Title: The Wylder Ghost and Blossom Cherry
Author: Sharon Shipley
Genre: Paranormal/Romantic/Erotic/Western
Book Blurb:
Ghostly gunslinger, Zachariah, is condemned to spend eternity in Blossom Cherry's room, an easy-going, yet hot-blooded doxie. Their scrappy relationship nonetheless endures, as he taunts, aggravates, then exacts fitting vengeance on those clients, to their eternal regret, who dare mistreat his feisty roommate. The attraction between the young prostitute and outlaw intensifies to undeniable, unquenchable, unearthly desire, until Zachariah becomes a passionate spectral lover. Blossom's uneasy past however, catches up with her, by way of a 'Wanted' poster, and a bulldog Pinkerton agent. Zak urges her to dig up his ill-gotten hoard to give Blossom a chance to flee an unjust hanging, yet she won't leave her lover to wander the room…or eternity, alone….
Excerpt:
Madame arranged to have us all on display every now and then, like a parade of pet ponies. It had been a long profitable evening. I gazed languidly in the mirror smugly admiring my reflection. Loving does that to you, the full lips, and flushed cheeks—brushing my long crinkly hair till it resembled waves of yellow silk like pine shavings, in preparation of rolling it up in rag curlers.
"Not worth it you know. He's a cabrón."
I halted mid-brush. The brush bounced on the floor. My face grew ashen in the cloudy mirror under my mask of Dr. Magneto's arsenic unguent.
I whipped my head 'round ready to lambast any varmint who had snuck in, hiding like a craven polecat spying.
And me. With arsenic cream on my face!
"Show yourself, you sneaking, sidewinder!"
The room remained unresponsive… Empty. I put my head in my hands, afraid to look in the corner. Just tired, that's all.
As I reluctantly returned to my beauty ritual, came that soft chuckle again.
"I sincerely wish I could, ma'am. Show myself, that is."
My brush lifted off the floor, floating, bouncing up and down on its way to me, from whence I threw it, until landing gently on my dresser with a faint click.
My hair brush had floated in the air! I grabbed it before it could take off again.
That deep chuckle sounded once more like a note from an organ.
"Do you like what you do? No offense. I am not exactly on the side of the angels myself."
I shook my head, pressed my temples, and clamped my teeth, gritting out, "Nonononno!" And jumped up looked wildly about; regretting the sweet little derringer was in my bedside table and grabbed my hefty curling tongs.
"Come out, you gutless Peeping Tom! I have a gun!"
"Ho-hoh…! That little pea shooter? Now, I regret that, chica, but you are a few decades late…"
I ran for the derringer—the voice still came from over by my red armchair—yanking the drawer, snatched it waving my sweet little pistol in wide arcs, darting looks at the door for escape. "This peashooter can still make a hole in you! Show yourself, you mangy flea-bitten dog! And then get the Hell out!"
I stamped my foot and pointed at the door. "Damn-ation! Just go!"
I heard mild cussing in return, as if someone mumbled in consternation. I recognized Spanish, and part, a language sounding distantly, Indian… What was worse, the voice came from behind me. "I am afraid I already have too many holes in me. I am beginning to look like a panner's sieve."
I darted a look, angry and fearful, in my looking-glass. My skin prickled. I saw no one. I spun holding my lady pistol in front.
"I'll shoot! I'll shoot you right in the gizzard! You! Behind that chair over there!"
I wasn't brave enough to approach the big ugly chair. A left-over monster. Heavy carved arms, faded red velvet upholstery like a Spanish grandee might own, left here, Lord kens when. Afraid, I'd find nothing. Or something.
I scanned long pink velvet drapes. No boots showed beneath.
"Oh, none of that nonsense. Do grow up!" That sardonic chuckle. Again, behind me. "Haven't you ever seen a ghost?"
I backed hitting the door.
The voice seemed by my bed. A long depression formed in the feather comforter, as if an invisible someone lay there. My pistol drooped in my hand, forgotten. I fumbled for the door knob.
"Not exactly Sarah Bernhardt, are you? I don't think you have the mettle anyway."
I fired. A hole appeared in my feather comforter. Feathers exploded dusting the air. Too late I recalled Little Mae was on the other side of the wall, yet the noise below, I hoped, masked the sound.
"A tad overacting don't you think? But with those histrionics—?”
"Sarah? Who?" I could not help asking. I wrinkled my brow, instantly regretting it. I needed no furrows in my face. "What histrionics?" Wasn't sure what that meant either, but it didn't sound anything flattering, and I still waved the pistol.
"Careful damn it. You'll shoot someone!"
The depression in the bed lifted.
"That's the general idea!"
"If you aren't careful, you will come up short a few toes. Pretty little toes too. A shame."
I opened the door. Had to be Little Mae or Big Bertha, put some cowpoke up to mischief.
Nothing but empty hallway. No scampering feet. No giggles in the dark. Slamming the door, I stomped in place; after a few tetchy moments, I scanned my room with narrowed cat's eyes to catch the scoundrel creeping out from under the bed, or where-ever.
"You belong on the circuit," the voice drawled amused. "I hear tell a whole troupe of actors, come though even this insignificant hell hole."
"Insignificant! Why Wylder is…!"
The voice continued its bored fashion. "Place isn't big enough to pluck a chicken, without getting feathers in your teeth..."
I saw to my horror, prints—boot-prints march across the thick pile carpet. The footprints headed to me. I edged away. Sensing a breeze on my face, I detected a faint odor of aromatic tobacco. I felt my cheek, my lips brushed. I sucked in a breath, but after halting, the boot prints marched past stopping at the chair. The chair shifted. I heard it scruff the carpet. The seat depressed slightly…
Buy Links (including Goodreads and BookBub):
Available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Books a Million, The Wild Rose Press and more.
What’s your favorite thing about autumn:
Ethereal color. Sun shining through clouds of golden maple trees turning them lemony-yellow, or scarlet sycamore changing to pink and salmon evoking an Indiana childhood. That first crisp day…
What inspired you to write this story:
The Wild Rose Press created the 1890's town of Wylder, Wyoming, and invited authors to spin awesome tales and breathe life into captivating town folk, peopling it from soiled doves, to upright minsters, to amorous funeral directors…to ghosts.
Giveaway –
One lucky reader will win a $75 Amazon US or Canada gift card
Open internationally. You must have a valid Amazon US or Amazon CA account to win.
Runs September 1 – 30
Drawing will be held on October 3.
Author Biography:
I scribble novels and scripts in Myrtle Beach, on ships at sea, in the car, on my arm, or anywhere there is a phone, laptop or paper napkin⸻ a skill involving few tools beyond a doorstop thesaurus, a fevered brain, and blood-spattered laptop…