Wednesday, December 7, 2016


That's right, I built a new website (it's still at but it's really a robust site with a lot of great content and easy to use) and it houses my blog now. SO...if you are looking for newer blog entries, head on over to THIS LINK and see what is going on!

If that doesn't work, just copy/paste this into your browser window:

There is also a link on the new website that lists ALL of my Magical Words come on over to the new site and find gateways to the new SKYE site, info on my new short stories that are out, as well as info on what I'm currently working on AND what is coming out next.

Thanks so much for reading and I look forward to you finding me at the new location!


Tamsin :)

P.S. There is also a link on the new website that lists ALL of my Magical Words come on over to the new site and find gateways to the new SKYE site, info on my new short stories that are out, as well as info on what I'm currently working on AND what is coming out next!

Wednesday, September 21, 2016

Ready to Pass the Torch

Ready to Pass the Torch
(Concept character for Lawless Lands, the second anthology in the Weird Wild West Anthology):

I fell in love with New Mexico the minute my boots stepped onto her land. Mountains of rock and brush divinely placed in such a way that snaking shadows slithered across the dry landscape as the sun rose and set. The air was crisp and clean, filled with the smell of fruit tree blossoms and the sound of running water. Land so open you could see for miles. Blue skies, sunshine, and clouds so beautiful, they held a power all their own.

The Territory's terrain changed often. One moment it was flat, but then it would roll, reminding me of how the ocean moves when you’re far out at sea with no land in sight. Those waves of earth would change; clump up into small, green, connected hills, like a pile of dimpled potatoes. Soon they’d shoot skyward again and the mountains would go from beige rocks dappled with green bushes to suddenly being covered in tall pine trees so old they likely had been there since Adam and Eve messed it all up for the rest of us.


To the southwest there’s land of black lava. To the southeast there’s land of white sand. In between them is grassland perfect for cattle and cowboys to roam and for families to make a home where they could farm the land and live how they wished. It warmed a part of me that had long been dormant and cold. For I've been an orphan, a servant, a Puritan, a pilgrim, an adventurer, and an assassin. I've been called a savior by some and the devil by others. To be honest, I’m all those things, hoping that when my time comes, I cross over clean to see my family once again…for I’m lonely. 270 years is a long time to fight for your soul and save others. I’m ready to go home. I’m ready to pass the torch.


Elias P. Story (1873)

Thursday, February 18, 2016

In honor of the death of John H. Tunstall, who died today at 5:30pm MST, in what is now Tinnie, NM, I give you a snippet from my short story, The Curse of Scáthach, that takes you through his murder that fateful evening...

For more about what lead up to this and what happens next, tune in to the Facebook page for the full novel version of this short, entitled, The Curse of Billy the Kid.


P.S. You can leave virtual flowers at Tunstall's online gravesite by going HERE.


February 18, 1878

The thunderous echo of approaching horsemen interrupted the leisurely quiet of the canyon. Gunfire erupted behind Middleton and me, so we spun about to see a large posse of Dolan’s men on horseback comin’ at us, guns a’blazin’. Looking ahead, for we were at the back of the travelin’ party, I noted the other three of our group had just gone over the brow of the next hill. They couldn’t see the trouble comin’ our way.

“Hey-ah!” I yelled, slammin’ my heels into my horse’s sides. We raced through the newly fallen snow, past the horses we were movin’ to town, and toward Brewer, Widenmann, and our boss, John Tunstall. We needed to warn them.

Once over the hill, we noted that Widenmann and Brewer were off the trail to the left a ways. Making a split second decision, I rode toward them and Middleton headed to warn Tunstall.

As I rode I heard Middleton shout, “For God’s sake, follow me!”

As I came up on Brewer, Widenmann yelled out, “We can’t hold this place! Let’s ride to the hill over there and make a stand!”

With no time to argue, we rode toward an area covered with tall timber and large boulders, and I assumed Middleton and Tunstall were right behind us. Yet, as Middleton joined us, he was alone.

“Where’s Tunstall?” I said, panic squeezing my chest tight.

