Page 1 of Haunted Spurs

rologue

Selene

The bassline hums through the scratched wood of the bar top, vibrating up my forearms. A bead of condensation slides down my half-empty pint glass, soaking into the soggy cardboard coaster.

My pen flies across the pages of my black notebook.

Scene 12: The Lord of the Manor tightens the chains.

Out on the hardwood dance floor, sweaty bodies collide. Scuffed boots stomp the beat while couples grind against each other, rough hands sliding over tight denim as hips sway to a lively country tune.

The lead singer lets out a raspy wail, barely drowning out the hoots and hollers erupting around the mechanical bull. A few feet from my stool, a girl in red cowboy boots tips her head back with a laugh, taking the beer-from-the-hat challenge and chugging amber beer straight from the crown of a Stetson. The room erupts into a deafening roar, thick with the intoxicating mix of salted peanuts, sweat, and heat. My absolute favorite white noise.

I let the chaos act as a shield, burying myself in the nineteenth century as I keep writing.

Lord Blackwood’s breath brushed against the nape of her neck, cold as the crypt’s stone.

I tap my pen against the paper. I scratch out cold and replace it with ruthless.

But the simile doesn’t land—I’ll have to change it.

Clinking belt buckles become rusted chains; roasted peanuts turn into melting wax candles. I keep writing, chasing the scene, building the tension toward the moment he traps her in the dark and pins her wrists.

Maybe this time I should write a gothic western...

The thwack of the swinging doors hitting the entrance wall cuts through the air.

The band keeps playing, but the energy in the saloon shifts. The laughter at the nearby pool table dies down for a split second. Heads turn toward the entrance in unison, a ripple moving across the dance floor.

I let the ink flow onto the paper, tracing the curve of a comma.

Heavy boots begin a slow, rhythmic thud against the floorboards. A lazy swagger. A presence that makes the bar feel suddenly too small.

I reach for my glass and take a sip. The beer has gone lukewarm, but I swallow it anyway as the footsteps close in, heading straight for my end of the bar.

I stay hunched over my notebook, pen hovering midair.

The footsteps stop. The air to my left thickens instantly. A wall of body heat settles in just inches from my shoulder. The sour stench of booze and sweat disappears, replaced by something disarmingly clean—freshly worked leather, cedar shavings, and a sharp, rain-heavy scent, like the moment before a storm breaks.

My fingers tighten around my pen. The ink hovers a millimeter above the page.

I still don’t look up.

The wood creaks under his weight as he lowers himself onto the empty stool beside me. A second later, a thick forearm claims space on the bar, brushing against my notebook. From the corner of my eye, I catch rough plaid flannel—a bold grid of mustard yellow and black stretched over serious, solid biceps.

The bartender approaches, wiping his hands on a damp rag.

“A Rustler’s Brew, and…” I hear the shift beside me. I’m pretty sure he nods my way. “Whatever the lady is having.”

His voice is deep, gravelly, oddly cheerful.

Ugh. Here we go.

I don’t look up. As good as he smells—and as much as it’s actively sabotaging my ability to write about gloomy crypts and dark lords—I don’t even turn. Same script, every time: some alpha male assumes a woman sitting alone at a bar is an invitation.

The beers land in front of us.

I click my pen shut with a sharp snap. “I write smut.”