Book Title: Poppy (The Montgomery Sisters, Book 2) by Kat Flannery
Category: Adult Fiction, 170 pages
Genre: Historical western romance
Publisher: Picco Press
Release date: May 18, 2018
Tour dates: May 28 to June 15, 2018
Content Rating: PG
Book Description:
Poppy Montgomery has always been good with a gun and could fight her way out of anything. Tough as nails and a sharp shooter, her beauty deceives the outlaws she’s after.
Hot on the trail of the Clemmons gang, a group of outlaws who rob trains and killed an innocent woman and child a few months before, she is determined to make them pay for the sin’s they’ve committed by bringing them to justice.
Pinkerton, Noah Shaw is investigating a ring of stage robberies and knows the Clemmons gang is behind them. Told to track down the infamous redheaded bounty hunter, Noah gets more than he bargained for when he arrests Poppy for assault.
Handcuffed together the pair must work together to stop the robberies, and figure out who is behind them. But what happens when love interferes and thrusts Poppy into discovering emotions she never knew existed? Will she choose the solitude she’s always known or Noah’s sweet embrace?
To follow the tour, please visit Kat Flannery's page on iRead Book Tours.
Excerpt
“A wild ride that will rope your heart and reel you in.” —Charlene
Whitman, best-selling author of The Front Range historical romance series
Poppy Montgomery has always been good with a gun and could
fight her way out of anything. Tough as nails and a sharp shooter, her beauty
deceives the outlaws she’s after. Hot on the trail of the Clemmons gang, a
group of outlaws who rob trains and killed an innocent woman and child a few
months before, she is determined to make them pay for the sin’s they’ve committed
by bringing them to justice.
Pinkerton, Noah Shaw is investigating a ring of stage
robberies and knows the Clemmons gang is behind them. Told to track down the
infamous redheaded bounty hunter, Noah gets more than he bargained for when he
arrests Poppy for assault.
Handcuffed together the pair must work to stop the
robberies, and figure out who is behind them. But what happens when love
interferes and thrusts Poppy into discovering emotions she never knew existed?
Will she choose the solitude she’s always known, or Noah’s
sweet embrace?
EXCERPT:
CHAPTER ONE
Outside
of Dodge City, Kansas 1884
Poppy reloaded the Winchester
tucked between her legs. The pale skin beneath the denims winked at her through
the frayed hole in the knee. The slacks had seen better days, and right now the
rip was the least of her worries.
When she was on the hunt she packed
light; it wasn’t wise to carry too many things that could weigh you down. Nope,
she’d brought just the essentials. Except, this time she’d made extra room for
a hairbrush and the lavender soap her sister, Fern, had given to her when she’d
visited.
A bullet whizzed past, and she
ducked lower. She yanked the Stetson off her head and checked it for any holes.
“Damn it.” The bullet had nicked
the top, tearing the felt.
She crammed the Stetson back on and
cocked her rifle. Her fingers tightened around the handle. The cold barrel
rested against her cheek, and she shivered. Here
we go. She slid to her stomach and inched the butt around the boulder she
hid behind.
She’d been tracking the Clemmons
gang for two months, and now she finally had them. The lowlifes were wanted
clear across the territory for their robbing of the railroad, but Poppy’s debt
was personal. The gang had killed Molly Schmidt and her son, Tad.
She closed her eyes for a moment
and took a deep breath. She’d never met the girl until the day she’d come
across the turned-over stagecoach and found the mother and son sprawled on the
dirt ground. Poppy swallowed. The horrid sight was forever etched into her
mind. Molly had been alive when she’d found them, but not for long. After Poppy
laid the little boy in Molly’s arms, the mother took her last breath. The
memory still got to her making her eyes sting and throat work.
Killin’ had never bothered Poppy;
she’d done her fair share and seen more than she’d like to admit, but what had
her up nights was “Why them?” The thievin’ bastard Lefty Clemmons had murdered
the mother and son, and she’d make him pay for what he’d done. The rebel
outlaws had taken the lives of others too, but Molly and Tad had stuck with
Poppy since the day she’d found them ten miles outside of St. Louis. She didn’t
know where the pair was headed, but it’d been clear their deaths were for
nothing more than pleasure.
