Blade of Redemption

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The Sheriff of Garnet had threatened to kill me. But minutes ago, he’d dragged me back from a precipice. If he’d wanted me dead, he could have let me go. Stupid woman, wandering around the desert in the dark.

I raised my hands to my face. His scent lingered where I’d grabbed him to hold on. His personal essence, masculine, deep…something had happened. Something in my life had changed. I wish I knew what it was. Flashlight in hand, I carefully made my way back to the motel.

Later that night I lingered on my tiny porch. The moon had moved across the sky, heading west toward the horizon, but it still bathed the ground in cold white light. The temp had dropped from chilly to downright cold.

Regardless of the temperature, I longed for the taste of a beer. I abstained because I never knew who was watching. No alcohol consumption, no hanging out in dens of iniquity, no hanging out with disreputable people. The tavern was the only exception and Lo was liable for my behavior.

The big cat walked out of the shadows ten feet from me. Mountain lion. I’d seen pictures, but the experience, the actual presence of the living creature…how captivating. Slender despite its size, a sleek lean body, the moonlight gave its gold coat a shine. So graceful, each silent step barely moved the sand. It stared straight at me for seconds, merely acknowledging my presence, then stepped back into the darkness.

Praise for Lee Roland and Huntress Rising

If you enjoy urban fantasies with strong, not-so-nice, sarcastic heroines with killer instincts and a plethora of diverse supporting characters, give this one a try! I guarantee you won’t be able to put it down. Thank you to Ms. Roland for giving me the opportunity to read this book with no expectation of a positive review.

~ 5 Stars ~ The Eclectic Review

Blade of Redemption

by

Lee Roland

Guardians of the Blades, Book 1

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Blade of Redemption

COPYRIGHT © 2021 by Lee Roland

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [email protected]

Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Edition, 2021

Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-3561-2

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-3562-9

Guardians of the Blades, Book 1

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

For Woody. Still miss you, babe.

Boston, Massachusetts

My wonderous magic knife had disappeared again. Not that it could save me. My broken fingers wouldn’t curl around the hilt. Being beaten and kicked to death hurts. Each breath brings more shrieking agony. But it’s almost over. I barely see the last boot coming. I don’t feel my ribs break. I hear them. They snap like small limbs on dying trees. Blood gushes into my throat from a punctured lung. I choke, drowning.

Hands lift me, drag me across the floor. I’m hurled, naked, shattered, onto the frozen parking lot. Oh, the light. Blinding daylight. Bitter, burning cold. I land half on the asphalt and half on the dirt at the edge. No pain now. My body, in shock, has raced past that sensation. Not long now. This atrocious existence would end. My fingertips, missing nails, drag across polluted, oil-soaked soil. Tiny slivers of ice crumble under them.

A man hovered over me. Through my one open eye I see an angelic face. McKay. My lover. My killer. His merciless smile mocks me. He slowly shakes his head. I hear the melodic voice that had once thrilled and aroused me. Well, baby girl, it’s been fun. See you in another life.

Another life? Okay. I’d finished with this one. Ah, the fireflies have come. That’s what I called them, those tiny magical dancing lights that so delighted me as a child. I was the only one who could see them, so they were mine alone. How long had it been? What’s that noise? Someone screaming? Not me. My mouth is full of blood.

The fireflies’ radiance grows brighter. Glowing warmth cradles me as they whirl and turn. Their bright trails weaving delicate patterns. I hear the song now, the delicate melody. It rises from the earth and flows softly through my mind. It whispers of love and carries boundless magic. I fall into darkness, certain that enchantment will welcome me when I wake.

Chapter One

The future doesn’t look promising when you get off the bus and the first person to greet you has a uniform, badge, and gun.

The bus slowed to a jerky, squawking stop.

Garnet, the bus driver shouted over his shoulder. He pronounced it Garrrr-net, stretching the r a preposterous distance. I rose from my seat. Muscles protested at the movement, inactive far too long. Road Rash Transport was not among the major passenger carriers in Arizona. No one would ever accuse them of speeding, and as far as I could tell, they had no time schedule other than a probable day of the week. Ride for three days and three nights across the country to Flagstaff, sit in the bus terminal for nine ass and mind-numbing hours, connect with a local carrier—a.k.a. Road Rash—and then head…which way? I’d lost my sense of direction. In keeping with the current events of my life, the call of the open road was more a sour brass bellow than a song of seduction. I didn’t bother to wonder how my life had come to this lonely, uncomfortable journey. It would be a waste of time. But I guess it’s better than the times when I wondered why I was alive.

