Though Waters Roar

by Lynn Austin

Bethany House Publishers

            Harriet Sherwood comes from a long line of women who have fought for social justice. Her great-grandmother helped escaped slaves flee to Canada, her grandmother fought against the evils of alcohol, and her mother joined the suffrage fight. But when twenty-year-old Harriet decides to follow in their footsteps she never expects her efforts to land her in jail. Languishing in her cell, Harriet has plenty of time to sift through memories of the three women who have preceded her, and take a closer look at her own life. The novel's events take place during the life span of the women's suffrage movement in the United States, beginning in 1848 with the first Women's Rights Convention, and ending in 1920 when women voted in a presidential election for the first time.

Publisher's Weekly says:

"This is an entertaining and engaging faith-based tale sure to hit bestseller lists and the awards circuit."

CHAPTER ONE

It was ironic.

            I lay in my jail cell on a squeaky iron bunk, gazing at the stained mattress above me, and I remembered the day I first understood the meaning of the word ironic. I couldn't help smiling at . . . well, at the irony of it. The meaning had become clear to me eleven years ago on the day my grandmother, Beatrice Monroe Garner, was arrested.

That day had also been a Saturday—just like today. Mama had been distressed because Grandma Bebe, as we called her, would miss church services if Father didn't go down to the jailhouse and bail her out.

"She can't spend the Sabbath in prison!" Mama had wailed. "Please, John. We have to get her out of there!"

I was going to miss church services tomorrow too, come to think of it. Who would teach my Sunday school class of ten-year-old girls? As my father undoubtedly would have pointed out, perhaps I should have considered their welfare before getting myself arrested in the first place.

            I had been the same age as my Sunday school girls when Grandma Bebe landed in jail that day. My sister and I had been eating breakfast with our parents when the telephone rang. The device was brand-spanking new back then in 1909, and we all listened to see if it would chime our party-line exchange of three short rings. When it did, Mama unhooked the earphone and cupped it to her ear, standing on tiptoes to speak into the little cone-shaped mouthpiece. She burst into tears the moment she replaced the receiver.

"That . . . that was . . . the police!" she managed to tell us through her sobs. "They arrested Mother last night and . . . and . . . she's in jail!"

My older sister Alice gasped. "Arrested!" Alice was the feminine, fluttery type of girl who did a great deal of gasping. "But why is she in jail? What did Grandma do?"

"Oh, how could they do such a thing to her?" Mama cried. "Mother isn't a criminal!"

"Is there any more coffee?" my father asked calmly. "I would like another cup, if you don't mind."

            "Oh, John! How can you drink coffee at a time like this? Don't you care?"

            "Beatrice Garner cares nothing at all for her family, or our reputation, or our welfare, so why should I care what happens to her? She knew what the consequences would be when she and that Temperance gang of hers started harassing all the saloon owners. She made her bed when she decided to become another Carrie Nation, and now she'll have to lie in it."

            This brought another cloudburst of weeping from Mama. My sister Alice rose from the table to comfort her. Father sighed and handed me his empty cup. "Fill this for me, would you Harriet? That's a good girl." I obediently took his cup to the stove to refill it, then sat down and waited for act two of this drama.

            "Please, John. I'm begging you, " Mama said. "Please get her out of that terrible place."

"And that's another thing," Father said. "What kind of an example is she setting for our daughters?" He poured cream into the coffee I'd brought him and slowly stirred it as if not expecting a reply.

            Aside from begging and weeping, my mother could do nothing to help Grandma—which was ironic since Grandma was working hard to give power to women. And Grandma Bebe despised tears. "Women should never use them as weapons," she always insisted, "especially to prevail upon a man to change his mind."  Yet, ironically, my mother had resorted to tears in order to persuade Father. Grandma Bebe would not have approved.

But Grandma was in jail.

And tears were ultimately what convinced Father to go downtown and bail her out. Alice had joined the deluge of weeping and Father wasn't strong enough to stop the flood or stand firm against it. No man was. My sister could turn her tears on and off like a modern-day plumbing faucet and was capable of unleashing buckets of them. Her heart was as soft and gooey as oatmeal, and she sympathized with all manner of hurts, wrongs, and injustices.

Alice was sixteen and so beautiful that grown men became stupid whenever they were around her. The moment her wide, blue eyes welled up, every man in the county would pull out a white handkerchief and offer it to her as if waving in surrender. Grandma Bebe had no patience with her.

"Your sister Alice could do a great deal of good for the cause," she once told me. "Alice is the kind of woman that men go to war over—like Helen of Troy. But she'll squander it all, I'm sorry to say. She'll surrender to the first humbug who dishes her a little sweet-talk. Women like her always do. It's too bad," Grandma said with a sigh. "Your sister could do a great deal of good, but she believes the lie that women are the weaker sex. Her prodigious use of tears perpetuates that myth. . . . But there's hope for you, Harriet," Grandma Bebe added. Whenever the subject of Alice's amazing beauty arose, Grandma would pat my unruly brown hair and say, "Thank goodness you're such a plain child. You'll have to rely on your wits."

The fact that Alice came to Grandma's rescue with tears is ironic, isn't it? I didn't join the torrent of weeping that morning. I didn't want to let Grandma down.

I loved my grandmother, and I greatly admired her ferocity and passion. Mind you, these weren't qualities that polite society admired in women, but they fascinated me. Even so, I didn't want to be like my fiery grandmother and end up in jail any more than I wanted to be a dutiful wife like Mama or a virtuous siren like Alice. But what other choice did I have? How was I to live as a modern woman, born just before the dawn of the Twentieth Century? That's the question I was endeavoring to answer when I wound up in jail.

Copyright 2009 – Bethany House Publishers – Do not reproduce without permission

Visit Lynn Austin's website: www.lynnaustin.org

This book is available now at www.bethanyhouse.com; www.amazon.com; www.christianbook.com; or fine bookstores everywhere.

Just Between You and Me

By Jenny B. Jones

Thomas Nelson Publishers

The only thing scarier than living on the edge. . . is stepping off it.

Maggie Montgomery lives a life of adventure. Her job as a cinematographer takes her from one exotic locale to the next. When Maggie's not working, she loves to rappel off cliffs or go skydiving. Nothing frightens her.

Nothing, that is, except Ivy, Texas, where a family emergency pulls her back home to a town full of bad memories, painful secrets, and people Maggie left far behind . . . for a reason.

Forced to stay longer than she intended, Maggie finds her family a complete mess, including the niece her sister has abandoned. Ten-year-old Riley is struggling in school and out of control at home. The only person who can really handle the pint-sized troublemaker is Conner, the local vet and Ivy's most eligible bachelor. But Conner and Maggie keep butting heads--he's suspicious of her and, well, she doesn't rely on anyone but herself.

As Maggie humorously fumbles her way from one mishap to another, she realizes she's going to need to ask for help from the one person who scares her the most.

To save one little girl--and herself--can Maggie let go of her fears and just trust God?

***

Prologue

To some women, fear is a man walking out the front door and never coming back. To others, it's looking at that black dress in the back of your closet and knowing—without a divine miracle or the return of the corset—you'll never be a size six again.

            For me, in this moment right now, it's a Parisian river calm enough to lull a baby to sleep. And yet my palms are so slick with sweat, I can hardly maintain my grip on the boat rail. My heart beats so violently in my chest, I haven't heard a word that's been said in the last hour.

            "Here we go. Step off nice and easy." Pierre, our guide, assists the captain by leaping onto the dock and tying the small vessel in place.

            The crew of Passport to the World climbs out one by one. I go last, waiting for the black spots to subside as I stand and fight with gravity's pull on my wobbly knees.

            "You did great, Maggie." Carley, my friend and producer, pats me on the back, as I focus on everything but the water. Unlike the rest of my coworkers, she's the only one who doesn't ignore the fact that I turn into a psychotic mess any time I have to shoot a location involving water. Sometimes I can get an intern or another videographer to cover for me, but I have to pick those battles. And the lazy Seine is not worth calling in a sub.

            "You need therapy," Carley says.

            "I need a chocolate éclair."

She shields her eyes from the noonday sun and hands me a water from her bag. "Let's get some more footage at that café by the Champs-Élysées. I'm thinking of coming to Paris for my honeymoon. What do you think?"

My job as cinematographer for the travel show can be as glamorous as the Eiffel Tower at sunset or as unattractive as a night in a leaky hut in Cambodia. Last year we became the number one show on Travel TV, picked up a few awards, and got moved to a killer time slot. I should be on top of the world—thrilled with life. But somehow lately I'm not.

My pocket buzzes, and I reach in and pull out my phone. My dad. Calling again. And two messages from John, my boyfriend. Are men born with a guidebook on how to be a nuisance? I could travel to the ends of the earth and some man would find me and expect some big sacrifice from me. Like a text. Or a date. Or a returned call. But I'm a busy person! I have things to do. Cities of the world to film. A week-old People magazine to read. And a candy bar in my bag that has been calling my name for the past two hours. 

Getting out of the rented sedan, I stretch my arms then reach for my camera.

"I want to talk to the café owner," Carley says. "Will you translate again?"

"Sure." We walk across the busy street and into the quaint restaurant. "Where's the owner?" I ask a waiter in French, reminding him who we are and why we're here.

He jerks his head toward the back. "He's taking a cigarette break." The slim man stares at his full tables, his brows furrowing as someone shouts out a drink order.

"If it's okay, I'll get him." I shoo the waiter away. "Don't worry about us."

I weave through the diners and back into the bustling kitchen, throwing up a hand in greeting to the staff. "Bonjour!" My eyes land on a partially opened back door, and I slip through it, blinking at the sun.

Beside me a Dumpster rumbles, and I gasp as I see two little legs sticking out, wiggling with the effort of digging.

"Hey," I say automatically, then call out a greeting in French. "Salut!" I walk up to the Dumpster and tug on a dirty shoe.

A head pops up, and I'm face to face with a small boy, face smudged with grime, fear making his eyes round as dessert plates. He flings from the trash like a little gymnast, his feet landing on the ground.

I hold out my hand. "Attends!" Wait!

Without a backward glance, he takes off in a sprint, running as fast as his little legs will carry him, dropping food behind like crumbs on a trail.

I sling my camera over my shoulder and race to the edge of the building, my lens trained on the slender blur. "Wait, please!" I shout to him in two different languages, but he just keeps moving.

"Beggars."

I whirl around and find the restaurant owner behind me. "Did you know him?"

He gestures toward the direction the boy ran toward. "What is there to know of one such as him? He is a thief and a public nuisance."

My heart twists in my chest. "But he's so young. So thin." I step back toward the restaurant. "Obviously he was hungry."

The owner laughs, his belly making his shirt dance. "I have a business to run. I cannot feed every stray dog that shows up here."

 My breath catches with the insult, but I bite my tongue, knowing Carley would throw me out like a stale croissant if I made him mad and ruined her interview. "Does he live nearby?"

"Who cares?" He slams the lid down on his Dumpster and flings open the café door. He steps back inside, leaving an odor of cigarettes. 

Who cares? Sometimes I ask myself that very same question. Could I have helped that little boy if he hadn't have run away?

For a moment I stand there, the yellow sun beating down on my red head. Who am I to help anyone anyway? I'm a girl with a camera and a suitcase. Nothing much more to give.

Because I've seen the world.

But sometimes I wonder . . . has it ever seen me?

Copyright 2009. Do not reproduce without permission.

***

Just Between You and Me is available everywhere books are sold. That includes my grandmother's trunk. You can find the book online at sellers such as www.cbd.com, www.bn.com, and amazon.com.  Visit me at www.jennybjones.com.

The Sound of Sleigh Bells

Cindy Woodsmall

The Sound of Sleigh Bells is a heartwarming Christmas novella where lack and abundance inside an Amish community has power for good when it's tucked inside love. Romantic Times gave The Sound of Sleigh Bells 4 ½ stars, saying ~ This is a wonderfully written, transformative story of two Amish families at Christmastime. It will bring sleigh-riding memories to life as readers vicariously join in this jolly and exciting holiday tradition.

Cindy Woodsmall is a New York Times best-selling author whose connection with the Amish has been featured on ABC Nightline and the front page of the Wall Street Journal. Her ability to authentically capture the heart of her characters comes from her real-life connections with Plain Mennonite and Old Order Amish families.

Cindy is the mother of three sons and two daughters-in-law, and she and her husband reside in Georgia. Visit her Web site at www.CindyWoodsmall.com

