Chapter One
The snow was so white, and the sky so dark that the entire world seemed to glow. Clayton Barley, astride his horse, plodded through the thick blanket of snow that swathed the Wyoming mountainside. His iron-gray stallion Whiskey had a temper as volatile as a prairie storm. Coming to the peak of the next hill, he snorted, clicking his hooves in the beginnings of a tantrum.
Clay tugged the reins. “Move.”
The trees, naked and shivering, stood sentry in the cold, their skeletal branches clawing at the gray winter sky. An eerie quiet had settled over the wilderness, disturbed only by the creaking of frozen branches and snow crunching under Whiskey’s hooves.
This land was something like a home to him. He was home. He had to remind himself of that. Clay was only a few hours’ ride from his birthplace, yet, he felt no warm feeling for this place. His soul knew nothing of this land. In his heart, Clay was far away from home and further still from the boy who had been raised in this bitter cold.
Clay had not returned to his little shack on the periphery of town for three days and nights. He’d paid barely anything at all for it. Once, it had been a telegraph station, but there was no need now that the rifles had been lowered, and this part of the world was in no one’s interest. Clay had bought it without uttering a word, left his few possessions beside the bed, and barely unpacked.
He didn’t like the inside. He wasn’t used to it anymore. Clay preferred nature. Something about it felt more suitable, more cruel.
From early morning, he’d been trailing a wounded stag through these frozen wilds. A clean shot, he’d thought when he loosed the arrow; yet the stag had bolted, disappearing into the dense woodland. He found droplets of dark blood staining the pure white snow, the only signs of the creature’s struggle against death. Clay had respected the beast’s spirit, and admired its desperate will to survive.
His breath fogged up in the cold air, vanishing like ghostly whispers on the wind. Each inhale stung, the frigid air burning his lungs. The heavy clouds above promised more snow, the land grew increasingly treacherous, and the evening threatened to descend into a bitter night.
Clay pulled the reins with a sigh, signaling Whiskey to a halt. He studied the snowy expanse before him. Dead winter trees. Endless nothing. The stag’s tracks had disappeared in the deep snow close to a precarious ridge, thick with shadows of the approaching nightfall.
He wasn’t sure if he was tracking the beast or simply following it. He felt a cold voice whisper to him, telling him he wanted to see the moment the animal gave in.
It had been hours since he’d seen a sign of it.
His father had taught him to murder animals, and his mother had taught him to hate doing it. Both now were long dead. Though his brother had taken over the ranch, and it wasn’t far from his little shack, he’d avoided opening the letters his brother sent him. His brother was a kind man, and they had always been close. But it was just too difficult. Now, Clay had trouble speaking. He couldn’t be sure why. It was as though the words themselves were frozen stiff.
Clay reached up to tip his hat lower, shielding his blue eyes against the cold wind. He knew then that he had to let the stag go. The chase was over — for both of them. His fingers tightened around the reins, a silent communication to the ever-impatient Whiskey. With a snort and a toss of his head, the stallion turned around, leaving the trail behind.
With the veil of twilight descending over the icy mountains, Clay steered Whiskey toward the amber glow of civilization. The town, a haphazard scattering of buildings straddling the foot of the hills, emerged from the snow-laden landscape like a solitary beacon in the desolate wilderness.
He couldn’t return to his shack; he was too far away. He had no choice but to venture in.
Clay sighed, a twinge of reluctant resignation creeping into his heart. The town reminded him of the world he had been drifting away from — a world of manmade laws, shackles, and obligations. These days, his identity had been reduced to that of a bounty hunter — a hunter of men. Yet, the mere thought of pursuing another soul lost like himself sent waves of exhaustion coursing through his body. He felt the weight of a single, lonely dollar coin in his pocket, a mockery of his self-inflicted isolation.
That was all he had left, just one dollar. Since the end of the war, any money he accrued seemed to disappear. He’d roamed the land last summer, searching for something that felt like a new home. Empty-handed, he’d felt no choice but to return to familiar territory. He’d stopped taking the bounties. His bones were too tired for the chase. Now, Clay had resolved to live off the land and watch the small savings he had left slowly dwindle.