The bus had rolled across the long miles into what had to be the driest, most unpopulated part of Arizona—or the entire country. Absolutely flat in places, then between the low hills and onward west toward the distant mountains. North of the Grand Canyon, between reservations, Garnet wasn’t on any map. Dry, red and gold land stretched under the current noonday sun. A high-elevation desert of unyielding uniformity, it spread for miles upon endless miles. Widely scattered and unpretentious juniper trees fought with sparse gray-green shrubs for any drops of water that might fall. A starkly scenic place, but big, open, and empty.

My fellow Road Rash travelers consisted of a cluster of tired looking people going God knows where. Most had deep copper skin, raven black hair, and spoke in a language I couldn’t identify. I didn’t stand out too much since I have caramel skin and my hair is long, thick, and deep, earthy brown. Only my gray eyes set me apart. Once upon a time people had called me beautiful or gorgeous. Those words flattered me then. They mean nothing now. The face staring back at me from a mirror hadn’t changed, but that mirror didn’t show everything. That I was twenty-nine pushing thirty meant nothing either. Of course, as a woman standing five-eleven, I’m noticeable.

My Aunt Lo had sent me tickets for this luxurious passage from Boston. She had called it a fresh start. I told her it was simply an evasion of the inevitable. I’m a long-term captive at the mercy of other people’s whims and desires.

I walked the aisle to the front of the bus. Right before I got there, a bony hand, rough with calluses, grasped my own. I turned to look down into the face of a woman so old it amazed me that she lived. Her eyes, alert and deep gold like the desert, had a faint shine. She spoke a few words in that unidentifiable language, then grinned. She had no teeth. I nodded, returned the smile, and she released me. I think she meant well. She might have blessed me—or cursed me—for all I knew. I walked on and stepped onto the concrete tarmac of a gas station, the official bus depot in Garnet.

I had the letter Aunt Lo sent me.

Well, Lilly Girl, Garnet has four retail stores, a gas station, one semi-retired doctor who is also the pharmacist, a sheriff, and deputy. A couple hundred people live scattered around here and there. Officially that many. Might be more, might be less. Everyone knows everyone and no one minds their own business. Don’t miss the bus. It only comes once a week.

Lilly Girl, that’s what Aunt Lo had always called me as a kid. She’d kept in touch with me and my brother Frank over the years, occasionally visiting, trying to help us, keep us alive. Each time we made one of our sudden moves we let her know where we’d landed.

The badge, uniform, and gun standing on the Garnet tarmac most certainly waited for me. No surprise. The inevitable jolt of anxiety punched my guts before I punched back, refusing to let it rule me. I’d had challenging experiences with law enforcement. Violence and its consequences had been a part of my life for a long time. The stain of that brutality would never go away.

I carefully ignored the uniform until the driver retrieved my one bag from the compartment under the bus and handed it to me. It wasn’t full or heavy, just a medium sized duffel bag decorated with multiple pockets. That bag, my threadbare jeans, T-shirt, and the denim jacket on my back were everything I owned in this world. You don’t carry much while you’re on the run—or when you’ve lost so much you have absolutely nothing else worth losing. I hoisted it to my shoulder and waited for the bus to roar away in a cloud of dense, black, carbon smoke.

When the air cleared, I turned my attention to the man. He was too big to ignore. Not that his size mattered. Lesser men could hurt a woman just as easy as any other. Tall, six-five or so, broad shoulders, he wore a crisp tan uniform appropriate for the desert land around us. He had short jet-black hair and eyes deep and dark enough a woman could lose her way in their depths. Thirty to thirty-five, his skin, a little darker than mine, said he spent time in the sun. A full mouth, but tight and disapproving. He could be considered handsome, but only if you liked hard-ass authority figures. His focused gaze raked over me for what seemed like a long time. I fought the urge to shrink away. This had to be the sheriff Lo mentioned in her letter.

Ms. Dusalte. Such an impersonal voice, deep and hard. This sheriff knew who I was and didn’t want me in his town.

I nodded. When unsure what to say, keep your mouth shut.

I’d like to look in your bag.

Whoa. He had no cause for a search, but I’d learned to pick my battles. Two men now stood at the gas station bays to watch us—a real, old fashioned gas station, not one connected to a convenience store. Ah, small towns. You had to love them. In a couple of hours, I’d be the subject of conversation everywhere. My arrival might be the entertainment for the month—or year.