Her eyes watered, and she blinked
the wetness away just as another bullet whizzed past her head.
“I ain’t dyin’ today,” she
whispered and rolled onto her stomach. Her sister Fern’s lecture on proper
etiquette and language rang in her ears. Poppy had always been a bit to the left,
as most folks would say. She didn’t take well to rules, and she didn’t take to
speaking like a lady. Hell, she had better things to do, like kill the bastards
who had her cornered.
She aimed her rifle, seeing two
heads pop out of the bushes ahead, and fired. She smiled when she saw one of
the outlaws pitch forward and fall to the ground.
“Gotcha.”
The band of men were hunkered
behind a stand of pine trees, which made it difficult for Poppy to see them and
would aid in their escape if she didn’t get a move on. She needed to push them
out of the bush toward her and not in the other direction.
She scanned the field in between
them. Aside from a few rocks, including the one she was wedged up against,
there was nowhere for her to go. She didn’t want to retreat into the forest a
couple of yards behind her until she was sure the gang lay dead.
A bullet hit the rock she was
leaning on and ricocheted to the right She peeked around the boulder and saw
six riders coming toward her. Damn it. They knew she was alone and figured her
stranded. The horse’s hooves pounded onto the ground as they drew closer. Dust
billowed above their heads, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt they were
coming to kill her.
“Shit,” she breathed. She laid her
Winchester down and checked the Colts on either side of her hips. She pulled
them from the holsters and gripped the handles with her clammy palms. The
forest looked more appealing now, but there was no way she’d make it without
being peppered with bullets.
Poppy shook her head.
Nope, ain’t no outlaw was gonna
kill her today. She checked the rounds and clicked them back into place. She
swiveled to sit on her knees, aimed her guns, and began firing. Another outlaw
fell from his horse and rolled to the ground. No time to see where she’d hit
him, she continued to shoot.
She had five bullets in each gun
and she’d fired six of them already. The men were closing in. She lifted her
arm to aim at an outlaw, when a sharp pain penetrated her shoulder, and she
fell backward. The pistol she’d been holding flew from her hand and lay two
feet from her on the dirt ground. She inched her injured arm closer to the gun.
A searing pain raced up to slam into her shoulder, and she hissed from the
pain.
A bullet hit the ground beside her
hand, throwing up dust. She scrambled backward closer to the rock. Hell and
tarnation. She was in trouble. One gun was all she had left. She flipped open
the chamber. Two bullets lay nestled inside.
“Damn it. Two shots and a lame
arm.”
She hadn’t thought this through
when she’d followed the outlaws from town into the blasted prairies. No
shelter, and her against six dangerous men did not bode well. But Poppy never
shied away from danger, and to hell if she’d do so now.
She glanced around the boulder;
four riders came toward her. She leaned against the rock and inhaled—two
bullets and four targets. And one damn pistol.
She could hear the horse’s hooves
pounding into the ground like a hundred buffalo. Oh, what she’d give for a band
of Sioux to crest the hill to her right. At least she could get out of that
one. Most of the Indian tribes were friendly with her, since she could speak
their language and had sat many nights around their fires.
She looked at the Winchester lying
beside her. With the injured arm, she wouldn’t be able to shoot the rifle. All
she needed were two extra shots. The outlaws were closing in, and she had no
time to load the six-shooter.
Shots pinged off of the rock beside
her head, and she shimmied closer to the ground. The guns hadn’t ceased, but instead
of hitting her they were flying above her. Thank goodness. Another shot, this
one from ahead of her. Had the gang circled around and were now coming for her
in both directions?
In her mind’s eye she saw her
sisters, Fern and Ivy, standing over her grave, broken and desolate. Nope,
she’d not do that to them. She’d come out of this if she was riddled with
bullets, but she’d not die.
Another shot flew ahead of her.
Whoever was shooting was not aiming at her but instead at the gang. She
inhaled, rotated her hips, and rested her bloody shoulder against the rock. If
this was help, she’d use it. She peered around to see where the outlaws were.
The Clemmons gang had retreated, and she stared at their backsides.