  
~~~~~~~~~

The Sound of Sleigh Bells~

Chapter one

The aroma of fresh-baked bread, shepherd's pie, and steamed vegetables filled Lizzy's house, mingling with the sweet smell of baked desserts. In the hearth a bank of embers kept a small fire burning, removing the nip that clung to the early-April air.

The noise of conversations rose and fell around Lizzy's kitchen table as her brother and his large family talked easily throughout the meal. His grown and almost-grown children filled the sides of her fourteen-foot table, and his grandchildren either sat in their mothers' laps or in highchairs.

Nearly four decades ago her oldest brother had put effort into finding an Amish bride. When Stephen found the right girl, he married her. He'd handled life well, and the fruit of it fed her soul. Lizzy had focused on her business and never married. She didn't regret her choices, not for herself, but she'd crawl on her hands and knees the rest of her days to keep her niece from the same fate.

Beth was like a daughter to Lizzy. Not long after the family's dry goods store passed to Lizzy, Beth graduated from the eighth grade and started working beside her. Soon she moved in with Lizzy, and they shared the one-bedroom apartment above the shop. When Lizzy had this house built a few years ago, her niece had stayed above Hertzlers' Dry Goods.

Lizzy studied the young beauty as she answered her family's endless questions about her decisions in the middleman role between the Amish who made goods and the various Englischer stores who wanted those goods.

That was her Beth. Answer what was asked. Do what was right. Always be polite. Offer to help before it was needed. And never let anyone see the grief that hadn't yet let go of her. Beth had banned even Lizzy from looking into the heartache that held her hostage.

The one-year anniversary of Henry's death had come and gone without any sign from Beth that she might lay aside her mourning, so Lizzy had taken action. She'd prepared this huge meal and planned a social for the afternoon. Maybe all Beth needed was a loving, gentle nudge. If not, Lizzy had a backup plan—one Beth would not appreciate.

Over the din of conversations, the sounds of horses and buggies arriving and the voices of young people drifted through the kitchen window, causing Beth to look at her.

Lizzy placed her forearms on the table. "I've invited the young singles of the community for an evening of outdoor games, desserts, and a bonfire when the sun goes down."

Two of Beth's single younger sisters, Fannie and Susie, glowed at the idea. With grace and gentleness, Beth turned to her Mamm and asked if she would need help planting this year's garden. It didn't seem to bother Beth that five of her sisters had married before her, and three of them were younger than she was. All but the most recently wed had children. Lizzy knew what awaited Beth if she didn't find someone—awkward and never-ending loneliness. Maybe she didn't recognize that. It wasn't until Henry came into Beth's life that she even seemed to notice that single men existed. Within a year of meeting, they were making plans to marry.

Now, in an Amish community of dresses in rich, solid hues, Beth wore black.

Through a window Lizzy saw the young men bring their rigs to a halt. The drivers as well as the passengers got out of the carriages. The girls soon huddled in groups, talking feverishly, while the guys went into the barn, pulled two wagons with plenty of hay into the field, and tied their horses to them. It was far easier to leave the animals harnessed and grazing on hay than to have to hitch a horse to its buggy in the dark. The young people knew the routine. They would remain outside playing volleyball, horseshoes, or whatever else suited them until after the sun went down. Then they'd come inside for desserts and hot chocolate or coffee before riding in wagons to the field where they'd start a bonfire.

Fannie and Susie rose and began clearing the table. Beth went to the dessert counter and picked out a pie. She set it on the table beside her Daed, cut a slice, and placed it on his plate. Then she slid a piece onto her Mamm's plate before passing the pie to her brother Emmanuel. She took her seat next to her mother, still chatting about the upcoming spring planting. Lizzy hoped her brother saw what she did—a daughter who continued to shun all possibility of finding new love. Beth clung to the past as if she might wake one day to find her burning desires had changed it.

Fannie began gathering glasses that still held trace amounts of lemonade. "You've got to join us this time, Bethie. It's been too long."

Flatware stopped clinking against the plates as all eyes turned to Beth.

Susie tugged on her sleeve. "Please. Everyone misses you."

Beth poked at the meal she'd barely touched as if she might scoop a forkful of the cold food and eat it. "Not this time. Denki."

"See, Beth," Lizzy said. "Every person here knows you should be out socializing again. Everyone except you."

Beth's face grew taut, and she stood and removed the small stack of plates from Fannie's hands. "Go on. I'll do these."

Fannie glanced to her Daed.

He nodded. "Why don't you all finish up and go on out? Emmanuel and Ira, do you mind helping set up the volleyball nets?"

Emmanuel wiped his mouth on a cloth napkin. "We can do that."

Chairs screeched against the wood floor as most of the brood stood. Fannie and Susie bolted for the door. Two more of Beth's sisters and two sisters-in-law went to the sink, taking turns rinsing the hands and faces of their little ones before they all went outside.

Lizzy longed to see Beth in colored dresses, wearing a smile that radiated from her soul. Instead Beth…

To read the rest of chapter one, go to: http://www.cindywoodsmall.com/books/sound-of-sleigh-bells_excerpt.php

The Sound of Sleigh Bells, along with other books by Cindy Woodsmall, can be purchased at your local bookstore or online through Amazon or Christianbook.com.

Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0307446530?ie=UTF8&tag=cindywoodsoff-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0307446530

Christianbook.com

http://www.christianbook.com/sound-sleigh-bells-cindy-woodsmall/9780307446534/pd/446534?event=1001AUT|1677822|67484

© Material 

Excerpted from The Sound of Sleigh Bells by Cindy Woodsmall, Copyright © 2009 by Cindy Woodsmall. Excerpted by permission of WaterBrook Press, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

 LEAH'S CHOICE

By Marta Perry

 "Leah's Choice is a wonderful, fresh addition to the growing collection of novels about the Amish life. Marta Perry has created characters I came to care for deeply and a plot that kept me guessing at every turn. Un-put-down-able!" Deborah Raney, author of Above All Things and the Hanover Falls novels

Marta Perry www.martaperry.com, www.booksbymartaperry.blogspot.com. Available Nov. 3 at www.amazon.com, www.christianbook.com, and bookstores everywhere.

Chapter One

Knowing your proper place was a basic tenet of Amish life. Leah Beiler smiled as she watched her class of thirty-five scholars living out that belief. The number was up by three with the addition of the Glick children just today, and they were all in their assigned seats. Thirty-five heads bent over the work she'd set for her first-to-eighth graders, and not a whisper disturbed the stillness of the one-room school.

Despite the quiet, ten years of teaching had given Leah an extra sense where her scholars were concerned. Excitement rippled through the room, even though no head lifted for a furtive look at the battery clock on her desk. The prospect of a picnic lunch to welcome the newcomers had everyone, including, she had to admit, the teacher, excited. It would be a welcome break in the usual routine, with the Christmas program now in the distant past and their end-of-school-year events as yet not begun.

The April weather had cooperated today, bathing Pleasant Valley, Pennsylvania, in sunshine rather than showers. Trough the window she could see the horses and buggies lined up outside that told her the scholars' mothers had arrived with food for the picnic.

She clapped her hands, amused at the alacrity with which pencils were put down. "It's time for our picnic lunch now, scholars. We'll eat first, and then there will be time to play. You may go outside."

It wasn't necessary to add that they should go in an orderly manner. Order was another precept of Amish life, engrained since birth. Pencils were in their groove on the desk tops and books were closed before the children stood, murmuring quietly among themselves, and filed toward the door.

Leah followed her scholars between the rows of wood and wrought-iron desks and out the door at the rear of the classroom that led onto a small porch and then to the schoolyard.

The white school building, looking like every other Amish school she'd ever seen, stood in a grove of trees, its narrow dirt lane leading out to the main road, a good half mile away. The Esch farm lay to their east and the Brand farm to the west, so that the schoolhouse seemed to nestle in their protective, encircling arms.

A trestle table had been set up under the oak tree that sheltered the yard. Her volunteer mothers and grandmothers, probably also happy with the break in the routine, had spread it with a bountiful lunch—sandwich fixings of cheese, chicken, cold meat and bread, an array of salads, bowls of fruit and jars of milk and lemonade. Trays of cupcakes and brownies were covered, reminding the children that dessert came last.

Rachel Brand, Leah's special friend since girlhood, hurried over, apron fluttering, to thrust a well-filled plate in her hands. "Leah, I fixed a plate for you already, ja. If you waited for everyone else to be served, you might miss my macaroni salad."

"Never," she said, her pleasure at the day's treat increased by the presence of the friend who was as dear to her as a sister. "It's wonderful kind of you, Rachel, but we should be seeing to our guest of honor first."

Daniel Glick, the newcomer, stood out in the group, the only adult male in a bevy of women and children. If that bothered him, he didn't show it. He was accepting a heaping plate from her mother, bending over her with courteous attention.

"Your mamm is taking good care of him," Rachel said. "And if she wasn't, someone else would jump at the chance, for sure. A widower just come from Lancaster to join our community—you know every woman in Pleasant Valley will be thinking to match him up with a daughter or sister, they will."

"They'd do better not to matchmake. Daniel Glick looks well able to decide for himself if he needs a wife."

Daniel's firm jaw and the determined set to his broad shoulders under the plain work shirt he wore suggested a man who knew what he wanted and wouldn't be easily deflected from his course. He was probably a good hand at avoiding any unwanted match-making.

Rachel, her blue eyes dancing with mischief as if they were ten again, nudged her. "You'd best tell that to your mamm, then. I expect she's already inviting him to supper so he can get to know you."

"Me?" Her voice squeaked a bit, so she was glad that she and Rachel stood a little apart from the others. "Rachel, that's foolish. Everyone has known for years that I'm a maidal."

"Years," Rachel scoffed, her rosy cheeks growing rounder with amusement.

Rachel did still look like the girl she'd once been, her kapp strings flying as they'd chased one another in a game in this same schoolyard. She couldn't remember a time when Rachel hadn't been part of her life. They'd shared enough joy and sorrow to bond them forever.

"I know very well how old you are, Leah Beiler," Rachel continued, "because we were born within a month of each other. And you are only an old maid if you want to be."

Leah crinkled her nose. "A maidal," she said firmly. "And I'm a schoolteacher with a love of learning besides, which frightens men off."

Rachel's smile slid away suddenly, and her smooth brow furrowed. "Leah, it would break my heart if I thought you meant to stay single all your life because of Johnny."

The name startled her, and it was all she could do to keep dismay from showing on her face. When Johnny Kile left Pleasant Valley, fence-jumping to the English world like too many young men, he'd left behind his family, including his twin sister, Rachel, who'd loved him dearly.

And he'd left Leah, the girl he'd said he'd loved. The girl he'd planned to marry that November, once the harvest season was over.

Many of those young men who left came back, penitent and ready to rejoin the community, after a brief time in the English world. But not Johnny.

INTERVENTION made the New York Times Best-Seller List!

INTERVENTION

BY

Terri Blackstock

From Publisher's Weekly: "Prolific suspense author Blackstock (Double Minds) begins with every parent's nightmare: a drug-addicted teenage daughter is dragged to a rehab facility. When the interventionist is found dead and the teen is missing, mother Barbara Covington tries to find her daughter before police can arrest the girl for murder. Short chapters and terse dialogue propel the fast-paced action … the mother-daughter relationship strikes true emotional notes; the redemptive arc of evangelical Christian fiction is natural and resonant in a story of addiction. Blackstock's many fans will be pleased, and this story will also speak to families dealing with addicted children."

From Chapter 1:

The interventionist stood on the sidewalk at baggage claim, smoking a cigarette and chugging a Red Bull. What irony. The woman who's promised to help rid Barbara's daughter of her addictions clearly had a few of her own. Barbara considered driving past her, forcing her to get back on the plane and return to the rehab she ran. She could work this out herself--lock Emily in her room and take away her car keys, force her to stay sober. But hadn't she already tried that? Despite Barbara's best efforts to turn their home into a lockdown, Emily still managed to sneak out and get high.

How had this happened?

That familiar knot burned in Barbara's stomach as she pulled to the curb and waved at the woman. It had to be her—the long red skirt, the white peasant blouse, just as she'd said. The outfit made her look more like a college student than someone who could escort an determined addict across the country. What if Emily put up a fight? How would this petite thing handle her?

Barbara stopped along the curb and pulled the lever under the dashboard, popping her trunk. Forcing a welcoming smile, she got out of the car. "Hi, are you Trish?"

"Sure am." The woman dropped her cigarette on the concrete and stomped it out with a sandaled foot, then thrust a hand out to Barbara. "Trish Massey."

"I'm Barbara Covington."

Barbara glanced at the small bag at the woman's feet. "Is this all you have?"

"Yeah, I won't be here long."

Barbara picked up Trish's bag and set it in the trunk as Trish got into the car. Barbara slipped back into the driver's seat. The car that she'd freshened with Febreze suddenly smelled of smoke. "How was your trip?"

"Uneventful, which is always a good thing." Trish was all smiles. "So where did you tell Emily you were going?"

"To an Al-anon meeting."

"And that's okay with her?"

Barbara breathed a laugh. "Oh, yeah. She likes it when I'm working on her problem. She would love it if everybody she knew were going to meetings and wringing their hands. She loves to keep us playing the What To Do About Emily game."

There she went again, letting her bitterness spill out to a stranger.

"Meetings are good," Trish said. "Have you really been to any?"

Barbara slipped the car into Drive and pulled away from baggage claim, heading to the loop that would take them out of the airport and into Jefferson City. "Plenty. I've done the workbooks and gone through the twelve steps, like I'm the one with the problem. I've done everything they've told me to do. But she's still using."

"Al-anon meetings are to help you cope, not to give you some secret code to sober up your loved one."

Barbara knew that now. She'd gone to a few meetings, hoping to learn what would work with Emily. When she didn't get those answers, she'd lost interest. Her own sanity would return when her daughter was sane.

Strange that a woman who couldn't be more than thirty would be counseling Barbara now. And who was Trish to counsel an eighteen-year-old? Emily would take one look at her and declare her dominance.

What was she doing? Maybe this was all wrong.

"You're doing the right thing," Trish said, as though she'd read Barbara's mind.

Barbara didn't want to cry in front of the stranger. For a moment she drove silently, staring at the taillights of the car in front of her. Finally, she spoke again. "When Emily was going into preschool, I personally visited fourteen schools. I interviewed teachers. I even spent a day with her at the one I liked, to see how she fit in."

"I don't blame you. I'd probably do the same thing if I had children."

"It's no easy thing, sending her to a place like this, halfway across the country. But I had to act quickly. There wasn't time for a careful, deliberate search. I wasn't prepared when things escalated, like I should have been."

"You mentioned on the phone that she'd stolen money?"

"Yes. Not the first time, but this was the most she'd taken. Four hundred dollars, right out of my account. She got my debit card out of my purse. Spent every penny on drugs."

"How do you know?"

Barbara's fingers tightened over the steering wheel. "Because she didn't come home for three days. I found her strung out at a friend's house. I got her to come home, and while she was sleeping, I searched her things. Found some credit cards she'd taken out in her dad's name. John, my husband, died four years ago."

Barbara paused, expecting a gasp, but it didn't come. She supposed Trish had heard it all before. "You had to intervene," Trish said. "It sounds like her life has spun out of control."

Barbara's own life seemed to have spun out of control. First John's cancer had disrupted their idyllic lives. When he died, she'd swum through grief so deep it had almost drowned her. Being a forty-year-old widow with two children had been the next mire she'd slogged through. But now, Emily's drug abuse was more than she could take.

"You won't be disappointed in our program," Trish said.

Barbara glanced at Trish. "She'll be locked in, right? Because if she isn't, she'll leave. I've tried treatment two other times--one time, she ran away after only a week. The second time, she smuggled drugs in and got kicked out."

"We don't lock them in, but she'll be monitored at all times. Don't worry, we do this all the time. She'll be very comfortable."

Comfort wasn't Barbara's main concern, though she didn't want Emily to be miserable. Barbara bit the inside of her cheek as she pulled onto the interstate, headed for the hotel she'd reserved for Trish. She was sinking thirty thousand dollars into Road Back Recovery Center, money that had come from a second mortgage on her house. But being expensive didn't guarantee that it was good. Even the best rehabs had underwhelming success rates.

 She wished Trish inspired more confidence. "You seem very young. How did you come to own Road Back?"

Trish flicked her hair behind her ear. "I'm a recovering addict myself. I got clean at Road Back, and when I graduated, I stayed and worked there. I've been doing interventions for them for five years. A couple of years ago, the directors wanted to retire, so I decided to buy it. I couldn't stand the thought of it not being there anymore. That's how much I believe in the program."

That made Barbara feel somewhat better. She wished she could go to the facility herself to make sure it was all they advertised. But once she'd made up her mind to do the intervention, there hadn't been time to take a trip to check it out in person. Waiting could have resulted in Emily's arrest.

And Barbara knew she couldn't take Emily there herself. No, it would take a professional to convince Emily to go, and Trish had to be the one to escort her. Barbara was sending her daughter off to some unknown place with this woman she didn't know. Emily would pass this new threshold all alone ... and be there for ninety days.

 Emily had once been a fan of Hello Kitty and Amelia Bedelia. Now she collected pictures of her hero, Amy Winehouse, the famous addict with the hit song about avoiding rehab. Barbara still loved Emily with a love so painful that it ached through her at night, keeping her from sleep, but she didn't like this person who'd replaced her daughter. If only this rehab could exorcise the addiction within her, and return Emily home in her former condition …

It would be a miracle.

But what if this failed, too? What if turmoil and madness were all the potential Emily would ever fulfill?

