Tour!

Embark on a harrowing trek across the rugged

 American frontier in 1850. 

A Grave Every Mile

Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail Book 1

by David Fitz-Gerald

Genre: Historical Western Adventure Fiction

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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From Chapter 1, 626 words

Independence, Missouri, April 13, 1850

I hate it when men fight. After a man throws his first punch, he doesn’t remember why he’s fighting. Where’s the marshal? A town the size of Independence must have a lawman.

A crowd gathers in the rutty street as two men face each other, circling, waiting for an opportunity to swing. The blond combatant hollers in a high-pitched voice, “Take that back, Bobby.”

The dark-haired man, evidently Bobby, shouts, “No, I won’t. You can’t make me.”

The other man shouts, “You can’t talk about my wife like that. I’ll rip your head off.”

“She may be your wife, Wayne, but she’s also my sister. I’ll say what I want.”

Wayne lands a glancing blow on Bobby's cheek. As the punched man’s face turns, I realize these aren’t men. They’re practically boys.

The crowd cheers, encouraging them on. I’ve heard enough. If nobody is going to stop them, I will. My youngest daughter whines as I slide her from my hip, and wails when her feet reach the boardwalk in front of the dry goods store. My twelve-year-old daughter’s eyes reflect trepidation and I reassure her. “Don’t worry, Rose, honey. Hold Dahlia Jane’s hand. Stay right here until I return, and please don’t wander off, for Heaven’s sake.” I glance about to see where my husband and the boys are, but they're nowhere in sight. Not that Larkin would intervene. He would just shake his head and frown.

Two steps from the walkway, in front of the mercantile, my boots meet the muddy, uneven street. Even over the heads of observers, now three deep, I peg the fighters. At times like these, being a woman who is taller than most men is an advantage. As I push people aside, the two men growl at each other. Their arms lock as the evenly matched scrappers transition from fisticuffs to grappling. A trickle of blood dribbles from the corner of Bobby's mouth, and Wayne has a crimson eyebrow.

A tidy-looking young woman catches my attention. First, she addresses the dark-haired man, evidently her husband. “Stop it, Bobby." Then she reprimands her brother. "Knock it off, Wayne. You are creating a scene. Somebody will get hurt.” She glances up at me, her brow furrowed. It seems like a plea for help. I should know better than to interfere in the business of strangers. How many times have I been warned not to get involved? I can never help myself in such situations.

I step toward the snarling bruisers, grab each man by the back of his shirt, and separate them. The scrawny hooligans are surprisingly easy to lift. Maybe they seem so light because of all the years I spent chopping wood. The brown-haired man squirms more than his opponent, who implores, “What are you doing, lady? Have you gone mad?”

“My name ain’t Lady. It’s Dorcas, or Mrs. Moon, if you must.” Their dangling legs barely reach the ground. I clutch wads of fabric in my fists and their feet dance urgently beneath them, trying to find purchase within the muck. I feel like a schoolmarm interrupting a playground scuffle, but these are not children. I gaze into the dark eyes of one boy, then the bright eyes of the other. “What’s gotten into you? I’m sure you know better than to behave like this. What would your mothers think to see you now? You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

The people around us shuffle out of the way, and I’m surprised by an oncoming carriage. It’s too late to duck to the side of the street. A team of shiny black horses swiftly conveys a magnificent rig through a gloppy puddle a few feet from the boys and me, drenching my pink checked dress in pungent mud.

Lighten the Load

Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail Book 2

After a devastating tragedy, Dorcas Moon faces brutal choices in the unforgiving wilderness.

An unsolved hometown murder casts a foreboding shadow over the journey. Mounting responsibilities weigh heavy on Dorcas' shoulders while navigating the trail along the Platte River. Family, friends, and neighbors can't seem to get along without her help.

The gruesome trail exacts a heavy toll. A sweeping grass fire blazes across the prairie. A doomed wagon careens down a treacherous hill. A fellow traveler is gored to death while hunting buffalo. Each disaster pushes the pioneers to the brink. Amidst the chaos, Dorcas grapples with the realization that she must dump her precious cook stove and her husband's massive safe. The oxen can no longer haul the heavy weight of unnecessary cargo.

When her daughter mysteriously disappears while the wagons are at Fort Laramie, Dorcas despairs. She is desperate to help her daughter when the troubled youth is found in the arms of a Brulé man in Spotted Tail's village.

Secure your copy of Lighten the Load and delve into an unforgettable saga of empowerment, sacrifice, and the haunting echoes of the American frontier. Rejoin Dorcas Moon on the adventure of a lifetime as she confronts the challenges that shape her destiny.

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Chapter 1, 834 words

Independence, Missouri, April 13, 1850

It is late afternoon by the time everyone has completed and stowed their purchases. We’re about to climb into our wagons when we notice townspeople scurrying from the streets and boardwalks, taking cover indoors.

