Ticking over.

Wow, only 4000 words to go. I am surprised by this level of productivity as anyone, because – as any of my friends or my wife will tell you – I’m not the fastest worker on the planet.

We’re also on the two week countdown to the second High Moon Rising book, and with that in mind, I figured I’d cheat my way out of writing a proper entry today, and give you a little preview.

Broad Hand threw another twig onto the fire, and watched the flames take hold. The chair was comfy, the fire warm and the night dark. Yet despite all of this, the old native pulled a blanket tight around himself and shivered.

Something was moving in the mountains. Something bloodthirsty, and afflicted with a terrible hunger.

He glanced up as a scratching noise came from the cabin’s front door. He paused, and counted to five.

The scratching sound came again, and Broad grinned. He got up, and headed to the door, opening it to let the rain come in.

The wolf that padded into the room, was grey, sleek, and looked thoroughly miserable. Clutched in it’s mouth was a small pack, large enough to carry, but small enough not to inconvenience.

“Good evening Sheriff. There’s a cloth in the spare room if you want to dry off. I keep your spare clothes in there as well.”

A look of gratitude came into the big grey’s eyes, and it padded into the spare room, it’s claws clicking on the wooden floor.

Broad Hand turned to close the door, then paused, staring into the darkness. He was an old man now, his skin wrinkled, his long hair faded to white, but his warriors instincts remained. those instincts stirred now, and his pale eyes scanned the forest at the edge of the clearing before his home.

He had the unnerving sensation of being watched, that eyes out there in the trees were sizing him up, deciding whether or not to attack.

As quickly as it came, the feeling faded.

“Something wrong?” Jim asked, coming from the bedroom, his pistol in his hand. Broad was sure that the lycanthropic lawman had felt it too.

“Not sure.”

Jim peered into the night, his keen eyes scanning the treeline. The lawman appeared to be in his mid-twenties, his ash-blonde hair cut short, and his rugged face unlined, but Broad knew that to be untrue. When Jim had become a werewolf, his human form had taken on a younger look. None of Prospects residents looked older than thirty.


Prospects sheriff shook his head, and holstered his gun.

“Just a feeling.”

“Me too. Something is moving in the mountains, Jim. Something bad.”

“What isn’t bad these days, old dog?”


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