WHERE THE RAIN IS MADE:
DECADENT PUBLISHING, http://tinyurl.com/37oepsy
About Where The Rain Is Made:

A decadent savage has captured Francesca DuVall and her brother, Marsh. Now she must spend every waking moment planning an escape. However, she didn’t count on the powerful draw of desire interfering with her scheme in the camp of the brutal Cheyenne dog soldiers.

Ethan Gray is a curator at a national museum . . . most of the time, but when he travels through time to help his beloved People he becomes Meko, leader of the most revered and feared tribe of the plains.
Although their worlds are decades apart Meko can’t resist the dark beauty he kidnapped during a raid. He has many battles to fight but none he wants to win more than the one that will capture Cesca’s heart forever.

From the windswept plains of Colorado and the harsh life of a Dog Soldier to the placid life of a curator their love was fueled by passion and kindled by destiny.

What reviewers are saying about Where the Rain is Made . . .

“Diablo delivered an awe-inspiring novel that made me appreciate the Native American and their way of life. Where The Rain Is Made is a definite keeper that everyone should read. You’ll be hooked immediately!” 4.5 Stars –
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“Where The Rain Is Made has a lot of passion and a gripping, original plot, not to mention well wrought characters. An edgy, compelling story. A very solid tale - one rooted in history.” 5 Stars -
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“Where The Rain Is Made is an incredible read and stays with you even when not reading. There were times the description was done so well it made this reviewer a touch jealous as well as quite happy to enjoy it.” 4.5 Wings –
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“Where The Rain Is Made will remain on my shelf for years to come and be revisited often :) I cringed, flinched, sighed and shed a tear. Any story that can do that has my vote all the way. Ms. Diablo, I look forward to seeing more from you in the future.”
9 out of 10 –
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“Where the Rain is Made is a tale rich in history, emotions and love. Kudos to K. Diablo for penning such an impassioned story.” 4.5 Stars
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"Where The Rain Is Made is a historical romance sure to magically sweep you back in time. A must read!”
5 Stars –
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"Recommended Read & 5 Stars"
"Where The Rain Is Made by Keta Diablo is an intense, sensual, compelling, adventurous story that will have you biting your nails while sitting on the edge of your seat begging for more with the turn of every page."

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WHERE THE RAIN IS MADE
AN EROTIC PARANORMAL
KETA DIABLO

Buy the book here: http://tinyurl.com/37oepsy

Foreword

THE CHEYENNE DOG SOLDIERS

Of all the typical Plains tribes, the Cheyenne were most distinguished for warlike qualities. Few in number, they overcame or held in check most of
the peoples who opposed them, and when the westward movement of European civilization began, they made more trouble than all the rest combined. In short, they were preeminently warriors among peoples whose
trade was war.

As in other prairie tribes, the warriors of the Cheyenne were organized into societies or orders. These societies were fraternal, military, and semi-religious organizations with special privileges, duties, and dress, usually tracing their origin to some mythical culture hero or medicine man. Each society had its own songs and secret ritual, and exacted certain observances
and standards of its members.

Of these organizations, none has played such a part in the history of the Plains as the “Dog Soldiers” of the Cheyenne.

Chronicles of Oklahoma, January, 1921
W. S. CAMPBELL

~ ~ ~

The awesome warriors were armed to the teeth with revolvers and bows . . . proud, haughty, defiant as should become those who are to grant favors, not beg them."

Ohio reporter covering negotiations at Medicine Lodge, Kansas on October 27, 1867

Chapter One

Present Day
Montana

Ethan Gray rose from his dingy cot for the tenth time and paced the small area of his jail cell. He’d survived another night. The thin, hard mattress
didn’t faze him, nor did the cold, sterile white walls and matching sink and stool. The metal bars were another matter. He hated being penned; needed
to feel the warmth of the sun on his face, breathe fresh air. The onslaught of a hard-driven rain chilling him to the bone would be preferable to caging him like an animal.

Next year he’d spend his vacation in a friendlier city, and one closer to home -- Washington, D.C. He thought about his job as Assistant Curator at one of the finest museums in the country. The position provided him with the opportunity to see and touch everything he cherished artifacts of the Cheyenne people.

He’d have a lot of explaining to do if his superiors found out he spent two nights in jail again. Hell, by now a copy of the police report from that minor
scuffle in Deadwood last year would be in the Judge’s hands. One road bump at a time, he told himself while limping about his cell.

Despite what it looked like, he’d try to convince the Judge he didn’t go looking for the fight. The judge would ask him what brought him to Montana. Easily explained. He never missed the yearly powwows or a chance to shake hands with old friends, watch the ceremonial dances, and smoke the pipe.