A couple of tough-looking men appear on the street, facing each other, hands hovering at their sides, guns in their holsters. This isn’t like the young men throwing fists a few hours earlier. The air feels thick with tension. I swallow hard and realize that one of the two men is about to die. We hasten around the corner onto Liberty Street just as the sound of gunfire explodes in the air.

I was the last to make it safely around the bend and the first to peek back around the corner.

One man stands, leaning backward, arms stretched and laughing menacingly. The other has dropped where he stood, limbs akimbo, in a heap on the muddy street.

People who had ducked for cover moments earlier return to get a closer look. A thin man in a brown vest steps into the street. Two men follow closely behind him, amble toward the dead body, lift the man from the road, and carry him away like doing so is an everyday occurrence. This town is nothing like the ones back home. Though I don't know them, I'm curious about the quarrel that compelled their duel.

Larkin steps forward, Dahlia Jane in his arms, and says, “Let’s go now. If we survive Independence, the rest of the trail should be easy.”

A shiver halts me briefly, as Larkin’s prediction of smooth sailing ahead disappears into the air. We climb into the wagon and I turn, notice that Rose is missing, glancing about, hoping to spot her. She’s halfway to the place where the gunfighter fell in the mud. I shout for her to come back, but she doesn’t seem to hear me. I leap from the wagon. More mud splatters my dress, but I run to find her.

When I catch up to Rose, she’s rounding the corner, seemingly following the men who carried the dead body. Where are they now?

I’m right beside Rose, yet she still doesn’t happen to hear me. I reach for her shoulders, shake her gently, and repeat her name. She glances at me quickly, then looks back up the street, directly at a building with a sign that reads, “Undertaker.” The foul air reeks of rotten eggs, moldy bread, and hot manure. I guess that’s what decaying human bodies smell like. As the carried corpse disappears within the structure, Rose turns back toward our wagon without a word.

When I catch up to her again, I ask, “Rose, honey. Is there something the matter? Do you want to talk about it?”

She shrugs. “No. Why, Mama?”

I’m confused. It’s like nothing has happened, or she has already forgotten about following the cadaver. I shake my head and wonder where her mind goes sometimes.

Usually, we walk alongside the wagon but this evening, we ride as passengers while Larkin walks beside our team of six oxen, in three teams of two, led by Hardtack, our gentle giant, and Scrapple, his partner.

Larkin never rides in the wagon, because he says it makes him seasick. An hour later, we join a dozen wagons, already settled into an encampment.

Our boys, Andrew and Christopher, who are eleven and nine, tend the oxen, and Larkin pitches a tent beside the wagon. It is harder than usual to make sleeping space among our belongings with extra provisions crowding our confined footage. With limited space inside the vehicle, Larkin and the boys will sleep in a tent, while the girls and I slumber under the cover of a canvas wagon bonnet, crowded by cargo.

Last fall, we left our home, in the Adirondack Mountains of New York State, moving as swiftly as oxen can go, arriving in Missouri before the worst of winter’s weather. We rented a vacant cabin with our friends for a couple of months, living together in tight quarters before striking out again, arriving in Independence early this morning. It's hard to complain about all the things we left behind when everything we own is packed into such a small space. I almost wish we'd left more things behind.

When I finish tucking the girls in, I nestle myself among sacks of provisions and inhale deeply. The rich, sweet smell of cornmeal fills my nostrils and I close my eyes. I should be thinking about rolling forward into the future with my family, but all I can think about is the dashing assistant wagon master, Agapito Huerta Delgado. What kind of a name is that? Where we’re from, nobody has such musical sounding names.

Even if I were unmarried, it would be foolish to think about such a handsome man. My mother always told me that the good-looking ones are nothing but trouble. I tell myself that I am happily married, but sometimes, I am not a good listener.

Stay With the Wagons

Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail Book 3

Venture deep into the uncharted wilderness and crest the continental divide.

Stay with the Wagons is the enthralling third chapter in the Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail series. Dorcas Moon has discarded her mourning dress and yearns for freedom and independence amidst the vast frontier. But a perilous world and a commanding wagon master keep her tethered. Ultimately, it's a brutal bout of fever and ague that confine her to camp.

Relentless disasters and beguiling challenges unfold in this installment. A young man is crushed beneath a wagon wheel. Dorcas' son breaks an arm, a grizzly bear attacks the wagon train, and the looming threat of attacking outlaws whips the emigrants into a worried frenzy. How many must perish before they reach the end of the trail?

As chaos reigns, her troubled daughter, Rose, disappears once again, leading Dorcas on a perilous quest. Tracking Rose to a sacred site, they encounter a blind seer and a legendary leader, Chief Washakie. Rose's enchantment with Native American adornments sparks Dorcas' concern about an unexpected suitor and raises worries about Rose's age.