Poppy dropped her six-shooter—the
threat of the outlaws now gone—and flexed the fist on her injured arm and
almost howled from the pain. Blood dripped from her fingertips and into the
dirt, creating a crimson puddle.
A rider cantered toward her from
the forest where she’d left Milo. She went for her Colt and remembered she’d
dropped the gun, which was now lying too far for her to grab.
The sun caught a piece of the badge
he wore on the lapel of his suit. The metal star shone bright. A Pinkerton. A
bloody damned Pinkerton. They were the only ones who dressed better than a
judge and wore a badge.
Poppy shaded her eyes to get a
better look at him when he pulled his horse to a halt right in front of her.
“You all right?” His voice was
rough, gritty, and low.
She pressed her back against the
rock and shimmied her way to stand.
“I’m fine,” she said and reached
for her revolver.
“Looks like you’ve been shot.”
“Nothin’ gets past a Pinkerton.”
She holstered her guns, the movement causing her great pain, but she refused to
show him how much.
Buy the Book:
Meet the Author:
Kat Flannery’s love of history shows in her novels. She is an avid reader of historical, suspense, paranormal, and romance. She has her Certificate in Freelance and Business Writing.
A member of many writing groups, Kat enjoys promoting other authors on her blog. Kat enjoys teaching writing classes and giving back to other aspiring authors. She volunteers her time at the local library facilitating their writing group. She’s been published in numerous periodicals throughout her career
Her debut novel CHASING CLOVERS has been an Amazon Top 100 Paid bestseller. LAKOTA HONOR and BLOOD CURSE (Branded Trilogy) are Kat’s two award-winning novels and HAZARDOUS UNIONS is Kat’s first novella. Kat is currently hard at work on her next series, THE MONTGOMERY SISTERS.
Connect with the author: Website ~ Twitter ~ Facebook
Guest Post
Whenever we get into the car my boys always yell shotgun to see who get’s to ride in the front seat. This often results in a race to the passenger side door and on occasion some pushing and shoving. I used to play the same game with my brothers and sister and I find it cute that my boys do the same thing.
I didn’t know where the term had come from and being a historical writer, I delved into some research and this is what I found.
Riding Shotgun comes from the term Shotgun Messenger and was not actually used until 1919 in the movies.
However, in the old west the stagecoach was the prime contender and often the only form of transportation for people, cash and gold. After many robberies, the stagecoach line hired shotgun riders. Their job was to sit beside the driver and protect the strongbox and it’s possessions, firing at anyone who tried to take it or attack them.
When I think about this job, I generally assume you’d be a moving target—one easily pegged off by a band of outlaws. But that wasn’t the case. Most attacks were from highwaymen on foot. They’d hide in the bush where the stage had to slow down, usually a corner or steep hill. The highwayman would confront the stagecoach driver and his pal with guns drawn, stealing the loot within a few minutes and then going merrily on his way.
There were actually only two known cases in Arizona where the stage was robbed by a group of bandits and a shootout ensued.
Most bandits knew what to look for when casing a run. If there was no Shotgun Messenger seated beside the driver, there was likely no strongbox on that stage.
When Wells Fargo started up in 1852 word got around they were an express, delivering gold, cash and bank drafts. In turn Wells, Fargo had their own agents riding shotgun in the front and back of the stage. The six horse drawn coach with the lettering Wells, Fargo & Co. painted on the side was sure to light up any bandits eyes. However, these Shotgun Messengers were well armed and very dangerous.
The Wells, Fargo was the most trusted name in delivery for many years because of this, and in 1866 combined all major western stage lines. Wells, Fargo & Co stagecoaches rolled over 3,000 miles from California to Nebraska and Colorado into the mining regions of Montana and Idaho.
You may ask yourself how common stagecoach robberies were back then and through some research I was able to find a few numbers.
In Arizona between 1875 and 1903, 130 stagecoach robberies took place. 1876 to 1878, stagecoach robberies on the Cheyenne to Deadwood trail were a steady source of income for Big Nose George and other outlaws. The worst areas for stagecoach robberies were Tombstone and the Black Canyon Stage Line from Phoenix to Prescott.
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Ends June 23, 2018
Poppy sounds sassy! I'm looking forward to reading more of her story.
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