Blinking back tears, she took the exit near her home. The Hampton Inn sign loomed ahead. "I hope the room is okay. I went ahead and checked you in." She handed her the key card.

"It'll be fine. You should see some of the places I've had to stay." As Barbara pulled into the parking lot, Trish shifted in her seat to look at her. "So, did you write the letters?"

"Yes." She parked and got the envelopes from her purse. "Here they are."

Trish took them and turned on the overhead light. "And who is Lance?"

"My son. He's fourteen. It's just us."

"Did Emily's problems start when her father died?"

"Not right away. But losing John was hard on all of us. Over the next year she got in with the wrong crowd." She paused and settled her gaze on Trish. "I want you to know, we're not like this. There was never even alcohol in our home. I've taken her to church every Sunday of her life …" Her voice faded. Trish had probably heard this same song and dance from every parent she dealt with.

"It's not your fault."

Then whose fault is it? Pursing her lips, Barbara let Trish read.

 Finally, Trish looked up. "Will Aanyone else be at the intervention? Grandparents?"

"They're too far away, and not in good health. I've kept them in the dark about all this. It would kill them."

"Friends? A boss? Teachers?"

"Emily dropped out of school several months ago. Her senior year, six months before graduating, so there aren't teachers. Her friends are like her. They don't want her sober.  And she lost her job three weeks ago. Hasn't been sober enough to get another one, so there's not a boss who can get through to her." Barbara glanced at Trish in the shadows of the car. "Is it a problem that it's only my son and me?"

"No, we can work with that." Trish handed the letters back. "You both did a good job with the letters. You told her what her addiction is doing to the family, how you see her destroying herself, and what you're asking her to do. The main thing is that you stick to your guns about what will happen if she refuses to go. To bring about change in her, you have to be willing to throw her out with no resources."

Barbara said nothing. She had grappled with that issue for months now, and lain awake for the past three nights, begging God to give her a way out. Why couldn't he sweep down and deliver Emily, before Barbara had to send her away for help or throw her out on the street?

"Are you ready for that? Putting her out if she refuses to go?"

Barbara swallowed. "I don't know. I know it's what I should do, but it's like giving up. She'll die for sure."

"Or she might hit bottom and decide to get help."

Barbara wondered what hitting bottom really meant. The picture that always came to mind was of a body lying broken and bloody on the street after falling from a twenty-story building.

"I've tried tough love. The third time she got arrested for a DUI, they sentenced her to three weeks in the juvenile detention center. I didn't bail her out. It was the hardest three weeks of my life."

"But it still didn't scare her straight."

"No. She went back to drugs a week after she got out."

"Did you really think it would change her?"

"I'd hoped. What good was all that suffering while she sat in jail, if she didn't change?"

"Your suffering, or hers?"

Barbara looked at Trish. "Both."

"Again, you're doing the hard things because you expect them to change her. You need to shift your thinking. Tomorrow, if she refuses to go and you have to put her out, do it because you and your son refuse to keep participating in her destruction. Do it for the mental and emotional protection of you and Lance. And you have to convey that to her. Make her understand you've come to the end of your rope."

Barbara leaned her head back on the seat. "She has to go with you. That's all there is to it."

Trish reached over the back seat and got her bag. "Sometimes they want treatment," she said. "Sometimes they're more fed up than you know with the endless cycle they're caught in. Constantly trying to get enough money to score another hit, thinking about it every waking moment, and never able to get that high they're looking for. Running on that horrible treadmill just to feel normal--or their version of normal. Do you think she's there yet?"

"I don't know. I really don't. I was hoping you were here to convince her, even if she doesn't want help."

"I can only do so much."

So what had this extra thirty-five hundred dollar fee paid for? A free vacation for this woman? "She has to go with you. If she doesn't, she'll wind up in jail."

"Or dead."

Dead. No, Barbara couldn't survive burying anyone else. "I can't let that happen. This has to work."

"I'll give it everything I've got. Maybe she's sick of her disease."

Barbara fought the urge to argue semantics. She hated the AA words like disease and relapse, like it was avirus Emily had caught somewhere. But she couldn't deny that Emily was sick.

Trish opened her car door. "What time will you pick me up?"

Barbara tried to think. The flight she'd booked for Trish and Emily was at three p.m. tomorrow, and this thing could take hours. They had to start early. "Eight a.m. I'll get her up while you're there."

"Tonight, you need to take her car to a friend's house. Park it there and hide the keys. If it's not in the driveway, she can't talk you into giving her the keys. If she leaves, it'll have to be without the car."

That wouldn't be hard. Emily could have one of her drug buddies there in minutes.

"Hopefully her connection with you and her brother will be enough to make her go. And I'll do my part to make her see the possibilities." She got out her cigarettes, pulled one out. "It'll be okay. Most of the interventions I do are successful."

"But there's no guarantee."

"I'm afraid not."

She'd have to pay her whether Emily went with her or not. It had to work. Her resources were running out.

About the Author:

Terri's new book Intervention was inspired by her personal experiences with her daughter's addictions. Six years ago she became aware that her daughter (then in her early twenties) had a severe prescription pill addiction that was killing her, and she hired an interventionist to convince her daughter to go to treatment. After a grueling few hours, her daughter agreed to go. As Terri put her on the plane with the interventionist, she was hit with the crushing feeling that her daughter was in the hands of a stranger, and anything could happen. That's when this book was born.

Over the past few years, Terri's family has been in a tornado of relapses and rehabs, with one emergency after another, and grace upon grace. But through all this, God has taught her to pray as never before, and he's shown her how many other families are experiencing the same thing. He's also shown her that many blessings can come from crises such as this. Terri has tried to fold all of those experiences into this suspense novel of desperation and hope.

Terri would like to thank all of her readers for helping Intervention debut on the New York Times best-seller list.

Intervention can be ordered at these online stores, or in a book store near you:

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Intervention-Novel-Terri-Blackstock/dp/031025065X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1256572880&sr=8-1

Barnes & Noble: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Intervention/Terri-Blackstock/e/9780310250654/?itm=1&USRI=terri+blackstock

Christian Book Distributors: http://www.christianbook.com/intervention-terri-blackstock/9780310250654/pd/250654?item_code=WW&netp_id=607350&event=ESRCN&view=covers

CREEDE OF OLD MONTANA

By Stephen Bly

2009, Center Point Publishers

Summary:

Avery John Creede rides into Fort Benton, Montana in 1886 for a reunion with army pals and some long needed R&R. He collides with a running gunfight by a notorious local outlaw's gang . . . and two women determined to distract him. The dark haired beauty, Carla Logonaire, is an old flame and the gal of Avery's dreams. Her daddy made his mega-fortune with imported glass and partnered with Theodore Roosevelt, Sr. Avery buys a diamond and sapphire ring for her, just in case.

Meanwhile, he's accosted by Sunny, the sharp-tongued mystery blonde in the yellow dress, who threatens to kill him for jailing her alleged bank robber friends.

Just as things get real hectic, Avery's 15-year-old tenderfoot nephew from back east shows up with very disturbing news.

CHAPTER ONE Excerpt

No one knew how Avery John Creede got the scar on his face.

No one except Avery and the one who did it.  He never talked about it.  Most who knew him figured the other person dead.   Not the type of scar that makes you wince and turn your head, and never covered by a beard, it hung high on his cheek bone like a badge of honor. 

But a person had to stand up to Creede and look him in the eye to see the scar.  For the past six weeks on the trail north from Shiprock, no one had been that close.

July hot and August dry, the September heat that reflected off the brick wall left Avery with a stale feel, like a sweat drenched cotton shirt, long dried.  He studied the wide river from the tiny, two-step balcony of his second-story room at the Grand Hotel.  Although he could not see it now, he knew he was positioned under the arched 1881 stone façade high at the building's peak.  Like a pontiff overlooking an empty plaza, he surveyed the near deserted street below. 

A lady with a famine-thin waist and a bleached yellow dress spun a parasol over her shoulder as she sauntered past the cottonwoods toward the riverbank.  Like bait skimming across a still mountain lake, Avery figured she trolled for some man to set the hook. 

His heavy boot heels nailed the polished oak flooring as he re-entered the cramped room past the brass bed posts to a white porcelain basin on a stand and a worn wooden side chair.  He splashed tepid water on his shaved face, then glanced up at the mirror.  The leather-tough forced smile and near empty brown eyes looked more like a Venetian mask than a retired cavalry veteran way past forty. 

His black, beaver-felt cowboy hat, still damp with sweat from the long ride, wafted the aroma of a wet goat.  He shoved it down to his ears.  With oft repeated precision, he strapped on his holster.  He yanked out the Colt revolver, reset the cylinder on the empty chamber and shoved it back down.

As if giving a lecture on gentlemanly attire, he rolled the sleeves on his dusty white shirt down, one direful fold at a time, then buttoned them.  He never took his gaze off the dark brown eyes that stared back at him from the mirror.  Shirt now fastened at the neck, he tugged the black silk tie around his collar.  Rough calloused fingers completed the four-in-hand knot that he memorized as a child.

Oppressive Montana air crowded the room, like a mountain cabin after six weeks of snow in January.  Avery closed the door behind him as he entered the hall, but didn't bother locking it.   He wasn't sure if that was out of foolishness or apathy.  Yet, years of conflict led him down the empty stairs at a cautious pace, one hand on the slick oak rail, the other on the hard walnut grip of his .44 revolver.  

Wednesday died about 1 p.m. in Fort Benton, Montana Territory.  Rsurrection wasn't expected for another two hours.  The clock above the lifeless stove in the lobby ticked out of habit, but the pendulum winced as if the effort wasn't worth it's full effort.

Propped open with river rocks the size of cannonballs, the double front doors of the hotel invited a breeze that hadn't arrived yet.  A wide nosed man with an uneven black beard studied the solitaire spread on the clerk's counter.   He waved a seven of clubs at Avery.

"You sure you ain't never been to Purgatory?"         

"I think I'd remember if I had."  Avery didn't look at the man as he ambled toward the door.

"That's in Colorado, you know."

"Yeah, so I've heard."  Avery parked in the doorway and surveyed the wide street.

"Maybe it was Butte . . . you ever been to Butte?"

"Many times."

"I bet it was Butte.  You shot that crooked Faro dealer at the Copper Slipper, right?"

"Nope."

"He deserved killin', if you ask me."

The late afternoon sun beaconed off the big window of the Chouteau County Bank as he stepped out into the empty street.  The sound of the bank's heavy door slam precipitated a chorus of barking dogs. 

Avery hesitated as if waiting for phantom traffic.  He thought he saw shadows flicker in the narrow alley next to the bank.

"Where you goin'?" the man shouted from the hotel.

"Sailing," Avery grumbled.

Like a bit player in a melodrama, the man appeared in the doorway.  "Sailin'?  There ain't enough water in the old Missouri this time of the year for a big canoe, much less a . . ."

Avery's glare chopped the tail off the man's sentence. 

"Eh . . . I was jist askin' cause you said three men would show up lookin' for you and I wanted to know where to tell them to look."

"Tell `em to wait here."

"But if you don't come back, where shall I tell them you went?"

"Purgatory."

Creede of Old Montana

By Stephen Bly Copyright©2009

Center Point Publishers, Hardback, in print large enough for everyone

STEPHEN BLY is a Christy Award winner and author of over 100 books, including The Long Trail Home, The Land Tamers, The Horse Dreams Series, The Fortunes of the Black Hills Series, and Paperback Writer.

Order through your local quality bookstore, or available through www.Amazon.com and other online bookstores, or check out at your local library, or order through http://www.BlyBooks.com

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SEASIDE LETTERS

By Denise Hunter

Sabrina Kincaid didn't intend to fall for Nantucket native Tucker McCabe, the man she serves coffee to every morning--a man tied to a past she deeply regrets. But she has. And she's fallen hard. But she's kept this a secret from her handsome customer. And now Tucker wants to hire Sabrina to help locate his friend "Sweetpea"-the mysterious woman he's falling in love with online. Sabrina is not inclined to help, but if Tucker hires someone else, it could spell disaster. Because if someone else sifted through the emails and figured out the truth-then Tucker would discover that the person he's trying to find is . . . her.

Chapter One

 Sabrina Kincaid heard the jingle of the café's glass door open and glanced at the clock above the workstation. Seven-twelve on the dot.

She grabbed the fresh pot, turned toward the tables crowding the Cobblestone Café, then headed straight to his table—might as well get it over with—table seven, a two-topper near the front.

He would be seated against the bead board wall, facing the kitchen, unfortunately. He would be wearing his blue "Cap'n Tucker's Water Taxi" cap, a light-colored T-shirt, and a crooked grin. She would offer him coffee, he would accept, then he would spread open the Inquirer and Mirror and take thirty minutes on all twelve articles while she waited on other customers, her bony knees knocking together like bamboo wind chimes.

"Evan," Gordon called from the kitchen. "Table twelve needs to be bussed."

Evan's blond ponytail flipped over his shoulder as he turned and wiped his hands on his stained brown apron. "Right, dude."

Sabrina stopped a foot from the scarred maple table, avoiding eye contact, looking only at the fat rim of the ivory mug as he slid it toward her.

How many words had they exchanged in the year he'd been coming to the café? One hundred? Two hundred? Couldn't be much more than that.

As always her expression was free of emotion, though a powerful hurricane brewed inside. It was a skill she'd learned early, perfected well, and if that had earned her the title of Ice Princess, so be it.

"Morning, Sabrina." Tucker's deep voice was raspy. And, as usual, he cleared his throat after the greeting.

Was she the first person he spoke to each morning? The thought made her hand tremble. A stream of hot coffee flowed over the cup's rim and onto Tucker's thumb. He jerked his hand back.

Idiot! Her first spill in months and it had to be Tucker. And with hot coffee.

"I'm sorry. Let me fetch a towel." She turned toward the kitchen, heat flooding her face.

He stopped her with his other hand. "I'm fine." He wiped his thumb on a napkin and held it out. "See?"

Sabrina made the mistake of meeting his eyes. Oh, yes. She saw all right. Under the brim of his cap, his blue eyes contrasted with his summer-brown skin. One strand of dark hair curled like a backward C, nearly tangling with his eyelashes. He disliked his curly hair, but hated going to the barber so much that he procrastinated until it was an unruly mop. He wore contacts because he was nearsighted and because glasses would blur under the sprays of water as he guided his boat.

He was still looking at her.

She was still looking at him.

Look away. Say something. "Anything else?"

"A smile?" Tucker's own grin lifted the tiny scar near the corner of his mouth—a souvenir from the time his twin sister dared him to jump from his second-story bedroom window when he was nine.

But Sabrina wasn't supposed to know about that. She pulled at the tip of her ponytail with her empty hand.

"Give it up, McCabe." Behind her, Oliver Franklin's voice was a lifeline. "Top me off, Sabrina?"

She turned, grateful for the distraction, and filled his cup. The sand-colored coffee darkened to caramel as she poured, the rich smell of the brew drifting upward on wings of steam.

"Not feeling particularly efficacious this morning?" Oliver tilted his round head, his hairline receding another inch as he hiked his bushy gray brows. He gripped the mug with fat hands calloused from garden tools.

"I'm as efficient as always, just a bit clumsy today." Sabrina took his egg-streaked plate and stacked a smaller plate on top.

"Dagnabit, Sabrina," he said as she walked away. "Is there a word you don't know?"

She deposited the plates into Evan's tub, set the pot on the warmer, and loaded a tray with table five's food. Was Tucker watching her? She always felt like he was, which was ludicrous. Still, it made her stand a little straighter, smile a little more—at other customers. He was good for her tips.

You're just some server he toys with. Nothing else.

When she turned with the loaded tray, her eyes pulled toward him. Don't look. Just walk. Look at the sun streaming through the glass front. Look at the family at table four, the toddler, crouched in the wooden high chair, letting loose a wail that could be heard clear down at the wharf. Sabrina pulled a packet of crackers from her apron pocket and slipped it to the mom as she passed.

When she reached table five, she served the food then tucked the tray under her arm. "Anything else?"

"Tabasco sauce?" the mother asked. "Oh, and he needs a refill of juice." She handed Sabrina her son's cup. The overhead lights sparkled off a huge diamond.

"Be right back." She had to pass Tucker's table on the way.

He turned as she passed, his sandaled foot sliding into her path as he shifted into the aisle. "Sabrina. I know you're busy, but I was wondering if we could chat a minute."

The request stopped her cold. Sabrina didn't chat with customers. Char chatted with customers, even the rich ones. Evan chatted with customers too. But not Sabrina, and certainly not with Tucker. It broke her unspoken line between customer and server, and that line was the only thing separating her from disaster. "I—I have too many tables."

"Miss, some decaf, please?" An elderly tourist, seated at the table behind Oliver's, corroborated her excuse.

"Of course." Sabrina went to fill the cup with juice, grabbed a bottle of Tabasco and the decaf pot. What could Tucker want? As far as he knew, she was only a server at the café.

Maybe he knows.

But he couldn't. She'd been so careful.

Yeah, so careful she'd lost her heart to the man. ©

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Walks the Fire

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

            . . . this man was not Homer. She was looking into the face of a Sioux warrior. . . As her thoughts turned heavenward, the Indian who stood above her reached down to investigate the glint of gold at her neck. Jesse clutched at her mother's cross and chain. The Indian was insistent. He pried her fingers away from the cross but, to Jesse's surprise, did not snatch it from her neck. Instead, he examined it carefully, let go, and stepped away.

            Jesse sat up. Every muscle screamed in pain. She was stiff and sore and thirsty. Still, no bones seemed broken. She looked about her at what was left of the wagon. And then, towards the front of the wagon, her eye caught a flash of red flannel waving in the breeze. Homer? No, not Homer any longer, yet it had been Homer only a little while ago. Gabe and Beau were there too. Their valiant efforts to outrun the buffalo would be their last pulling contest.

