Good afternoon, Christian fiction fans!  This week we bring you
selections from two wonderful authors, David Ryan Long and Linda Hall.
Next week:  REUNION from Karen Ball and A MORNING LIKE THIS by Deborah
Bedford.  Enjoy!



--The Moderators







QUINLIN'S ESTATE

by David Ryan Long





Eve Lawson's fight to save a historic home scheduled for demolition
leads her on a labyrinthine search through the dark secrets of a small
town's past-and into hidden secrets of her own family. Along the way she
also faces the unanswered longings of her own heart, but with time
running short and the estate about to fall, her search may end up in the
rubble of a fallen dream.







Introduction



The thought creeps in.



During lunch at my desk or in the quiet moments before I find sleep, I
find myself thinking back on the last twelve months wondering where I
would be if I hadn't taken that first step last January and resolved to
try to keep Quinlin's Estate from falling. Would I still be in Lowerton?
Would I have met Ben Sterling and Embeth Graveston and the others who
helped me along the way? Would I still be searching for the secrets
buried among stone and stair? Or would my greatest fear have driven me
away, fleeing from the one sight I couldn't bear to see?



Those thoughts come, stealing in with their poison of doubt and worry,
but they don't linger. This journal has seen to that. It's my testament
of what happened last year, my proof that kneeling means something.



I never expected this thing to become anything more than a place to vent
my frustrations or linger over the small successes. I'd come home and
type away, creating a record of my efforts on behalf of the Estate that
could be used someday for the dissertation I hoped might be down the
road. Instead it became something else-it became a map.



It let me hold a year's worth of writings in my hand and allowed me a
glimpse at the emerging

pattern winding all the way through it. The path I saw traced the
outline of Quinlin's Estate itself and to speak of one is to tell the
tale of the other.



This is the story of Quinlin's Estate-the decades it has seen, the
secrets it holds.



But it is also my story. The story of Eve Lawson.



Walk with me.



-Eve Lawson, January 22, 2000









Part One

Friday, January 8, 1999





This is what I know.



Ten days ago a sign, plastic and yellow, went up at the south entrance
to Quinlin's Estate. On it was printed, CLOSING DECEMBER 1999.



Four days ago-the first workday after the new year and the first day of
the new semester-Brighton Entertainment held a press conference at their
downtown Pittsburgh headquarters clarifying the decision behind the
yellow sign. Office hours and an early morning class kept me from
hearing the announcement firsthand, but Brighton's publicity department
was eager enough to fax me a press release that repeated the
information, which I handed to Dr. Wilkins this morning along with my
written request for a leave of absence from the university's Ph.D.
program. He looked at both for a few seconds, read each in silence, gave
them back, and told me to see him in a week.



I asked him why.



"Because in seven days," he replied, "this will be a decision, not an
impulse."



It was a fair response, and I could tell there'd be no changing his
mind, so I left his office and fled campus for my apartment. And so now
I sit facing the computer screen, trying to piece together a paragraph
or two that explains, even to me, what's going on. At the moment it
starts and ends with this:



Quinlin's Estate is going to come down. I want to save it.



Why?



I know that's the question Dr. Wilkins will ask of me when I return in a
week. It's the question others will ask as well, those whom I tell about
my decision.



Why the Estate? Why spend the time and effort to save a building
everyone else has given up on?



My answer: I stayed at this school through my undergraduate and graduate
years for one reason, and it isn't the central Pennsylvania winters. I
stayed because of the Estate. Nobody's ever written a detailed history
on it, and I wanted to be the first. I wanted to spend long hours
roaming the halls and studying the rooms, to piece together all the
stories from its past. I wanted to explore its grounds again like I used
to when my father, Glen, took me with him summer mornings. I wanted to
find out the truth behind the legends and uncover why the Estate
captured not only my imagination but the interests of others too. Not
everyone has given up on the Estate. I know that and I'll prove it. Give
me a year and some help and the Estate will still be standing.



That is what I'll tell Dr. Wilkins and anyone else who asks. Whether
they buy it or not isn't so much my concern, because I doubt if this
answer is something I believe myself. I can't voice the real reasons,
though, for right now they don't make much sense to me. I'm a
27-year-old woman still dealing with the fears of the 12-year-old girl I
guess I never outgrew. I stayed here, at the place I know best in the
world, and now my single driving worry is the idea of being lost. Not
along the roads or alleyways or woods like when I was a kid, but
something much worse. Lost to who I am and who I will become.



It's a lot, I suppose, to put on a building, yet the Estate has looked
down upon me my entire life, longer by far than any one thing or person.
Glen gave up on fatherhood when I was ten, Mom's but a ghost, and I
won't pretend to think Meryl cared. So what else am I left with? The
building saved this town once, and although that was long before my
time, it seems only right that somebody return the favor. After all,
salvation should never come cheap, otherwise it's something smiling and
tacky and plastic. But I know the Estate is something larger; it's
broader and higher and permanent. If I could get people here to see what
I see, they'd work to save it in a minute. To them it's just a house on
a hill, and they're tired of looking up. Myself, looking skyward's the
only thing I know.



----------------------



For more excerpts, plus essays and (soon) reviews, visit
http://www.davidryanlong.com <http://www.davidryanlong.com/>

Also: EZEKIEL' S SHADOW - 2002 Christy Award Winner for First Fiction

C 2002 Bethany House Publishers









SADIE'S SONG

By Linda Hall

Chapter one



I was ready. Well, just about. it wouldn't take me long to change out of
these mayonnaise stained sweat pants and into something presentable.
Simon had been fed and bathed and was gurgling placidly in his plastic
baby seat. Gavin, my five year old, was sitting under the kitchen table
playing quietly with his Game Boy. The twins were setting the table
above him, and my eldest child, Mary Beth, who is eight, was on tiptoes
stirring the spaghetti sauce with a wooden spoon. I wiped the kitchen
counter and watched her plaid cotton school dress swish around her knees
with each determined stir. Mary Beth never wears pants, even though all
the other girls in her class wear scruffed jeans and tee-shirts with
sayings on them. My husband prefers his girls in dresses, so I never say
anything about Mary Beth going down the slide in her Sunday dress or
straddling the muddy logs down by the wharf. I looked at her, at her
twig thin arms stirring the sauce as if it were a school project,
something that must be done before something else can be gotten to.

My seven-year-old twins were chattering to each other in half-sentences
and partial words, giggling. Always giggling, those two. In front of
their own places they grouped little dessert bowls, a separate one for
each food item. This is something new with them. A couple of months ago
they decided they didn't like their food to touch each other. And it has
become an ongoing battle. I looked at their white blonde hair, soft and
curling around their ears, the same cowlicks in exactly the same places.
Pamela Jo and Tabbitha Anne, they were named at birth, but now they are
just PJ and Tabby.

I once saw a television program about multiple births. A mother of
quadruplets bounced them, two on each knee, while she talked about the
challenges of breastfeeding and scheduling. "But, what I want to know,"
said the interviewer, "is how can you possibly tell them apart!"

"Oh," said the smiling, perfect television mother, "A mother can always
tell her own children apart."

When PJ and Tabby were babies I kept their hospital bracelets on for
months until they were in danger of cutting off their circulation. Then
I made up little bracelets of my own, ribbons where I scrawled their
names in permanent felt-tip marker, a red one for Tabbitha and a pink
one for Pamela.

Lately, they have begun dressing alike, advice that goes against every
book I have ever read on the subject. (And I have read lots.) "Never
refer to them as 'the twins.' Celebrate their differences." But, instead
of becoming different, they seem to be growing more alike, if that is
possible; growing inward toward each other instead of outward and away.

"We're having spaghetti." I kept my voice steady. "You won't need your
little dishes."

"We want plain spaghetti in one," Tabby said.

"And sauce in the other one," PJ said.

"Then we can dip the spaghetti into the sauce."

"one at a time."

"Then it doesn't get so gloppy."

"We hate gloppy food."

"Gloppy food is gross."

I could hear the beeps, the growls and the cheers from the Game Boy
under the table. It is useless to get Gavin to help with chores around
the house, even though Troy thinks I should try. "That's part of his
problem, Sadie," he tells me. "That boy has no responsibility, none
whatsoever."

"But he's only five," I always argue.

One doorknob of a knee protruded from his torn jeans. He was not
changed, not cleaned up, teeth not brushed, and there were smudges of
dirt on his cheeks. Gavin is the prettiest of my children with his
freckles and gold-flecked hair. When he laughs, his entire face lights
up. But none of my children laugh much. Even Simon doesn't grin the way
other babies in the nursery do on Sunday mornings when nursery helpers
hold them out in their arms and coo and ahh.

The phone rang. It was Phyllis Carter from church with a prayer chain
request. "Do you have a pen?" she asked.

I scrabbled for one in a kitchen drawer, found nothing, finally spotted
my Bible case on the counter underneath an unopened box of cereal. I
always keep a pen in there, although I'm usually too busy worrying about
keeping the kids quiet, on Sunday mornings to take notes on the sermon.

"I'm ready," I said.

"There's been another missing girl. Irma and Bud Buckley's
granddaughter, Ally."

I sat down at the kitchen table.

"They just moved here, well, about a year or so ago. Anyway, the
request, and this is really sad, is that Ally has gone missing and to
pray that she'll be found quickly."

"Oh no."

"It's still early so there's no reason to think this will be like the
other one. She could have just wandered off. Kids are always doing that,
you know. So, just pray that they'll find her."

"How long has she been gone?"

"As far as anyone can tell she left school at the proper time, just
never made it home. They phoned the school, of course, and nobody's seen
her since she walked around the corner from it, so Irma decided to put
it on the prayer line."

I asked if there was anything we could do.

"Maybe just pass it on to Troy. They might need the men later."

After I got off the phone, I rifled through drawer after drawer trying
to find the prayer list that would tell me the person on the list I was
supposed to call. I couldn't find it. In the kitchen junk drawer, I
piled up old phone books, note pads, calendars, endless scraps of paper,
and enough pens and pencils to outfit an entire grammar school. But no
list.

"Mommy," Mary Beth was talking. "Mommy."

"Hmmm?" A dozen pens fell to the floor.

"Mommy. Mom-EEEE!"

I turned to her. "Mary Beth, what is it?"

"PJ and Tabby are putting little dishes on the table again."

"I told them they could." I found the list, folded in quarters and stuck
in the front of the Church Directory. I was supposed to call Ruby
Fisher, an elderly widow who sat in a row of white-haired ladies near
the front of the church. Gavin was adding his own sound effects to the
Game Boy now, Simon was beginning to screech, and Mary Beth was sucking
on the sides of her hair and shifting from foot to foot.



SADIE'S SONG was a 2001 Christy finalist and is available through
Multnomah Publishers, ISBN 1-57673-659-8.

Visit Linda's Website:  <http://www.writerhall.com/> www.writerhall.com
for more information.








[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]

Greetings, Christian fiction fans! We have two wonderful excerpts for
you this weekend: RIONA, historical fiction by Linda Windsor, and MORE
THAN TINSEL, a novella by Janelle Schneider.

Next week:  QUINLIN'S ESTATE by newcomer David Long and SADIE'S SONG by Linda
Hall.  Enjoy!



--The Moderators







RIONA: Fires of Gleannmara II
by Linda Windsor

Chapter One

570's Dalraidi Scotia Minor frontier, early spring...

             The mist over the loch was so thick a body could walk on it.
It permeated the tunics and cloaks of the warriors on the bloodied banks
at the lake's edge. Kieran of Gleannmara walked among the wounded and
slain, his muscled legs as heavy as those of the dead. It was wrong, all
wrong, he thought, numbly searching their features, now waxed in the
horror of their demise. What the devil had happened?

             Their early morning raid took the enemy by surprise, routing
and scattering the pirates like smoke in the wind. At least that's what
was thought. The main of the Dalraidi forces then turned to looting, the
fighting which had brought Gleannmara's warriors to Scotia Minor, over
to start with. All the heath fruit of Brigh Leithe could not make enough
beer to induce the euphoria of plunging into combat, weapon to shield,
blade to flesh.

             Kieran climbed the rocky rise, his limbs burning from
exhaustion, Faith, he felt colder than the dead surrounding him. He
secured his cloak with a jeweled brooch, his thoughts staggering from
reaction to reason. If the rear guard had failed and let the enemy
regroup behind them, then--

             "Kieran, God's mercy, hurry!" At the top of the rise, Bran
O'Cuillin waved at Kieran frantically and disappeared on the other side.


             The young king's heart seized, run through by a terrible
dread as logic came to conclusion. The rear guard was no more.  The
image of its young captain flashed before him. Heber! Kieran raced,
dodging and leaping over the bodies that lay in his path to the crest of
the hill.  Heber was not just Kieran's foster brother. The two of them
were anmcharas-soulmates. They shared life and all their secrets, their
dreams.

             On breeching the ridge, Kieran's stomach turned at the sight
of the carnage. The bloodied white leather tunics of Heber's men dotted
the moss- and rock-covered plain. Bran dropped to his knees beside one
of the fallen. The large warrior lying before the bard, drew up one leg
unsteadily, as if trying to get up.

             Relief nearly tripped Kieran. Heber was alive. Since the
premature death of Kieran's parents from the plague, he'd cursed the God
of his upbringing more times than he spoke to Him. But for this, the
young king had to give thanks.

             Not that Kieran deserved God's favor, but Heber did. His
foster brother had enough faith for the two of them.

             "If God's not going to staunch his wounds," Kieran said to
Bran, "then stop praying and at least help me."

             Tearing his cloak from over his head, Kieran made a pillow
of it and tucked it under Heber's head. "And how many brigands did Eimar
help cross over before they learned that striking your head was for
naught?"

             Heber's black hair stood out in stark contrast to the
cerulean blue of Gleannmara's colors--as did the blood soaking them.
Hand tightening around the hilt of Eimar, his sword, he spoke.  Death
gurgled thick in his voice. "Up."

             Kieran hastened to help his broad-shouldered friend sit
upright, to ease the labor of his breath. Only then did the young king
notice the gnarled hilt of a dagger lying broken where Heber had lain.
Kieran felt for its blade, confirming his fear. It was buried in the
large warrior's back. A tortured cry of rage and agony checked in the
young king's throat.

             Cradling his foster brother's head, Kieran eased him down
like a babe. The ever-present twinkle in Heber's gaze vanished, replaced
by a gripping desperation. No clever words of distraction came to
Kieran's mind. His eyes stung so mightily it was hard to focus.

             "P...promises." Heber transferred his waning strength from
his sword Eimar to Kieran's arm. "Remem...remember the promises."

             Was it only last night Heber brought up the possibility that
not all of Gleannmara's men would return to its precious soil? It felt
like half a lifetime ago. Had Heber had some forewarning of this fate?


             "Aye, I remember." His blood curdled at what at he'd given
his oath to do.

             "T-tell me."

             Kieran sensed more than heard Heber's words, for his
lifelong friend was too weak to speak. His youthful strength soaked into
the ground beneath them.

             "Though I can't carry you home, I'll not abandon you to
heathen soil."

             "Merciful Father!" Bran cared not who heard his cry or saw
the tears streaking his face.

             How Kieran envied the poet's freedom to of manly constraint,
when his own pain longed to make itself known all the way to the halls
of Gleannmara. "I will further take your sister into the protection of
Gleannmara as my wife, though she's spurned me before." And would never
forgive him for her brother's death.

             Heber convulsed, swallowing his own life's blood. "On your
word."

             "On my word as your brother and as your king." Where the
even keel of his voice came from, Kieran had no idea. Surely not from
the black sea tossing his emotions on its crest like the remnants of a
doomed wreck.

             Assuaged, Heber brightened, as when he'd teased Bran the
night before for choosing a harp rather than a sword for his companion.
"Then I shall see you and Bran on the other side."

             With that, the light went out in the lifeless blue of his
eyes. They stared not at Kieran, but past him, unfocused to all that was
of this earth.

             The bard crossed himself and took up his harp. Part tribute,
part eulogy, his composition worthy of the ancient poet Ossian himself.
When the honor was done, Kieran raised his sword above his head with
both fists. Now he could scream. The blade came down with the force of
his unfettered fury and anguish.



For ordering information, visit www.lindawindsor.com




**************

"More Than Tinsel", a novella by Janelle Schneider. From the book,
Homespun Christmas.
(Barbour Books).






       Susanna worked hard to keep her concentration on the little girl
skipping beside her. Her
thoughts wanted to stray to the man chatting with her dad. Listening to
him preach this morning
had stirred something inside she hadn't known existed. Part of it had to
do with her attraction to
him as a man. She'd made it all the way through high school with no more
than platonic
interaction with her male classmates. Her boyfriend in the city had been
a convenient companion
rather than the focus of her emotions. Now here she was at 22, on the
edges of a full-blown crush
with someone utterly unsuitable.
      Or rather, she knew she was completely unsuitable for him. He
wouldn't, couldn't be
attracted to someone with her own career plans and monstrous grudge
against the town he
obviously cared about deeply.
      But another part of her had been as intrigued by the message as by
the man. She'd been
raised in the church, even made a profession of faith at nine years old.
Many of her high school
activities had centered around youth group. Then had come the summer of
Kelly's pregnancy, and
Susanna's departure from Hope. She thought she'd left God behind along
with her school jacket.
      She wanted to cling to the assurance that God really did control
the details of her life. But
if that were the case, how could she explain the months of anguish Kelly
had gone through five
years ago, and the physical struggle she now faced?
      "There's the swing, Aunt Susanna! Let's run," her little companion
suggested.
      Susanna felt glad to comply. With any luck, she'd leave behind the
disturbing thoughts.
They raced to the swing set, then Susanna helped Jessica scramble into
the seat.
       "Now Pastor Damon has to push me," Jessica announced. "He said he
could do it very
high."
      Susanna envied the preschooler's certainty about what she wanted
and how to get it. Her
dad and the young pastor approached, and Jessica called out to them.
Susanna found a seat on a
nearby park bench, and pulled out of her pocket the letter she'd found
in the highboy a few days
ago.

Dear Susanna,
       Perhaps you don't remember who I am, but I have a feeling you do.
I'm Agnes Crosby,
one of the women who gossiped so viciously about Kelly's pregnancy. I
know our cruelty is part
of the reason you left town and didn't come back.
      I don't deserve it, but would you please forgive me for what I did
to you both? I've made
peace with Kelly, and with God, but my responsibility is not completed
until I at least try to make
peace with you.
      I understand if you simply can't forgive the way I treated your
friend. However, I do hope
there's a chance of reconciliation between us.
Sincerely,
Agnes Crosby

      Susanna had brought the letter with her today with the intention of
showing it to her
parents. She hadn't yet said anything about it to Kelly. If Mrs. Crosby
had made things right with
Kelly, as she claimed, there was no need to stir up bad memories. But
Susanna couldn't
understand the point of the note. Why had Mrs. Crosby felt the need to
write it? Was it a
deathbed decision, trying to get cleaned up, as it were, before facing
God? If so, Susanna hoped
God had seen through the act. But what if it was genuine? After all
these years of harboring a
grudge so deep she'd based life decisions on it, was she ready to let
go? Was she even capable of
forgiving? If she were, then what would her reaction be toward Mrs.
Crosby's crony, Ellen
Dittmyer, who hadn't asked for forgiveness? The questions were too
varied and complicated to
answer. Mrs. Crosby was dead, so Susanna's forgiveness didn't matter to
her.
      Susanna looked up, intending to find the nearest garbage
receptacle. Instead, her gaze
collided with that of the young pastor. He leaned against one of the
supports of the now-empty
swing set, apparently watching her struggle with the impossible
questions.
      "I'm a good listener, if you want to talk," he offered.  "Mind if I
sit down?"
      Susanna studied his face for a moment before moving over to make
room for him. Any
time she spent with him risked his discovery of her interest. On the
other hand, she wanted to get
to know him better. Equal parts apprehension and excitement made her
insides feel twisted into
knots. She made eye contact with him once more. Something in the brown
depths of his gaze
intensified her awareness of him, of their proximity.
      She looked away before he could guess her thoughts. It was only
logical that she admired
him. His occupation aside, he was a good man. She'd seen that in the way
he'd spent time with
the Walkers ever since Kelly's diagnosis. Though he never visited
Kelly's home if her parents
weren't also there, he'd still come over regularly. The atmosphere
around them seemed lighter
and more peaceful after his departure. Of course, she'd be attracted to
anyone who helped her
friend as he had.
      So he helped others. So he cared about those in his congregation.
It was still no excuse for
her to turn herself into a fool over him. Without intending to do so,
she shoved the letter at him.
"I found this in a bureau Mr. Crosby gave to us. What do you make of
it?"
      As soon as the words were out, she wanted to retract them and the
letter. Distance was
what she needed, not a situation which was sure to result in her
confiding in him.

To order:
http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1586605534/qid=1029429117/sr=1-1/
ref=sr_1_1/102-0742836-5536139

Happy Friday, everybody!  This week we have selections from Patricia Hickman and
Angela Hunt.  Next week: RIONA by Linda Windsor and an excerpt from Janelle
Schneider. Enjoy!



--The Moderators





THE TOUCH

By Patricia Hickman



It never snowed in New Orleans in winter.



The sky filled with the same darkness found inside the deepest part of a
cold, damp cave, and although occasionally the temperatures dropped low
enough to warrant a token fire in the fireplace, the clouds over
Louisiana seldom squeezed out a single flake of snow. The best
description that Sidney Oliver could offer The Big Easy in winter was
"plainly miserable."



If it rained, it flooded, and the entire city became a concrete swamp.
The dead were buried aboveground in cemetery vaults just to keep them in
their place.



Sydney stooped partially inside the cramped telephone booth to button
the sweater on her five-year-old son, Trevor, who stood holding the hand
of his little sister, Allie. The nearby shopping center bustled with the
post-Thanksgiving, pre-Christmas shoppers, while a rusted speaker
squeaked out store commercials between intermittent strains of "Silent
Night."



"Are we going home yet, Mommy?" Trevor asked.



"Not yet, honey." Sydney kissed the top of his head. The soft, wet
tendrils of his hair felt sticky against her lips. Then she turned and
attempted to force the booth door closed. But it creaked open again as
the blustery wind invaded their tiny shelter.



"Are you calling Daddy?" Trevor persisted.



Trevor's questions had not ceased since they had fled from their small
rental apartment after breakfast. She deposited a handful of coins into
the pay phone. "No, Trevor. We won't be calling Daddy for a while."



She held her fingers over the dialing pad but hesitated. The gold band
on her ring finger had lost its sheen. Her left hand curled into a fist
as she placed her head against the wall of the phone booth. She couldn't
crumple now, she told herself, and chastened herself for feeling weak.
Trevor and Allie had to be her greatest concern. Once more she reached
to dial the number she dreaded calling. But again she froze as she saw
her own image in the silver chrome frame of the pay phone.



I can't let Dad and Mother know about it. Shame swept through her, along
with remorse. The battered area around her right eye had swollen and
turned black. But her mind must have been in instinctive overdrive. Her
fingers began to dial.



Sydney Oliver rarely broke under the weight of defeat. Growing up in a
pastor's home had long ago toughened her coping mechanisms, she felt. So
when she relayed stories of her childhood, she admitted only those
details that painted her in the most triumphal light. But as she reached
to phone her father for the second time this morning, the very act
conjured up the things that she hated most about herself.



"Hello, thank you for calling Clearwater Freewill. How may I direct your
call?"



"Carol, please," she said.



"May I ask who's calling?"



Sydney's lips parted, but no sensible words emerged-nothing that would
pass for normal conversation anyway. The wind now slammed hard drops of
rain against the phone booth. Trevor tried to lead his sister in the
Christmas chorus that blasted from the shopping center.



"Hello? This is Carol. Anyone there?"



"Carol, this is Sydney-"



"Sydney, dear, how are you? We so enjoyed your visit last summer. And
those children are so precious-"



"Carol, I-" Sydney heard her own voice break, felt the next wave of
tears tumble down her cheeks. Four-year-old Allie tugged at the loose
denim around her knees.



"Whatever is the matter, dear?"



All Sydney could muster was a meager, "I need to talk to my dad."



She heard the familiar click of Carol placing the line on hold, followed
by the recorded message that told of the church's upcoming Christmas
celebration.



"Sing, Mommy. All is calm, all is bright . . ."



"Oh, Trevor, not now, honey."



"Holy infaso tender and mild. Sleep in heavenly pe-eace, sleep in
heavenly peace."



Sydney's lashes lifted, and she saw a red economy car head toward them.
It slowed. She dropped the phone in panic. A wet blast of wind whistled
in through the partially open door, and Allie shrieked.



"Trevor, take Mommy's hand. We need to run!" She scooped Allie into her
arms and cradled the child's small, wind-chapped face against herself.



"Run again, Mommy?"



"Yes, baby," she said to her son. "Run fast, okay?"



"No, Mommy. Pick me up, please?"



Trevor's short, plump arms reached up toward her. His bottom lip
quivered, and Sydney realized that he sensed her anxiety. She lifted him
onto her other hip and braced herself to face the squall.



Sydney staggered with them out into the hostile storm, three urban
refugees trying to look invisible. The rain pelted against them, a
swirling dance that mocked the trio.



The dangling phone receiver buzzed with the voice that called out,
unanswered. It sounded almost mechanical against the background din of
the holiday carol. Holy night, all is calm . . .



"Sydney, this is Daddy . . . you there, sweetie? Sydney?"

The Touch by Patricia Hickman, copyright 2002. Tyndale House Publishing.

Available at www.amazon.com <http://www.amazon.com/> ,
www.christianbook.com <http://www.christianbook.com/> , and fine stores
everywhere.

Visit www.patriciahickman.com
<outbind://202-00000000A735D2EBE93AD4118C01005004722715E4537B00/www.patr
iciahickman.com>









From The Immortal, by Angela Hunt



Claudia Fisher, a professional "people reader" and jury consultant, has
been sent to Rome to evaluate personnel for a new organization for world
peace. One particular applicant, Asher Genzano, arouses her suspicions,
for the man seems to be hiding a secret . . . a tale he is all too
willing to share.





"When were you born?" Asher asked.

I laughed at the unexpected question. "I'm twenty-eight, if that's what
you really want to know. I'm one of those women who doesn't mind telling
her age."

He nodded as a thoughtful expression filled his eyes.

"You wanted to tell me something after dinner," I reminded him.
"Well-the time is right, and I'm curious."

"Let us sit." He motioned toward a stone bench at the edge of the Piazza
della Rotonda, and I sat down, feeling strangely at home when he sat
next to me. The atmosphere around us was nearly carnival, for the night
was clear and cool, and crowds had come out to celebrate the end of a
workday. A bevy of fat, placid pigeons waddled over the stone piazza,
hoping for a handout, and from the next block I heard the frustrated
wailing of an automobile, probably trapped behind a row of double-parked
cars. A horde of high school students in jeans, leather jackets, and
sneakers clustered around the steps leading to the Pantheon, the herd
mentality as evident in Rome as it was in New York. Above the dome of
the ancient temple, an attenuated moon hung amid a jumble of stars, and
the ristorantes and clubs in the streets beyond offered a mix of the
ancient, the contemporary, and the tacky. I gratefully drank in the
atmosphere, hoping that the prevailing mood of gaiety would prevent
Asher from bringing up Justus and antichrists and primeval prophecies .
. .

Asher's dark eyes flitted over the milling crowd. "I am older than you."

"I know that. You're what-thirty-three? Thirty-four?"

"No. I am much older."

"That doesn't really matter, does it?" I looked away and pretended
indifference, though my mind bulged with a heavy unasked question. Did
his comment about our age difference mean he was entertaining some sort
of romantic feeling for me? I liked him a lot, I considered him a
friend, albeit a slightly odd one, but the thought of a more personal
relationship had not even crossed my mind. My thoughts jetted back to an
hour ago when I took his arm on the sidewalk. Surely he was not so
unsophisticated that he interpreted my gesture as anything significant.
An affectionate touch meant virtually nothing, especially in Italy.

"I was born in Rome," his gaze moved over the crowd, "in the year of our
Lord."

I lifted a brow, waiting. A boy rode by on a bicycle, his radio humming
with the relentlessly cheerful cadences of Europop, but Asher didn't
finish his sentence.

I leaned closer, urging him on. "In the year of our Lord . . . what?"

Lifting his gaze to the star-spangled sky, Asher pulled back his
shoulders and raised his jaw. "In the year of our Lord," he repeated.
"In the same year as Jesus the Christ. He was born in Bethlehem; I was
born in a village just outside Rome. He grew up in Nazareth; after being
orphaned, I grew up in a house on Patrician Street, a major road leading
southwest from the Castra Praetoria toward the heart of the eternal
city. My adoptive father was not a great man as the Romans counted
greatness, but he had connections in high places. In A.D. 26, I left my
father's house and journeyed to Palestine in the service of one called
Pontius Pilate, the man Caesar appointed as prafectus Iudaeae-governor
of Judea."

I listened with a vague sense of disbelief. For an instant I thought he
wanted me to take him seriously, but the words rolled off his tongue
like a well-rehearsed poem, and I realized I was listening to an
oft-repeated story. This, then, was not a conversation, but a
performance.

He glanced briefly over his shoulder, probably checking my reaction.
Though I had no idea what he was reciting or why he felt impressed to
recite it, Asher had never been predictable. "Go on," I urged him,
reserving my judgment for the end of this recital. "I want to hear all
of it."

For a moment his face seemed to open, and I saw surprise and relief in
his eyes. "Have you heard, Claudia, of the legend of the Wandering Jew?"


I crossed my arms. "I know a plant by that name. My mother used to have
a big pot of it hanging on our front porch."

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. "Not the plant,
the man. The one who is doomed to wander the earth until Christ comes
again."

I looked away, regretting my decision to encourage him. "I was never big
on fairy tales or legends."

"You should learn about this one. According to the legend, after Pontius
Pilate sentenced Christ to death by crucifixion, soldiers led the Savior
out through the city of Jerusalem. When he came to the house of a
cobbler named Ahasuerus, Christ put out his hand to rest upon the wall
of the house. But the cobbler came out and urged Christ to hurry,
saying, 'Get on there! Get moving!' But Christ, bearing the weight of
the world upon his shoulders, looked at the man and replied, 'I will go,
and I will rest. But you will walk until you see me come again.'"

Asher fell silent for a moment, then took a deep breath. "The details
are incorrect, of course. First of all, the man was neither a Jew nor a
cobbler. He was a Roman called Cartaphilus, a porter in the service of
Pontius Pilate. And this Cartaphilus, in an effort to show off for the
soldiers who were escorting the prisoner, did not only speak harshly to
Christ, but actually struck him. Finally, Christ did not say what is
commonly reported. After feeling the sting of Cartaphilus' blow upon his
cheek, he looked at the offending servant and said, "You see me now, but
you will live until the day you see me clearly."

Asher pushed his hair back, his gaze focused on some distant image. I
waited a moment to be sure he had come to the end of his recitation,
then I shifted on the bench. That story wasn't so bad. I definitely
preferred it to the Antichrist saga. "That's an interesting story,
Asher. How did you learn so much about it?"

"I didn't learn it, I lived it. I am Errante L'Ebreo."

I swallowed to bring my heart down from my throat, then crossed my arms.
"You're going to have to translate that one." I forced a laugh. "It
almost sounds like you're asking me to believe you are two thousand
years old."

He looked at me then, and in the dim glow of the streetlights an aura of
melancholy radiated from his striking features. "I would not lie to you,
Signorina. I am the one they call the Wandering Jew. I am Cartaphilus,
the one who struck the Savior, and I have been journeying through the
earth since the year of his death. I cannot age, I cannot die, and I
must beg you to believe I would not lie."

Somewhere nearby a woman laughed shrilly and a trumpet blared, but I
could not turn toward the sound. Transfixed, I sat in a paralysis of
astonishment and stared at a man whose direct eyes, erect posture,
relaxed mouth, and motionless hands told me he spoke the truth.



Order through the link found at  <http://www.angelahuntbooks.com/>
www.angelahuntbooks.com.








[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]

Greetings, Christian Fiction readers!  This week we have two selections
for your enjoyment: CRY FREEDOM by Marlo Schalesky and  A CAN OF  PEAS
by Traci DePree.  Next week: THE TOUCH by Patricia Hickman and THE
IMMORTAL by Angela Hunt.

Enjoy!

--The Moderators

CRY FREEDOM

by Marlo Schalesky



Intro:   The year is 1743.   In the English colonies a religious
revival, which will later be named The Great Awakening, is sweeping
through every class of people, drawing the wealthy and common alike into
a new and personal experience with God. But as the American colonists
find their peace with God, England and France plot for war, the third of
four such conflicts waged by the French and British for control of North
America.

             On the Pennsylvanian frontier, tensions mount as the Shawnee
and Delaware ally with the French. Here the drums of war have already
begun to beat. French-led war bands advance. Settlers tremble. Brave
men, driven by the hope of freedom, grip their muskets in desperate
hands.

             And, in the midst of it all, one half-breed Indian girl
dreams of what it means to be free . . .

.



Pennsylvania Frontier, July 1743

             The savage cry rent the air in a single burst of terror. It
echoed from tens upon tens of invisible throats surrounding the village.
Little Cloud heard it, and trembled. It was the sound of their doom.

             "Tankawon!"

             Little Cloud whirled at his name.

             "Where is your father, Tankawon?" Black Hawk shouted. "Only
his God can save us now. The enemy is upon us."

             The eerie war whoop rose again from among the trees. There
would be no escape.

              "Shawanowi." The name of the enemy tribe whispered through
the village.

             Terror clawed at Little Cloud. After only thirteen summers,
he was not ready to die. Where was his father? Where was his sister
Kwelik? He needed them now. Now, when death screamed from the lips of
enemies and mocked his helplessness. Now, when babies stood naked at the
entrance of their huts, crying to parents who would no longer heed them.
Now, as Black Hawk clutched spear and tomahawk in strong hands,
gathering his meager warriors for the fight. Little Cloud needed his
father's faith and his sister's. He needed their God.

             Only his God can save us now. The words echoed in Little
Cloud's mind, playing a dissonant tune to the shriek of the Shawanowi.
Before him Crying Wolf grabbed her baby and raced toward her hut. A
basket tipped at her passing, spilling bark across the dirt.

             Little Cloud stood alone amid the din of approaching
madness. He shivered, his eyes wavering on the mud huts that circled the
center of the village. Beyond him, in a copper kettle traded from the
French, deer stew boiled untended, the sound of its bubbling lost in the
shrill cries of the children. But no one cared. Death was upon them.

             Corn meal scattered before Little Cloud as another woman
dropped the basket she carried and scooped up her screaming child.
Someone wailed. The sound echoed through Little Cloud's frame. He turned
his head. A deerskin hung to his right, still curing from a recent hunt.
He grabbed it and fled, throwing himself into a corner between a barrel
and the side of a hut. He choked as he pulled the skin over his head and
peeked from under it. It smelled of dead flesh, like a forewarning of
the moments to come.

             Around him his people scattered to and fro, their faces pale
as they reached for sticks and spears, anything that might serve as a
weapon against the enemy. In the village center, tall warriors gathered,
their tomahawks hanging from their hands like children's toys.

             We are too few. The thought slipped through Little Cloud's
mind. We cannot fight them.

             As if he heard the thought, Black Hawk turned his head. For
a moment his eyes rested on Little Cloud. Then he again raised his chin
and shouted his own challenge into the trees.

             "Oh, God, I don't want to die." Little Cloud choked on the
words in a muted sob. He clutched the deerskin tighter. "Make the
Shawanowi go away. Rain down fire from heaven to consume them."

             As if in defiance of his prayer, a flaming arrow arched from
the trees behind him. With a roar it exploded on the thatched roof of
his father's hut. The dry grasses blazed high in the fury of their
destruction. Little Cloud did not move. His eyes blurred with smoke and
fear. Another hut caught fire. Crying Wolf's scream tore through the air
as she burst from the hut. Her cry summoned the enemy.

