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The Guardians
De Gina Moray
Ações de livro
Comece a lerDuração: 322 páginas4 horas
- Editora:
- Gina Moray
- Lançado em:
- Apr 23, 2016
- ISBN:
- 9781533765185
- Formato:
- Livro
Descrição
What’s a little deception and murder when it comes to getting ahead?
Runner’s Mill is a small, peaceful farming town, but not without its problems. Fourth generation farmer, Hank Smithson, is one of many, in trouble with substandard crops and underhanded tactics at the hands of his competition. Now he’s at risk of losing his home and livelihood. A mysterious stranger, known only as LaReux, offers him a solution to his problems. Hank quickly becomes seduced by promises of a successful harvest and agrees to his help. He soon learns that success comes with a price and he will have to decide how much he’s willing to pay to survive.
Ações de livro
Comece a lerDados do livro
The Guardians
De Gina Moray
Duração: 322 páginas4 horas
Descrição
What’s a little deception and murder when it comes to getting ahead?
Runner’s Mill is a small, peaceful farming town, but not without its problems. Fourth generation farmer, Hank Smithson, is one of many, in trouble with substandard crops and underhanded tactics at the hands of his competition. Now he’s at risk of losing his home and livelihood. A mysterious stranger, known only as LaReux, offers him a solution to his problems. Hank quickly becomes seduced by promises of a successful harvest and agrees to his help. He soon learns that success comes with a price and he will have to decide how much he’s willing to pay to survive.
- Editora:
- Gina Moray
- Lançado em:
- Apr 23, 2016
- ISBN:
- 9781533765185
- Formato:
- Livro
Sobre o autor
I am a southern gal, born in New Jersey, raised in South Carolina, and currently living in Chattanooga, TN. I started writing in 2014, primarily in the horror genre. I grew up reading horror and read "Cycle of the Werewolf" by Stephen King when I was eight. After that, the rest is history. I'm a co-founder of Jade Frog Publishing, a wife, mother, and avid animal lover. I strive to write for a living some day and open a shelter for black cats and pit bulls. I am the proud owner of more books than I can possibly read in my lifetime. and I never met a horror book I couldn't handle. When I'm not scaring people or myself, I also enjoy a good fantasy or thriller every now and then.
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Amostra do livro
The Guardians - Gina Moray
The Guardians
Gina Moray
Published by Gina Moray, 2016.
To my family and friends who saw my potential from the beginning and tolerated being ignored during the creation of this novel.
I’d like to thank all the people who made this book possible:
To my husband, who took care of all the non-writing details.
My editor, Sue Soares who made my writing bearable.
My cover artist, Anthony Vidal at Darkside Covers, who put this awesome face to my story.
My beta readers who kept me in line when my story wanted to get out of hand.
My street team and friends, who helped me spread the word.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The devil tempts us not – ‘tis we tempt him,
Beckoning his skill with opportunity.
- George Eliot
Felix Holt
The Guardians
Gina Moray
Copyright © 2016 by Gina Moray
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
For permission requests, write to the author, at the address below.
PO Box 815
Chattanooga, TN, 37401
Printed in the United States of America
To my family and friends who saw my potential from the beginning and tolerated being ignored during the creation of this novel.
I’d like to thank all the people who made this book possible:
To my husband, who took care of all the non-writing details.
My editor, Sue Soares who made my writing bearable.
My cover artist, Anthony Vidal at Darkside Covers, who put this awesome face to my story.
My beta readers who kept me in line when my story wanted to get out of hand.
My street team and friends, who helped me spread the word.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The devil tempts us not – ‘tis we tempt him,
Beckoning his skill with opportunity.
- George Eliot
Felix Holt
Contents
Friday, August 14, 2015
8:30 p.m.
Saturday, August 15, 2015
7:30 a.m.
11:00 a.m.
Sunday, August 16, 2015
7:30 a.m.
12:30 p.m.
Monday, August 17, 2015
7:30 a.m.
1:30 p.m.
9:30 p.m.
11:30 p.m.
11:50 p.m.
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
12:10 a.m.
8:00 a.m.
7:45 p.m.
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
7:30 a.m.
8:45 a.m.
9:15 a.m.
7:40 p.m.
9:30 p.m.
Thursday, August 20, 2015
8:30 a.m.
11:00 a.m.
6:30 p.m.
Friday, August 21, 2015
10:15 a.m.
4:30 p.m.
8:20 p.m.
Saturday, August 22, 2015
1:00 a.m.
2:45 a.m.
7:00 a.m.
8:30 a.m.
5:00 p.m.
6:30 p.m.
Sunday, August 23, 2015
6:45 a.m.
7:30 a.m.
8:45 a.m.
10:15 a.m.
10:40 a.m.
12:30 p.m.