            Jesse realized that she was alone and at the mercy of the Indians who stood about, looking through the wreckage as their ponies snatched up mouthfuls of coarse grass. They were a quiet bunch, commenting occasionally on what they found in the wreckage, examining the iron stove with curiosity. The flour and grain and stored foods were scattered about, ground into the dust and useless. Only one wheel of the wagon remained unbroken. The rest were shattered, so that the wagon stood askew, propped up like a newborn colt on its long, spindly legs.

            "Be not afraid. . . Be not afraid. . ." The words kept drumming in Jesse's mind as she watched the Indians move about. They ignored her for a long time, and then the one who had seen the cross made his way back to her. She noticed for the first time that he was taller than his companions--or would have been, had it not been for one bad leg. He had apparently broken that leg in the past, and it had mended badly, for now he walked with a lurching gait, his braids shaking with each step. His face was painted red. Three stripes of black paint adorned each cheek; bright yellow rings encircled each eye.

            His face was grim as he approached Jesse, and she shrank away from his grasp. But he pulled her to her feet, and as she did so, the soreness in her back and legs made her cry out in pain. She stumbled, tried to stand but could not. The brave grabbed her roughly about the waist and half pulled, half carried her to his snow white pony. He was strong and lifted her up on the bare back effortlessly. Jesse clutched fearfully at the dancing pony's mane and prepared to be led away.

            But the Indian brave leaped up behind her. He smelled of war paint and sweat. . . She took a deep breath, praying, God, keep me on this pony. Surely I was not meant to die out here, like this--alone--God, help me!

            Jesse tried to look back at the wreckage. She was surprised when the Indian turned his pony to allow her to look back. How did I survive that? she wondered in amazement as she surveyed the scene. A flash of white caught her attention, and she saw that her best quilt now lay across the back of one of the other ponies. It was the all-white quilt that she had worked steadily on for months before she and Homer were married. . .

            Now the quilt shimmered in the hot sun. It was dusty, but seemed to have survived the tragedy unscathed. Jesse smiled grimly as she wondered if she would have such good fortune wherever they were taking her. . .

            Over the top of a cradle board two dark eyes glistened. . . Jesse felt her body respond to the cries. . . the child's eyes met hers. Jesse whispered, "I am not who you want," but even as she spoke, she instinctively reached out to stroke the velvety cheek. The tiny heard turned to seek out her fingers to suckle.

            Instinct took over. Jesse reached for the infant and cradled him on her lap as she unfastened her bodice. Put to her breast, the child sighed, nuzzled gently, and began to nurse greedily. He lay quite still, his tiny dark hand posed against her white skin. Then he stopped, looking up. As his eyes searched her face, milk trickled out of his mouth. He burped loudly and began to nurse again. . .

            As dusk arrived, the Indian came back. He glanced Jesse's way. . . but it was the infant who commanded his attention. Kneeling by the child, he stroked the dark hair, softly chanting,

a wa wa wa

Inila istinma ma

a wa wa wa

wablenica

            He padded a skin hide with something white and fluffy taken from a leather bag. Then he wrapped the baby in the hide diaper and returned him to Jesse. He motioned for her to lie down on the buffalo robe the old woman had unrolled. Jesse gratefully lay down, the child at her side. In spite of her fears, sleep came. The baby slept in her arms, waking to nurse greedily several times that first night.

            In the morning, when the old woman tried to awaken her, Jesse was vaguely aware of being prodded to rise, but she could not respond. The bruises and the aching muscles. . . had taken their toll. The sleeping infant was lifted gently away and his fawnskin diaper changed. Jesse King slept away most of her first day in a Lakota village.

* * *

Copyright 2007. No part of this work (excerpt for brief excerpts for critical reviews or articles) is to be reproduced without the express written permission of the author. Contact stephanie@...

* * *

Originally published by Thomas Nelson Publishers,

Walks the Fire is the first book in the three-book Prairie Winds series

All three books, Walks the Fire, Soaring Eagle, and Red Bird,

are now available in new editions from iUniverse, Inc.

ISBN for Walks the Fire is: 9780595465507

$17.95

order at www.stephaniewhitson.com

from your favorite local bookstore

or at www.bn.com.

LOST MISSION

By Athol Dickson

An epic suspense story spanning two centuries and brimming with magical realism.

Lupe de la Garza, a simple shopkeeper in a mountain village in Mexico, believes God wants her to go to America to preach the gospel. She is guided on her quest by her people's greatest treasure: an altarpiece painted by the eighteenth century Franciscan friar who founded her village after fleeing the mysterious destruction of his California mission outpost. When Lupe is distracted by desire for a young minister and her preaching in a southern California beach town inspires only apathy and laughter, she begins to lose faith in her quest. Then the slumbering evil that destroyed the friar's Franciscan mission rises up again after two hundred years, and Lupe once more looks to the altarpiece for guidance, only to find the true purpose of her quest in the midst of her single greatest fear.

As with Dickson's previous works, Lost Mission caused me to slow down and enjoy every savory bite of this gripping journey. When I arrived at the end I was left feeling like I'd taken part in an epic voyage that had completely consumed my imagination. . . . Lost Mission is redemptive storytelling at its highest level and once again Dickson proves that he is a true master of the craft — Jake Chism, FictionAddict.com

***

Excerpt from Lost Mission:

Survival in the elements is a matter of the rule of three. One perishes in three minutes without air, three hours in cold weather without proper clothing, and three days without water.

Today we know these rules should not be taken literally. Many people have survived much longer. Many perish sooner. The record is ten minutes seventeen seconds without air. In the desert of Sonora, in an Arizona summer without water, Guadalupe Soledad Consuelo de la Garza might well die in fewer days than three.

It had been thirty hours since she emptied the last plastic bottle and dropped her backpack to the ground. Sitting in the shade of a rock overhang she prayed while waiting for the sunset. Only in the dark did Lupe dare to move. She knew nothing of the rule of three, but unless she was rescued sometime in the night she did believe the next day would be her last.

Nevertheless, the young woman prayed with confidence. She had asked for rescue long ago, and did not bother her Creator with additional requests. Her prayers now were mostly words of praise. She praised the Holy Father for her health, which had allowed her to survive up to that moment. She praised Him for her old friends in Rincon de Dolores, and for Padre Hinojosa, who had led her in the Way. She praised God for her Savior, who had rescued her from a fate much worse than this. She praised God for the beauty of the desert, which was a reflection of his majesty, and for this chance to witness a new aspect of Him after all her years in cool and verdant mountains.

Padre Hinojosa had taught her the Holy Father could be beautifully fearsome. She remembered Aaron's sons, Moses's nephews, who approached too close to the Most Holy Place without the proper preparation and were consumed by flames which flashed out from the Presence of the Lord. She shivered in the heat to think of such a fire. High in the cool mountains of Rincon de Dolores she could never have imagined such a fearsome God, but now she knew what Aaron's sons had seen in their last moment: a splendid furnace like the gloriously shimmering desert, a beauty worth the horror of the flames.

In spite of her parched mouth and throat, when she was not praying Lupe tried to sing. She remembered melodies from Don Pedro's radio, from the Protestant station the deaf cobbler had tried to listen to sometimes. One song in particular she liked very much. Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me. She understood it was a very famous hymn among the Americanos.

She did not think the Holy Father minded that she listened to such words. The preachers and the singers on the Protestant radio station seemed to love the Savior as she did, even if they were perhaps mistaken on some details. But she would never mention the radio station to Padre Hinojosa.

Lupe sang softly, I once was lost, but now am found, and before her eyes a serpent crawled across the soil. She fell silent, watching from the shadow of the rock as it traveled in an S-shaped fashion. It passed out of sight beneath a low-lying bush without leaves. It was of course a rattlesnake.

She thought of the serpent that deceived the first man and woman. She did not think the Evil One had been a serpent in the same way as this little thing which crawled before her humbly on its belly, seeking shade as she herself had done. She felt pity for the snake beneath the bush. She believed it knew only the horror of the heat, and nothing of the desert's beauty.

She had no fear of death. The Holy Father's ways were not her ways, of course, yet it would be very strange if He had sent her on a quest, only to let her perish in the desert before she had a chance to speak to one single person of the Savior. She remembered what the priest of Rincon de Dolores had taught her of the prophet Moses who remained upon the mountain forty days and nights, and the Savior Himself who suffered forty days of temptation in a wilderness. Israel was very dry and very hot, or so the padre said. If the Savior and the prophet Moses had been tested in a place like this, a place where one might learn to see the Holy Father's fearsome beauty, perhaps this desert was her place of testing too.

Holy Father, if that is so, give me strength for I am weak.

When I am weak, then I am strong. The words came to mind as if San Pablo himself had whispered in her ear. Lupe knew it was important to conserve her strength, but joy rose in her irresistibly. She began to sing again. In the lonely shade below the rock she longed to teach the song to the Americanos if in fact they did not know it. I once was lost but now am found. Perhaps it was a prophecy.

When evening came at last, she arose with Alejandro's burden in her arms and walked into the gloaming. It was her last chance. "Señor serpent," she said beside the leafless bush, "Please allow me passage through your land."

***

To purchase Lost Mission, click on:

Amazon.com, BarnesAndNoble.com, or ChristianBook.com

Visit Athol Dickson's blog to read the entire first chapter of Lost Mission.

Visit Athol Dickson's official website for more information.

Excerpt above Copyright (c) 2009 by Author Author, Inc.

All rights reserved.

Do not copy without permission.

Curse of the Spider King

by Wayne Thomas Batson and Christopher Hopper

Fantasy. Mystery. Action. Humor. Parents, teachers, and librarians will no longer have to push kids to read-The Berinfell Prophesies will engage intermediate readers and leave them clamoring for more.

The Seven succeeding Elven Lords of Allyra were dead, lost in the Siege of Berinfell as babes.  At least that's what everyone thought until tremors from a distant world known as Earth, revealed strange signs that Elven blood lived among its peoples. With a glimmer of hope in their hearts, sentinels are sent to see if the signs are true. But theirs is not a lone errand. The ruling warlord of Allyra, the Spider King, has sent his own scouts to hunt down the Seven and finish the job they failed to complete many ages ago.

Now 13-year-olds on the brink of the Age of Reckoning when their Elven gifts will be manifest, discover the unthinkable truth that their adoptive families are not their only kin. With mysterious Sentinels revealing breathtaking secrets of the past, and dark strangers haunting their every move, will the young Elf Lords find the way back to the home of their birth? Worlds and races collide as the forces of good and evil battle.  Will anyone escape the Curse of the Spider King?

Learn more about The Berinfell Prophecies at www.heedtheprophecies.com.  Create your own tribe.  Connect with fans through the forum.  Win pre-release chapters and the opportunity to have Wayne and Christopher at your very own book party!

Chapter Excerpt:

Sophie had heard the rumbles of thunder and stopped drawing. She glanced toward the sky and then looked around. She saw a tall man leaning against a tree on the opposite side of the sidewalk. Sophie didn't think she had seen this man before, though his wide-brimmed hat hid his face almost completely. Like the twin serpents carved into one of the nearby statues, the man's eyes gleamed now and then—but he never turned his head.

Sophie wondered who he was watching. It might be any number of kids in the area. A blur of boys and girls sat cheering from the merry-go-round even as it made them too dizzy to walk, while others jumped rope, played on the monkey bars, and some preschoolers sat learning a song in English.

Eency weency spider went up the water spout,

Down came the rain and washed the spider out,

Up came the sun and dried out all the rain,

So the eency weency spider went up the spout again.

The man remained motionless, Sophie intently watching him. There was something floating down from the tree limb a few feet above that man's left shoulder. It was a big spider—one of those orange and black ones that built the big webs in the eaves of the apartment! The spider dangled on its web and descended past the brim of his hat and very close to the man's ear, and it looked as if it were talking to the man. Sophie began to giggle and quickly started sketching the man and the spider. Only minutes later the rain began to fall.

"Come along, Sophie," her mother said. "Get your chalk. A storm is coming."

"Mais Maman!" Sophie said. "That man, he talks with spiders!"

"What?" Sophie's mother asked. "A man who speaks with spiders?"

"It is true, Maman! I saw him."

Sophie's mother nodded to her friends and was leading her imaginative daughter out of the playground, when a police officer approached.

"Pardonnez-moi, Madame."

"Oui?" said Sophie's mother.

The policeman explained that he had received a call about a strange man loitering around the playground and was investigating. Had they seen anything? No, her mother answered, they'd seen nothing unusual.

"Oui, Maman. That was the man I told you about. Come look!"

Sophie walked her mother and the policeman to her unfinished sketch of the man. It was all deep browns, blacks, and grays, a very dark image of a ghostly figure. "He is the one who speaks with spiders! I saw him there," Sophie said pointing to where the man had been standing.

The policeman and her mother laughed. "A man who speaks with spiders? I'll make note of that," the policeman said as he walked away.

Wayne Thomas Batson

www.enterthedoorwithin.blogspot.com

www.heedtheprophecies.com

Purchase Curse of the Spider King at Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/1400315050?tag=wwwenterthedo-20&camp=14573&creative=327641&linkCode=as1&creativeASIN=1400315050&adid=0A5WM995P6F0VJHX2GQ3&

New from WaterBrook Press

A white picket fence is no guarantee that all is well. . .

WHITE PICKET FENCES

 By Susan Meissner

Amanda Janvier and husband Neil take their motherless niece Tally into their seemingly storybook life, all the while refusing to acknowledge that their son Chase is haunted by memories of the horrific house fire no one talks about. Secrets of the past can't stay hidden forever behind their white picket fence.

Susan Meissner is a multi-published author of such novels as The Shape Of Mercy, named to Publisher's Weekly's Top 100 Novels for 2008 and winner of the ECPA Christian Book of the Year for Fiction.

Excerpt from Chapter 1

The chilled air inside the Tucson funeral chapel suppressed the punishing heat outside. Amanda shivered as she took a seat on the cool metal chair. She leaned over and whispered to her husband in the chair next to her. "A sweater in Arizona in September?"

He nodded casually, apparently unfazed by the abrupt temperature change from scorching to polar. Neil had worn a suit, though she told him she didn't think he had to, and she envied his long sleeves. He quietly cleared his throat, opened the program he'd been handed when they walked in, and began to read the obituary of the woman whose casket sat several feet away–the woman neither of them had ever met.

A generous waft of newly refrigerated air spilled from the vent above her head, and Amanda instinctively turned to her niece on her other side. The teenager's arms were bare under a flamingo-hued halter dress. Amanda wondered if the foster mother had given Tally any advice at all on what she might want to wear to her grandmother's funeral. Amanda again turned to her husband.

"I think we should've come yesterday." Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Neil looked up from the program. "It wouldn't have changed anything," he replied gently. "Besides, we got here as quick as we could. It's not your fault you didn't know she was here. Your brother should've told you."

Neil reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. Amanda looked down and noticed a thin line of wood stain under one of his fingernails, evidence that he had cleaned up from his latest woodworking project in a hurry. Neil turned back to the program, and Amanda looked over at her niece.

"You doing okay?" She hesitated, then placed an arm around Tally's shoulders.

The girl flinched and glanced at Amanda's arm before turning back to face the casket. The sixteen-year-old shrugged. "I didn't really know my grandma." The words were laced with casual regret, as if she knew people were supposed to know their grandparents, but what could she do about that now? Amanda intuitively pulled Tally closer. The girl stiffened at first and then relaxed, reminding Amanda that Tally barely knew her either.

Amanda hadn't seen her niece in nearly a decade. A handful of phone calls over the last few years, including one from a Texas jail and one from a château in Switzerland, had confirmed that Bart was still alive and that he still had Tally. Bart tended to contact her only in desperate times. And most of the time he didn't recognize his own desperation.

She had always felt like the older sister when it came to Bart, the one who watched out for him, the one who tried to keep him out of trouble, the one their parents expected more from. It had always amazed her that Bart was just fine with that arrangement. She had been in junior high when he left home at seventeen, and he'd come home only twice in the years before she graduated from high school. Bart missed their parents' quiet divorce. Missed their mother's remarriage to an Australian man who had no intention of living anywhere but Melbourne. Missed her wedding to Neil and the births of her two children. Missed their father's last agonizing days of pancreatic cancer. In thirty years Bart had missed just about everything, including all opportunities for his family to get to know Tally.

The opening notes of the organist's ballpark rendition of "Shall We Gather at the River?" startled her, and she barely heard the buzz of her husband's vibrating cell phone. Neil pulled the phone out of his suit pocket. "It's a text from Delcey," he said. "She wants to know if she can sleep over at Mallory's house tonight. They want to go to the beach."

Amanda crinkled an eyebrow at the thought of her daughter not being home when they flew back to San Diego. "Tonight?"

Neil looked at her. "Maybe it's a good idea."

"No. Not tonight, Neil. She can go to the beach but she should be home tonight. Don't you think?"

"I guess."

"Which beach? How's she getting there?"

"Encinitas. Chase said he'd take her," Neil said, looking at the tiny screen on his phone.

Amanda wondered for a moment how Chase would feel about making the thirty-two-mile round trip to the beach. With Delcey out of the house, Chase would have the place to himself until she and Neil returned that evening. Their quiet seventeen year-old probably couldn't wait to get his chatty younger sister out of the house. It hadn't passed her notice that her children were the same ages she and Bart had been when Bart left home. Chase's