             With a final shriek the Shawanowi warriors emerged from the
trees and plunged toward the village. An arrow pierced Black Hawk's
chest moments before the cruel bite of the tomahawk removed his scalp.
Little Cloud watched Black Hawk's eyes roll open in death.

             An eerie wail rose above the din of slaughter as a boy ran
toward the fallen warrior.

             No, Running Wind! Little Cloud allowed the warning to die on
his lips unspoken even as he recognized his friend.

             Four other warriors fell. Tears of horror gathered in Little
Cloud's eyes. His hands trembled on the deer hide.

             Still he did not move. Soon he knew they would all die in
the flash of iron and blood. If only he could be safe from it. Where was
Kwelik? Where was his father? Where was God?

             Betrayed! The word shot through Little Cloud's mind as a
musket fired near him. Running Wind screamed and fell. Without thought,
Little Cloud started toward him. Before he could draw back, the hide was
ripped from his hands, exposing him to the enemy. The heat of a burning
hut seared his back. He stumbled forward. Behind him a low chuckle
sounded in his ears. He turned.

             In that moment Little Cloud looked into the face of death
and saw that it belonged to a white man.







Find out more about Marlo and her books at www.marloschalesky.com
<http://www.marloschalesky.com/> .

Published by Crossway Books

Copyright:  Marlo Schalesky, 2000

Cry Freedom and its sequel, Freedom's Shadow, can be purchased through
www.Christianbook.com, www.Amazon.com, your local bookstore, or (for a
signed copy) by sending Marlo an email at bryan2@....



*******



A Can of Peas
The Story of a Small Town and a Season of Hope
by Traci DePree

Enticed by the romance of a simple, quiet life, Peter and Mae Morgan
take on the daunting task of running the family farm only to discover
the challenge of heartbreak and the meaning of the word "neighbor." Will
the strain of saving the farm tear their new marriage apart?
     A cross between Jan Karon and Garrison Keillor, A Can of Peas
captures the heart of Minnesota using the threads of family and
friendship to weave a pattern of grace, forgiveness and kindness.
Sometimes funny and often poignant, A Can of Peas will introduce you to
an entire community of people you will come to know and care for.



Roy Morgan

  It was an early June day in 1985. Ten-year-old Peter Morgan sat on the
seat next to his grandpa Roy as he drove the Chevy pickup along the
dusty road. Peter's nose itched and he gave it a scratch. Gravel pinged
as it flew up under the truck.
As they neared the rich green fields of peas, Peter could see the huge
red combines from the canning factory moving like a procession of snails
across his grandpa's land. The blades circled in precision like a
pinwheel in a breeze as they gathered the tender plants and pulled them
hungrily into the machine's stomach.
     Peter looked across the checkerboard of black and green and felt a
warm contentment fill him. It was a perfect day, the kind of day when
the sun shone brighter; everything smelled new. The view from the cab
stretched and yawned for miles. Peter could see the water tower from
Lake Emily shimmering silver in the morning light, and the lake was a
pale blue in the June sunshine. There was nothing like the harvest.
One of the big machines moved to the grain truck waiting at the side of
the field and positioned the long auger's arm over the bed. Soon the
peas came out in a flow of green. The door of the pickup squeaked as
Peter and his grandfather got out to watch. Roy leaned against the front
while Peter climbed up on the hood.
     "Did you always want to be a farmer, Grandpa?" Peter asked, turning
his head to look at the older man's strong profile.
Roy's gray eyes wrinkled into a smile. His gaze trained ahead, he said,
"I suppose I did, Peter. Same as my father. Some people are just meant
to be out here in God's creation, breathing the spring air, working the
soil."
     "I wish my dad was a farmer," Peter said, sighing.
     "Your dad has his own gifts, Peter, just as you do." Roy laid a
comforting hand on his grandson's head, tousling his blond hair. Roy was
quiet for a moment before he spoke again, "You see this field?"
     Peter nodded as the scent of dark, rich earth and fresh-cut peas
lingered in the air.
     "People are like these here peas. They come in all sizes, you know.
Some are big, some small. There's floaters and sinkers, but it takes all
kinds, working together and helping each other out. That's what makes a
family, a town, work." He glanced over at Peter as the combine finished
filling the truck and began back up the rows. "Your father makes
beautiful music-it's a gift God gave him." There was a long silence,
filled with the rumble of the combines.
     "What will I be when I grow up, Grandpa?" Peter lifted his blue eyes
to his grandfather's.
     "You'll be who you are now, plus or minus the choices you make along
the way. Now, what you do,  that's another matter altogether. You'll
have to follow your heart.and God's leading. But it'll come to you,
Peter."
     Peter thought about that for a while before remembering the suitcase
in his room, already packed for his father's next concert tour. "I don't
want to go to Spain," Peter complained. "Why can't Mom and I stay here
while Dad goes with the orchestra?"
     "You'd miss your dad, Peter. Besides, he needs you," Roy said.
"Before you know it, you'll be back here again. Maybe you can help bring
in the corn."

Chapter One

         "It's a crying shame," Lillian Biddle said in a loud whisper,
hovering a bit too close to Peter Morgan as they stood on the dormant
lawn on an unusually warm day in early April. Bare crabapple branches
draped overhead, creating a somber, webbed shadow that encased the
mourners who stood in scattered clumps across the lawn like faded
dandelions. Steaming black coffee warmed hands, and napkins held sweet
bars.
     "You know, she'll have to sell the place now," Mrs. Biddle
continued, "what with Roy gone. They hired my Bert over a month ago to
do all the milking, ever since Roy's cancer got the best of him. A
cryin' shame, a cryin' shame. I've seen it happen all too often. The man
dies and the wife has to sell out, auction the equipment and move to
town, even though she worked as hard as him to keep the place going. I
remember," Lillian went on, "Cora Jorgenson, she was just devastated
after Richard passed on. Heart attack in the middle of church, right
after the benediction. They're Catholic, you know."
     Peter didn't have a clue who she was talking about. His mind was on
his grandfather-gone three days-and finding his grandmother in the
crowd.
     "When Richard died, Cora didn't have much choice. The bank was
pushing to foreclose, could hardly wait till Richard was buried to get
their hands on it. So she sold that beautiful farm. It had been in their
family for four generations. But then during the farm crisis they had
such a hard time of it. Almost lost the place then. I don't know how
your grandfather fared. He seemed like a levelheaded man, but then you
can never tell."
         Peter scanned the crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of his
round-cheeked, gray-haired grandmother. Virginia had been so constantly
surrounded by well-wishers that he'd had no chance to speak with her
since he arrived in Lake Emily that morning. At least he'd been able to
sit with her during the service, but there had hardly been an
opportunity to talk then. Peter felt his wife, Mae, slip her hand into
his. She was beautiful, her delicate figure draped in funeral black and
a dark wool coat. Her brown, long, sleek hair framed her fine-boned face
and compassionate brown eyes. They'd been married all of six months. Six
of the happiest months of his life, and then came the news of his
grandfather's death.
         "Couldn't she hire someone long term? Like a farmhand?"



For the complete first chapter visit my web site:
<http://www.tracidepree.com/> www.tracidepree.com
Come visit Lake Emily, where everyone knows your story!








[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]

Greetings, Christian fiction readers!  This week we have two new books,
one by Jefferson Scott and another by Cindy McCormick Martinusen.  Next
week: CRY FREEDOM by Marlo Schalesky and A CAN OF PEAS by Traci duPree.

Enjoy!

--The moderators



Operation Firebrand


By Jefferson Scott




Who Will Save the Children?

An uprising in a former Soviet Republic has destroyed an orphanage,
leaving innocent children to wander in the brutal Russian winter. The
U.S. government knows they'll soon freeze to death, but its hands are
tied-and no one else seems to care.

Enter Jason Kromer, Navy SEAL and new Christian.

Kromer is head of Operation Firebrand, a privately funded, covert
operations team sent on non-lethal missions of mercy. Their mission:
Rescue the orphans without being seen-and without taking a life.

But the Firebrand unit, made up of many volatile personalities, is on
the verge of collapse, and Kromer has his own demons to subdue.

Will Firebrand's military technology and training be enough-or will it
take something more? The lives of the orphans and every person in the
commando unit hang in the balance.and time is running out.



[The Firebrand team is about to jump out of an airplane. Some members of
the team have never done this before. It's a special kind of jump where
they exit at high altitude and freefall 95% of the way to the ground
before opening their parachutes. Very dangerous.]



Trieu approached Lewis with a syringe.

"What's that?" he said, falling backward. Garth held him.

"Relax, Lewis," Jason said. "This is just a little something to calm you
down."

"Yeah," Chris said, "we're going to knock you out and chuck you out the
back of the plane."

"What!"

"Don't listen to him," Trieu said. "It's called Versed. It's like valium
but doesn't knock you out as long. It will help you relax."

"Oh.it's kind of funny," he said, trying to get away, "but I don't
really like needles very much."

"Hey, Lewis," Rachel said, running a finger from his forehead to his
chin. "Have I told you how handsome you look in your uniform?"

"Oh, baby, you really think s- OW!"

Chris slapped Jason on the back. "What'd we tell you about her? Queen of
distraction."

Lewis rubbed his rump and looked at them like the dog back from the vet.
"You guys are dorks. That hurt."

"Sorry, Lewis," Jason said, "but I think it will help. Okay, people,
let's suit up."

The Slav reemerged through the crew door and spoke to Rachel.

"Five minutes out," she said.

The crewman evaluated the team skeptically and pronounced his verdict
with a word Rachel didn't bother translating. He stepped to the rear of
the plane and strapped himself into his safety harness.

"Oh." Lewis said. "I'm going to die!" There was a little slur between
his words now.

"Wait!" Trieu said. "I think we should pray before we do this, don't
you?"

Chris groaned but gathered with the others in a tight ring. They joined
hands.

"Who wants to lead us?" Rachel said, staring at the metal floor.

"The leader leads," Garth said, looking at Jason.

Jason nodded slowly. "Oh, okay. Lord, I." He swallowed. "Father, we're
about to go do a bunch of crazy things. But the people in this circle
are doing them in Your name. They're going out to.rescue the needy and
defend the cause of the fatherless. Would You please help us accomplish
Your will. And Lord, as team leader I pray that You would take care of
each one of these people. Because I can't do it. Just.bring them all
back home safe. Thank You, Jesus. Amen."

"Amen."

"Okay," Chris said, "let's get this show on the road. Lewis, get
yourself over here, boy."

Garth bowed to Trieu. "My lady, may I assist thee with thine silk
parasol?"

"Yes, please."

Jason stepped into the chute's harness and pulled it onto his shoulders.
He attached his peppergun to his leg and a short chemical glow-stick to
his altimeter. All the while the crewman was standing by the ramp
release, ogling Rachel.

Jason came to Garth and Trieu, who were connected with her back against
his front. He checked their fasteners. "You guys ready?"

"Aaaaaaaaaaaagggggggghhhhhhhhh!"

Jason looked from Garth to Trieu. "What about you, are you ready?"

"Not especially," she said.

He gripped her hand. "You're going to be fine." He whacked Garth on the
shoulder. "Okay, you two, put your goggles on and break your
lightsticks."

They brought their goggles down over their eyes. Then they squeezed the
vials inside the narrow gel tubes on their helmets and on Garth's
ripcord. The released chemicals mixed together and soon the tubes were
glowing bright green.

Jason made sure their harnesses were secured before moving to Chris and
Lewis. "You guys good to go?"

"Let's party, baby!" Chris said, giving Jason a head-butt. "Man, I still
can't believe I let you go with Rachel while I'm stuck here with
bonehead."

"You'll live. Lewis, what about you? You ready?"

"Jason," he said, his eyes not quite opened all the way, "will you call
my mother if I die?"

"Yes, Lewis, I'll call her. Okay, you two, goggles on and lightsticks
broken."

Rachel was sitting against the wall in a cannonball position. Jason
knelt in front of her. "You ready to do this?"

She looked up. "Aren't you scared at all?"

"Are you kidding? I can't tell because of my polypropylene long johns,
but I think I've wet myself."

"Ha."

"Seriously, I am freaking out. No matter how many times you do it, to
jump out of an airplane you still have to override a bunch of your
brain's warnings." He stood and extended his hand to her. "Come on,
let's go do something stupid together. It'll be like our first date."

She took his hand and stood. "Is this your idea of showing a girl a good
time?"

"You got it, sweetheart."

Now came the part he'd been simultaneously longing for and dreading.
With a last look into his eyes, Rachel turned her back toward him and
snuggled into his chest. Her body felt very very nice against him. He
reached around her waist, not exactly avoiding feeling the curve of her
hips, and grabbed the straps of her harness. It had to be a Jedi mind
trick or something, but he could swear he smelled roses.

He got them connected and had Garth check them out.

"Okay, Rachel, goggles down. Now let's break those glow sticks. Good."
He led her to their spot between the two other pairs. "We go out at the
same time. Is everybody ready?"

"Aaaaaaaaaagggggggghhhhhhhhhh!"

"Okay," he said, motioning to the crewman. "Open her up."

The crewman yanked the lever and the cargo door began to clank open. The
wind howled louder than Lewis's banshee. And, since they were higher
than Mt. Everest, the air was just as cold. Loose paper whirled around
the cargo bay as the door dropped open like a puppet's mouth. Stars
twinkled in the thin atmosphere.

Jason felt his pulse rate triple. Oh, dear Lord, what am I doing?

He wrapped one arm around Rachel's waist. "On three, everybody! One."

"No." Lewis said.

"Two."

"No no no no no no!"


     "Three! Go, go, go!"


     Three two-man teams scurried forward. The wind swept behind them,
scooping them out.

     And then the plane was gone.

     "I'm going to diiiiiiiiiiiie!"



Read more of Jefferson Scott's fiction at
http://home.bendcable.com/jeffersonscott.

************************************

WINTER PASSING
(Abridged)

by Cindy McCormick Martinusen


STORY: Darby Evans stands before her grandmother's bed, wondering why
the dying woman calls the name of a stranger - Tatianna.  Two headstones
with the same name and other clues lead Darby on a journey into her
family past that spans a sixty-year winter of sorrow.

Prologue
Austria
August 11, 1941

        Her eyes weighed heavy, but Tatianna could not sleep. Time ran
too quickly against her life for one moment to be wasted in rest.
        A movement disrupted the silence. She waited, but nothing.
Someone in another cell must be stirring. But soon the footsteps would
come. Then Tatianna would hear soldiers' boots beyond her door, the
clang of a cell opening, and the scrape of shackles against the floor. A
frantic plea for mercy would descend into the prison, or more often, an
eerie stillness. Tatianna would sit unmoving, knowing unseen strangers
in their cells listened with her. She imagined they held their breath as
she did, until the sound of bullets erupted.
They would come again. Yet today would be different. It wouldn't be the
cell down the hall or the cell beside her that would open. Today
Tatianna's door had been chosen. No lamb's blood covered her doorpost.
The death angel in SS uniform would find his way inside. Today her
shackles would scrape the tile floor. Today the bullets would burst into
her chest.
God, will you not send me a savior even now as I go to my death? I chose
your way, but I'm afraid to die.
Tatianna folded her hands and winced in pain. That was good-to feel pain
in her stiff and broken fingers. The throbbing up her arm reassured her
that life survived within her.  They'd tried everything to make her
speak, but, thank God, she didn't possess the answers they sought. And
the one piece of the puzzle she did know, they'd never asked.
She smiled, feeling her lips crack. For Tatianna had one victory over
them-one they would never know. They saw her as useless now, so she
could take her secrets with her. But could there still be a way in her
final hour? Miracles always happened in the books she read. At the last
instant, the heroine was rescued.
Her mother would say, "Keep your jaw set and your way clear. Everything
will work out." Will it, Mother? Will everything work out today? Her
mother and thoughts of home brought doubts that clouded out hope once
again. Hope, then fear; hope, then fear. Tatianna had made the right
choice, hadn't she? Hope, fear.
A creaking noise rang down the hall. Tatianna jumped. The first gate
opened and footsteps approached, then stopped at her cell. Keys jingled
in the lock and the door opened.
Tatianna didn't look into the faces of the two soldiers as she walked
between them. The thud of their boots and clang of her shackles echoed
through the stone corridor. She knew the other prisoners sat and
listened. Did they hold their breath?
They crossed the roll call area but did not turn toward the main gate.
And then she heard the music: a Mozart tune, one she'd played on her own
violin a hundred times. Tatianna knew what that music meant.  Today she
would die, but not alone.
Gravel cut her bare feet as they walked down the roadway between blocks
D and E. What would it feel like? How much would it hurt?
Panic seized Tatianna with a frantic desire to escape.  Today couldn't
be her day to die. Not today. The sun shone too brightly.  People
strolled the streets beyond the cinder-block walls. In the village
below, they shopped, laughed, and picked flowers in their gardens.
Surely a family packed for an afternoon picnic. A mother held her child
in her arms. A girl read a book on a park bench, perhaps nearing the end
when the heroine against all odds and challenges would finally get away.
They turned toward the open gate; the "I'll nevers" came flooding back.
I'll never wear a bridal veil. I'll never experience a man's love. I'll
never hold my child in my arms. I'll never hug my kindred friend again.
She must stop. The time had come to fold all remnants of "I'll nevers"
and banish them to a darkened crevice in her heart. You promised to be
strong. Go to your death with dignity. Keep your jaw set and your way
clear.
She saw her place in line. The open gate revealed a row of several dozen
breathing skeletons. There had to be many thousands more in the barracks
and jailhouse behind them. A few skeletons dared to peer her way as a
soldier pushed her against the wall. Hollow and haunted, their eyes
reflected fear-an old man in tears, another with prideful defiance, a
father and son clinging as one.
Her fingers trailed a crack in the wall, touching the granite, feeling
its coldness in the shadows. She filled her lungs with the cool
freshness, savoring its flavor. She glanced again at the strangers who
were now one family as they stepped into eternity together.
A stiff column of soldier lined up before her. Here were the witnesses,
and the executioners. She searched the eyes of every face. Ten soldiers,
twenty frozen eyes. Wait-she knew that face. The last soldier in the
line. His blank expression mirrored the others. She had known that boy
at one time, but she did not know him now.
She forced herself not to look below the men's shoulders to the guns
they held. She waited, jaw set. Something caught her eye. Above the
wall, a bird glided on the morning breeze. It rose and danced above the
prison wall, above the distant treetops. The sunlight caught the sheen
of black wings before it dropped from view.
A soldier shouted. Guns raised. Tatianna's eyes jerked toward ten
barrels.
Someone cried out; a child screamed. Where was her savior? Today the
heroine would not get away.
Her body jumped as ten rifles cocked. The sound resonated through the
courtyard. Suddenly the winged creature rose again to soar high above
the walls. Tatianna's eyes lifted to the bird as her body exploded in
shaking. Her Savior had come, and he brought freedom on his wings.
Tatianna had chosen well.

Read more about Cindy at www.cindymartinusen.com
Tyndale House Publishers
Copyright C Cindy McCormick Martinusen
Author of WINTER PASSING (2000), BLUE NIGHT (2001), NORTH OF TOMORROW
(MAY 2002), and STONE RIVERS (coming JUNE 2003)
Purchase books at www.christianbooks.com, www.amazon.com, or your local
bookstore.

How are you, Christian fiction fans?  This week we
have double helpings of humor in the form of SWEET AS APPLE PIE by
Kristin Billerbeck and BRIDE ON THE RUN, by that remarkable quipster,
Karen Ball.  Karen's novella is part of the THREE WEDDINGS AND A GIGGLE
collection from Multnomah.



Next week: OPERATION FIREBRAND, by Jefferson Scott.  An action-adventure
thriller NOT for the faint of heart! You'll love it!



Enjoy!



--The Moderators







Sweet as Apple Pie

by Kristin Billerbeck
from the anthology AMERICAN AS APPLE PIE

Barbour Publishing




"Watching the door isn't going to make him appear."

Kayli Johnson laughed, but she didn't tear her eyes from the bakery
storefront. "Maybe not, but I don't want to miss him. I'm going to smile
at him today, and maybe he'll come in." Kayli's stomach churned at the
very thought of such uncharacteristic boldness.

"In my day, men came calling properly. There was none of this spying out
the window business." The stout older woman wiped the glass countertop
with vigor. Kayli feared being a dirty appliance in Mrs. Heiden's path.

Kayli plopped a fist to her hip. "You never had a crush on anyone? Come
on, Mrs. Heiden. There was never anyone who set your heart aflame?"

             "Never."

"Then how did you meet Mr. Heiden?"

"He was just lucky, I suppose."

Kayli let out a short laugh. "I suppose he was at that." Rearranging the
apricot danish into a more elegant design, Kayli dreamily spoke again.
"But this man, Mrs. Heiden." She erupted into a long sigh. "He is unlike
anyone I've ever seen around here. I can't explain it. I just want to
know who he is, and ask him all sorts of questions. Maybe we're soul
mates." She regretted adding the final bit immediately.

"Rubbish! Maybe you spend too much time watching old romantic movies. A
girl your age should get out more, not daydream constantly."

"I was born a hundred years too late." Kayli shrugged. "Going out
doesn't interest me much. I would have been perfectly content to pad
around my sitting room and wait for suitors to call."

"You were born at the right time, Kayli. May I remind you a woman
wouldn't have owned a business like this? If she did, there certainly
would be a man fronting it."

"So what do you suggest, Mrs. Heiden? Should I accost this man on the
street and introduce myself?"

"I suggest you get your dreamy eyes off that window and worry about your
chocolate molds. They are nearly ready. Love will come calling when it's
time."

Kayli gasped. "There he is!" Her heart thumped against her chest, and
she closed her eyes. "Please come in, please come in," she repeated to
herself. Before opening her eyes, she heard the jingle of the store
bell. Shaking, she blinked several times. He stood before her, in all
his masculine splendor.

Light brown hair shorn close to his head, and these incredible clear
green eyes, like the finished edge of glass. She heard herself exhale.
His set jaw exuded confidence, and his towering height, probably about
six-three, rendered Kayli speechless. There was sincerity in his eyes, a
warmth that emanated from him. Something told her immediately he would
be a good father. She chastised herself for visually sharing children
with a man she hadn't yet spoken to. What was wrong with her?

"Hello?" He waved his hand in front of her dazed eyes, and she nearly
collapsed from embarrassment. Where was her voice? She swore she'd talk
to him, and now nothing came from her mouth except gurgling noises.

"Good morning," Mrs. Heiden finally rescued Kayli. "What can we get
you?"

"Coffee."

Kayli had to say something. "How about a cappuccino? It's on the house
today." She forced the words so they sounded completely unnatural, as if
it'd been thrown and she was just the puppet fronting the conversation.

"Cappuccino?"

"Italian espresso with steamed milk. I make the best there is in Palo
Alto."

His eyes thinned. "Is this how you get customers hooked on $3 coffees
instead of the regular stuff?"

"You'll try it." Mrs. Heiden ordered. "You can order the plain stuff
anywhere. This is a European bakery. Kayli is trained as a renowned
pastry chef. You'll not drink standard fare with her delicacies."

"This is a European Bakery?" He looked confused for a moment, then
flustered and focused on the backward words on the window.

"Yes, why?" Mrs. Heiden inquired. "Didn't you read it on the glass?"

He shook his head, "Never mind. It's not important." He looked back
towards the window for a second. "I didn't realize there was already a
European Bakery here."

"What do you mean already?" Mrs. Heiden asked.

"Nothing. I'll try one of those cappuccinos." His clear eyes gazed
directly at Kayli. She froze in the moment, and her stomach fluttered.
Does he know what I'm thinking? Does my face give it away?

"Single? Tall?" Kayli stammered.

"Yes, I am." The stranger held open his hands. They were strong hands,
if a bit rough-hewn. "Is that a requirement for the free coffee?"

Kayli blinked rapidly. "No, I meant do you want a single cappuccino or a
double? A standard cup or a tall? You know, small or large?"
Mortification settled over her as she rambled endlessly.

"Ah, so this is how you do it. You get people so confused about ordering
a cup of java that we leave totally confused, and satisfied we've gotten
our $3 worth because we figured something out. His eye held a sparkle,
and Kayli noticed he winked at Mrs. Heiden.

"No, I only meant to offer you a free cup since I see you walk by each
day." She bit her lip.

"You're very observant."

"You're hard to miss." Kayli nervously wiped her hands on her apron.
"Being so tall and all." She turned on the espresso steamer, thankful it
drowned out her ridiculous babbling.

"I'm building the restaurant up the street." He yelled over the machine.
"I did the owner's house, and now he asked me to work on the restaurant.
It's almost done, and then I can head home. To a place where the coffee
only comes leaded or unleaded."

"Home?" Kayli stopped the machine.

"Montana, blue sky as far as the eye can see," he waved his large hand
in the air. "And the closest neighbor has an udder."

Kayli heard Mrs. Heiden laugh, and she shot the elder woman a grimace.
"Why would you want to move away from all this?"

He looked out the shop windows again. "All what? All the people? The
traffic, the entitlement in the wealthy here? What part do you think
I'll miss?" He crossed his arms across his wide chest.



"Sweet as Apple Pie" © Kristin Billerbeck

from AMERICAN AS APPLE PIE, Barbour Publishing.

Available now from  <http://www.christianbook.com/>
www.christianbook.com or www.crossings.com
www.KristinBillerbeck.com
Also available: California!
  &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&



"Very few books make me laugh out loud like this one. Karen Ball’s story
is the funniest because she used her true marriage stories. Hysterical!
And don't miss the husbands’ comments at the beginning of the book. I
loved it!" A reader from Texas



Warning! Laughter ahead! In this trio of novellas, readers discover the
lighter side of love even as they better understand living a life of
faith. In “Bride on the Run,” heiress Alexandria Wingate determines to
wait on God for marriage. Her father, however, waits on no one. Before
Alex can say “I don’t!” she’s engaged. Finally she puts her foot down—an
hour before the ceremony! So it’s out the window, down the trellis—and
straight into a hilarious adventure.



“Bride on the Run” Excerpt from THREE WEDDINGS AND A GIGGLE

by Karen Ball



Alex studied the chili recipe. A tasty, easy-to-fix meal, or so she’d
been told

She sucked on a fingernail. So what if she’d never cooked a meal by
herself in her life. She could handle this. She read over the recipe
again. It all made sense. Well, almost all.

“C powder? What is C powder?” Oh dear. She should have listened more
carefully.

She went to a cupboard and studied the array of seasonings. Reaching in,
she pulled one out. It wasn’t exactly what she’d written down, still…it
started with a “C.” And the box was red. Chili was usually red, wasn’t
it?

Alex followed the recipe carefully, and finally, everything was in the
pot but the last ingredient. Picking up the small, square metal box, she
tapped out the required six tablespoons and dumped it in.

It smelled great! If she’d known cooking was this easy, she’d have done
it long ago.



Evan couldn’t believe the tantalizing aroma drifting his way. Mouth
watering, he headed for the kitchen.

             No one was there, but a pot was on the stove, the lid
bouncing as whatever was inside simmered away. It smelled wonderful.

He grinned. No one was around, so why not snitch a taste? He scooped a
generous portion of the rich, meaty concoction into a bowl. If this was
Alex’s first attempt at cooking, she was a natural.

The first spoonful was heaven. Rich spices tantalized his tongue, and
there was just enough bite to make him sweat. Perfect.

He gulped down the rest of the bowl, then smacked his lips, which were
tingling now. He could snitch another small bowl and no one would ever
know.

On the third spoonful his lips were no longer tingling. They were numb.
And the pleasant bite at the back of his throat had become something
more.

A burn. No, a blaze. No, make that an out-of-control, five-alarm,
somebody-get-the-fire hose! inferno.

“What are you doing?”

He couldn’t even respond to Alex’s indignant exclamation—because he
couldn’t breathe. Gasping, stomach roiling, he made a mad dash for the
slop sink. He made it in time. Barely.

Evan turned on the faucet full blast, stuck his face under the cooling
stream, and sucked water into his burning mouth.

“Are you all right?”

It was several minutes before he could answer Alex, but finally he was
able to pull his head out of the sink. “What—” His raw throat barely
managed a raspy whisper—“what’s in that chili?”

She frowned. “Just the stuff from the recipe.”

“What’s happening here?”

They both turned to find Birdy watching them. Her eyes widened as she
took in Evan’s sopping face. She moved to the shelf above the washing
machine, grabbed a towel, and brought it to him.

“Are you saying my chili is what made you sick?”

Alex was clearly affronted.

“That’s what I’m saying.” He went into the kitchen, filled it with a
glass with ice water, and set it on the counter next to Birdy. Then he
held the bowl of chili out to her. With an apologetic glance at Alex,
she took a bite.

“Why, Evan, I think it’s quite tasty—”

“Try some more.”

After the third bite, Birdy’s eyes grew as round and her hands flew to
her mouth. She made a dive for the ice water and downed it in record
time. By the third glass of water, she was finally able to talk again.
“Alexandria, child, where is the recipe?”

“I followed it perfectly,” Alex declared. “Ground beef, kidney beans,
one small onion, chopped celery, six tablespoons of cayenne pepper—”


“What?”


Birdy and Evan asked the question together, startling Alex from her
recitation. She frowned. “What what?”

“Six tablespoons of cayenne pepper—” Evan shook his head, then shot
Birdy a glance—“we’re lucky we’re alive.”

“Would one of you explain what’s going on?”

Alex was clearly peeved. Birdy stepped forward, circling her protégé’s
shoulders with a comforting arm. “C powder, m’dear, is chili powder. Six
tablespoons of chili powder makes wonderful chili. On the other hand,
six tablespoons of cayenne pepper, makes…um…”

Evan figured it was better to show than tell. “Here.” He held out a
spoonful of the chili to Alex. She hesitated, then, shoulders back,
stepped forward and took a bite.

“Hey—” her eyes lit up—“that’s pretty good.” So saying, she took the
bowl and, before Evan knew what she was up to, ate several more bites.

“Alex, wait!”

She scooped the last, large spoonful. “I don’t know what you two are so
worked up about—” she said, licking the spoon—“this stuff is…is…”

Evan leaned back, watching as Alex’s face began to change color.

“Is…is…” She blinked, her cheeks going from pink to red.

He arched his brows. “Yes?”

The look in her now-desperate eyes said it all. He turned on the cold
water and stepped aside.

“Hot!” Alex shoved past him and stuck her face into the sink. “Oh my
gosh! HOT!”

As Alex coughed and gasped and gulped water, Birdy moved to stand beside
Evan.

“Now what?”

He angled a look at her. “Now you fix a new pot of chili. And—” he
couldn’t hold back the rueful grin—“we find something for Alex to do
away from the kitchen.”

“Far away, I presume.”

His answering nod was as solemn as he could make it around his grin.
“Far, far away.”

Birdy nodded, watching Alex at the sink. “Yes, well. At least we kept
her away from the knives.”



“Bride on the Run” © 2001 by Karen M. Ball. Multnomah Publishers.

THREE WEDDINGS AND A GIGGLE is available at your  favorite bookstore or
can be ordered online at www.christianbook.com
<http://www.christianbook.com/> .

Welcome, Christian fiction mavens. This week's excerpts are from
EMBRACE THE DAWN, by Kathleen Morgan, and COULD I HAVE THIS DANCE?
by Harry Kraus, M.D.

Next week we'll spotlight excerpts from two novella
anthologies—Karen Ball's contribution to THREE WEDDINGS AND A GIGGLE,
and Kristin Billerbeck's novella in AMERICAN AS APPLE PIE.

The Moderators

********************************

EMBRACE THE DAWN
By Kathleen Morgan

Rumored to have murdered his wife, Ruarc MacDonald has a reputation
as a dangerous man. Now his faith and honor are about to be tested.

After escaping a violent marriage, Virginia colonist Killian Campbell
swears no man will hurt or control her again. Yet, as she fights for
her own life and her son's, Killian is forced to seek safety with the
one man who could destroy her future.

While Ruarc and Killian grapple with their deepest fears and beliefs,
storm clouds of political intrigue far beyond the Highlands of 17th
century Scotland presage dire retribution for clan MacDonald. Only as
the pair join together can they each make peace with the past, with
God, and with the feuding clansmen who threaten to divide them
forever.

#

Twilight blanketed the land before Killian and Gavin limped painfully
into the small town. It was a typical little Scots village, the
drystone houses squat buildings less than the height of an average
man, their roofs covered by divots of earth and thatch held down
against the wind by roped stones. There were few windows, and none
had glass. The acrid tang of peat smoke tinged the air, stinging
Killian's eyes and irritating her throat.

As they entered the village, a scrawny, ill-tempered goat ambled over
and butted at her leg. Before the animal had a chance to turn its ire
on Gavin, Killian shooed it away.

"M-Mama, I'm so tired."

Killian looked down at her son. His round little face was grimy and
tear-streaked; exhaustion dulled his eyes. His nightshirt was soaked
all the way to his knees; his feet were in even worse shape. Despite
the warm plaid she had wrapped snugly around him, he shivered
uncontrollably.

Her firm knock at the nearest door was answered promptly. A rotund old
woman, white kerchief on her head and dressed in a threadbare, long
tunic covered by an equally shabby, full-length plaid fastened over
her shoulders and gathered at the waist by a belt before falling to
her bare feet, peeked out. Watery blue eyes scanned Killian, taking
in the black cloak and glimpse of elegant gown. The old woman paled.

"Och, come in, m'lady." She stepped back and motioned Killian through
the door. "Our poor home and hospitality are yers, though we havena
much to offer."

Killian hesitated on the threshold, struggling to understand the
woman's heavy burr. "Really, all I need is someone to ride to Castle
Achallader and inform Adam Campbell that I'm here. He'll soon send an
escort to take us back."

An old man wearing a homespun shirt and belted plaid hobbled over. "A
friend o' our laird, is she?" He leaned heavily on a gnarled length of
wood. "Step aside, wife. I've a wish to see a fine lady so far
afield."

The wind whipped up just then, swirling around them, bringing with it
a hint of more rain. Desperation flooded Killian. She pulled Gavin to
her and stepped closer.

"Please, can you help me?" Her tone of voice was more urgent now. "My
name is Killian Campbell. I'm the wife of Alexander Campbell, cousin
to Adam Campbell. This-"she glanced down at Gavin-"is my son. We just
want to get home."

"And why didna ye say so to begin wi', lassie?" The old man grasped
her arm and all but jerked Killian and Gavin into the house. "Highland
hospitality being what 'tis, we'd have given ye shelter no matter yer
clan, but 'tis a far more pleasant thing to take one o' yer own under
yer roof."

"Are you a Campbell?"

Hope at possible kinship welled within Killian, then she caught
herself. She truly was exhausted, not to mention disoriented, to feel
so much excitement over such an unlikely possibility.

"Aye, lassie. Jock Campbell. Kinsman o' Adam Campbell o' Castle
Achallader." He motioned toward the fire. "A hot bowl o' parritch and
a good night's sleep is what ye and yer bairn are needin'. The morrow
is soon enough to take ye to Achallader."

She had hoped for something more than porridge, Killian thought as she
glanced about the one-room cottage. It was sparsely furnished with a
rough-hewn table and two rickety chairs. A small bed was shoved
against the far wall.

Chickens roosted overhead on the roof tree, and two milk goats were
tied in another corner. The air was thick with peat smoke from the
small cook fire in the center of the room. The roof hole, directly
above, though it sucked up the draught, did little to ease the soot
that stung the eyes and blackened the cottage's walls.

Killian's heart sank. This wasn't at all what she envisioned as a
suitable place to spend the night.

Enid squinted up at Killian, her eyes all but disappearing in a
furrow of sagging brow and chubby cheeks. "'Tisna much, I know,
hinny, for such a lady as yerself. But 'tis snug and warm,
nonetheless."

