Blow Torch (the sequel to Torched)
Synopsis...
Welcome back to Hellesgate.
Three years have passed since New York real estate mogul Matthew Archer met and fell in love with Iraqi war veteran Cane Summerfield. Having survived a deranged arsonist, a wispy, green-eyed stalker and a revenge-fueled brother, the men have settled down to small town life in Hellesgate, Kansas.
Life is good.
Every day, their love grows.
Every day, their wedding nears.
But when a love is borne of fire, the future is often shaped by hell.
When two strangers arrive in town, the horrors of Cane's war-torn past return wearing fresh faces and harboring mysterious hate. Greed, envy and lust combine to form an enemy unseen until the very end.
The battle is one for Cane's scarred peace of mind.
The battle is one Matthew will risk everything to win.
With the eccentric citizens of Hellesgate by their side, the men must fight a war that will leave one thing branded indelibly on all their hearts...
While war is hell, love is forever its phoenix.
Excerpt...
Prologue: Iraq
December 2, 2008
Bill “Blow Torch” Bledsoe was one hell of a man. A husband and a father,
he was a straight shot even after two days of no sleep and a ten-mile hike through
the desert. He was the kind of man women wanted in their beds at night and at
their breakfast tables the next morning. He was the kind of guy men wanted to
share six-packs with on NFL’s wild card weekend and have their backs in a
firefight.
Physically, Bledsoe was a tank. All beef and brawn, the six-foot-five, two
hundred and forty-pound man left an impressive tide of admiration and well-placed
fear in his wake. With coal black eyes, dark red hair, and a smile more growl than
grin, Bledsoe’s mere presence put more of a beat-down on folks than most men
could hand out with a roundhouse and a cleaver. Nobody messed with Blow Torch
Bledsoe. Nobody.
Cane Summerfield was damned lucky to have him in his unit.
Jumping down from the cab of the supply truck, twenty-four-year-old Staff
Sergeant Summerfield squinted into the early morning Iraqi sun and tried to keep
his stomach from devouring itself too noisily.
Cane had been born and raised in a small town in Kansas. Brought up in the
home of his aunt and uncle, the handsome young man had had shitty luck with his
personal life. In fact, it was a slightly deranged ex-girlfriend to whom he had to
thank for his military career. It was damned hard to cling to a man a couple of
thousand miles away. He held no bitterness toward the girl, however. He loved his
life in the military.
He was prepared to put in one more tour of duty before returning to Kansas
to help run his aunt’s and uncle’s orchard, a business he would no doubt inherit
one day. The next fifty years of his life were all planned out, and despite being in
the middle of a God-awful war and being hungry as hell, Cane Summerfield was a
content man.
The food issue, however, really rankled him. Although deep in his second
year of serving in the Middle East, Cane still hadn’t developed a taste for the
MREs. He ate enough of them to survive but supplemented them with as much
fresh food as he could find in the desert. Surprisingly oranges were extremely
common in the Diyala Province. Their sweet, tangy aroma blossomed out of the
large groves and floated alongside the stench of gunpowder on the Iraqi wind.
Unfortunately, Cane’s unit had camped in a corner of the valley where the
groves had been bombed out months ago. It was devastating to the local people and
their fragile day-to-day economy. It was equally disturbing to his stomach which
once again growled impatiently at him.
“Heard that, Sarge.” A familiar rumble joined the gunpowder on the breeze.
Apparently Blow Torch had a hell of a set of ears too. The big man lumbered
Cane’s way, a smirk curling his lips into something endearingly scary. “A grown
man needs more than just stale coffee and a handful of sunflower seeds to see
himself through the war day.”
“Your mama tell you that, Bledsoe?” Cane asked as he nonetheless headed
back to the makeshift mess tent. It was a well-known fact that Blow Torch’s mama
was career military herself. In fact, she had given Blow Torch his nickname when
the kid was just five. Most kindergarteners are named after their mother’s favorite
gunner, after all. “Because I’ve got to tell you your mama might have gone a little
overboard on the t-bones and lasagna for you for breakfast, my friend.”
Bledsoe laughed and looked down at his overly large self. “I’m stout,
Sarge.” He clapped his hand on Cane’s shoulder as they ducked their heads
through the entrance to the tent. “You wouldn’t want me any other way.”