A fickle breeze sneaked through the barred window in his cell. Jesus, he could barely tolerate his own stench. What he wouldn’t give for a change of clothing and a bar of soap before he appeared before the Judge. At the moment, a transient moving from shelter to shelter put him to shame.

His only visitor had been a geriatric doctor scrounged up from God knew where. Arthritic fingers had poked around his torso and head before he
delivered his assessment to the sheriff. “He’ll live.”

Damn, he shouldn’t have stopped in this flea-bitten town for a cold beer, and he should have kept minding his own business when the platinum blonde with the big breasts sidled up to him at the bar. She’d asked for a light before three men surrounded them—blathering idiots well into their liquor and itching for trouble. A flicker of fire sparked in the man’s pupils, so fleeting most wouldn’t have noticed. Ethan’s life, however, depended on his ability to recognize danger.

The woman knew the cowboy, had called him by name before she warned the bowlegged saddle-jumper to stay the hell out of her life. The feral beast
awoke in Ethan when the man lunged and wrapped his hands around her throat.

Cowboy shouldn’t have done that.

Chairs flew through the air, and next bodies. By the time the fisticuffs ended, it looked more like a firestorm had blown through than a bar fight.

Ethan had dusted himself off and strolled to the bar to finish his drink. The next thing he knew, a freight train roared in his head and white lights
exploded behind his lids. He’d awakened in this damn jail cell with the cold-fingered doctor poking around his bruised body.

Ethan stopped his pacing long enough to cock his ear toward the hallway. Yep, as suspected, the soft padding of footsteps, moccasins.

Moments later, the sheriff stood before the iron bars, unable to hide his smart-ass smirk. “You got company. You also got ten minutes before you appear in front of the Judge. Make it quick.”

Ethan knew about his visitor the moment the woman stepped through the sheriff’s front door. Stands-In-Light, the ancient medicine woman of the
Cheyenne, wrapped her spiny hands around the bars when the man walked away. “Heightened senses come in handy now and again.”

“It’s good to see you again so soon, Esteemed One.”
The same yellow blanket she wore at the powwow clung to her slender shoulders, and today her long, silver plaits were braided and interspersed with colorful beads. Her face looked the same though, still time-worn after eighty years beneath a pitiless sun.
“Yes, well, I didn’t expect to find you here.” She scanned the jail cell. “In any event, the spirits call out for you, I Am The Wind.”

Ethan had lived the last ten years of his life between this world and another. At twenty-five years of age, the Council considered him a seasoned veteran.

He knew why he’d been chosen—his love for the Cheyenne and family connections. His brother, Noah, was a time wanderer, his grandmother a member of the
Sacred Council of Arrows. Even without the family associations, he wouldn’t have questioned his duty to the People. Never. He’d do whatever the Sacred Council asked for his People, his grandmother’s People, one and the same.

He often wondered if the blood of his ancestors triggered his violent streak, so forceful at times he thought he might implode from the pressure. He’d
made a vow to never call forth the virulent brutality, but rather embrace the feral demon when it reared its ugly head.

He looked beyond the window in his cell before meeting her gaze again. “I’ve heard their pleas in my dreams, old one.”

She took in his bruised body, her dark eyes settling on the gauze strips wrapped around his torso. “It’s not a journey of peace this time but one of great violence and sorrow for the Tsitsistas.

Tsitsistas - the Cheyenne. He nodded and released a drawn-out breath.

“Sweet Medicine’s prophecy has arrived. Though we have welcomed the white-eye with open arms, he’s like the fox, a trickster that smiles while stealing the hen from under your nose.”

Ethan glanced around the metal pen and decided her visit couldn’t have come at a better time. “I see many soldiers in my visions, and blood—endless blood.”

“You cannot change events.” Her voice a whisper, she closed her eyes for a moment, perhaps seeking the same visions. “If you accept the mission you’ll
save as many Cheyenne as possible.”

He paused and thought about the danger, but only for a second. “What else will the Sacred Council require of me this time?”

“You must resurrect your battle skills from past lives, lead them, and . . . .” Her voice faltered. “Cry with them in times of sorrow.”

He sensed she had more to say, but common courtesy and a lifetime of knowing Cheyenne custom compelled him to wait.

Stands-In-Light’s eyes took on an insightful gleam. “What else do you see while you chase dreams?

He saw her as clearly as the fingers on his hand. “A woman with hair the color of the magpie and eyes greener than pine needles.”

“Your visions reveal the truth.”