introspective nature and stark Teutonic features were similar to Bart's, but beyond that he was nothing like her brother. And Delcey thankfully did not have to mother Chase like she'd mothered Bart. "Tell her she needs to be home by six thirty," Amanda said. "I want her to be at the house when we get back tonight."

Neil punched in the message on the tiny keyboard. He nodded to the funeral program as he sent the message. "Did you know Virginia was a nurse in Vietnam? In the Army Reserves. She was in Saigon when it fell." He cocked his head as if waiting for a response and slipped the phone back in his pocket.

"I…I didn't know that," Amanda whispered back, pulling her thoughts back to the funeral chapel.

"She had medals from the army." Tally's head was turned toward Amanda, resting at an angle–like she had been a silent and interested part of the just-finished conversation about Delcey. "I saw them on the wall in her bedroom. But I didn't get a chance to ask her about them."

"I'm sorry, Tally." Amanda stroked the child's shoulder.

"I don't think my dad knew that about her. That she was in Vietnam. They didn't get along, actually. My dad and Grandma. She blames him for what happened to my mom." Tally swung her head back to face the front. "But you probably already know that."

Excerpted from White Picket Fences by Susan Meissner. Copyright © 2009 by Susan Meissner. Excerpted by permission of WaterBrook Press, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

The Carousel Painter

Judith Miller

"Set in the late 1800s, this delightful tale introduces Carrington Brouwer, left penniless by her father's death. She takes a coveted position as an artist in a carousel factory, where many of the male workers resent her presence. When the factory owner is robbed, Carrington falls under suspicion. VERDICT: Miller's attention to historical detail and her convincing heroine make this an enjoyable novel for lovers of historical romances and inspirational women's fiction."  –Library Journal.

When her coveted job leads to false accusations, who can she trust to believe the truth?

Chapter 1

April 10, 1890
Collinsford, Ohio

I perched on the edge of the brocade settee while Mrs. Galloway stared at me as though she'd discovered some new species of life. A curious look. One that made me feel as though I needed to check my appearance in the hallway mirror. Had the identity of Carrington Leigh Brouwer completely vanished on the journey from France? Pos­sibly I'd sprouted horns. I considered touching my head to ensure that my suspicions were incorrect, for I'd never felt so uncomfortable in my life.

The very thought of stubby protrusions poking out from beneath my unfashionable straw hat caused me to force back a giggle--my com­pulsive reaction to unpleasant situations. I'd giggled at my mother's funeral when I was ten years old. Last month I'd done the same thing when they placed my father in his grave. I've been told it's a survival behavior used by many children. But at twenty-one years of age, I was no longer a child, and I doubted such conduct would endear me to this dour-faced woman. Then again, I wasn't certain there was anything that would please Mrs. Galloway. Her lips appeared to be permanently fixed in an upside-down U.

She rang a small brass bell that brought a servant scurrying into the room. The maid didn't look much older than me or any more pleasant than Mrs. Galloway.

"We'll need tea, Frances. And tell Thomas I need to speak with him."

The girl mumbled before turning on her heel.

Mrs. Galloway's thin eyebrows dipped into a scowl. "Good help is impossible to find nowadays. Did you find the same to be true in Paris, Miss Brouwer?"

I forced myself to smile at the woman. "Please call me Carrington-- or Carrie, if you prefer."

"A family name, I assume?"

"No, from a book my mother read."

Her look of expectancy vanished, and her thin lips tightened into a knot. She must have toyed with the notion that I had descended from people of wealth and distinction. I coughed to hold back a giggle that had risen to the back of my throat. Mrs. Galloway would be horrified to discover how little I knew about my ancestors. And what I did know would make her hair stand on end.

"Well, someone should have mentioned to your mother that Carrington sounds like a boy's name."

Mrs. Galloway's abrupt comment put a halt to my meandering thoughts. I considered telling her my name was quite acceptable for a girl, but before I could respond, a gray-haired man wearing dirty work pants and a frayed shirt appeared in the doorway. It was probably good that the workman's appearance squelched my reply. Otherwise, Mrs. Galloway would think me impudent as well as a descendant of ques­tionable ancestry.

The spry-looking man swiped his palms on his denim trousers. "Frances said you wanted to see me. I was out in the--"

Mrs. Galloway waved the man into an abrupt silence. I assumed he must be Thomas.

The older woman's frown deepened, and she pointed toward the front of the house. "Go out and get those trunks off the front porch and take them upstairs to the spare bedroom. There isn't enough space in the bedroom for that crate. You'll have to put it elsewhere."

"I can put it in the gardening shed if you like. Should be enough room in there."

"No!" I shouted the response without thinking. Now they were both staring at me as though I'd grown horns. "Wh-what I mean is," I stammered, "that crate contains my paintings. My father's canvases." I waited, but neither of them appeared to understand. "I need to keep the crate indoors--with me--out of the weather."

"Well, it won't fit in the bedroom, and I can't set it in the middle of the parlor, now can I?"

I momentarily considered telling the woman the parlor would do just fine, but such a remark would probably land both the crate and me in the gardening shed. Why hadn't Augusta explained to her mother that I would be arriving with a crate that contained a few of my father's paintings? Mrs. Galloway was gaping at me as though she expected some sort of response.

"If you could place them somewhere in the house, just until I can make other arrangements, I would be most grateful."

"Well, there's simply nowhere that I can think of," she said as Frances walked into the room carrying a tea tray. "Oh, I know. Push the crate into that space under the stairs, Thomas."

"But that's where I keep my belongings," Frances said.

Thomas glanced at Frances and nodded. I supposed it was common for servants to lend support to one another, but since we'd never had servants, I couldn't be sure. One thing was certain: I'd made no friends since arriving at the white frame house on Marigold Street.

Mrs. Galloway's glare stalled any further objection. "Under the staircase, Thomas."

Frances shot an angry look in my direction that nudged me to action. I didn't want the paintings shoved into the gardening shed, but intruding on the maid's storage space wasn't fair, either. "Surely there must be some other . . ."

Mrs. Galloway raised her hand, closed her eyes, pursed her lips, and gave a slight shake of her head. In that moment I decided Mrs. Galloway had a bit of a dramatic flair hidden beneath her ever-present frown.

"I'll hear no more," she announced. "The crate will be stored beneath the stairs until other arrangements can be made. For your sake, Frances, we'll hope that is soon."

To purchase The Carousel Painter, go to www.christianbook.com or www.amazon.com or visit your local Christian bookstore
To discover more about Judith Miller, please visit her website at www.judithmccoymiller.com

Copyright 2009. Do not reproduce without permission.

Thirsty

By Tracey Bateman

Release date October 6, 2009

"Thirsty is more than a run-of-the-mill vampire story. I loved the way Tracey Bateman incorporated the struggle against alcoholism into the theme. Great writing and a compelling read!"

–Colleen Coble, author of Lonestar Secrets and the Rock Harbor series

Product Description

There's no place like home, they say.

"Hello, I'm Nina Parker…and I'm an alcoholic."

For Nina, it's not the weighty admission but the first steps toward recovery that prove most difficult. She must face her ex-husband, Hunt, with little hope of making amends, and try to rebuild a relationship with her angry teenage daughter, Meagan. Hardest of all, she is forced to return to Abbey Hills, Missouri, the hometown she abruptly abandoned nearly two decades earlier–and her unexpected arrival in the sleepy Ozark town catches the attention of someone–or something–igniting a two-hundred-fifty-year-old desire that rages like a wildfire.

     Unaware of the darkness stalking her, Nina is confronted with a series of events that threaten to unhinge her sobriety. Her daughter wants to spend time with the parents Nina left behind. A terrifying event that has haunted Nina for almost twenty years begins to surface. And an alluring neighbor initiates an unusual friendship with Nina, but is Markus truly a kindred spirit or a man guarding dangerous secrets?

As everything she loves hangs in the balance, will Nina's feeble grasp on her demons be broken, leaving her powerless against the thirst? The battle between redemption and obsession unfold to its startling, unforgettable end.

Thirsty

by

Tracey Bateman

PART ONE

"Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show…"

David Copperfield

Prologue

May 1993

Thick bass blared through amped up speakers and drew Markus from his slumber. In the murky deep of his cave he opened his eyes, instantly awake. His keen ears picked out the voices of eager girls and boasting boys. Dancing, whispering, giggling. Mating rituals. They were at least half a mile away, but the sound carried easily. Too easily for his liking.

He shoved out a full breath and angled to his feet. In the obscurity of his cramped quarters he stooped, unable to stand to his full six feet three inches without his head scuffed against the top of the cave.

The heady scent of bodies brimming with life grazed the edge of his senses, guiding him to the mouth of the cave and just beyond. Flesh and blood mingled with sweat, campfire, roasting hot dogs, and booze. The converging scents dizzied him. And annoyed him.

He wrapped his ragged overcoat about him, a defense against the cool spring night and moved away from the pounding noise and scent of humanity that both repelled and tempted at the same time. A contradiction that had led in part to his retreat from society in the first place.

His booted feet stepped heavily through the woods, but Markus remained indifferent to the crackling branches and hard pine cones on the ground. For almost two decades he'd made his home here, in the heart of the Ozarks. Safe in his cave above the river, tucked behind the security of oaks, pines and cottonwoods.

No one ever came to this part of his woods. No hunters, except for himself, no hikers, no one. And that was the way it needed to remain. He needed the solitude.

The world he'd known had lost its charm. Beauty and grace had all but disappeared. The day he finally surrendered to this inevitable truth, he had retreated to this life of solitude where at the very least the chaos didn't touch him. Usually.

The sound of someone crashing through the woods jerked his attention from the party below. A girl staggered into the open, her eyes dull, deep gulping sobs violently wrenching her stomach.

Markus halted his steps and watched her, scrutinizing her movements. She staggered again. Definitely intoxicated.

Bending at the waist, the girl moaned and retched. When she was spent, she stumbled away, lost her balance, and fell onto the bed of downed branches and dead leaves, remnants of winter. She lay where she'd fallen on her stomach, resting her cheek against her arms. Markus hung back, still watching. Black hair slid over her shoulder, reminding him so much of the one he loved. He tried to shove away the image of the perfect face, sweet smile, supple skin. Each time he remembered her, it drove him deeper into despair. This girl looked so much like her he could hardly keep from calling out her name.

The lines of time converged and he saw his Indian princess lying there in the forest floor. He longed for her. In a way that made his gut tightened and his heart reach out to this girl who reminded him so much of her.

Perhaps for that reason, he scooped her into his arms and began to walk toward his cave. She couldn't have weighed more than a hundred pounds. So small and helpless. Her head lolled back over his arm, exposing the full length of her neck. A long, slow shudder made its way up his body. With discipline cultivated through many years of trial and error, he forced his attention to the path before him.

He reached his cave quickly and moved through the dark to a thick pallet of down-filled sleeping bags and quilts. Gently, almost reverently, he lowered the girl. Her lips parted, releasing a sigh.

He paced the cave, struggling for control, his resolve slipping. A man could only take so much. Instinct, strong and without reason, took over and he lost his battle. He knelt over her, reached out his forefinger, and drew a line down the side of her neck. His heart rate picked up in anticipation, like a young lover preparing for a first kiss.

Guardian of the Flame

A Seven Wonders Novel by T.L. Higley

In a city ravaged by the clash of cultures

One woman fights for solitude

Will a Roman solider destroy her peace?

Alexandria, 48 BC. Sophia has spent nearly twenty years as the keeper of the Lighthouse of Alexandria, alone in her task and in her heart. But when the wealthy capital of Egypt is invaded by Julius Caesar and his Roman legion, Sophia's peace is shattered and her lighthouse invaded. The Roman general would steal both her county and its queen, the Greek Cleopatra, and when his military strategy endangers the city's best scholars and their secret invention, Sophia must discover a way to protect the men. But as the historic war erupts, tangling Sophia in its chaos, she finds that the Roman centurion instructed to invade her lighthouse is also invading her heart.

Now Sophia must do whatever it takes to keep him out – even if it costs her everything.

Chapter 1

Alexandria, Egypt

48 B.C.

Sophia pressed her forehead against the chilled window glass of her private chamber and tried to capture a glimpse of life, far below and out of reach.

The harbor, more than one hundred cubits down, churned with boats whose sails flapped in the dying sun like the scales of white fish, and with ant-sized servants who scurried to deliver supplies to her lighthouse before its Keeper punished them for their delay.

On a white-cushioned couch behind her, one of Euripides's plays called for her return to its lines of tragedy. She resisted. The words had already bled into her heart with remembrances she wished to avoid.

Enough foolishness. Shoulders back and eyes unblinking, she crossed the room to a cedarwood desk. Her astronomy charts covered the wall above, but it was a more practical papyrus that she spread on its surface. She weighted the top corners with two small statuettes of Isis and Osiris with a muttered apology to the gods, and let the bottom corners curl upon themselves. The late afternoon sun burned through the window, setting dust particles afire in the air and touching the lighthouse's fuel consumption chart and the scrawled labor requirements. Sophia retrieved her sharpened reed and ink and added notations to the latest entry.

Work first. Then she could spend the evening brooding over Euripides's plays, and even the past.

Behind her, sharp knuckles attacked the outside of her door. Only one person knocked like that, and only one person would bother to make the climb halfway up the lighthouse's three hundred cubits.

The door flew open before she invited entrance. Her personal servant stumbled in, eyes wide.

Sophia jumped to her feet. "Romans?"

Ares leaned against a marble stand that held the sculpted bust of Plato, winded. The heavy-footed Roman legion marched into Alexandria several weeks earlier. Sophia had been waiting for war, as one waits for a ship returning from far-off trade. Knowing it will come, never certain when.

But Ares was shaking his head. "She's here! She climbed over the – "

Ares was shoved aside and another figure slid into the room. Sophia's heart danced over a few beats, then settled into a staccato. The young woman before her smiled, the languid look of a woman who knows her own power. "Sophia--" she extended both her jeweled hands. "How I have missed you!"

Sophia let out her breath with one quiet word. "Cleopatra!" She waved to her servant. "Leave us, Ares."

The boy backed out of the room.

"And not a word of this!" Sophia called after him.

When he had closed the door she took a hesitant step toward the younger woman. "How? Have you made peace at last with your brother?"

Cleopatra flung the question aside with a wave of her hand. "The little brat knows nothing of monarchy. It is those three leeches that hiss in his ears that are the problem." She spotted the black and gold kylix of wine and brightened. "I am parched." She crossed to the table and ladled wine into an alabaster cup. "The sea, you know." She filled another cup and handed it to Sophia.

Sophia studied her, speechless. Her magnetic power seemed undimmed by her recent exile. Her white robe, trimmed in gold and purple, hung a bit more loosely on her frame.

"You are thinner." Cleopatra sipped the wine and grimaced. No doubt it had been left too long in the bowl. "Will you never cease to fret over me, Sophia?"

Sophia's breathing had returned to normal, and she found a place on the couch. "Sit. Tell me."

Cleopatra came to her, dropped a knee to the couch, then curled herself next to Sophia like a leopard settling to rest. She lifted the skull of a panther from the low table before them and turned it around with her long fingers.

"Did you get in unseen?" Sophia asked.

"Apollodorus rowed me into the harbor in a small boat. We docked in the Eunostos Harbor, away from the crowds. I climbed ashore at the base of the lighthouse and circled to the door. I am safe here, Sophia."

Sophia swallowed. "Why take such a risk?"

"It has been an eventful few days." Cleo set the skull back on the table with a thunk.

"I thought you were in Syria."

"I was. My little brother Ptolemy and his three sycophants are camped at Pelusium, with their armies ready to attack my troops. But I believe the gods have other plans." She smiled again, the scheming grin Sophia had known and loved since Cleopatra's childhood.

"What have you done?" Sophia closed tight fingers around the girl's wrist, as fear clamped itself around her heart.

Cleopatra inclined her head and laughed, then stroked Sophia's arm with her fingertips. "An opportunity has come to me on the heels of Ptolemy's foolishness."

"So what has your brother done?"

"The Roman Pompey fled to my brother, hoping for Ptolemy's support against Julius Caesar. But Ptolemy's three advisors decided they would rather gain the favor of Caesar. They greeted Pompey with a knife point."

"He is dead?"

Cleopatra nodded. "And now Caesar has arrived here in the city." She crossed one leg over the other and bounced her foot. "My brother's men sent him Pompey's head as a gift. Caesar was furious at his adversary's ignoble death."

Sophia slapped her thigh. "These barbaric Romans. Impossible to comprehend. They stomp all over the world with their insatiable lust to conquer, but when someone kills their enemy, they are angered."

Cleopatra's eyes glittered. "Yes, he sounds fascinating, doesn't he?"

Sophia's apprehension returned. . "What are you going to do?"

"Take advantage of the opportunity."

"It is not safe for you in the city, Cleopatra. You must return to Syria, under the protection of your troops."

Cleopatra removed her hand from Sophia's arm and unfolded herself from the couch. "You would have me remain a child forever! I am no longer your student."

Sophia stood as well, matching the fire in Cleopatra's eyes with her own. "You are twenty-one!"

Cleopatra flung her hair over her shoulder. Her face was a mere handspan from Sophia's. Her voice was low. "And I am Queen of Egypt."

Read the first three chapters, enter to win Lighthouse Wall Art, and watch video trailers at http://www.TLHigley.com.

Guardian of the Flame can be purchased at Amazon, Christianbook.com, and wherever books are sold.

© 2009 T.L. Higley

Who Do I Talk To?

Neta Jackson

In the last place she ever imagined she'd be, Gabby will discover what she's made of--and for.

At the end of "Where Do I Go?" (the first book in the Yada Yada House of Hope series), Gabby Fairbanks found herself thrown out of their luxury penthouse by her husband, who's disappeared with their boys, and the only place she had to go was the homeless shelter where she worked--but where she also discovered that God IS where she can go when her world fell apart.