“I’ll give you that, sergeant,” Cane conceded with a grin. “Much easier to
hide behind you that way.”
“Not what you were doing the other day.” The tone of disapproval was rife
in his voice, as was the chastisement that followed. “Should have been though.”
Cane didn’t want to talk about it. Too big of a deal had been made out of it
already. He had just been doing his job, after all. He was just damned lucky he
didn’t lose anybody in his unit that day.
Walking over to the table with lukewarm eggs and toast stacked high atop it,
Cane stubbornly ignored Bledsoe’s statement. “We’ve got twenty before we head
out. Think I’ve got time to run down to the local IHOP?”
“You a blueberry pancake man, sir?” Bledsoe only seemed to remember
Cane’s superior rank when he was being a smart ass.
“As a matter of fact, I am, sergeant.” Cane loaded the metal plate down with
toast, steering clear of the questionable eggs. Getting himself another cup of the
stale coffee, he offered the man up a bit of advice. “It’s a good thing for you to
remember too. Knowing your C.O.’s preferences in the food department never can
hurt.”
“You talking brown nosing, Sarge?” Blow Torch got the meaning. Yep, he
was one hell of a man.
Cane nodded proudly, tossing a package of sunflower seeds his sergeant’s
way. “Always be prepared, Bledsoe.”
“Yes, sir.” Grinning, Blow Torch caught the bag in one hand and stuffed it
into his pants pocket. “Think I’ll send these to my little girl.” The man was always
sending something to the child.
“Does Sahara even have teeth yet?” Cane didn’t think Blow Torch’s
daughter was much older than eighteen months. While Cane didn’t know a lot
about babies, he had been getting a sound education ever since knowing Bledsoe.
The man bragged about his daughter constantly. Blow Torch had only seen her
once, having been shipped off right after she was born. You wouldn’t know it by
talking to him, though. Blow Torch seemed to know his little girl better than most
dads who rocked their tiny ones to sleep every night did. Cane wasn’t surprised at
the sergeant’s quick and exact answer.
“Eleven teeth, two more breaking the gums, and one my wife swears is
coming but is still hiding.”
Cane laughed. “Oh yeah, then sunflower seeds are definitely the way to go.”
Bledsoe nodded his head in blunt though disappointing agreement. “Too
early for t-bones and lasagna, Sarge.”
* * * *
Two hours later, Staff Sergeant Summerfield, Sergeant Bledsoe, and Private
Gus Younger, a skinny young man they’d only known for a day, were heading
down a well-traveled road in the Diyala Province. The insurgent activity had been
low in the area ever since the Phantom Phoenix Operation the past January. There
was a load of supplies that needed to be picked up from the local airstrip. It was a
run they made every other week.
Although prepared for it, nobody was expecting any trouble.
Blow Torch was scheduled to go home for Christmas. He had already found
Sahara the perfect present.
Younger had only been in Iraq one week. He hadn’t even tasted an Iraqi
orange.
Cane hadn’t lost a man yet.
Everything changed as the truck hit a shallow indention on the road.
The IED exploded.
The world turned to fire and went black.
Two lives were lost instantly.
One soul was damaged beyond repair.
As Cane Summerfield lay on the road under the smoking remains of the
truck for the next seven hours, he stared at the severed left arm of Private Gus
Younger. The private’s watch still ticked.
There was nothing of Bill “Blow Torch” Bledsoe left. There were no
remains to be sent home, no folded picture of a little baby girl to be returned to his
wife. There was nothing left of the man but a piece of shrapnel ripped from his
helmet.
It was triangular in shape and deadly sharp. The “T” from the scratched-out
name “Blow Torch” sat crookedly in its center, the “o” nothing more but a burnt
memory.
But as he lay there on the asphalt, Cane didn’t know that.
He couldn’t see it.
He would never see the last piece of Bill “Blow Torch” Bledsoe.
Cane Summerfield could only feel it.
The one by two inches of scorched metal was embedded deep into the back
of Cane’s own skull.
As the fire burned all around him, the smell of torched flesh filling his
nostrils, Cane Summerfield, the handsome young man from Kansas, knew without
a doubt that he was in hell.
