Mysfits Read online

  The Best Damned Squirrel Dog (Ever) -- A Civil War ghost story.

  Books co-authored with Barbara Galler-Smith:

  Under Saint Owain's Rock ** -- A contemporary romantic comedy. (Don't miss the sample chapter beginning on the next page.)

  Druids -- ** The first century BC adventures begin.

  Captives -- ** The Druids saga continues.

  Warriors -- ** The final book in the Druids trilogy (debuts May 2013).

  **Also available in paperback. @@Audiobook available from Audible.com

  (List last updated on Mar. 13, 2013.)

  Connect with Josh online at https://www.joshlangston.com

  Bonus! Here's the opening chapter of A Little Primitive. This rousing contemporary thriller earned Josh Langston a nomination as Georgia Author of the Year for 2013 from the Georgia Writer's Association.

  Chapter 1

  Meet and greet

  Tori had seen the cat chase something under the cabin earlier that morning. Mice were always getting into the decrepit log structure, and Tori's early efforts to keep them out failed utterly. Hence, the cat. The mice still got in, but they probably developed ulcers in the process. Tori didn't especially like cats. Most of them treated her with indifference, just like the gray tom at work under the cabin. They shared some space, and that was about it. The cat didn't have a name, which suited them both just fine.

  When the cat screamed, Tori went looking for it. She hurried out the cabin's only door and knelt to look beneath the building. Rocks piled under the corners and at strategic locations in between held the cabin off the ground and helped to keep vermin at bay. Some of it anyway.

  Tori peered into the darkness expecting to see the cat torturing a rodent. Some folks thought that sort of thing was cute. Tori rated it somewhere between bear baiting and dog fighting. She didn't like mice, but she had no desire to see them suffer.

  The cat screamed again, and this time it flew out from beneath the cabin as if strapped to a rocket. Score one for the mice, Tori thought. Damn cat was getting way too uppity. Then she heard a faint coughing sound. The heavy shade made it impossible to see anything clearly. She heard the cough again. It seemed almost human, but higher pitched.

  A child? She abandoned the thought as easily as it came to her. There were no children out here. Hell, she hadn't seen an adult in over a week. That was the whole reason she'd bought the cabin in the first place. The town of Charm, Wyoming, was a good twenty miles away, and she could count on one hand the people she knew there: Caleb Jones, a pleasant old cowboy who owned the town's grocery, Chet Andrews, a horny realtor she hoped never to see again, and Maggie Scott, a park ranger with a penchant for pinochle and whiskey sours.

  Another cough.

  What the hell was it? Coyote? She'd seen and heard them often enough, but they never came near the cabin. It would have been different if she kept chickens or other livestock, but she had no interest in ranching. Her freezer was full, as were her cupboards and liquor cabinet. She had plenty of gas for the generator which supplied all the power she needed to live in comfort and solitude. She had satellite connections for her phone and computer. She could play her stereo as loud as she wanted, and usually did. Just then, however, the only thing to complement the cough was silence.

  ~*~

  Mato squeezed himself into the darkness. A menacing shadow moved about the edges of the building, searching for him. It moved in a clumsy sideways shuffle that would have made him laugh if he weren't in pain. He dabbed at the open wounds on his chest and abdomen with an amazingly soft garment he'd found while exploring. It consisted of two roughly triangular pieces of thin, supple cloth connected at the corners. The widest edge was made from some sort of stretchy material. Reyna would love it. He imagined how delicious it would feel to curl up with her in the sensuous fabric. Unfortunately, the steady flow of his blood suggested he might not have the chance to realize the dream.

  How stupid! He should have known there would be an animal on guard. Though tiny compared to the great cats that roamed the mountains, this one moved just as swiftly. And just as quietly. He hadn't had time to draw his weapon before the beast knocked him to the ground. Sharp talons had raked his upper body leaving deep gashes. Messy, but survivable if he could get home. That didn't seem likely with the other monster lurking beyond the shadows. It wasn't too big to crawl in and grab him, but it moved so sluggishly he knew he could evade it if he stayed awake.