Stay with the Wagons is bursting with action, adventure, and survival. It is a story of resilience and empowerment on the Oregon Trail.

Claim your copy now and re-immerse yourself in a tale of high-stakes survival, unexpected alliances, and the indomitable spirit of Dorcas Moon.

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Chapter 3, 637 words

First day on the trail, April 15, 1850

Our three teams of oxen, led by Hardtack and Scrapple, stand ready to do their job. It takes a while before it’s our turn to begin pulling, with fifteen wagons ahead of us. When the wheels of the wagon before us begin to turn, Larkin cracks the bullwhip and shouts, “Hi-yah!” He snaps the whip again, and the poor beasts lumber forward.

The broody hen squawks in her box. Straps hold the cage in place on a shelf on the wagon’s exterior. Ridge, the devil-eyed goat, blats in protest as the rope that ties her to the back left corner of the wagon drags her along. I can’t see Blizzard, tied to the other corner of the wagon. The children and I begin on foot, following closely behind Larkin.

I hate it when people are cruel to animals. I should hold my tongue, but I cannot. “Must you snap that whip so sharply? It’s barbaric. We should thank the oxen, not whip them.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Dorcas. I’m not whipping them. I’m whipping the air above them. You know that. We can’t get to Oregon if the oxen don’t move. Don’t carry on like a child.”

Of course, he's right. Somehow, dressing a deer doesn't phase me. I can snap a chicken's neck and pluck its feathers, but the idea of hurting beasts of burden saddens me. “Couldn’t you just tap them lightly on the rump rather than scare the poor creatures?”

“Look, see, we’re already falling behind. We need to drive the oxen faster if we want to get to Oregon before winter.”

“But…”

“That’s enough, Dorcas. Don’t pester me anymore.”

My molars tighten against each other. I know a woman shouldn’t bicker, argue, or nag. Usually, Larkin doesn’t complain about having a garrulous wife. Still, it rankles when he tells me not to pester him.

After walking alongside for half an hour, Dahlia Jane says she is tired. One mile down, one thousand, nine-hundred and ninety-nine miles to go. I lift the child into the wagon. Fortunately, she is content to play quietly by herself.

I walk for a while beside Blizzard. He always seems to listen and understand me when I share my troubles, worries, and complaints. His coat is sleek beneath the palm of my hand. I can never resist stroking his neck. "We’ll take a ride together soon. I promise."

Dahlia Jane hasn’t moved from her nest in the back of the wagon, so I return to walk with the other children. I’m surprised to find Christopher where Larkin was. Larkin is missing. I glance about and don’t see him anywhere. Andrew smiles and says, “Nature calls.” Rose slaps her forehead and looks at her hand to see if she squashed a bug. Christopher seems to have mastered snapping the bullwhip above the oxen, and it makes me cringe even more than when Larkin does it.

After half an hour, Larkin tells Rose it’s her turn. She had been complaining about boredom and appears to have come alive as Larkin calls out her name. “Alright, Rose. Here is the whip. Hold it high and flick it hard with your wrist so that it snaps in the air above the kine.”

Rose asks, “What if I accidentally hit them with it?”

Larkin answers, “Don’t worry. It will not hurt them. They have thick skin and dull nerves.”

I can’t help but say, “Larkin, how do you know how they feel? Please don’t beat our animals.”

Larkin replies, “We’ll try, but the children must learn how to drive them. If you can’t bear to watch, may I suggest you visit our neighbors?”

“Very well, then.” It doesn’t make it any better knowing they whip the beasts while I’m gone, but I pluck Dahlia Jane from her burrow and wander back to the next wagon.

Snarling Wolf

Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail Book 4

Dive back into the gripping, frontier chaos. Snarling Wolf is the fourth adventurous installment in the Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail series.

The famed Snake River marks the point the wagon master claims that all the greenhorns turn loco. After twelve hundred grueling miles and four relentless months on the trail, the expedition teeters on the brink. Frayed nerves, exhausted patience, and the specter of doom cast a dark cloud over the travelers.

At every turn, new dangers emerge. A young man who is like a brother to Dorcas Moon is ravaged in a mountain lion attack. A heat wave grips the dusty, barren plains and spreads sickness. The wolves that lurk in the shadows edge closer. Even the rattlesnakes seem emboldened.

Dorcas' daughter, Rose's descent into madness can no longer be ignored. What began as an eerie preoccupation with death takes a shocking turn when Rose reveals her truths. Dorcas is thrust into a realm of disbelief, and her worst fears about Rose's mysterious suitor become a stark reality.

As weary emigrants yearn for respite, tales of murderous outlaws spread like wildfire across the prairie. Passing strangers share the latest terrifying news. It's only a matter of when, not if, the notorious highwaymen will strike. Which bend of the mighty snake shelters the feared outlaws?