2:30 p.m.
Monday, August 24, 2015
9:00 a.m.
3:30 p.m.
8:15 p.m.
9:15 p.m.
Tuesday, August 25, 2015
9:30 a.m.
12:30 p.m.
3:15 p.m.
8:45 p.m.
11:45 p.m.
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
5:00 a.m.
1:30 p.m.
4:30 p.m.
5:45 p.m.
Thursday, August 27, 2015
9:00 a.m.
11:45 a.m.
5:00 p.m.
8:15 p.m.
10:45 p.m.
Friday, August 28, 2015
2:45 a.m.
2:30 p.m.
4:30 p.m.
6:30 p.m.
9:30 p.m.
10:40 p.m.
10:55 p.m.
Saturday, August 29, 2015
7:45 a.m.
9:20 a.m.
10:30 a.m.
7:30 p.m.
Sunday, August 30, 2015
7:15 a.m.
9:30 a.m.
11:00 a.m.
3:30 p.m.
7:00 p.m.
10:45 p.m.
11:30 p.m.
Monday, August 31, 2015
2:00 a.m.
9:00 a.m.
10:15 a.m.
6:15 p.m.
6:45 p.m.
7:30 p.m.
9:00 p.m.
10:30 p.m.
Tuesday, September 1, 2015
5:30 a.m.
6:40 a.m.
8:00 a.m.
9:20 a.m.
4:30 p.m.
6:45 p.m.
7:45 p.m.
9:15 p.m.
10:00 p.m.
11:00 p.m.
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
6:30 a.m.
7:30 a.m.
9:30 p.m.
Epilogue
About the Author
Friday, August 14, 2015
8:30 p.m.
The winds picked up as the old blue Chevy sedan sped down the highway, ominous clouds darkening the evening sky. It was late summer in the Midwest, prime time for tornadoes. The man in the Chevy smoked a cigarette, content in the growing turmoil outside. His name was LaReux, and he lived a long way from here. Lightning sparked across the sky, illuminating a black funnel in the distance. The wind tried to impose its will upon the car, but still he cruised smoothly on to his destination, unconcerned that his only companion was nature’s fury. Evil knows no fear.
He drove on to Kansas unscathed, even nature refusing to tangle with him. The call of suffering tickled his senses, drawing him there. An agonizing cry, beckoning for his unique brand of help. That’s what he did. He fancied himself the patron saint of those in despair and traveled the world following the call. A smile grew on his lips; his shoulders shook with quiet laughter. Yeah, he liked that. Drawing on his cigarette, he blew the smoke out slowly and considered the irony. He was certainly no saint. Tonight, he was going to Butler County, Kansas, to a small farming town called Runner’s Mill. The man he sought was Hank Smithson. Hank was in need, and only he could help, but his help came with a price.
He arrived in Runner’s Mill about ten, cruising through the quiet town. The night was hot and sticky, the darkness clinging like a cloak. From the looks of it, the storms missed this part of the county. He was sure they were all sleeping, thankful for the pass over. Unbeknownst to them, something worse just rolled into town. During the day, many of the residents tended to their fall crops, to ensure a good harvest. At this time of night, though, they snoozed away, preparing to wake again before sunrise.
The stores were dark. No one scuttled around after late night forays. The streets, clean of litter, drugs, and dark solicitations, were peaceful. Places often looked like this before he came in and worked his magic. Good citizens, going about their business, unaware of the evil that stalked just outside the borders of their self-imposed reality. None of that mattered to him. Right now, he had business in the middle of farm country. He passed one of only two churches in town, his senses assaulted by its purity. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, he hit the gas and sped off, flicking the cigarette out the window.
He pulled onto Route 77, which would take him out to the county farms. Hank was there. He could feel it. Never knowing the exact location of his quarry didn’t deter him. LaReux could track suffering like a bloodhound on a scent. He didn’t smell it; he felt it deep in his bones. The slight vibration grew stronger the closer he got, only ceasing after his mission was complete. There was much suffering here, a woeful symphony of melodies, but Hank’s mournful song stood out above the others. It was music that warmed his dark soul, anticipating the events still to unfold.
LaReux always made it a point to know the area he was going to. Farmers folded every year in Kansas, but none had a higher incidence than Butler County. Desperation ran high as some managed to do well while others faltered. There was a clear front runner here, Bob Cromey, whose farming success was due to the help of a banned fertilizer, and he was driving everyone into bankruptcy. LaReux loved such disparity as it held limitless opportunities.
