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January Gets Her Gunn, a police procedural romance, will be released by Awe-Struck in mid-2007. Wind Dancer and Walking Thunder (working title) is a time travel where the modern hero goes back to about 1100 A.D. to find what happened to some of the prehistoric Native Americans of Arizona! It's gradually taking shape in her computer as of now, but should be ready to submit within the next few months. We're not yet sure where at this point, but we'll keep you posted.

Excerpt: January Gets Her Gunn

7 July 1982: 2345
Rookie officer January P. Farrell slid a glance across the police car at her companion, Senior Patrolman Thaddeus X. M. Gunn. Since he drove, at least she couldn't see his eyes. The man had the strangest, spookiest eyes, pale grey irises almost invisible, colorless in the dark.

Cold too, like an iceberg in the North Sea. Almost two hours into my first shift and I've already had it, right up to the eyeballs. Ugh, why did I choose that particular phrase? Can I handle six to eight weeks more of this? If I didn't want to be a cop so bad I could taste it, I'd be outta here in a heartbeat.

She'd already had a bellyful of his supercilious, sarcastic lectures, his rules and his attitude. It hadn't taken an hour to discover he was cynical, arrogant, and sadistic. How could she be so lucky?

Well, I won't quit. I made it through boot camp, twelve weeks bordering on hell. I made it through the Arizona Law Enforcement Training Academy, another tough course. Damned if I'll let this ghoul-eyed geek run me off! It's not going to be easy, though.

January sighed softly, concentrated on her first night's lessons. Even at the Academy, she'd heard Gunn was good although hard, tough, and cold. She'd have to glean the wisdom from the sharp words he'd threw her way, maybe learn by example. What did he do? How did he act? And most importantly, why?

The first time he'd given her that wide-eyed stare, she'd damn near crossed herself. It took her back to her Irish grandmother's tales of banshees and black magic, the power of the evil eye. She couldn't let that distract her, though, nor the fact he was otherwise one good looking hunk of man.

Tall and lean, he moved with the controlled grace of a gymnast or a dancer. His face had been carved by a master sculptor, every line balanced and perfect, just craggy enough to be masculine. Dark hair and brows contrasted with his fair complexion and those haunting eyes. In the dark blue Riverton PD uniform, he could pose for a recruiting poster and get half the eligible females to sign up right off, 'specially the back view or the profile. . . .

As they cruised down a nearly deserted street, January began to relax a bit. Suddenly Gunn pulled to the curb, stopped the car and shut off the lights. What's he up to?

"Huh?" January frantically scanned both sides of the street. She couldn't see a soul for a couple of blocks.

Gunn glanced her way. "Look above your eyebrows, Farrell."

She jumped in a guilty start before beginning to search the roof tops. For a minute, she didn't see anything. Then out of the corner of her eye, she caught movement. Focusing, she discerned a head silhouetted above the roof line of a single-story building about four doors ahead, across the street. The head disappeared, then bobbed back up.

"I see a head--on the roof of that little store across the street."

"Well bravo for you, bright-eyes. Better late than never."

When did God go on leave and put you in charge, Gunn? She clenched her fists, biting her tongue to keep it in check. Sassing a superior was not smart, especially on your first shift, but she sure was tempted. He seemed to ignore her completely as he reached for the mike, disregarding what he'd said earlier about her being the communicator.

Thad sensed Farrell's glare as he reached for the mike. I know I told her that she was the communicator, but I want to get the ball moving without having to tell her what to say. He keyed the mike. "Eight, Peter Six."

<Go Peter Six.>

"Peter Eight, we have someone on the roof at Carlings, on 9th. We're out front, across the street and four doors east."

<Ten-Four, Six. I'm two away. I'll come in on the alley.>

"Ten-Four Eight. Dispatch, do you have that, Two-Eight-Three, possible burglary at Carling's on 9th?"

<Ten-Four Peter Six. Six and Eight with possible burglary. Twenty-three fifty. KTR Two-Eight-Three.>

Author's Note: The <> convention is used to denote radio traffic heard by the POV character. The phonetic alphabet is used, just as real police departments do. The "P" cars are patrol division and the "T" cars are traffic division in Riverton, Arizona where the story takes place. Military or twenty four hour time is used, again realistically. Riverton is a fictitious city in also fictitious Harquehala County which would be located between Casa Grade and Yuma in the desert where I-8 crosses going to southern California. This is the opening scene of the novel which occurs during Jan Farrell's first shift on the Riverton PD. She is a former Marine and worked in adult probation in San Diego before coming to Riverton. Thad is a native of Scotland who has a lot of bad baggage that accounts for his attitude!