Now in Book 2 of the series ("Who Do I Talk To?"), Gabby tries to put together the broken pieces of her life and get her sons back. But as her fragile plans fall apart and she experiences even more loss, Gabby heads cross-country with a casket, a Hero Dog, a homeless bag lady, and her new friend Jodi Baxter . . . and together they hit on a possibility so wild and wonderful it has to be one of those "God things." If only she can quit getting in the way . . .

In this Prologue, we eavesdrop on a conversation between Gabby's elderly mother and Lucy the bag lady, her new best friend . . . 

Prologue

Springs protested in the darkness as a lumpy body turned over on the bottom bunk. From another bunk—one of four lining the walls of the small bedroom—a pair of nearsighted eyes peered anxiously into the shadows, making out the dim outline of her roommate trying to get comfortable on the narrow mattress.

            "Lucy?" The voice was tremulous, a cracked whisper. "Are you awake?"

            "Mmmph." The springs groaned again.

            For several moments, all was quiet. Then—

            "Lucy?"

            A long sigh. "Whatchu want, Miss Martha? It's late."

            "Is Gabrielle asleep?" The anxious whisper poked the darkness.

            "Fusstop? Think so. Ain't heard nothin' from her bunk. But if you don' stop talkin', you gonna wake her up."

            "But she was crying. I could tell. A mother knows."

            "Well."

            "But why was she crying?"

            A snort from the other bunk. "She got her reasons."

            "But . . ." The unsteady whisper trailed off. The elderly woman reached a hand out from under the blankets provided by the homeless shelter and reached down until she touched thick doggy hair, newly washed and silky. A rough tongue licked her fingers. Now the voice choked up. "I was just so happy you and Gabrielle found Dandy, I didn't ask why she's sleeping over at the shelter tonight. Shouldn't she be home with her boys?"

            "Well."

            The woman named Martha slipped her hand back under the covers, pulled them up under her chin, and closed her eyes. Her slight body made only a small ripple under the blankets. It was her first overnight at Manna House. She felt a little strange—but her daughter had come to stay with her a night or two, that's what she said. Martha was glad, even though she didn't know why Gabrielle was sad. And her new friend Lucy was "sleeping over" too, just like a slumber party.

            Martha giggled. A homeless shelter! Noble would roll over in his grave if he knew where she'd ended up. But . . . she wasn't lonely here, not like she'd been in the big old house in Minot. And Dandy was asleep on the little rug by her bed, just like always. He'd been lost all day . . . but she couldn't remember exactly why. Had he run away? No, Dandy never ran away. Well, it didn't matter. He was safe now, snoring gently beside the bunk bed. But . . . Her eyes flew open, staring at the bottom of the upper bunk overhead. Somebody had said, "What's that dog doing here? Manna House don't allow no dogs!"

            Oh dear. Would the shelter let her keep Dandy? Oh, she couldn't stay another day if Dandy wasn't welcome.

            She rose up on one elbow. "Lucy! You still awake? Do you think—"

            "Miss Martha! If you don' shut up and go to sleep, I'm gonna come over there and bop you one." Martha's roommate flopped over, turned her back and the springs groaned once more. "Wonkers!" The gravelly voice settled into a mutter. "I get more sleep out on th' street than I do in a room full of talky wimmin."

Chapter 1

A lawn mower rumbled through my dream, shredding it beyond remembering.

            Semi-consciousness rose to the level of my eyelids and they fluttered in the dim light. Unnh. Not a lawn mower. Snoring. Philip was snoring and popping like a car with no muffler. I reached out to roll him over onto his side—

            My hand hit a wall. No Philip in the bed. Something was wrong. What was it? A heavy grief sat on my chest, like someone had died. Had someone died?

            I struggled to come to full consciousness and half-opened my eyes. Above me, all I could make out in the dim light was a rough board. I stared, trying to make sense of it. Why was I lying underneath a wooden board? Was I the one who died? Was I inside a wooden coffin?

            Coffin?! A surge of panic sent me bolt upright. "Ow!" I cracked my head on the board and the snoring stopped. Rubbing the tender spot, I squinted into dimly lit space and made out three bunk beds, one against each wall of a small room.

            Mine was the fourth.

            No coffin.

            Blowing out my relief, I swung my feet over the side of the lower bunk, but was startled as a hairy face pushed its cold nose against my bare leg with a soft whine. I reached out and touched the familiar floppy ears. Dandy. My mother's dog . . .

            And suddenly all the cracked pieces of my life came into focus.

            I'd just spent the night at Manna House, a homeless shelter for women, where, until yesterday, I'd been on staff as program director.

            The small lump in the bunk catty-corner next to me was my mother.

            The bigger lump in the bunk across the small room, producing the high-decibel racket, was Lucy, a veteran "bag lady" who for some odd reason had befriended my frail mother.

            Mom and I were "homeless" because yesterday my husband had kicked both of us and the dog out of our penthouse condo along Chicago's Lake Shore Drive, changed the locks, and skipped town . . . taking my two sons, P.J. and Paul, with him.

            As reality flooded my brain, I fell back onto the bunk, bracing for the tears I knew should follow. But the well was dry. I'd cried every drop the evening before and long into the night. Now raw grief had settled behind my eyes and into every cavity of my spirit.

Do not reproduce without permission.

Available wherever books are sold.

TWICE IN A LIFETIME

Love Inspired, September 2009

By Marta Perry

When her family calls Georgia Lee Bodine home to Charleston, she knows there's trouble. Her beloved grandmother hired some fancy lawyer to carry out eccentric requests—and unearth an old family secret. Georgia plans to send Matt Harper packing, until she sees the true affection he has for her grandmother and realizes that his heart is as deeply damaged as her own. They might find a chance for love, but family secrets have a way of coming out, no matter what the consequences.       Marta Perry

Find TWICE IN A LIFETIME now at www.amazon.com, www.christianbook.com, or your local bookseller. And visit me on the web at www.martaperry.com. Do not reproduce without permission.

Excerpt

Georgia Bodine pulled into the crushed shell parking space of the elderly beach house and got out, the breeze off the ocean lifting her hair and filling her with a wave of courage that was as unexpected as it was welcome. She might be a total failure at standing up for herself, but to protect her beloved grandmother, she could battle anyone.

Couldn't she?

Refusing to let even the hint of a negative thought take hold, Georgia trotted up the worn wooden stairs. The beach house, like most on the Charleston barrier islands, had its first floor elevated to protect against the storms everyone hoped would never come.

The dolphin knocker smiled its usual welcome. The corners of her lips lifted in response, and she rushed through the door, calling for her grandmother as if she were eight, instead of twenty-eight.

"Miz Callie! I'm here!"

Her impetuous run took her through the hall and into the large livingroom that ran the depth of the house. Sunlight pouring through the windows overlooking the Atlantic made her blink.

Someone sat in the shabby old rocker that was her grandmother's favorite chair, but it wasn't Miz Callie.

The man rose, looking as startled at her bursting into the house as she felt at finding him here. Aside from the stranger, the room, with its battered, eclectic collection of furniture collected over generations and its tall, jammed bookcases, was empty. Where was Miz Callie, and what was this stranger doing here?

The man recovered before she could ask the question. "If you're looking for Mrs. Bodine, she went upstairs to get something. I'm sure she'll be right back."

A warning tingle ran along her skin. The interloper was in his thirties, probably, dressed in a button-down shirt and slacks that were more formal than folks generally wore on Sullivan's Island. He stood as tall as the Bodine men, who tended to height, but tense, as if ready for a fight. Brown hair showed a trace of gold where the sunlight pouring through the window hit it, and his blue eyes were frosty. The few words he'd spoken had a distinctly northern tang.

This was the lawyer, then, the one causing all the trouble. The one who had Uncle Brett muttering about Yankee carpetbaggers and her daddy threatening to call everyone from Charleston's mayor to the South Carolina governor, with a few council members thrown in for good measure. This was—had to be, Matthew Harper.

He took a step toward her, holding out his hand. "I'm Matt Harper. And you are—"

"Georgia Lee Bodine." No matter how rude it was, she would not shake hands with the man. Her fists clenched. "Miz Callie's granddaughter."

Wariness registered in his eyes at the name, and he let his hand drop to his side, his mouth tightening. He knew who she was. Maybe he even knew why the family had called her home from Atlanta in such a rush.

Do something about your grandmother, Georgia Lee. You've always been close. She'll listen to you. You have to talk some sense into her before it's too late.

Who were they kidding? Nobody ever talked Miz Callie out of anything she'd set her mind on. Certainly not Georgia Lee, the least combative of the sprawling Bodine clan.

A flurry of footsteps sounded, and Miz Callie rushed into the room.

"Georgia Lee!"

Georgia barely had time to register a quick impression of her grandmother—five foot nothing, slim and wiry as a girl, white hair that stood out from her head like a halo—before she was wrapped in a warm embrace.

She hugged in return, love rushing through her like a storm tide, and had to blink back tears. Unconditional love, that was what Miz Callie had always offered to the shy, uncertain child she'd been, and it was still there for the woman she'd become. Georgia had never been as aware of it as at that moment.

Help me, her heart murmured a fervent prayer. Help me keep her safe.

Over her grandmother's shoulder she stared at Matthew Harper, her determination welling. She had come home because the family said Miz Callie was in trouble—that she was acting irrationally and that this man, this outsider, was trying to con her out of what was hers.

He wouldn't succeed. Not without walking over the prone body of Georgia Lee Bodine, he wouldn't.

Harper's face tightened, as if he recognized what she felt.

Fine. They knew where they stood, it seemed, without another word being spoken. The battle lines were drawn.

The Swiss Courier

by Tricia Goyer and Mike Yorkey

"Outstanding! The Swiss Courier is a fast paced, tightly plotted thrill ride. It packs plenty of masterful twists and turns, but does not skimp on character development or historical accuracy. Goyer and Yorkey spin a terrific tale" . --Rick Acker, author of Blood Brothers, Dead Man's Rule and Devil to Pay, Inc. (Fall 2010)."

Working as a Swiss transcriptionist for the Americans during WWII, Gabi Mueller's life changes overnight when she's recruited as a spy for the precursor of the CIA.

Asked to safely courier a German physicist working on the budding Nazi atomic bomb project to the Swiss border, Gabi feels the weight of the war on her shoulders. But who can she trust?

It is August 1944 and the Gestapo is mercilessly rounding up suspected enemies of the Third Reich. When Joseph Engel, a German physicist working on the atomic bomb, finds that he is actually a Jew, adopted by Christian parents, he must flee for his life to neutral Switzerland. Gabi Mueller is a young Swiss-American woman working for the newly formed American Office of Strategic Services (the forerunner to the CIA) close to Nazi Germany. When she is asked to risk her life to safely "courier" Engel out of Germany, the fate of the world rests in her hands. If she can lead him to safety, she can keep the Germans from developing nuclear capabilities. But in a time of traitors and uncertainty, whom can she trust along the way? This fast-paced, suspenseful novel takes readers along treacherous twists and turns during a fascinating--and deadly--time in history.

Waldshut, Germany

Saturday, July 29, 1944

4 p.m.

He hoped his accent wouldn't give him away.

The young Swiss kept his head down as he sauntered beneath the frescoed archways that ringed the town square of Waldshut, an attractive border town in the foothills of the southern Schwarzwald. He hopped over a foot-wide, waterfilled trench that ran through the middle of the cobblestone square and furtively glanced behind to see if anyone had detected his presence.

Even though Switzerland lay just a kilometer or two away across the Rhine River, the youthful operative realized he no longer breathed free air. Though he felt horribly exposed—as if he were marching down Berlin's Kurfürstendamm screaming anti-Nazi slogans—he willed himself to remain confident.

His part was a small but vital piece of the larger war effort. Yes, he risked his life, but he was not alone in his passion. A day's drive away, American tanks drove for the heart of Paris—and quickened French hearts for libération. Far closer, Nazi reprisals thinned the ranks of his fellow resisters. The young man shuddered at the thought of being captured, lined up against a wall, and hearing the click-click of a safety being unlatched from a Nazi machine gun. Still, his legs propelled him on.

Earlier that morning, he'd introduced himself as Jean- Pierre to members of an underground cell. The French Resis- tance had recently stepped up their acts of sabotage after the Allies broke out of the Normandy beachhead two weeks earlier, and they'd all taken nom de guerres in their honor.

Inside the pocket of his leather jacket, Jean-Pierre's right hand formed a claw around a Mauser C96 semiautomatic pistol. His grip tightened, as if squeezing the gun's metallic

profile would reduce the tension building in his chest. The last few minutes before an operation always came to this.

His senses peaked as he took in the sights and sounds around him. At one end of the town square, a pair of disheveled older women complained to a local farmer about the fingerling size of the potato crop. A horse-drawn carriage, transporting four galvanized tin milk containers, rumbled by while a young newsboy screamed out, "Nachrichten!"

The boy's right hand waved day-old copies of the Badische Zeitung from Freiburg, eighty kilometers to the northwest. Jean-Pierre didn't need to read the newspaper to know that more men and women were losing their lives by the minute due to the reprisals of a madman.

Though the planned mission had been analyzed from every angle, there were always uncertain factors that would affect not only the outcome of the mission but who among them would live. Or die. Their task was to rescue a half-dozen men arrested by local authorities following the assassination attempt on Reichskanzler Adolf Hitler. If things went as Jean-Pierre hoped, the men would soon be free from the Nazis' clutches. If not, the captives' fate included an overnight trip to Berlin, via a cattle car, where they would be transported to Gestapo headquarters on Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse 8. The men would be questioned—tortured if they weren't immediately forthcoming— until names, dates, and places gushed as freely as the blood spilling upon the cold, unyielding concrete floor.

Not that revealing any secrets would save their lives. When the last bit of information had been wrung from their minds, they'd be marched against a blood-spattered wall or to the gallows equipped with well-stretched hemp rope. May God

have mercy on their souls.

Jean-Pierre willed himself to stop thinking pessimistically. He glanced at his watch—a pricey Hanhart favored by Luftwaffe pilots. His own Swiss-made Breitling had been tucked inside a wooden box on his nightstand back home, where he had also left a handwritten letter. A love note, actually, to a woman who had captured his heart—just in case he never returned. But this was a time for war, not love. And he had to keep reminding himself of that. Jean-Pierre slowed his gait as he left the town square and approached the town's major intersection. As he had been advised, a uniformed woman—her left arm ringed with a red armband and black swastika—directed traffic with a whistle and an attitude.

She was like no traffic cop he'd ever seen. Her full lips were colored with red lipstick. Black hair tumbled upon the shoulder epaulettes of the Verkehrskontrolle's gray-green uniform. She wielded a silver-toned baton, directing a rambling assortment of horse-drawn carriages, battered sedans, and hulking military vehicles jockeying for the right of way.

She looked no older than twenty-five, yet acted like she owned the real estate beneath her feet. Jean-Pierre couldn't help but let his lips curl up in a slight grin, knowing what was

to come.

"Entschuldigung, wo ist das Gemeindehaus?" a voice said beside him. Jean-Pierre turned to the rotund businessman in the fedora and summer business suit asking for directions to

City Hall.

"Ich bin nicht sicher." He shrugged and was about to fashion another excuse when a military transport truck turned a corner two blocks away, approaching in their direction.

"Es tut mir Leid." With a wave, Jean-Pierre excused himself and sprinted toward the uniformed traffic officer. In one quick motion, his Mauser was drawn. He didn't break stride as he tackled the uniformed woman to the ground. Her scream blasted his ear, and more cries

from onlookers chimed in.

Jean-Pierre straddled the frightened traffic officer and pressed the barrel of his pistol into her forehead. Her shrieking immediately ceased. "Don't move, and nothing will happen to you."

Jean-Pierre glanced up as he heard the mud-caked transport truck skid to a stop fifty meters from them.

A Wehrmacht soldier hopped out. "Halt!" He clumsily drew his rifle to his right shoulder.

Tricia Goyer and Mike Yorkey, The Swiss Courier: A Novel,

Revell Books, a division of Baker Publishing Group, © 2009. Used by permission.

Tricia Goyer is the author of twenty books including From Dust and Ashes, My Life UnScripted, and the children's book, 10 Minutes to Showtime. She won Historical Novel of the Year in 2005 and 2006 from ACFW, and was honored with the Writer of the Year award from Mt. Hermon Writer's Conference in 2003. Tricia's book Life Interrupted was a finalist for the Gold Medallion in 2005. In addition to her novels, Tricia writes non-fiction books and magazine articles for publications like Today's Christian Woman and Focus on the Family. Tricia is a regular speaker at conventions and conferences, and has been a workshop presenter at the MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) International Conventions.  She and her family make their home in the mountains of Montana. For more information, please visit www.triciagoyer.com

Link to Buy the book: http://triciagoyer.com/store.html?n=1

Link to watch the video trailer: www.triciagoyer.com

Pièce de Résistance

By Sandra Byrd

The third and final book in Byrd's Lexi Stuart series is both touching and delicious. Lexi is highly relatable, and readers will identify with her struggles and successes. The scrumptious recipes and exquisite settings round out this beautiful novel. Four Stars, Romantic Times.

The third Lexi Stuart tale (see LET THEM EAT CAKE and BON APPETIT) is a fine entry as the lead protagonist has come home but her choices with opening a bakery and her personal life are complex. Lexi makes the story line sweet yet her relationships are complicated and her decisions difficult leaving fans enjoying the aptly titled PIECE DE RESISTANCE as even the cover is mouth watering delightful. Harriet Klausner

If I had known exactly where and in what kind of trouble I was about to land, I'd have stayed in Paris.

            For the time being, I was crashing at the guest apartment at my Nonna's retirement community. Where else could I get in on such short notice? It was twenty dollars a night, and only for a week or so…I hoped. "Well, they do have a lot of singles," I'd told my best friend, Tanya, as she laughed at the news. "And they do love what's left of life."

            "I think it's cute," she'd said. "You can get a personalized pill container and swap horrible doctor stories."