He followed the highway, past endless fallow fields, which stood as a testament to the town’s plight. The night was still and he rolled the window down to take advantage of the warm, humid air reminiscent of his home. Approaching a driveway on the right, marked with an old sign of simple construction indicating that he had arrived at Smithson Farm, he pulled in and turned off the headlights. The dark posed no trouble for his sight, and he didn’t want to arouse notice. The vibration in his bones increased as he neared. Hank’s hopelessness tainted LaReux’s tongue with a bitter tang. He had just the thing for Hank’s problems - all his problems. He patted his coat pocket, checking for the items, then drove down the crop road, bypassing Hank’s house for the time being, until he came to the field of green beans.
LaReux knew many things about Smithson Farm. It had been plagued with three years straight of poor crops despite Hank trying everything at his disposal to assist. He was an honorable man, remaining on the right side of the law and loyal to his friends. Unfortunately, luck hadn’t been on his side lately. There were even a few instances of vandalism in the past year from hooligans, presumably paid to destroy his crops. He never thought farming could be such a nasty profession. An idea came to LaReux as he climbed out of his car and stared at the beans. He walked into the field, stepping on several rows, crushing them. Satisfied with his work, he walked back to his car, whistling an idle tune.
Saturday, August 15, 2015
7:30 a.m.
Hank opened up the third notice from the mortgage company. He knew what it would say, and contemplated throwing it away. Unfortunately, playing ignorant wouldn’t stop the bank from foreclosing. The past few years had been rough, forcing him to take out a second, and even a third, mortgage on the house to keep afloat. All the farmers in the county were experiencing problems, except Bob Cromey. Bob’s produce managed to thrive, despite county-wide failures, and outsold everyone for the past few years. So much so, that many of the less fortunate had to fold on their homesteads and move to the city. Heritage farms abandoned after having been passed down for generations. Hank lost plenty of good friends to the exodus, and he’d face a similar situation if his produce didn’t turn around. He did recognize a silver lining to the misfortune. There would be less competition if his crops cooperated.
Hank absently rubbed his forehead. The stress of being in financial trouble had begun to wear on him. He was having headaches now, often quite severe. On several occasions, his best friend, Paul Mackley encouraged him to see a doctor, but Hank always resisted, not wanting to go through a battery of unnecessary tests. He was meeting Paul in town, so he took some painkillers then headed out. Maybe they would keep the beast at bay through breakfast.
They were eating at Molly’s Diner, where just about all the farmers and many other local folks came to eat. Molly Henley ran the diner well and had home-cooked food on the menu every day. Hank walked in and found Paul drinking coffee at one of the booths by the window. The diner smelled divine; the meaty smell of bacon and sausage mixed with the aroma of coffee always put him at ease.
Hey, Paul.
It’s about time you got here. I’m already on my second cup of coffee.
I’m not that late. You just guzzle your coffee.
He nodded to Molly and pointed to Paul’s coffee.
You look like you’re having one of those headaches again.
Paul eyed Hank as he massaged the top of his head, a pained look on his face.
A little. It’s nothing caffeine won’t cure.
When are you going to get them checked out? Headaches can be a sign of more dangerous things. At least, see if they can help with the pain if nothing else.
It’s just stress.
You know my uncle who died of brain cancer?
Yeah, what about him?
They diagnosed him with it after he went to the doctor for severe headaches.
Hank regarded Paul doubtfully, then conceded to his pleas, a defeated look on his face.
Fine. I’ll get it checked out.
He hated lying to Paul, but he wanted him to drop the subject.
Thank you.
Molly came over with Hank’s coffee to take their order.
Hello, Hank! Here’s your coffee.
Thanks, Molly. You’re a lifesaver.
He took a sip of his coffee, relishing the chicory aroma.
What’s wrong? Are you having one of those headaches again?
Yeah, a little one.
Well, that coffee should help. What can I get you two?
Two Supreme Platters.
Coming right up!
She walked over to the bar to put the orders in and made her way around to the other tables, stopping to talk to everyone for a minute. Everyone loved Molly, and it often baffled Hank why she never married.
So have you heard from the bank?
He brought his attention back to his friend and leaned across the table so only he could hear.
They won’t give me another extension or a loan.
Figures. What are you going to do?
I got my third notice in the mail. I figure I can hold them off until harvest time if I beg enough.
That’s your big plan? You won’t have enough money to pay it off then.
No, but they don’t know that. I’m trying to come up with another way to save my ass.
Like what?
How are your ponies doing?
Paul shook his head warning him from that idea. That bad, huh?
$6,500 in the hole.
What! How did you get that deep?
It happens sometimes. Don’t worry; I can take care of it.
Are you sure you don’t need any help?
No, I got it. You have enough problems as it is.
Well, I have another idea.
What’s that?
I want to take Cromey out of the picture.
How are you planning to do that?
I’m still thinking of a way.
We could expose him, but we’d have to find proof and do it tactfully, so all his customers don’t get wary of our produce and buy elsewhere.
Agreed. We’ll have to come up with a plan. So, are you in?
