Geller's Find

By Sandra Cox

It's summer break and Dr. Luke Geller, history professor and part-time archeologist, is in Nevada looking for potsherds. What he discovers is a portal in time.
Touching an ancient piece of Chiastolite crystal, the earth rumbles, the skies darken and the ground opens. He's hurled straight to the core of the earth then shot back up and spewed out.
When he stumbles to his feet, he finds himself where he began. Same, yet different. There are no winding roads. No parking lots. No cars. No town with bright lights in the distance. Only Lily Winter Tremaine, an angry young woman pointing a gun at him.
All thoughts of primitive pottery disappear as Luke finds himself fighting alongside three young women trying to hold onto their ranch against a dangerous scoundrel who intends to have the ranch by whatever means possible. Then there's the little fact that Luke's mightily attracted to the young woman he's working for. A woman old enough to be his great-great granny. And Miss Lily Winter Tremaine does not figure into any of tenured professor Luke Geller's lesson plans.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sandra Cox
• Release date: Jun 3, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227800084

Sandra Cox

Multi-published author Sandra Cox writes  YA Fantasy, Romance and Metaphysical Nonfiction. She lives in sunny North Carolina with her husband, a brood of critters and an occasional foster cat. Although shopping is high on the list, her greatest pleasure is sitting on her porch, listening to the birds, sipping coffee and enjoying a good book. She's a vegetarian and a Muay Thai enthusiast.

Book preview

All Things Western

By S. Cox

ThunderTree

Keeper Tyree

Sheriff Tyree

By Sandra Cox

Western Romance

Gwen Slade, Bounty Hunter

TumbleStar

Silverhills

Time Travel Western Romance

Montana Shootists

Sundial

Modern Day Shapeshifter Western Romance

Mateo’s Law

Mateo’s Blood Brother

AND MORE

Romantic Suspense with a touch of Paranormal

The Crystal

Paranormal Romance

Tall, Dark and Undead

Romantic Suspense

Queen of Diamonds

Young Adult Series

Mutants 

Love, Lattes, and Mutants

Love, Lattes, and Danger

Love, Lattes, and Angel

Young Adult

Ghost For Sale

Anthologies

Parallels: Felix Was Here

Backlist

Shardai

Akasha

Makita

Odin Cats

Miss Redmond’s Deception

Boji Stones

Rose Quartz

Flower Gardens and More

Minder

Black Opal

Retired

Sunset

Vampire Island

Moon Watchers

Vampire Bay

Power Stones

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Copyright © 2022 Sandra Cox

This book is a work of fiction and the characters are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, places, events or locales is coincidental or used in a fictitious manner; any reference to historical events, real locales or people is also used fictitiously. 

All rights are reserved.

Credit and thanks to

Beta Readers

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Proofer

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Editor

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IT Guru

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Dedicated to

The Blogger Buds

And

YOU, The Reader

Chapter 1

Luke Geller

Present Day

YES, MOM, I’M GOING digging.

Dr. Luke Geller’s eyebrows shot up at the agitated squawking on the other end of the phone. I wouldn’t call looking for potsherds from the Freemont Indians playing in the dirt. And yes, ma’am. I’m going to be gone for the summer. Wincing at the shrill tones coming through loud and clear, he took it off speaker.

Cell phone pressed between his ear and shoulder, Luke tossed a dingy walking sock into a worn, oversized duffle. He grabbed a leather medicine bag, a gift from a grateful shaman upon the return of tribal artifacts he’d discovered in central Texas, pulled the phone away from his ear and lifted the small pouch over his head, yanking out a couple of hairs that got tangled in the rawhide drawstring in the process.

Then he pushed a twelve-inch curved throwing stick into a belt loop. The stick would have to go into the duffle and the duffle checked in when he got to the airport. The throwing stick wasn’t as lethal as a gun, but it could certainly disarm an assailant.

Still missing a sock, he stuck his head under the bed. The culprit lay just out of reach, next to a dust bunny. He flopped on his belly then stretched out fingers till he grasped it.

He bit back a curse as he hit his head on the edge of the bed while crawling back out.

How will I get hold of you? his mother all but wailed. Half the time you don’t have any bars when you are out in the middle of nowhere.

If you need anything, and can’t reach me, call Dickie. Rubbing his head at the spot that had made contact with the edge of the bed. He loved his ditzy mother. His pompous banker brother, not so much.

But I’ll never see you, she wailed again.

Mom. I’m in Philly. You’re in Miami. We don’t see each other very much now.

And whose fault is that?

Here we go. Mine. All mine.

Dickie—

Don’t say it, Mom.

Would be more than happy to give you a nice job at the bank here in Florida.

She said it.

Where are you going again?

West.

That’s rather vague.

Nevada. Maybe Utah and Wyoming.

For three months?

Just under. I’ll need to be back August 1 to prep for classes.

Well, I hope you find some nice rocks for your little artifacts room.

The tenured history professor, and sometimes archeologist, of the small prestigious Fenning College blinked to hear one of the finest Native-American artifacts collection in the country referred to as little rocks.

