I’m taking part in an author blog called  Sweet Saturday Samples to share excerpts of our stories on–wait for it–Saturdays.  Explore the other authors in the group by clicking the link above.  To kick off my first Saturday Sample, I’m sharing an excerpt from my Historical Fantasy Daughter of the Wind, taken from Chapter Two, AND giving away a digital download in pdf format or kindle, your choice,  to someone who leaves me a comment on my wordpress blog at:

 http://bethtrissel.wordpress.com/

Autumn 1784, The Allegheny Mountains of Western Virginia, the Scots-Irish

Jack McCray, as he’d been known before his capture and still was in some parts of the frontier, had a vague awareness of the astonished folk gathered around him.

He caught himself fading in and out of consciousness and fought to remain alert.

He would’ve preferred a bed made up before the hearth, but the two McNeal men half-carried him through the parting host and into one of the back rooms. Hard-won instinct warned him to stay awake, though lethargy weighed him down. This blast in the night came on the heels of a hellish journey through the mountains.

The pain in his shoulder roused him to greater awareness as they hoisted him onto a bedstead curtained in checked maroon cloth. Ages ago, he’d slept in a bed, but not one with feather ticking, sheets, and his head cushioned on a bolster with pillows. If it weren’t for the gnawing ache he might’ve thought he’d died and gone to heaven.

He closed his heavy eyelids, opening them again to find the candle in the iron holder on the bedside alight. Another candle glowed from the top of the washstand. The dancing flames cast long shadows on the plastered log walls and the faces hovering above him.
This definitely wasn’t heaven.

His mother’s imposing husband, John McNeal, stood over him with grudging acceptance in his keen blue eyes. Mister McNeal’s strapping son, Thomas, appraised him with narrow-eyed skepticism. If Jack were able-bodied, there’d likely be a reckoning with these two formidable males—might still be.

Joseph swam into Jack’s vision. Little brother regarded him as though not fully persuaded he wasn’t a spirit. Ah, but Joseph is the ghost, the image of our big auburn-haired father, Jack thought.

A pang knifed through him. If his mother were remarried, then his father no longer lived. Not that he begrudged her bettering her lot with the McNeals, but his father had been a fine man.

Jack faintly recalled his even temper and hearty laugh, and he’d been a crack shot, a skill Jack had inherited but failed to use tonight. He hadn’t gotten off a single volley at his attacker, the sneaky bastard.

Joseph slipped Jack’s buckskin pouch and powder horn from his injured shoulder. He laid them on the bedside table along with his tomahawk and slid a strong arm beneath his neck. “Sip this,” he said, tilting his head as he held a mug to his lips.

Jack gratefully swallowed sip after sip. The brandy warmed his raw throat and he prayed it would numb everything else. “Thanks, little brother,” he said hoarsely, and struggled to sit up.

He winced at the pain, but couldn’t just lie here. “I’ve a mount—needs tending.”

“Are you daft, Jack?” Joseph said, pushing him back down onto the mattress. “I’ll see to your horse in a shake.”

“Stallion—take care—” he warned through gritted teeth.

Joseph held him still. “I know about horses.”

Jack chafed to think of such a valuable animal left to stand out in this foul weather.  Then John McNeal drew a wicked looking knife and gave him something else to worry over.  Jack could only hope the older man still retained the full use of his sight as he sliced through his bloody sleeve, spoiling his favorite shirt—damn, his lucky shirt. Well, he was alive, wasn’t he?

John’s gruff voice intruded on his mute protest. “Sarah, sit you down before you drop. Neeley’ll wash the wound.”

Head in her hands, Jack’s mother slumped onto a stool at the end of the bed. The poor woman couldn’t cease to weep and seemed on the verge of collapse. His conscience goaded him, a rather unfamiliar, disagreeable prodding. Clearly, she’d held him dear to her heart all these years, while his memories of her were dim. Nor had he made any effort to return sooner.

