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A junction between the worlds erupts.
The Gold Rush trickles to a fool’s quest and a string of stagecoach heists. In 1888, Earl Blacke decides to make a new start and become a better man. He escapes into the mountains, heading north. In the wilds of Oregon, a rift inside an ancient volcano opens and sends him into the future, into the present day. It also shaves thirty years off his age, thirty years to live over again and atone for what he’s done.
Starting over is hard to do. In current day New York, Daelin Long’s dream job at a publishing house goes the way of the dinosaurs her sister chases. With no money and nowhere else to go, Daelin accepts the librarian position in her sister’s dinky town in the middle of Oregon.
Nestled inside ancient volcanic peaks, the town of Settler holds onto many secrets. Residents roam the streets with weirdly fashioned devices, and odd lights pulse in the night skies. People whisper of a phantom outlaw and start dying, murdered and missing their heads. Worse than that, Daelin’s sister is missing, and Daelin doesn’t know who to trust.
Earl knows more than he’s saying. He shares a notorious history with the phantom, one he’ll see remains buried. Keeping Daelin’s sister’s secrets is his only chance at redemption, and the only way to keep this world safe.
Resurrected. George “Haw Shot” Hawley hadn’t expected such a thing. Testing his body, he rolled his shoulders and shook each limb. They all worked, except his head. If he moved it too much, it fell off. Yet his senses worked, and he could speak. So he didn’t have much to grumble about, except for the strange thoughts sometimes invading his mind. No problem. He’d get rid of the birdman’s influence soon enough. It had no strength, annoying him like a case of the hiccups.
“Haw, haw!” Anyone in George’s way would be sorry. He hadn’t changed at all, except for the empty holsters. Hell on hot sand, he wanted a gun.
The birdman tasted strange, like fresh peas and sour beer. It tried to tell George what to do. Grab the man watching us.
Haw Shot hated being told what to do, but he hated being spied on more. “Haw, haw.” His first couple of steps stumbled. The nippy air pressed into his muffled senses, which worked slow. Everything about him worked slow, except for his hate and the pretty vows the birdman whispered in his mind. Kill. Revenge. Blood. Bart lives, but not for long. Not if you swear to listen to me.
Revenge had a ring to it. Maybe the thing in his head was his guardian angel. What else could have resurrected him from the grave?
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