Welcome back to Hellesgate.
Three years have passed since New York real estate mogul Matthew Archer met and fell in love with Iraqi war veteran Cane Summerfield. Having survived a deranged arsonist, a wispy, green-eyed stalker and a revenge-fueled brother, the men have settled down to small town life in Hellesgate, Kansas.
Life is good.
Every day, their love grows.
Every day, their wedding nears.
But when a love is borne of fire, the future is often shaped by hell.
When two strangers arrive in town, the horrors of Cane's war-torn past return wearing fresh faces and harboring mysterious hate. Greed, envy and lust combine to form an enemy unseen until the very end.
The battle is one for Cane's scarred peace of mind.
The battle is one Matthew will risk everything to win.
With the eccentric citizens of Hellesgate by their side, the men must fight a war that will leave one thing branded indelibly on all their hearts...
While war is hell, love is forever its phoenix.
Excerpt...
Prologue: Iraq
December 2, 2008
Bill “Blow Torch” Bledsoe was one hell of a man. A husband and a father,
he was a straight shot even after two days of no sleep and a ten-mile hike through
the desert. He was the kind of man women wanted in their beds at night and at
their breakfast tables the next morning. He was the kind of guy men wanted to
share six-packs with on NFL’s wild card weekend and have their backs in a
firefight.
Physically, Bledsoe was a tank. All beef and brawn, the six-foot-five, two
hundred and forty-pound man left an impressive tide of admiration and well-placed
fear in his wake. With coal black eyes, dark red hair, and a smile more growl than
grin, Bledsoe’s mere presence put more of a beat-down on folks than most men
could hand out with a roundhouse and a cleaver. Nobody messed with Blow Torch
Bledsoe. Nobody.
Cane Summerfield was damned lucky to have him in his unit.
Jumping down from the cab of the supply truck, twenty-four-year-old Staff
Sergeant Summerfield squinted into the early morning Iraqi sun and tried to keep
his stomach from devouring itself too noisily.
Cane had been born and raised in a small town in Kansas. Brought up in the
home of his aunt and uncle, the handsome young man had had shitty luck with his
personal life. In fact, it was a slightly deranged ex-girlfriend to whom he had to
thank for his military career. It was damned hard to cling to a man a couple of
thousand miles away. He held no bitterness toward the girl, however. He loved his
life in the military.
He was prepared to put in one more tour of duty before returning to Kansas
to help run his aunt’s and uncle’s orchard, a business he would no doubt inherit
one day. The next fifty years of his life were all planned out, and despite being in
the middle of a God-awful war and being hungry as hell, Cane Summerfield was a
content man.
The food issue, however, really rankled him. Although deep in his second
year of serving in the Middle East, Cane still hadn’t developed a taste for the
MREs. He ate enough of them to survive but supplemented them with as much
fresh food as he could find in the desert. Surprisingly oranges were extremely
common in the Diyala Province. Their sweet, tangy aroma blossomed out of the
large groves and floated alongside the stench of gunpowder on the Iraqi wind.
Unfortunately, Cane’s unit had camped in a corner of the valley where the
groves had been bombed out months ago. It was devastating to the local people and
their fragile day-to-day economy. It was equally disturbing to his stomach which
once again growled impatiently at him.
“Heard that, Sarge.” A familiar rumble joined the gunpowder on the breeze.
Apparently Blow Torch had a hell of a set of ears too. The big man lumbered
Cane’s way, a smirk curling his lips into something endearingly scary. “A grown
man needs more than just stale coffee and a handful of sunflower seeds to see
himself through the war day.”
“Your mama tell you that, Bledsoe?” Cane asked as he nonetheless headed
back to the makeshift mess tent. It was a well-known fact that Blow Torch’s mama
was career military herself. In fact, she had given Blow Torch his nickname when
the kid was just five. Most kindergarteners are named after their mother’s favorite
gunner, after all. “Because I’ve got to tell you your mama might have gone a little
overboard on the t-bones and lasagna for you for breakfast, my friend.”
Bledsoe laughed and looked down at his overly large self. “I’m stout,
Sarge.” He clapped his hand on Cane’s shoulder as they ducked their heads
through the entrance to the tent. “You wouldn’t want me any other way.”