Grab your copy of Snarling Wolf now and unveil the next chapter in Dorcas Moon's relentless saga. Sink your teeth into this tale of survival, madness, and the unyielding spirit of those who brave the treacherous migration.

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Chapter 4, 1386 words

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.

Rolling Home

Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail Book 5

Climb aboard! Don't miss the heart-pounding climax of the Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail series. Rolling Home is the final installment.

In the heart of the rolling village, dissent brews as the stubbornest naysayer refuses to continue the journey. With an ominous early snowfall and memories of the ill-fated Donner Party haunting the pioneers, Dorcas Moon faces a new wave of challenges. Just when she believes things can't get worse, a disastrous river crossing claims their wagon and submerges their belongings.

As the rolling village approaches the final leg of the journey, the looming threat of outlaws intensifies. The notorious bandit known as The Viper and his ruthless brothers are determined to rob the greenhorns, sell their stock, and kill every last one of them. The pioneers had heard tales of their brutality, but now, with Dorcas' daughter kidnapped and Dorcas captured, everyone is in danger.

What will become of Dorcas Moon, her family, and their friends? Will anyone survive the perilous journey?

Rejoin the expedition and witness the thrilling end to a gripping saga.

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Chapter 16, 691 words

Cottonwood Creek, April 28, 1850

When I return to our wagon to launder dirty clothes, Andrew and Christopher complain that they can’t find Rose. They were hoping to leave Dahlia Jane with their sister, but Rose is missing, again. I ask Larkin where Rose is, and he throws his arms up as if aggravated about being asked. “I’m sure that she’ll turn up when she’s done being wherever she is. That’s how children are.”

Ignoring Larkin, I step into the wagon master’s camp and ask if they’ve seen Rose. Arikta tells me that he saw her about an hour ago. He points to the southwest and says she was walking along Cottonwood Creek. The serious-looking scout grows even more intense. “I can track her for you.”

Recalling the proper hand signals, I put my hands flat in front of me, palms down, and move them together in a downward arc away from me. Arikta smiles and says, “You are welcome, Dorcas.”

If I weren’t concerned about my missing daughter, I would enjoy walking with Arikta along the creek bed. Every so often, he stops and shows me a sign that she has passed by. His trained eye doesn’t miss the broken twigs and parted grasses that show where someone has been. After an hour, he points at an odd-looking structure above the creek’s bank. “There,” he says.

A giant, twenty-five-foot-high mound of earth stands above us. Arikta says, “My people live in these earth lodges. This one is abandoned. Do you think that Rose would go inside?”

I nod. That’s exactly where I expect to find Rose. There is a short tunnel in front of the earth mound, also made of dirt. The mouth looks like a doorless entrance with long sticks propped against both sides.

We climb the creekbank, and Arikta tells me to wait. He scampers to the top of the mound. Then he flips a rigid cover from its summit and returns to my side. He looks at me and says, “Let’s go in, Dorcas.”

I’m amazed by what we find inside. A beam of bright light pours through the hole at the peak of the mound. Rose kneels on an animal skin in front of a circle of stones, a fire pit with no smoke or flames. She nods her head to the beat of an unheard drum. I say her name, but she doesn’t seem to hear me. I’ve come to expect such odd behavior from her. I breathe deeply, feeling like a trespasser.

Arikta whispers as if he doesn’t want to disturb Rose. “My family lived here many years ago.”

I look at him, place a hand on his arm, and then look around the structure. Giant timbers form a square, like support beams, around the fire circle. Red, white, black, and yellow painted posts support a roof constructed of timbers that radiate around the structure. Behind those long poles, woven saplings hold back the dirt outside. Blankets hang around the perimeter above what looks like sleeping chambers. I think the earth lodge looks occupied rather than long abandoned.

Arikta whispers. “A lot of people lived here before the smallpox epidemic.”

“I’m so sorry, Arikta. Thank goodness you survived.”

“Yes. We were away, hunting buffalo when everyone here died. Very sad. We buried their bones when we returned.”

Rose stands and walks around the structure. As she pauses beside each compartment, she pulls back each blanket as if listening to people behind the drapes before moving to the next. When she finishes, she returns to the center, stands in the middle of the fire circle, looks directly through the hole above, and spreads her arms wide.

Then she drops her arms, slapping her sides. She looks around, sees us, and says, “What is this place?”

Arikta answers her. “This is a Pawnee earth lodge, Rose. It was my family’s home.”

She says, “You have a nice family, Arikta.”

Rose turns to face the exit and walks through it, returning the way she came, along Cottonwood Creek. It seems like she has forgotten that we are following her. Arikta and I look at one another, shrug, and follow Rose into camp.

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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