  He leaned back against the stacked stone supporting the building. He wanted to sleep. He needed to sleep. And it would have been easy. Too easy. The cat would eventually return. Though he had stabbed it, the wound was superficial, and he'd had no time to properly prepare his weapons. Without such preparations it would have taken three or four hunters to kill the beast and haul away the meat.

  What had he been thinking? Hunters were supposed to know better! One didn't go alone into a strange place, especially not one occupied by a giant. He rubbed his face with both hands. Little Reyna would never know what happened to him. He hated that thought. But what he hated even more was the thought that someone would try to take his place and claim Reyna for his own.

  Mato coughed again. The pain in his lungs was a match for the ragged furrows in his flesh. He was doomed. It didn't matter much whether he was consumed by the cat or the giant. Logically, he knew it would be better for The People if the cat got him. Then, he'd just be food. If the giant got him, however, it might be tempted to look for others of his kind. The People would never allow themselves to be caught, he knew. Outposts would sound an alarm, and The People would disappear into the wild, away from the dreaded giants once again. They'd move without him -- without a thought of his heroic efforts to discover the source of the amazing music the giant produced. It's what attracted him so close in the first place.

  He leaned forward and peered around the edge of the piled stone. The giant was nowhere to be seen. Nor was the cat. Had they both given up? His heart began to beat faster. He might get away after all!

  The music started once again. Amazing, ethereal sounds drifted down from the cabin overhead. They lifted his spirits and gave him new strength. How could they make such music? The giants were insanely clever with their machines, everyone knew that. But making music -- real music -- required a soul. And a voice. This wasn't voice music. No harmony could match the breadth and depth of these amazing sounds. If only Reyna could hear them, and feel the emotions they stirred, she would be his forever.

  He closed his eyes and smiled. He would rest a little. Then escape. As soon as the sun went down. But his world went dark before the giant's did.

  ~*~

 

  Tori hadn't completely given up on the idea of finding what was under the cabin, especially if the cat failed to drag it out and leave it by the door as he usually did. The last thing she needed was something bleeding to death and then stinking up the place. Lord knew what kind of creatures would come to investigate. She shivered involuntarily then pressed shuffle on the CD player. Saint-Sa?ns' "Organ Symphony" poured out of the six speakers mounted around the cabin's interior. Tori smiled in sheer delight as the music rolled over her, all thoughts of the cat and its prey relegated from "act now" to "screw with it later."

  She sat in the lounge chair that filled the area she'd dubbed the living room. It was also the kitchen, bedroom, library and writing studio. There actually was a separate room for the toilet and bath. She'd insisted on that before she moved in. She didn't have to bathe every day, but having the option was essential. She wanted remote, not primitive.

  Eyes closed, she ignored everything as the lush strains of the symphony suffused her world. When it finally ended, replaced by a haunting Gaelic soprano, she eased herself out of the chair and back toward the door. Though concerned at first by the cat's cry, she could see only a small wound on his chest as he squeezed past her into the cabin. No limp, very little blood, and thankfully, no little dead surprise in its mouth. That was likely still beneath the ca
bin.

  Grabbing a stout flashlight from beside the door, Tori started back outside. Her hand drifted toward the shotgun, and briefly rested on it, before she snorted at her own fears and left it behind. Lowering herself to all fours, she clicked on the light and peered into the shadows. Nothing moved. She strained to hear another cough, but only heard the warble of a meadowlark. An odd bird, she thought. Kinda like me.

  She swept the beam of light from one side to the other but saw nothing of interest except a snake skin. It looked huge. Which suggested its former occupant was well fed. Goosebumps formed on her arms as she forced the thought aside. She had no time for snakes. Dead ones, anyway. She kept the shotgun near the door in the event one of them ever showed itself. With wildlife, she tried to observe a simple live and let live policy, but she had no intention of sharing her home with a snake. Any snake.

  Something moved.