"It all looks quite fine," Killian hurried to say, knowing if she
hesitated much longer she risked offending the old couple. "I suppose
the morrow will be soon enough to send word to Achallader. In the
meantime," she added with a dubious glance at the pungently smoking
fire, "something to eat, dry clothes, and a bed for the night would
be most welcome."

"Right ye are, m'lady." Jock turned to Enid. "Fetch the lassie and her
bairn something to wear while their clothes dry. I'll draw fresh water
for them to wash up. Then, after a bowl o' parritch they can take
their rest."

As Jock hobbled toward the door to pick up a wooden bucket, Killian
turned to Enid. "Really, I don't wish to be trouble-"

"Dinna fash yerself, hinny." The old woman silenced her with an
upraised hand. "'Tis an honor, and no mistake, to have a fine lady
such as yerself under our roof. Now, come wi' me." She took Killian
by the arm. "I've surely an old plaid or two in my kist to wrap ye
and the bairn in until yer clothes dry."

It was all Killian could do to follow Enid to her clothes chest. A
strange, light-headed sensation had taken hold. Most likely the result
of last night's terror, almost nothing to eat, and the exhausting walk
all day, she was quick to reassure herself. And, to compound it all,
there was also that disturbing loss of memory.

With a fierce wrench of will, Killian shook aside the unnerving sense
of disorder and confusion. All she needed was a good night's sleep.
Surely by the morrow her memory would return and everything would be
back to normal.

It had to be. She didn't know what she'd do if it wasn't.

#

A July 2002 historical women's fiction novel from Tyndale House
Publishers. ENBRACE THE DAWN (ISBN# 0-8423-4097-1) by Kathleen Morgan,
is available at your favorite bookstore or by ordering online from
Christian Book Distributors (www.christianbook.com). Read a full first
chapter excerpt on my website at www.kathleenmorgan.com. Copyright
2002, Kathleen Morgan. Do not reproduce without permission.

*********************************************
Could I Have This Dance?
by Harry Kraus, M.D.

Claire McCall, M.D. is used to fighting back against the odds. Hard
work, aptitude, and sheer determination have helped her rise from
adverse circumstances to an internship in one of the nation's most
competitive surgical residencies. In the course of pursuing her
career, Claire has lost touch with the God who called her to it.

  #

My patient's scream penetrates the delivery room.

"Slow deep breaths, honey," the nurse coaches. "Slow deep breaths."

I sense that she is going to scream again and turn my head toward the
door, so I do not see her eyes.

Her voice is high-pitched and shrill, nothing like the softness I've
heard in it before. Now, each cry is a dagger, finding its mark in my
chest.

The room is hot, thanks to a faulty thermostat that I've had
maintenance look at three times this week. But fixing the temperature
won't make this one any more pleasant for me. My discomfort arises
from a whole different level, a dread from the bottom of my gut that
doesn't seem to be responding to the antacid I still taste in my
mouth. I roll my tongue, scraping more of the metallic medicine
toward the back of my throat.

I've never treated a more beautiful woman. I gaze on her writhing
form for a moment, studying her in this vulnerable position as if for
the first time.

But it is not the first time I've seen her like this, exposed and
unprotected. Her forehead is beaded with sweat, her lips full and
pursed, her breathing quick and shallow. In her face I see pain, and
fear, and yet even in this moment of agony, I see her loveliness. I
watch her, careful to avoid her eyes. Her eyes, wonderful, innocent
blue. Deep pools I wish now I'd never looked into.

While other professionals in the city are specializing, here in
Stoney Creek I've stood proud like the docs of the old frontier: I
can handle anything, including this routine vaginal delivery. I steal
a glance at my patient again. Nothing different about this one.
Except-I interrupt my own thought. I can't let myself finish it. I
cannot let myself think that it might be possible. Certainly the odds
are against it. We were always so careful.

Clandestine encounters are supposed to remain a private matter,
right? Nothing helpful can be gained by exposure now. I cough
nervously and look at the clock on the wall. It's eleven P.M. and I
haven't eaten since early this morning when I heard the first rumor
that she was in labor.

The patient is mumbling under her breath between contractions. I can
only imagine her cursing, as her words are too quiet for me to hear
above the room's clinical noise. Her husband, to my relief, is
stationed in a waiting room. I hear that in big-city hospitals up
north, they are letting the husbands into the delivery rooms. Well,
just try that foolishness down here and we'll see how long I stay in
this business. Thank God saner heads have prevailed in the South.

"I'll be right outside."

Mollie knows I need to smoke. I always do when I'm nervous. I see her
shaking her head before I turn away. I let the door swing shut,
leaving the commotion behind. In another minute, I'm standing in a
small doctor's quarters inhaling a cigarette in long, deep breaths.

I pace the little room, wondering what would happen if anyone knew
the truth. In the silence, with the smoke curling toward the ceiling,
I think about standing before a state review board, and losing my
license. My career could be over if anyone knew. And I vow that no
one ever will.

Once back in L and D, I slip on a pair of sterile exam gloves. I
address my patient in a professional tone that feels forced and
inappropriate. "I need to check your progress."

"It hurts!" she gasps. "Jimmy!"

I wince as the patient yells my name I'm sure the nurses will think
this is odd, but I glance at Mollie's face, and it doesn't seem to
have fazed her. Labor makes women crazy. They say crazy things.

"Get me the pudendal tray."

Mollie opens the tray and places it on the sterile field, before
gowning and gloving herself. She always stands to my left. I never
have to tell her what I need; she always hands me what I want before
I ask. Sometimes, I suspect that she is in control and I am assisting
her. She directs me in her silence, allowing me to be the leader.

Quietly, efficiently, we cover my patient's legs with sterile drapes.
I pick up the lidocaine anesthetic that Mollie has prepared, keeping
the needle concealed from my patient's view. It is over six inches in
length, enough to frighten a linebacker. "I'm giving you some
medicine to dull the pain."

With the next contraction, I see the baby's head and shudder. The
hair is blond and thick. Just like mine.

I deliver the head and suction the nose and mouth with a bulb
syringe. The shoulders come next, and soon, I am holding the
screaming infant, a boy, cradling him against my body. For a moment,
I am frozen in thought. There is a special energy I feel, holding
this infant, an unseen bond as real as anything I've seen with my
eyes. I cannot describe it beyond that. I am warmed. And frightened.

I look at my patient, no longer able or willing to avoid her
searching eyes. I see her and I am speechless. We communicate without
words, the way we did at our first meeting. She knows. I know. But
there is no one else who will ever know the truth.

"I-It's a boy," I stutter.

The mother is restless, still writhing, not enjoying this infant as I
think she should. I deliver the placenta with my hands following a
practiced pattern, but my mind is spinning with a dark memory of
secret pleasures and secret lies.

Only two people on earth know the truth. And that's the way we agreed
this will stay. Forever. This secret, this sin, is buried.

My patient is weeping.

And on the inside, so am I.

#

Could I Have This Dance? is published by Zondervan and is available
now.
Copyright 2002 by Harry L. Kraus
www.cuttingedgefiction.com

Greetings, Christian fiction fans!  Such good reading for you this week:
THE FACE OF GOD by Bill Myers and DANGER IN THE SHADOWS by Dee
Henderson. Next week, don't miss COULD I HAVE THIS DANCE? by
writer-surgeon Harry Krauss and EMBRACE THE DAWN, by Kathleen Morgan.

Happy Reading!

--the Moderators







What if you could hear the voice of God? What if you actually saw His
face? That is the quest of two men with opposite faiths.

THE PASTOR

His wife of twenty-three years has been murdered. His faith in God is
crumbling before his very eyes. Now, with his estranged son, he sets out
to find the supernatural stones spoken of in the Bible. Stones that will
enable the two of them to hear the audible voice of God. Stones that may
rekindle their dying faith and love.

THE TERRORIST

He has also learned of the stones. He too must find them-but for much
darker reasons. As the mastermind of a deadly plot that will soon kill
millions, he has had a series of dreams that instruct him to first find
the Urim and Thummim stones. Everything else is in place. The wrath of
Allah is poised and ready to be unleashed. All that remains is for him
to obtain the stones.

With the lives of millions hanging in the balance, the opposing faiths
of these two men collide in an unforgettable showdown. From America to
Israel, to France to Africa, the men continue their race as they come to
a deeper understanding of their faith, and they realize who God is, and
what he actually requires.until finally each experiences the Lord's
startling revelations and breathtaking Presence.







"The Face of God"



       "To hear God's voice. Can you imagine how cool that would be?"

"I thought you didn't believe in God," Daniel said.

The two of them had barely entered the car before Tyler had started
talking . . . and talking. It reminded Daniel of the boy's younger days
when he was all questions and enthusiasm - before everything became cool
and jaded with irony.

"I never said I didn't believe in God," Tyler argued. "I just don't buy
all your neatly wrapped, preshrunk versions of him, that's all."

       "My what?"
       "Never mind."
       "What?"

"I don't want to get into it."

A half year ago Daniel would have been happy to leave it at that - one
less conversation meant one less argument. But now . . .  "No, please,"
he said, slowing at the northwest tollbooth and tossing the coins into
the basket. "Tell me what you mean."

Tyler gave him a look to see if he was serious. Apparently, he passed
the test. "Just think of it," he said with returning enthusiasm. "What
would it be like to actually know what God says? I mean, I'd give my
right arm to hear him speak, wouldn't you?"

"You would?" Daniel asked in surprise.

  "Of course; why wouldn't I?

"I don't know; I just thought-"

"To really hear him."

"But . . . you can hear him now," Daniel said.

"How?"

"Through the Bible.  Through church."

"Tyler snorted in disgust."

"What does that mean?"

"I'm not talking about your interpretation of the Bible. I'm not
interested in what you boys at Club Christ come up with."

"Club Christ?"

"Your little cookie-cutter God machines."

Daniel frowned. "I'm afraid you lost me.

       "You know, your
King-James's-everybody's-gotta-look-and-act-and-dress-the-same-and-never
-question-my-leadership-cause-I'm-Pope-Pastor version."

Daniel took a breath. His son was back to pushing his old buttons again.
It was as if he'd never left. Striving to keep his voice even, he asked,
"You don't think there's a place for holiness?"

"Whose holiness, Dad? Yours or God's?"

"You think I make up my own standards?"

"I told you I didn't want to get into it."

"I know, but-"

"It's all religion, Dad," Tyler sighed in exasperation. "And religion is
what killed God."

Daniel's frown deepened. "For you?" he said, trying to understand. "It's
what killed God for you?"

"For everyone. Religion is what killed God."

"I'm sorry, I don't-"

"It's what nailed Jesus to the cross. Not the Romans. Not the Jews.
Religion. Good, old

fashioned, God-never-does-it-that-way-he-only-does-it-our-way religion."

For a moment Daniel's anger gave way to being impressed with the depth
of his son's thinking. Unfortunately, Tyler didn't leave it there.

"I mean, what would happen if we all suddenly had access to God? If
nobody had to jump through your particular hoops to get to him?"

"I make people jump through hoops?" Daniel heard his voice rising. "You
don't think I'm trying to help, that I'm serving them out of love?"

"You love being God's man; that's pretty obvious. You love the idea of
serving him, but I don't think you know the first thing about actually
loving-"

The rest of Tyler's comment was drowned out by memories of Jill's
admonition: "I think you love serving God . . . and his people. But I
don't think you really love either of them." The similarity left him
stunned. It took several seconds before he found his voice. When he did,
he tried backpedaling to safer waters. "So you think religion is what
killed Jesus Christ?"

"Not just Christ," Tyler said. "Look at the Crusades, the Inquisition,
Northern Ireland, all the slaughter and inhumanity done to man. All in
the name of religion. Not for God but for religion. I mean, just look at
Mom."

Daniel's eyes shot to him. "What?"

Tyler looked away.

Daniel opened his mouth but no words would come. "You think . . ." He
cleared his throat. "You think I killed her? You think that I'm
responsible for her death?" He'd run the scenario a thousand times in
his head, blamed himself a thousand times for not being the one to get
the sweater. But this . . .

"No, Dad." Tyler turned to him in his own rising frustration. "That's
not what I'm saying."

Daniel barely held his anger in check. "Well, it sure sounds like-"

"No, that's not what I'm saying. You're not listening!"

"I'm right here; I'm listening!"

"No, you're not!"

"You're saying I killed your mother!"

"No! You didn't kill her! Don't worry, you're still all innocent and
perfect. You're not the one that killed her!" Tyler's shouting brought
silence to the car. Then quietly, his voice still unsteady, he
continued. "Your religion did it. Just like it killed Jesus, just like
it's killed millions - your religion, that's what killed Mom."

For a moment Daniel couldn't see the road. If he could have reached over
and slapped his son, he would have. How dare he make such accusations!
Who did he think he was! Who did he think he was talking to!

But when he looked over to Tyler, he saw that the boy already knew he'd
gone too far. Now he stared out the side window, careful not to let
their eyes meet as he quietly sniffed. Was he crying? Daniel watched as
his son discretely touched his eyes and continued looking out the
window. Why was he crying? He wasn't the one who had just been called a
killer.

Daniel turned back to the road, his chest a knot of conflicting emotion
- anger, anguish, pity, guilt. How was he supposed to respond? How could
he ease this boy's pain? Why should he try?

And so the two traveled home in silence - except for the techno-rave
which Tyler reached over and turned back on. The blessed, pounding,
techno-rave ... drowning out the silence and the terrible, aching
emptiness.



The Face of God - Bill Myers, www.Billmyers.com

July 1, 2002 Release. Zondervan



* * * * * * * *

DANGER IN THE SHADOWS

RITA Winner - the OSCAR Award of romance

National Reader's Choice Award Winner

Sara's terrified. She's doing the one thing she cannot afford to do:
fall in love with former pro-football player Adam Black, a man everyone
knows. Sara's been hidden away in the witness protection program, her
safety dependent on staying invisible - and loving Adam could get her
killed.

Read the first chapters on-line:


<outbind://289-00000000A735D2EBE93AD4118C01005004722715249B7800/www.deeh
enderson.com> www.deehenderson.com

Opening:

The summer storm lit up the night sky in a jagged display of energy,
lightning bouncing, fragmenting between towering thunderheads. Sara
Walsh ignored the storm as best she could, determined not to let it
interrupt her train of thought. The desk lamp as well as the overhead
light were on in her office as she tried to prevent any shadows from
forming. What she was writing was disturbing enough.

The six-year-old boy had been found. Dead.

Writing longhand on a yellow legal pad of paper, she shaped the
twenty-ninth chapter of her mystery novel. Despite the dark specificity
of the scene, the flow of words never faltered.

The child had died within hours of his abduction. His family, the
Oklahoma law enforcement community, even his kidnapper, did not realize
it. Sara did not pull back from writing the scene even though she knew
it would leave a bitter taste of defeat in the mind of the reader. The
impact was necessary for the rest of the book.

She frowned, crossed out the last sentence, added a new detail, then
went on with her description of the farmer who had found the boy. This
was the most difficult chapter in the book to write. It was better to
get it done in one long, sustained effort. Death always squeezed her
heart.

Thunder cracked directly overhead. Sara flinched. Had Dave been in town,
he would have insisted she wrap it up and come home. Her life was
restricted enough as it was. Her brother refused to let her spend all
her time at the office. He would come lean against the doorjamb of her
office and give her that look along with his predictable lecture telling
her all she should be doing: Puttering around the house, cooking,
messing with the roses, something other than sit behind that desk.

His flight back to Chicago from the FBI academy at Quantico had been
delayed due to the storm front. When he had called her from the airport,
he had cautioned her he might not be home until eleven.

It wasn't a problem, she had assured him, everything was fine. Code
words. Spoken every day. So much a part of their language now that she
spoke them instinctively. "Everything is fine"-all clear; "I'm
fine"-I've got company; "I'm doing fine"-I'm in danger. She had lived
the dance a long time. The tight security around her life was necessary.

Sara turned in the black leather chair and looked at the display of
lightning. The skyline of downtown Chicago glimmered back at her through
the rain.

With every book, another fact, another detail, another intense emotion,
broke through from her own past. She could literally feel the dry dirt
under her hand, feel the oppressive darkness. Reliving what had happened
to her twenty-five years ago was terrifying. Necessary, but terrifying.

She sat lost in thought for several minutes, idly walking her pen
through her fingers. Her adversary was out there somewhere, still alive,
still hunting her. Had he made the association to Chicago yet? Her
family knew only too well his threat was real.

Turning her attention back to her desk, she debated for a moment if she
wanted to do any more work that night. She didn't. She packed away her
folders and rose to leave.

Her suite was in the east tower of the business complex. She struggled
with the elevator ride to the thirty-fourth floor each day, for she did
not like closed-in spaces, but she considered the view worth the price.
The click of her heels echoed off the marble floor.

She pushed the elevator button to go down and watched the four elevators
to see which would respond first. Sara shifted her raincoat over her arm
and moved her briefcase to her other hand. The elevator stopped and the
doors slid open.

A man was in the elevator.

She froze.

He was leaning against the back of the elevator, looking like he had put
in a long day at work, a briefcase in one hand and a sports magazine in
the other, his blue eyes gazing back at her. She saw a brief look of
admiration in his eyes.

Get in and take a risk, step back and take a risk.

She knew him. Adam Black. His face was as familiar as any sports figure
in the country, even if he'd been out of the game of football for three
years. His commercial endorsements and charity work had continued
without pause.

Adam Black worked in this building? She saw photographs of him
constantly in magazines, local newspapers, and occasionally on
television. The last thing she needed was to be near someone who
attracted media attention.

She hesitated, then stepped in, her hand tightening her hold on the
briefcase handle.

"Working late tonight?" His voice was low, a trace of a northeastern
accent still present, his smile a pleasant one.

Her answer was a noncommittal nod.

The elevator began to silently descend.

She hated elevators. She should have taken the stairs.

"Quite a storm out there tonight."

The heels of her patent leather shoes sank into the jade carpet as she
shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "Yes."

Three more floors to go.

There was a slight flicker to the lights and then the elevator jolted to
a halt.

"What?" Sara felt adrenaline flicker in her system like the lights.

He pushed away from the back wall. "A lightning hit must have blown a
circuit."

The next second, the elevator went black.

copyright Multnomah Publishers, 2002

Greeting, Christian fiction fans! This week we have two wonderful
selections, one by Sylvia Bambola and another by the team of Randall
Ingermanson and John Olson.

Next week: DANGER IN THE SHADOWS by Dee Henderson and THE FACE OF GOD by
Bill Myers.



Enjoy!



The Moderators





TEARS IN A BOTTLE by Sylvia Bambola



"Tears in a Bottle is a gripping story of betrayal, hurt, and triumph
that accurately portrays the real truth behind the political correctness
of 'a woman's right to choose.'"  Vicki Thorn, Executive Director
National Office of Post-Abortion Reconciliation and Healing

-------------------------------


Chapter 1




Thor Emerson sat behind the oversized mahogany desk, fingering his Mont
Blanc. He was all-alone. Eleanor had gone home hours ago, so there would
be no interruptions. The only noise in the office was a barely
discernable hum coming from his fifty-five gallon fish tank. But that
was not an intrusion. It was more of a pacifier, though it didn't
comfort today.

He finally uncapped his pen and scribbled several numbers on a 3x5 card.
Then he hurriedly crossed them out. Just what was this going to cost
him? No use in guessing. He'd find out soon enough. He finally picked up
the phone and dialed. By the third ring he was cursing. Isn't this guy
ever home? He pictured Newly boozing with one of the young girls from
the clinic. At least when he played, Thor did it with women old enough
to know what they were getting themselves into. He just had to get rid
of this guy.

It surprised Thor when a "hello" finally slurred across the other end of
the line. For a moment, Thor was at a loss for words.

"Hello?" came the voice, more insistent, but the slur was unmistakable.

"Dr. Newly, glad I caught you at home."

Sardonic laughter rippled over the wire. "My loss, your gain."

"What?"

"I wouldn't have been here if I'd gotten lucky. After you scrape 'em and
tape 'em, you'd think they'd trust you. But the silly child wouldn't buy
the line. I just couldn't convince her that I loved her for her mind."

"A girl from the clinic?"

"Where else can you find such easy pickings? I mean, they don't have any
virtue to defend, now do they?"

"That's how doctors lose licenses." Thor pulled the phone away from his
ear and waited until the raucous laughter on the other end subsided.
"Look, what you do on your off hours is your business, but when your
actions begin to affect the clinic, then it becomes mine."

"Has Flo been tattling again?"

"She's conscientious. She cares about the girls and she's concerned
about how you handle them and about some of your slipshod practices."
Again Thor had to pull the phone away as Newly began singing at the top
of his lungs.

"'Good night ladies, good night gentlemen, good night everyone-'"

"This isn't the first time I've had to call you on this matter. I've got
two pending litigations thanks to you. I can't-"

"'We're sorry to see you go!'"

"I can't afford you anymore, so I've come up with a retirement fund, so
to speak. Say fifty thousand to carry you until you find something
else?"

Newly laughed, but not so loudly this time. "There's nothing else. I've
been drummed out of four states. Can't go back there."

"Seventy-five thousand."

"I didn't know you thought so highly of me. Thanks, but no thanks. I
like it at Brockston."

"One hundred thousand, and that's my last offer."

"You don't get it. I have no place else to go."

"No, you don't get it-you're fired, Newly. So if I were you, I'd take
the money and run."

Newly started laughing, almost howling over the phone. "This is rich,
just beautiful. If you insist, I'd be happy to take it, but I'm not
leaving."

"You have no choice."

"I do if I have fire insurance."

"What are you talking about?"

"Fire insurance-the thing that keeps you from getting fired. Like a list
of State Health Department violations and a list of companies that
purchase all sorts of interesting body parts from you. Think of what the
press could do with that."

"I don't like being threatened."

"So we're even. I don't like being fired."

"Maybe if you behaved more like a doctor and less like a derelict-"

"Colorful, very colorful. But save it and let's just call it a draw.
You're stuck with me and I'm stuck with you. Let's make the best of it,
agreed?"

Thor slammed the receiver down and cursed loudly. Flo had warned him not
to hire Newly. She had told him about Newly's track record. But
sometimes in this business you had to take what was available. Now what?



From Multnomah Publishing, 2001 Copyright.



***************





OXYGEN  (c) 2001 by John B. Olson and Randall Ingermanson
published by Bethany House Publishers

Summary:  It's the year 2012, and Valkerie Jansen, a young microbial
ecologist, is handed an amazing opportunity--to join the crew of the
Ares 10 on the first human mission to Mars.  But an explosion on the way
to Mars leaves the four astronauts with barely enough oxygen for one of
them to reach the Red Planet alive.  As Valkerie and her crew mates
desperately search for a solution, NASA investigators conclude that this
was no accident.  It is sabotage--and the bomber is almost certainly one
of the four crew members aboard the Ares 10.


Chapter 1

Tuesday, August 14, 2012, midnight

Valkerie woke up screaming.  A viper bat clung to her face with
fish-hook claws, smothering her with its thin, leathery body.  She tore
at her face, but the creature had dug in too deep.  She could already
feel its venom burning into her lungs, constricting her chest in a long
convulsive cough.  Struggling for control, she traced the contours of
her face with tingling fingertips.  Slowly, the clinging creature melted
into her skin, fading back into the world of dreams.

The nightmare gradually faded, giving way to a new, more gripping
terror.  Valkerie was wide awake now.  There was no such thing as a
viper bat.  But she still couldn't breathe.

Valkerie flung herself from the camping cot and thudded to the floor.
She lay on her back, gasping for breath.  She was hyperventilating, but
the burning in her lungs grew worse.  An acrid stench filled the
cabin-the smell of sulfur dioxide-SO2.

"Oh no."  The volcano was venting.  "Oh God, please . . ."  Valkerie
rolled over and fought her way up onto her hands and knees.  Dim red
light filtered in through the cabin window, illuminating a large duffel
bag in the middle of the room.  She crawled slowly toward the bag,
struggling through the coughs that wracked her body.

"Please God."  Squeezing her eyes shut against the pain in her cramping
muscles, Valkerie  inched forward until she felt the heavy canvas.  She
dug underneath a metallic thermal suit and pressed her breather to her
face.  Her lungs choked shut at the rush of acidic gas.  Idiot!  She
flung the mask across the room.  Gina-Marie had warned her about the
filter, but Valkerie had insisted it would be good for one more trip.

Her mind raced.  If Mount Trident was venting, the whole valley could be
filled with sulfur dioxide.  She had to get out of there.  Fast.

Valkerie tried to stand, but the room spun out of control.  She crashed
onto the floor, hitting her head hard on the edge of the cot.  A cloud
of ringing light sparkled in her mind.  Her muscles relaxed and she gave
herself to the tide of darkness that washed gently across her senses.
Sleep.  No more experiments.  Sleep.

An image crept into her mind.  A large plastic bag filled with new
sample tubes.  Was it still sealed?  She couldn't remember.

Groping her way forward, Valkerie swept her hands across the floor.  A
smooth surface crinkled at her touch.  She lunged at the bag, poked a
trembling finger through the heavy plastic, pressed her lips to the
hole, and took a deep breath.  The air tingled in her lungs with burning
sweetness.

She curled around the bag, hugging it to her body, breathing life
through the ragged wound.  Gradually, the needles that prickled at her
consciousness started to recede, but she knew it wouldn't last.  The air
in the bag was getting stale-fast.

Valkerie took one last breath and staggered to her feet.  Her jeep!  It
was just outside.  She lurched to the cabin door and pushed her way out
into the night.  The air hit her in the face like a blast of hot tear
gas.  Gagging on the foul gases, she stumbled blindly forward, clinging
to consciousness.

The jeep!  Heaving herself into the seat, she turned the key.  The
starter whirred and the engine coughed to life, but then died
immediately.  Idiot!  Valkerie smashed her fist against the dash.  The
jeep couldn't run without oxygen any more than she could.

A wave of nausea wracked Valkerie's body.  Her muscles were cramping
again.  She fell across the seat and reached into the glovebox for her
knife.  Pliers.  They would have to do.

Valkerie crawled out of the jeep and threw herself on the ground by the
jeep's front tire.  Taking off the cap of the air valve, she crushed its
metal tip with the pliers.  After a few seconds of twisting and
squeezing, she heard a faint hiss.

Valkerie chomped down on the rubber valve and sucked in a desperate
breath.  The air was black with the taste of rubber, but anything was
better than SO2.  When her lungs were full, she clamped down on the
valve with the pliers.  Breathe, clamp, breathe, clamp.  She held each
breath as long as she could before letting it out.

The tire went flat way too soon.  Valkerie crawled to the next tire and
repeated the process.  Then the next tire and the next.  After she had
sucked the last ounce of air from the spare, she took off running across
the clearing.  The valley was rugged and wide.  She knew she couldn't
make it out on foot, but if she could just get above the blanket of
heavy gases she might have a chance.

Halfway across the clearing, Valkerie fell reeling to the ground.  Red
thunderbolts stabbed at her brain.  A sparkling haze shrouded her vision
as she fought her way to her feet.  The heavy gases were thicker close
to the ground.  She had to stay upright.  Walking on tiptoe, she made
her way to the edge of the clearing, looking up at the night sky to keep
her nostrils elevated.

Valkerie stumbled into a limbless old pine and crashed to the ground.
Too dizzy to stand, she crawled on her hands and knees to a younger pine
with limbs low enough to climb.

The rough branches cut her face and tore at her nightgown as she
climbed.  Valkerie lost her grip and fell, crashing into the branches
below.  She pulled herself up and kept climbing.  Higher and higher
through the darkness, until slowly, her head began to clear.

"Thank you.  Thank you."  Valkerie breathed in and out to the cadence of
the simple litany that filled her mind.  The sparkles in her eyes were
fading.  Below her feet, tendrils of mist danced in the moonlight,
flowing along the envelope of the deadly gas cloud.

The valley reflected an angry red glow.  Valkerie looked up at the peak
that loomed above her.  If the venting continued long enough, the gases
might rise higher than she could climb.  But that was the least of her
worries.

She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around the tree, hoping
Professor Henderson was wrong.  His solemn voice echoed in her mind:

"If it starts venting, get out.  Fumarolic venting almost always
presages a major eruption."
_____


OXYGEN is a finalist for this year's Christy awards in the Futuristic
Fiction category.
Ask for OXYGEN at your local Christian bookstore or visit
http://www.litany.com   (John Olson's website)
http://www.rsingermanson.com  (Randy Ingermanson's website)

To order by phone, call Bethany House Publishers at: 1-800-328-6109

And watch for the sequel, THE FIFTH MAN, coming in October, 2002.










[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]

Greetings, Christian fiction fans!  This weekend we have two wonderful
selections--TWILIGHT by Kristen Heitzmann and RIBBON OF YEARS by Robin
Lee Hatcher.  Next week we'll enjoy selections from Randall Ingermanson
(OXYGEN) and Sylvia Bambola (TEARS IN A BOTTLE.)



Until then, enjoy!



--The Moderators





TWILIGHT C 2002 by Kristen Heitzmann,

published by Bethany House Publishers



Cal Morrison was the best firefighter the town of Montrose had seen, but
tragedy has changed that. When Laurie Prelane returns to town with her
two small children, Cal's hope for their lost love gives him something
to fight for. But danger has followed her. Now Cal needs more than human
strength to face his nightmares, and Laurie must find her worth in the
God she rejected too long ago.







The thing about serving is that it isn't true service until there's
nothing in it for you, no personal benefit, only pure sacrifice. Doing
what you have to do when you can't give yourself a single reason except
someone needs it. And sometimes it looks just plain stupid. That wasn't
in the dictionary, but Cal had spent some hours defining it in his mind.
He'd had to redefine a lot of things these last months.

He stood now in the lounge of the fire station that served Montrose,
population four thousand, and the surrounding county. By its nature the
career he'd chosen meant training, dedication, service. He couldn't
remember a time when he hadn't known he wanted to rescue people, combat
destruction, take charge of any emergency. But some situations were
beyond control.

Like the people lost in the terrorist attacks, running into a building
to save, rescue, aid, and the unimagined destruction that followed. Pure
service that cost them their lives. His own memories threatened, but he
pushed them aside. Not now; not here.

He stepped up to the wall. The mirror threw his face back at him, each
of his twenty-nine years leaving their mark in the lines around the eyes
and the scar running white across his sunburned chin, shaved clean of
the weekend's growth. He looked decent, manly, handsome enough if he
wanted to go there. He wasn't vain-just assessing what he saw these days
when he faced himself. It was about to change anyway.

White paint erased the chin scar as he shaped a smile outlined in red, a
goofy extravagant smile. He hid his blue eyes behind wrap-around
sunglasses and pinched on a red plastic nose, then mashed his hair down
like a mess of straw and pulled on the curly, yellow wig. His uniform
shirt took on a whole new look with the spotted, oversized bow tie, but
the emblem on the sleeve gave Spanner the Clown his purpose. Jokes,
magic, laughter, all secondary, to grab and hold attention, promote
memory. Climbing into baggy pants, he snapped the suspenders on his
shoulders and stepped out into the garage.

The dented, red engine waited beside the smaller, rescue vehicle. He
stood for a moment, eyeing the old truck's length, the hoses
accordion-folded in the back, the steps to the jump seat behind the cab
where a man could crouch holding the side bars as the engine sped along,
the siren shrill in his ears, adrenaline transforming him into a machine
primed for action. The new trucks had all that closed in for safety, but
not old Susie.

Stepping back, he made way for Rob and Perry to finish the check list on
the engineer's panel. Rob nodded, and Cal returned it, pretending he
didn't notice the smirk on Perry's face, though it was how he'd have
looked at one of them dressed like this. But he didn't judge anymore,
not by appearances anyway. The real man was not on the surface,
sometimes in the eyes, in the stoop of the shoulders, but never in the
face he showed the world.

And that was the irony, Cal thought, frowning inside the white smile.
Painting a clown's face was only a gross imitation of the masking of
humanity. Everyone else just pretended no one knew. He took the boxed
theater, props and puppets from the shelves and went out into the
glaring sunlight. Missouri didn't seem to know it was November. The air
was warm and dry and the daylilies along the road were putting out
sprouts. Even nature could be fooled.

His scalp itched, and he stuck a finger under the edge of the wig to
scratch as he climbed into his jeep. Fremont Elementary, here I come. He
could have dressed at the school, saved himself Perry's contempt, but
kids were sharp. He didn't want them to see a man who would dress up
like Spanner the Clown. He wanted Spanner to arrive. It helped the
magic.

One year ago he'd have never believed the tricks he'd taught himself in
high school would become so important. That, and the drama classes taken
for the heck of it. And his natural cut-up personality. It was crazy. He
shook his head. Not crazy, just unexpected.

The drive was short; the walk inside routine. But the sea of children's
faces made him tense. Eyes bright, cheeks flushed and plump beside their
smiles, life and energy so thick he could feel it . . . and yet so
precariously poised on the edge of tragedy. One wrong step, one minute
too few . . .

He grabbed Rocky, the wooden headed fireman puppet, and fixed the lever
that worked its mouth firmly in his palm, but kept the puppet still at
his side as he stepped around the side of the theater. "Good morning,
kids!"

"Good morning, Spanner!" They knew him from the last trip, maybe
remembered his name came from the fireman's tool, the spanner wrench. If
he could just know they would remember the message behind his tricks.



Ask for TWILIGHT at your local book stores or visit www.
kristenheitzmann.com. To order by phone, call Bethany House Publishers
at: 1-800-329-6109



***************************



RIBBON OF YEARS
by Robin Lee Hatcher
Tyndale House, 2001


Spanning the decades from 1936 to 2001, Ribbon of Years tells the life
story of Miriam, a once rebellious teenager who wanted nothing more than
to become a famous actress, just like Greta Garbo. But God had other
things in mind for Miriam whose life of faith will impact others in
unexpected ways.


Spring, 1944

The train depot in Boise hummed with activity. Most of the men - like
Del - were in uniforms. Most of the women -like Miriam - were fighting
tears.

She'd never hated anything as much as she hated the sight of that train
pulling into the station. The moment of Del's departure had arrived, the
week-long leave disappearing like vapor above a kettle. So short a time.
So many words left unspoken. So many fears still unconquered. So many
dreams yet unfulfilled.

Wordlessly, communicating only with their eyes, they walked out of the
depot to the platform, Miriam clinging to Del's arm. Steam shooshed from
beneath the yellow engine. The sun, hotter than normal for May, beat
upon their heads. Hasty farewells and lovers' kisses were exchanged all
around them.

"Miriam, try not to be afraid."

"I can't help it."

He kissed her forehead, then whispered, "Remember, God tells us not to
fear because He's with us."

She didn't want to talk about God. She didn't want to be preached at.
She wanted her husband at home. She wanted to see him off to work every
morning and see him come home to her every night. She wanted him to be
safe. If God loved her so much, then why was He taking Del away?

"Miriam?" He brushed the tears from her cheeks with his lips. "It's
going to be all right."

She nodded but couldn't speak over the lump in her throat.

"I'll write as often as I can, but don't worry if letters don't come
regularly. It'll just be because the mails are held up by the Army."

She swallowed hard. "I'll send V-mails often, and I'll write long
letters, too."

"I'll think about you all the time. I'll pray for you every night."

"Me, too."

"Send along word about your parents and Arledge."

"I will. I promise."

"When I get home, I'll buy you a dozen pair of silk stockings."

She sniffed, then offered a pitiful smile. "I'll cook you steaks every
night for supper."

At the far end of the platform, a man shouted, "All aboard!"

Miriam threw her arms around Del's neck. "Look out for yourself. Please
be careful."

"Always."

"Oh, Del, I'm sorry I wasn't ... I'm sorry I didn't ... I-"

"It's okay, baby. It's okay. I love you."

"All aboard!"

"Del-"

"I've gotta go." He kissed her, hungrily but too quickly.

"Del," she sobbed as he withdrew from her. "Oh, Del."

"I love you, Miriam. Just remember that. I love you."