“I’ll give you that, sergeant,” Cane conceded with a grin. “Much easier to
hide behind you that way.”
“Not what you were doing the other day.” The tone of disapproval was rife
in his voice, as was the chastisement that followed. “Should have been though.”
Cane didn’t want to talk about it. Too big of a deal had been made out of it
already. He had just been doing his job, after all. He was just damned lucky he
didn’t lose anybody in his unit that day.
Walking over to the table with lukewarm eggs and toast stacked high atop it,
Cane stubbornly ignored Bledsoe’s statement. “We’ve got twenty before we head
out. Think I’ve got time to run down to the local IHOP?”
“You a blueberry pancake man, sir?” Bledsoe only seemed to remember
Cane’s superior rank when he was being a smart ass.
“As a matter of fact, I am, sergeant.” Cane loaded the metal plate down with
toast, steering clear of the questionable eggs. Getting himself another cup of the
stale coffee, he offered the man up a bit of advice. “It’s a good thing for you to
remember too. Knowing your C.O.’s preferences in the food department never can
hurt.”
“You talking brown nosing, Sarge?” Blow Torch got the meaning. Yep, he
was one hell of a man.
Cane nodded proudly, tossing a package of sunflower seeds his sergeant’s
way. “Always be prepared, Bledsoe.”
“Yes, sir.” Grinning, Blow Torch caught the bag in one hand and stuffed it
into his pants pocket. “Think I’ll send these to my little girl.” The man was always
sending something to the child.
“Does Sahara even have teeth yet?” Cane didn’t think Blow Torch’s
daughter was much older than eighteen months. While Cane didn’t know a lot
about babies, he had been getting a sound education ever since knowing Bledsoe.
The man bragged about his daughter constantly. Blow Torch had only seen her
once, having been shipped off right after she was born. You wouldn’t know it by
talking to him, though. Blow Torch seemed to know his little girl better than most
dads who rocked their tiny ones to sleep every night did. Cane wasn’t surprised at
the sergeant’s quick and exact answer.
“Eleven teeth, two more breaking the gums, and one my wife swears is
coming but is still hiding.”
Cane laughed. “Oh yeah, then sunflower seeds are definitely the way to go.”
Bledsoe nodded his head in blunt though disappointing agreement. “Too
early for t-bones and lasagna, Sarge.”
* * * *
Two hours later, Staff Sergeant Summerfield, Sergeant Bledsoe, and Private
Gus Younger, a skinny young man they’d only known for a day, were heading
down a well-traveled road in the Diyala Province. The insurgent activity had been
low in the area ever since the Phantom Phoenix Operation the past January. There
was a load of supplies that needed to be picked up from the local airstrip. It was a
run they made every other week.
Although prepared for it, nobody was expecting any trouble.
Blow Torch was scheduled to go home for Christmas. He had already found
Sahara the perfect present.
Younger had only been in Iraq one week. He hadn’t even tasted an Iraqi
orange.
Cane hadn’t lost a man yet.
Everything changed as the truck hit a shallow indention on the road.
The IED exploded.
The world turned to fire and went black.
Two lives were lost instantly.
One soul was damaged beyond repair.
As Cane Summerfield lay on the road under the smoking remains of the
truck for the next seven hours, he stared at the severed left arm of Private Gus
Younger. The private’s watch still ticked.
There was nothing of Bill “Blow Torch” Bledsoe left. There were no
remains to be sent home, no folded picture of a little baby girl to be returned to his
wife. There was nothing left of the man but a piece of shrapnel ripped from his
helmet.
It was triangular in shape and deadly sharp. The “T” from the scratched-out
name “Blow Torch” sat crookedly in its center, the “o” nothing more but a burnt
memory.
But as he lay there on the asphalt, Cane didn’t know that.
He couldn’t see it.
He would never see the last piece of Bill “Blow Torch” Bledsoe.
Cane Summerfield could only feel it.
The one by two inches of scorched metal was embedded deep into the back
of Cane’s own skull.
As the fire burned all around him, the smell of torched flesh filling his
nostrils, Cane Summerfield, the handsome young man from Kansas, knew without
a doubt that he was in hell.