  Suddenly tense, Tori moved the light even slower, concentrating on the spot where she thought she'd detected movement. There was still no sound. After a solid minute of silence, she worked her way around the corner of the building, still splaying her light on the footing she thought might be hiding the cat's prey. Please let it be something without teeth, she pleaded, though to whom she couldn't say.

  The cat reappeared. It passed her and slowed to a slink a few feet ahead of her. Head low and tail pointed straight up, the tabby moved in creepy silence.

  "Go away," Tori said.

  The cat spared her a glance then went back to the search.

  "I mean it." Tori flicked a pebble at him.

  The cat jerked back and crouched low, hissing and showing its teeth.

  Tori threatened it with the flashlight. "Attitude? You're giving me attitude? I don't have to feed you, y'know. I could leave you to fend for yourself. Maybe let you tackle the monster that left that thing over there." She pointed the beam of light at the desiccated snake skin. The cat was clearly unimpressed. It straightened up and walked away as if it had declared itself above the fray.

  "Uppity little prick," Tori muttered. "Shoulda gotten a dog."

  She continued working her way around the cabin and soon reached the back side where the ground sloped away leaving a bigger space. She could sit comfortably and probe under the building with the flashlight. The theme from "Riverdance" had just begun when she rolled the circle of light to a stop. She squinted at what she'd found.

  Where'n hell had that come from? She scratched her head in bewilderment. This wasn't the first time she'd inspected the underside of the cabin. She'd had to crawl under it when installing insulation and a thick layer of plastic sheeting to keep the insect world at bay. She would've noticed an abandoned doll. Especially one dressed like an Indian.

  ~*~

  Peter Sutherland considered himself a decent assistant district attorney. Neither showy nor superbly intelligent, he had nonetheless produced more wins than losses, for which his boss had been grateful. In retrospect, if he had been brilliant or produced uncanny legal victories, the Bibb county DA might have feared him as a potential rival. But Pete sought only what was rightfully his: a comfortable retirement. In the process, he'd delivered a number of bad people to prison and thereby made Macon, Georgia, and society in general, a better place.

  It would have been a significantly better place if his wife, Bonnie, hadn't succumbed to cancer the summer before he retired. With his kids grown and on their own, the four bedroom colonial they'd occupied for so long seemed more like a mausoleum than a home. Which is why Pete spent very little time there. He preferred the "fishing shack" he'd purchased with the insurance money he received after Bonnie's death.

  The stylish A-frame overlooked a trout stream in the north Georgia mountains and offered a different kind of solitude. Not only did the place sport every comfy convenience he desired, but he could toss a line from the back deck or stroll along the carefully designed stone steps that meandered down the hillside to a short pier which bordered the stream. He had installed small refrigerators to store his beer in both locations. Pete Sutherland had thought of everything. Except uninvited visitors.

  The car which pulled into the driveway looked familiar. It was identical, in fact, to his wife's bright yellow, late model Chevy which had occupied his Macon garage for the two years since her death. Pete's oldest son, Chad, would take the car for a short spin from time to time, mainly to insure it still ran. An investment advisor, Chad often suggested that Pete sell it and put the money in something for himself or his grandkids, but Pete wasn't ready to let it go. Bonnie had loved the ugly car, corny as that was, and he wasn't eager to part with it.

  And here it was at the fishing shack. Pete squinted at the vehicle. Chad? No; the driver was too old. And what in hell was he doing in Bonnie's car?

  "Mr. Sutherland?" The man walked around the car and straight toward Pete who was standing at the front entrance to the building.

  "Yes? Who're you? And what are you doing with my wife's car?" He almost waited for an answer before reaching into his pocket for his cell phone. Naturally, it wasn't there. It sat, batteries dead as stones, on the kitchen counter.

  "I hoped you wouldn't mind," the visitor said. "I thought I'd drive up here so's we could have us a little chat."

  Pete's eyes narrowed still further, his suspicion unimpeded by fear.

  "Do I know you?"

  "You should," said the visitor. "Or do you just forget the names of people you send to prison?"

