Finding Home

/Finding Home

Finding Home

By |2018-11-24T16:09:24+00:00January 12th, 2016|Comments Off on Finding Home
Book Cover: Finding Home
Part of the Lucky Shores Novels series:
  • Finding Home
Editions:Kindle: $ 3.99
ISBN: B01AKAWIW2
Pages: 377
Paperback: $ 14.99
ISBN: 978-1523410385
Size: 6.00 x 9.00 in
Pages: 376

In an action-packed tale of secrets and lies in small town America, Chet Walker is forced to make decisions that will affect his future and the life of the woman he loves.

Witness to a car crash and in receipt of a cryptic message from a dying man, traveling musician, Chet Walker, reaches the picturesque lakeside town of Lucky Shores. He faces hostility and suspicion from the locals and learns that the information he carries could unlock an eight-year-old mystery—it could also get him killed.

Josephine Dolan, owner of the Lucky Shores diner, wants to bury her past. When Walker arrives with a message from her father, she doesn't want to hear it. She cuts him cold.

When his life is threatened, Chet Walker learns the truth behind the saying: “no good deed goes unpunished.”

Published:
Publisher: Human Vertex Publications
Genres:
Excerpt:

Part 1

Traveling man

Verse #1
Snow-capped peaks, they tower high overhead,
Keep a-moving son, you’re a long time dead.
Stretch out them legs, find a bed for the night,
The sun’s your lead, got to follow the light.

Chorus
On Lucky Shores, On Lucky Shores,
Been through the wars, On Lucky Shores.

READ MORE

Chapter 1

Autumn in the Colorado Rockies

The minute the thunderheads formed over the craggy mountains to the east, Chet Walker knew it was going to be a long afternoon and a longer night. He should have stayed on the highway and would pay for his mistake with a cold, wet night in the open. If he had any sense, he’d turn tail and head back to the valley, but he’d made his decision and no way would he quit. He was too damned stupid.
Walk and hitchhike. Walker’s way of life. At least, it had been for the previous eighteen months, but hitchhiking wasn’t much of an option with no traffic on the road. Not a single car had passed since he’d turned off the highway seven hours earlier.
Where were all the goddamned cars?

The harness of his backpack bit deep into his shoulders. It would be lighter without the guitar case attached to the pack with specially made straps, but dumping Suzy—his handmade, six-string acoustic—wasn’t an option. Suzy was his meal ticket. Without her, he’d have to jump back on the treadmill, and that wasn’t going to happen. He’d made his decision on that front—burned all his bridges.
He tugged up the collar on his denim jacket, jammed his wide-brimmed hat down further, and clomped up the hill toward the jagged-toothed, snow-dusted Rockies.
He kicked a golf-ball-sized rock. It skipped off the cracked and pitted asphalt, threw up a puff of gray dust, and buried itself in a clump of dry grass at the side of the road.
Idiot.
Kicking rocks wouldn’t do any good. The way his luck was running, he’d likely break a toe.

Walker funneled his anger into a faster, foot-stomping march.
The driving beat and fresh air cleared his head. A melody, dark and brooding, formed. The tune’s rhythm matched time with his footfalls. The creation of a song, raw but with potential, improved his mood. Without breaking stride, he took his notepad from his back pocket and jotted down the notes of the refrain to work on later. It wouldn’t be ready for the open mic session, but maybe for the next gig, or the one after that.
On the highway, back down in the valley, the billboard offering Open Mic Sessions at the Lucky Shores Saloon, Every Friday Night had done its job and grabbed his attention. The painting below the words—a small town hugging the shores of an impossibly blue lake—promised much, but the line below was the one that sold him:

Lakeside Resort Only Twenty Minutes Away.

Twenty minutes by car—maybe fifteen miles—should have been no more than a four-hour walk, even uphill. He’d taken the detour and ended up in the middle of nowhere. The longer he walked, the more he grew to hate the memory of that sign. Damned thing should have read:

Only Twenty Minutes Away—by Rocket Ship.