            "Ha ha," I'd answered. "Be careful, or I'll hold your bridal shower there on bingo night."

            Nonna breezed in through the lobby, snapping her mauve umbrella shut

with a force that belied her age. She kissed the cheek of her companion, Stanley Jones, who tottered off to his own apartment, then came to get me.

            "Lexi, love," she said. "I'm glad I got here in time to see you off. Let's wait by the door. The bus will be here soon." On the way through the foyer, she whispered, "I thought I'd mentioned, dear--don't sit on any upholstered furniture in the common areas. When you get to be my age, many of us have incontinence problems."

            Shocked, I reached around and felt my backside, not caring who saw me. Whew. Dry.

            Nonna giggled at my distress, taking everything about aging in stride, as she always did, and looped her arm through mine. "I'm glad you're home."

I grinned back at her. "Me too, Nonna."

             "Why can't one of those nice young men drive you to work today?" she asked.     "I don't want to ask them. It's…awkward. I'm not sure where I'm going with either of them right now, and they both have their own jobs."

            "Seems to me a man who likes a woman would offer her a ride." Nonna sniffed.
            "I'm sure plenty of men hitched up their buggies and took you to work back in the day," I teased.

She grinned wickedly and leaned over to kiss my cheek. "So tell me about the Frenchman."

"His name is Philippe. He's really nice, a great baker, and has the most adorable daughter named Celine. He's taking Luc's place, the one who moved back to France."

"He's one of the owners of the bakery?" she asked, checking creds, as always.

"Yes, Nonna," I said. "He's an owner. He's Luc's cousin, and the whole family owns all of the bakeries."

"What about that lawyer you were seeing before you went to Paris?"

"Dan?"  I kept my voice even.

"Mm-hmm."

"He's…here still. Of course. I just talked with him a few days ago. It was his suggestion, actually, for the Delacroix Company to lease the space I'll be working in. The new bakery."

"That was nice of him. Who's the better-looking of the two?"

"I'm glad to see your values haven't changed!"

She laughed, and I laughed with her as the rain slid down the outside of the window, my hometown Seattle lights blinking away in the drops. "Thanks for seeing me off today. I won't be long. Just meeting Margot and getting a quick run-through."

"Of course I'm seeing you off! Everyone is jealous that my granddaughter is here. I need to brag."

            I saw the bus rounding the corner about a half mile down the road. Nonna saw it, too.

"Go get `em," she said. "And bring something home from the bakery. Anything with fruits and nuts will be right at home in at this place." She grinned, but I knew she loved her home and her friends.

            I walked out the door and started toward the covered bus stop. Not a moment after I arrived, though, a motorcycle pulled up and parked in front of the retirement center door a few feet away. Even with the helmet on, I recognized him immediately.

"Philippe!"

What was he doing here? He looked good!

            "Good afternoon, mademoiselle." He hopped off the bike and walked toward me, holding out a helmet. "As your employer, it's my responsibility to get you to work on your first day at the new job, n'est-ce pas? And I was eager to see you again. Sophie told me where to find you and what bus you were likely to take."

            "Oh, thank you," I said. I introduced him to Nonna. "This is my grandmother, Rosa. Nonna, this is my…friend, Philippe."

            "Enchantée." Philippe kissed her hand.

            "Enchantée," Nonna responded, pulling back her shoulders and making sure the gathering crowd, their noses pressed against the retirement center's front windows, witnessed the exchange.

            As I got on the back of the bike, I said, "I had no idea you had a motorcycle here. Do you also have a car?"

            "Oui," he said, "I do. Luc left his car for me, and I gave him mine in France. But I thought a motorcycle would be fun, too."

               He sped up a little, and as he turned the corner out of the retirement center's curved driveway, I recognized the truck pulling in.

               Dan!

               I'd told him I'd be staying with Nonna and had planned to take the bus. I caught his eye, and he caught mine, and I saw the bouquet of flowers carefully propped in the passenger seat. I had no time to wave before Philippe accelerated and we sped off.

            I turned my head and squeezed my eyes shut to avoid seeing Dan's reaction. Nonna would explain it to him. 

Nonna was liable to say anything.

Please visit Sandra on the web at www.sandrabyrd.com. Her books are available for purchase at fine bookshops near you and on the web at www.cbd.com.

A Man of His Word by Kathleen Fuller

A Hearts of Middlefield Novel

September, 2009 (Thomas Nelson)

Moriah's heart will only be safe with
A Man of His Word

When Moriah Byler married Levi Miller, she thought they would share a long life together. She is astonished when one day he abruptly leaves the Order, and her along with it. She is hopeful that they'll reconcile, but Levi has a fatal accident. Unbeknownst to him, Moriah is pregnant.

Moriah finds herself alone and unsure where to turn. She's reticent about trusting her heart to anyone. What Moriah doesn't know is that Levi's twin, Gabriel, has loved her for years, but has kept this to himself. Gabriel is a man of his word--and a man of God's word. After another unexpected tragedy, Moriah must learn to unguard her heart and accept his love so she can be made whole again.

Chapter 1

            Moriah Byler ran her fingers across the soft fabric of her dress hanging on her closet door. Its powder-blue hue, her favorite color, resembled a clear summer sky, bringing a smile to her face.  Giddiness coursed through her. In three hours she would don this new dress, and before God and her church, she would become Mrs. Levi Miller. 

Closing her eyes, she pictured her handsome husband-to-be, his sandy-brown hair falling across his forehead, his chestnut-colored eyes filled with mischief when he was up to something, which was often, Was he experiencing the same excitement she felt? Since he had proposed to her a few months ago, she had dreamed about this day, the day she would marry the man she loved, the man God had set apart especially for her. Memories of his proposal flashed through her mind. He had taken her by surprise that day in the barn, first by asking him to marry her, then by boldly kissing her.

Opening her eyes, she touched her cheeks, flushing at the memory. She had always thought she'd experience her first kiss after she married. Then again, Levi had always been unpredictable.  Although he'd tried to kiss her again, she had stopped him. Kissing led to other things—things that should occur after marriage, as their faith taught. She had seen the disappointment in his eyes, but he had agreed to her wishes. Since then he had also been on his best behavior.

She took one last look at the dress she and her mother had finished a week ago, then frowned. Was that a hole in the sleeve? She removed the dress from the hanger. Sure enough, a part of the shoulder seam had separated. She retrieved a needle and thread and quickly stitched it up. After knotting the thread, she snipped it close to the stitches with a small pair of scissors. There. Now it's perfect. The dress and her wedding day would be fehlerfrei.

Moriah hung up the dress and walked to her second-story window, peering into her family's backyard. She gave thanks for their two-acre spread, which included a large clapboard barn and storage shed, both painted in the same shade of white as the house. She spied her father and two of her younger brothers, Lukas and Stephen, bringing inside a long wood table the family had borrowed several days ago. Behind them followed Gabriel, Levi's identical twin brother, carrying a couple of wooden chairs.

As she watched Gabriel, she recalled the close friendship the three of them had shared as children. Some of her favorite memories revolved around watching Levi and Gabriel try to outdo each other in everything. Gabriel always had the better grades and was physically stronger, as he had proved in third grade when he and Levi had taken turns to see who could lift her up. Gabe had carried her across the yard as if she weighed no more than a kitten while Levi had carried her only a few feet. But Levi soon proved he could best Gabe in games of speed and agility, and she smiled as she remembered his determination to climb trees faster and higher than anyone in their school.

She and Levi had begun courting at age sixteen, just after Frau Miller had passed away.  Gabriel quickly distanced himself, as if they had never been friends at all. At first, she thought Gabe was grieving the loss of his mother, but he continued to treat her coolly, more so with each passing year. She hoped that would change once she was a part of his family. She missed his friendship.

Moriah started to turn away when she heard a plinking sound against the windowpane. Then another. She gazed at the ground to see Levi standing below. Sans hat and coat, he had on a long-sleeved, white shirt with black suspenders attached to his dark trousers. Oh, how handsome he looked! He bent down to pick up another pebble when she shoved open the window. The chilly November air rushed into the warm bedroom. 

"Levi! What are you doing?"

Levi's boyishly wicked smile spread across his face. "Looking at mei braut."

She couldn't help but smile when he called her his bride. "You'll see enough of me at the wedding."

"I can't wait that long." The sunlight glinted off his hair.

Giggling, she said, "You'll have to. I shouldn't even be talking to you. We both have so much to do."

His shoulders slumped slightly. "Don't you wish we could just run away and get married? Forget all this—" he spread his arms out and gestured to the house and backyard—"and do something different?"

His words shocked the smile from her face. Run away? She knew Yankees sometimes eloped, but she would never consider getting married anywhere but among her family and friends, receiving the full blessing of the church and the Lord. "Levi, why would you even say something like that?"

"I was only kidding," he said, the tone of his voice dropping. Then he straightened his shoulders and grinned again, calming the twinge that had suddenly pinched her heart. He reached for a ladder that had been propped against the house. Her father and several other men from the church had finished reroofing the house last week, and the ladder had been in heavy use. Levi moved the ladder until it clattered against the house, right next to her window.

When he placed his foot on the bottom rung, her jaw dropped. "Levi, you can't come up here."

"Why not?" His hands gripped the side of the ladder and he took a step up. "I have every right to see my bride."

You can purchase A Man of His Word from a bookstore near you or at these online bookstores:

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To find out more about Kathleen Fuller and her books visit www.kathleenfuller.com and www.amishhearts.com

Do not reproduce without permission.

Look to the East

by

Maureen Lang

A village under siege. A love under fire.

France 1914

At the dawn of the First World War, the French village of Briecourt is isolated from the battles, but the century-old feud between the Toussaints and the de Colvilles still rages in the streets. When the German army sweeps in to occupy the town, families on both sides of the feud are forced to work together to protect stragglers caught behind enemy lines.

Julitte Toussaint may have been adopted from a faraway island, but she feels the scorn of the de Colvilles as much as anyone born a Toussaint. So when she falls in love with one of the stragglers—a wealthy and handsome Belgian entrepreneur—she knows she's playing with fire. Charles Lassone hides in the cellar of the Briecourt church, safe from the Germans for the moment. But if he's discovered, it will bring danger to the entire village and could cost Charles his life.

"A wonderful read! Look to the East gives a glimpse into the past that will make you reflect upon the characters and message long after you've finished reading."

—Judith Miller, author of the Postcards from Pullman series

Chapter 1

Once, in a little village forgotten by time, there lived two feuding families: the Toussaints and the de Colvilles. Other families inhabited Briecourt in Northern France, but their tranquil lives escape memory.

As with most enduring feuds, no one knows exactly why it began. Some say it was over une aventure—an in indiscreet love between one man and a woman not his wife. Others insist money was the cause—a squabble between the miller and the baker over the price of flour. Still others recall it beginning with a simple difference of opinion on the faults and merits of Napoleon between two old men sharing a cup of chocolat…

It is not, however, the origin but rather the result that matters. One hundred years later, even the purest flour made into the flakiest pastry would leave a bitter taste if made by one clan and sampled by the other.

Except for one brief moment in history, the feud rages to this day…

Briecourt, Northern France

Julitte Toussaint sucked in her breath and shut her eyes, as if by closing off her own vision she, too, might become invisible. Stuck high above the ground where someone so grown—just turned twenty and two—should never be caught, she shot a fervent prayer heavenward. Please let neither one look up! She clutched the book-size tin to her chest and went death-still in hopes of going unnoticed.

         ". . . those days may be behind us, Anton. At least for a while."

         She heard his voice for the first time, the man who had come to visit the only château within walking distance of her village. The man whose blond hair had reflected the sun and nearly blinded her to the rest of his beauty. The perfect nose, the proportionate lips, the blue eyes that, with one glance, had taken her breath away.

         Now he was near again, and her lungs froze. She feared the slightest motion might betray her.

         She knew the other man was Anton Mantoux without looking. He was the closest thing to aristocracy the town of Briecourt knew. Though Julitte had never spoken to him, she had heard him speak many times. Whenever the mayor called a village meeting, M. Mantoux always held the floor longest.

         "You'll go back, Charles? join this insanity when you could follow me the other way?"

         Charles . . . so that was his name. "Who would have thought I had a single noble bone in my body?"

         M. Mantoux snorted. "You'll follow your foolhardy king, will you?"

         "Much can be said about a man—a king, no less—who takes for himself the same risks he asks others to bear. I should never have left Belgium. I know my sister never will. How can I do less?"

         "Ah, yes, your beautiful and brave little sister, Isabelle. . . . What is it you call her? Isa?"

         "Careful with your thoughts, Anton," said the man—Charles—whose voice was every bit as lovely as his face. "She's little more than a child."

         "A child, but not much longer. And then you may have me in the family!"

         Feeling a cramp in her leg, Julitte wanted nothing more than to climb down the tree and scurry away. Let them move on! she silently pleaded to God. Send a wind to blow them on their way before—

         As if in instant answer to her prayer, a gust tore through the thick leaf cover of the beech tree in which she hid. In horror she watched the tin, dampened by her perspiring hands, slip from her grasp and take the path designed by gravity. She heard a dull thud as it bounced off the perfect forehead of the taller of the two men below, grazing the blond hair that so intrigued her.

         A moment later both men looked up, and she might have thought their surprised faces funny had she planned the episode and still been young enough to get away with such a prank.

         "I thank You for the answered prayer of the wind, Lord," she whispered in annoyed submission, "but not for the result, as You well know."

         "You there." M. Mantoux's voice was as commanding as ever, and it set her heart to fear-filled pounding. "Come down at once."

         Giving up all hope of dignity, Julitte shook away the cramp in one leg, then shinnied along the thick branch until reaching the trunk that was somewhat wider than the span of her arms and legs. Her foot found the knot she knew so well, and in a moment she stood on the ground, pulling at her skirt to cover pantaloons and the single petticoat she owned, a hand-me-down from her adoptive mother. From the corner of her eye she saw the towering blond man bending to retrieve her tin, a look of curiosity on his handsome face.

         M. Mantoux stepped in front of Julitte. "What were you doing up there, girl? Who—"

         Enlightenment reached his eyes before his voice faded away. Of course he knew who she was; everyone in and around her village knew she was the étrangèr, the outsider. Not only because at least half the village wouldn't have welcomed an adopted child of Narcisse Toussaint, but because she had been born far away on the Island of Lepers, off the coast of Greece. Though Julitte had lived among the French villagers for nearly seventeen years, some still whispered her heritage to this day, to passersby or children too young to already know.

Maureen Lang is the award-winning author of several novels, including The Oak Leaves and On Sparrow Hill. She lives in the Midwest with her husband, two sons, and their much-loved Yellow Lab.

Visit Maureen's website:

www.maureenlang.com

or her blog:

http://maureenlang.blogspot.com/

Look to the East can be purchased at:

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© 2009 Please Do Not Reproduce Without Permission

Under the Cajun Moon

by

Mindy Starns Clark

What Secrets Can Be Found by the Light of the Cajun Moon?

New Orleans may be the "Big Easy," but nothing about it was ever easy for international business etiquette expert Chloe Ledet. She moved away years ago, leaving her parents and their famous French Quarter restaurant behind. But when she hears that her father has been shot, she races home to be by his side and to handle his affairs—only to learn a long-hidden secret that changes everything she knew to be true about herself and her family.

Framed for murder, Chloe and a handsome Cajun stranger must search for a priceless treasure, one whose roots weave through the very history of Louisiana itself. But can Chloe depend on the mysterious man leading her on this cat-and-mouse chase into the heart of Cajun country? Or by trusting him, has she gone from the frying pan into the fire?

Following up on her bestselling Gothic thriller, Whispers of the Bayou, and Amish romantic suspense, Shadows of Lancaster County, Mindy Starns Clark offers another exciting standalone novel, one full of Cajun mystery, hidden dangers, and the glow of God's unending grace.

Publishers Weekly says:  "…a delicious recipe of intrigue, romance and intelligent character development. Clark…offers her ever-growing fan base equal measures of sharp wit and sassy comebacks…Clark's story line is full of spice and lingers with an unexpected bite familiar to Cajun cuisine lovers. This text is sumptuous."

CHAPTER ONE

Ringing.

Something somewhere was ringing and just wouldn't stop. Slowly, I opened my eyes. As I came more fully awake, I realized that the ringing was a telephone, and that the telephone was on a table next to my head. Blinking, I looked around, trying to remember where I was.

Where was I?

The ringing persisted. I fumbled for the phone with one hand but the noise stopped before I could even lift the receiver. Licking dry, cracked lips, I let go of the phone and moved a hand to my forehead, feeling for a fever. My skin seemed cool, though I did have a splitting headache.

What was wrong with me?

More important, where was I and what was I doing here?

Carefully, I raised myself onto my elbows, my head throbbing with the effort. Looking around the dark room, it didn't seem familiar. To my right, judging by a thin rectangle of light, was a window covered by heavy drapes. 

Light. I needed light to figure this out. Ignoring the thousand pounds of mush inside my head, I sat all the way up. Making sure of my balance, I stood and stepped to the shades, pulling them open.