Clay dismounted Whiskey near the entrance of a saloon, and the horse snorted, rolling his eyes at the flickering gas lamps. A spectral figure materialized from the shadows, a grizzled old man with a patchwork of scars. He stretched out a frail hand, pleading in a voice cracked by time, “Mister, spare a dollar for an old soldier?”
His heart pounded. Recognition flared in Clay’s eyes — he knew that face, those scars. They had fought side by side in a different time, under different skies.
What’s the old man’s name? Clay had once known it. He had once known this man.
The coin was halfway to the old soldier when Clay’s hand paused mid-air. Clay was shaking too much. He couldn’t seem to reach him.
The ghost of his past did not recognize him — the passage of time had made them strangers. A sense of panic, alien yet overwhelming, clenched his chest. His hand wavered; the coin glinted in the dim light, then retreated into the depths of his pocket.
“No,” he grunted.
The old soldier squinted, a flicker of confusion crossing his face, then shrugged, retreating into his world of forgotten heroes. Clay, his heart hammering against his ribcage, turned on his heel. He pushed open the saloon’s batwing doors, stepping into the cocoon of warmth and human noise, seeking refuge from the ghosts of his past and the relentless onslaught of his own thoughts.
Ice in his veins, Clay took a deep breath, focusing on the sting of the frigid air in his lungs. He crossed the threshold into the dimly lit saloon, the sound of the door swinging shut behind him, breaking the chatter into a brief silence. The flickering lamps drew long, distorted shadows onto the rough wooden floor, painting a dismal picture of the reality he was about to face.
“A round of whiskey!” one man at the table hollered, drawing the attention of the saloon’s patrons.
Clay didn’t know the voice, but it was harsh, a deep rumble that grated on his nerves. The next words hit him like a freight train.
“In memory of poor fool Lucas Barley,” said the man, “a proud man, and now a dead man to boot! Another proud man who met the bullet.”
The world stopped spinning. Lucas. His younger brother. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing the finality of the man’s words.
Dead? Murdered? It was impossible.
The smoky atmosphere of the saloon was palpable, a dense fog that seemed to swallow the dim lantern light. Men huddled in groups, their voices low, their laughter hollow, their eyes shifty. Clay moved like a specter among them, his heart pounding in his chest, his fingers twitching at his sides. The sharp scent of alcohol and unwashed bodies invaded his nostrils, starkly contrasting the cold purity of the snow outside.
Clay’s gaze locked onto the men huddled at a corner table, their faces barely visible beneath the brims of their hats. Their conversation hung in the air like poison, the words twisted and ugly, an affront to his brother’s memory. He felt hot anger and moved toward them, his boots crunching on the sawdust-covered floor.
The men laughed, tossing back their drinks.
“Another one bites the dust!” one cheered.
Clay’s hands balled into fists at his sides, a familiar anger bubbling up. He strode over to the men, his gaze as icy as the snow outside.
“What you saying about Lucas?” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous
Surprised at the intrusion, the men stared at him, eyes narrowing in a challenge. The largest man, his lips curled in a sneer, stood, his chair scraping harshly against the wooden floor. He towered over Clay, a hulking mass of muscle and menace. The dull roar of the saloon seemed to recede into the background as Clay squared off against the man.
One of them, a burly figure with a cruel grin, sneered, “What’s it to you, stranger?”
“He’s my brother,” Clay growled, his heart ablaze with grief and fury.
A silence fell over the saloon, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Then, the burly man laughed, a harsh, grating sound that echoed off the wooden walls. “Well, ain’t that a pity?” He smirked, raising his glass.
Clay felt his resolve snap in two. His head pulsed uncontrollably. With a swift and deliberate motion, Clay threw the first punch, his fist connecting with the man’s jaw. The sound echoed in his ears, a solid, satisfying crack. The taste of adrenaline was sharp on his tongue, a bitter tang that drowned out the stale taste of cheap whiskey. His hand stung from the impact, the pain slicing through the numbness that had settled over him.
The man reeled back, surprise flashing in his eyes before they darkened with fury. He lunged at Clay, his fists swinging in a blur of motion. Clay sidestepped one punch only to catch another to his ribs. Sharp pain flared in his side, and he tasted blood in his mouth.
Ignoring the throbbing in his side, Clay countered with a flurry of blows, his fists connecting with flesh and bone, each impact reverberating up his arms. He felt the man’s nose break beneath his punch, the cartilage giving way with a sickening crunch.