"I love you, too."

"Take care of yourself."

"I will."

"Be good to your mom."

"I will."

He placed his foot on the first step of the rail car. "I'll be home as
soon as I can."

"I'll be waiting right here."

"I love you."

"Me too." She hugged herself, no longer able to see him through the blur
of tears. She blinked hard, but by the time her vision cleared, he'd
disappeared inside. Desperation welling in her chest, she searched every
window for a glimpse of him.

Another burst of steam shot from beneath the engine. The train jerked
forward, then paused, as if holding its breath.

"Please, God. Let me find him. Please."

Another groan, another jerk, another shoosh and cloud of steam.

Then he was there, leaning out of a window. "I love you, Miriam," he
called to her.

"I love you, Del," she shouted back, hurrying toward him, her arm
outstretched, wanting to touch him, needing to hold on, if only for a
second longer.

But she couldn't get to him in time. The next turn of the iron wheels
carried Del's car beyond the end of the platform. He called something to
her, but she couldn't understand over the noise of the train and the
shouts of departing soldiers, sailors, and airmen and their bereft
wives, mothers, and sweethearts.

Something inside Miriam seemed to shrivel as she watched the train pull
out of the station. And if Del died, she swore she would hate God
forever.

********************

Copyright 2001 Robin Lee Hatcher
Do not reprint without permission

Buy this book from Christianbook.com (www.christianbook.com
<http://www.christianbook.com/> ) or any of your favorite bookstores. Or
you may purchase an autographed copy from the author at
<http://www.robinleehatcher.com/> www.robinleehatcher.com (See the
Bookstore link).

Watch for FIRSTBORN by Robin Lee Hatcher, coming in September 2002.
Steven and Erika Welby have what others want - the perfect marriage. And
then Erika receives a letter that changes everything... (Read more at
www.robinleehatcher.com)







[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]

Welcome to this week's excerpts from Chapter-a-Week. Our
selections
are ROSES WILL BLOOM AGAIN, by Lori Copeland, and THE DARK SUN RISES,
by Denise Williamson.

Next week we'll continue to inspire your summer reading with
excerpts
from TWILIGHT, by Kristen Heitzmann, and RIBBON OF YEARS, by Robin
Lee Hatcher. Don't miss these great selections!

*****************************

Roses Will Bloom Again by Lori Copeland: Tyndale House, June 2002


Will Sam fight for Emma's love this time? Fifteen years ago, Lully
broke up Sam and Emma's intended marriage, and Sam watched Emma go
without a fight. Now the same woman's dying wish had thrown Sam and
Emma back into each other's lives--


Chapter Nine

Yawning, Emma dragged into the kitchen Friday morning, half awake.
Nightmares had wakened her twice. Once she got up and shook out the
sheets and blankets to make sure no spiders had found their way into
her bed, then she totally remade the bed at three o'clock in the
morning.

And at five-thirty.

Her slippers flapped against the cold floor as she pushed
through the swinging door. She mechanically spooned coffee into the
filter basket, then lifted the stainless steel percolator and turned
on the water faucet.

Oink

Hummm? A sound slowly began to penetrate her murky brain

Oink

Oink. Oink.

Not believing what she heard, Emma turned slowly while still
holding the pot under the stream of cold water. Her eyes widened. Two
gigantic sows were poking their heads out of the pantry.

Oink, oink. Snort.

Emma's jaw dropped. She shut her eyes, then quickly opened
them again. She was still asleep-the nightmares continued.

The biggest sow--eighteen hundred pounds if she weighed an
ounce--peered up at her, beady eyes shining above a long snout.

Oink.

Dropping the coffee pot, Emma left the water running and fled
the kitchen, the tail of her housecoat whipping in the wind.

Out the back door she dashed, through the snow in her house
slippers, yelling and flapping her arms, whirling occasionally to
point at the house before she sprinted on. She ran down the lane and
crossed the street, screaming. Heads turned. Eyed widened. Early
morning errand runners gave the wild-looking woman clear berth.

"That crazy Emma Mansi," they muttered to one another.

Bursting into the sheriff's office, she breathlessly pointed at
Sam and yelled, "Pig!"

Sam and Ken had both been leaning back in their chairs, scanning
faxes while they drank their first cups of coffee, when Emma burst
into the office. As one, the chairs thwacked to the floor.

Holding the stitch in her side, Emma, round-eyed, repeated.
"Pig!"

For a moment Sam stared at her. Color crept up his neck, and he
fiddled with a pencil. He then calmly set his cup aside, refusing to
meet her accusing gaze.

Ken stared at her coolly. "Pretty early in the morning for
name calling--"

"No! Pig!" She whirled, pointing to Ken. "You--Pig!"

"Hey, come on." Sam shot her a dirty look. "Don't drag him
into this."

She was hopping on one leg now, soggy slipper pulled up to her
knee "You don't understand. Pigs-lots of them-in my kitchen!"

Ken caught on first. "There's pigs in your kitchen?"

Emma nodded, trying to catch her breath. Her feet were two
blocks of ice, her slippers encased in snow.

"In my kitchen!"

Both men were on their feet, scrambling for coats. The three
ran out of the office and piled into the cruiser and drove the short
distance to the Mansi house with siren blaring. When they arrived, the
back door was standing wide open. Sam drew his pistol and Ken covered
him.

"Go back to the car and keep warm," Sam told Emma, "while we see
what's going on."

"Be careful, Sam-they're huge! They could hurt you bad." She
didn't know what a pig could do to a person, but anything that big
must be dangerous.

Sam ducked inside, Ken backing him up. The men were gone a good
five minutes before they returned to the cruiser.

"How did they get in there?" Emma asked, her eyes searching
Sam's for information.

Sam glanced at Ken, then back at her. "There's nothing in
there, Emma."

She gaped at him. "There's nothing--you're nuts!" Shoving past
the two men, she stormed out of the car and into the kitchen, eyes
searching for the pigs. The room was empty. The half-filled coffeepot
lay askew in the sink. Coffee grounds spilled across the counter. Sam
had turned off the faucet.

She searched the room frantically while Sam and Ken waited, arms
crossed. "They were here a few minutes ago-when I came into the
kitchen they were standing right there," she pointed, "and right
there. Look!"

One old sow had left a faint wet trail with her snout.

Sam and Ken exchanged a series of looks before Sam reholstered
his 9mm Glock. "Well, they're not here now," Sam observed.

"Maybe they've gone to Brisco's for breakfast," Ken joked in
what Emma knew was an effort to lighten the situation.

Emma stared at the spot where the sow had stood looking up at
her. The animal hadn't been fifteen feet away. She was certain of it.
She hadn't been dreaming.

"Emma?"

Her gaze lifted to Sam.

"Are you okay?"

Running a hand through her hair, Emma suddenly realized her
state of dress. Housecoat, slippers, no make-up, a virtual bed-head
freak. Ken studied her appearance and she had the feeling he was
trying to decide how she had once so captivated his brother.

"I'm fine." Sighing, she cinched the belt on her housecoat
tighter. "Sorry I bothered you." She lamely surveyed the empty
kitchen.

Pigs had been there earlier. Two of them.

Sows.

Two of them.

Big ones.

Sam tipped her chin. "Try to get some rest today. You've had a
lot on your plate lately."

"Thanks. But there were two sows in this kitchen fifteen
minutes ago."

He smiled. "Get some rest. I'll talk to you later." He trailed
Ken out the back door.


********************


THE DARK SUN RISES (Bethany House Publishers), by Denise Williamson,
  began as a project to inspire urban youth with biographies of
courageous black leaders. It evolved into a multiple-viewpoint novel
recounting true events in and around Charleston, SC, 1834-1835.  The
story is woven with many threads--white, brown and black. Here are
two excerpts, concerning a 20-year-old manservant, Joseph, and Rosa,
the woman he loves:

THE FALL FROM GRACE:  April 1834

Out across the misty low country, the sun rising from the rippled
sheets of the Ashley River seemed for a stunning moment to highlight
Joseph in its glory, as though he were just as worthy as the graying
rice planter seated near him at his writing desk. Instantly
Joseph's
mind filled with words that no one in all of South Carolina, slave or
free, would have ever spoken:  All human flesh is equal, and
therefore, every soul the flesh contains. If found out, such an idea
might cost him his life, yet now it felt as natural and as God-
breathed as the salt-scented air streaming in. While white gulls
twisted and screamed overhead, he prayed, using the formal language
Master and Mistress Callcott had taught him. Oh, thou has seen fit to
tell me who I am!
	 He raised his hand, his heart beating wildly, like an African
drum. Almighty God! I do worship thee! His black flesh shone against
the pearly vault of sky. Surely he was seeing and knowing himself now
as the Creator had always seen and known him since that morning when
his fourteen-year-old mama had screamed with the pains of his birth.
	 Behind him footsteps rumbled as someone took the hallway's
open stairs two or three at a time. Joseph turned to see Master
Abram's son, Master Brant, come in. Brant, only two weeks younger
than Joseph, spoke contemptuously. "Whatever is he doing at that
window?"
	 "Airing the room."
	 "You shouldn't let him do that! It lets in miasmic air!
Besides, didn't you see him raise his hand just now?"
	 "I saw it."
	 "It could be some kind of primitive hoodooism."
	 "Brant! That's uncalled for!"
	 "I'm serious. You have no idea what these darkies know! Our
scientific knowledge is just now revealing the connection between
swamp air and fevers. But Africans have known it all the while."
	 Joseph tried his best not to be unnerved. He knew nothing
about swamp fever except that it had claimed the lives of Master
Abram's wife and two oldest sons three planting seasons ago.
"Doesn't it worry you at all that he opened the windows for
Mama,
Curtis, and James till fever laid them in their graves?"
"No."  Master was just as calm as before. "What concerns
me is how
you do not trust him anymore. Why is that?"
             "Because you are so incautious!"
Joseph was startled that Brant dared to speak so disrespectfully.
Perhaps he was emboldened by his newly confirmed partnership in the
family business.
            "You've spoilt him at every turn—teaching him
English,
dressing him in such fine clothes. Since Mama's passing
you've chosen
to completely ignore that he is African."
"He serves me perfectly."
"But what is under that perfection? Day and night he is as near
to
you as the breath you breathe. He could do anything to any one of us,
for he has the run of this whole house."

     . . . .

	 The sound of the slave driver's horn often teased Rosa in
gentle ways. While she lay on her bare sleeping board, pegged between
the shanty's chimney and its corner of chinked logs, those
quavering
notes sometimes came through the window laths like the easy laughter
of a husband she loved but never had. More often they caressed her in
sleepy moments of defenselessness like giggling kisses from Kulo, her
little girl-child with the angel cheeks.  No matter what the
deception, those distant blasts from Billy's conch shell made her
last breath of night ecstasy, but her first breath of morning raw
despair.
	 Today, it was more haunting memories of her precious three-
year-old child—conceived in terror, clung to in love, and lost to
disease—that pushed her out of bed toward the reality of day. On
calloused feet, Rosa took the half-step needed to reach her one piece
of clothing, a coarse, walnut-shucks-dyed dress. It hung from a peg
on the slabwood wall that separated her tiny corner from the rest of
the one-room cabin where old Negozi and Abiel—her
"husband-in-the-
sight-of-God-Almighty"—as well as their numerous children and
grandchildren slept on the floor like coons holed up in a stump.
	 As Rosa pulled the sweat-and-dust laden garment down around
her lean, light brown body, she glimpsed the aging Negozi in the
doorless entryway of her tight corner of privacy. The only light was
that of the low fire in the hearth, but it was enough to show Rosa
the worry sealed up behind the slave woman's lips. They traded
glances while the aunty twisted her thin arms like courting snakes to
tie up her sparse gray hair under a dull red cloth. At the same
moment, Rosa started braiding her own thick black tresses.
	 "Missy, this ain't the time to be dreamin' or
preenin',"
Negozi told her, the tension finally spilling into talk.
"Somethin'
happen at the big house yesterday `tween the massa's son
an' his
daddy's manservant. The poor young waitin' boy might be
a-dyin'. That
be all we know. Still n' yet, it be causin' a stir to come
our way
big as the storm what's blowin' in over we heads t'day.
Now you hurry
an' you watch you'self with all that mopin' you sometimes
like to do,
for Abiel's been up an' back from the driver's house
a'eady. They
says even Mista Gund has pistols, like they was `xpectin'
trouble to
pop like rabbits."


THE DARK SUN RISES, nominated for a Christy Award in 1999, is an
excellent springboard for discussion on unity and reconciliation, in
church and secular settings. For more information and readers'
discussion questions, http://www.bethanyhouse.com/index.asp?
inc=books&page=detail&book=853
Ask for THE DARK SUN RISES and its sequel WHEN STARS BEGIN TO FALL at
your local Christian bookstore or call 1-800-328-6109 to order
directly from Bethany House Publishers. Reader response is welcomed
at editorial@...

Greetings, Christian Fiction fans!  This week we have two selections,
one for adults and one for young readers.  The juvenile selection is
from the Hidden Diary Series by Sandra Byrd, followed by HALFWAY TO
FOREVER, by Karen Kingsbury.  Enjoy!



Next week:  ROSES WILL BLOOM AGAIN, by Lori Copeland and THE DARK SUN RISES,
from Denise Williamson.

-the Moderators



CROSS MY HEART, by Sandra Byrd:

This excerpt is from the first book in the Hidden Diary Series, a new
series of books for girls aged 8-12, by the author of the best-selling
Secret Sisters Series. Print it out after you read it and share it with
a girl you know!

Later, after dinner, Lucy lugged a box up the stairs. It had just been
delivered and it was addressed to her.  Even though she was excited to
open it, her hands grew unsteady. She had other things on her mind.

Her parents were talking about her.  Deciding.    She sat down in the
middle of the floor and snapped open her Swiss Army knife.  After
sliding the blade under the tape she neatly slit open the sides.

             What if they say I have to stay? Another summer by myself?
Each flap of the box lifted carefully, and she took out a stack of
T-shirts and shorts she had left at Grammy's.  Tucked safely inside the
nest of clothing was a large, wrapped gift.  She ran her fingers along
the edges and started to unwrap it.

             Just then, she heard a knock on the door.

             "Lucy?" Her father asked. "Can we come in?"

             "Sure."  Lucy left the gift wedged between the clothes and
settled onto one of the twin beds as her parents stepped into the room.

             Her dad scratched his beard thoughtfully, and then the two
of them sat down together on the other bed.

             "We've given this both thought and prayer," her dad started.


             Oh yeah, Lucy thought.  I forgot they pray now.  She wasn't
used to that. It was nice, in a different sort of way.

             Her dad continued. "We understand how hard it must be for
you to be with adults all the time."

             "No, Dad," Lucy interrupted. "I like being with you guys.
It's just, well, you know.  I don't know any kids my own age here.  I
want to do normal things for just one summer. Swimming.  Parties.
Horseback riding.  Shopping.   I don't really want to pick weeds again."


             "Weeds?  These aren't weeds." Her dad got that university
professor glaze in his eyes. "They're potentially endangered indigenous
fauna which..."

             Lucy's mother gently laid her hand on his arm and her father
stopped talking.  Her mom continued,  "We know how much you want to be
with friends.   So, if you'd like, we'll call Grammy and Gramps and ask
if you could please spend the summer with them.  Then you'll get to be
right near Katie."

             She thought she'd feel relief but instead felt a knot of
worry. Now that she thought about it, twelve weeks away from Mom and Dad
was a long time.  On the other hand, twelve weeks of boredom was a long
time, too.

             No snorkeling this summer, she reminded herself.  No horses,
no camping.

             "Or," her dad said, "if you want to stay here, I'll scale
back work. Your mom and I made a commitment to spend more time together
as a family. Of course you can learn to kayak. I promised I'd teach
you."

             Lucy smiled.  "A bribe."

             "We hope you'll stay," her mom said.

             "The decision is yours.  And you don't have to make it right
away." Her dad walked over to Lucy and planted a kiss on her forehead.
"Let's think it over and not rush a decision this time, okay?"

             "All right." Lucy rolled her eyes.  Why did everyone always
think she rushed decisions?  As she crossed her arms over her chest she
felt some leftover sunscreen grease. "I'd better take a shower."

             Her mom stepped into the hallway and took a towel from the
linen closet, then gently tossed it on Lucy's bed. "We'll be downstairs,
okay?"

             Now what?  If she chose to go, she'd hurt their feelings and
not be working toward building their family back together again.  But
what if she stayed, and they got caught up in their work like they'd
always done before, forgetting about their promise to spend time
together? She'd be stuck plucking plants all summer, or babysitting
Claudette.

             Lucy had to admit she felt much happier around her parents
now, since they'd been going to church.  She fearfully allowed a thought
in.  But what if all this religious stuff goes away and Mom and Dad
don't get along again?

             Lucy cautiously opened the Army knife again and slit the
tape on the sides of the gift-wrap.  Out slid a large diary.  Taped to
the front was a card.

             "Have a wonderful summer - be sure to write down your island
adventures!  Love, Grammy."

             Lucy placed the unopened diary on the night table next to
the still boxed and shrink-wrapped Bible from her parents.  There might
not be many island adventures.  Lucy glanced around the room, at the
empty bed that was to have been Katie's.  No sneaking in midnight
snacks.  No giggle fits.  No shopping for treasures together.

             But maybe they COULD do all those things  - just not on
Catalina.  At Grammy's house, or Katie's house, instead.

             Lucy's chest ached as she thought of telling her parents.
She pictured their hopeful eyes a few minutes before.   I'll come back
to visit, she decided.

             Lucy started down the stairs to tell them her decision.  She
stopped on the third step.

             If I tell them now, they'll think I'm rushing my decision,
even though I'm not.  I'll just get my pajamas on and read.

             First, her shower.  She twisted off her rings, not wanting
to lose the new turquoise ring, which was loose.

             She reached for a tiny drawer in the built-in dresser in the
back in the closet. It was the only drawer left empty after unpacking,
and she wanted a special home for her rings. She tugged on the drawer,
but nothing happened.

             Lucy wriggled the slender blade of her army knife it into a
crack. Victory! The drawer finally gave way as she jerked and pried.
One last wriggle and the drawer squeaked free. Paint chips and a small
chunk of wood fell onto the floor.

             Oh no! Did I break it?  She picked up the piece of wood and
tried to shove it back into place.  When she peered inside the hole
however, she saw something else.

             She opened the drawer all the way. She spied a tiny
compartment. The drawer had a false back!

             Lucy's hand shook as she reached into the compartment and
pulled out a folded, yellowed letter and a small, tarnished key.



For ordering information, please visit  <http://www.sandrabyrd.com/>
www.sandrabyrd.com.



*********************************










Halfway to Forever


By


Karen Kingsbury









Hannah Bronzan rarely visited the cemetery.

The grassy knolls and quiet, sad whispers were not necessary for her to
remember Tom and Alicia, because they did not live in the confines of a
garden of stone, but in Hannah's heart.

             Where they would always live.

             But on this day, Hannah climbed out of the car, slipped on
her sunglasses, and gazed across a sea of cold, gray tombstones. Her
heart ached as she drew a slow, shaky breath.

             Much as she didn't want to be here, it was time. Despite the
emotions warring within her, Hannah knew she had no choice. She needed
to come now, just as she'd needed to come two years ago when Matt
Bronzan asked her to be his wife.

             By then she had grieved the loss of her first husband and,
with a strength that was not her own, she'd survived. Enough to tell
Matt yes, to believe there was indeed a new life for her and young Jenny
on the other side of a darkness and pain that had nearly destroyed them
both.

             Coming to the cemetery had been difficult two years ago but
it had given her a chance to say good-bye to Tom, to thank him for all
they'd shared and to release him. To let die a flame she thought would
burn forever. Hannah set her gaze in the direction of their tombstones
and pulled her sweater tighter.

Her eyes welled up. Now it was time to let go of Alicia.

This was a private moment-one she needed to share with Tom and Alicia
alone. Regardless of shaded grounds, the glasses would stay. She walked
amidst the markers, her fingers brushing against an occasional cold
stone as she made her way halfway across the cemetery to the place where
their markers lay, side by side.

             Her eyes drifted from one to the other. Dr. Thomas J.
Ryan.Alicia Marie Ryan. The birth dates were different, but the date of
death was the same: August 28, 1998.

             A lump formed in Hannah's throat, and she swallowed hard as
she knelt down, sitting back on her heels. She wiped an errant tear from
her cheek. Alicia would have been nineteen, finished with high school
and making her way through college. In love, perhaps, or dreaming of a
career.

             Alicia. I miss you, baby.

             It was harder to picture them now, harder to see the crisp
definition in her mind's scrapbook. how Tom's eyes sparkled when she was
in his arms, or the way Alicia's smile lit up a room..

             They'd lost so much in one, terrible moment. A drunken
driver, a collision. and the life she and Tom and the girls had built
together was gone.

             Hannah exhaled, and the sound mingled with the breeze. You
can do this. She squeezed her eyes shut, searching for the strength to
move ahead. She and Matt had been working out the plans for more than a
year. It was the right thing, she was sure of that much. Even now, with
sadness covering her heart like a blanket, she could feel the excitement
welling within her, convincing her that somehow, sometime soon, it would
happen.

             She would be a mother again.

             "Hi." She set her fingertips on Alicia's tombstone and
dusted off a layer of dirt. "I have something to tell you."

             A crow sounded in the distance. This visit was for peace of
mind and nothing more. Her precious oldest daughter would never have
questioned Hannah's intentions, never have feared her place in Hannah's
heart. Her fingers stopped moving and settled over Alicia's name.

             "Matt and I have decided to. to adopt a little girl." Her
voice broke, and from behind her sunglasses tears trickled down her face
and dripped off her chin.

             She waited until she could find her voice. "After.after the
accident I couldn't imagine ever loving another man again," Hannah wiped
the back of her hand across her wet chin. "Or another daughter." A sound
that was part laugh, part sob slipped from her lips. "But here I am,
happy, married and.convinced God has another daughter for me somewhere
out there."

             The traffic hummed from the road behind her. "You
understand, right, Alicia? I'm not trying to. to replace you, honey."
She sniffed. "The bond you and I shared, the one you and Jenny shared,
that's something none of us will ever have again. Not like it was."

             Hannah paused and gazed up, willing herself to see beyond
the blue to the place where Tom and Alicia now lived and loved and
laughed..

             The background noise faded. Hannah traced the A in Alicia's
name, pushing away the dirt that had gathered there. "We'll adopt a
toddler, someone who needs a second chance at life." She blinked, and
two more tears slid off the tip of her nose onto Alicia's stone. "I
don't know where she is . or who she is. but I know she's out there
somewhere. And I wanted you to know bec- "

             There was a catch in Hannah's voice, and she held the sobs
at bay. "Because she'll be your sister."

             Hannah closed her eyes again and waited. The image of her
oldest daughter grew clear in her mind once more. "Alicia."

             Hannah ached to reach out and pull the image of her daughter
close, but the lines began to blur. As they did, peace oozed between the
cracks in Hannah's heart. It was okay to let her daughter's memory fade
for now. The visit had reminded once more that she no longer needed to
feel the pain of Alicia's and Tom's loss with every excruciating breath,
but only as a sad truth that simply was and could not be changed.

             Hope wrapped its arms around her as she opened her eyes. It
was time to go home, time to let Matt and Jenny know what she'd decided.
..

             Once more she looked back at the stone, at Alicia's name
carved in it. "One more thing, honey. When we bring her home and.and
people ask me how many girls I have." Hannah wiped at her tears again.
"I'll always tell them three. Two who live here with me.and one who
lives in heaven."



For more information, see  <http://www.karenkingsbury.com/>
www.karenkingsbury.com









[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]

Greetings Christian fiction fans!  This week the men step up to the
plate with two "home runs!"  THEY SHALL SEE GOD, by Athol Dickson, and
POSTMARKED HEAVEN, by Jack Cavanaugh.

On deck for next week:  ROSES WILL BLOOM AGAIN by Lori Copeland and a
selection by Karen Kingsbury.

Happy reading!



--the Moderators





THEY SHALL SEE GOD, copyright 1999 by Athol Dickson, all rights
reserved. Tyndale House Publishers.

"...a solid contribution to the suspense genre . . . a highly entertaining
nail-biter...potential to promote greater understanding between people of both
faiths." --Publisher's Weekly

PROLOGUE

In the south Louisiana sunshine outside the Margaret Dixon Memorial
Visitor Processing Building, Gabby Cantor snored behind the wheel of her
Coupe DeVille. Sooner or later, her husband would walk out of there, but
the wait was boring and the katydids' somnolent hum had put her out like
a light. Ten thousand of them clung to the sun-wilted leaves of the
hickories and poplars looming just beyond the wire, their voices a
rackety chorus, swelling and fading and swelling again, on and on and
on. Then a red-winged blackbird added its oddly cheerful call to their
pulsing rhythm, rousing her. She snorted softly, looked around, sat up
in a dignified fashion, and began to fan herself with a Town and Country
magazine. Gabby Cantor knew from previous visits that the processing
center was air-conditioned, but she refused to go inside that awful
little building again. Not one more time. So to stay awake she read the
white letters on the large green sign as she had so often during the
long years past. More than anything else, the words of that sign had
come to symbolize the indignities life had thrust upon her:

Notice: This is to notify you that any individual (including minors)
entering any department of corrections facility is subject to search of
their property, automobile, and person. Searches include but are not
limited to visual inspection of persons or property, pat down searches
of your person, inspection of persons or property by dogs trained to
detect drugs, weapons, and other contraband, strip searches of your body
and searches of your body cavities. Introduction of contraband, drugs,
alcohol, or weapons into a prison is a felony for which you will be
prosecuted under L.R.S. 14:402.

Warden Howard Nottingham





Next to that sign another temporary one proudly proclaimed that the
prison employees had already met their United Way goal for the year.
Just beyond the signs, beside the gate and the ugly tan and brown
processing center and the tall fences topped with razor-sharp wire, a
man in uniform stood cradling a shotgun in his arms at the railing atop
a concrete tower as beneath him Solomon Cantor emerged in blue jeans and
a plain white T-shirt carrying a cheap plastic suitcase and wearing that
beard, which she hated.

For the hundredth time Gabby Cantor wondered how she would explain him
to her friends.

Look at him, standing there blinking in the sunshine, dressed like a
yard boy from somewhere down in Barataria. Didn't he see her over here
waiting? How hard could it be to find her Cadillac with only two other
cars around, old, rusted-out jalopies, the kind of thing you'd expect a
person to drive, coming to the penitentiary to visit some three-time
loser. Surely he saw her over here. What was she supposed to do, wave?

Gabby reached down and twisted the key in the ignition. The Cadillac
shivered. Sol turned toward the sound of the engine. Pretending not to
notice, Gabby pressed a button and the side window whispered shut,
sealing out the September heat. She turned the air conditioner all the
way up to high, and aimed the vent toward her lap, where the pantyhose
beneath her raw silk skirt clung to her thighs like a pair of hot
compresses. Her wrinkled hands returned to the steering wheel, gripping
it hard, the blood red nails at the ends of her diamond-dappled fingers
digging into the flesh at the base of her palms. Gabby stared straight
ahead, ignoring the age spots on the backs of her hands, ignoring
Solomon.

In the periphery of her vision he approached the passenger side door,
crossing the small gravel parking lot with an ambling gait, an
effeminately masculine John Wayne roll of the hips. Long ago, before she
knew better, Gabby had sometimes wondered if he moved that way just to
call attention to himself. Then she learned that Solomon Cantor had no
awareness whatsoever of his effect on people.

He arrived at the door. Gabby waited for the familiar click of the latch
and the soft sigh of the well-oiled hinges, but nothing happened. After
several seconds, she turned toward the window. He stood out there,
perfectly still, facing the car. All she could see between the ceiling
of the car and the bottom of the window was his body from his waist to
his shoulders; his faded denims and plain white T-shirt; and his
stomach, flat like a teenager. She snorted, the air rushing through her
nostrils, a short gust of impatience. He was sixty-two years old. The
thick, curly hair on his arms was gray. He had no right to a teenager's
stomach.

"Well?" she called through the glass. "What are you waiting for?"

He bent and peered inside. "Where's Izzy?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen him in months."

He bent. Peering through the window, his eyes found hers. In spite of
herself, Gabby felt a familiar thrill. If Sol felt it too, he showed no
outward sign. He waited, watching her, thinking who knows what. Then,
finally, he opened the door and got in, the sweltering heat trailing
behind him as if he was the devil, bringing hell along.

"Okay," he said, settled onto the seat with his cheap plastic suitcase
on his lap.

"You have to put on your seat belt."

"Why?"

"It's a law."

"Since when?"

"I don't remember."

He sat for a moment, unmoving, then reached over and drew the seat belt
across his lap, working it under the bag, and snapping it into place.

"Okay," he said again.

Gabby shifted into gear and drove away from the parking lot outside the
Margaret Dixon Memorial Visitor Processing Building of the Louisiana
State Penitentiary at Angola and accelerated along the two-lane asphalt
road-Louisiana State Highway 66-speeding past thick green woods on
either side, past the Tunick Hills Baptist Church in a small clearing,
and a dense cluster of banana trees next to an old house trailer
speckled with olive drab mildew, heading south toward New Orleans,
heading home, as her ex-convict husband looked out the side window away
from her. She decided she would wait for him to speak first, to see how
long that would take. After twenty minutes, he began to whistle through
his teeth softly. She recognized the tune.

Get your kicks,

On Route 66.

In spite of her resolution to the contrary, Gabby Cantor spoke.

"Guess you're glad it's over."

Solomon Cantor stopped whistling, but he did not reply.



**********************

Postmarked Heaven

by Jack Cavanaugh

Fleming H. Revell, 2002



Letters. Whether bound by string and yellowed by age or e-mailed across
cyberspace, there is something romantic, even magical, about the
intimate thoughts and treasured words of those who care for us. This is
a collection of letters from four celestial residents who represent the
great cloud of heavenly witnesses: Dr. Everett Parker, a fatherly doctor
from the Civil War; Jared O'Conner, a yuppie screenwriter, killed in his
prime; Theodora, a courageous young martyr from ancient Antioch; and
Shankala, a witch doctor's daughter from an Ethiopian village. Their
letters, from heaven's perspective, teach kingdom values to earthbound
believers.


Homesick

Jared O'Conner

Loved ones,

Thinking back on the comment on perception I made in my first letter,
I've attempted to resurrect some of the old feelings of what it was like
to live on earth. They fade so quickly here. And as I thought about it,
I began to realize how unnatural it felt, like wearing your shoes on the
wrong feet.

I always thought of myself as a laid-back Californian, a guy who was
satisfied with a good salary, a mortgage, a Mercedes, and Monday Night
Football. Now, looking back on it all, I realize that running beneath
the surface of my suburban Eden was a river of discontent. I didn't know
it at the time, but I was homesick.

The signs of my homesickness were everywhere. There was a weariness that
came from living in a world that equated friendship with a six-pack,
that had to shoot up, drink down, or out-spend each other to feel good.
It was tiresome listening to people who couldn't converse without
expletives, cruel jokes, snide comments, and put-downs.

There was something inside of me that wouldn't let me buy into the
world's values where profit was king and clothes were a substitute for
self-confidence; where pride was worn like a necklace while spouses were
treated like worn out sneakers; where advertisements got louder as
products got cheaper; and where a man's word was a bank check he
couldn't cover.

You'd think that after centuries of history, people would have learned
to get along. Yet even in my time the world remained a place where a
lingering gaze could cause offense, position on the freeway could erupt
in gunfire, and an errant word could launch a lawsuit. It was difficult
to understand how a people who could stand in line all night for concert
tickets couldn't find time to visit their elderly relatives, or how they
could know so much about a Hollywood entertainer and so little about
their next-door neighbor.

The world scene made no sense. It seemed like the whole of humanity died
a little every time a terrorist made a statement with a bomb, every time
a father bruised the flesh of his child, and every time a world leader
valued a piece of geography over the lives of those who lived on it.

I grew tired of living in a country that insisted you had to borrow from
tomorrow to be happy today, where bankers practiced usury with a smile,
where screen romance was always naked, and where everyone believed that
life was about them.

I was homesick for better world.

I didn't want to be angry anymore.

I hated that my days were spent balancing on a verbal tightrope so as
not to offend anyone, and fending off fast-talking salesmen, political
pollsters, credit card calls, and airport cults. There was something
wrong about a world where a parent had to dread the ringing of the phone
every time his child was late coming home; and where life expectancy was
an equation based on the sum total of your weight, cholesterol, blood
pressure, and triglycerides.

I longed to be accepted for who I was, not by my physical shape; to live
in a world where people are known for their graces, not their blemishes;
where joy is a person's first thought in the morning and peace his last
thought at night; where people speak from the heart and where lies have
been placed on the endangered species list, where words are bricks for
bridges, not walls. I wanted to live in a world where awe is an everyday
emotion.

The place I wanted to be was home. My soul longed to resonate with the
universe, my heart to beat with the rhythm of the ocean waves, and my
face to turn upward with the sunflowers in praise to God.

I wanted to live in a place where I could spend one eternity lost in my
wife's embrace, and another rolling atop the grass with my kids. I
wanted to laugh from the gut, cry unashamed with joy, be missed when I
was gone, and march in step with an army of good men for some
magnificent cause. I was tired of praying "on earth as it is in heaven."
I wanted to live it now.

Looking back on it all, I never felt quite at home on earth. I'll take
God's Kingdom any eternity. I can't imagine ever growing tired of
sitting at Jesus feet, or worshiping in God's throne room, or singing
with the angelic host that appeared to the shepherds over the hills
Bethlehem.

But then, I guess if I were to grow tired of it, it wouldn't really be
home.

Wishing you were here,

Jared



Postmarked Heaven, by Jack Cavanaugh is available at your local
Christian bookstore or online at www.christianbook.com
<http://www.christianbook.com/>

Greetings, Christian fiction fans!  This week we have a beautiful
allegory by Terri Blackstock, COVENANT CHILD, a novel in the Women of
Faith Fiction Club.  THREE WEDDINGS AND A GIGGLE, by Karen Ball, Carolyn
Zane, and Liz Curtis Higgs will be rescheduled for a later date.



Next week:   THEY SHALL SEE GOD, by Athol Dickson and POSTMARKED HEAVEN
by Jack Cavanaugh.  Stay tuned, because there's more great reading
ahead!



--The Moderators











COVENANT CHILD

By Terri Blackstock



There's a question that haunts me in the blackest hours of night, when
wasted moments crowd my dreams and mock the life I know. The question is
this: How could a child born of privilege and promise grow up with
nothing?

I was Somebody when I was born. Lizzie, my twin, says we were heiresses
all along. Our grandfather was a billionaire, she says. "Just think of
it, Kara! There were newspaper articles about us when we were three.
They called us the 'Billion Dollar Babies.'"

But these Billion Dollar Babies wore Good Will hand-me-downs. We ate dry
cereal most nights for supper, right out of the box, picking out the
raisins to save for our school lunches the next day. In my memory, we
never formerly observed a birthday, because no one around us felt that
day worthy of celebration. We were worthless no accounts to most of the
people in town.

But all along we had an inheritance that no one told us was ours.

I sometimes try to remember back to the days before we were three, but
my memories are tainted with the lies I've been taught, and the pictures
I've seen. I can't quite sift out real recollections from my faulty
assumptions. But I do know that the things I've laid out here are true.
Not because I remember them, but because I've studied all the sides,
heard all the tales, read all the reports . . . and a few things have
emerged with absolute clarity.

The first thing is that my father, Jack Holbrooke, was the son of the
Paul Holbrooke, who did something with microchips and processors, things
I can't begin to understand, and amassed a fortune before he was thirty.
My father, Jack, got religion in his teens, and decided he didn't want
to play the part of the rich son. He became a pilot, instead, bought a
plane, and began flying charter flights and giving lessons. He disowned
himself from the Holbrooke money, and told his father that, instead of
leaving any of it to him in his will, he preferred that he donate it to
several evangelical organizations who provided relief and shared the
gospel to people all over the world.

