Wyatt should've looked ridiculous sitting on the floor, leaning into the crate making kissykiss noises at the cat, but he didn't. He looked ... mouthwatering. 'Hey, sweet thing, ' he said in a low cajoling voice. 'Come on out. I'll gonna love you up, I promise. You know you want some of that.' 'Oh, please, ' Emily said on a laugh to cover up the fact that her bones melted at the sound of him. 'That's never going to work-' But hell if the cat didn't shift ever so slightly closer to Wyatt and sniff at him. Wyatt flashed both Sweetie and Emily a smile. 'Aw, that's it, ' he crooned to the suspicious, wary cat. 'Come on, baby girl, all the way. I'll be good to you, I promise.' Emily laughed again, even as she felt her nipples tighten. She crossed her arms over her chest. 'Honestly, Wyatt, no selfrespecting female - cat or woman - is going to-
I worried I would miss it, and I knew, from losing Wyatt, that things happen the moment the soul is released. Wyatt had been there in the school, watching me, making sure I survived. Souls linger... they do. They linger a bit before they turn toward eternity. It could be that no matter how perfect their future will be, the past still tugs for a moment.
Laura Anderson Kurk
Wyatt knew with absolute conviction Clay didn't mean it. They didn't suffer through two very painful concussions together to walk the other way once they'd healed up. Those were battle wounds. It was like surviving a war together. Wyatt just chose to forget they'd been on opposing sides. He knew Clay was supposed to be his best friend. It felt like destiny. Just like he knew he was supposed to grow up, be sheriff, and marry Tabitha McMillen.
Leif's frown eased and he slid his finger under my chin and gently caressed my jaw line with the pad of his thumb. "Pagan,will you do me the honor of being my date for Homecoming Dance?The prospect of not being able to hold you in my arms all night is heartbreaking." Mirand sighed from across the table. "Okay,that was beautiful.Why didn't you ask me like that?"she asked Wyatt. Wyatt shot Leif an annoyed frown. "Thanks,buddy.Next time you decide to break out your romantic side,could you do it alone?
Is it time for your period, or something?" With unerring instinct, he'd found a great big red button, and pushed it. Wyatt fights to win, which means he fights dirty. I understand the concept because that's how I fight, too, but understanding it didn't stop me from reacting. I could practically feel my blood bubbling with steam. "What?" He turned around, all controlled aggression, and damned if he didn't push the button again. "What is it about having a period that makes women so bitchy?"... It was an effort, but I said as sweetly as possible, "It isn't that we're bitchier, it's that having a period makes us feel all tired and achy, so we have less tolerance for all the bullshit we normally SUFFER IN SILENCE." By the time the sentence ended the sweetness was long gone, my jaw was clenched, and I think my eyes were bugging out. Wyatt took a step back, belatedly looking alarmed.
Iris arched her back, pushing her breast farther into Wyatt's hungry mouth. Water from the giant marble-tiled hotel shower rushed down over them, the sound of it hitting the glass door seeming loud in the enclosure. He lightly pressed down with his teeth and tugged her nipple, sending a pulsing sweep of need through her. The man was too talented with his tongue.
Wyatt Earp had been born, and born again, and now there would be a third life, for the iron fist that had seized his soul in childhood had lost its grip at last. The long struggle for control was over, and in its place, he found a wordless acceptance of a truth he'd always known. He was bred to this anger. It had been in him since the cradle. He'd never bullied neighbors or beaten a horse. He'd never punched the front teeth out of a six-year-old's mouth or hit a woman until she begged. But he was no better than his father, and never had been. He was far, far worse.
Mary Doria Russell
The world does not have a voice of its own. It can't tell you what it wants, what it needs. But it's yearning for something to point it in the right direction. A savior, perhaps. Save us, Chris! You must forgive me. Where have my manners gone. I don't think I've had a chance to formerly introduce myself. You may call me Bray Wyatt. But I have a thousand faces and a million names. Seducer, accuser, destroyer. I am the color red in a world full of black and white, and if you value your ability to breathe, don't get too close. Save us, Chris. Save yourself.
