Rogue Gunslinger. B.J. Daniels
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that it might have something to do with what had happened this morning in New York. A scare like that would make anyone jumpy. He frowned to himself, wondering again about her near accident this morning.
Was she merely jostled? Had someone purposely pushed her?
He shook his head, reprimanding himself for not leaving his job behind along with the suspicions that went with it. He was in Montana now. He’d bought this place outside of Whitehorse in the Little Rockies so he could get away from his stressful, dangerous, always unpredictable job.
Here, he did so much physical labor that all of that ugliness was forgotten—at least for a while. Here, he’d put that world as far away from him as he could.
And yet you still read thrillers. Not just anyone’s. You read her books.
He laughed as he drove toward the mountains. That’s because she was the reason he’d moved here. After reading TJ’s books, he’d been curious about Montana, curious about the wild prairie, the endless sky, the wide-open places that she talked about in her books. Once he saw the area, he was hooked. She had always mentioned the Little Rockies so of course that’s where he went when he was looking for land. While he loved the prairie, he also wanted a hideaway like the lawless days when Kid Curry and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid roamed this area.
He’d bought into the mystique because of TJ St. Clair and because of her books, but he’d never dreamed he’d get a chance to meet her here in her home state. Which was why he couldn’t miss her book signing tomorrow. He knew even before he turned onto the snow-packed road that led up into the mountains to his cabin that nothing was going to keep him away. He realized that he’d been wanting to meet her for far too long.
* * *
TJ LISTENED TO her sisters chatting, knowing they were trying to get her mind off True Fan and her book signing tomorrow. She smiled and nodded and added a word or two when required as she tried to enjoy her barbecued pulled pork. It was delicious and she was hungry after a long day with little real food.
But she couldn’t keep her mind off the man she’d seen at the gift shop. The mountain man. Her True Fan?
She thought back to the first letter. It had been so complimentary. The writer had loved the book, sounding surprised as if not a thriller reader. She tried to reconcile that first letter with the more recent bitter, hateful ones she’d been getting. She couldn’t square them anymore than she could the man she’d seen first in New York and now in her local gift shop asking about her book.
The first letter had been like so many of the others that she had hardly noticed it.
“You really need to hire someone to answer these,” her friend Mica had said when she’d seen the stack TJ had been working her way through on that day six months ago.
“I’ve thought about it, but I’d rather not answer them than have someone else do it for me. I know that sounds crazy.”
“No, I get it.” Mica had opened a couple of the letters and begun to read them. “Aww, these are so sweet. They love you. This one is from a woman who is almost ninety. She wants you to write faster.” Her friend had laughed. “Oh and this one is long.” She’d watched Mica skim it. “Good heavens, do people often tell you their entire life histories?”
TJ had nodded. “They want to share their lives with me because they feel they know me from my books. You can see why I try to answer as many of the fan letters as I can. Unfortunately I can’t answer them all. I just hope they understand.”
After her friend left, TJ had answered as many of the letters as she’d had time for since she had a book deadline looming. She always had a deadline looming.
That part she didn’t mind. She loved writing the stories. It was the other things that ate up her time that she hated. There were always art forms that needed to be filled out describing her story, her characters, suggesting scenes for the cover.
Then there were the many edits and proposals that needed to be written. Add to that the blogs and promotion requests. It was a wonder she ever had time to write the books.
She had been thinking about that when she’d picked up one more fan letter to possibly answer. The first thing she had noticed was that there was no return address on the envelope. She hadn’t thought too much about it since often the readers would put their addresses inside their letters.
Slicing open the envelope, she’d pulled out the folded unlined discolored paper. She remembered holding it up to the light, wondering how old it was to have turned this color. The letter had been typed on what appeared to be a manual typewriter. TJ had an old heavy Royal she’d picked up and kept in her office only as decoration. She’d always been impressed that Ernest Hemingway had written on a manual typewriter, since she doubted she would be writing books if it weren’t for the ease of computers.
Dear Ms. St. Clair
I’ve never written an author before. I guess there is a first time for everything.
I recently checked out your first book from the local library. It was quite pleasurable to read. You clearly have talent. I was surprised when I started reading and couldn’t put it down. I definitely enjoyed your descriptions of Montana and the country around your “fictitious” small town.
I’m actually looking forward to your next book,
Your True Fan so far
TJ had laughed. The reader certainly hadn’t thought he or she was going to like it. It had pleased her that her True Fan had been surprised and willing to try another one of her books. Maybe next time the person would purchase one rather than wait to get it at the library.
She had looked to see if there was a name or an address. Apparently the reader didn’t require an answer. She’d tossed the letter in the trash since long ago she’d given up keeping all the fan mail. She’d thought nothing more of it.
That, she realized now, had been her first mistake. There might have been fingerprints on that first letter before things went south.
“I want to read the letters you got from this so-called fan of yours,” Chloe said once they were back at the house and alone. Their sister had gone to see her fiancé, Dawson Rogers, promising to come back before all the wine was gone. “Something tells me they are much more threatening than what you told Annabelle.”
“I didn’t bring them with me,” TJ said. “I didn’t even save the first few.” But she remembered them and often saw them in her sleep, waking in a cold sweat, her heart pounding.
Dear Ms. St. Clair
I was so disappointed with your last book. To think a tree was killed to make the paper that book was printed on... You should be ashamed.
I expect each book to be better than the last. I don’t think that’s unreasonable. In my last letter, I made some suggestions as far as the plot and character development.
Clearly, you dismissed those suggestions. Maybe you think you know more about writing than I do. Since my opinion doesn’t count, you won’t be surprised to hear that I don’t trust you as a narrator.
I’m your only honest fan. If this is the way you treat a true fan, I hate to think how you treat your other readers.
You have really let me down. We might have to do something about that, don’t you think?
Your only True Fan
She’d thought that would be the last time she’d hear from that reader. She didn’t remember a suggestion for a book that True Fan had claimed to have sent her. Readers often thought she should do books about various secondary characters from her novels. One even suggested getting a woman out of the criminally insane ward of a hospital so she could find her true love. What readers didn’t seem to realize was that those decisions weren’t