Howdy folks,

Welcome to the exclusive newsletter-only preview of my next Sheriff Sol Redding adventure. This is from the first draft of the book as it stands today – it may change a little (or a lot!) by the time I publish. I just wanted to give you a taste of what’s coming…

*starts*

The third-floor landing felt hot and stuffy. Sol drew his Smith & Wesson and stopped to listen. Other than faint noises from the street, the area was quiet. A corridor ran the length of the floor, with five doors along each wall. A single candle halfway along the hallway provided the only light.

Sol inched along the corridor. With each step, his boots thunked on the raw floorboards. Each breath rasped in his ears. He paused in front of the second door and sniffed. There was a hint of… something… in the air.

He reached for the door handle and the floor squeaked behind him. Sol whirled, revolver at the ready. A woman and a small girl stood, shaking, staring at his Schofield. Tears brimmed in the woman’s eyes. The solemn child watched him.

The woman grabbed the girl’s hand and held it tight. Her youngster looked up at her.

“Mama, what’s wrong?”

Sol glanced at the doorway before putting a finger to his lips. The woman nodded. He waved the pair back down the hall towards the stairs.

“Go, go,” he hissed.

The woman grabbed the girl and ran.

Something thumped inside the room. Sol cocked his .45, his heart racing. He sniffed again. The air tasted stale and sickly in his mouth. He tried the door handle. Locked.

He braced himself, kicked in the door and edged in, Schofield at arm’s length. The hotel room was dark. Sol could see little more than a chair just inside the door. A stomach-churning stench hit him in the face and he swallowed convulsively.

Sol held his breath and tip-toed in, his hand groping into the shadows. He ripped back the curtains and light flooded the room. A bed sat along one wall, a body sprawled across the blood-soaked sheets.

Sol’s mouth went dry. “Good god almighty.”

He pulled his bandanna up over his nose and crept closer. The victim had been a man. One eye stared vacantly at the raw wood ceiling, the other focused at the rough paint on the left wall. Blood dripped from a gaping wound beneath the victim’s jaw and splashed on the floorboards.

There was a noise in the corridor. Sol whirled around and nearly blasted a hole through the wall. He sprang across the room, pushed the door closed and shoved a chair under the broken handle.

He blew out a breath. “Hell’s bells.”

Sol holstered his revolver and headed back to the body. The rug squelched under his boots when he reached the bed. Blood trickled down one wall, glistening in the sunlight.

He crouched next to the corpse. The victim’s throat had been slashed from ear to ear. The knife still jutted from the gaping wound.

Sol touched the blade. The wound made a sucking sound and the body settled back on the bed. He looked closer—it was a large Bowie knife.

He shook his head. “A rough way to go, hombre.”

*ends*

So what did you think? Let me know at nick@nickbrumbywesterns.com