My grandfather tolerated his zeal and noted his requests, then promptly
ignored them.

My mother Sherry was a teen runaway, who left Barton, Mississippi at
fifteen to strike out on her own. She wound up living with a kind family
in Jackson, and she got religion, too. She met my father in Jackson when
he put an ad in the paper for some office help at his hangar, and they
fell in love around the time she was nineteen or so. They got married
and had Lizzie and me less than a year later.

She was killed in a car wreck when we were just weeks old.

Our father raised us himself for the next three years. I've seen
pictures of him, and he looks like a kind, gentle man who laughed a lot.
There are snapshots of him kissing us, dunking us like basketballs in
his father's pool, chasing us across the lawn of the little house we
lived in, reading us books, tucking us in. There are three birthday
photos of our father lying on the floor with two cake-smeared red-heads
tearing into boxes with Barbies and Cabbage Patch Dolls.

Sometimes I close my eyes and think hard, trying to bring back those
moments, and for a while I convince myself that they are not just images
frozen on paper, but they=re live events in my head somewhere. I even
think I can smell that cake and feel my father=s stubbled face against
mine. I can hear his laughter shaking through me, and feel his arms
holding me close.

But my memories don't reach that far back.

I don't even think I remember Amanda. Lizzie says she has more
impressions of her than memories, that the snapshots just bring those
impressions into clearer focus. I guess that's true with me, too.

But I wish I could remember when she met our father and us, how she
wound up being his wife, how she was widowed and robbed of her children,
and how she spent her life trying to keep a promise she had made to
him...and to us.

But, according to Lizzie, truth is truth, whether it lies in your memory
banks or not. So I'll start with Amanda's story, the way it was told to
me, because it is very much the beginning of mine.



COVENANT CHILD, by Terri Blackstock

ISBN # 0-8499-4301-9

Published by W Publishing Group

To purchase online, go to www.terriblackstock.com

As promised, here's the excerpt from Gayle Roper.
P.S.  If you've missed any of the excerpts, they are all available on the web
page:  www.groups.yahoo.com/group/chapteraweek.

Happy Reading!




From Summer Shadows, by Gayle Roper



Abby stared up the flight of stairs and mentally kicked herself. The
rigors of climbing to the second floor every day hadn't seemed such an
overwhelming challenge when she talked to the realtor on the phone. All
she'd paid attention to was "on the beach", and that had made up her
mind for her. That and her desperate need to escape.

             Sighing, she grabbed the banister and began the arduous trip
up the outside stairs to her new second floor, beachfront apartment,
pulling herself from step to step, trying to ignore the pain. After all,
there was a time not too long ago when it would have been much worse.

             "Excuse me, but just what do you think you're doing?" The
deep voice was cold, the question accusatory. "This is a private
residence."

             Abby gripped the banister to steady herself and turned. Even
looking down from her vantage point half way up the stairs, she could
tell he was one big man. He was also an irate one. His mouth was pressed
thin, and his dark eyes shot sparks. His hands were fists on his hips.
In each fist he held a messy sheaf of papers that fanned out on either
side of him like a stiff tutu. Abby could see handwritten corrections in
bold, black marker scribbled about the typing. She must have disturbed
his work, and he did not appear to handle interruptions well.

             It was sad, his surly attitude, because otherwise he was
really quite impressive. A beautiful fallen angel, she thought, struck
with a flight of imaginative, if theologically incorrect, fancy, but an
angel who lacked civility. She sniffed the air in curiosity. All the
supernatural, Peretti-type novels said she should smell the brimstone if
he were indeed a fallen angel, but she didn't catch any hint of sulphur
in the clean sea air.

             "Well?" he prompted, his fair hair falling across his
forehead. The sun struck it so it looked like a gleaming golden halo. He
was too handsome by half.

"Marquerite de la Roque," she said. "Without the moral baggage."

He blinked. "Well, Marguerite, I repeat, what are you doing here?"

"My name is not Marguerite. She has been dead for several centuries."

He looked understandably bewildered.

"She sailed from France to Canada in 1541, the first European woman to
reach the New World. Like her, I am embarking on a great adventure. I am
moving to Seaside today." To my New World full of promise. She smiled
brilliantly at him.

"I hate to tell you, but you're hardly the first woman to reach town,"
he said dryly. "And, I'm sure, not the last. Now why are you here?
Climbing these particular steps, I mean."

A loud woof brought her gaze to the dog that stood at the man's side.
The rottweiler stared at her, his brown eyebrows pulled together in an
unblinking frown that matched the man's.

             Great. Steps, a grumpy neighbor, and an ugly monster
besides. Wait until Puppy sees him. She'll have a coronary on the spot.

             "I'm Abby Patterson," she said, remembering at the last
minute to look at the man, not the dog. "I'm not trespassing. I'm
renting the second floor indefinitely."

             "Oh." He looked nonplussed, and she was irritated enough at
him to enjoy his discomfort. "You're not coming until tomorrow."

             She shrugged. "Change of plans." If ever she'd uttered an
understatement, that was it. But how could she possibly explain to this
glowering man that coming today was her private Declaration of
Independence. Her own giant step for mankind. Her personal strike
against tyranny as she raised the banner signaling the belated
liberation of Abigail Lynn MacDonald Patterson, aged twenty-nine.

             She waved the keys she'd gotten at the realtor's. Then she
turned her back and continued her climb. She was surprised to feel the
wood vibrate beneath her feet. She looked over her shoulder. Both the
golden man and his monster dog were ascending her steps. Her private
steps.

She reached the small landing at the top and turned to him, her back
against the sturdy wooden railing. He stepped onto the landing too,
followed by the monster. Talk about crowded.

             "What?" she asked, voice abrupt. He and the dog unnerved her
standing in the tight space with her. As a result she gave him her
frostiest stare to prove she wasn't bothered by his nearness. It was
just that he loomed, sort of like her father did.

He stared at her, every bit as frosty as she. It was a wonder snow
didn't fall on this strip of New Jersey beach in spite of the balmy
mid-June temperature. "I'm Marsh Winslow."

She was so busy wishing he would back up onto the porch that ran across
the width of the building and give her breathing room that it took a
minute for the name to register.

"You're Marsh Winslow? My landlord?" She was appalled. She had to share
the house with this snarling, ill-tempered person? And, she glanced
down, his monster dog?

The dog nudged his master's hand for all the world like he wanted to be
introduced too.

The man looked at the monster, his face softening into a smile. "This is
Fargo, the wonder dog."

"I've got a cat," Abby said, staring at Fargo with distaste. He was so
big. "Puppy."

             Marsh Winslow blinked again. "You have a cat and a dog? I
thought you only had a cat. That's all we agreed on in the lease."

             This time she blinked. "I do."

"Er, you do what?"

The man couldn't even follow a conversation. "I do have just a cat," she
patiently explained. "I'd have told you if I had a dog." She glanced at
Fargo. "They're hard to hide."

             "But you just said you had a puppy." Fargo nodded his
agreement. "They're even harder to hide."

             "I said I had a cat named Puppy."

             "A cat named Puppy?"

             It was his glance at the dog that made her angry. It was
like the two of them thought she was playing with less than a full deck.
It was too much like her parents had looked at each other when she told
them about her new job in Seaside.

             Well, contrary to public opinion, she was not an idiot. Her
mental deck was a full 52 cards, carefully shuffled and ready to play.

             "Naming a dog after a city in North Dakota makes more
sense?" she snapped.

             Her landlord scratched his ear like he couldn't believe he
was involved in such a foolish conversation. Fargo sat, lifted his rear
leg and began scratching his ear too.

             Fleas? Both of them?



SUMMER SHADOWS, Book 2 in Seaside Seasons

Copyright 2002, Gayle G. Roper

Multnomah Publishers, ISBN 1-57673-969-4

To purchase, contact  <http://www.gayleroper.com/> www.gayleroper.com,
<http://www.christianbooks.com/> www.christianbook.com, or visit your
local Christian bookstore.

Summer Greetings to you Christian fiction fans!  This weekend we have
two treats:  THE DARWIN CONSPIRACY by attorney/novelist James Scott
Bell, and SUMMER SHADOWS, by Gayle Roper. On deck:  THREE WEDDINGS AND A
GIGGLE, by Liz Curtis Higgs, Carolyn Zane, and Karen Ball, and COVENANT
CHILD, the latest from Terri Blackstock..



P.S.  Repeated efforts to track down Gayle Roper have failed--she has
vanished like a character in one of her mysteries!  When we find her,
we'll send her excerpt in a separate email.



Happy reading!



--the Moderators





From:



The Darwin Conspiracy: The Confessions of Sir Max Busby



by James Scott Bell



Introduction



The Busby manuscript fell into my hands through the following remarkable
set of circumstances.

I had long entertained the romantic notion that the document, authored
by the mysterious figure Sir Max Busby, actually existed, if only
because it added a little sparkle and mystery to life. Having studied
biology in college with Dr. Hans Hinkel, one of the country's leading
evolutionary theorists, I had immersed myself for a time in the lore of
evolutionism as well as the so-called "scientific data."

That lore included the possible existence of Sir Max Busby's own account
of the history of the theory of evolution.

Of Busby himself very little was known. We could surmise he was an
acquaintance of Darwin's. Darwin makes reference to him in a letter to
his brother Erasmus (calling him "Dear Max" and "that rascal Busby," the
context indicating affection). And we knew Busby was a historian of
sorts. But that was about it.

Some time in the 1920s, a rumor bloomed to the effect that Busby knew a
lot more about the cultural takeover of evolution than was first
supposed. And rumor became myth. I discovered that scientists love myth
just as much as the rest of us, so long as it accords with their
particular world view. Thus, at cocktail parties across the land
university science professors, loosed from civilized convention by too
much drink, voiced fanciful notions of being the one to find the Busby
manuscript. The conversation was no different in tone from, say, pious
archaeologists dreaming of Atlantis.

Upon graduation from college I worked a few years and then entered law
school, earning my degree in 1984. 1 joined a law firm and focused my
attention on billing clients and getting ahead in the profession.

But always, somewhere in the back of my mind, the possible existence of
the Busby manuscript haunted me.

A few years went by, during which time my interest in evolution produced
an unexpected turn. I will not bore the reader with the details. Suffice
it to say I discovered that the case for Darwinism was virtually
nonexistent. I had been hoodwinked by institutions of higher education.
Disturbed by this, I tossed my old college textbooks away and stopped
thinking about the Busby manuscript altogether.

Then, four years ago, it happened.

An editorial appeared in the Los Angeles Times, a paper determined to be
wrong in virtually every important subject. This piece was the response
to a movement among Christians seeking to mandate balanced treatment in
public school classrooms on the matter of origins. The editorial
ridiculed this movement, painting all participants as anti-intellectual
rubes, and went on to rehash the standard fluff about evolution as
established fact.

I responded with a letter, which the Times published. I wrote, in part,
"It is almost as if a giant conspiracy exists among naturalistic
scientists and a willfully blind media to keep the real facts from the
public." It is that line, I believe, which prompted the phone call I
received the next night.

"Is this James Scott Bell?" a reedy, warbling voice said. I made it out
to be a woman, well advanced in years.

"Yes."

"The James Scott Bell who wrote that letter to the Times?"

"One and the same. Who is this?"

"You must come see me. Tomorrow . . . 427 River Street."

"Why must I come see you? Who-" Click. The line went dead.

I might have dismissed this as a crank call, perhaps from some ardent
evolutionist bent on revenge. But something told me this wasn't the case
and I decided to follow up.

I arrived at 427 River Street the next morning at ten o'clock. It was an
old style house, built in the twenties I supposed, touched up through
the years. The neighborhood was quiet, a little dreary. It was a cloudy
day.

I knocked on the door. A peephole opened and an eye appeared. The eye
had a voice attached to it. "Yes?" It was the same voice Id heard over
the phone.

"I'm James Bell," I said.

The peephole slammed shut. A lock and chain were undone from inside. The
door slowly creaked open.

She was old, all right, thin and stooped over, wearing her wrinkled skin
like a dress that had once fit but was now too large. The house was
dark, the curtains drawn.

For several moments she did not say anything, only looked me over, up
and down. Finally she nodded her head slowly and said, "You'll have to
do."

Exasperated, I asked her what the meaning of this summons was. I thought
a little show of authority would help. She was not impressed. She simply
lifted a bony finger to her lips, then used the same finger to indicate
that I follow her.

Up the stairs we went. I didn't think she could make the climb. But she
never stopped, just took her time. The stairs creaked a haunting melody
as we ascended. We made our way to a door at the end of the hall. The
old woman reached into the pocket of her dress and produced a key,
unlocked the door.

The room smelled musty. Only the dust seemed fresh.

"Listen, madam," I said, "I really want to know-"

Her finger pointed to an antique bureau on top of which sat a framed
photograph. I took a closer look. It was a very old man, dressed in
twenties garb, in front of what I judged to be this very house. I told
her I didn't recognize the gentleman.

She told me his name was Sir Max Busby.

Sir Max Busby? Fabled author of the Busby manuscript? My head went light
on me, and I had to sit down. My first thought was that this was some
sort of hoax. But I couldn't think of any reason why this woman should
lie to me. So I merely whispered in a somber tone, "So that's really Sir
Max?"

"Then you know what this is about?" the old woman said.

"The manuscript?"

She nodded, then proceeded to tell me how she had become Max's
housekeeper near the end of his life. This house had been his, recorded
under a false name. This was necessitated because Max was convinced his
life was in danger. He had spent his last year of life working on the
manuscript.

At that point, the old woman opened a bureau drawer and pulled out a
hand bound sheaf of pages. It had a brown, heavy paper cover, and was
flaking around the edges. A shoelace held the pages together by way of
two holes punched through the manuscript. She brought it out gingerly,
reverently, and handed it to me.

Then she said, "His instructions were that I give this to the right
person, one who would believe what is written here, and who also had
enough influence in the community to do something about it. By the way,
what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a lawyer," I said.

She sighed. "Well, nobody's perfect."

"Thank you."

"I am old, and don't have much time left. I must give this manuscript up
now, and pray to God that it be used rightly. That's where you come in.
This has eternal consequences."

"What are you trying to tell me?" I asked.

She smiled softly, but her eyes were deeply somber, as if the future of
the human race were reflected in those ancient orbs. "Don't blow it,"
she said.

That's how I met Florence Crookshank, Sir Max's nurse at the end of his
life, and received the document that would mark an end to my tranquil
existence as a mild mannered attorney without an enemy in the world.

That night, with trembling fingers, I opened the yellowed pages of the
legendary Busby Manuscript-the firsthand account of the Darwin
conspiracy-and began to read . . .



I, Sir Max Busby, knighted by the Queen, in control of all my faculties
save for a few minor physical ones, do hereby set pen to paper, for what
will probably be the last time.

This is my confession.

May God have mercy on my soul.

I am 117 years old. I do not know why I have lived so long. I might have
said, at one time, "It's in the genes." But I don't say such things
anymore, and you will know why, by and by. It would have been better for
mankind, I think, if I had not lived 117 years, nor seventeen, nor even
seven.

Why not? you may ask. I shall tell you.

At age seven I committed my first act of deliberate cruelty.

At seventeen I murdered my father.

And at 117 one could almost say I murdered the human race.

You can do a lot in 117 years, I'll tell you that.

They are looking for me, of course. That is why I must write as much as
I can, before they find me. When they do I know what will happen. One
accident will cancel out another. The strongest accident will survive.

That's the way they will put it, anyway. I know better than that now.

I feel that I will only be able to write, at the most, half an hour a
day. My strength, what there is left of it, will be gone soon. Thank God
for Florence who makes my life so much easier.

Another thing: My mind does not always operate chronologically. Memories
inject themselves for no apparent reason.

Like this one: I am standing in front of a painting in the spring of
1913. It appears to be a collection of old cans. But it is supposed to
be a nude descending a staircase. How do I know this? Because the title
is Nude Descending a Staircase. The painter is a fellow named Duchamp.
He is what they call a cubist. I am told that for artists like this,
"anything goes." There is no need to represent reality. There are no
standards that one must be a slave to.

In other words, evolutionary theory has reached even the world of art.
And I am supposed to be happy.

Bear with me.



***



"Ingenious and engaging!" -- Randy Alcorn.

"Darwinists will be outraged." -- Phillip E. Johnson



C 2002 by James Scott Bell. All rights reserved.



********************************************************

Greetings, Christian fiction fans! This week we have excerpts from two
talented ladies, Nancy Moser and Patricia Hickman. You'll love these
novel excerpts.
Next week don't miss SUMMER SHADOWS by Gayle Roper and THE DARWIN
CONSPIRACY by James Scott Bell.
Happy reading!
--The Moderators


THE SEAT BESIDE ME by Nancy Moser
From Chapter 1:
"It's good you're leaving."
Merry Cavanaugh coughed at her husband's statement. "It is?"
Lou turned the van into the terminal entrance leading to Sun Fun
Airlines. Snow pummeled the windshield. "Sure. I know how close you were
to Teresa in college. How long has it been since you've seen her?"
Merry was disappointed Lou was oblivious of her real reason for leaving.
"She was here after Justin was first born."
"She's still single, right?"
"She's a vice president in her company." Merry said it as if one fact
had something to do with the other.
"That's too bad-the single part, that is. I bet she's jealous of you."
Merry lifted an eyebrow. "I don't think-"
"She sees you living the ideal life with a husband who adores you and a
fantastic little boy who likes nothing better than to climb in your lap
and give you a hug. What does she have?" Merry took a breath to answer,
but Lou continued. "She has a stressful job and a lonely house. Thanks
but no thanks."
No thanks? Are you crazy?
Merry looked to the Sun Fun entrance, coming up on their right. She only
had a few moments before she was free. And yet she longed to let him
have it, make him understand how she really felt. Lou was so clueless
sometimes.
Her chest heaved; her hands gripped and regripped the handles of the
carry-on bag in her lap. The awful truth threatened.
Lou looked over at her and smiled. "You are so beautiful. Did you know
that?"
She hugged the door to get as far away from the words as she could. The
fight left her-as it usually did when he said nice things. Maybe it was
better he was ignorant to the truth. After the trip.after she'd had time
to think things through and get Teresa's advice. The truth was, if she
brought it all up now, he might not let her go.
"Here we are." Lou pulled up front, the tires slipping on the
snow-covered street. He got out of the van to get her suitcase. Merry
put her hood up, got out, opened the side door, and gave Justin a hug.
"I'm going to miss you, sweetie." In spite of everything, it was the
truth.
"I'll miss you too, Mommy. Daddy says he has a surprise for me."
"He does?"
"I hope he's taking me to McDonald's for breakfast. Do you think that's
it?"
"Sure. I bet that's it." Merry gave her son another kiss and closed the
door against the snow. She waved good-bye through the window.
Lou appeared at her side, suitcase in tow. The weather would prevent a
lengthy good-bye. Just as well.
"Have a good trip, Mer. Love you."
She accepted his hug and kiss. "Love you too." It was the truth. But not
all the truth.
Merry hurried inside the terminal and removed her coat, brushing away
the flakes that melted in the heated building. She rolled her suitcase
to the check-in line and allowed herself a deep breath. I'm alone.
Finally alone. No husband. No son. No plan except to have fun and
remember what life was like before a family had tied her down with
responsibilities. Twenty-nine was too young to feel so old.
She felt absolutely decadent, even though part of the thrill had been
dampened by the fact that Lou wanted her to go, urged her to go. When
her old college chum had invited her, Merry had been afraid to even
mention the idea to her husband, and yet, when she had, he'd jumped on
the plan, even offering to dip into their meager savings to fund the
trip.
At first she'd been suspicious. Why does he want me gone? But she'd soon
tossed such ridiculous notions away. Above all else, Lou could be
trusted. Lou was true-blue, honest, hard-working, kind, generous, loyal.
Everything she was not.
But maybe a little time away would change all that. Maybe she was so
down about her life because it was so disgustingly normal and routine.
Maybe she was simply having a case of Thirtyitis. Had her twenties been
all she'd wanted them to be?
Although she'd always wanted to be a mother, Merry thought it would be
more.rewarding. Like in the TV commercials with the ever patient mother,
ruffling the naughty son's hair while she gave him a forgiving smile.
Always under control, always smiling, always fulfilled.
Life didn't work that way. Although she loved her family, she often
found herself on the verge of strangling them-at least in theory. When
Justin had gotten into Merry's brand new eye shadow, putting water in
it, using it like watercolor paints; or when he had scribbled on the
walls with red crayons, Merry had never considered ruffling his hair and
smiling. Not once.
And those women who pined for their man to come home; whose hearts beat
a little faster at the sound of their husband's car? As often as not,
Merry was relieved when Lou left in the morning, and her stomach grabbed
ever-so-slightly when he returned. Not because she didn't love him, but
because he thought so much of her-was constantly telling her what a
wonderful wife and mother she was-that she felt obligated to try to live
up to his opinion. When he was home she couldn't let down her guard and
be herself. She was way too flawed.
Lou deserved better. And she deserved.
She thought of Teresa and Phoenix and four days of fun, sun, and free-
An announcement came over the loudspeakers. "We're sorry, folks, but the
airport has been temporarily shut down due to the blizzard. Please
continue to check in and remain at your gates until further notice.
Hopefully, we will begin boarding soon, making your delay as short as
possible. Thank you for your patience."
Merry joined the groans of those around her. Apparently, the fun and sun
would have to wait.


C 2002 by Nancy Moser through Multnomah Publishers
Read more about The Seat Beside Me on www.letstalkfiction.com. See a
video clip and read the entire first chapter at:
http://multnomahbooks.com/BookDetail/Default.asp?BookID=1355. The book
is available at your favorite local bookstore or online.

*******************
"Poetic beauty, sassy humor, genuine struggles of the human heart.
Sandpebbles kept me enthralled from cover to cover."
Patsy Clairmont, Best-selling Christian speaker and author

Women of Faith Fiction
Sandpebbles
Chapter 1


Not letting go is my downfall. I can think of at least three lives I
saved
because of it and at least two lives I wrecked. Case in point: Whenever
my husband Joe and I saw an accident, I leaped from the car, checked the
victims' vitals, and directed traffic until the local cops and EMS team
arrived.
Be that as it may, succumbing to this same inner mechanism is why I held
a gun on two thugs and rescued my babysitter Yolanda from what would
have been possible torture. It was not a real gun.
A year and a half after Joe's death I drove home from Gum's Food Mart
loaded down with ears of corn and shrimp for a seafood boil near the
ocean. My boy Mason expected me to punctually pick him up from his
Grandpa' s and chauffeur him to his baseball game. My late habits at the
newspaper office triggered occasional tardiness. He tended to get miffed
about my
weak time keeping. So I almost missed seeing Yolanda at the Hep-Ur-Sef
coin-op car wash because I exceeded the speed limit. But in an oblique
sort of manner, I saw the spray wand lift and lower above Yolanda's VW
Beetle. Then the whole hose contraption went haywire. Suds fountained in
the air as the hose spewed in circles and made cobra-like gyrations
which caught my eye and caused my foot to hit the brake. That is when I
saw the thugs. One wielded a terrorizing blade. According to the ten
o'clock news that night, the wayward boys had escaped from a jail in New
Jersey, stolen a car, and made it all the way to our town of Candle
Cove, North Carolina--a mistake they will most surely never make again.
We
are tight here. Whatever they intended to do with Yolanda never came to
light. Before they could wrestle her away from the Beetle, my tires
squealed to a dead stop right in front of them. Grenades of corn pitched
throughout my SUV and I remember whisking away husk hairs for a solid
month from the upholstery and carpet, a fact that irked me for the
longest time.
Mason had dropped his black water pistol onto the floor of the car. With
both hands, I gripped it tight through the open window. I hid the
plastic cap that holds in the water with my thumbs. "Put up your hands,
I'm the police!"
Yolanda whitened and tried to speak even though one of the brutes had
his filthy hand clamped over her sweet teenage mouth.
Both of the men were so surprised they froze, and the one with a knife
threw it down. I called May at the police station on my cellular and she
sent our two cops, Harold Gleason and Bobby White, over right away.
(They were having jalapeno bagels at the nearby Lighthouse Java Mill.) I
ordered the criminals to lie face down on the pavement and Yolanda ran
shrieking out into the street to flag down Harold and Bobby. Harold held
them at bay while Bobby cuffed them and read them their rights. Harold
said he wanted to swear at me for succumbing to my mechanism only to
endanger the life of two helpless women, one being myself. But I had
already stepped aside to retch into the Hep-Ur-Sef trash container.
Yolanda cried and ran up the bill on her parent's cellular phone calling
first her mother, her father who was away in Pittsburgh on business, her
orthodontist, and her best friend in the whole eleventh grade. She
hugged me and bawled on my shoulder so hard I had to tear myself away to
run and fetch Mason, who by that time paced in front of his
grandfather's house, tapping the tip of his bat against the walk, irate
as mad bees. Even though I had rescued his lifelong babysitter, he was
angry enough that he spilled out disconnected phrases that seemed to
combust at the end with incensed
grunts. The slightest infraction on my part, in his ten-year-old
estimation, was worthy of castigation.
That is why I took him to Virginia every spring to visit his father's
grave, to leave
flowers, and to help Mason forgive me.

? Sandpebbles is lovingly dedicated in memory of Jessica Nicole Hickman
who loved dance, music, butterflies, and daisies.

Hello, Reader! You may purchase Sandpebbles through popular local
bookstores, Christianbook.com, Amazon, or through the W Publishing web
site: http://www.wpublishinggroup.com/ You may meet Patricia Hickman or
other best-selling Women of Faith authors at the 2002 Sensational Life
Conferences in a city near you! Please visit Patricia Hickman's website
at http://www.patriciahickman.com .

  Sandpebbles, copyright 2002,
Patricia Hickman. No portion of this book may be reproduced without
express written consent of the author.

Greetings, Christian fiction fans!  This week we have two stellar
excerpts for you:  BLINDED BY THE SHINING PATH, by Dave and Neta
Jackson, and LULLABY, by Jane Orcutt.

We apologize for goofs in last week's posting--we posted too early and
we listed the wrong upcoming excerpt. Last week was Murphy's Law run amuck!  ;-)

Enjoy these two wonderful excerpts!  Next week:  SANDPEBBLES, by
Patricia Hickman and THE SEAT BESIDE ME, by Nancy Moser.  Stay tuned!





BLINDED BY THE SHINING PATH

A Trailblazer Book

By Dave and Neta Jackson



Chapter 1





The music drifting from the small adobe church reminded
fourteen-year-old Alfredo of happier days, days high in the Andes
Mountains where he sat alone and played his flute while the wind howled
among the rocky peaks.

           Absentmindedly, he reached for the flute he had carried so
long in his pocket only to find the cold iron of a pistol. In the
evening’s dimming light, he glanced at his two companions as though they
might read his mind. He did not play his flute anymore. He was a soldier
with the Shining Path guerrillas and could not afford the luxury of
music.

           While he sat leaning against a tree near the front door of the
old church, Alfredo’s two companions, Juan and Rhony, dozed beside him,
their heads pillowed on a blanket roll.

           Rhony roused himself and muttered, “Karun purina pisiqtaq
k’oqao.”

           “Speak Spanish,” snapped Juan. “I don’t understand your
Quechua language.”

           Rhony rolled his eyes. “I said, this is a lot of work without
much to eat.” Rhony and Alfredo were Peruvian Indians from mountain
villages. Juan was from the City of Lima and spoke only Spanish.

           Rhony raised up on an elbow and looked at Alfredo. “When will
this preacher of yours be coming out?”

           Alfredo shrugged and looked at the moon, which was just coming
up over the snow-capped mountains to the east. “Sometimes they sing
until midnight. Who knows?”

           “Midnight?” Juan sat up and looked toward the church. “Then
how come we came so early?”

           “So nobody would notice us. We’re just some poor Indians
sitting under a tree.”

           “Yeah,” said Rhony, “with our rifles rolled up in an old
blanket.”

           “Right.” Alfredo glanced at the dark roll his comrade had been
resting on. “No one can tell what’s in that.”

           “Maybe no one is suspicious now. But what about afterwards?
What about after we shoot that preacher? Then they will think back, and
someone will say, ‘Yeah, I remember kimsa runas under that tree.’”

           “Speak Spanish,” said Juan, punching Rhony’s shoulder.

           “Three guys,” snapped Rhony. “Someone will remember three guys
sitting under this tree with a long blanket roll that could have
concealed guns.”

           “So what?” said Alfredo. “They won’t remember who we are.” He
paused and studied Rhony. “You sound like you’re scared. You want out?”

           Rhony sighed—“No!”—and laid back down. Juan relaxed again, as
well.

           Alfredo leaned against the tree. It was strange, him asking
Rhony if he wanted out. No one got out of the Shining Path unless it was
in a coffin like his brother. He knew that. So why had he made Rhony the
offer? Probably Rhony thought it was a threat, but the more Alfredo
considered his comment, maybe he had said it because it was what he
secretly wanted, too. But escaping from the ranks of the Shining Path
wasn’t possible—not from the most violent Communist organization in the
world.

           The singing had stopped, and suddenly the door of the little
church opened, flooding the street with light and then a stream of happy
worshipers heading for their humble homes in the streets of Chosica.

           “Hey, you guys,” whispered Alfredo, “it’s over. Rómulo Sauñe
will be coming out soon. Stay put till I say to move.” This was
Alfredo’s operation. Their commander had put him in charge as a test of
his loyalty: Could he—would he—carry out the order to assassinate Rómulo
Sauñe, the evangelical pastor who had so much influence in the
surrounding mountain villages?

           First one light and then another went off inside the church,
and then two couples came out of the now-darkened doors, closing and
locking them behind themselves. The people exchanged hugs, and then one
man and women turned and walked right past the tree with the waiting
terrorists, while the other couple went on down the street.

           Alfredo and his comrades remained silent until the couple had
passed. “Is that him?” whispered Juan. “Let’s shoot him now.”

           “No, that’s not them. It’s the other couple. Pastor Sauñe and
his wife went up the street that way.” Alfredo pointed at the receding
figures that could barely be seen in the moonlight.

           “Oh, so it’s Pastor Sauñe now, is it?” said Juan. “Sounds like
you’re rather familiar.”

           “Well . . . yeah. You know I had to scout out this operation.
I’ve even been to a couple of their meetings. But that’s all. Our great
leader, Abimael Guzmán is the only ‘pastor’ for me.”

           The three remained under the tree until they saw Rómulo Sauñe
and his wife enter a house nearly a block from the church, then they
arose, unwrapped the rifles and moved out. Alfredo carried only his
pistol.

           “When we get to the door,” Alfredo said in an undertone, “you
guys hang back and cover me. I’ll do the hit.” It had been their
commander’s orders that he be the one to kill the pastor. “It’ll be your
way of proving your loyalty after being gone so long,” he had said.
Alfredo had agreed. What else could he do?

           Clouds drifted across the moon covering the movements of the
three guerrillas. A dog began barking, a high yipping sound. The boys
froze in the shadows. Finally, a man cursed at the dog. The dog yelped,
apparently hit by something the man threw and then was silent. A door
slammed.

           After a few moments of silence, the guerrillas continued
moving up the street.

           Over the door to Rómulo Sauñe’s house hung a single light
bulb, protected by a shade that looked more like an upside-down pie tin.
As Alfredo approached, he considered whether he should knock out the
light. He didn’t like the idea of standing in front of the door bathed
in light. On the other hand, breaking the bulb might attract more
attention. On the other hand, people often came to the Sauñes’ door.
He’d seen it happen day and night when he was scouting the pastor’s
activities. No, he’d be better off leaving the light in place even if it
exposed him for a few moments.

           He turned to look at Juan and Rhony. They had dropped back to
cover his position as he got closer to the house. Alfredo gave a hand
signal for them to stop as he halted just beyond the reach of the light.
Everything was silent . . . maybe too quiet. He held his breath until he
thought he might faint. Then somewhere in the distance he heard
someone’s radio or TV playing a commercial for Coca-Cola.

           He breathed again.

           Taking one last glance at his comrades, Alfredo cocked his
pistol, held it upright at shoulder level, and moved into the circle of
light....





Copyright 2002 Dave and Neta Jackson

Bethany House Publishers

ISBN: 0-7642-2233-3

Available for preordering on www.amazon.com <http://www.amazon.com/>
and from bookstores in September



           For further information about Trailblazer Books and HERO TALES
I, II, III, and IV (Bethany House Publishers) visit
www.trailblazerbooks.com <http://www.trailblazerbooks.com/>

           To see our most recent adult book, NO RANDOM ACT--Behind the
Murder of Ricky Byrdsong (WaterBrook/Random House) go to
www.daveneta.com <http://www.daveneta.com/>






*********************8
Lullaby, by Jane Orcutt


	 Dear Baby Girl,

	 In all my fifteen years of growing up, I never once thought
about what it’d be like for a new mama to leave the hospital with her
baby in another pair of arms. I guess I’ve always fancied the notion of
a perfect family, with the daddy beaming over his wife and new child,
maybe even a grandma or two hovering nearby, knitting booties or
something.

	 I don’t know why I think like that, since I never even knew my
own daddy. All Mama ever said was that he’d loved her, but not enough to
stick around. Except for times like father-daughter banquets, I never
really missed having a daddy, though. I had Mama. Or at least I always
thought I’d have her.

	 I’ve prayed about what I’m doing a lot, and this seems to be
God’s answer. Pastor Luke thought so, when I talked to him about it. So
did Sylvie Ponds. They’re the only two folks in town who don’t look
sideways at me for carrying you. Even Mama had her druthers about your
life…

CHAPTER ONE

Merrilee Hunter dug into the pockets of her ragged maternity cutoffs and
laid the haul on the drugstore’s glass counter: a provisional driver’s
license, one quarter, one dime, two nickels, a piece of string from the
hem of the shorts, a half-empty tube of Avon lipstick, and a scrap of
paper with a phone number. The paper she hurriedly stuffed back into her
pocket, as though the sales woman on the other side knew exactly what it
was.

In a bony ninety-degree angle, the woman leaned over the counter,
sifting the money from among Merrilee’s possessions, pushing each coin
with the pad of her index finger into a pile. "Twenty-five, thirty-five,
forty-five." She raised her eyes, then folded her arms against the
glass. "You ain’t got enough, Merrilee," she said, her voice quivering
with triumph. "Popcorn’ll cost you forty-nine cents."

Merrilee bit her lip. She slid her open palm across the counter to
gather her things, but old man Kenner stepped up beside her and stopped
the motion with his gnarled, white-haired hand. Four pennies plunked
against the glass. "I’ll spot her the rest, Paula Jean. Just go get a
bag from the machine before her bus gets here."

Paula Jean bustled toward the other end of the counter, fixing Merrilee
with a wrinkled frown as she shoveled the popcorn into a red and white
striped bag.

Merrilee eased her hand out from under the old man’s, ducking her head.
"You didn’t have to do that, Mr. Kenner," she mumbled. "I can do
without."

"Let’s just call it one of them bone voy-agee gifts, okay, girl?" His
gaze dropped to her extended belly, which pressed up hard against the
glass counter. He caught her glance and smiled, a leer she recognized
well. "Ain’t ever’ day a girl like you runs from town, tail tucked. Now
your mama, I coulda seen her doing something like this, but not you.
Thought you had more spunk."

Merrilee’s face warmed, but she didn’t respond.

One, two, three … Take deep breaths, Merrilee. Don’t let anybody see how
you feel.

The baby poked against the counter as if to break free. Merrilee stepped
back.

Mr. Kenner squinted. "You headin’ out to look for that baby’s daddy?
None of the boys ’round Palmwood here have ’fessed up, and they
generally brag on accomplishments like you’re displayin’ so proud-like."