The fight was a whirlwind of motion and noise, a chaotic ballet of violence that left the saloon in shambles. Clay’s senses were alight with the harsh sounds of grunts and gasps, the metallic tang of blood, the sight of battered faces, and the gritty feeling of sawdust beneath his boots. When it was over, Clay stood amidst the wreckage, his body aching, his heart heavy. His search for justice had only just begun.
“What happened to my brother?” Clary roared.
The man beneath him swallowed, trying to find his words.
“They-they shot him dead.”
“Who!”
He was shaking too much to respond.
Damn it all, thought Clay, his heart pounding like a drum. Stepping over the men he’d dispatched, he exited the saloon, his brother’s name a raw wound in his heart. His gaze fell on the snow-covered street, the once-quiet town now bearing the mark of his rage. There was nothing left for him here — only a hollow ache and the burning desire for justice.
The storm had come, and the world was a blur of chaotic white. Still, he moved, his body not his own. Whiskey’s breath billowed out in plumes as the stallion plodded through the blizzard, her rider lost in a whirlwind of thoughts as icy as the wind slicing through the mountain pass.
My brother is dead.
The words felt alien, wrong. His brother had been nothing but a boy when Clay had enlisted, left behind to tend to their pa’s failing ranch. The war had changed Clay, hardened him, and turned him into a man who had no place in a peaceful world. But his brother … his brother had been different. He had always held on to that spark of innocence, that capacity to hope, that Clay had lost somewhere in the blood-soaked trenches.
He thought of the unopened letters. The unanswered invitations. He thought back to the meal they had shared the night he arrived back in these parts.
Clay had barely said a word the whole evening. He tried to remember why but couldn’t place himself in his memory; he saw only a storm like the one before him. Endless black, a hurricane of white. Nothing but chaos.
Murdered. His brother, who had never hurt a fly.
Clay spurred Whiskey onward, out of the town and into the bone-chilling night. His breath frosted in the cold air, each exhale a reminder of the life he still had, a life they robbed his brother of. The idea of justice was a foreign concept, something lost to him since the war. But now, it gnawed at him, insistent and unyielding. He owed his brother that much.
His path led him to the homestead his brother had made with his wife, Abby. It stood as a grim reminder of what had been lost, its familiar windows dark and uninviting. The crunch of Whiskey’s hooves in the snow seemed to echo too loudly in the stillness as Clay dismounted, his hand instinctively resting on the handle of his gun.
As he neared the house, a feeling of apprehension crept over him. He wasn’t sure what he would find there, what secrets might be unveiled. The storm may be soon passing, but Clay had a feeling that his own tempest was just beginning.
Chapter Two
Whiskey’s steady gait drummed a relentless rhythm beneath him, the familiar sensation grounding Clay in the vast wilderness. Overhead, the brooding canvas of gray clouds parted, surrendering to the persistent kiss of twilight. Distant mountains, wreathed in snow and shrouded by the lingering storm, served as the stark backdrop to his solitary journey.
The homestead, a humble structure swallowed by a rolling expanse of fields, loomed in his path. It stood as a stark reminder of a life he once knew before the war and the pervasive silence that now seemed to govern his existence. The sight stoked memories long buried, sparking a slow burn in the pit of his stomach.
In the stillness of his journey, fragments of the past seemed to stir, emerging from the depths of his mind like ghosts. There was his brother, younger, bright-eyed, and full of dreams that stretched as far as the fields they toiled in. A flicker of their shared laughter, the weight of their shared burdens, the echo of their shared dreams. They were but distant echoes now, muted by the chasm that had grown between them.
War had been the wedge, driving a silent division through their bond. Clay had returned bearing invisible scars, a fractured mirror of the man he was. His brother, still rooted in the land they once tended together, could not bridge the divide.
Clay allowed the images to flow, neither encouraging nor dismissing them. Like a river cutting through stone, they carved their path through his consciousness, shaping the man he was now and would become.
As he neared the homestead, a sense of disconnect washed over him. The warm familiarity of the worn wooden structure and the childhood memories it harbored felt foreign as if they belonged to someone else. Yet, as the sight of it stirred a profound sadness, he knew he could not escape the ties that bound him to this place, to the brother he had lost.