Uh. Yeah, Mom.

A horn blared.

Got to go. My ride’s here. If you need anything call Darling Dickie.

Luke, that’s no way to refer to your brother.

Love ya, Mom. Bye. He disconnected, tossed on a backpack, threw his well-worn duffle over his shoulder and galloped down the narrow stairs to the first floor of the brownstone he lived in. He took one look around a living room crammed with artifacts and books, shut the door behind him and loped to the car idling at the curb.

Chapter 2

"Giizhigong ." As the sun warmed his shoulders, Luke murmured the Ojibwe word for paradise.

A comfortable breeze ruffled his disheveled, medium-length hair as he hiked through the raw, majestic Great Basin. Strawberry Creek, a bright ribbon of azure, twined through the valley far below. A sky so blue it made his breath catch and conifers so spiky and green he could smell them kept him in place, taking it all in.

Tearing his gaze away, he glanced at his watch. Ten o’clock. He’d spend the rest of the day hiking then drive back to Baker.

Diamond-bright, a ray of sunlight bounced and glittered off a juniper tree on a craggy outcrop above and to his right, blinding him. Then disappeared.

Intrigued, his head lifted. A ripple ran under his skin along with a familiar surge of excitement. He always got twitchy before a find. He’d had that skin ripple when he’d found a cradleboard with an umbilical pillow. And he’d had it again just before he found a petroglyph and later a frog vessel.

Something had caused that bright spark of light. Something that beckoned him, pulled at him. And he never ignored the pull, the flutter under the skin.

He hiked forward. Could be something. Could be nothing. But his gut shouted it was something. Trees didn’t glitter. Still...

Shoulders hunched forward, he trekked up, his gaze on the tree that continued to catch the sun. He stumbled on a rock, cursed, and righted himself then looked for toe-holds and outcroppings to grasp as the ground fell away and the incline grew steep. The trees along the side were gone leaving clusters of rock and boulders and patches of dusty ground.

The sun drifted behind a linen-white cloud. The flash didn’t reappear. Regardless, his curiosity, already aroused, wouldn’t be quenched till he took a good look around.

Cautiously, he climbed straight up, digging in his heels and clutching jutting rocks. Finally, he pulled himself up to solid ground. Standing, he zeroed in on the juniper.

Dead branches crunched under his feet as he hiked up the hill. He stepped on a pine cone and the spicy sweet scent rose to meet him. He breathed deep. No trace of smog in the air. He’d missed this in the past nine months. Down below, an occasional car zipped by on the distant road. A dot of silver, a few yards away, showed where his rental was parked. A blue truck and two white cars angled alongside.

Four long-legged strides carried him to the juniper tree, gnarled with age, a seam in its center like two trees that had grown together. The bent conifer flanked by tall straight pines, reminiscent of warriors guarding a misshapen king.

He shaded his eyes and walked around the tree, studying it.

Nothing.

His stomach gave a roll of disappointment and he gave one last look around.

Nothing there. Just an aberration and his imagination.

He backtracked a couple of steps, loosening a rock that bounced and rolled down the hillside, and started back down.

A ripple traveled across his shoulders.  No, by gad, he still had a twitch. There was just something about that tree. He whirled on a worn boot heel and stared at the gnarled juniper that looked like it was covered in layered tumors and split in the center.

The sun floated out from the fat fluffy cloud. Once again, he saw a flash as if the traveling sun collided with a shiny object.  Determined, he strode back, studied the tree and ran his hand over rough, gray bark.

Nothing.

He reached higher. Again nothing. Then reached to the side of the tree and did the same, and cursed when a small piece of bark stuck in his thumb.

He stalked around the tree till he stood on the edge of the ledge looking down at the winding sparkling blue creek and the occasional car far below zigzagging in the distance. He turned his attention back to the tree. His gaze traveled over it then back. He took two steps to the side as the sun once again flashed off—something. He got closer. His pulse picked up and sounded in his ears.

He leaned forward for a closer look. His pulse quickened and his lips quirked in a smile. Well, I’ll be damned. Inside one of the tree’s tumors, blending with the rough, dark bark, was an antique rifle. It looked like someone had leaned it against the tree and it had sunk into the tumor.

He reached for it, excitement coursing through him—along with a hot rush of blood through his veins—and pulled it out. The barrel cool and grainy with flecks of dirt, except for a warm spot where the sun struck and reflected.

Hello, sweetheart. A .44-40 caliber 1873 Winchester rifle. He ran his hand over it. The gesture reverent. He brushed off the loose dirt, caressing the barrel as he would a lover. The rifle had been well cared for.

If you discounted the antiques he occasionally collected, he wasn’t a gun owner. Felt if people settled their differences face to face, and with their fists if it came to it, there’d be a whole lot more folks alive today. Didn’t mean he didn’t know how to use one, just considered it a last resort.

The sun hit it again and flashed off the blue steel barrel. Gunlight, he thought absently. What he held, more history than weapon. He rubbed it against his pants, getting off more dirt. His students would love it. Not to mention Denny, the department head. Not his best find, but a damn good one nonetheless.