Jack slid his eyes over the people hovered about him in search of the angel he’d sighted earlier and spoken to briefly, but she seemed to be keeping her distance. Some females took time to grow on him before he found them pleasing.  Not this fresh beauty. Her face and slender figure grabbed him the instant he’d spotted her.

It crossed his clouded mind that he’d frightened her and must make amends if he hoped to have another word, or anything else, with this rare creature. Of her heritage, there could be no doubt. It was stamped in her face and coloring, but the bewilderment in her blue-gray eyes betrayed her ignorance.

The old matriarch called Neeley bustled in like a busy hen. She bore a steaming basin of what Jack supposed, from the herbal scent wafting in the mist, was a medicinal wash. “Thomas, see Sarah gets to bed and brew her a cup of betony. That’ll calm her,” Neeley directed.

Thomas helped his stepmother to her feet. “Come on, Sarah. You’ll do better with a rest and some tea,” he said, and guided the unsteady woman from the room.

Neeley set the white porcelain bowl on the washstand. She squinted down at him and then gestured with bent fingers at the girl peering from behind John’s bulk. “Karin, come closer. You’re my hands, lass.”

Her eyes, too, Jack suspected. Looking past her, he watched in fascination and relief as Karin edged nearer the bed. He much preferred her to tend his injury, but if he spooked her she’d bolt like a skittish mare. Teeth clenched against the pain, he tried to appear unthreatening. Maybe he could entice her closer.

Mister McNeal cut away the last of Jack’s sleeve and slid his eyes over him without a flicker of expression. He handed the bloody cloth to Joseph. “Toss this in the fire and go see to his horse. We’ll tend your brother.”

Joseph hesitated, loathe to leave his long-lost sibling, perhaps. No. His eyes shifted protectively to Karin with more than a trace of yearning in their depths. So, that’s how the land lies, Jack surmised, wondering if she felt the same about Joseph and annoyed that he cared if she did. Why should he give a damn who she favored?

“Karin will bear up. She’s seen worse,” John assured the reluctant young man.

“So have I,” Joseph muttered, and turned on his heels.

This left John McNeal, old Neeley. Karin still hung back. Evidently Neeley was in her glory now. Dipping the towel in the aromatic water, she lit into Jack.  “What the—” he jerked and nearly swore.

The old woman didn’t falter and sponged the blood from his arm and throbbing shoulder. No doubt she tried to be careful, but failed. “John, you’ll want to be taking this lad’s wet clothes off him before he catches his death,” the zealous woman advised.

Jack balled his hands into fists under her ministration. “Not just yet,” he intervened, unwilling to drive Karin away. The modesty he sensed in her would surely balk at such a manly display of bare flesh.

Unexpectedly, the timid girl walked to his side and gazed down at him with pity in her eyes. And what eyes, like a troubled sky, he mused, between barely contained groans.

A wince crossed Karin’s expressive features as if she, too, were in pain. “Let me see to him, Aunt.”

Neeley gave a nod. “I’ll fetch fresh water.” Dropping the crimson rag in the bowl, she sloshed from the room.

Jack hadn’t been called sir ever and it bemused him that this hesitant maiden fretted over his emotional state. Someone, perhaps his mother, had brought her up to be a lady. “I’m sure you will, miss.”

She dabbed his shoulder dry, then dipped her small hand into the pungent crock. Pursing rosetinged lips, she smeared the aromatic paste on his wound.

“I’ll give the salve a while to work before I dig the ball out and stitch you up. Ever had woundwort, sir?”

‘“Dulls the pain right well,” Jack managed, hiding a grimace. Even her soft touch stung like the devil, but he wouldn’t push her away for anything.~

“MS. TRISSEL’S ALLURING STYLE OF WRITING INVITES THE READER INTO A WORLD OF FANTASY & MAKES IT SO BELIEVABLE IT IS SPELLBINDING.” ~by Camellia at Long & Short Reviews for DAUGHTER OF THE WIND