The Editor

by SIMPSON, THOMAS WILLIAM

• ISBN13: 9780553573961
• ISBN10: 0553573969
• Format: Trade Book
• Copyright: 2000-09-05
• Publisher: Bantam

Summary

Sam Adams had the perfect life: a beautiful wife and son, a job that he loved, and a comfortable home in the suburbs. But a flat tire one Easter Sunday led to the ultimate nightmare. Now Sam must put his life back together. He rents a small cottage on a secluded country estate. His new landlord is beautiful, mysterious, and blind. Far from being a helpless victim of her blindness, Evelyn Richmond is playing a strange game with Sam's mind--and soul. What does the seductive and enigmatic Mrs. Richmond really want? Is she merely a bored and lonely woman--or a dangerous sexual temptress? Sam finds himself obsessed with and possessed by this sensuous and unsettling woman, caught in her carefully spun web of dark secrets and forbidden eroticism. Sam Adams has no idea how far Evelyn Richmond will go, beyond what limits she will push him, or where their bizarre courtship will end. Nor will you... If you think that you are beyond surprise, that nothing can shock you...think again.

Excerpts

I n d i a n Te r r i t o r y, 1 8 7 5

The Indian's woman was standing at the edge of the cornfield when she shot me.

Moments before, I had placed the barrel of my Peacemaker just behind the Indian's ear. The press of cold steel seemed to do little to disturb his drunken sleep. He smelled like the bottom of a whiskey barrel. That, and wild onions. Strike a match, I figured we'd both go up in flames.

The Indian's name was Lucky Baker. But it wasn't the Indian I was after. It was a white man, name of Caddo Pierce.

Pierce was wanted for illegally peddling his snake-head whiskey to the Indians and pimping a fourteen-year-old half-breed girl throughout the Nations. I had a fugitive warrant in my hip pocket issued from Judge Parker's court for his arrest.

I already had four other prisoners chained in my wagon; a load of sorry souls I was taking back to Fort Smith to stand trial for various misdeeds. All of them white trash. Caddo Pierce was the last one on my list and I didn't intend to go back across the Arkansas River without him.

"Wake up, Lucky," I ordered the Indian.

"Mmmmm . . ." Lucky fluttered his lips, opened one eye, and closed it again as though I was a troublesome insect he was enduring.

I shook him again and thumbed the hammer back on the Peacemaker--a sound that usually got their attention, even if they were coldcocked by whiskey. But Lucky
didn't come around.

I swung a foot against the hammock he was sleeping in and spilled him on the ground. He hit hard. That woke him up. He cussed and spat dirt and came up to his feet swinging like a soft-brain prizefighter. I stuck the pistol in his face and said, "Don't be stupid." It had a sobering effect on him and he stopped swinging and looked down the long barrel of my revolver until his eyes crossed.

"Where's Caddo Pierce, that spit-for-brains brother-in- law of yours?" I asked.

Lucky's eyes uncrossed and rolled white in his head. He saw the other men, the ones chained in the prison wagon, watching him. In spite of their own misfortune they were enjoying the show. Lucky stammered and toed the dirt and said he didn't know anything about the white man.

"Don't waste any more of my morning," I said. "You can either tell me where Pierce is, or you can climb in that wagon with those other jacklegs and come with me to Fort Smith in his place. Which will it be?"

"I don't know where Caddo's at, Deputy. Honest."

"The hell you don't."

A man can lie to you all day long with his mouth, but his eyes will give him away every time. I was looking in those eyes when I saw them shift to something over my left shoulder.

I knew I'd made a mistake.

I was still turning, the pistol in hand, when I saw her standing there at the edge of the cornfield. She had what looked to be an old Springfield musket that was as long as she was tall, and she had it aimed at me with the barrel dancing small circles in the air.

It all happened quick, but slow if you know what I mean. If you've ever been shot. And in that spare bitter moment that took no longer than a breath, my finger hesitated. Even my gunfighter's instinct wouldn't let me shoot a woman. So, she shot me instead.

The ball hit me just below the collarbone and spun me sideways. Then the ground came up fast and I could taste dirt and something metallic, like a copper penny.
Judging by the impact, it was one of those large bores, a .51 caliber, maybe. Stung like a son of a bitch.

I looked at my outstretched hand and saw that I'd dropped my pistol somewhere in the tall weeds. I looked round, then saw Lucky running, darting like a rabbit. He joined up with the woman, and I watched helplessly as they ran into the cornfield, the stalks waving like a wind was passing through them, their dry leaves rustling against the heat.

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Excerpted from The Editor by Thomas W. Simpson
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.