In Colma, a suburb of San Francisco, California there's a proposal pending to tax . . . the dead. If proponents get their way, grave sites will be taxed $5 dollars - per grave, per year - for eternity. In Colma the dead outnumber the living by a ratio of roughly 1000-to-1, including such notables as: Wyatt Earp, Levi Strauss, and William Randolph Hearst. And they, apparently, haven't paid their fair share. For liberals, when it comes to taxes . . . nothing is sacred.
A high-pitched sound, like steam escaping from a kettle whistles through the dark room. But nobody's making tea. We both turn toward the source of the eerie noise. A weak stream of unearthly light seeps through the window near the corner of the room and pours onto the floor. Its consistency seems to lie somewhere between a liquid and a solid, like mercury, only blue. Out of the gleaming, wobbly puddle, a phosphorescent vapor rises up. The ghost we thought was Daniel materializes and looms over us for two seconds before he lunges and wraps his hands around Wyatt's neck.
I began praying for the health and safety of my boys before each one was born. Once a week for two years prior to Joseph's death, I also gathered with other moms to pray for my sons and their schools, and I specifically asked God to protect the health and safety of Joseph, Curt, and Wyatt. My prayers were not answered the way I had hoped. Despite countless prayers for Joseph to be safe, God said no. His plan remains a mystery. I have had to accept that mystery and trust Him in the dark.
The Peacemaker Colt has now been in production, without change in design, for a century. Buy one to-day and it would be indistinguishable from the one Wyatt Earp wore when he was the Marshal of Dodge City. It is the oldest hand-gun in the world, without question the most famous and, if efficiency in its designated task of maiming and killing be taken as criterion of its worth, then it is also probably the best hand-gun ever made. It is no light thing, it is true, to be wounded by some of the Peacemaker's more highly esteemed competitors, such as the Luger or Mauser: but the high-velocity, narrow-calibre, steel-cased shell from either of those just goes straight through you, leaving a small neat hole in its wake and spending the bulk of its energy on the distant landscape whereas the large and unjacketed soft-nosed lead bullet from the Colt mushrooms on impact, tearing and smashing bone and muscle and tissue as it goes and expending all its energy on you. In short when a Peacemaker's bullet hits you in, say, the leg, you don't curse, step into shelter, roll and light a cigarette one-handed then smartly shoot your assailant between the eyes. When a Peacemaker bullet hits your leg you fall to the ground unconscious, and if it hits the thigh-bone and you are lucky enough to survive the torn arteries and shock, then you will never walk again without crutches because a totally disintegrated femur leaves the surgeon with no option but to cut your leg off. And so I stood absolutely motionless, not breathing, for the Peacemaker Colt that had prompted this unpleasant train of thought was pointed directly at my right thigh. Another thing about the Peacemaker: because of the very heavy and varying trigger pressure required to operate the semi-automatic mechanism, it can be wildly inaccurate unless held in a strong and steady hand. There was no such hope here. The hand that held the Colt, the hand that lay so lightly yet purposefully on the radio-operator's table, was the steadiest hand I've ever seen. It was literally motionless. I could see the hand very clearly. The light in the radio cabin was very dim, the rheostat of the angled table lamp had been turned down until only a faint pool of yellow fell on the scratched metal of the table, cutting the arm off at the cuff, but the hand was very clear. Rock-steady, the gun could have lain no quieter in the marbled hand of a statue. Beyond the pool of light I could half sense, half see the dark outline of a figure leaning back against the bulkhead, head slightly tilted to one side, the white gleam of unwinking eyes under the peak of a hat. My eyes went back to the hand. The angle of the Colt hadn't varied by a fraction of a degree. Unconsciously, almost, I braced my right leg to meet the impending shock. Defensively, this was a very good move, about as useful as holding up a sheet of newspaper in front of me. I wished to God that Colonel Sam Colt had gone in for inventing something else, something useful, like safety-pins.