John Tunstall was the one they were after. Jimmy Dolan was out for blood ever since John posted that letter in the Mesilla Valley Independent, exposing Dolan and his pals as the real crooks of Lincoln County.

Middleton spoke up. “I yelled for him to follow. He rode in a circle and I motioned him to follow me. As soon as he started toward me I headed here. Maybe he didn’t hear me?”

“Or he didn’t want to hear you,” I clarified, “Damn it, John, you can’t talk your way out of this one!”

“What?” Middleton asked.

“Not you, the other John. We really need to give you a new first name,” I said before looking to Tunstall’s Cattle Foreman, Richard “Dick” Brewer. “Tunstall thinks he can surrender and fight this in court.”

“Dodgasted! They’ll kill him, Will,” Dick replied, his voice strained and his eyes filled with worry.

“Let’s lay down some cover fire and get him outta there!” Rob Widenmann, Tunstall’s best friend, suggested.

Dick’s eyes swiftly scanned the area, which was no more than vast, unsettled land, filled with nothin’ but brush and trees surrounded by mountains covered in snow. We were well hidden, but that caused another problem.

“Will, you’re the smallest. Can you climb?”

I nodded, dismounted, and reluctantly handed the reins to Middleton. I’d have preferred to ride out there and take a shot at them myself, but I understood what Brewer was aimin’ for. Besides, at five-foot-eight and only a hundred and thirty-five pounds, I was the best option for giving us eyes to what was goin’ on the other side of the hill.

Spotting a good tree, I started up. Halfway there, an eerie silence filled my ears like water and a rifle shot echoed off the canyon walls. I came to a halt as dread slammed into my gut.

“Oh, God,” Middleton said, “They’ve killed Tunstall.”

I prayed he was wrong and scaled the tree as fast as I could. Once high enough, the scene before me froze the air in my lungs. John Tunstall, a man I looked up to, lay on the ground next to his horse, not moving, his left cheek buried in the snow.

The group of twenty or so men had now split into three sections. Most were back a few hundred yards while four men rounded up our small herd of horses, leaving just three men on horseback looming over John’s body. I recognized them as Billy “Buck” Morton, Tom Hill, and the dangerous outlaw I used to ride with, Jessie Evans.

Buck Morton’s rifle was still in firing position as Hill dismounted, snatched up Tunstall’s revolver, and fired a bullet into John’s head before killing his horse the same way. He then placed John’s hat on the dead horse’s head and remounted as Morton shouted orders to his men who rounded up our horses.

Eyes wide and jaw clenched, my soul felt cold to the core while my blood was as hot as a smithy’s furnace. Drenched in a need for revenge, I shook with rage, gripping the tree with all my might to keep me from grabbin’ my gun then and there. I was on the brink of losin’ it, when Brewer appeared below me. He wanted answers I didn’t want to give.

Swallowing the pain, I climbed down and gave the news. Widenmann went off his rocker. It took both Brewer and Middleton to stop him from ridin’ out there and gettin’ himself killed.

“There’s too many,” I told him as the other two held him tight. “You know me. I’m the first to jump into the fray, Rob, but now ain’t the time. Not if we want to live to see them bastards pay.”

Since Dolan’s men had moved Tunstall and his horse somewhere none of us saw, we waited for the safety the dark of night provided, and then rode for town. Widenmann had Brewer and Middleton divert to John Newcomb’s farm to get help finding Tunstall’s body while he and I headed straight to Lincoln.

 The whole ride I tried not to think on how I’d left John’s dead body lying in the snow somewhere. I may not have had much in common with the twenty-four year old British businessman, but I respected him, and I didn’t think highly of many people.

Since my momma died and my stepfather abandoned me and my brother, I’d not felt a part of anything. On the run and alone, I’d been unable to find where I belonged until John had gotten me out of jail and given me a job. He’d believed in me and given me the family I desperately needed. For that alone, I vowed that anyone involved in his murder would die at my hand.

------------------Read more of the short story by going to my WEBSITE, clicking on The Curse of Scáthach, and buying it for 99c on the site of your choice. OR...go LIKE the fan page for the book and get a FREE copy tomorrow in honor of Dick Brewer's heavenly birthday if the page reaches 100 Likes! :) ------------------