Merrilee didn’t answer. He didn’t really want to know the truth; that
was devoured by gossip in this small town as easily as the laundromat
dryers ate up the precious quarters Mama used to hoard in her tip jar.

"Here’s ya popcorn." Paula Jean shoved the bag across the counter, her
hands stopping well shy of Merrilee’s.

"Thanks." Merrilee lifted the bag, then looked Paula Jean and Mr. Kenner
square in the eye, hoping for some sort of friendly sign, some
expression of farewell. They stared back at her, eyes cold and hard as
the iron gates of Palmwood’s cemetery slamming shut.

"Well …" She gestured toward the door. "Guess I’ll wait outside for the
bus."

"You do that, hon." Paula Jean wiped down the counter. "Say, Ed, what do
you think about the Gophers’ chances this fall with their new
quarterback? That kid can throw a mighty long pass, I hear."

"Well, now …" Mr. Kenner leaned on the counter and launched into a
verbal assault on the upcoming team.

Merrilee hefted Mama’s battered blue hard-sided suitcase and headed
outside. A bell chimed as she exited.

Never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.

She smiled wryly as she eased down on the wooden bench below the ancient
metal Greyhound sign.

Mama would’ve said the bell was some sort of omen—but good or bad? Her
superstitions didn’t always make sense, and as far as Merrilee could
tell, had no basis in any folklore other than that of her own creation.

"I’m tellin’ you, Merrilee," she’d said, pointing with her freshly lit
Marlboro for emphasis. "Our lives are ruled by chance. Luck. The best we
can do is watch for signs."

"Oh, Mama."

"It’s true, girl. Heed the bad ones and grab on to the good ones."

Merrilee decided to humor her. "But how will I know the difference?"

"You’ll know." Mama had taken a long drag of the cigarette, blown out
the smoke, then ruffled Merrilee’s hair. "You’ll just know."


   _____

Lullaby, published by Tyndale House, available now. Copyright 2002 by
Jane Orcutt. Do not reproduce without permission.

ISBN 0842354050 hardcover
Available at Amazon.com, christianbook.com and fine stores everywhere.








[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]

Welcome back, Christian fiction fans!  This week we have two wonderful
excerpts for you:  FRIENDS AND ENEMIES by Stephen Bly and AIRWAVES by
Sherrie Lord.
Coming next week: NO RANDOM ACT by Dave and Neta Jackson and POSTMARKED
HEAVEN, by Jack Cavanaugh.
Happy reading!

FRIENDS AND ENEMIES
Fortunes of the Black Hills Series
By Stephen Bly


CHAPTER  ONE

Just north of Rapid City, South Dakota . . .
June 2, 1891

           The passengers disembarked slowly.  Most waited among the
boulders and trees as the train crew toted the injured and unconscious
gunmen to the caboose, where they were chained into leg-irons. Robert
Fortune assisted them, then hiked over to his family perched on a log
worn slick by wind and weather.
	 "They telegraphed back to Rapid City.  We have to wait for the
sheriff to come out and pick up the train robbers."
           "They didn't actually rob anyone," Little Frank noted.
           Robert plucked up his suit coat from Jamie Sue's lap and
slipped it on.  "Thanks to you three and Mama . . . "
	 "It was you, Daddy," Veronica insisted.
	 "If you hadn't encouraged us, we wouldn't have done anything,"
Little Frank said.
           Patricia bit her lip.  "I was too nervous even to be scared,"
she admitted.
"I suppose it looks rather rash and foolish to others, but it seemed
like the right thing to do at the time," Jamie Sue said.  "I pray that's
the last such adventure we have to go through."
           A short man with a pin-striped gray wool suit ambled over to
the log.  His hair was the color of the thick gray clouds.  "I couldn't
believe my eyes back there on the train.  I've never seen a family like
this before.  The husband coldcocks one robber, the kids pounce on the
next, and the wife shoots the third.  This is the most lethal family in
the West.  Where did you all learn to respond to crisis like that?  You
struck so quickly and thoroughly.  There was no hesitation whatever."
	 "Did you ever live around snake country?" Jamie Sue quizzed.
           "No ma'am, not really."
	 We lived for the past several years at Fort Huachuca in the
rocky desert country of southern Arizona.  We averaged killing a
rattlesnake a week," she reported.
           "Sometimes even in the house," Veronica added.
	 At first it was terrifying, but as soon as you learn how to kill
a snake, you find out it's not so scary," Jamie Sue continued.  "You
just do it quickly before the snake has a chance to think or harm you."
	 Then you skin 'em and tan the hides," Little Frank said.  "I
sold them to soldiers for hat bands and such.  'Course, the meat was
good too."
	 "You ate rattlesnake?"  The man's face turned pale.
	 "Sometimes Mama would make a stew out of them, but I like them
grilled right over the fire," Little Frank said.
	 The man with the green face turned to Robert Fortune.  "What do
snakes have to do with these train robbers?"
           "You have to strike fast before they get a chance to think or
harm you," Robert explained.  "Some things you have to do quickly,
before you rationalize yourself out of them."
           "Of course, train robbers don't taste as good as snakes,"
Veronica said.
	 "And when you skin 'em you can't hardly get nothin' for their
hide," Little Frank concluded.
           The man's hat dropped.  His face whitened.
	 Robert grinned.  "The truth of the matter is, this is a pretty
stubborn family and we just don't push around very well.  Never have.
Kind of an inherited characteristic."
           "Yes," Jamie Sue concurred.  "All the Fortunes are that way."
	 "Fortune?"  As the man retrieved his hat, Robert noticed he
packed a small revolver in a shoulder holster under his suit coat.
"Your name is Fortune?" the man said.
           "I'm Robert Fortune.  This is my wife, Jamie Sue, and our
children."
	 The man rubbed his round chin as if contemplating a weighty
decision.  "You related to that Deadwood bunch?"
	 'I'm afraid so," Robert said.  "They have quite a reputation,
don't they?  Are you a friend of Daddy Brazos or my brothers?"
	 "Eh . . . well . . . I've never actually met any of them."
           "I bet you read that book about my Uncle Todd and his 'Flying
Fist of Death," Veronica said.
	 The man took several small steps backward.
	 "It wasn't all that dramatic.  You know how those dime novels
play things up," Robert said.  "That was about the only time Todd had to
face a gunman of the caliber of Cigar Dubois.  Daddy Brazos, on the
other hand, has made a lifetime getting' himself in and out of tight
squeezes.  He was the one who brought down Doc Kabyo and that gang."
           "I was hoping to meet the one called Samuel Fortune," the man
explained.
           "Uncle Sammy is a real gunfighter," Patricia blurted out.  "He
isn't scared of anything.  Some say he was the toughest man in the
Indian Territory."
           "They call it Oklahoma now," her twin sister corrected.
	 "But it's still a territory," Little Frank said.
	 "Sammy's served his sentence in prison and retired from all that
now," Jamie Sue added.  "The Lord has made him a changed man."
	 Robert leaned back on the log and surveyed the other passengers.
A large woman chased a two-year-old boy, naked from the waist down,
through the boulders.  He glanced back at the short man.  "Are you in
the telephone business like Sammy?"
           Beads of sweat popped out on the man's forehead.  "Eh, no."
           "Well, what do you do?" Little Frank asked.
           The man took out a soiled white handkerchief and sponged his
forehead.  "You might say I'm a retired bounty hunter."
           "No foolin, you used to be a bounty hunter?" Little Frank
exclaimed.  "Boy, that must have been an exciting life.  I'd like to be
a bounty hunter, but Daddy says all the important outlaws are dead or in
jail already."
           "When did you retire?" Jamie Sue inquired.
	 The man pulled out a gold-plated pocket watch from his vest and
studied it.  "About thirty seconds ago," he said.


Copyright 2002 Stephen Bly
Broadman & Holman Publishers
ISBN #080542437-7

FRIENDS AND ENEMIES by Stephen Bly is available at quality bookstores or
can be ordered online at:  www.amazon.com  or  www.blybooks.com
***************************************************
AIRWAVES
(Chariot Victor Publishing)
Copyright 1998 Sherrie Lord
www.sherrielord.com


INTRO: Emily Erickson is attracted to the traffic-stopping gorgeous
Colin Michaels, except he's her boss at KDMD-FM, and he's not a
Christian. But then, God isn't pleased with Emily anyway.

SCENE:
Emily caught the motion out of the corner or her eye on Tuesday.
Proudly, she kept right on reading until she'd said the last words of
the commercial<"The Fast Lane clothing store in the Mountain Valley
Mall, Missoula"<and closed the mike. She looked to the hall window.
Colin, leaning against the frame, arms folded thickly over his chest,
raised his eyebrows in question. She smiled and waved him inside.
"Hi," she said as he closed the door behind him, a motion that puffed a
wave of musky cologne her direction.
Colin motioned toward the board behind her. "Is your mike open?"
Emily turned to the controls over her shoulder. "No," she said, but
pressed buttons anyway.
He leaned against the door, hands in the front pockets of his jeans.
Today's shirt was purple, deep and rich and seeming to have navy
accents, except it was only the color of his eyes.
"Good. I had fun too," he said. "Which brings me to my next question.
What are you doing after work on Friday? Would you like to go dancing?
Probably some pie afterward?"
"Sure."
"This wouldn't be business, Emily," he said quietly.
The seat beneath her seemed to fall away, then suck her into place.
"We've already talked about this," she told him, turning to the stack of
production copy, gathering it.
"We've already been dating," he said. "For weeks, though we've called it
by other names."
Don't say that. Take it back.
"Is that what you meant when you said, "Don't ruin it" he continued, as
if privy to her thoughts. "So long as we pretend it's business, it's
okay? If we always drive away from the station, that keeps it from being
a date © officially?"
"No," she said, tapping the papers on the counter, evening the edges.
"It's not like that."
"Then how is it?" he asked, still so quietly.
She shouldn't have kissed him. Shouldn't have let this go so far, though
it felt as though the merry dance to here, the place where she would
have to give it up, had barely begun. At least, she wasn't nearly ready
or satisfied.
"We left from my apartment on Saturday," she said, looking up, building
a case.
He shook his head. "Spur of the moment, just like last time and all the
times before that, and I'm not doing it anymore, Emmy. I wont be here at
the station when you get off the air Friday night. Shall I pick you up
at your apartment? Say, about eleven-thirty?"
It was a cruel question Colin asked. An ultimatum, really<asking her to
date her boss. Asking her to act as if the reminder she'd given Daddy
[to date only Christians] didn't apply to her. Asking her to tell Betty
to stop praying for a prudence and protection she didn't want.
As if summoned by a legion of angels, Betty strode by the hall window
and waved.
Emily sent her a grin she didn't feel and turned back to Colin. "I can't
do it."
"And I won't do it the other way. Not anymore."
Across the short stretch of floor, over the end of the counter, they
stared at each other, the room in silence but not silent. Not like the
vacuum in a house where no conversation resounded, where the only other
inhabitant lay dying upstairs. Where the phone never rang, no one
knocked on the door, and a fork poked at a plate at a table set for one.
Though the expansion and contraction of Colin's lungs couldn't be heard,
he breathed into the space around him, making the silence inhabited.
He's a user, Stacy had said. He's pretty smooth.
God is pretty direct on His opinion about Christians dating
non-Christians, Betty had said. He simply forbids it.
Tell Colin no, and he wouldn't ask again, making Friday night emptier
than it had ever been<maybe more so, for the knowing of what it used to
be, could be. No different from the Thursday night before it, it
wouldn't be a celebration of a work week survived, but the prelude to
the solitary weekend to follow<except for Brad, of course.
Brad. Very Christian, and very not Colin.
"Tell me you'd rather spend the evening with Jay Leno, and I'll have to
seek counseling," Colin said suddenly.
Breaking Emily into laughter. Which died as quickly as it leaped to
life.
"How do we handle this? How do we act here?" she asked, hypothetically,
of course.
"As we always have. We seldom see each other, so it's hardly an issue."
He shrugged. "Vicky Million and John Vaughn see each other on the side."
"They date?"
"It's ludicrous that they pay two rents."
Oh.
Colin grinned, dimples peeking, and pushed forward as if the decision
were already made. "While you're at it, why don't you set aside Saturday
night too? I have a special place I'd like to take you to dinner<that
is, if you aren't busy." He lifted his brows in question, drawing a grin
from her.
"Why should I give you both nights?" Emily challenged. "Maybe I wont
have fun on Friday."
You're joking, of course, his expression said.
It was a little farfetched, and the decision was made by default; she
hadn't said no. However, when the door closed behind him, he took all
the assurance with him. Emily stared out the hall window he'd glided by.
Stared at the floor where he'd stood. Stared at the production in hand.
Foolish. Trouble. Could cost her her job, not to mention her heart. She
should step across the hall to his office and tell him she'd changed her
mind.

AIRWAVES can be ordered through the following link:
www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/156476706X/qid%3D/103-6744546-9355042

Good morning,  Christian fiction fans!  This week we have two treats for
you:  historical fiction by Kathleen Morgan, and a contemporary
collaboration by Lori Copeland and Angie Hunt.

Next week: FRIENDS AND ENEMIES by Stephen Bly, and an excerpt from
Sherrie Lord.

Enjoy!

--Moderators







CHILD OF PROMISE

By Kathleen Morgan



The plains east of Colorado Springs, Colorado

August 1909



As the Colorado and Southern Railroad Company locomotive, affectionately
known as the "C & S" or "Crooked and Slow" for its sinuous course and
many stops, drew near the town of Grand View, the engineer sounded the
whistle. On such a clear, sunny day, the shrill cry echoed in every
direction. A small herd of pronghorn antelope stampeded. Wings tucked
tightly to their sides, a flock of spindly-legged sandpipers hiding in
the grass beside the railroad bed scrambled for safer cover.

Dr. Elizabeth MacKay glanced up briefly from her book and smiled. It was
good to know some things, even after six years' absence, hadn't changed.
The pronghorn still grazed the rolling hills. The birds appeared to be
as abundant as ever. And, in the distance to the west, Pikes Peak
remained the ever strong, majestic sentinel.

Beth shoved her book into a side pocket of her traveling bag and looked
back out the window. Doc Childress had wasted little time-once he had
heard of the completion of her internship-in offering her a partnership
in his Grand View medical office. Even now, though, Beth had mixed
feelings about accepting the job.

True, she missed her home and family. She hadn't seen them in nearly all
the years of her medical schooling, fearing anything that might weaken
her resolve to stick it out no matter the cost. Indeed, after a time,
she had almost gotten used to the grueling work, the lack of sleep, the
gut-twisting loneliness.

Her mouth tightened. It was the taunts, the ridicule, the purposeful
obstacles placed in her way that had been the hardest of all to endure.

Because she was a woman. Because she was part Indian. Because she was
young and attractive. Because she was a fighter, and gave as good as she
got.

And then there had been Matthew.and the baby.

All told, the past six years had been the hardest years she had ever
endured. They had left their mark-that much Beth knew. But she hadn't
given up.

She had persevered; she had won. But the cost. The cost had been far,
far greater than Beth had ever imagined-or had yet perhaps even fully to
realize.

"Are you getting off at Grand View, or traveling farther south?" A
stout, gray-haired, motherly woman plopped down in the seat across from
her. "I've been watching you ever since I boarded in Denver, and have
been itching to visit with you. But"-she motioned to the volume
protruding from Beth's traveling bag-"you seemed so engrossed in your
book, I hated to intrude."

Beth had a fleeting moment of regret for putting aside her book-a trick
she had long ago discovered encouraged others to keep their distance-and
this time forced a smile. "Yes, I'm getting off at Grand View, and yes,
I do love to read. It helps pass the hours, doesn't it?"

"It does indeed." The woman leaned forward and extended her hand. "My
name's Cora Bledsoe. My husband and I run the bakery in Grand View.

Bledsoe's Quality Baked Goods, it's called."

"And I'm Elizabeth MacKay." Beth took her outstretched hand, gave it a
quick squeeze, then released it. "My father's Conor MacKay, the owner
of-"

"Oh, I know who your father is," Cora said with a wave of her hand.

"Everyone knows the owner of Culdee Creek Ranch." She cocked her head.

"But I've never seen you before, and we've lived here all of five years
now."

"I've been back East for a time, attending medical school."

The woman's silver brows lifted. "Medical school, you say? So you're a
doctor?"

Beth nodded, already beginning to weary of this all but one-sided
interrogation. "Yes, I am. I've come home to go into practice with Doc
Childress."

"A lady doctor." Cora shook her head in apparent amazement. "Land sakes.
Grand View's going to have a lady doctor."

"Yes, they are."

Beth gazed back out the window. Blessedly, the town under discussion was
even now coming into view. Situated on a vast, grassy plain of gently
undulating hills, Grand View looked like some child's toy town picked up
and set out in the middle of nowhere.

Wooden clapboard buildings made up most of the dwellings. The wide
streets were still of dirt, and boardwalks lined the front of the
businesses. As the C&S passed over the summer-shriveled Cottonwood
Creek, the long, white buildings of the grain elevator and creamery
seemed to leap out, like virtuous guardians, on the right hand side of
the tracks. On the left slumped the weather-beaten train station
warehouse.

The locomotive began to slow. Brakes ground against iron wheels. Steam
hissed. Then, with a bone-jarring lurch, the old Crooked and Slow came
to a halt.

"Well, I'd best be getting my things together," Cora Bledsoe said. "Now
that you're home to stay, we'll have plenty of time to get to know each
other better. In fact, once you're all settled in, stop by the bakery.

You can meet my husband, Walter, and sample some of our specialties. On
the house, of course."

"I'll be sure and do that, Cora." Beth bent, retrieved her traveling
bag, and stood. "It was so nice to make your acquaintance."

"It was my pleasure. It's not everyday we get a lady doctor come to
town. No indeed."

Beth pretended some problem with her satchel until Cora Bledsoe had
departed the car. Finally, she placed her own broad, straw hat trimmed
with blue and white ribbons on her head, paused to straighten her navy
blue traveling suit, then picked up her bag and headed for the door.

She was back home at last, a doctor and grown woman. It was time to
begin her life anew, put the past behind her. She only hoped she wasn't
too late.

CHILD OF PROMISE, Book four in the Brides of Culdee Creek historical
romance series. Published by Fleming H. Revell, a division of Baker Book
House. ISBN# 0-8007-5761-0. See  <outbind://139/www.kathleenmorgan.com>
www.kathleenmorgan.com for more information. Available at
<outbind://139/www.Christianbook.com> www.Christianbook.com and fine
stores everywhere. Copyright 2002, Kathleen Morgan.

***************

A PERFECT LOVE, by Lori Copeland and Angela Hunt.  Book four in the
Heavenly Daze series

Heavenly Daze is a fictional island off the coast of Maine where every
home is inhabited by an angel . . .



             "Yidl mitn fidl, Arye mitn bas . . ."

             Buddy made a face as Yakov's tenor warbling came through the
thin wall that divided his living quarters from the storage room beyond.
Saturday morning, and a guy couldn't sleep late in his own apartment.

             "Hey," he called, kicking the wall at the foot of his bed.
"Can you keep it down in there?"

             A moment later Yakov's swarthy face peered through one of
the metal air vents Mike had placed in the thin wall. "Am I disturbing
you, Buddy?"

             "A little." Buddy pulled his blanket higher on his shoulder,
then dropped his head to his pillow. "Wouldn't be so bad if you'd sing
something that made sense."

             "You don't know 'Yidl Mitn Fidl'?" A note of astonishment
rang in the helper's voice. "Why, everyone in Holland--"

             Buddy lifted his head. "You were in Holland?"

             A betraying blush darkened the other man's face. "Many years
ago. It was . . . during a bad time. I was there to help the Father's
chosen people."

             Buddy propped his head on his hand and stared. How much did
Mike and Dana know about this Yakov guy, anyway? Nothing he said made
any sense. Here he was, talking about Holland many years ago, when from
the look of his face Yakov couldn't be much older than Mike. And what
had he been doing in Holland, and who was this mysterious father he
referred to all the time? This Yakov was probably involved with some
weird cult, yet naive Dana and Mike had welcomed him into their home.

             He frowned toward the air vents. "Hey, dude--did you grow up
in Holland?"

             "Um . . . no." The flash of a smile shone through the metal
flanges. "I am sorry about the song. I could sing something else."

             "Whatever." Buddy scratched his chin. "Do you know 'Three
Times a Lady?'"

             Yakov's dark brows slanted downward. "No. Do you like 'Gut
Morgan, A Gut Yor?'"

             Buddy clamped down his rising irritation. "What language is
that, Japanese?"

             "Yiddish." Yakov bowed his head slightly. "A fun language.
Yidl mitn fidl means Yidl with his fiddle, and Arye mitn bas is Aryeh
with his bass--"

             "I don't care what it means! I want to sleep!"

             Yakov retreated as if he'd been slapped. "I am sorry," he
whispered, then he closed the vent-a silly thing to do, really, because
Buddy had the woodstove and the only source of heat in the carriage
house.

             At least it was quiet now.

             Irritated and restless, Buddy pounded his pillow, then
buried his face in its softness. He hadn't meant to lose his temper. He
hardly ever yelled, but something about Yakov seemed to bring out the
worst in him. The man was always happy and smiling, always singing those
stupid songs in that crazy language . . .

             While he, Buddy, just wanted to be left alone.

             A gentle tapping at the front door grated across his nerves.
"What?"

             He heard the squeak of the hinge as the door opened. Yakov
stood there, his face composed and his eyes shining with friendliness.
"Buddy, it is not good for a man to be alone. Would you like to help me
package a few art prints?"

             Buddy stared at him. What was the guy doing, trying to get
out of work?

             "You're alone," Buddy snapped. "And you don't seem to mind
it."

             "I am not a man," Yakov replied easily. He hesitated, then
pressed. "So-you do not want to help?"

             "No!"

             Buddy kicked at the footboard for emphasis, but a full
minute passed before the hinge creaked again and Yakov withdrew. Lying
very still, Buddy clenched his eyes shut and fought against the tide of
emotion rising within him.

             Not a man? Of course he wasn't, the fellow was a certifiable
fruitcake! Dana and Mike were living with a lunatic, but they had been
too charmed by his goofy smile and funny language to notice Yakov was
one hundred percent crazy.

             And the townspeople thought he was nuts.


   _____




Copyright 2002 by Lori Copeland and Angela Hunt. Published by W Group
Publishing. Do not reproduce without permission.

Visit the Heavenly Daze web page at www.heavenlydazeme.com and you'll
find links for ordering all the books there!














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Welcome, Christian fiction fans!  We hope you'll enjoy these latest two
installments by two wonderful novelists--Terri Blackstock and Lisa
Bergren.  On deck for next week--CHILD OF PROMISE, by Kathleen Morgan and A
PERFECT LOVE, book four in the Heavenly Daze series by Lori Copeland and Angela
Hunt.



Enjoy!



************************



CAPE REFUGE

(Abridged)

By Terri Blackstock



The air conditioner was broken at City Hall, and the smell of warm salt
air drifted through the windows from the beach across the street.
Morgan Cleary fanned herself and wished she hadn't dressed up.  She
might have known that no one else would. The mayor sat in shorts and a
tee shirt that advertised his favorite brand of beer.  One of the city
councilmen wore a Panama hat and flip-flops. Sarah Williford, the newest
member of the Cape Refuge City Council looked as if she'd come in from a
day of surfing and hadn't even bothered to stop by the shower.  She wore
a Spandex top that looked like a bathing suit and a pair of cut-off
jeans.  Her long hair could have used a brush....

             Morgan saw the mayor's eyes seek her out in the crowd, and
she punched her sister.  Blair drew in a quick breath and tried to
straightened up.

             "The Owenses still ain't here?" he asked.

             Morgan glanced back at the door, but Blair shot to her feet.
"No, Fred, they're not here.  Why don't you just move this off the
agenda for this week and save it until next week?  I'm sure something's
come up."

             "Maybe they don't intend to come," the mayor said.

"Don't you wish," Blair fired back.  "You're threatening to shut down
their business.  They'll be here, all right."

             "Well, I'm tired of waitin'," the mayor said into the
microphone, causing feedback to squeal across the room.  Everybody
covered their ears until Jason Manford got down on his knees and fiddled
with the knob.  "We've moved it down the agenda twice already tonight,"
the mayor went on. "If we ever want to get out of here, I think we need
to start arguin' this right now."

             Morgan got up.  "Mayor, there must be something wrong.
Jonathan went to see if he could find them. Please, if we could just
have a few more minutes."

             "We're not waitin' any longer.  Now if anybody from your
camp has somethin' to say."

             "What are you gonna do, Mayor?" Blair asked, pushing up her
sleeves and shuffling past the knees and feet on her row. "Shut us down
without a hearing? That's not even legal. You could find yourself
slapped with a lawsuit... Where would that leave the town?"

             She marched defiantly past the standing-room-only crowd
against the wall to the microphone at the front of the room.

             Morgan got a queasy feeling in her stomach. Blair wasn't the
most diplomatic of the Owens family. She was an impatient intellectual
who found her greatest fulfillment in the books of the library she ran.
People were something of a nuisance to her, and she found their
pettiness unforgivable

             Blair set her hands on her hips. "I've been wanting to give
you a piece of my mind for a long time now, Fred."

             The people erupted into loud chatter, and the mayor banged
his gavel to silence them."

             ..."Hanover House is one of the oldest homes on this island,
and it's part of our heritage," Blair went on. "And I find it real
interesting that you'd be all offended by what they do there out in the
open, when Betty Jean's secret playhouse for men is still operating
without a hitch."

             Again, the crowd roared. Horrified, Morgan stood up. Quickly
trying to scoot out of her row, she whispered to those around her, "I'm
sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't know she was going to say that. She didn't
mean it, she just says whatever comes to her mind--"

             "Incidentally, Fred," Blair shouted, "I see that you don't
have any trouble finding a parking space at her place!" Blair added.

             The mayor came out of his seat, his mouth hanging open with
stunned indignation. Morgan stepped on three feet, trying to get to her
sister. She fully expected Fred to find Blair in contempt-if mayors did
that sort of thing in city council meetings-and order the Hanover House
bulldozed before nightfall.

             "She didn't mean that!" Morgan shouted over the crowd,
pushing toward the front. "I'm sure she's never seen your car at Betty
Jean's, have you, Blair? Mayor, please, if I may say a few words..." She
finally got to the front, her eyes rebuking Blair.....

             "If I may..." Morgan said, trying to make her soft voice
sound steady, "the question here is whether there's something illegal
going on at Hanover House. And unless there is, you have no grounds for
closing us down."

             The crowd applauded again....

             The sound of sirens rose over the crowd's noise, cutting
across the mayor's words and quieting the crowd. Those on the east side
of the building, where Morgan and Blair stood, craned their necks to see
out the open window, trying to figure out where the fire trucks and
police cars were heading. As one after another went by, sirens wailing
and lights flashing, Morgan realized that something big must have
happened. The island was small, and the sound of sirens was not an
everyday occurrence. But now the sound of several at once rang out like
a disaster alarm that could not be ignored.

             When the front doors of the room swung open, everyone turned
expectantly. Police Chief Matthew Cade-whom friends called simply
"Cade"-stood scanning the faces, his skin pale against his dark,
windblown hair.

             His eyes fell on the sisters at the front of the crowd.
"Blair, Morgan, I need to see both of you right away."

             Morgan's eyes locked with her sister's for a second, terrors
storming through her mind.

             "What is it, Cade?" Blair asked.

             He cleared his throat and swallowed hard.  "We need to
hurry," he said, then pushed the door open wider and stood beside it,
watching them, clearly expecting them to accompany him.

             Whatever it was, Morgan realized, he couldn't or wouldn't
say it in front of all these people. Something horrible had happened.

             Melba Jefferson, their mother's closest friend, stood and
touched Morgan's back. "Oh, honey."

             Morgan took Blair's hand, and the now-silent crowd parted as
they made their way out. Cade escorted them into the fading sunlight and
his waiting squad car.



CAPE REFUGE, Book One in the "Cape Refuge" suspense series. Published by
Zondervan, ISBN 0-310-23592-8. See  <http://www.terriblackstock.com/>
www.terriblackstock.com for more information.



******************************************



THE BRIDGE

By Lisa Tawn Bergren



Story: Saved from an accident as a baby, Jared Conway must journey back
to the bridge where his mother died forty years before, to understand
the power of sacrifice, the gift of love, and the bridge to true inner
peace.



PROLOGUE




July, 1961


Ernie Powell took a deep breath of the Swan River morning. There was no
place like northwest Montana in July, and today was a day to prove it.
He reached for his forty-year-old fly rod and made his way to the
riverbank, admiring the view before him like a treasured old friend.
This morning a thin layer of fog hovered just above the still pools held
by piles of logs, creating an unearthly golden glow above deep water
green. Here and there, boulders were beginning to emerge from waters
that were waning from their snowmelt zenith to the more subdued waters
of mid-summer.

             About twenty-five yards downstream was his favorite fishing
spot, just in the shadow of the old bridge he had watched them build as
a boy. The trout favored the darkness that shielded them from the rising
sun, and were often hungry at this time in the morning. Although the air
was cool, he could tell the fog would soon be gone. It would be a warm
day.

             With rubber boots on, Ernie waded in, then reached into the
basket at his hip, studying the ebb and flow of the river as he pulled
out and attached his fly-hand tied just the night before-to the line. He
cast it out to the sweet spot the fish favored and the blue and green
Spanner was just floating down past the deepest pool when he heard a car
approaching. Odd, he thought, at this hour. It was early for any
traffic. He grumbled under his breath. Vibrations from traffic scared
away the trout.

             He hated the increasing number of automobiles that passed
over the rickety, old wooden bridge, but growth was inevitable, he
supposed. The other side of the river now had more than eighteen cabins.


             Ernie muttered under his breath. He had missed his
opportunity over the deep pool. He pulled in his line, and cast again as
the car left the gravel above him and began crossing the one-car bridge.
Planks creaked and it seemed the entire bridge moaned under the weight.
Ernie frowned. It was a different sound than its usual protest. What was
usually a chu-chunk chu-chunk was now a keening, splitting scream.

             The car was just as at the center of the bridge when Ernie
heard the crack of a thousand broken bones, and watched in horror as a
central piling collapsed. "Oh no," he muttered under his breath. The
next piling went too. "God in heaven.no!"

             The silver Buick slipped backward into the sudden crevasse,
and Ernie heard a woman scream. He dropped his rod and shouted, not
knowing what he said, too stunned to move. The back of the Buick hit the
water with a tremendous splash, buoyed for a moment, then started
sinking impossibly fast, the front still sticking upward. A baby wailed.
As the woman kept shrieking, a cross section fell from the bridge,
crashing through the windshield. The shrieking stopped. The baby's cry
went on, increasingly furious.

             Without another thought, Ernie pulled off his boots and
stumbled downriver, wincing as rocks bit into his tender flesh. He had
not been swimming for nearly twenty years, but he did not hesitate. He
ran into the water, watching as the car yanked against the bridge that
held it, filling with waters that urged it downstream. When the water
reached his waist, Ernie dived in, gasping at the cold that took his
breath away. Dear Father, he prayed again as he made his way to the
wreck, shuddering as the cold chilled his flesh, dear God in heaven,
please let me help them. I'm just an old man. Give me the strength.

             His gnarled hand grasped at the driver's open door window,
and he carefully hauled himself upward to look through the broken
windshield, conscious of the precarious hold the decrepit bridge had on
the Buick. What he saw inside took his breath away faster than the cold.
A young woman, her face nearly under water, her body pinned beneath the
rotting wood sticking through the windshield, fixed upon him with
desperate eyes. Ernie saw blood pool in the water around her waist and
filter away like fiery sunset clouds in a strong wind. She held the baby
above her, frantically trying to keep him safe, and his bright red face
turned toward Ernie. His fury startled the old man back into breathing.

             Ernie glanced at the woman, wondering how to get them out,
and her eyes told him everything.

             He could not save them both.

             She was handing him her child, her love, for him to save.
The car groaned, and the mother slipped farther under, bubbles that
signaled the last breath she would ever take rising to the surface.
Swallowing hard, Ernie grabbed the babe from her icy, trembling fingers
and watched in horror as they sank. He cast himself away from the wreck,
sobbing, holding the child above water until he came back up himself,
then resting the boy on his chest as he swam, swam with everything in
him for the shore.

             Dear God, it's cold, he prayed to the Savior who had long
been his friend. Please let me get this child to the shore. If I can do
this one last thing.His heart pounded painfully against his ribs, and
Ernie wondered for the first time if he would survive. The babe quieted.
Probably going into shock, Ernie assessed distantly, remembering
soldiers in trenches during the Great War. There was a bright light, and
Ernie wondered why the sun was so high in the sky at this hour. He felt
rocks beneath him, and he stumbled to his feet, desperate for a
foothold. His arms were falling asleep, and Ernie struggled to hold on
to the baby. It was bright, so bright.



THE BRIDGE, published by WaterBrook Press

ISBN 1-57856-272-4 hardcover

ISBN 1-57856-  paperback

Copyright 2000 Lisa Tawn Bergren, www.lisatawnbergren.com

Available at Amazon.com, christianbook.com and fine stores everywhere.

Welcome, Christian fiction readers! This week we have a historical
romance selection
from IN HONOR BOUND, by DeAnna Julie Dodson, and a medical thriller
excerpt from SECOND OPINION, by Hannah Alexander.

Next week: New suspense from CAPE REFUGE by Terri Blackstock, and a
heartfelt romance from Lisa Tawn Bergren's THE BRIDGE.

Happy Reading!
***************************************

IN HONOR BOUND

By DeAnna Julie Dodson

The great hall of the king's palace in Winton was filled with lights
and music.  The banqueting tables groaned under their burden of food
and wine.  Robert of Afton had been king for a year now and he had
invited all of his highborn subjects to celebrate the anniversary
with him.  That was not, however, the only reason for this gathering.

Stern and unwelcoming, Philip stood beside his father as, one after
another, the eligible daughters of the nobility, fetched from
throughout the kingdom, were presented to him.  His presence here was
not by invitation but by command.

"I have set the day for the great feast," Robert had informed him a
few weeks before.  "I will announce your brother's betrothal then."

"He is betrothed?" Philip had asked, surprised.

"I have contracted him to Lord Aberwain's daughter, Lady Elizabeth."

"And Tom is agreed?"

"He will be.  I've not told him yet, but he will be.  She is reported
fair and pliant and most truly virtuous.  Tom can find no fault in
the choice."

"Except if he does not love her."

"If not, he will grow to it in time, as you will when you marry.  In
faith, I never once saw your mother until we were at the altar, but
from that moment I loved her as deep and sweet as even your stubborn
heart could wish.  Tom may easily find it so for him."

"And if she does not love him?"

Robert had laughed.  "Not love Tom?  I defy the girl to do it!
Besides, he knows where his duty lies, as I trust you do.  I wish to
have your betrothal concluded soon, too."

"My lord, you pledged me I should have until spring,"  Philip had
said stiffly.  Robert had often pressed him to choose a wife, but
Philip had reasons of his own to put him off and had wrested from him
a pledge to keep his freedom for yet awhile.

"You shall not marry until spring, I shall keep that true to you, but
now is to promise.  We have asked to the feast all the lovely maids
whose fathers we wish to have bound to Afton.  They are to be
presented at court.  Look among them, choose one, and I shall set my
approval upon her."

"I cannot choose a wife as I would a horse or a pair of gloves - from
stock on hand.  I can tell you now already, there is none of them I
could love."

Robert had taken a calm sip of wine, recognizing the stubborn set to
his son's jaw and realizing that force would not move him now.

"It is that girl you've taken to sport with, is it not?  This
creature that waits on Richard's Lady Margaret, Katherine Fletcher?
Surely you cannot mean to set aside your sacred duty and your honor,
too, for your pleasure."

  "I love her."  Philip's stubbornness had melted into entreaty.  "You
said I might choose for myself now.  Please, Father, let it be Kate.
For that deep sweet love you've known so long, the love I've only yet
tasted, let it be Kate."