The significance of the metaphors hadn’t been revealed to him, but his journey to the past this time would be cataclysmic. He felt it with every
drop of blood in his veins, every breath passing through his lungs. “What of me? Will I be allowed to return to my life here?”

“You always have the choice, Ethan, but remember the decision must be made in the whisper of a breath.”
Her words struck a chord of sarcasm. “Before I die, you mean?”

She withdrew her crooked fingers from beneath the blanket with a solemn nod and handed him an object through the bars. He turned the familiar relic over in his hand—a time-honored whistle made from the wing bone of an eagle. The spirit of Maheo washed over him, like it always did when he communed with the People.

“They won’t know you’ve returned from the future.” She tucked the blanket securely about her shoulders. “The same as before.”

He wasn’t certain how it worked, but whenever he returned to the People, life picked up where it had left off. No one, not even the tribal holy man,
knew he’d been gone.

“Are you ready, I Am The Wind?” She glanced over her shoulder as if to confirm not a soul could hear their conversation. “The Sacred Council waits.”

“What of you?” He peered through the bars and followed her gaze. “What will you tell my jailers after I’m gone?”

“I’m not called Stands-In-Light without reason.” She shrugged. “I’ll be gone before they realize it.”

His thoughts shifted to the moments ahead. Soon he’d be standing in front of the Sacred Council. The usual formalities would play out, and then he’d
be asked if he’d accept. He knew he would. He always did.

Spreading his feet, he allowed his arms to fall at his sides and drew a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

She closed her eyes, lifted her face skyward and began the deep, reverent chant:

"I walk alone on the edge of time,
traveling far and near.
Born of the sun, kissed by the wind,
the call of the raven screams in my ear."

His vision blurred and the metal bars twisted, reminding him of slippery, silver cobras. Ribbons of scarlet and midnight black detonated behind his eyes before a rush of blood surged through his rain. The hammering began, slowly at first with a gradual scent to volatile. Fascination gripped him when his arms went numb and shifted into massive, black wings. Soon his spine launched into spasms, every beleaguered ligament and muscle stretching as if ripped from their vertebrae. The familiar burning in his chest spiraled up his throat, spreading outward like a white-hot flame.

The power of the raven to surged through his veins. He tumbled through a dark tunnel faster than a meteor falling from the sky, struggling to emerge
on the other side.

Brother to the open sky, ally to the distant sun, he’d soar above the clouds to where the rain is made.
* * *
Ethan stood before The Sacred Council of Arrows, acclimatizing his vision to the shattered fragments before him. Physically spent, his heart trying to
dispel the ventricular contractions, he fought to school his breathing. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d traveled through time, yet the
incredible impact it had on his body to revert from man to raven or vice versa still astounded him. To undergo the process twice in one day would tax his body beyond measure.

Drawing on endless hours of training, he collected his wits, mindful of the usual scents in the sacred burial ground--moldering, ancient smells of the
dead. With the exception of Stands-In-Light, the Council was an assembly of corpses resurrected from the grave to serve the People.

He stood along the Tongue River, like he had so many times in past lives. Present life too. For centuries the Tongue had wandered for miles through Montana and Wyoming, yet today, not one remnant of the Cheyenne’s sacred burial ground remained. Therein lay the beauty of meeting the Council here.

Seo’otse, dead spirits, sat on the ground before him. He studied each one individually: Vo’kaa’e, known in the white man’s tongue as White Lances;
Kâhamaxe, his Cheyenne name meaning The Stick; Wolf That Speaks, a dignified, mystical guide; Stands-In-Light, the High Priestess; and three others, The Pacer, Man-Who-Paints-His-Shirt-Black, and Whirlwind, the father of all ghostly souls. Not a time traveler among them, but prior tribal members empowered to send wanderers through time to help the People.

White Lances rose. “Ethan, Stands-In-Light summoned you, gave you the basics of the mission?”

“Yes, Vo’kaa’e.” Ethan shoved his trembling hands, a result of the transformation, into the pockets of his trousers. “If I accept, I’ll be sent back to a turbulent time, one of death and great sorrow.”

White Lances nodded.

“What messages do I carry this time?”

The Stick lifted his head, his obsidian eyes glinting beneath the crescent moon. “For one,
Black Kettle should move his village.”

Ethan had studied the history, knew impending tragedy hovered over Black Kettle’s camp. “It will be my honor to persuade him.”

“Battles will be waged, villages destroyed and the Dog Soldiers will retaliate.” The Pacer’s sorrowful voice drifted across the stagnant air.

“Many will die.” Ethan met the man’s eyes and saw the flicker of pain before he looked away.