Paul fondled his mug for a moment in silence.
Yeah, I’m in.
Molly brought their orders over and refilled the coffee before leaving them to their breakfast.
So how are you going to pay back that $6,500?
I have a few things I can sell to make the money if I can’t scrounge together enough from savings.
Promise me you’ll stay away from the races before you get in too deep.
Yeah, I’m not doing any more gambling. I need to find a cheap vice.
I think if it’s a vice then, by definition, it can’t be cheap.
Well, a cheaper one anyway.
They finished breakfast, and Paul left to run some errands in town, leaving Hank to contemplate the days to come.
11:00 a.m.
Hank looked out over his vast field of young corn and considered his next plan of attack. It looked rather dismal, which was why he tried out a new fertilizer mixture, containing guano, this year. Short of being cursed, he couldn’t figure out why the quality of his crops had declined over the past few years. What made things worse was Cromey’s success in the midst of everyone’s failure. Bob had alluded to wanting a farm on this end of the county so he could have a staging area for produce. With so many empty farms all around him, it was clear that he eyed Hank’s land. Well, he wasn’t going to fail so Bob could scoop up his land and line his pockets selling potentially harmful food.
Unfortunately, Bob wasn’t a patient man, and Hank wouldn’t put it past him to help speed up his demise. The vandalism started about three years ago when Cromey upped the number of seasonal help he hired. The lack of available assistance led to fewer people watching the fields, providing an opportunity for incidents of vandalism. As a result, Hank downsized his farm to counter the poor yields and lack of security. At this point, he was as small as he could get without going out of business entirely. Unfortunately, smaller fields didn’t yield better crops, and they still had problems keeping vandals out of the fields. Now, with his wife gone, watching the farm fell solely on the shoulders of Hank and his full-time farmhand, Hector, and it was more than they could bear.
Hank walked through the field and came upon his green bean patches, zeroing in on the damage to a portion of the crop.
Those damned kids!
Hank stalked over to investigate the destruction. He assumed it was the local teenagers destroying his crops during their drinking parties. As he surveyed the scene, he noticed no evidence of a party — no beer cans or trash anywhere. No doubt, they were encouraged by Bob, although Hank couldn’t prove it. He walked over to the nearest barn, which held extra beanpoles, to grab some more to tie the plants back up. After rummaging through the barn, he came up empty.
Humph,
Hank mumbled. Every time I turn around, that damn Cromey is a thorn in my side.
Needing to get over to the hardware store to pick up some more before they closed, he jogged back to get his truck, cutting through the cornfield. When he came out of the house with his keys, a figure moving out of the corner of his eye stopped him. His interest piqued, he quietly walked around toward the back and scanned the backyard, but didn’t see anyone.
Hector!
There was no response and no sign of the figure, which had altogether disappeared. Hector was supposed to be gone today, but maybe he came to the farm for a minute. Hank jogged over to the barn, but there was no sign of the person. They just vanished.
Hello?
He listened for signs of movement then went to lock his front door. Confused, he reluctantly accepted that no one was there and got in his truck.
He drove into town, sparing a glance to the fallow fields that surrounded his acreage. Such a waste of good land, he thought. Perhaps if things made a turn for the better for him, he would consider picking up some of the adjacent property and expand the farm again. There used to be eight large homesteads in their neck of the county, many good friends of his. Now he and Paul were the only ones left. Times were rough all over Kansas, but it seemed like the devil had his hands in Butler County personally.
He pulled up to the hardware store and parked several spaces from the door. Jumping out of the truck, he was struck by the stark difference in temperature compared to his house. It felt uncomfortably cold for his t-shirt, so he hurried to the entrance. A remarkable man loitered outside, smoking and doing not much else. He surreptitiously eyed the out of place character. The man was bizarrely dressed in his fancy clothing, a dark pinstripe suit, and a long black coat that was gray with wear in some areas. Tied to his belt was a purple velvet pouch that was partially hidden by his trench coat. His hair was in long dreadlocks, his skin black as midnight. The thing that stood out most was his bare feet. The people of Runner’s Mill never saw anything quite like him before. He smelled of hand-rolled cigarettes and dirt as Hank walked past. He nodded in greeting to the man and entered, looking for Cindy and found her working behind the counter.
Morning, Cindy.
Well, hi there, Hank! What brings you to this neck of the woods?
Those ruffian kids were at it again last night and tore up some green bean plants. I need some more poles. I’m going to try to tie them back up and save some.
She shook her head in disbelief and made her way from behind the counter.
That’s terrible, Hank. They seem to harass you every year. It’s ridiculous! I have some in the back. Don’t have many, but you’re welcomed to whatever I’ve got.
Thanks, Cindy. I only need four or five. I’m in need of a trip to Wichita to stock up on some supplies.
He could
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