Angels Gorge

By R.B. Ashton

Welcome to the frontier town of Angels Gorge, where the women are in charge.

 

Izabel and Billie are looking for a new life where their proclivities are accepted. The fabled mining community of Angels Gorge promises to be that place. They say women walk freely there. No one tells them what to do.

 

But these newcomers are about to discover why.

 

When Billie crosses the wrong person and exposes the town's size-warping powers, freedom is the last thing on the cards.

 

It's up to mild-mannered Izabel to get her partner back, and standing up to these cowgirls might prove a tall order.

 

Step inside a Wild West adventure with a lot of character, a dose of drama and a few shots of horror, in a world where shrinking and giantesses make six-shooters obsolete! Read Angels Gorge today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Neringa Press
• Release date: May 7, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224062621

Book preview

1

ANGELS GORGE, IZABEL read the sign through the window as they rolled by. The carriage rattled over big stones, the way getting more uneven as it wound down the slope towards the settlement. Do you think they forgot to add an apostrophe?

Forgot, didn’t know better or didn’t care, her companion, Billie Chase, replied with little interest from the other end of the bench. Billie leaned into her window, squinting suspiciously at the approaching town. She was lean and dressed like a cowboy in rough denim pants and a thick leather vest, tatty bowler hat pulled down low on short straw-like hair that barely reached to her neck. Her accent was hard and her manner tough, but Billie offset that almost masculine energy with soft skin, a small, slightly upturned nose and pink lips that Izabel found herself staring at far too often. It made her blush in polite company, and had caused more than a few complications, but coming into the fabled Angels Gorge they had hopes of putting that behind them.

There were plenty of new townships and communities spread across the frontier territories that boasted more freedom than back east; more freedom than anywhere, so they said. But Angels Gorge had developed a particularly curious reputation, one that many brushed off as myth and fantasy. For starters, they said the town had a female mayor. More than that, a female sheriff and, reportedly, a mostly female population. How this came to be was the cause of much speculation, though the prominent theory was that this isolated town, built by a creak as a mining station, might’ve lost its menfolk in raids from bandits or natives, and the women had taken ownership by default. They hadn’t ever sent for aid or reported particular trouble, though, which led others to believe the women themselves had done away with the men – but likewise, there weren’t people running to the law over that, either.

Izabel believed it was just a place where women had happened to have a go of it and done well, proving they maybe didn’t always need men in charge. After all, it also had a reputation as a fun way station, where cowboys had reported to have spent some unbelievable good nights. Billie preferred to go with that murdering-menfolk theory – but either way suited her. The point was they weren’t going to be judged over being whoever they wanted to be, once they got there.

It looked promising enough as they rolled into town, the buildings aglow under the night sky, nestled into a horseshoe of canyon walls. A wide, dusty main street separated two flanks of two- or three-storey wooden buildings, most complete with slanted roofs, pillared porches and balconies. They were joined by plank walkways, and generously lit inside. Colourfully painted signs hung over entrances indicating a general store, the sheriff’s office and a barber, and a handful of people were out walking between them – women in big flowing dresses, men in shirts and denims too. Well-presented as it all seemed, though their driver Hogan grunted that they had some rough terrain ahead, and the carriage rattled through some especially big divots in the ground, the place apparently not quite perfect.

The biggest draw to the eye was one of the most extravagant saloons Izabel had laid eyes on, a centrepiece at the end of the road, as though the journey all the way from New York was designed to take you to this one destination. The saloon stood four storeys high, wide as three houses and was decorated with latticed windows lit yellow from inside. The entrance was over-large, fitting to its imposing nature – wide and tall enough to fit their two horses and carriage, if they were inclined to ride in.

Hogan, driving up front, whistled and called out that it was a mighty building to be left to a town of women, as he brought the carriage to a halt. Izabel and Billie got out while he hitched the horses, both of them craning to look up at the impressive structure. Piano music, loud talk and laughter rang out.  A great wooden board stood on the porch, the saloon’s name delicately painted in huge white letters: Big Val’s House.