“You will lead them, of course.” Man-Who-Paints-is-Shirt-Black offered a subtle smile.

“Perhaps it will relieve the pent up rage in your heart.”

“That brawl in the bar. I didn’t seek it.”

Black Shirt waved him off.

Her tone unrepentant, her chin resting in her hand, Stands-In-Light spoke. “The Council reminds you, a leader guides with a calm spirit, a commanding presence. If you are to guide the People through the chaos, it’s imperative you harness your fury until it calls out from the battlefield.”

“Yes, High Priestess.”

“You are a valued wanderer, “Whirlwind interjected. “It’s always our hope you return safe and sound.”
Ethan choked back a laugh, the reason behind the compliment clear. “So I’m alive to accept the next mission?”

Heads nodded in unison.

White Lances slumped to the ground. “Do you accept, I Am The Wind?”

“I do, Sacred Council.”

“Refresh an old man’s memory. What name do the People call you?”

His question came as no surprise. Kâhamaxe often forgot minor details. “Meko, noble one.”

“Ah, yes, the word for leader.” The man pinched his forehead as if to blame a headache for his forgetfulness. “You’re excused now, Meko.”

Ethan offered a deferential bow and turned to leave when Stands-In-Light’s austere voice stopped him. “We spoke earlier of dreams?”

“Dreams . . . yes.”

“Mind you don’t sacrifice the interests of the People to chase them.”

A warm, alien emotion crawled through his gut. “Yes, High Priestess.”

Ethan removed his hands from his pockets, clasped them behind his back and fixed his eyes on the invisible burial platforms. A unified chant rose in
the room, the same lament Stands-In-Light invoked while visiting him in jail. In short time, he’d be among the People in the sacred land of his ancestors, a Dog Soldier, the most revered warrior of the Cheyenne.

His last thought before leaving his present life concerned his prized garden. Who would water the flowers and herbs in his absence?


Chapter Two

Near Denver City
June, 1864

It rained last night. Warm air blowing over the Rockies from the Gulf of Mexico had conjured up a violent thunderstorm, rare for this part of the
country. Francesca Duvall missed the sound of rain dashing against her window. She missed New York. Four years ago, she’d bid a final, tearful farewell at her mother’s grave and steeled herself for the overland journey.

She hadn’t been able to dispel the gold fever consuming her father, LeGrande, or dissuade her brother Marshall, two years her junior, from the
wanderlust claiming their souls. Now their home stood along the Platte River near the mining camps of Charles City and Auraria in Colorado. A lonely life for a young woman of eighteen whose father insisted she dress like a boy.

“Miners are an unscrupulous lot,” her father often said. “They’ll slake their lust on the nearest woman while I’m panning for gold.”

She’d grown accustomed to binding her chest with strips of cotton fabric, donning a pair of Marsh’s old britches and one of his cotton shirts to camouflage her soft curves, but that didn’t mean she liked it. Her long, black hair tucked beneath an old straw hat completed the masquerade.

Everyone in camp believed the old widower Duvall broke his back day after day flashing for gold in Cherry Creek while his two motherless sons kept the
home fires burning.

Francesca cracked open six eggs and tossed them into the skillet next to a slab of bacon. Battling impatience, she walked onto the porch, cupped her
hand over her brow, and searched for Marsh across her father’s wheat field.

The scent of damp earth reached her nostrils and next, the enticing aroma of dew-kissed bluebells and prairie grass. The land was so eerily still, she
jumped from her skin when the hoarse trill of a raven in a nearby cottonwood split the air.

She scanned the flat windswept prairie and cupped a hand over her mouth to call out for Marsh. In the distance, black ribbons of smoke snaked skyward and scattered under the clear blue sky.

Cesca clasped a hand to her throat. Mrs. Peabody, their closest neighbor, insisted the day would finally come. “The Cheyenne and Arapahoe are on
the war path,” the woman had said. “Not all went willingly to the reservation, and now the country blazes with terror.”

Cesca’s father had agonized over the woman’s admonitions, threatened to abandon his claim and head back east. Shanghaied by an almighty lust for
gold, he dashed the notion the moment Mrs. Peabody had fled to safety.

The woman swore on the Good Book not a soul would survive. “Anyone with a whit of sense would flee. Gold or no gold.” True to her word, Elmira had taken flight last week in a buckboard, her jowls aflutter, her keen eyes wide and alert.

Her brother’s voice came to her now on the wings of panic. “Run, Cesca, run!”

He sprinted over a small knoll, his hand clasping his side. His sandy locks shone brilliant beneath the harsh rays of the morning sun. Terror struck his
blue eyes and Francesca felt the color drain from her face.