After five hours hard marching, he’d reached foothills and found rougher ground, but no Lucky Shores—not even a sign post. An hour after that? Steeper slopes, rugged terrain, boulders, minor tracks leading off deeper into the forest, and the occasional flat spot overlooking a gorge or two.
Where in the name of God was Lucky Shores?
He paused to take a slug of water from the bottle in a cage strapped to his backpack’s belt and to soak in the view. The higher he climbed, the harder he had to work to pull in enough oxygen. The thin air took its toll, but the view was worth the effort. Almost.
Beautiful, but isolated, empty of humanity. Empty of cars.

Scrub brush on either side of the road, bare of leaves, would provide no shelter. Pine trees, the closest a couple hundred yards away, offered little promise. Further still, the yellow-leaved aspens on the lower mountain slopes added color, but were too far away to provide cover from the approaching storm. And it was coming. The angry clouds foretold that.
He slid the bottle back into its cage and marched on.
The wind picked up, changed from breeze to gale, and whipped dirt and pine needles into eddies at his feet. Pant legs flapped against hiking boots. The sky darkened into an early dusk and the temperature plummeted faster than Walker’s hopes of finding a soft bed for the night.

The wind kept veering. It blew hard into his face one second and slammed into his back the next, and it made keeping his footing difficult. The open road, little more than a broken-down track now, left him exposed and vulnerable.
Dime-sized raindrops hit the ground and turned the roadside dust into pockmarked mud—the weather’s warm-up routine for the main act to come.
Walker shrugged off the pack and checked the latches on the hard guitar case, making sure it was secure and watertight. He could put up with a little bad weather, but Suzy most definitely could not.
His lightweight raincoat, stored on top of the pack, slipped over his jacket. He pulled the zipper all the way up to his throat, wrangled the pack back into place, and started up the hill again.

Walking had become his life. Heading west, always west. He’d reached the Rockies, but they’d not been part of his plan. He had no plan but to keep running from his old life. No way was he going back. No way in hell. When he reached the Pacific coast, he’d either turn north or south depending on his mood, or the weather.
The niggling twinge in his left calf had worsened during the day and reminded him of the injury. Not that he needed a prompt—the ugly-assed scar and the recurring ache were more than enough.
The words of his college wrestling coach floated into his head. “Pain is your friend, Walker,” he’d say whenever ‘Walker the Stalker’ complained of an injury. “Use the pain to focus your mind.”
His mind was focused, all right—focused on the pain and the rain and the water running down the drain.
Walker repeated the phrase. Its cadence might work for the new song. He ran it through in his head, added the lyrics to the melody, and stored them away in his memory as a distinct possibility. The new song had promise. Despite the evil ending to a long, hard day, things might be on the up. As his mom used to say, “Be positive, Chester. You’ll feel better.”
Mom. An upbeat influence on his life—a saint. Didn’t mean she was always right, though.
After twenty more paces, the clouds cracked and the real storm hit.
Great. You asked for it, Walker.

The jacket offered some protection, but the driving rain sought out every gap at neck, ankle, and cuff. It drummed on his hat and dripped from its brim. It beat on his shoulders and plastered his pants to his legs. His boots splashed in the runoff and before long, the sodden denim rubbed the inside of his thighs raw.
Daylight faded as the storm increased in ferocity. Whatever he’d done to piss off the world, he could take it. He glanced up.
Bring it on, buddy. Throw it at me, why don’t you?
The new song swirled through his head again, darker this time, and with a hint more thumping, grinding blues. The rain on his backpack augmented the rhythm section. He could almost feel Suzy hum. With work, he might turn the new tune into an anthem. An anthem to a stubborn SOB who refused to turn back.
A brushstroke of yellow lit the road from behind, and the deep rattling growl of an engine with a leaky exhaust broke through the next rumble of thunder.
He turned.