Crack. He jumped. He hadn’t touched the trigger. The shot-like sound came from the sky. The sunlight gone, replaced by darkening clouds, ominous, eerie.

Goosebumps rose. He shrugged them off, more interested in the gun.

He stepped away from the ledge and drop off. He didn’t want to lose his footing and go flying over the edge or drop the gun over it.

His phone gave a sharp buzz, causing him to jerk. He was surprised he’d even gotten a bar up here. Still holding the gun, he shrugged out of his green canvas backpack where his phone rested along with a first aid kit, bottles of water, power bars and other necessities.

He stepped back putting his heel firmly on the slice of mountain covered with tall grey and brown rock rising upward. He leaned against a sharp-edged stone lodged among the smoother boulders. A shiv-like, jagged edge stuck him, stinging, breaking the skin, causing him to drop the backpack.

Dammit.

His heels caught in a patch of fuzzy green and gray weeds. Buried in their center was a large piece of chiastolite. Ancient markings all but obliterating the standard graphite cross that long ago was used to ward off evil. The hair on the back of his neck rose and his nerves twitched. He’d never seen anything like that rock before. He nudged it with his foot. When it didn’t budge, he bent to pick it up.

The ground under his feet trembled.

The chiastolite glowed. The markings shimmered.

What the hell?

He flapped his arms, trying to balance himself as the ground dropped an inch.  A perfect circle below his feet gave way.  The stone stayed in place.

He fell into a mineral cylinder.

The bottom dropped.

His stomach flopped and he swirled down. 

The wind whistled in his ears as he tumbled into a deep hole that went on forever. The chill in the air fell away. The further down he went, the hotter the air. The rocks around him glowed. Good God. Either he was heading for hell or the earth’s core and neither was where he wanted to be. His grip on the rifle tightened as he bounced off the hot stones that closed around him as he whirled in a tube of rock.

Time had no meaning. Seconds, minutes, maybe more passed as the cyclone of air spun him around. His stomach pushed up to his throat and he fought off nausea.

With a scraping sound, the spinning lurched to a stop.

Then as if an elevator button was punched, he started upward. Only unlike an elevator there was no floor, just rough rock gravity glued him against.

Up. Up. Up. Faster and faster. Then momentum stopped. His body quivered. A force thrust upward and opened.

He dropped.

Hard earth rose to meet him.

With a thud, he landed.

The air knocked out of him, he balanced on his hands and knees not sure if he was alive or dead. The rifle still in his white-knuckled grip.  He wasn’t even sure if he could open his hand to let it go.

Since every bone in his body wept, he must be alive. His flopping stomach pushed upward and he hurled up a power bar he’d wolfed down earlier.

Cold and clammy, breathing hard, he leaned back against the mountain and looked around.

He was back on the ledge where he’d found the rifle. What the hell had just happened? One minute he was backing up from the ledge, gun in hand, the next blown off his feet, the ground falling away and carrying him down toward the earth’s core, only to reverse course and shoot him back up where he’d started.

It had to be the chiastolite, but he was damned if he had any plans to examine it up close and personal again. Still...

The clouds dissipated like they’d never been and the sun beat down, warming his aching shoulders and drying his clammy skin. For a moment, he closed his eyes and turned his face upward, seeking warmth. Comfort.

He’d traveled a lot in the past ten years, encountering things that bordered on the supernatural, but he’d never encountered anything like this. He needed to talk to a meteorologist. Luckily, he knew a good one. He’d give him a call once he had a moment to write down his thoughts and get them in chronological order, study his surroundings.  Even though he had no intention of touching that ancient stone, he could get some good pictures of it with his phone. Study them. Share them with other archeologists.

He looked around. Where was his backpack he’d dropped?

His lips tugged up. Whatever just happened, he still had the rifle. Well, better get to it. With a groan, he pushed to his feet trying to regain his equilibrium. As a kid, he’d always thrown up on carnie rides and this was the wildest ride he’d ever been on.

He took a couple of steps forward and glanced down. Goose bumps roughened his skin as a chill coursed down his backbone. No cars, including his rental, gleamed against the landscape. Hell, he didn’t even see a road. 

A sound to his left, had him whirling, ignoring the ground that still had a tendency to spin.

A gun-hammer clicked. Loud in the quiet.

Chapter 3

Lily Winter Tremaine

1882

WHAT ARE YOU DOING with my rifle? Her heart thumping, her temper on the rise, Lily Winter Tremaine pointed her six-gun at the stranger’s belly.

Yours? I found it. His shoulders drew back and he straightened. Gray eyes turned flinty and a square chin shot up in a pugnacious manner. Dust coated a lean, hard body. He wore a worn gray shirt with long sleeves and no buttons, and boots that weren’t made for riding. Strangest of all a curved piece of wood hung on his beltloop.

Give. Me. My. Rifle. Her pulse picked up, but her hands remained steady, ready for anything.

Nope. His chin went up even further if that was possible.

"If you think because I’m a woman, I won’t shoot