With fright choking her, Marsh pushed her into the cabin. He ran to the sideboard, pulled a derringer from the drawer and shoved it into her hand. “Through the bedroom window!” he shouted. “There’s little time!”

“Oh, Marsh!” Sobs cracked her voice. “We’re going to die!”

“No, Cesca!” He grabbed her arm and dragged her to the other side of the room. “You’ll live if you do exactly as I say.”

The pounding of hooves against the earth reached them, and next, the triumphant cries of banshees. Cesca peered through the open door and nearly crumbled. Riding well-muscled ponies, ten braves trampled through her father’s field. Their faces awash in hideous black, blue and yellow war paint, they advanced on the small cabin.

Marsh lifted the sash and pushed her through the open window. “Run as fast as you can to the river, hide in the tall grass.”

“Oh, please don’t ask me to leave you. Come with.”

“You must listen!” He grasped her shoulders through the open pane, his expression grim. “Do you know what they do to white women? Please, Cesca, go now!”

Through an open field she sprinted and glanced over her shoulder, stunned to see the invaders had already entered the house. Gunshots bounced off the trees. Papa’s rifle. Marsh would try to hold them off until she made it to the river. His face loomed before her—so innocent and brave. Agony gripped her heart. He’d forfeit his life so she might live. The thought that she’d never see him again tore at her innards.

In the pale light of morning, Francesca spied the tall prairie grass ahead, smelled the ashen waters of the river. A blue jay screeched from a low-hanging
branch as she passed, the derringer clutched in her hand. Thank God her father had taken the time to show her how to shoot. A single shot, that’s all that stood between her and death.

She remembered the acrid, black smoke and the direction from which it had come - Auraria, the miner’s camp. Her father must be dead too. Please,
God, don’t let them find me. Tall spikes rose to her hips and rustled against her twill pants as she threshed toward the river. A desperate desire to
survive coursed through her blood. She’d grab a hefty branch, float down the river so they couldn’t track her, would never find her.

Moments later, she emerged from the tall grass and her stomach lurched. On the opposite bank of the river stood the most frightening sight she’d ever laid eyes on.

She froze, her heart pounding in triple beats. Pewter eyes locked with hers and she uttered a low cry of fear. Grotesque war paint covered his face, and bloody scalps hung from his waist.

She was as good as dead.

Recovering her senses, she raised the derringer, her hands shaking like a rattler’s tail. “Don’t come near me! I know how to use this. Take one step and I’ll shoot.”

A flicker of admiration flashed in the gunmetal orbs. And something else. Oh, God, had he seen through her ruse, knew she wasn’t a boy? Her heart
sank.

Treading through the shallow water, he advanced and she retreated, tripping over her feet. She drew back on the trigger and fired. Morbid fascination gripped her when the bullet whirred by his head and carved out a shallow furrow along his temple. A stream of blood trickled from the wound and ran down his cheek. And what cheekbones they were. Every feature of his face was finely chiseled, reminding her of the savages in her father’s picture books.

She sprinted toward the marsh grass, only to be knocked to the ground when a rock-hard body struck her from behind. Crushed by the man’s weight, she clawed at the earth. Gritty sand and damp moss spiraled up her nose. Amid the white-hot pain in her ribs, she struggled to remain conscious. Her life depended on keeping her faculties.

Strong hands bound her hands behind her back before darkness found her.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Keta Diablo lives in the Midwest part of the country on six acres of beautiful woodland. When she isn’t writing, she loves to read, garden and spend time at her local animal shelter trying to wrangle a way to bring them all home.

You can visit Keta at the following sites on the Net:

www.ketadiablo.com

http://ketaskeep.blogspot.com

http://thestufofmythandmen.blogspot.com

Thank you for reading Where The Rain Is Made. I hope you enjoyed reading about the Cheyenne Dog Soldiers as much as I enjoyed writing about them. If you’d like to see a sequel to Where The Rain Is Made, please spread the word about how much you enjoyed the book. As always, thank you for your continued support and loyalty. Without fans and readers, my
incentive to continue writing would wan.

PURCHASE WHERE THE RAIN IS MADE HERE: $4.99 full length novel, http://tinyurl.com/37oepsy

Where The Rain Is Made was recently nominated for BEST BOOK OF THE MONTH at several well-known blogs and I happy to see we WON!

Watch Where The Rain Is Made Video Trailer here. You'll love the haunting music taken from a Native American album called Sacred Spirits.

http://www.youtube.com/user/KetaDiablo?feature=mhum

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 07.10.2010

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