Rogue Gunslinger. B.J. Daniels
“We’re going with you,” Chloe said, coming out of the kitchen. “Are you nervous?”
What did she think? She’d never been good at book signings. Probably because she’d never wanted the attention. She’d only wanted to write the stories that were in her head. Little had she known the rest that was required of a published author. TJ knew she was naive to think that she could simply lock herself away in a room somewhere and do what she loved.
When her editor had told her that she needed to be more of a presence on social media, she’d actually thought about quitting the publishing business.
But she couldn’t quit writing. When she’d take a break, the longest she could go was three days before she started writing in her sleep. The characters would start talking and she’d have to get their stories out. She loved that part.
TJ remembered how surprised she’d been when she found out that not everyone had stories going in their heads. She’d asked the person, “Well, then what do you think about when you’re in the shower or driving?” The answer had been, “I’ve never thought about it. Something I’m sure, but not stories.”
It had also surprised her when other writers had told her that their characters didn’t talk to them. Well, hers certainly did. Soon the ones from her next book would be nagging at her to begin writing again.
“Come on,” Chloe said, “or we’re going to be late.”
TJ wished they could just get into Annabelle’s SUV—she’d traded her sports car for something more practical for Montana—and hit the road. She thought she could and not look back at this point in her life.
There was already a line at the gift shop when they arrived. TJ couldn’t help looking for the mountain man, but with a sigh of relief, she didn’t see him. Maybe after yesterday, he wouldn’t show up.
“Park in the back,” she’d instructed her sister.
“You aren’t getting cold feet, are you?” Chloe asked.
“I always do but nothing like I have right now.” They entered the back door. TJ dropped off her coat and purse in the stockroom and took a moment to compose herself. You’ve done this dozens of other times. You can do this.
But none of the other times were like this.
Stepping out of the back, she headed for the table that had been set up for her along with a chair and a huge stack of her books. The owner hustled over to see if she needed water, coffee, anything at all.
“A bottle of water would be wonderful,” TJ said, her throat already dry as she felt eyes on her from the line of people waiting a few yards away. She tried to smile as she slid into the chair and picked up one of the pens the store owner had thoughtfully left for her.
“Here’s your water,” said a familiar voice.
TJ turned to see a dark-haired woman her age. “Joyce?” She couldn’t help her surprise. She hadn’t seen Joyce Mason since high school. Joyce had been voted the girl most likely to end up behind bars. It had been a play on words, since Joyce had been wild—and also a drinker who was known to make out with guys in the alley behind the Mint Bar.
“You work here now?” TJ asked, feeling the need to say something into the silence. Joyce was thinner than in high school, but wore the same shag hairdo and pretty much the same expression, one of boredom. The only thing different was that she sported a few more tattoos.
“Does it surprise you that I read?” Joyce asked.
“No.” She let out a nervous laugh. “As a writer, I’m delighted.”
“Yes, we all know you’re a writer.” Joyce put down the bottle of water and walked off.
TJ was still reeling a little from Joyce’s attitude when she heard a squeal and looked up to see another familiar face. Dorothy “Dot” Crest came running up to her all smiles.
“I can’t believe it!” Dot cried. “I just had to say hi. I’ll get in line,” she assured the waiting crowd. “I definitely want one of your books. I’ve read them all.” She leaned closer. “They are so scary and yet I can’t put them down.” She laughed. “This is so exciting.”
With that she rushed back toward the end of the line. As she did, she said hello to people she knew. Dot knew almost everyone it seemed.
“Ready?” the owner asked, coming up to tell her again how delighted they were to have her here.
Was she ready? She felt off-balance and the signing hadn’t even begun. Normally, TJ was more organized. She’d barely remembered to grab a few bookmarks as they’d left the house. She hadn’t even thought about a pen. That showed just how nervous she was.
She smiled up at the first woman in line. She looked familiar, but for a moment TJ couldn’t come up with her name. That was the problem at book signings. The names of people she knew even really well would slip her mind.
“Just sign it to me,” a person would say.
She often used the trick, “Would you mind spelling your name for me?”
That didn’t always work. One woman who was so excited, telling everyone how long she’d known TJ, made her draw a blank. When she’d asked her to spell her name, the woman recoiled and said, “It’s Pat.”
TJ had been so embarrassed, but there hadn’t been time to explain how often her mind went blank at these events, even with the names of her closest friends. So she never saw Pat again.
Now the older woman with the dyed-brown hair standing in front of the desk said, “You probably don’t remember me.”
For a moment, TJ didn’t. She looked familiar. Really familiar, but...
“I’m not surprised given how much you didn’t pay attention in class.”
Bingo. “Of course I remember you, Mrs. Brown. I had you for English in high school.” Annabelle had told her that the woman had only recently retired after having a minor stroke. “Would you like me to sign this to you?” she asked her former teacher.
“Of course. But you probably don’t know my first name. It’s Ester.”
She signed the book, stuck in a bookmark and handed it to the older woman.
Ester Brown hesitated. “Just the other day I told my husband I wasn’t the least bit surprised when I heard you were writing books.” She hugged the book to her. “You were never at a loss for words in my class.” With that she turned and walked away.
TJ frowned. Hadn’t Annabelle told her that Mrs. Brown’s husband had died?
One after another new and old readers stepped up and TJ signed their books, visited and moved on to the next one. She was surprised how many people had turned out. But the last time she had signed a book in her hometown had been her first one years ago.
“Hi, TJ,” said one of the men from the line. She’d seen him, but hadn’t paid much attention. She was looking for the mountain man. But if Silas Walker was planning to attend the signing, he hadn’t shown so far, and another five minutes and she would be done. The line had dwindled, she realized with relief.
Her hand hurt from signing books and smiling and trying to remember faces she hadn’t seen in years.
Now as she looked at this man, his name suddenly came to her. “Tommy Harwood.”
“Tom,” he corrected. He seemed surprised that she remembered him. He’d been one of those on the fringe. He’d been an average student, an outsider. He’d been invisible—just like TJ. While her sisters had been popular, TJ was a dreamer who preferred to be off by herself with her head in a book.
Now Tommy was getting a little bald. From the jacket he was wearing, she saw that he worked at the local auto shop.
“Do