A car! A goddamned car!
It sped toward him. A big old tank of a thing wallowing on soggy springs and throwing up a wave of spray in its wake. Headlights bobbed and dipped, showing bright in the half-light of dusk.
Walker shrugged off the pack, turned the reflective strip to face the car, and stuck out a thumb. He even raised a hopeful smile.
“C’mon buddy. Stop. Please stop.”
The car drew close and flashed past. The driver, a blur of white face and long gray hair, didn’t even slow.
Shit.
“Asshole!” Walker yelled and ducked his head to avoid a face full of gritty backwash.
His thumb hadn’t worked, so he flipped the guy the finger and then hunkered down, glowering at the fading taillights. Walker’s fault, not the driver’s. It’s what he deserved for stumbling around on the back roads.
No doubt about it, he was a dumbass!
Brake lights flared and a percussive bang added to the dissonant beat of the storm.
The car shuddered. Its rear end fishtailed left, then whipped right. It straightened as the driver fought for control. He over-corrected the steering, and the old car slid sideways. Tires caught the verge. The car flipped, bounced off a roadside boulder back onto the road, and barrel-rolled twice.
Sparks flew as metal scraped on asphalt, screeching, squealing.
The car slewed and shuddered to a grinding, screaming halt in a cloud of spray and mud. It ended up on its roof, rocking.

“Holy shit!” Walker’s voice sounded unreal in his ears.
He crouched, covered his face, and counted to five, expecting an explosion that didn’t arrive.
What you waiting for, man? Move.
Walker placed the backpack and Suzy on a mound of stones at the side of the road and took off, feet and arms pumping. Uphill, but with the wind at his back, he closed the gap quickly, sucking in great gulps of the thin mountain air.
Splashing through puddles, breath ragged and loud, he fought the stabbing fire spreading through his leg.
Sweat dripped from his scalp and stung his eyes.
With a hundred yards to go, sodden clothing sticking to his skin, the wind took his hat. It flew, bounced, and disappeared into the brush.
Thirty yards from the wreck, his calf gave way, and his leg buckled. He pitched toward the asphalt, tucked in his chin, rolled to his feet with barely a break in momentum, and shuffle-hopped the final few paces.
He stopped, breathing hard, and dragged the safety protocol from his memory banks.
Safety first, check the scene.
He wouldn’t be of any use to the driver if he injured himself.
Despite the hammering rain, the whole area reeked of gasoline. The car’s engine had died, as had the headlights, but raindrops hissed on a crinkling hot exhaust pipe.
No fire, but was it safe?
How could he tell?
“Hello?” he yelled. “Can you hear me in there?”
No answer.
Nothing but the raging storm.
He dropped to his knees by the passenger’s door and pushed through the shattered window. Glass chips fell from the window frame. Elbows crunched on shattered glass, and he bit back the growing, shuddering fear.
As long as he could see daylight through the cracked windshield, he’d be okay. It wasn’t too dark, not yet. He’d be okay.
This time, he had a way out.
He kept reminding himself that he could breathe, he really could.
The passenger’s compartment—a crush of leather, cloth, and broken glass—did a good job of holding him back.
Coffee, spilled from a crumpled travel mug, swirled in a mound of glass chippings piled on the inverted roof. The front passenger’s seat, torn from its frame, lay across the driver’s seat. No airbags in a car this old. Blood dripped into the puddle, its iron stench mixing with the harsh smell of coffee and gas.
From the displaced driver’s seat, which hung at a forty-five degree angle, a man groaned. His torso was pressed hard against the door frame, his head cranked at an unnatural angle.