Sure. I dropped the bag to the concrete.

He picked it up. Come with me.

Obviously, the sheriff had performed due diligence and examined every piece of information available about my sordid life. He turned and walked away leaving me to follow him and my meager possessions. Since he’d offered me his back, the man obviously didn’t consider me an immediate threat.

It was no major journey. Only a wide yellow dirt alley separated the sheriff’s office and gas station. According to Aunt Lo, the whole town was less than an eighth of a mile long. Three cars and two pickups parked up and down the street, but no foot traffic around. I spied my ultimate destination a hundred yards away. Aunt Lo’s Garnet Tavern. She’d sent me pictures over the years, so I recognized its distinctive appearance.

Garnet teetered on a fine line between worn and worn out. Traditional landscaping that might soften bleak, boxy architecture didn’t exist. Water would be precious in this land, and not wasted on frivolous aesthetic features. Aunt Lo said the dry, high-elevation, Colorado Plateau wasn’t as hot as the lower deserts. It snowed sporadically in the winter, but today, just past noon, a comfortable seventy-five degrees made me want to remove my jacket. A layer of thin, omnipresent sand triggered tiny crunching sounds beneath my shoes.

The sheriff’s office, brick and covered with a layer of dust, was fifty feet wide and twice as long. Words painted in white on the window identified it as such—Sheriff’s Office, City of Garnet. In much smaller letters, Paxton J. Harrow, Sheriff. Two patrol cars were parked at the side inside the alley. SUV type patrol cars that could crawl across rough terrain in pursuit of…whom? Why would anyone misbehave with such a fierce lawman on guard?

The sheriff opened the door and to my surprise, gestured for me to enter first. His sheer presence washed over me as I passed close to him. Was I intimidated? Oh, yes.

I walked into a single front room that held two desks, bulletin boards, and file cabinets, all sitting behind glass-fronted wood counters. The place might have been a retail store in a former life. Several pine scented air fresheners scattered around the room couldn’t quite mask the odor of age.

There was a door in the back wall I presumed led to the jail cells. I didn’t know how sturdy those cells might be since significant cracks in the exposed brick wall would undoubtedly give way to a solid boot. An old fashioned, cast-iron, wood-burning stove nestled in one corner. How quaint. Wonder how far they had to go to find wood to burn.

Another uniform stood in the middle of the room. Ah, the deputy. Young, like barely out of college, he looked so new and innocent it made me wonder how he’d ever deal with a real criminal. My former companions would eat him alive in less than a minute.

Not as sizable as the sheriff, he had bright blue eyes, sand colored hair, and a pretty, boyish face. His healthy lean body would make schoolgirls yearn to grow up and married women wish they were single, at least for a few hours. Not my type, but my friend Julia…ah, don’t think about Julia, Lilly. Don’t think about her.

The sheriff dropped my duffel bag on the counter. The deputy frowned, as if unsure of what was happening. He came closer, obviously interested.

Hi, I said. I gave the deputy my best smile, simply because he wasn’t glaring at me with the sheriff’s cold fury. I’m Lilly Dusalte.

I offered my hand across the counter, and he accepted it. Hands tell much about a person. Calluses covered his. He had worked extremely hard at physical labor and had a thickness on the trigger finger, too. He could shoot. He practiced often.

Ben Rico, the deputy said. Lo told us you were coming. He grinned and held my hand a little too long before he let go. Welcome to Garnet.

I stared pointedly to where Sheriff Harrow continued his warm welcome by dragging stuff out of my bag. The deputy, Ben, gave me an apologetic look. He wouldn’t interfere, of course. The sheriff was alpha here, and Benny-boy would follow his lead.

The sheriff inspected my limited clothing, searching every pocket. Jeans, T-shirts, plain utilitarian underwear. He did a thorough examination of the bag that carried soap and shampoo. I had a box of tampons I kept for rare periods. He even opened those. What was he looking for? Drugs? Weapons? My cheap cell phone only rated a single cursory glance.

He turned to me. ID?

I handed him the small wallet from my pocket. I had a Massachusetts driver’s license, twenty-two dollars, and a small stack of business cards with my probation officer’s name, title, and phone number. He pulled one of the cards, then tossed the wallet on the counter by my clothes. Obviously finished, he stalked away and sat behind the larger desk. That left me to fold and repack my things. Relief washed over me. He hadn’t performed a body search.