The glare was blinding. Fumbling frantically, I felt my way back to the bed and sat on the edge, my heart pounding. In all of my 32 years, I had never had anything like this happen to me, had never once woken up in a strange place without knowing how I had gotten there. After a few seconds I lowered the hand from my eyes and gingerly opened them again, thinking that if this was a hangover, I must have had one doozy of a night. Except that I didn't get hangovers. I rarely even drank.

Looking around, I felt sure I was in a hotel room, though it wasn't one I recognized. Digging for some clue as to where I was, I finally found a small vinyl notebook in a drawer, imprinted with a fancy logo and the words  "Maison Chartres."

Closing the drawer, my own image in the mirror above the dresser caught my eye. I looked like me—or at least a disheveled, exhausted version of me. My long ash-blond hair was a tangled mess, my blue eyes bloodshot and tired.

Moving again toward the window, I placed my hands on the glass and looked out. I was on the first floor, and judging by the unique architecture outside, I was in New Orleans, the city of my youth. I wasn't familiar with this particular hotel, but given the name it was probably on Chartres Street, in the French Quarter.

The French Quarter.

Vague memories of yesterday began edging their way into my brain. My mother's phone call. My father's injury. My frantic flight from Chicago to New Orleans.

Suddenly, the phone on the bedside table began to ring again. This time, I leaped toward it and snatched it up quickly.

"Hello?"

"Yes, hello. This is the front desk," a woman's voice said. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I thought I should tell you that the police are on their way to your room. Apparently, someone else in the hotel called in a complaint about noise."

"Noise?  What noise?"  Before I could even form a coherent reply, there was a pounding at the door. I quickly concluded the call and made my way toward the sound.

Rounding the corner of what I assumed was a bathroom, I realized that this wasn't just a single hotel room but, in fact, a suite. The front room was as dark as the bedroom had been, and I stumbled through it to get to the door. Once there, I swung it open, revealing two policemen standing in a sunny courtyard. Just the sight of their crisp uniforms and no-nonsense expressions flooded my soul with relief. Maybe they could help me figure out where I was and what was going on.

"Sorry to disturb you, ma'am. Is everything all right?"

I blinked, wondering where to start.

"Ma'am? Have you been a victim of domestic violence? 'Cause we can take you out of here right now and bring you somewhere safe."

"Domestic violence?" I asked, reaching a hand to my cheek, wondering if they saw something I hadn't noticed in the mirror, a cut or a bruise.

"We had a complaint of noise. They said it sounded like two people having a big fight."

I took my hand from my face, swallowed hard, and tried to think of how to reply.

"You're obviously confused, ma'am. Let's take this one thing at a time. Are you physically injured in any way?"

I ran my hands over my arms and down my sides, but I didn't feel anything painful or unusual.

"No. Physically, I think I'm fine."

"All right. How about him? Is he okay?"

As I looked to where the policeman pointed across the room, I gasped. There, in the light that spilled from the open doorway, I could see someone sprawled out on the couch. It was a man, dressed in a dark brown suit, eyes closed and mouth open.

The second cop came inside and went over to him, shaking his shoulder and saying, "Sir? Sir?"

"Are you under the influence of something?" the cop asked me now.  "Are you on drugs?"

Drugs. That must have been it. I must have been drugged.

"It's hard to explain. I—"

"Excuse me, ma'am," the cop interrupted, not waiting for my answer but instead responding to a grunt from his partner, the one who was now kneeling beside the couch.

Suddenly I couldn't wait for this guy to wake up and tell us what was going on. But then the cops both stood and turned to look at me even more strangely than before. That's when I realized that the man on the couch wasn't going to wake up at all.

The man on the couch was dead.

©2009 Mindy Starns Clark, from Harvest House Publishers, Trade Paperback, $13.99 • ISBN 0-7369-2624-9

Available at www.christianbook.com, your local Christian book store, or wherever books are sold. Visit Mindy's website at www.mindystarnsclark.com to learn more, watch the book trailer, get book club discussion questions, and more.

The Hope of Refuge

by New York Times bestselling author

Cindy Woodsmall

ISBN 978-1-4000-7396-2 (paperback)
© Material

Raised in foster care and now a widowed single parent, New Yorker Cara Moore struggles against poverty, fear, and a relentless stalker. When a trail of memories leads Cara and her daughter, Lori, away from the city toward an Amish community, she follows every lead, eager for answers to mysteries from her past and a fresh start. She quickly discovers that Dry Lake, Pennsylvania, is no place for an outsider. But one Amish man, Ephraim Mast, dares to fulfill the command he believes that he received from God-"Be me to her"- despite how it threatens his way of life.

"Cindy Woodsmall's The Hope of Refuge takes the reader on an emotional journey into the heart of Amish country and the heart of a very human heroine. A compelling novel of love lost and found with realistic characters from two very different worlds which become, beautifully, one."
–Karen Harper, New York Times bestselling author of Deep Down

". . . Cindy Woodsmall's novels are in a class by themselves. Great stories about characters that will live on in your memory long after you shelve the book. The Hope of Refuge is one of my top picks for 2009. Novel Reviews and I highly recommend it— a 5-star read. It has a permanent place in my personal library."

–Ane Mulligan, Novel Reviews

Excerpted from The Hope of Refuge by Cindy Woodsmall, Copyright © 2009 by Cindy Woodsmall. Excerpted by permission of WaterBrook Press, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

* * *

Prologue

"Mama, can you tell me yet?" Cara held her favorite toy, stroking the small plastic horse as if it might respond to her tender touch. The brown ridges, designed to look like fur, had long ago faded to tan.

Mama held the well-worn steering wheel in silence while she drove dirt roads Cara had never seen before. Dust flew in through the open windows and clung to Cara's sweaty face, and the vinyl seat was hot to the touch when she laid her hand against it. Mama pressed the brake pedal, slowing the car to a near stop as they crossed another bridge with a roof over it. A covered bridge, Mama called it. The bumpiness of the wooden planks jarred Cara, making her bounce like she was riding a cardboard box down a set of stairs.

Mama reached across the seat and ran her hand down the back of Cara's head, probably trying to smooth out one of her cowlicks. No matter how short Mama cut her hair, she said the unruly mop always won the battle. "We're going to visit a…a friend of mine. She's Amish." She placed her index finger on her lips. "I need you to do as the mother of Jesus did when it came to precious events. She treasured them in her heart and pondered them. I know you love our diary, and since you turned eight, you've been determined to write entries about everything, but you can't—not this time. No drawing pictures or writing about any part of this trip. And you can't ever tell your father, okay?"

Sunlight bore down on them again as they drove out of the covered bridge. Cara searched the fields for horses. "Are we going to your hiding place?"

Cara had a hiding place, one her mother had built for her inside the wall of the attic. They had tea parties in there sometimes when there was money for tea bags and sugar. And when Daddy needed quiet, her mother would silently whisk her to that secret room. If her mama didn't return for her by nightfall, she'd sleep in there, only sneaking out for a minute if she needed to go to the bathroom.

Mama nodded. "I told you every girl needs a fun place she can get away to for a while, right?"

Cara nodded.

"Well, this is mine. We'll stay for a couple of days, and if you like it, maybe we'll move here one day—just us girls."

Cara wondered if Mama was so tired of the bill collectors hounding her and Daddy that she was thinking of sneaking away and not even telling him where she was going. The familiar feeling returned—that feeling of her insides being Jell-O on a whirlybird ride. She clutched her toy horse even tighter and looked out the window, imagining herself on a stallion galloping into a world where food was free and her parents were happy.

After they topped another hill, her mother slowed the vehicle and pulled into a driveway. Mama turned off the car. "Look at this place, Cara. That old white clapboard house has looked the same since I was a child."

The shutters hung crooked and didn't have much paint left on them. "It's really small, and it looks like ghosts live here."

Her mama laughed. "It's called a Daadi Haus, which means it's just for grandparents once their children are grown. It only has a small kitchen, two bedrooms, and a bathroom. This one has been here for many years. You're right—it does look dilapidated. Come on."

Seconds after Cara shut the passenger door, an old woman stepped out from between tall rows of corn. She stared at them as if they were aliens, and Cara wondered if her mama really did know these people. The woman wore a long burgundy dress and no shoes. The wrinkles covering her face looked like a road map, with the lines taking on new twists as she frowned. Though it was July and too hot for a toboggan cap, she wore a white one.

"Grossmammi Levina, ich bin kumme bsuche. Ich hab aa die Cara mitgebrocht."

Startled, Cara looked up at her mama. What was she saying? Was it code? Mama wasn't even good at pig Latin.

The old woman released her apron, and several ears of corn fell to the ground. She hurried up to Mama. "Malinda?"

Tears brimmed in Mama's eyes, and she nodded. The older woman squealed, long and loud, before she hugged Mama.

A lanky boy came running from the rows. "Levina, was iss letz?" He stopped short, watching the two women for a moment before looking at Cara.

As he studied her, she wondered if she looked as odd to him as he did to her. She hadn't seen a boy in long black pants since winter ended, and she'd never seen one wear suspenders and a straw hat. Why would he work in a garden in a Sunday dress shirt?

He snatched up several ears of corn the woman had dropped, walked to a wooden wheelbarrow, and dumped them.

Cara picked up the rest of the ears and followed him. "You got a name?"

"Ephraim."

"I can be lots of help if you'll let me."

"Ya ever picked corn before?"

Cara shook her head. "No, but I can learn."

He just stood there, watching her.

She held out her horse to him. "Isn't she a beauty?"

He shrugged. "Looks a little worn to me."

Cara slid the horse into her pocket.

Ephraim frowned. "Can I ask you a question?"

She nodded.

"Are you a boy or a girl?"

* * *

To read the rest of the prologue, plus the first chapter of The Hope of Refuge, go to: http://www.cindywoodsmall.com/books/hope-of-refuge_excerpt.php

The Hope of Refuge is available wherever books are sold.

To purchase through Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Hope-Refuge-Novel-Adas-House/dp/1400073960/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1250964058&sr=1-1

To purchase through Books-A-Million Web site: http://www.booksamillion.com/product/9781400073962?id=4509643933679 

Cindy Woodsmall's Web site is www.cindywoodsmall.com

FINAL EXPOSURE

By Roxanne Rustand

Book #1 in the Big Sky Secrets trilogy

Steeple Hill Suspense

"Roxanne Rustand never disappoints her readers. Expect elegant writing, luscious romance and a tingling spine from her suspense."   Lyn Cote,  Author of Texas Star of Destiny series

Safety. Serenity.  That's all Jack Matthews wants, and what he seeks in Lost Falls, Montana.  A quiet retreat is just what his orphaned nephew, Max needs.  But when sirens in the night leave Max screaming, Jack is faced with a harsh truth. They're not safe--not him, not Max, and especially not his lovely inn keeper, Erin.  What is she hiding? What does the shadowy figure stalking her want?

CHAPTER 1

Erin Cole shivered away an uneasy feeling as she unlocked the door of Millie's Provisions and stepped into her new life.

The cold.  Surely it was only the morning chill that raised goose bumps on her arms and sent an eerie premonition crawling up her spine.  A silly, city girl reaction to the loneliness of the mountains after being away for so long.

She'd come back to Montana put old ghosts to rest once and for all.

Unlike the tragedy that still haunted her hometown an hour away, nothing newsworthy had ever happened in Lost Falls.  The peaceful little village, just a few dozen touristy businesses trailing here and there along the shore of Bear Island Lake, swelled with vacationers and bumper-to-propeller traffic during the summer, then slept quietly with only a handful of year-around residents to brave the long winters.

As she stepped into the little general store, the crisp scent of northern Montana pine and the gentle slosh of waves along the shore of Bear Island Lake gave way to the steady tick of the old Coca Cola clock above the cash register and the smells of leather and cinnamon and the cold ashes in the potbellied stove in the corner.

            It all brought back a rush of sepia-toned images from a childhood spent at this lake.  Of all the times she and her cousins had sat on the wooden steps just outside, licking melting ice cream cones as they decided on their next adventure.  They'd been inseparable, back then. 

The good memories helped settle her nerves.  The bad ones she still tried to forget.

Owned by her grandparents, Millie's had always reminded her of a magician's hat.  Small as it was, it still held everything from bait to books, from groceries to camping gear and tourist supplies. 

Her favorite part had always been the little café set up in the front window, with six wrought iron ice cream tables, and an old-fashioned soda fountain complete with eight brass stools that could spin.

And now, this place would be her future. Who would've thought?  Brimming with a rush of emotion, she locked the door behind her and started across the pine-planked floor.

A shadow moved across a beam of moonlight at the back of the store.

She froze, the back of her neck prickling.

The ticking of the clock slowed.

The glass-fronted pop and beer cooler compressor hummed louder as she strained to listen.  An inexplicable sixth sense told her that the shadow had not been her imagination.

Holding her breath, she edged backwards toward the front door, her heart pounding against her ribs and her palms damp.

Ten feet to go. 

Five. 

She reached blindly behind her for the dead bolt, not daring to turn her back.

Had the intruder heard her come in?  How fast could she spin around and escape?  But what then? 

Her car was parked behind the building, near the back door.

The surrounding campgrounds and rustic cabin resorts were deserted, now that tourist season was over.  The closest year-around business was sporting goods store at least a half-mile away that wouldn't open until mid-morning.

And with her bad ankle, the chances of outrunning anyone past the age of six weren't good. God--I need some help, here.

From the back room came the sound of something scraping against the floor.  And was that the rasp of a harsh, indrawn breath?

Rising fear washed through her, turning her knees weak as she fumbled with her car keys.

The back door squeaked. 

Closed with a soft snick of the latch.

Which meant the intruder had left.  Or did it?  If she ran to her car, he could be out there.  Waiting.

Or he could still be in the store, lying in wait for her.  If he was, it could be hours before anyone noticed signs of a struggle. Even if some early morning coffee drinkers peered through the front window, they wouldn't be able to see the back of the store.  And no one would even think to stop by until the store opened at seven, anyway.

Tell me what to do, Lord--go, or stay?

Her gaze fell on the old-fashioned desk telephone on the counter behind the cash register, then to the locked cabinet beneath, where she'd stored her grandfather's Korean War era pistol. 

A sense of calm settled over her.

The old keepsake had been like a security blanket, given the iffy Denver neighborhood she'd lived in before now, but she'd only brought it to this sleepy little town as a memento.

She crept to the register.  Snagged the phone and pulled it down into her lap to dial 911.  While whispering to the operator, she fingered through her ring of keys to unlock the cupboard and retrieve the gun.

And then, she moved back into the shadows behind a display of fishing tackle, and began to pray.

#

            Roxanne Rustand is the award-winning author of twenty-three novels, including seven for Steeple Hill Suspense.  Visit her at her blog, "The All Creatures Great and Small Place," where authors and readers exchange stories about their pets, from hamsters to horses, and where you can follow the ongoing tales told by The Old Horse Trader. 

Blog:  http://roxannerustand.blogspot.com

Website:  www.roxannerustand.com

This book an be purchased through www.steeplehill.com, 

www.christianbook.com <http://www.christianbook.com> ,

and fine  bookstores everywhere.

This excerpt is copyrighted, and may not be reproduced without  permission.

LEAVING CAROLINA

Southern Discomfort Series

by

Tamara Leigh

"Tamara Leigh takes her experienced romance hand and delights readers with Chick-Lit that sparkles and characters who come alive."
- Kristin Billerbeck, author of The Trophy Wives Club for Splitting Harriet

They say you can take the girl out of the South, but you can't take the South out of the girl.

This Girl Begs to Differ.

Piper Wick left her hometown of Pickwick, North Carolina, twelve years ago, shook the dust off her feet, ditched her drawl and her family name, and made a new life for herself as a high-powered public relations consultant in LA. She's even "engaged to be engaged" to the picture-perfect U.S. Congressman Grant Spangler. Now all of Piper's hard-won happiness is threatened by a reclusive uncle's bout of conscience. In the wake of a health scare, Uncle Obadiah Pickwick has decided to change his will, leaving money to make amends for four generations' worth of family misdeeds. But that will reveal all the Pickwicks' secrets, including Piper's. Though Piper arrives in Pickwick primed for battle, she is unprepared for Uncle Obe's rugged, blue-eyed gardener. So just who is Axel Smith? Why does he think making amends is more than just making restitution? And why, oh why, can't she stay on task? With the Lord's help, Piper is about to discover that although good PR might smooth things over, only the truth will set her free.

CHAPTER TWO EXCERPT

 "Good job," I congratulate myself as I get both legs over the nine-foot-tall wrought iron gate. Yes, I'm overstating my accomplishment, but it's been a rough day. Fortunately, it's looking up.

"Don't move!"

The bark rattles me so deeply I lose my grip. The light that bursts upon the darkness makes me startle so hard my foot slips. Then the weathered bars are slipping through my hands as I slide down the gate toward the concrete driveway. Impact.

Or not. My progress arrested, I catch my breath at the realization I'm still vertical—thanks to a belt loop caught on a middle rail spear, and meaning I'm hanging like a Christmas wreath months past its "use by" date. That explains the discomfort between my legs, but what about the guy at my back? Why is he creeping around at night on private property?

Oh, Lord, not again. But this time I'm prepared. I uncurl my right hand and reach to my purse and my faithful companion within.

"I said, don't move!"

            Lord, please help me to reason with him, or at least distract him. Drawing a long, slow breath, I put my chin over my shoulder and narrow my lids against the light beyond which I glimpse a shadowed figure—on the tall side and broad. "Look, if you don't mind—"

The sound of tearing fabric is followed by a lurch, and then my bare feet hit concrete and I fall backward. The light jerks and swings, and I hear a clatter as a hand closes on my arm and yanks me up. I get my feet under me, but it's not enough to counteract gravity, and my back slams into a wall of muscle and bone. Meanwhile, my heart starts making plans to relocate without me.

Oh no! This can't be happening—

Hysteria will not get you out of this. Easy does it. Determinedly, I track the beam of light that illuminates the lower half of the gate back to its source—my assailant's dropped flashlight. He doesn't have that advantage anymore, and soon he's going to find out that muscle and bone isn't much of an advantage either.