“Hang on, buddy. I’m here,” Walker called, sounding more confident than he felt.
He bit back the growing terror and tried to ignore the churning in his guts. As long as the daylight lasted, he’d be fine. No time to worry. No time to think about the crush, the lack of space, the confinement, the restrictions to movement. He’d be fine, if he concentrated on the driver.
That’s it, concentrate on the driver.
Walker edged further in, twisting and forcing his way under the broken passenger seat. He shuffled through the wreckage and squeezed past the obstruction.
Long gray hair hung in the air above the puddle of blood and coffee.
Walker reached up and pressed his index and middle fingers to the side of the man’s neck. He found the pulse, weak, rapid. He slithered forward on his back, until his head cracked against the rear-view mirror. It broke from its mounting and dropped into the puddle below his head.
The mangled steering wheel pushed against the driver’s chest, but the folds of the man’s sweater hid the wound. With great care, Walker stretched out an arm, pulled back the cloth, and took a deep, slow breath.
Not good. Extremely not good.
How had the guy survived?
One of the steering wheel’s spokes had sheared away from the grip and punctured the man’s ribcage close to the sternum. It fixed him to the seat like a butterfly pinned to a display board. Without the seatbelt and the door column taking most of his weight, the spoke would likely have killed him outright.
The driver groaned again and his left hand twitched.
“Don’t move,” Walker said, taking the hand, and trying to keep the rising panic from his voice. “There’s a piece of metal sticking in your chest.”
“Hurts,” the man said, his voice weak, rasping.
“I know.” Walker pushed closer. He tried to ignore the shattered glass digging into his back. Tried to ignore the cramped space. “Don’t move. You’ll make it worse.”
Walker closed his eyes. What could he do in the middle of nowhere, but watch the man die? He couldn’t think straight, his mind a screaming whirl of panic. He was stuck inside a coffin, trapped along with the driver.
Jesus.

A heavy gust rocked the car. The man whimpered and turned his head to stare at Walker through pleading eyes. A neatly trimmed beard framed an agonized grimace. Seconds passed before the sideways-on face relaxed as the spasm subsided. Pale blue eyes tried to focus. He said something, but another whistling gust and a heavier downpour drowned out his words.
“Easy, I’m here. You’re not alone.” Walker surveyed the cab. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a cell?”
“Huh?” The man blinked hard and frowned. Blood stained his lips. Pink froth bubbled from his mouth. His breathing rattled in his throat and chest.
Walker recognized the signs of a punctured lung. “Phone. You got a cell phone?” he repeated.
“No.”
“Wonderful.”
The man’s blue lips and gray skin told of major blood loss. Didn’t have long to live.
Walker searched. A tan cloth poked out from beneath the rear seat. He reached up and tugged. A jacket flopped free and fell into his face. The reek of cigar smoke, whiskey, and saloon bars overpowered the other smells.
The driver barked a weak cough and groaned. A trail of blood and spittle ran from his mouth into his ear. He scrunched up his face and his eyelids fluttered. Walker wiped the trail clean with the sleeve of the jacket.
“Get me … out.” The driver paused to suck in a shallow, congested breath.
Walker shook his head. “Can’t risk it. Don’t know how far in that spike goes.”
The driver snaked out a hand and grabbed Walker’s wrist. “Please?”
Again, Walker shook his head. “Too dangerous.”
Taking great care, he draped the jacket over the driver’s shoulders and tented it over the steering wheel. Partial protection was better than none. He took the man’s hand. “There’s a phone in my pack. Hold on until I get back. Won’t be but a minute.”
“Don’t go!” the driver pleaded, eyes wide, head twisted as much as he could without moving his shoulders. He squeezed Walker’s hand, the grip surprisingly strong.
The jacket slipped.
Walker readjusted it, then leaned closer. “Listen, if I don’t get my cell, you’re in real trouble. I will be right back.”
Without waiting for a response, Walker slithered backward through the opening as fast as possible without risking moving his patient. Once outside, he struggled to his feet and leaned his back against the wreck, whooping in the air, absorbing the openness. Washing away the constricted space.
Move, for fuck’s sake. Move. What’s wrong with you?
Walker pushed away from the car and headed downhill. Cold wind and rain chilled his face. He expected to return to a corpse.

To read more, buy the book in Kindle or paperback format, and to be the first to know about new Lucky Shores books, join The Friends of Chet Walker newsletter.

COLLAPSE
Reviews:Terry Tyler on Amazon wrote:

Well, this was a cracking good yarn! Not the sort of book I'd usually choose at all, but I enjoyed it.

It's set in hick town Lucky Shores in the Colorado Rockies, in winter. All I know of Colorado is Dynasty and South Park, and Lucky Shores is definitely more Skeeter's Bar, South Park, than Krystle and Blake Carrington. The story starts when drifter musician Chet Walker (what a great name!) wanders into town, looking for a gig and a place to rest his head. Lost on a lonely road, though, he sees a motorist suffer a crash, and he runs to save his life - and so his trouble begins.