He dismounted Whiskey, his hand lingering on the beast’s warm flank, drawing strength from his steadfast presence. With a last lingering glance at the homestead, he steeled himself for what lay ahead. In the search for answers, he would confront the chaos within and, perhaps, find the order he sought.
Clay’s eyes trailed over the disarray that had once been his brother’s proud homestead. The wooden fences that lined the perimeter hung haphazardly, the pillars showing signs of forced impact, splintered and broken. The fields, once verdant and meticulously maintained, now stretched out in a wild sprawl of overgrown vegetation, surrendering to the unchecked whims of nature.
The barn door stood ajar, its hinges groaning under the weight of neglect. All the livestock were gone, their usual cacophony of noises replaced with eerie silence that gnawed at the edges of Clay’s mind. The plow was abandoned, left to the unforgiving elements, an unwelcome testament to the chaos that had taken root.
A pit formed in Clay’s stomach as he took in the ominous signs of struggle. Each hint of disarray tugged at his heartstrings, the discord echoing the disruption within his being. Yet, his resolve hardened with each step, the quest for the truth about his brother’s fate driving him forward. Whiskey’s steady strides crunched the gravel underfoot, creating a rhythm that echoed in the stillness. His hand instinctively drifted to the hilt of his gun, the cold metal a reminder of the harsh reality he was about to face. At the doorstep of his brother’s life, Clay steeled himself to confront the aftermath of tragedy and the burden of the truths that awaited him.
The sight of the homestead brought a flicker of recognition to Clay’s blue eyes, like a half-remembered dream. It was a two-story house made of hewn logs, the chinking long fallen out. The porch’s wooden planks creaked under his boots, a somber symphony to accompany his heavy heart. An idle rocking chair, weather-worn and dusty, sat next to a long-abandoned sewing basket.
As Clay approached, the front door creaked open, and a small figure emerged from the house’s shadows. Abby. Her hazel eyes were red-rimmed and glistening, evidence of the tears she had shed. Her chestnut hair, usually neatly combed and tied in a bun, hung loose around her face. The sight of Abby in such disarray tugged at his heart.
“Who are you?” she said quietly. “If you’ve come to rob me, there’s nothing left …”
Clay jumped from his horse.
“Oh, it’s you,” Abby said.
He stood before her, frozen in place.
“I’m surprised you recognized me …”
She grimaced.
“You … You look just like him. Something in your eyes.”
Abby shivered, and Clay felt something inside him wanting to embrace her. A faraway yearning for his brother’s voice. He wanted to cry, but he couldn’t. He was standing in an automatic silence.
“Abby—”
She suddenly opened her mouth like she had just snapped back to reanimation.
“I never thought I’d see you again, Clay,” she said, her voice shaky. The words hung heavy in the cold air between them. “Not under these circumstances.”
Clay nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry, Abby. I … I should’ve been here.”
The silence that fell over them was more profound than the one brought by the falling snow. Abby shook her head, her gaze falling to the ground. “You can’t blame yourself for this, Clay. Lucas … he made his choices. We all did.”
He gazed up at the sky. “Who did this?”
Clay felt her hand on his shoulder.
“Come inside,” she said. “We have a lot to talk about.”
Abby ushered Clay into the house. Standing in the doorway, he felt his body become stiff. He looked at the dark, empty space.
It looked just the same as it had when he was a boy. He had forgotten. The smell of timber and the embers of a fireplace. He could place himself back in time. The sound of his father chopping wood, of his mother singing, holding Lucas in her arms.
It was just there, like another world.
Abby slipped into the hall.
“Come on, Clay.”
He followed her in.
The dusk-laden stillness of the homestead was punctuated only by the crunch of Clay’s boots, still thick with snow. His breath hung in the air, crystalline and fleeting, an icy testament to the tasks ahead. Within the confines of the wooden cabin, he navigated through dimly lit rooms and narrow corridors, each space a silent tribute to a life unjustly seized.
“You want a drink?” she asked.
Clay turned and saw Abby shaking.
“No,” he said, clearing his throat. “You should sit …”
He took Abby along to an old wooden chair. She sat, her eyes fixed on the floor.
“Oh, that’s right,” she said softly, as though searching the cupboard, “they stole it all.”
Clay met her eyes.