The sheriff stuck my probation officer’s card under a desk mat. Why did you come here, Ms. Dusalte?

He already knew the answer to his question. I played the game, though. Needed a place to stay. My Aunt Lo offered.

You mean you need a place to hide. Oh, such a deep, hard, stone voice. Its owner was certain I planned vile, evil deeds. This stern sheriff had thoroughly checked me out before I arrived. He knew everything inscribed in official files, and I’m sure he’d sought information from the underground criminal sources. I guess a small-town lawman had more time to be proactive about crime and not wait until someone acted. He obviously expected extensive unlawful conduct from me.

Hide? I shook my head. "No. Not hide. He will come for me eventually. Fewer people here, though. Line of sight is better, too. Maybe I’ll see him coming."

He, of course, was McKay, my ex-lover who had gone on the run after the FBI sting took down his lucrative criminal organization. I was McKay’s girlfriend, and unfortunately, his bookkeeper. I knew where he’d hidden the loot.

The FBI watched, scooped me up, and used the knowledge against me. I’d agreed to testify to get probation. By that time, I was terrified and desperate to get away from McKay and his violent life before it killed me. Everything was okay until he found me. He hurt me first, then he tossed me to his gang.

The only thing that saved me that day was the fire that brought people to the scene. A mysterious warehouse fire. McKay escaped, but most of his gang, trapped inside the building, burned.

McKay is out there. I don’t know what he’s waiting on. Hide? Wrong word. He could get to me whenever he wanted. The son of a bitch sent me flowers once—and a single bullet on my hospital dinner tray. Did it mean he’d kill me next time instead of torturing me again? Or did it mean I should kill myself to avoid more pain.

When I finished my year in rehab, the FBI picked me up and let me sit in jail to remind me that they still owned me. Aunt Lo, a fortress of determination, had somehow managed to convince them to let me come here to Garnet. She said I’d be safe. I had no money, no job, nowhere else to go. I didn’t want anyone, including people I cared about, to be around when McKay came for me.

The dour sheriff raised his head and stared at me as if looking for something. You don’t carry?

"A gun? No. Probation, remember. If McKay shows up, I’m supposed to call you."

"Yes. You most certainly are. Remember that. Call me." He dismissed me and turned his attention to the papers on his desk. I’m sure he thought he could deal with McKay.

I’d seen reports, written by law enforcement, that grossly underestimated McKay’s cunning. With his genius mind and well-earned street smarts, the man was resourceful and unbelievably cruel. His strength and vitality were the things that had drawn me to him in the first place. Even now, after all the pain, I remembered the passion, the intensity.

After I repacked, a smiling Ben came and lifted my bag onto his shoulder.

He winked at me. Come on. I’ll walk with you.

Such a pretty boy. I glanced at Harrow. He didn’t look up. Deputy Ben followed orders but didn’t seem overly intimidated by his boss.

When we walked outside and the door closed behind us, Ben said, Don’t mind Pax. He’s not that bad. He hesitated and glanced over his shoulder. Did he think someone followed, that someone was listening?

Pax worries about…everything, Ben continued. It’s the job. It’s home. And it’s always personal. He was born and grew up here, knows everyone.

So was I, Ben. Born in Garnet. I don’t know anyone because my Mama took me away as a baby. I didn’t know why. Mama’s judgment was always dubious and frequently bizarre. She made bad choices in her life. I paid for them because she always blamed me when the shit came down.

Ben was silent for a moment, then… This man, the one that’s after you—

McKay? I don’t want to talk about him now. Maybe later. Had the sheriff not given Ben the details of my sordid past?

We didn’t walk far. From what I could see, other than the sheriff’s office, the buildings of Garnet consisted of pathetic concrete and steel boxes. The largest, Garnet Grocery and Mercantile, looked like one of those little bits of everything stores. A few block houses and storefronts lined the road, but most appeared uninhabited. No sidewalks, just the worn asphalt road and dirt. A massive, aged log cabin, the Garnet Tavern, stood out of place and out of time.

According to Aunt Lo, my great grandfather had built it from logs he had shipped in from Oregon. Significant trees had not graced the barren land under my feet since the last Ice Age. A single sign carved with the word Tavern hung over the door. The requisite neon beer signs shone in the windows. It had a wide front porch, which was unusual. Since I’m a magnet for trouble, it also had the requisite bully who slammed out the front door as we were going up the steps.