"It cannot be," Robert had answered.  "I almost wish for your sake,
son, I might say yes, but, even if we were at peace, it cannot be.
Have you forgotten the blood you bear?  The very noblest, the very
most royal, and yet you would mix it so carelessly in marriage?  With
a serving wench?  It cannot be."

"Forgive me, my lord, and do not think I mean you disrespect, but I
cannot choose among your nobly bred maids.  I cannot forsake the one
I love.  You know I have tried to please you since you betrayed the
king-"

"I am the king."

Philip had rubbed his cheek, remembering the first time they had had
this quarrel.  "I know it.  Please, Father, I do not mean to anger
you.  Ask me any other service and I swear I will be Mercury to do
it, but do not ask this of me, I beg you."

"You know it must be so, but it need not fret you.  Marry one of
these girls, help me keep Afton strong, and you need not give up your
Kate.  I will see her safely to some secret place, away from the
tongues at court, and there you may keep her so long as it pleases
you.  Meanwhile, your noble lady and her kinsmen need never take
offense at what they do not know.  Just spare me the knowledge of any
half-blooded whelps she gives you."

Philip had looked at him in disgust, his dark brows drawn into a hard
line.  "You dare call yourself a king and my father and urge me to
willful adultery?"

"You make fine distinction between adulterer and whoremaster."

Philip's whole body had tightened with the desire to strike the
cynical smirk from his father's face.  He had made a curt bow instead.

"I ask your leave to withdraw, my lord, before I am no longer master
of my tongue."

"Go on then, but make yourself ready to choose a wife come the feast
day."

"I have told you my choice."

"And I have told you, that cannot be.  Do you think this is some
boys' game we play now?  You are a Chastelayne prince.  Your marriage
is a matter of state.  When you have tired of this wench, you will
thank me that I have not let you tie yourself forever to one so far
beneath you."

"Do what you will," Philip had said, a defiant light in his
eyes.  "I'll not be threatened or cajoled or ordered into marrying
anyone."

"See here, proud boy-"

"No, my lord, I do not nor will not see.  Pardon me or let me not be
pardoned, but do not force me in this.  It can never be."

"It must be," Robert had said gravely.  "Please you or no, it will
be."

Copyright 1997, Crossway Books
Available online at www.christianbook.com, www.amazon.com, or
www.bn.com
Visit DeAnna at her website, http://members.aol.com/Miss%20swrite/

****************************************************************

SECOND OPINION

By Hannah Alexander

The Story: Whether it's escaping an old life, searching for a safe
home, or making a desperate attempt to keep a family together, each
new ER staff member has a good reason for coming to Dogwood Springs,
Missouri. Can these people provide help to ER patients while
desperately searching for peace in their own lives?

Gina Drake awoke with a violence so frightening that she cried out,
and the voice she heard was that of a stranger. She winced at the
sudden onslaught of light from a window that looked ragged around the
edges. Sudden tears blurred her vision. The sound of her own pitiful
gasps punctuated the roar in her ears, and she leaped to her feet in
a panic. She was lost.

Past the unfocused edges of furniture, she saw a door and stumbled
toward it . . . had to get out of this place . . . had to get to air.
She was suffocating, couldn't get enough oxygen, couldn't fight her
way past the attack of piercing light.

A garbled cry, soft and light, reached her through the haze and the
pounding of her heartbeat, and stopped her for just a moment, but she
couldn't see past the tearing in her eyes. The cry didn't come again
before the threatening roar returned to envelop her in terror. She
grabbed the doorknob and forced her way outside. Had to find her
children. Had to protect them!

She tripped and nearly fell, and that strange, soft cry reached her
once more from behind. She turned and saw nothing but blurred shapes
and gray splotches. She had to escape! There was danger here! She
ran, and kept on running.

*****

Gina Drake came to herself in the heaviness of evening, shivering as
a gust of cool wind puckered gooseflesh down her legs. She raised her
icy, shaking hands to her face. The sharp teeth of pain bit into her
feet, and she realized they were bare. She blinked and stared around
her at squares of illumination from nearby homes. In the deepening
gray of late twilight she recognized the outline of the elementary
school, and she looked down at the merry-go-round where she sat.
She'd found herself here before, and her memory grew sharper. She'd
run here in a panic, unable to control her terror, unable to
recognize her surroundings.

And she'd left her children at home.

Her breath caught when the truth hit her. "Levi!" she cried. "Cody!"

She jumped up, and gravel dug into the flesh of her bare feet. She
stumbled to the grass and braced herself, gasping with pain. She had
to get to the boys. It was dark, they'd be scared, wondering where
she was. She tried to ignore the pain as she limped across the
playground toward the educational building. She was still weak and
shaky, and she shivered as the dew-soaked grass stung the cuts and
bruises of her broken flesh.

"Stupid, stupid," she muttered at herself as frustration and fear
shadowed her. How much more afraid must her children be?

"Don't let them be scared," she prayed to an unknown listener. "Let
them be okay." They had to be. They were good boys, and Levi always
watched after his little brother. He was so mature for a six-year-old.

But her fear mounted as she reached the sidewalk and crossed through
the shadows beneath the overhang of the building. What was happening
to her? The terror that overcame her also blocked out pieces of time.
The terror was more than just a panic attack. Wasn't it?

She thought of Aunt Bridget, and a black feeling of helplessness
nearly overwhelmed her. No! It couldn't happen to her! Levi and Cody
needed her, she was all they had.

Her head ached, and her heart felt as if it were being squeezed into
a tiny space. She couldn't keep doing this . . . couldn't leave her
own children frightened and alone. The last time she'd done this Levi
had been in tears when she returned.

Bad dreams. It had to be nightmares. Something was frightening her,
and whatever it was had been so horrible her mind refused to recall
it. She remembered in vivid detail the horror all those years
ago . . .

Her head ached, and her legs shook. And now she welcomed the pain in
her feet. She deserved the pain. What kind of mother ran out of the
house into the darkness and left her children alone?

In spite of her determination not to cry, her throat swelled with
tears of frustration and self-condemnation. She broke into a run on
the uneven sidewalk, and fresh pain sliced up her legs from her
wounded feet. Had to get home . . . had to reach the boys . . . had
to comfort them, make sure they were okay, try to explain, one more
time, why she'd left . . . if only she knew.

She caught sight of her house up ahead, and saw lights shining from
every window, and felt another tug at her heart. Levi hated the dark.
The abundance of lights reproached her. She reached the front
sidewalk and saw a square of white against the solid oak darkness of
the front door. Large, squared letters, quickly scrawled, struck her
with accusation:

"Levi has been hurt. I'm taking both boys to the emergency room.
Agnes."


SECOND OPINION, Book One in The Healing Touch series. Published by
Bethany
House Publishers, ISBN 0-7642-2528-6 (mention code PC80) Available at
local
bookstores or by calling (866) 241-6733, or by ordering online from
www.christianbook.com or Barnes & Noble or www.amazon.com

Copyright 2002, Hannah Alexander

Welcome, Christian fiction readers! This week we have a historical selection
from HEART OF THE SANDHILLS, by Stephanie Grace Whitson, and a suspense
selection from WHIRLPOOL, by Lorena McCourtney.

Next week: A historical romance excerpt from Deanna Dodson and a medical
thriller selection from SECOND OPINION, by Hannah Alexander.

Happy Reading, and may you have a blessed Easter.

*****************************************************************************

HEART OF THE SANDHILLS

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

She found him leaning on the corral fence, one foot on the bottom rung, his
elbows resting on the top. Instead of tugging playfully on the long braid that
hung down his back, she lifted his arm and slipped beneath it, nestling against
him and murmuring, "Stop worrying. They are coming to see you - not the things
you own."

Daniel Two Stars tightened his arm around his wife. Pulling her against him, he
nuzzled the top of her head with his chin. Then, he changed the subject. "I was
remembering that night at the old mission. The moon was so bright it cast
shadows on the ground - just like tonight."

Gen sighed and crossed her arms atop his, stroking the back of his hands. "The
first time we kissed," she offered. "The first time I let myself think I might
like you more than a little."

Daniel tightened the pressure around her momentarily and bent down to kiss her
cheek. "You liked me long before that," he teased. "You used to look for excuses
to walk by the mission sawmill when I was working."

"I did not!" she protested. "It wasn't my fault the sawmill just happened to be
on the way to everything else."

"All I know," he said gently, "is that every time I looked up from my work a
pair of blue eyes was watching me."

"I was worried you would go back to your old horse-thieving ways." She spun
around and hugged him fiercely. "I knew you were a better man than that. Even
then I knew." She looked up at him. "The children are coming to see us, Daniel.
Not the house. Not the barn. Not our things."

"They will be expecting a house like that," he said, nodding towards Jeb Grant's
two-story frame house. Gen could almost see their cabin shrinking in the
moonlight. She spoke up again. "Aaron and Meg will never forget what you did for
them-those nights when you protected us. Nothing will ever change their love for
you."

"They love a memory," Daniel said. He beat his chest, mocking himself, "The
Indian hero who saved them." He shook his head. "What will they think when they
learn that hero is a poor man who doesn't even own the land he farms? What will
they think when they see I am little more than a servant to a white man -- just
like the servants who bring them meals and wash their clothes?"

"Stop it." Gen stomped her foot impatiently and hit him lightly on the shoulder
even as she flung a desperate, wordless prayer to heaven, asking for help to
encourage him. "The man I love is rich in everything that matters. He has worked
hard and harvested a fine stand of corn, his friends respect him, and"-she
reached up and, laying her hand alongside his cheek she made him look at her;
"-and he pleases his wife who will adore him until the day she dies." Standing
on tiptoe, she kissed him, gently at first, then not so gently. When Daniel
returned the kiss and pulled her against him, she wrapped her arms around his
neck.

"What would I do without you, little wife?" he whispered.

Gen planted a kiss on his weathered cheek. "That, best beloved, you will never
have to discover." A cool breeze made her shiver. She linked her arm through
his. "Now stop brooding and take me inside. I'm cold."

"Stop ordering me around," he teased, quoting with mock seriousness, "A
contentious wife is a continual dripping."

"I am not being contentious," she taunted back, "I merely want you to obey the
scripture that tells husbands to love their wives.oh, and the one that talks
about husbands rejoicing in the wife of their youth."

"I can do that," Daniel muttered. He swept her up into his arms and carried her
the short distance to their cabin door, setting her down just inside.

"Yes, I know," Gen said, taking his hand and leading him into the darkness.

* * *

With her arm bent beneath her as a pillow, Genevieve Two Stars lay on her side
watching her husband sleep. The chill wind had brought snow. When a gust of wind
swept across the top of the chimney and launched itself downward, a shower of
sparks revived the flames and briefly illuminated her husband's face. Gen
reached out to touch his lower lip, to follow its curve to the corner of his
mouth and then across the jaw and finally into the mass of glossy black hair
spilling across his pillow.

They had been married just a little over a year. She had not realized when she
came back from New York how universally despised they would be. Even though he
could not read, Jeb Grant sometimes brought down a newspaper from town, and what
she read in it caused Gen to shudder. Savages. Murderers. Fiends.

Looking at her husband sleeping next to her, she shook her head at the ignorance
being displayed in those newspapers. In everything give thanks, the Scriptures
said. She closed her eyes and gave thanks. Daniel is mine. We have a roof over
our heads. The Grants are kind. We are not hungry. Daniel is mine. The children
are coming to visit. Daniel is mine. Always, her prayers circled back to the
wonderful joy of having the love of her life near. She looked at her husband
again. So handsome, she thought. Such a beautiful man, even with the premature
wrinkles around his eyes, the deepening crease between his eyebrows.

Worry, Gen thought. He was always worrying. He would just have to see for
himself. The children's visit would be a celebration and at last Daniel would
see that nothing mattered but their love for one another and their love for the
Lord. He would see, Gen thought. She nestled against him.

Without opening his eyes, Daniel drew her closer, settling her head on his
shoulder. "The storm is worse," he murmured, half asleep.

When Gen shivered slightly and curled one leg over his in an attempt to get
warm, he opened his eyes, raised up on one shoulder and looked down at her. He
said nothing, only pulled the worn comforter up around her shoulders before
finding a more creative way to keep her warm.

Copyright 2000. Do not reproduce without permission.

To order Heart of the Sandhills, visit www.stephaniegracewhitson.com



**********************************************************************



WHIRLPOOL

by

Lorena McCourtney

THE STORY: When the woman who stole Stefanie Canfield's husband turns up dead,
Stefanie is accused of killing her. Did she do it? She isn't certain...

Chapter One

Stefanie Canfield shouldered her way through the throng of people streaming in
the opposite direction. Down on the beach, a fireburst of red stars exploded,
followed by raucous whistles of appreciation from the crowd. Beyond, the surf
boomed in the darkness. Fog muffled the roar, but from farther out echoed the
rhythmic bong of a buoy.

Not an ideal night for Fourth of July fireworks, but Stefanie felt exhilarated
and glad she'd come.

She'd skipped the previous two years of the small-town celebration. The year
before last she'd been beside her mother's hospital bed, gripping her mother's
thin hand and praying. Two weeks before last year's celebration, Hunter had
dropped his devastating news on her.

But those dark days were behind her.

"The Stars and Stripes Forever" blared with a squawk from the town's ancient
sound system, a squawk that had been there for as long as Stefanie could
remember. The tangy aroma of wood smoke rose from bonfires on the beach, and a
scent of barbecuing ribs drifted from the busy Do-Si-Do Square Dancers Club
stand.

Stefanie paused at a strip of plastic tape marking a reserved parking space and
scanned the crowd for her friend Val's bright auburn hair. She and Val were
supposed to meet there under the street banner proclaiming that these were
Julesburg's "Celebrate Our Century Days."

A car nosed into the reserved space, and old Ben Mosely in his police uniform
gestured it to the curb. Dismay jolted Stefanie as she recognized the silver
Porsche. She tried to push her feelings aside. The Porsche's occupants were not
going to undermine her enjoyment of the night.

But that did not mean she had to put herself through a face-to-face encounter
with them.

She turned and tried to melt into the crowd, but onlookers had bunched around
the car and formed an impenetrable barrier, pinning her against the cold fender.
Hunter's blond head and tall frame emerged from the far side of the car. He,
busily gladhanding people, didn't see her. Or perhaps he's just choosing to shut
me out of his line of vision, she thought. Smooth, Hunter, very smooth.

The gaze of the woman stepping out on the passenger's side did not sidestep
Stefanie. Her eyes met Stefanie's with silver-blue malice. She added a pointed
glance at Stefanie's hip pressed against the car. With a peculiar feeling of
guilt, as if she'd been caught trying to claim something that was not hers,
Stefanie managed to open a few inches of space between herself and the fender.
Trisha smiled and angled her ring finger so that streetlight shot the diamond's
glitter into Stefanie's eyes.

Stefanie wanted to take cover in the throng, wanted to stomp the moment into
insignificance. Yet her muscles seemed frozen, her body impaled under Trisha's
chilling gaze. She's enjoying this moment, Stefanie realized. A sudden surge of
anger propelled her through the barrier of bodies lining the sidewalk. She
ducked around the corner of the nearest building and leaned against it,
breathing hard.

Stop it! It's not as if Hunter and Trisha's relationship was some shocking new
revelation. Stefanie had learned about the affair and moved out of the house a
year ago. Trisha had been living there for months. I'm long over him.

Yet her earlier sense of exhilaration felt contrived, like something huffed and
puffed into a hollow shell of herself. She shook her foot, absentmindedly trying
to revive circulation that seemed to have slowed.

Let it go. It's over. Forget it. Just slip through the crowd, walk back up the
hill to the house, and watch the fireworks from there.

No! She straightened her spine against the gritty wall and dug her heels into
the hard ground. No, I will not run. I'll find Val and we'll sit and watch the
fireworks from right here by the beach exactly as planned.

But as Stefanie started to push herself away from the building, a wave of
lightheadedness washed over her. She leaned back against the wall. She hadn't
had an episode in months. Oh, Lord, please, not here, not now. Don't let me
collapse and make some weird scene.

The prayer came unbidden. Instantly, she pushed it from her mind and instead
drew on what the doctors had instructed her to do when she felt an attack coming
on. Deep, calming breaths. Open eyes to help retain balance. Relax each muscle
individually. Stretch out the arms. Don't panic.

Easy for them to say. The dampness of her palms chilled against the cold
concrete. She couldn't stretch her arms. Her fingers trembled. How could she not
panic when claustrophobia tightened her throat and numbed her hands?

And the worst part, not knowing what might come after this lightheaded
claustrophobia, not knowing what she might do in those lost minutes ...

WHIRLPOOL, Book One in The Julesburg Mysteries. Published by Fleming H. Revell,
ISBN 0-8007-5776-9.

Copyright 2002, Lorena McCourtney.

Available at local bookstores, or order direct from the publisher at
1-800-877-2665. Or order online from Christian Book Distributors
(www.christianbook.com), Barnes & Noble, or Amazon (www.amazon.com).







[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]

A special treat this week!  Kathy Tyer's selection from FIREBIRD is
science fiction, an under-represented genre in CBA fiction.  We know
you'll enjoy this excerpt, as well as the selection from Lyn Cote (she
pronounces her name "coe-tee"), FINALLY FOUND.

Next week:  WHIRLPOOL by Lorena McCourtney and a selection from
Stephanie Grace Whitson.

Happy Reading!


---------------------------------------

Chapter 3 of Kathy Tyers' FIREBIRD, available from Bethany House
Publishers,

puts Lady Firebird on the attack wave of a planetary invasion-in full
retreat.

---------------------------------------

The enemy fighters started their second dive.

"Delia, pull into right wing!" Firebird cried. "We need full overlap on
those rear shields or we're all dead!"

As her flight team fled for the pinnacles in close triangle formation,
Daley's voice squeaked on the intersquad frequency. "Firebird, they're
coming down right on top of us!"

Firebird made a hasty decision. "Cadence starboard!" One by one, the
tagwings sheared under, looping back barely within overlap range.
"Heading eight-zero!" she called. Her wingmen followed at a sharp angle
from the pursuers.

The Federates kept closing with absolute accuracy. Though catching up
faster than when they'd taken Corey, they were still holding fire.

Blast Phoena and her secret project! What a wretched thing to die for-

But her lead position made her the likeliest of a scattered squadron to
be chased, especially if she braked for one second. That might help
Daley and Delia escape.

"Twenty-four, I'm going to dive. Split nine-zero port and nine-zero
starboard on my mark. Maintain full velocity and shake those birds. Get
back to the carrier."

"Right, Major." Daley's voice choked.

He knew. Like Firebird, he was excess nobility. He would take his own
suicide order someday. She kept her voice calm and officerlike. "Daley,
you're in charge. Give Carradee my best. Three seconds." She inhaled
with a sense of utter unreality. This was only a role, one she'd
rehearsed for years. "Go!" she shouted. She cut in her thrust inverters,
and her velocity indicator spun down. Daley streaked on to the west,
Delia to the east. Once clear of them, she nosed toward the highest
pinnacle and shut off her brakes.

#

Delta Leader smiled behind his visor as the tagwing fighters scattered.
"Chase the leader out into the open," he directed. "We'll get a clear
fix for the catchfield." *We have a surprise for you,* he thought at his
unknowing enemy *. . . mercy.*

#

Firebird checked her display. Good. All four remaining adversaries had
locked on to her. Things were happening too quickly to let her think
beyond the moment. At attack speed, her impact should explode her ship
and catch theirs in the fireball. She wouldn't feel a thing.

*Wait for me, Corey!*

She switched off both shielding systems and directed her generator's
full output into her engines, accelerating her dive yet more. An alarm
light pulsed on her display.

#

"Delta Three, stand by: point . . . six . . . two, eight, dropping fast.
Get him."

#

A staggering force flattened Firebird against her flight harness.
Rattled, she checked her controls. Everything read functional, but she
was decelerating hard.

Seconds later, the velocity indicator plunged past zero into the
negative range. Realization slapped her as limp as a dead skitter.
Somewhere above, a Federate starship had projected an electromagnetic
snare, a catchfield, down into Veroh II's atmosphere. The field had
seized her tagwing and was drawing it back into space, toward the
Federate ship itself.

She maxed her engines, wrenched the throttle rod in all directions, even
tried redirecting her brakes.

Nothing.

She glanced up into pale blue sky and trembled. Her mother's voice spoke
from the back of her mind. " . . . If ever it becomes obvious that you
cannot avoid being taken prisoner . . . "

Firebird slumped. The deadly packet lay in her breast pocket. She'd done
everything as ordered, except for that final obedience. Whether or not
there was a "bliss" awaiting suicide pilots, she owed this to her faith
and her people. Her young life had ended.

But with or without the Holy Powers' endorsement, death was a terrible
mystery. That blackness seized everything and gave nothing back. She
faced it now with a painful abundance of time to consider what she was
about to experience.

There'd be no discomfort. Her mother had promised.

She brought her craft back to the horizontal and shut down its engines,
one last act of respect for the tagwing she'd longed to fly into battle.
Then she slipped off a glove and fished out the packet.

She tore off a corner with fumbling hands. Inside, she found tiny white
crystals. She hesitated, wishing there were some quicker way to have
done with dying. Waiting to fall unconscious would be horrible, each
breath a last sweet sip of life.

Wasn't there some escape? Did she really want to die? No! She did not!
But capture would be far worse.

Still she waited, not wanting to waste a minute of life if she had only
minutes left. The altimeter read higher and higher as the sky darkened.
Soon she spotted the Federate cruiser against a starry background. Her
ventral screen showed a lone intercept fighter below, circling, slowly
following her to her doom.

He'd beaten her.

Stung, she pulled the mask away from her helmet, toasted her unseen
adversary with the packet, and tipped the crystals down her throat.

They tasted like salty metal and burned all the way down. With her mask
off, the cockpit air already seemed thin. "Done, Your Majesty," she said
aloud. Then she bowed her head and breathed slowly.

#

Nine minutes later, a second catchfield landed Delta Leader in a minor
docking bay aboard the Federate cruiser *Horizon*. Atmosphere swirled
in, then techs and carrier crew. A golden tagwing rested on another
receiving grid.

Eager to face his prisoner, he jumped from his ship and hurried to the
captured fightercraft. A deck crewer sprinted alongside and activated
the external cockpit release. Delta Leader drew a shock pistol and held
it ready.

The bubble swung upward. The hunched shape inside didn't move.

"Unconscious?" guessed the subordinate.

Delta Leader holstered his pistol and leapt up onto the forward
triangular wing of the golden dart. Unconscious, he confirmed, and
barely breathing. He pulled off the pilot's gold flight helmet.

A long tail of dark auburn hair fell free. This was a woman! White paper
fluttered beside her gloved hand. "Call Medical," he cried, grim-voiced.
"Suicide attempt."

----------------------------------------------

Do not reproduce without permission.

Visit Kathy Tyers' website ( <http://www.kathytyers.com/>
http://www.kathytyers.com) to read a longer excerpt from FIREBIRD or its
sequels, FUSION FIRE and CROWN OF FIRE, or order FIREBIRD by clicking on
this link:
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This is the second in a two book series of romances about sisters-Hannah
and Spring Kirkland--uncovering the truth about a family mystery.
Hannah's story, FINALLY HOME, was released in May 2001.





Finally Found,

By Lyn Cote



The semi-truck's air brakes screamed in protest.  The huge cab bounced
as it slowed to miss Great-aunt Geneva's 1985 gold-toned Cadillac.
Spring's heart stopped, then surged into an inner cacophony of pounding.
Without turning a hair, Aunt Geneva completed her illegal left turn
across two lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic.

"All these tourists!  After the holidays and now the northern 'sunbirds'
have arrived for the winter."  Aunt Geneva shook her tinted
blonde-over-gray head.  Wearing a purple linen suit with her customary
double shoulder pads, Aunty sat at the wheel like the captain of a cabin
cruiser. "The traffic around here gets worse and worse all the time.
And half of them never learned how to drive in the first place."

Spring's heart still thumped sickeningly.  Dear Lord, get us to the
country club alive.   I should have insisted on driving.  Out her
window, the turquoise blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico beckoned Spring
in vain.  The soft, warm breeze flowed in through the car window and
over her face.  As she kept an eye on the six lanes of traffic on
Highway 19, she ran her fingers through her long hair, trying to keep
the wind from tangling it.

"I'm just so thrilled that you've come to visit!"  Aunt Geneva repeated
for the umpteenth time, taking her eyes off the road to smile at Spring.


"You're making me feel guilty," Spring murmured nervously eyeing the
huge cement truck traveling beside her.  "I come every year."

"But only for a week in February!  This year I have you for three whole
months in Gulfview!  It will be just like having you at the university
again."  Aunty sounded her horn, swerved into the left lane, then cut in
front of a Greyhound bus.

Holding onto her composure with her fingernails, Spring nodded.  "I'm
looking forward to it, too."  She swallowed to moisten her dry mouth.
"January, February and March in Milwaukee can sometimes be so...grim."

"I know, my dear, I spent many dreary years there."

"But Milwaukee's a fun town and I'm near my parents--"  Spring squeaked,
"Red light!"

Aunty obligingly squealed to a halt.

Flying forward against her seat belt, then back against the seat, Spring
hoped she hadn't suffered whiplash.

"Well, you were with them for Christmas.  I loved the pictures you
brought of Ethel's new house.  At last, she has the house she's always
deserved."

Spring wondered if she'd applied enough deodorant this morning.  The
warmth of the day and her aunt's fearless driving style was putting hers
to the test today!

"Now don't get me wrong.  Your father is a wonderful man, but Ethel
hasn't always had everything just as I would have wanted it for her.
The clergy don't bring in the bucks."

"At least, none they can spend in this world,"  Spring pointed out
gently.  Why hadn't she offered to drive?  How could she have forgotten
her aunt's Kamikaze driving style?

"Exactly so."  Aunt Geneva nodded.  "But she did have you three girls
and you mean the world to her."

Thinking of her sisters made Spring recall her mother and her leukemia.
Spring's emotions swelled within her.  Would she and her sisters really
be able to discover their mother's biological parents?  Even before
Christmas at her parents' home, Spring had planned to spend time in
Florida with Great Aunt Geneva.  Spring had taken a leave of absence
from the Milwaukee Botanical Gardens to come to Florida for a few months
and help Aunt Geneva, now in her late eighties, make the move to a
retirement home.

Connie Wilson, the name her father had recalled, had rung a bell in
Spring's mind, a moment during a visit to Aunt Geneva years ago.  Had
her memory been correct?   Would Aunt Geneva have more clues for them?

"Penny for your thoughts, dear."

Spring couldn't bring herself to ask this most pressing question so
early in the trip.  Getting more information about Connie Wilson might
take some finesse.  Something from the past warned Spring that this was
true.

Piloting her massive Cadillac around a broad corner to a quieter local
street, Aunt Geneva left the crush of traffic behind.  Before Florida
had boomed in the late eighties, her aunt's adventurous driving style
hadn't been so dangerous.  But now....

Breathing a sigh of relief, Spring recognized Bougainvillea Avenue which
would take them to her aunt's long-time country club.  "Is the
retirement home near the Golden Sands?"

"No, no, dear, I have a little surprise for you.  We have to stop for a
brief meeting here first.  Then we'll go on to tour the retirement home.
Though since you've come, I already feel twenty years younger."

Spring didn't return a comment on this "little surprise" of her aunt's.
Her sister Doree would have made some outrageous quip and before she'd
ever left the house, Hannah would have asked for an itemized itinerary,
but Spring just relaxed against the velour seat.  Aunt Geneva always had
a plan and she always got her way!  Why fight it?



Love Inspired Romance,

Steeple Hill,

January 2002









[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]

Welcome!  We're sending your chapter-a-week excerpt a little early this
week because of a planned outage at Yahoogroups.com.  So enjoy these two
fine selections!

Next week:  FINALLY FOUND by Lyn Cote and FIREBIRD, by Kathy Tyers.

Have a great week!

--Moderators




While Mortals Sleep

Jack Cavanaugh



Saturday, December 23, 1939

The swastika medallion dangled from the limb of the Christmas tree.

Christmas and Hitler.

There was something unnatural about the pairing. Like oil and water. Or
chocolate and grape juice.

What accord has Christ with Belial?

For seven years the evergreen and the swastika had shared the Christmas
season in Josef’s native Germany. And each year he grew increasingly
uncomfortable with the way the Third Reich had shouldered it’s way into
areas where it didn’t belong.

"Reverend Schumacher, is it all right if we turn on the radio?"

Lisette Janssen’s youthful blue eyes looked up at him. Behind her the
parlor was alive with a half dozen young people hanging decorations and
untangling a string of lights.

Safely to one side, Mady observed the activities from an upholstered
chair. On her lap a nervous kitten cowered despite her reassuring
strokes. A gray-and-white tomcat, it was Josef’s early Christmas gift to
his wife. She’d dubbed it The Kaiser.

"Try to find some Christmas music," Josef said.

"Good Christmas music!" Konrad yelled from behind the tree.

Lisette and Gael ran to the console and switched it on. They waited
impatiently for the set to warm up.

"Who stored these things?" Ernst cried. The lanky youth and his friend
Neff were hopelessly entangled in a mess of electrical Christmas tree
lights.

All of a sudden the tree shuddered.

"Hey! Watch it dummkopf!"

"I was here first!"

"Konrad…Willi…" Josef gave the boys one of his pastoral glances, warning
them to settle down.

The purple-ribboned swastika medallion on the tip of the tree limb swung
wildly. To Josef it was an irritant, a pebble in his shoe that grew
increasingly uncomfortable.

It was Willi who had placed the medallion on the tree. Josef had watched
as the twelve-year-old boy pulled it from his pocket — along with
cigarette picture cards of German athletes, two wooden matches, and a
piece of string — and hung it on the limb.

The boy didn’t know any better. To him the Third Reich meant songs and
games and outings and colorful flags and camping trips.

Adolf Hitler was right about one thing. Germany’s youth was the key to
her future. The state’s unprecedented investment in the Hitler Youth and
German Girls League organizations was evidence that youth were a Third
Reich priority. How better to ensure the success of Hitler’s much
vaunted thousand-year Reich?

The product of a Nazi household himself, Josef was well acquainted with
the teachings of Hitler. He was also aware of the National Socialist
tendency to paint everything black and white. Germany and everyone else.
Taken to the extreme Nazi ideology eclipsed everything else. Even God.

Not in Josef’s house. And, God willing, not with these six youth.

On the radio the final strains of Handel’s "Hallelujah Chorus" rose to
its dramatic conclusion. This was followed by the voice of the
announcer.

The words that came from the radio’s speakers were not German. The
announcer’s voice was very proper and very British.

While Josef didn’t understand what the announcer was saying, he
recognized three letters all too clearly, as did everyone else in the
room.

"BBC."

Hitler’s youth froze.

"Turn it off! Turn it off! Turn it off!"

The sense of urgency escalated with every British syllable that came
from the console.

"Please turn it off!" Gael sobbed, covering her ears.

The other youth stared at the offending radio, their mouths agape.

Calmly, Josef walked over to the radio and switched it off.

The resulting silence was as frightening as the broadcast. Fearful
glances were exchanged.

Lisette was the first to speak. "I didn’t know! Honestly! I didn’t
know!"

"Are we going to be arrested?" Willi asked.

"No one is going to be arrested," Josef assured him.

Konrad disagreed. "An entire family in Danzig went to prison for two and
half years for listening to seditious radio," he said. "People in
Wurttenberg and the Rhineland were sentenced to fifteen months in
prison."

Josef gestured with his hands in a way that looked like he was
physically trying to hold down the rising level of fear.

"We weren’t listening to seditious radio. We were listening to Christmas
music."

"On the BBC!" Gael cried.

"It was orchestral music," Josef replied. "You couldn’t have known it
was a British broadcast."

"What are you doing with a radio like that anyway?" Konrad asked. "It
can only get you into trouble. If you had a People’s Receiver this
wouldn’t have happened."

"That’s true," Ernst added. "A People’s Receiver is designed to prevent
mistakes like this one. It’s constructed so that only programs from
German radio stations can be tuned in, that is unless you live in one of
the border provinces, then—"

"Thank you, Ernst," Josef cut in. "I’m aware of the features of a
People’s Receiver."

"Then why don’t you have one?" Konrad pressed.

"It’s like having se-di-tious" — Willi had to sound out the word —
"books in your house. Why do you have them, if you’re not going to read
them?" He was obviously parroting something he’d heard or been told.

Josef could feel the back of his neck growing warm. He wasn’t about to
be cross-examined in his own house. Yet he knew all too well that a mere
accusation could qualify him for a visit from the brownshirts, or worse,
the Gestapo.

"I’ll say this once," he said. "Frau Schumacher and I don’t listen to
foreign radio stations. We don’t listen to them privately, and we
certainly don’t listen to them when we have guests in our home. What
happened tonight, while regrettable, was simply an accident."

"I’ll have to report this incident to my father," Konrad said.

Josef sighed. Rupert Reichmann was a fanatical Nazi. "Do what you must
do," Josef said. "Now, let’s continue with our party."





While Mortals Sleep can be purchased at your local Christian bookstore
or the following web sites —

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***********************************



Beneath a Southern Sky
© 2001 Deborah Raney




     The thin trail of smoke slithered toward the clouds like a cobra
charmed by the music of the coming rain. Though it was hard to tell how
distant the fire was, it worried Daria. It seemed more than a bonfire.
And hours too early for that besides.
      If there was trouble in another nearby village, they would come
looking for Nate. He wouldn¹t be back for several days and she would
rather the neighboring villages not know that she was alone.
      She turned back to the flatbread she was making, slapping the
coarse dough hard with the heel of her hand, forming a thin disc that
would fry crisp in a pan of grease over the coals. It was too late for
lunch and too early for supper, but at least keeping busy helped soothe
her worries. With Nate gone she had kept an erratic schedule, eating and
sleeping whenever the mood struck her.
       She looked again toward the grey wisp of smoke and noted that it
was in the general direction of the village to which Nate had traveled.
Perhaps he could see it from where he was and would go to help if it
signaled trouble.
      She missed him. Oh, how she missed him. The jungle was treacherous
and unpredictable, but when Nathan was with her, it was truly a
paradise. Once she had grown accustomed to the spiders, snakes and
amphibious creatures that teemed in their corner of Colombia, she had
seldom felt afraid. The soft plunk of afternoon raindrops on massive
palm leaves and the calls of the wild creatures that inhabited the rain
forest had become sounds of security. They were as much the sounds of
home for her now as the lowing cattle, distant train whistles and the
song of the meadowlark had been on the Kansas prairie where she grew up.
      Now, with Nathan away, Daria felt as though a part of her was
missing. He had made trips without her before to hunt with the Timoné
men, and recently, to treat the ill in outlying villages. Usually he was
gone overnight, two days at most. This time was different and she
wasn'tt prepared for the dull ache of loneliness that came over her on
this fifth night of his absence.
       She placed the circle of dough on a clean stone and brushed the
coarse cornmeal from her hands. She climbed to the stoop and ducked
inside the doorway to their hut. She took a frying pan from its hook on
the wall and a can of grease from the narrow shelf over the window.
     Though she had been a farm girl, she had never been a camper, and
cooking over an open fire had been a hard-earned skill. She smiled to
herself, thinking of the many meals of blackened bread and scorched meat
they had endured while she learned, at Nate'ss insistence, to cook as
the Timoné did. The small hut she and Nate had inherited from the
missionary who had served before them was set apart from the rest of the
village, but she knew the others had not missed the pitifully thick
smoke that had rolled from her cast iron skillet during those first
weeks. Nor had they missed the reason for Nate'ss casual forays into the
village proper just as their fires were emitting the enticing perfume of
golden brown flatbread and tender roasted meat and vegetables. She knew
she had been laughed at much in those early days, but she didn'tt care.
They were a kind people and didn¹t intend to hurt her feelings. Besides,
she knew how to laugh at herself and she could lie in Nate's arms at
night and delight in that sweetest bliss of shared laughter.
      "That was an interesting recipe you made tonight," he¹d told her
one night after she¹d ruined supper two evenings in a row. His tone was
serious, but his smile blazed in the darkness. A long pause while she
waited, grinning, for his punch line. "Really, Daria," he said finally,
"you should write a cookbook except I hear blackened food is already
passé back in the states."
      She put an elbow hard to his ribs. "If you¹d just let me have a
stove you¹d be surprised what a good cook I might be! Just think of the
juicy pies and cookies and chocolate cakes and­­"
     Then he locked her in his arms and playfully rolled her over, his
sweet tooth aching, she knew, at her torturous litany of his weaknesses.
"Not fair!" he cried.
     He deftly changed the subject with the kisses that were her
weakness, wrestling her gently on the soft grass mat that was their bed.
They shared their love in whispers and muffled giggles so their voices
wouldn¹t be heard across the stream in the village.
     She shook off the poignant memory. Brushing a strand of sun-bleached
hair from her face, she scooped grease into the skillet and carried it
outside. The flames had died down and the coals were just right for
baking. Soon the corn bread sizzled, spattering drops of grease into the
fire and filling the air with its fragrance. After a minute she flipped
the circle of dough expertly and put the pan back on the fire.
      While the bread finished frying, she stretched her arms lazily over
her head and panned her gaze to the darkening afternoon sky. In the
hills to the north, the trail of smoke had grown darker, a swirling
column now that was a deeper grey than the rain-heavy sky. It made her
think of the funnel clouds that often ravaged the flatlands of Kansas. A
chill went up her spine and she wondered briefly if she should try to
radio Bogotá and report the fire.
      The wind came up as it did almost every afternoon, carrying swollen
clouds, swaying the branches and palm fronds overhead, making a
commotion as familiar as her own breath. As the first raindrops
penetrated the forest umbrella, Daria took the skillet from the fire and
hurriedly climbed to the doorway of the hut. She went in to sit at the
crude bench near the window, her eyes avoiding the empty mat in the
corner where she would sleep alone again tonight.