Excerpt: Wind Dancer and Walking Thunder

July, 1154 A.D.
In The Canyons, now Northern Arizona

Change fell hard into Wind Dancer's life, beginning the day she met the puma. Since it was her sixteenth summer, she now knew well what to do when the time of the blood came. She retreated obediently to the women's hut.

Normally she knew a day or two ahead and made ready. Things had been so busy recently, that she'd lost count of the days. The sudden twist of pain in her belly warned her. She gathered the items she would need and hurried off up the path before she could meet and contaminate a warrior with her uncleanness.

The path to the women's place led steeply up from Red Wall Village. It climbed along the wooded hillside, then edging out around a sharp spur of cliff that jutted into the canyon. Finally the trail turned back into a steep, narrow chute to end in the hidden niche that held the women's shelter.

Wind Dancer walked fast, trying to ignore the stitching pain in her side. She clutched her pouch of shredded juniper bark in one hand and her new medicine pot in the other. The pot had gone through its first firing yesterday coming sound from the kiln. The shape felt smooth and right, fitting perfectly in her hand. Her work was good. All that remained to be done now was to paint the designs on the gently curved surface.

Perhaps it wasn't strictly proper, although no one had ever said it was forbidden, to work on such a task at the Women's Place. So, she'd paint while she waited there, where she had little else to do. The two small bags of white and black powder along with the yucca fiber brush rested inside the pot.

As she walked out along the ledge around the jutting rocks, her thoughts centered on the patterns she intended to create. Rounding the tip, she jerked to a halt. There on the same ledge not five bow lengths beyond her stood a puma, a huge tawny mother puma. The cat's speckled cub paused behind, almost bumping against the mother's rear legs.

The puma turned her head just enough to see both Wind Dancer and the cub at the same time. She gave a coughing hiss. The cub mewed in distress, but it turned obediently and fled, back the way they had come.

Wind Dancer edged over against the towering wall of red stone. She pressed so tightly against the cliff she could feel the cold through her leather tunic. Unless the sun shone directly upon it, the cliff stone was always cold.

The great cat stood poised, one forepaw lifted so that only the front edge touched the ground. Her eyes flared green fire and her whiskers trembled. She wrinkled her nose, drawing her lip back to reveal keen white fangs.

Wind Dancer's heart banged against her ribs and bounced up to block her throat. Weak and dizzy, she slid slowly down, scraping her back against the stone until her bottom touched the ground behind her heels. She wrapped her arms around her knees and made herself as small as she could. Please, Mother Puma, I do not want to be your prey.

The puma moved one step closer, another. She paused then, her tail making fitful lashes. She sank back on her haunches and watched Wind Dancer, just watched. Dropping again, she stretched her forelegs out before her. Lifting one great paw, she swiped her tongue across it and began to wash her face. After a moment, she changed paws and repeated the process.

Wind Dancer hardly dared to breath. She wanted to shut her eyes, but when she did, it was even worse, not knowing what the puma was doing. She blinked and stared for a moment at the rim of the ledge.

Silly human kit, I am not going to hurt you. Why are you afraid? Use your wits, child. What does the Puma mean? What is my medicine?

Wind Dancer's gaze snapped up from the stone in front of her moccasins. She stared at the puma. Had the great cat really spoken to her, mind to mind without a sound? There was no way to be sure for the cat simply continued her toilet as if she were all alone.

Then Wind Dancer noticed a jagged white line running down the puma's right shoulder to curve inward and vanish under her chest. At one time, the puma had a serious wound there, a wound that had healed with white hair instead of tan. Another scar across her face put a slight squint to one eye. This puma was a survivor, one who had endured and overcome painful injury.

Her keen eyes held a strange, calm wisdom as she gazed at Wind Dancer, scarcely blinking. You are marked for adventure, just as I am. You will see and do things none of your people have ever experienced. Your children will carry the legend of Wind Dancer and Walking Thunder. They will live to go forth when many die. You must be strong and have courage, for the survival of your people depends upon you.

Again Wind Dancer was unsure whether the cat truly had spoken or her imagination was playing tricks on her. Surely enough time passed for the sun to travel across half the sky, although the shadows did not show it. She breathed slowly, as evenly as she could, seeking to calm her fears.

Abruptly, the puma stood. She gave one sharp yowl. Then in a supple twist, she turned around to lope off in the direction her cub had taken, stretching into long leaping bounds before she vanished.