  ~*~

  Tori crawled under the cabin slowly. From the back, there was plenty of room, but she didn't want to give up the flashlight, and she certainly didn't want to put her hands down on something crawly. She'd heard about scorpion stings and had no desire to acquire firsthand knowledge. Besides, the doll wasn't more than ten or twelve feet in.

  She didn't pay much attention to the doll while working her way toward it. She wasn't even sure why she bothered. Curiosity mostly. Close enough to reach out and touch it, she put her hand on the doll's leg, fully expecting to feel hard plastic beneath the leather moccasin. Instead, she felt warm flesh and jerked her hand away.

  A kid? The damned cat had chased a child under her cabin? Where had it come from? She didn't have neighbors. Nobody drove by on their way to somewhere else. The nearest paved road was miles away and the dirt track which connected it to her parking spot was barely navigable.

  "Hey, you okay?" she whispered, not wanting to frighten the little kid, and little it most definitely was. Tiny. Maybe two feet long, or tall, if it had been standing.

  It didn't respond.

  Tori crawled closer and again put her hand on the child's leg. Still, no response, but she felt sure it was still breathing. Thank God for that, she thought as she slid her hands carefully beneath the body and lifted. It was significantly heavier than she anticipated. Working backwards like a sniper exiting an ambush, she made her way out from under the cabin. She paused when she reached the light and stared down in shock at the body in her arms.

  It was no child. Not even close. She held an adult, male Indian in her lap, his chest and stomach swaddled in a blood-soaked pair of her panties. Weird didn't even begin to describe the thoughts flying through her head, not the least of which was the need for better clothes pins. When he moaned, she forced all such thoughts aside and concentrated on his wounds.

  The cat had done quite a job on him. Four long, deep gashes crossed his bare chest at a slight angle. Two more decorated his back. She couldn't help but note that he had an impressive physique, despite his diminutive stature. She was tempted to peek beneath his breechcloth, then mentally slapped herself. That's just... icky, she thought. Yet the idea lingered.

  She stood with the Indian in her arms, his weight still surprising, and carried him into the cabin. The cat materialized at her feet and stalked her burden as she went.

  "Get out, you little monster," she said, pushing the cat toward the door with her foot like a soccer player laying the ball off to a shooter. Except, the cat wasn't having an
y of it. He gave her an unambiguously disgusted meow and crowded closer, tail aimed at the ceiling, eyes tracking the Indian like radar.

  Tori looked for someplace to put him so she could throw the cat out, but the little bugger was intent on finishing the job he had started. She settled for the top of a waist high bookcase and snatched the cat out of the air as it launched itself up from the floor. Tori ignored its struggles and hurried toward the door, clutching the cat firmly to her chest and doing her best to ignore the claws that raked her arm.

  In a move so swift that they were both surprised, Tori sent the feline on an arcing heave ho that the cat probably survived. But, since she'd slammed the door before he landed, she couldn't be sure. Not that she cared.

  Thankfully, the Indian hadn't stirred, else he'd have rolled off the bookcase and splattered himself on the floor. Tori grabbed a towel from the door handle of the stove and spread it, one-handed, on the duvet as she relocated the slumbering Indian. He certainly didn't take up much space, and once again she applauded herself for choosing a full-size mattress rather than a single. Her objective had been comfort, rather than elbow room in the unlikely event she invited someone to spend the night.

  With the Indian sprawled on his back, Tori gingerly removed his leather vest to get a better look at his wounds. Wincing for him, she slipped his arms free of the supple leather and left it beside him on the towel. The bleeding had slowed, but the wound hadn't closed. If he lived, he'd have scars profound enough to earn the sympathy of biker gangs and black fraternities. Poor schlub.

  She retrieved a first aid kit and flipped it open. Surely there was some hydrogen peroxide in here somewhere, she thought. And then she found it.

  "Here goes nothin', Tonto," she said as she opened the bottle and poured it on the little Indian's chest.

  Instantly, his eyes popped open in obvious shock.

  ~*~

 

  Something cold splashed on Mato's chest and jolted him awake. The bright light blinded him, and he crossed his arms over his face. What was happening?