This is an adventure story, a crime mystery whodunnit thriller, with a nice little bit of romantic suspense to keep Chet from wandering back the way he came. The action picks up on a mountain hike when Chet and his female companion can't work out who their enemies are...

Kerry Donovan has done 'slightly scary American hick town' very well indeed. The characterisation is extremely good, the plot totally works, and the dialogue rips along, tight and realistic, often sharp and funny, too. Oh, and as for Chet Walker - well, you know a character's come to life on the pages when you start to fancy him, don't you?

Well written, a proper page turner. Nice!

Francis Guenette on Website wrote:

I loved the setting - a small town nestled in the Colorado Rockies. Main character Chet, is finely drawn from his back story that informs his current actions and reactions to his multi-faceted personality – the musician, the martial arts fighter, the drifter, to say nothing of his mysterious knowledge of firefighting and medicine. It takes some time for Chet to come completely into focus – another master stroke of storytelling!

A line like, "... focused on the pain and the rain and the water running down the drain." as Chet observes his surroundings and turns them into a tune captures the reader's imagination.

A mysterious sheriff, a small town doctor who seems anything but and a damsel in distress round out a team of secondary characters who all hit the right notes. Solid writing - an enjoyable read.

Judith Anne on Amazon wrote:

Kerry Donovan’s writing style is admirable; his method of telling a story is easy to read but gives a depth to a plot that keeps the reader interested.
The book is set in a small town called Lucky Shores in the Colorado Rockies, a town struggling in poverty. But rich in disparate characters.

I loved the protagonist Chet Walker, a musician travelling around the country, looking for gigs to perform in wherever he can find them. The author has created a many-sided character with a mysterious background that if deftly revealed as the story progresses. And Joey is a perfect foil for him; yet another rounded character. In fact there isn’t one character in the book, whether I liked them or not, that I didn’t believe in.

The dialogue differentiates all these characters, it’s easy to work out who is speaking without the attributions and although the author uses American euphemisms, syntax and slang it was easy for me to read; in fact it would have been wrong not to stay true to the setting of the book. And the descriptions of the settings are evocative and full of imagery. All create a picture for the action.

I don’t easily follow fight scenes; they’re as difficult to envisage for me as they seem to be awkward to write for many authors. But Kerry Donovan makes them both visible and (dare I say?) funny. The descriptions of the protagonist’s use of martial arts are brilliantly depicted.

The pace of the plot moves steadily but with many surprising twists and turns, building the tension as the story reaches the denouement. Yet is this the end of Chet Walker? Somehow I think not.

This is a thrilling mixture of adventure, crime, mystery, romance; a real cross genre of a book. I enjoyed the read and don’t hesitate to recommend it.

Dave Salle on Amazon wrote:

It’s a rare pleasure to discover a novel as good as On Lucky Shores. Kerry Donovan weaves action, mystery, and romance into a great story. Donovan’s voice is unique and strong, and the narrative is packed with tension and imagery.

All of the elements crackle with life; the dialogue, pacing, settings, and characterisation are impeccable. This is best-seller class fiction. Highly recommended.


About the Author:

#1 Amazon bestselling author with the US-based Lucky Shores thriller series and the Ryan Kaine action thrillers, and creator of the popular DCI Jones Casebook series of crime novels, Kerry J Donovan was born in Dublin. A citizen of the world, he currently lives in a stone cottage in the heart of rural Brittany, which he took five years to renovate with his own gnarled and calloused hands. The cottage is a pet-free zone (apart from the field mice, moles, and a family of red squirrels). He has three children and four grandchildren, all of whom live in England. An absentee granddad, Kerry is hugely thankful for the modern miracle of video calling.

Reader Reviews

  • If you’re looking for a quick, true-to-life crime story, than Donovan’s DCI Jones: Collins will suit you. The characters all seem like someone one you may have met, and lack the cliches that those CSI shows seem to throw at you. Matt (Amazon)
  • Kerry Donovan’s novels keep you attached and consumed: the stories in this anthology are another reflection of the power of this writer. Bravo! David Wind

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