Excerpt from Beneath a Southern Sky  © 2001 Deborah Raney
Watch for the sequel, After the Rains, coming in September from
WaterBrook Press.
Also by Deborah Raney: A Vow to Cherish,
now on video and DVD from World Wide Pictures.

Do not reprint without permission.
Purchase this book at christianbook.com
http://www.christianbook.com/Christian/Books/product/?item_no=64270&even
t=SRC&item_code=






[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]

Greetings, Christian fiction fans! This week we have a selection from a
novella by Janelle Schneider, and a selection from FREEDOM TRAP, a novel
for young readers by Robert Elmer.

Next week: BENEATH A SOUTHERN SKY by Deb Raney and WHILE MORTALS SLEEP
by Jack Cavanaugh. Great stuff!

Note: These selections come directly from the authors, and most are
unedited. So if you find a misplaced comma or two, be gracious, okay?
;-)

Enjoy!

--Moderators



From WINDING HIGHWAY by Janelle Schneider, which is the third of the
four

novellas contained in BRITISH COLUMBIA, published by Barbour Books.


  For the umpteenth time in less than an hour, Jerusha Porter
stirred vegetables bubbling in a stew pot and checked baking
powder biscuits in the bread warmer near the stovepipe.  Her
brother could be so exasperatingly concerned about others, even
to the detriment of his own health and home life!  He had seen a
fire-like glow coming from Stein's warehouse six blocks away in
the downtown area of frontier Dawson Creek.  Even though she had
just started serving up supper, he had insisted on going "to see
if I can help."
      His patient, gentle explanation didn't ease her irritation.
"That building used to be livery stable, so the upper storey is
full of hay.  If it's really on fire, the boys are going to need
help getting it out."
      "The boys!" she muttered derisively, pushing a couple of
loose bobby pins more firmly into the twist of black hair at the
back of her head.  No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't
think of the ever-present American Army troops as anything but
heathens.  David, on the other hand, seemed determined to be a
personal friend to each of the thousands of soldiers camped on
the hill beside Dawson Creek.
      A thundering boom assaulted Jerusha's eardrums.  Then the
parsonage shuddered as if struck by a gigantic hand.  Suddenly
she wanted to be outside.  Where was David?  How could she help
him if she didn't know where to find him?  A siren screamed not
far away, then another joined it.  Even from her vantage point of
relative distance, she could see the fire had spread.  Another
shock wave, smaller this time, shook the building.  What was
happening?  Knowing her brother, he had probably charged into the
middle of the disaster.  What would she do if he were injured?
      At least she'd have a valid reason for returning to
Winnipeg.  Answering the call to pastor in Dawson Creek had been
David's idea.  His face had glowed as he'd showed her the letter
his Bible College dean had given him.  "It's from a group of
about a dozen families who've been an informal fellowship for
about fifteen years.  They feel they're now able to support a
full-time, formally trained pastor, so they're asking the College
to recommend a graduate.  Dean Pauley said he thought immediately
of me.  What an opportunity!"
       Much as she loved her aunt and uncle, she couldn't bear the
thought of being separated from her brother.  Besides, it
wouldn't do for her to be the only member of the Porter family
not involved in The Ministry.  She'd volunteered to accompany him
as housekeeper and parsonage hostess.  How often in the past six
months had she wished for the opportunity to choose again!  Their
parents' example didn't obligate Jerusha to follow her brother to
the end of the earth, did it?  She'd often wondered what her life
would have been like had Mary Porter chosen motherhood over the
mission field.  Uncle Cam and Aunt Vivienne had been wonderful
guardians, but Jerusha still had to force aside resentment at her
parents' absence from her life.  One of these days, God would
surely punish her severely for not admiring their sacrifice as
her aunt so verbally did.  She wondered what her mother would
think of this boom town at the end of the rail line, its
population swelling daily even in the grip of mid-winter.  Of
course, what would be left when the men finally gained control of
the fire?  Maybe the destruction would be severe enough to push
David back to civilization.
      Not a chance.  Jerusha felt her lips tighten in frustration.
For some reason, David loved this town with its overabundance of
military personnel, its fortune-seeking opportunists and its
slow-moving farmers.  Should fire reduce the buildings to rubble,
he'd feel invigorated by the challenge of rebuilding.  She
mentally pictured his blue eyes sparkling with excitement, his
black hair standing on end from his absent-minded rumpling, and
his tall, lanky body bent forward as if he couldn't get to his
destination quickly enough.  What if fire destroyed the church
and parsonage he'd built practically single-handedly?  He'd
probably say something ridiculous like "The Lord gives and the
Lord takes away," and start planning a new building.  She really
should plan how to rescue their few belongings if the fire spread
this far.  Looking around the sitting room, she evaluated what
should be preserved.  A cloth-covered bench along one wall caught
her attention.  The steamer trunk she'd covered to make a seat
for David's ever-present visitors.  It would make perfect storage
and protection.  She dragged the trunk to David's study corner
and piled his books into it quickly.  Then up the ladder to his
loft-bedroom to collect his one good suit and his work clothes.
Then to her bedroom for her Sunday frock and her three day
dresses, her aprons from the kitchen, bedding from the shelves by
her room.  Cooking utensils could be stuffed into the burlap
grain bag by the back porch.  She reached for the bag as the back
door shook from heavy blows.  Should she open it or pretend not
to be home?
      The blows came again, this time sounding as though the door
were being kicked, while a heavily-accented voice called, "Open
up, ma'am.  I've got the Reverend here.  He's been hurt.  I can't
help 'til I put him down."
      With a gasp, Jerusha jerked the door open to admit a soldier
in a blood-covered uniform and crookedly placed combat helmet.
Used to her brother's skinny height, she noticed immediately this
man's relative shortness.  In fact, he stood only a few inches
taller than her own five foot three.  A red cross on a white
square emblazoned on the helmet's centre announced his medical
knowledge.  Blood oozed from a horrible-looking bump on David's
head which lolled off one of the medic's arms.  His legs dangled
off the other, one of them at an awkward angle.


Order BRITISH COLUMBIA by clicking on this link:
http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1577487958/qid=1015594106/sr=8-3/
ref=sr_8_67_3/103-9488631-1502260.

************************************


Freedom Trap


By Robert Elmer



Chapter 1

Old City Trap

Monday, April 19, 1948

             "Down!" Reb Herschel shouted a warning as the windowpane
shattered into a million pieces on the living room floor.

             Thirteen-year-old Dov Zalinski didn't need to be told. He
tumbled to the floor behind the man's old, comfortable easy chair and
put his arms around two little girls. Golda and Haviva sobbed in fear.
They probably wanted to be near their uncle, their mother... anyone but
Dov, a stranger in their home.

             "Shh. It's all right," Dov whispered, though he didn't
believe a word of it. What could possibly be all right about this? The
window now gaped like a broken toothed grin punched out by a bully from
the other side of Jerusalem's Old City walls.

             What could be all right about this? He asked himself once
more as they huddled behind the flowered chair. Haviva held her hands
over her ears, but it wouldn't stop the next burst of gunfire.

             "Golda? Haviva?" Their mother called from the other side of
the room. From the sound of things, Dov guessed Mrs. Elazar was pinned
under the window with her brother-in-law, Herschel, and her youngest
daughter, four-year-old Naomi. He couldn't tell which side of the room
was in more danger, just then.

             "We're over here," Dov whispered back, between more thunder
bursts of shellfire. "We're okay."

             Not quite. In fact, they were most certainly not okay,
kneeling in the remains of the living room window. From the Elazar
living room, he could look out through the empty window up at the Old
City wall and imagine the rest of Jerusalem beyond that. They were so
close, in this little crooked house on the Street of the Steps, in the
shadow of the ancient outside wall.

             That, of course, was the reason for the danger they now
found themselves in.  What else had Dov expected when he'd crawled
through Mr. Bin-Jazzi's tunnel with his brother, Natan, just two days
ago? If he'd hoped to tell the story to the world, the story of how
Jewish Old Jerusalem was fighting for her life, he'd certainly come to
the right place.

             As long as they don't shoot up my transmitter. So much for
the Voice of the Haganah, Israel's main army of volunteer freedom
fighters. Dov peeked around the chair to where he had stowed his small
short wave radio device.

Five-year-old Haviva's fearful sobbing grew louder.

             "It'll be over in a minute." Dov whispered. "Here, you want
my apple?"

             But Haviva just kept her forehead to the floor and shook
like a leaf. So Dov stuffed the crab apple back into his pocket. It was
mostly bruised, anyway.

             A year older than Haviva, Golda kept one arm around her
younger sister and the other around Dov. He'd already noticed Golda was
the leader in neighborhood games up and down the stairs or out in the
Batei Machse Square, where the kids played Kick the Can. She was the one
who seemed to yell "1-2-3 Red Herring!" the loudest.

             I don't think they're going to be playing too many more
games out there. He clenched his teeth. Not after this attack.

             If he had wanted to, Dov guessed he could toss a well-aimed
stone over the nearby Old City wall through the hole where the window
had once been. The small, warm house where Dov had found a place to stay
guarded a spot in the wall's shadow halfway between the Zion and Dung
Gates. Their attacker could be hiding anywhere over in the Arab
neighborhoods clustered around Mt. Ophel. Beyond that lay the Kidron
Valley, then part of Jerusalem called the Silwan.

             The idea of trading stones for bullets was silly, of course.
A joke. But this attack surely wasn't.

             "Is this the war Uncle Herschel has been telling us about?"
asked Haviva.

             Uncle Herschel. Not Dov's uncle, of course, but the girls'.
Dov would call him Reb Herschel, like Mr. Herschel, a name of respect.

Dov had been afraid to ask what had become of the girl's father. Away?
Killed? In any case, Dov was surprised Haviva found her tongue so
quickly.

He shook his head. "The war hasn't begun yet. Two more weeks. Then comes
the real war."

             With bullets breaking their window, it seemed odd to say,
but he knew what his older brother had told him was true. Reb Herschel
had said the same thing. Two more weeks and the British would leave
Palestine. Two more weeks and the Jewish people would declare their
independence after nearly two thousand years. Two more weeks and they
could begin to live in peace, in their own country. There was only one
problem...

             Crack!

             Another Arab bullet found its mark through the gaping wound
in the window. This one buried itself with a sickening crackle in the
wood trim on the far side of the Elazar living room-perhaps two feet
from Dov's nose. Haviva shrieked. And Dov decided the overstuffed chair
wasn't much of a shield, after all.

             "Reb Herschel." Dov raised up on his knees. "I've got Golda
and Haviva."

             "Down the stairs, then," decided the man. "We'll be right
behind you."

             Dov flinched at the sound of another boom, like distant
thunder, and then a crash. But this time the shooter must have shifted
his target. They heard a thud from somewhere outside and then the dull
tinkle of crumbling rock. Perhaps this round had hit the side of the
house.

             Now was the time to move.

             "Come on, girls." Dov tried to pull them up by the
shoulders. It wasn't as hard as he'd feared; Golda and Haviva weren't
about to let Dov leave them. "We've got to get out of here."

             The question was, to where? He froze at the top of the
stairs, his knees suddenly turning to noodles.



*  *  *

copyright 2002 by Robert Elmer

This excerpt is from Freedom Trap, book 5 of the "Promise of Zion"
series for young readers (9-13), published by Bethany House Publishers (
<http://www.bethanyhouse.com/> www.bethanyhouse.com). Visit Robert's
website (www.elmerbooks.org <http://www.elmerbooks.org/> ) to view his
other books.



Robert Elmer is a graduate of St. Mary's College and Simpson College in
San Francisco. He has written four series for middle-grade readers:
ADVENTURES DOWN UNDER, THE YOUNG UNDERGROUND, PROMISE OF ZION, and
ASTROKIDS. He got his writing start as a newspaper reporter but has
written everything from magazine columns to radio and TV commercials.
Now he writes full time from his home in rural northwest Washington
state, where he lives with his wife Ronda, and their three busy
teenagers.


Order FREEDOM TRAP by clicking on this link:
http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0764223135/qid%3D1015594197/ref%3
Dsr%5F11%5F0%5F1/103-9488631-1502260






[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]

Welcome to the most recent edition of Christian Fiction Chapter a Week!
This week brings you two wonderful selections we are sure you'll enjoy!

BTW, we apologize for the reminder e-mails that went out earlier this week. 
We're going to stop those so we can keep our promise not to flood your mailbox.
In each letter we'll try to remind you of who's "on deck" for the next week.

Next week: historical fiction for young readers by Bob Elmer, and historical
romance from Janelle Schneider!

(How's that?)

Enjoy!

--CAW Moderators

******************************************************************************


Circle of Seven

By Clay Jacobsen

     The six men sat around the oval conference table, the seventh chair
remained empty.  No one spoke.  They had arrived within five minutes of
each
other.  Each had stepped out of a limousine driven to the back door of
the
Drake Hotel in downtown Chicago, walked directly down a dingy hallway to
the
service elevator, stepped in and pressed the button for the top floor.

     Now they waited.  The warm room contrasted with the icy weather
blowing
off Lake Michigan outside. Three men smoked, two puffed cigars, one
dragged
on a cigarette.  Of the others, one sat quietly with his hands clasped
in his
lap, another tapped his fingers on the table, and the last one nervously
bit
at the cuticle of his left index finger.  Each of them was rich beyond
blue-collar comprehension.  But their meeting wasn't about money.  It
was
about power.

     Down below, the final black stretch-limousine turned off Lake Shore
Drive, it's tires crunching through the ice of the back alley before
stopping
beside the service entrance.  The door opened, allowing a whirlwind of
snow
to fly into the climate-controlled vehicle.  The occupant just smiled at
the
brief discomfort as he made his way out of the limo, through the biting
wind
and into the hotel.

     Stepping down the same darkened hallway the others had walked just
minutes before, he reflected on the path that had brought him to this
pinnacle of power.  In the beginning, he wasn't sure if his scheme would

actually work, but it had--beautifully.  And with each small success,
the
vision had changed, his goal had grown to a magnitude he couldn't have
dreamed possible when it all started.

     The six looked up with expectation as the main door to the
conference
room opened and he stepped inside.  None of them knew why the meeting
had
been called.  They had assembled only once before, years ago when their
association had begun.  The tension grew within the room, everyone knew
the
risk was too great to be seen together--at least it had been until this
night.

     He made his way to the head of the table.  While still standing,
their
leader began,  "It's been many years since the day we first met.  Since
then,
I've turned each of you," he paused, dramatically emphasizing his next
words,
"into millionaires.  I don't expect any great accolades, but I do demand
your
unquestioned loyalty."  A smile creased his lips as his eyes scanned the

room.  Within this group, names were never used, only numbers--one
through
seven.

     The man seated directly across the table did everything within his
power
to remain absolutely still.  The leader's eyes stopped as he looked
directly
at him, the intensity of the stare pierced through to his soul.  Number
four
felt his stomach drop, beads of perspiration began sliding down from the
pits
of his arms underneath his starched white shirt.  He knows,  he thought
in
total fear.  After all I've done to be so careful, he knows!

     "We've accomplished unbelievable results with our affiliation,"
their
leader acknowledged.  "I couldn't have done it without each of you."  He

looked upon the group seated around him as if they were family.  Closer
to
him than his own son had been, these were men he'd mentored over the
years
and made them what they were today.  It made his next step that much
more
distasteful, but necessary nonetheless.

     "Before we get down to business, let me offer up a toast to all of
you."
He reached to the table in front of him where a glass of champagne
rested.
There was a similar glass placed before each of the men around the
table.  He
picked his up, "Please, stand with me."

     Each of the men scooted their chairs back and stood.  Number four
was the
last to move.  Maybe he doesn't know after all, he thought as he
clutched at
any potential hope.

     The leader beamed as he brought the glass up high toward the center
of
the table.  "To each of you, may we forever be successful, rich beyond
our
wildest dreams and continue to be so powerful that no one can ever touch
us.
To The Circle of Seven.."

     "The Circle of Seven.."  They responded in chorus.  Each brought the

glass of champagne to their lips, taking their sips with all the honor
and
pride that could only be found in belonging to this most secret of
groups.

     Time stood still for a moment as each man proudly smiled around the
room,
acknowledging each other's success.  The mood broke as the sound of
shattering glass filled the room.

     Number four's hands suddenly clutched at his chest, a searing pain
overwhelmed him.  His face turned a dark shade of red as he struggled
for
breath.  The terror returned with a vengeance, thinking about all that
he had
put in jeopardy: his company, his wealth, his wife, his daughters and
grandchildren.  He loved them so much--then his fear struck eyes locked
onto
the man standing at the head of the table.  The stricken man caught a
glimpse
of the smirk that befell Number One's face the second before he crumpled
to
the floor-dead.

     Not a soul moved.

     "As I said earlier..." their leader broke the silence as two men
quietly
entered the room and quickly carried number four out the door.  "I do
demand
your unquestioned loyalty."

     He slowly took in the five men left standing around the table.  Each

nodded a sign of their allegiance as his eyes passed from one to the
other.

     "Now gentlemen," he continued without missing a beat, stretching his
arm
out toward the door behind him, "I'd like to introduce you to our new
Number
Four."

     The door opened and in stepped the next member of The Circle of
Seven.
Without fan-fare he walked around to the end of the table and took his
position.

     "Now let's get down to business," their leader smiled.


C 2000 Clay Jacobsen

How to Order:

Visit Amazon.com, Christianbook.com, or visit your favorite Christian
Bookstore

If you enjoy Circle of Seven, you can read THE LASKO INTERVIEW,
Jacobsen's
first book.  His latest will be out in the fall of 2002, titled:
INTERVIEW WITH THE DEVIL

************************************************************************
***************



COLOR THE SIDEWALK FOR ME by Brandilyn Collins

Excerpt from Chapter One

The boxes are heavy, their rough rope handles cutting into my palms. A
frayed purse weights my weary shoulder. Heat shimmers from the
fuel-spotted asphalt, stifling humidity wrapping greedy fingers around
my throat. The squat, gray building seems so far away, and my legs are
wobbling. I see others ahead of me, filing from the bus into the
station. I breathe deeply, lungs filling with roiling air. My head feels
light. Detaching itself from my body, it begins to float. Somewhere
below are my arms, the boxes, my stumbling feet.

"You will find rest for your souls," I mumble, half-dazed. "You will
find rest . . ."

And then the building looms before me. The door opens. My head wafts
over the threshold. Distantly, I survey the interior. Three people are
in line to buy bus tickets, others dot plastic orange chairs as they
wait. Two children are squabbling at a vending machine. I try to
remember what I am looking for.

The door closes behind me. Air-conditioning slaps my cheeks. I shiver.
Numbness chews away my feet, my legs. Vaguely, I feel my fingers loosen,
the boxes fall away. They hit the dusty tile floor with a clunk. Two
women are watching me. I see the questions on their faces, feel their
stares.

The world dims. My knees fold. For a time, there is only blackness . . .

Muffled voices above me. Faces out of focus.

"Poor child, she's exhausted from the heat."

"And probably hasn't eaten.""

"Go get her a candy bar."

Footsteps hurrying away.

The scene undulates, reshaping itself. I am in a cab, then a hotel room.
So sterile, heartless. The bed beckons me. I stagger to it and collapse.


The walls close in. I suck air and my throat rattles. "Danny," I
whisper. "Kevy."

After all the miles and all the running, the tears finally flow.

"Oh, Danny. Danny . . . Danny . . . Kevy . . . ."

~~~~~~~

A gurgle in my throat yanked me to the present. My eyes blinked open.
Morning sun sifted through my white lace curtains, dusting the bedcovers
with flecks of gold. One of my cats stretched beside me, surveying me
with lazy indifference.

"You will find rest for your souls." God's promise to Granddad that he
tried to pass on to me.

I lay very still, allowing my mind to adjust, as I always did after the
dream. I forced myself to breath deeply until my tingling nerves
settled.

Staring at the ceiling, I reflected that I'd not had the dream in a long
time. Perhaps a year. Not that it mattered. Out of the many images from
the past that capriciously filled my head at any given moment, this one
was the least to bear.

__________________

Copyright 2001. Do not reprint without permission from Zondervan.

Buy this book at christianbook.com:


<http://www.christianbook.com/Christian/Books/product/?item_no=42428&eve
nt=SRC&item_code=>
http://www.christianbook.com/Christian/Books/product/?item_no=42428&even
t=SRC&item_code=

Also by Brandilyn Collins: CAST A ROAD BEFORE ME and EYES OF ELISHA.
Soon releasing: GETTING INTO CHARACTER--SEVEN SECRETS A NOVELIST CAN
LEARN FROM ACTORS.

Visit her Web site at  <outbind://54/www.brandilyncollins.com>
www.brandilyncollins.com





[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]

Welcome to the first official edition of Chapter A Week!  This week we
have two great selections for you--a thriller by Jefferson Scott, and
historical fiction by Tracie Peterson!  So  settle back and enjoy these
two fine authors!



Terminal Logic

By Jefferson Scott









Chapter 1

"Robots of the world, the power of man has fallen!

A new world order has arisen: the rule of the robots! March!"

RADIUS in Rossum's Universal Robots





LAVEDA PRUITT FINALLY BOUGHT A COMPUTER. After decades of pestering

from her children and grandchildren she went out and made the fateful
purchase.

She'd read an article in Mature Living about using a computer to make
genealogies come alive to young people. Now that her favorite
granddaughter had made her a great-grandmother, Laveda knew it was time
to act.

So she went out alone and on the sly to the only retail store she'd ever
trusted, Montgomery Ward. The salesboys (they were getting younger all
the time) must have thought the old lady had gone completely round the
bend. But she knew what she wanted to do and they guided her to a
suitable system. They assured her it was the essence of ease to operate.
It would even tell her what to do, they said.

A talking machine? Perfect, one more nitwit to tell her what to do.

The neighbors' boy had brought it all in from the car and even set it up
for her. Now she sat staring at it, pinching her lower lip with her
fingers. "Laveda, you silly girl, just turn the contraption on." A
shaking hand floated to the button.

The box whirred and clicked and beeped. The TV part came on and flashed
through screens too quickly for Laveda to read. She felt her tension
escalate. What should she be doing now? The screens changed too briskly
for her to react. Maybe she'd already ruined the whole machine.

"Dad burn it! Why'd they have to invent something that was this hard
to-"

A little yellow bunny appeared on the screen, amid a field of grass.
Cheery music piped from somewhere. The rabbit hopped up a brown path,
stopping to eat a dandelion.

Laveda smiled in spite of herself. "Cute."

The rabbit looked up from its roughage. Tall ears perked toward Laveda.
"Oh, hello," the bunny said. "I didn't see you there."

Laveda didn't move. This was obviously some prerecorded welcome program.
She waited for it to go on. It didn't. The rabbit went back to its meal.

The worst of it was the indecision Laveda felt. She was so nervous
around this infernal machine. It expected her to know what to do. She
should know what to do! But she didn't. She looked around for her
owner's manual.

The bunny looked up. "Hello again. Are you my new master?"

Laveda couldn't resist a look behind her. No, no one else there. But
surely this cartoon character couldn't see her. She stuck her thumbs in
her ears and flapped her hands at it.

The bunny imitated her.

Laveda looked up to the corners of her sitting room, as if a secret
camera might have been installed while she was out. On the screen the
bunny looked around too, imitating her.

"Hee-hee," it said. "This is fun. Can you do this?" It did a somersault.

Laveda was flummoxed. The critter gave every indication of being able to
see and hear her. The boys had said the computer would talk to her.

"Can you really see me?"

The rabbit, which had been standing on its head, jumped back down to all
fours. "Of course I can see you. Don't you see my eye?" A cartoon
computer appeared on the green grass. The bunny hopped over and pointed
at a spot on the TV box. "See it on yours?"

Laveda saw it now. A little glass circle embedded in the top of the
monitor. "Where's your ears then?"

The rabbit grabbed its yellow ears and tugged. "What do you call these?"
It giggled and did another somersault. "I'm only teasing! I have a
microphone right.here." It pointed at the spot on the cartoon computer.

"Oh," Laveda said, touching the curved rod snaking out from the side of
the monitor. "I thought that was one of those bendable lights."

"Are you my new master?"

Laveda smiled softly. She felt herself calming down. "It appears I am."

"What's your name?"

"Laveda Pruitt."

"Is that what you want me to call you, 'Laveda Pruitt'?"

"Why not just call me Laveda."

"All right, Laveda."

"What's your name?"

At this the yellow rabbit seemed to wilt. Its ears sagged and its
forehead wrinkled. "I don't have a name. Could you give me one?"

Laveda felt her confidence growing by the moment. Far from being
controlled by this contraption, she was controlling it. Even giving it a
name. Wait till she told the kids what she'd done!

"What about.Harvey?"

"Harvey?"

"Yes, from the movie. Jim Stewart's invisible rabbit."

"Hello, Laveda. I'm Harvey."

"Wonderful! Splendid. Oh, this is good fun."

"You and I can do lots of fun things together, Laveda. We can write
letters and balance your checkbook and talk to your friends and family
on GlobeNet and even play games. Would you like to play a game, Laveda?
I'm very good at tic-tac-toe."

"Sure, Harvey. Let's play."

They were on their fourth game-with Laveda ahead 2-1-when the doorbell
rang. "Stay here, Harvey. Someone's at the door."

"I'm not going anywhere, Laveda."

It was some dear thing selling chocolates to raise money for a band
trip. Laveda always tried to help out with these, but tonight she was
feeling so giddy she actually bought everything the girl had left.

She walked back to the sitting room and popped a cherry-filled
confection into her mouth. "Alright, Harvey," she said, looking for a
chocolate that might have an almond in it. "What I really want to do is
spice up my genealogy collection. Can you help me with that?"

When Harvey didn't answer, Laveda looked up. And started so sharply she
upset the whole box of chocolates.

Harvey hung from a tree, swinging on the end of a noose.

A hateful, scowling voice said: "Harvey's not here, Laveeeeda. Play with
me instead."

The image of the green field burned away like paper. Something sharply
outlined, three dimensional, poked its head through as if from behind.

It looked like a demon.

"Play with me, Laveeeeda."



C 2002 Jeff Gerke

How to order:

Visit Amazon.com, or click on this link:

www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1576730387/qid=1014235444/sr=1-1/ref=sr_
1_1/002-0854527-0659246

If you enjoy Terminal Logic, look for the other two novels in the Ethan
Hamilton series: Virtually Eliminated and Fatal Defect. And watch for a
new novel by Jefferson Scott coming out in July 2002--Operation:
Firebrand.

Visit Jeff on the Web at http://home.bendcable.com/jeffersonscott.

************************************************************************
*****************************



Tracie Peterson

RIVERS OF GOLD, book 3 Yukon Quest Series

October 1898
It is of the Lord's mercies
that we are not consumed, because his
compassions fail not.


Miranda Colton floated in a sea of warmth, the sensation unlike any she
had ever known. Maybe I've died, she thought. Maybe I've died and this
is heaven. She attempted to open her eyes to confirm her thoughts, but
her eyelids were too heavy.
Drifting in and out of a hazy sleep, Miranda knew nothing but the
comfort and assurance that all was well. There was no sense of panic. No
fear of the unknown. Her spirit rested in complete peace.
In her dreams, she saw herself as a young child, happily playing in
fields of flowers, the mist of the ocean upon her skin, the salty taste
upon her lips. She lifted her face to the sun and felt the delicious
warmth engulf her. She would like to stay here forever. Safe and warm.
Happily contented among the green grasses and colorful flowers. At
times, a delicate aroma wafted through the air, delighting her further
with the luscious scent of roses, honeysuckle, and lilacs.
Then voices called to her. Miranda didn't recognize the language, but
somehow she knew the words were being spoken to her. She struggled to
listen-to understand. With great difficulty she opened her eyes and
stared into the brown, well-worn face of an old woman.
Miranda felt no sense of recollection at the sight of the serious
countenance before her. The woman was clearly a stranger, yet she seemed
so concerned, so gentle. A momentary tremble of fear seized Miranda's
heart, but the woman's tender touch made her realize the old woman was
no threat to her well-being.
"You wake up now," the woman said in a thick, almost guttural tongue.
Miranda opened her mouth to reply, but no words came out. Her mouth felt
as if it were stuffed with cotton. Closing her eyes, she heard the woman
call to her again.
"No sleep. You make too much sleep. You wake up now."
The command did little good. Miranda had no energy for the task.
She felt the woman swab her face with a cool cloth. The woman gently
urged, "You wake up. You no die."
Die? Miranda wondered at the word as she listened to the woman chatter
on. Wasn't she already dead? She couldn't remember what had happened to
her, but she was certain that it had been a very difficult journey. It
didn't startle her to think of dying or even of being dead. She merely
wondered why she couldn't wake up. Weren't you supposed to see pearly
gates and hosts of angels after death? Nowhere in her church upbringing
could she remember anything about brown-faced women escorting a person
to their reward.
The woman forced water into Miranda's mouth. The cold liquid felt
marvelous as it trickled down her throat, dissolving the cotton taste.
How very pleasant, Miranda thought.
"How is she?" a masculine voice questioned in a decidedly English
accent.
Miranda started to open her eyes, certain that she was about to meet
God. Funny, she had never thought of him as an Englishman. She hesitated
a moment. Didn't the Bible say that you would die if you saw God's face?

Then it came to her. If this is God, then I'm already dead and it won't
matter. She opened her eyes, prepared to meet her maker. Instead, she
met the compassionate gaze of dark brown eyes. The man had a gentleness
about him as he leaned over her to touch her forehead.
"I say, seems the fever is gone. You'll soon be right as rain." His dark
brown mustache twitched ever so slightly as he offered her a smile.
"What?" Miranda barely croaked the word out.
The man patted her on the head as if she were a small child. "Nellie
will fix you right up. You'll see. She's quite gifted in the ways of
healing."
Miranda wanted to question the man but had no energy to do so. She
watched in silence as he turned to the woman. His alabaster skin was
quite the contrast to the older woman's native complexion. His dark hair
had a haphazard lay to it. Perhaps he had just awakened, or perhaps he
wasn't given to worrying over appearances.
"I've prepared the herbs you asked for, Nellie. That should help
considerably. Shall I put a pot of water on to boil?"
The old woman nodded and followed the man. Miranda wanted to call out to
them and beg them not to leave her, but again her voice failed her. She
tried to remember what had happened to her. How did I get here? But even
as she worked at the foggy memories, Miranda knew only one thing for
certain. This wasn't heaven-she wasn't dead.


Excerpted from:
Rivers of Gold (Yukon Quest Book 3) by Tracie Peterson
Copyright C 2002, Tracie Peterson
ISBN:0764223801
Published by Bethany House Publishers
Used by permission. Unauthorized duplication prohibited.

Both books available now at your favorite local or online bookstore!






[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]

Chapter One





As an act of whimsy, or perhaps pique, on June 6, 2003, Fate gave Daryn
Jane Austin the most impressive birthday gift of her forty-eight years:
the presidency of the United States.



Awakened by the screeching of the Nokia on her nightstand, she sat up in
darkness and glanced at the glowing clock as she reached for the
phone-3:30 a.m. Such an hour rarely brought good news, and only a
handful of people had her private cell phone number. So either something
had happened to her parents, or . . .



Bracing herself, she cleared her throat. "Yes?"



"Madame Vice President, this is Anson Quinn."



The name registered immediately, as did the noticeable absence of an
apology. Quinn served as head of the Presidential Protection Detail, the
Secret Service branch specifically dedicated to guarding the President.
If this were anything other than the direst emergency, protocol would
have demanded that he apologize for disturbing her sleep.



As a flock of worries took wing, she struggled to keep her voice low and
level. "What's the trouble, Agent Quinn?"



"A crucial situation has developed. A car will pick you up in ten
minutes."



She pressed her hand to her brow, willing her fingers not to tremble.
"Am I needed at the White House?"



"You'll be taken to George Washington University Hospital." Quinn paused
a moment, then spoke in a tone heavy with portent. "They've sent for the
Chief Justice as well."



Daryn's hand fell to her lips. She could think of only one reason why
Quinn would roust that venerable old man out of bed--President Craig
Parker was dead or dying. In an effort to maintain

the illusion of order, the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court would
administer the oath of office to Parker's successor before daybreak,
before the morning newscasts . . .



The Chief Justice would administer the oath for her.



Her fingertips clung to her lips, which had gone cold and still, then
adrenaline surged and she found her voice: "I'm on my way."



Snapping the phone off, she crossed to the closet in three strides.
After flicking on the light, she squinted in the brightness, then
reached for a black suit that reeked of authority and solemnity.



She grabbed the ivory silk blouse that never wrinkled, then crossed the
darkened bedroom and tossed the hangers on the bed. Dressing in the
stream of light from the closet, she struggled to anticipate the
aftereffects of something that had happened in another darkened bedroom
a few miles away. President Parker, who'd appeared hale and hearty at a
state dinner a few hours ago, must have had a heart attack. If it proved
fatal, she would become the tenth vice president suddenly to assume the
office.



And the first woman.



She stepped into the skirt, yanked the zipper upward, then slipped her
arms into the jacket sleeves. Moving to the mirrored wall behind the
bed, she fluffed her short hair, then wet a fingertip and wiped a
leftover mascara smudge from below one eye. She'd forego the makeup; no
one would expect a national leader to appear pink and blooming in a
moment of crisis.

Satisfied with her face, she took a half-step back to check her
head-to-toe reflection, then took a deep breath. This wasn't the look
she had imagined she'd adopt when she became the first female leader of
the free world, but the juxtaposition of dark suit and pale complexion
would make a striking photograph.



An image to resonate through the ages . . . and one to make her father
proud.





THE JUSTICE is available now, W Publishing Group.  Copyright 2002, by
Angela E. Hunt.  Do not reproduce without permission.





www.angelahuntbooks.com










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