Oh, he was a beast of a man. So stereotypical I’d laugh—if he didn’t look so dangerous. Big gut, tattoos, shaved head, dirty leathers—and thick arms that ended in massive fists. One of those fists punched out lightning fast and collided with Deputy Ben’s face. His jaw cracked like a ball hitting a bat. Ben flew straight back, arms wide, sprawling onto the dirt.

I was inclined to step out of the way and let the big bastard pass, then see to Ben. Nothing was that easy. The brute lifted a massive boot back to kick…oh, no.

Hey, asshole!

As he turned to face me, I bent down and grabbed both hands full of dirt and gravel. I flung it in his eyes. He roared with rage, clawed at his face, stumbled, and cursed with words too obscene for the dictionary. I needed a better weapon. There. A football sized rock beside the porch steps.

Ben moved, struggling to rise. Okay, a diversion. Ben! Damn it. Shoot him!

The brute immediately whirled back to what he thought would be the real danger. The lawman with the gun—who unfortunately remained helpless on the ground. I snatched up the rock. A solid grip, using both hands, I lifted the makeshift weapon high and smacked it down on the Big Brute’s head. A solid strike, right at the base of his thick skull. It sounded like hitting a ripe melon. He staggered two piddling steps sideways.

Barely dazed, the man grunted and twisted back toward me. Could I outrun him? At least get him away from Ben? I backpedaled, but my legs, tight from the bus ride, failed me. I smacked down on my ass. With him standing over me, memory engulfed my mind. Fists hurt. Hands hurt. Burning, holding sharp…

My assailant made one step, then froze, rigid as a statue. What the hell? His eyes bugged out. His mouth opened, and he panted like a dog. I scrambled to my feet.

Aunt Lo stood on the tavern porch. She wasn’t looking at me. She wasn’t looking at the brute. She stared at Sheriff Harrow. He knelt by his deputy. He had arrived, watched, and made no effort to help me. No pointed gun, no shout to halt? Oh, damn. He’d turn the other way when McKay arrived. Or stand back and enjoy the show. I’d expected nothing in this place, and nothing is what I’d receive. The unbending thug standing in front of me slowly collapsed to his knees. He swayed and toppled over completely. I was on my feet by then and had to dance away to keep him from hitting me.

My Aunt Lo—Luella Love Dusalte—looks like my mother, Louise. Not a surprise since they’re identical twins. She’s a little taller than me, which made her at least six feet. We have the same deep brown hair, tan skin, gray eyes, and solid build. Lo can be hard as concrete at times, then instantly turn gentle as a warm soothing bath. Mama isn’t like that. Mama is cold and bitter all the time. And Mama is bat shit crazy.

The sheriff helped Ben to his feet, but the boy swayed and staggered. Aunt Lo was suddenly in the sheriff’s face and backing him away. I should have been able to hear what they were saying, but I couldn’t. My, what a lively argument. I went to Ben and grabbed his arm.

Hey, how are you?

Okay. I could barely hear him. And he most certainly wasn’t okay. It had to hurt. Poor man. His rapidly swelling jaw meant he probably wouldn’t be able to talk soon.

What’s going on? I nodded at the sheriff and Aunt Lo.

Don’t know. The words came out in a mumble. He swayed again, so I guided him to sit on the edge of the porch. I sat by him and held his hand. He needed medical attention, and the people who could summon it for him stood squabbling in the street.

Finally, the sheriff turned his head and stared away into the distance. Lo seemed to have prevailed. She came to us. Lilly, please go inside.

Fine by me. I could tell by that little twitch under her left eye she remained majorly pissed.

I glanced at Ben. His head drooped. He wouldn’t stay up much longer. He’s hurt, Lo. He should have an x-ray or something. He got hit hard. Broke his jaw, maybe a concussion.

Doc is coming. He’ll take care of him.

I kissed Ben on the cheek. Hope you’re better soon.

His head bobbed a fraction. I grabbed my duffel bag and went into the tavern. I had no curiosity about what would happen next, except for Ben. I had a mighty sympathy for a young man rewarded with violence and pain. Especially when his kind offer of friendship to a stranger put him in the direct path of an irate giant.

Chapter Two

Not bad, the Garnet Tavern. Way bigger than it looked from the outside. From the joints and uneven earth-colored logs, I’d say a caretaker had expanded the original building over the years. It had that beery smell of all such establishments, but there was no ceiling, so it wasn’t claustrophobic. Exposed beams and rafters stained dark with age and