Big is right, Billie murmured, hiking up her gun belt as she walked towards the doors. She looked back up the main street and noted, Don’t seem to have anyone on lookout here, guess guns are allowed.

Guess so, Hogan agreed, taking his rifle down from the shelf of the stagecoach where he’d been sitting. He was a large, bearded man in a navy three-piece suit and top hat, their travelling companion for three weeks now – since Izabel had hired him to keep a low profile. Billie hadn’t been happy about the idea, but most people assumed he was the husband and Billie the hired help, with no questions asked. He plodded up past them, rifle against one shoulder and canvas pack slung over the other, ready to lead like usual – but Billie put a hand out to stop him.

Not here, she said, and went in ahead. Izabel smiled proudly and followed. They entered a room as grand as the exterior promised: tables for drinking and cards stretched off to the left, with a long bar lining the wall on the right, drinks bottles stacked behind it. A wide staircase rose up the middle, meeting a balcony with a corridor and doors off it, and a stage sat down beside it, where the piano was, accompanied by three dancing girls throwing high kicks while men and women clapped and cheered them on.

It wasn’t all women, but they were certainly in the majority, with voluminous dresses spilling over seats and tables, the higher pitch of their talk and laughter giving the atmosphere a lighter tinge than the average saloon. They were raucous as anyone though, thrusting about tankards of alcohol, hunched over cards, some even strapped with pistols and bullet belts.

As the trio took it all in, a woman peeled herself off from the bar to come over, dressed in brown leather pants, tall cowboy boots and a tight, lined shirt and vest that pushed up her chest, where sat a shiny silver star. She offered a smile as she approached, a pretty smile on a sharp face, pointed nose and sly eyes under a wide-brimmed hat, wavy dirty blond hair spilling out down over her shoulders.

Y’all just arrived? she said with a southern drawl. I’m Sheriff Nat Tacket; let me be the first to welcome you to Angels Gorge.

Billie stiffened, a hand going to her gun with concern she’d have to hand it over. Izabel was momentarily struck by the sheriff’s beauty – by the beauty of this entire saloon, and the town itself. She forced out a croaky response, Pleasure to meet you.

Now don’t you worry about that. Nat nodded to Billie’s gun. It makes you feel safer, feel free to carry; we’re not scared of guns round here.

Obliged, Billie murmured back.

Quite a place, Hogan said. Not sure I ever saw so many fine women gathered so close together like this.

Well, sure, we’re special, Nat said. Y’all planning on staying or just passing through?

We wouldn’t like to presume, Izabel said, but we heard wonderful things about your town. We’ve got skills that I think could be valuable. I was educated in London and Billie here –

Alright, alright, I don’t need no resume. Nat laughed and gave her a companionable pat on the shoulder. Come on have a drink, first one’s on me.

Izabel smiled and Hogan immediately padded towards the bar, but Billie lingered, eyes roaming towards a poker table. Of course she’d be drawn there right away; half the places they went didn’t take to women playing cards, but there was only one man at the table here. Izabel said, You go have fun. We’ve earned it, haven’t we?

Billie gave her a questioning, thankful look, then pecked her cheek, a test in front of this crowd who weren’t paying attention. As Billie dashed off, Izabel saw the sheriff was watching, with an amused look.

You are definitely welcome here, Nat said, and warmth filled Izabel.

She joined the sheriff at the bar for a light beer, which was admittedly more bitter than she liked, but she was game for new experiences. Hogan knocked back some whisky and plodded over to the stage where the more party-goers were gathered, without a word of goodbye. He started chatting with a couple of women in corsets and tops that showed off bulging cleavages.

What’s his business here, then? Nat asked.

He’ll likely move on, Izabel said, able to be honest about it at last. He was our escort, but he doesn’t strike me as the sort to settle down. Least likely somewhere with women in charge.

Nat raised an eyebrow for more, but Izabel was too taken by the place to