“Who stole it, Abby?” he asked. “Who did this?”
She shook her head.
“Dangerous men.” she said, “The first day, they came and offered protection. He refused. The second day they came and insisted. He refused them again. The third day … Well, Lucas just wouldn’t pay up.”
Abby revealed her hands. Showing the last smears of dry blood.
“Abby?” Clay asked, “Where’s Lucas’ body?”
She met his gaze, suddenly awakening from her trance.
“Oh, Clay,” she said, “they came already. They took-took him on … They said he’s not the first, that uh … You know, Clay, people can be proud. Not everyone can do a thing like that.”
Clay nodded. He’d seen many a Southerner refuse to surrender. He’d shot many of them himself. It never made it easier. All men died the same. They died fearful.
“Are you cold?” Abby asked. “You’re shaking.”
He woke up from his nightmare, found himself in the room.
“Don’t you worry about me …” Clay said, forcing a smile. “Were you here, Abby? Did you see their faces?”
She shook her head. “I know who did it, though,” she said.
Clay lit a cigarette, squishing it between his fingers. “Tell me.”
Her soft hazel eyes were full of sudden rage.
“Atticus,” she said, “Atticus Steel. That’s what that thug calls himself, anyway.”
She tried to stand. Clay urged her softly to sit, offering her a drag of his cigarette. She declined. Ash fell down on the floorboard below them.
“But why? Why wouldn’t he just pay?” Clay’s brows furrowed, a crease forming between them. “He knew better than to defy folks like that.”
Abby’s eyes met his again. Her gaze was steady, yet there was a flicker of fear. “It’s not just about money. Atticus had more money than any man ’round these parts. He just … he didn’t want to lose it.”
“Lose what?”
“Control,” she said. “That’s what fear is. Control.”
Clay’s heart hammered in his chest. His brother’s murder was more than just a message; it was a declaration of dominance. His hand clenched at his side, the ghost of a gun’s grip at his fingertips. This was bigger than he had thought. More dangerous. But his course was set. There would be justice for Lucas. And for Abby.
With frozen hands, Clay cooked dinner for Abby. The only one he was capable of, a can of beans burned over a fire. She ate it readily. From her hollow eyes, Clay knew she hadn’t eaten the whole day. He understood the kind of automatic feeling. Like being trapped in a dream.
He helped her sit, and Abby stared blankly at the wall.
“You have family coming?”
“My parents from Helena … I told you about them, right?” Clay didn’t remember, but he nodded anyway.
“They are going to come stay with me for a while.”
Clay looked at her seriously.
“You want to stay here?” he asked. “Maybe you should get over to—”
Abby shook her head. “I ain’t going nowhere.”
Clay understood the sentiment.
After some time by the fire, Clay’s mind started turning again. Atticus Steel. This man would pay. He needed to find something, anything, to set him on track.
In Lucas’s study, Clay stumbled upon a weathered trunk hidden beneath the floorboards. As he lifted the heavy lid, his fingers grazed the cold steel of firearms, a symphony of potential violence neatly arranged within the dark confines of the trunk. A variety of pistols, rifles, and a box of ammo hinted at his brother’s careful preparation for a threat that still loomed large.
But it was the leather-bound journal that caught his attention the most. Its pages bore the weight of his brother’s fears and suspicions, a chronicle of growing dread. His brother’s penmanship, a script Clay knew well, outlined the pervasive reach of the crime lord and hinted at a potential ally – a mysterious figure concealed in veiled references and cryptic allusions.
March 27th
The wind cut through the homestead today like an icy blade, winter’s bitter end making its presence known. It was an ill wind that carries with it more than just the chill of the season. Atticus and his men paid a visit.
There’s a certain look in a man’s eye when he believes he has power over you, and Atticus wears it with an unnerving comfort. He sauntered in, his footprints tainting the snow, a black stain on white purity. His proposition was simple — protection for payment. But his eyes spoke of more than just money. They promised chaos for refusal.
I never fought in the war. That’s Clay’s fight, Clay’s burden. My battlefield is here, tending to the farm, caring for Abby, and ensuring we can weather any storm. But the storm that Atticus brings, it’s a different kind. And it’s on my doorstep now.
