As we continue to celebrate the Publication Day of Crimson Arches, here’s a little sample to whet your appetite, and a quick reminder that both books (so far) in this series are available for a great price.
from Crimson Arches by Rebecca Carey Lyles
What was going on?
Far ahead on the two-lane highway that divided the flat desert like an endless gray ribbon, a light flashed. Kasenia Clarke squinted but saw nothing unusual, not even a dust devil twirling across the arid plain. Had to be sunlight reflected off a car window or a bumper. She lowered the sun visor to block the bright orb’s merciless glare, and a flicker in the rearview mirror caught her eye.
What was going on?
A siren sounded behind her. This time, she couldn’t miss the frenetic red-and-blue beams coming closer by the second. Heart in her throat, she glanced at the speedometer and steered to the side. She wasn’t speeding, and the kidnapping charges had been dropped a year ago. Even so, her stomach clenched at the reminder of her arrest and incarceration, experiences she hoped to never repeat.
A State Trooper’s SUV screamed past, buffeting her car. Kasenia cringed. The ear-piercing sound shook her to her core. The trooper wasn’t after her, thank God, but someone up ahead was injured or in trouble. After a quick check for other cars, she drove onto the blacktop, only to hear another siren. This time, she swerved off the highway mere moments before an ambulance wailed by her window.
When no more emergency vehicles followed, Kasenia checked one more time. With deep breaths to slow her racing pulse, she pulled onto the road again, grateful the sirens hadn’t triggered a panic attack.
She’d traveled several more miles when she topped a rise and saw a string of cars that appeared to be at a standstill several miles ahead. Black smoke billowed in the distance.
More sirens. More lights. Again, she reduced speed and maneuvered out of the way. A second ambulance passed, this one trailed by a firetruck, then a tow truck, and another firetruck.
“Jesus,” she whispered, “please help those who’ve been injured and give the first responders wisdom.” Almost every time she rode with her grandpa, someone would speed past on a straightaway. And every time, he’d grouse, “What does that bloomin’ blockhead think this is, a racetrack?” Sadly, sometimes those drivers caused horrible accidents.
She rolled onto the road, this time to slowly approach the last vehicle in the queue. Braking to a stop, she sat for a moment, taking in the situation. Despite the heat, people stood outside their cars, gaping at the enormous black smoke cloud.
Before she switched off the AC, Kasenia twisted her hair to fit it into the crown of her wide-brimmed straw sunhat and adjusted her sunglasses, which usually prevented recognition. But not always. The hat was an extra precaution to hide her copper-colored hair, which tended to attract attention.
Modeling required her to be in the spotlight during photo shoots—she was used to that. But since the Shadow Ranch debacle, almost every time she left home, curious people gathered around her like mice to cheese. They bombarded her with questions about the ranch, Brewster, the sister wives, running away. They took cell phone pictures without her permission and begged for autographs. Yet in a year’s time, not a single person had asked how she and Sam and the others were coping with the trauma since their perilous escape.
Her lawyer advised her to say she wasn’t allowed to answer questions or give autographs, and to keep walking, so that’s what she did.
In addition to local notoriety, her photo had been plastered on the front cover of nearly every magazine on the grocery-store racks. All because she’d stupidly fallen for Brewster’s lies and allowed him to trick her into a fake marriage. Then there was the meddling media, as Grandpa Gordon called reporters who appeared from nowhere, snapping pictures and sticking microphones in her face. All these months later, they still clamored for interviews about her Shadow Ranch experience.
Kasenia switched off the ignition and reached for the door handle. The silver SUV she’d parked behind had a Montana license plate. Good. People from up north wouldn’t know anything about her or Shadow Ranch.
Read the rest in Crimson Arches by Rebecca Carey Lyles to see what happens from here in this follow-up to Shadow Ranch.
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