History has always fascinated me, but I am especially fond of cowboys. This could be from my parents over indulged love of John Wayne westerns. Family movie night often consisted of similar choices, Big Jake or True Grit. It wasn’t so much the gun fights and the Indian raids that intrigued me, but the characters these films were created around.
I’ve always loved to write, but as I grew older the need to scribe intensified. It wasn’t just a way to express my emotions but more of a need to expel the voices and ideas in my head. Stories would run across my mind while at work, or playing with my children. My thirst for writing wasn’t satisfied until I put pen to paper and wrote the scenes that had taken refuge in my mind.
The idea for my first book, Chasing Clovers didn’t come to me right away. Snippets of scenes and dialogue had begun to surface, but nothing that I could create a story with. This was a very emotional story and I wanted to write a novel that would touch people’s lives. I hope I was able to do that.
With my second novel, Lakota Honor I knew I wanted to write about something completely different than the first book. My publisher asked if I’d ever considered writing paranormal before. Once I was able to wrap my head around the story and how I was going to make it paranormal the story flowed. The message in this novel is to look at those around us as equal. While writing this book I discovered that it didn’t matter what year it was, people are still the same. There were those who rallied against anything that was different. They were afraid of it—afraid of change.
Writing for me is something I will always do. It is a part of me, without it I am not whole.
Kat Flannery has loved writing ever since she was a girl. She is often seen jotting her ideas down in a little black book. When not writing, or researching, Kat enjoys snuggling on her couch with a hot chocolate and a great book.
Her first novel, CHASING CLOVERS became an Amazon’s bestseller in Historical and Western romance. This is Kat’s second book, and she is currently hard at work on the third.
When not focusing on her creative passions, Kat is busy with her three boys and doting husband.
Colorado Mountains, 1880
The blade slicing his throat made no sound, but the dead body hitting the ground did. With no time to stop, he hurried through the dark tunnel until he reached the ladder leading out of the shaft.
He’d been two hundred feet below ground for ten days, with no food and little water. Weak and woozy, he stared up the ladder. He’d have to climb it and it wasn’t going to be easy. He wiped the bloody blade on his torn pants and placed it between his teeth. Scraped knuckles and unwashed hands gripped the wooden rung.
The earth swayed. He closed his eyes and forced the spinning in his head to cease. One thin bronzed leg lifted and came down wobbly. He waited until his leg stopped shaking before he climbed another rung. Each step caused pain, but was paired with determination. He made it to the top faster than he’d thought he would. The sky was black and the air was cool, but fresh. Thank goodness it was fresh.
He took two long breaths before he emerged from the hole. The smell from below ground still lingered in his nostrils; unwashed bodies, feces and mangy rats. His stomach pitched. He tugged at the rope around his hands. There had been no time to chew the thick bands around his wrists when he’d planned his escape. It was better to run than crawl, and he chewed through the strips that bound his feet instead. There would be time to free his wrists later.
He pressed his body against the mountain and inched toward the shack. He frowned. A guard stood at the entrance to where they were. The blade from the knife pinched his lip, cutting the thin skin and he tasted blood. He needed to get in there. He needed to say goodbye. He needed to make a promise.
The tower bell rang mercilessly. There was no time left. He pushed away from the rocky wall, dropped the knife from his mouth into his bound hands, aimed and threw it. The dagger dug into the man’s chest. He ran over, pulled the blade from the guard and quickly slid it across his throat. The guard bled out in seconds.
He tapped the barred window on the north side of the dilapidated shack. The time seemed to stretch. He glanced at the large house not fifty yards from where he stood. He would come back, and he would kill the bastard inside.
He tapped again, harder this time, and heard the weak steps of those like him shuffling from inside. The window slid open, and a small hand slipped out.
“Toksha ake—I shall see you again,” he whispered in Lakota.
The hand squeezed his once, twice and on the third time held tight before it let go and disappeared inside the room.
A tear slipped from his dark eyes, and his hand, still on the window sill, balled into a fist. He swallowed past the sob and felt the burn in his throat. His chest ached for what he was leaving behind. He would survive, and he would return.
Men shouted to his right, and he crouched down low. He took one last look around and fled into the cover of the forest.