I didn’t expect to face a war at home, not after everything. I should have listened to Whistling Jack … He is a dangerous man, and he knows all too well how dangerous Atticus is. But if it’s war Atticus wants, it’s war he shall get. I will not bow to his tyranny while I still draw breath. I owe it to Abby, to Clay, to the memory of Ma and Pa.
Nothing from the shadow in the hills. The ally. I worry he’s been gotten too. That’s what they say down in the saloon. I hope not, or Atticus is stronger than ever. Maybe it’s just hearsay, the desperate whispers of a town held hostage. But be he dead or alive, I must try and seek him, for all our sakes.
I pray that if this journal is found, it is by friendly hands. And to you, Clay, if you’re reading this — I hope the winds carried you far from this storm. If not, brother, know this — we didn’t choose this war, but we will fight.
Clay’s fingers traced the final words, their meaning crashing over him in brutal waves. His brother had waged his own war, a silent struggle in the shadows of their shared history. The weight of his promise, the sheer resilience in his determination, bore down on Clay with an intensity that stole his breath away.
The cabin walls seemed to close in, every sound amplified in the silence. The rustling of the journal’s pages, the crackling fire, his own steady heartbeat — they seemed to chant his brother’s name. It was a primal call to arms, a plea from the past that stirred the depth of his soul.
And then, without warning, it broke.
A deep, guttural sound wrenched itself from Clay’s throat, a raw, visceral release of all the pain, the regret, the guilt he’d carried. The tears came unbidden, streaming down his face in hot, angry tracks, his body wracked with powerful sobs. It wasn’t quiet; it wasn’t graceful. It was a tempest of emotion unleashed, a hurricane born from the heartache of his brother’s silent plea.
As the moon crept higher, Clay studied the journal, allowing Lucas’ words to guide him. His path was etched in ink and blood, a mission born from grief and hardened by determination. He would follow his brother’s subtle trail, seek this enigmatic figure, and dismantle the crime lord’s reign of terror.
The promise he made to Abby was more than just words. It was an oath burned in his heart, binding as the frost on the windows. “I will bring him down, Abby. For Lucas. For you.”
Outside, a mournful howl punctuated the still night, a solitary coyote’s song echoing across the desolate landscape. It was a somber anthem to the lone quest he was about to embark on. As he closed the door behind him, the coyote’s call followed him into the darkness, a chilling herald to his journey.
Chapter Three
Clay set off. The sky overhead bore the heavy gray of imminent snowfall. The crisp air filled his lungs, a harsh welcome to his journey’s start. Mounted atop his faithful Whiskey, he followed the trail scribbled in his brother’s journal, a path woven through mystery and cryptic riddles.
That was all he had to go on. No idea what the man looked like, just his reputation alone—and the man certainly had a reputation.
The first leg of his expedition took him through the dreary town of Bitter Creek. On its outskirts, he found a man, too old to work but too stubborn to die, left destitute as his meager savings had been extorted. His brother had mentioned him in passing. It was a start. The man knew Atticus, but only as a boy. Still, he mentioned a town, a small one, miles away. Clay wondered how far this road might take him.
“Honor Amid Outlaws” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!
Clay Barley, a hardened Civil War veteran, has never been one to shy away from danger. Hoping to leave his blood-soaked past behind and live a quiet life, he settles in the unforgiving territories of the 1872 Montana wilderness. But his solitude is shattered when he learns of his brother’s brutal murder. Clay is suddenly thrust into a perilous game, masterminded by a ruthless gang leader who wields power like a sword…
Can Clay navigate this deadly conflict and secure justice for his fallen brother?
His only hope lies in the mysterious Lila, a fiery outlaw whose allegiance shifts as unpredictably as the Montana weather. A tempestuous enigma, she becomes Clay’s unlikely ally in his quest for justice. As they navigate the treacherous landscape together, they unwittingly forge a bond under the shadow of a power that threatens their very lives…
Yet as their connection deepens, will Lila’s capricious loyalties stand firm or falter?
Clay and Lila’s shared journey traverses a land where survival trumps law and justice is but a dream. Their pasts trail persistently behind them, with danger hiding around every corner. Will they dare to risk everything for a future they never even dared to imagine?
“Honor Amid Outlaws” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 60,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.
Hi there, I hope you enjoyed this sneak peek of my latest story! I will be impatiently waiting for your comments below.