Drake Yu. Why would Drake call her after … what, five years? Six?
Venus heard in his voice that resonance that was almost a growl, that titanium-hard determination to get what he wanted. And he usually got what he wanted. The voice said: "I want you to work for me."
Not this time… If it was a choice between Drake and McDonald's—she'd choose french fries. She'd never work for him again. It would take an act of God.
Venus Chau is determined to start her own game development company and launch the next Super Mario-sized phenomenon. However, she needs an investor to back her idea. When Drake Yu, an old nemesis, approaches Venus with a contracting opportunity at his sister's startup, the offer to become Chief Operating Officer tempts Venus to think the unthinkable.
Venus would rather throw away her PS3 than work for Drake again … except Grandma bribes Venus to do this favor for Drake's wealthy family with a coveted introduction to the most respected investor in the game industry. It's also a short job—only a few months—so Venus won't have to stand Drake's presence for very long.
But one wild youth group, a two-faced assistant, and Grandma's determined match-making threaten to make them both fail—or go insane. With the encouragement of her three cousins, Lex, Trish, and Jennifer, Venus discovers that even a wounded heart can undergo a beautiful transformation …
Chapter One
Venus Chau opened the door to her aunt's house and almost fainted.
"What died?" She exhaled sharply, trying to get the foul air out of her body before it caused cancer or something.
Her cousin Jennifer Lim entered the foyer with the look of an oni goblin about to eat someone. "She's stinking up my kitchen."
"Who?" Venus hesitated on the threshold, breathing clean night air before she had to close the door.
"My mother, who else?"
The ire in Jenn's voice made Venus busy herself with kicking off her heels amongst the other shoes in the tile foyer. Hoo-boy, she'd never seen quiet Jenn this irate before. Then again, since Aunty Yuki had given her daughter the rule of the kitchen when she'd started cooking in high school, Jenn rarely had to make way for another cook.
"What is she cooking? Beef intestines?"
Jenn flung her arms out. "Who knows? Something Trish is supposed to eat."
"But we don't have to eat it, right? Right?"
"I'll never become pregnant if I have to eat stuff like that." Jenn whirled and stomped toward the kitchen.
Venus turned right into the living room where her very pregnant cousin Trish lounged on the sofa next to her boyfriend, Spenser. "Hey, guys." Her gaze paused on their twined hands. It continued to amaze her that Spenser would date a woman pregnant with another man's child. Maybe Venus shouldn't be so cynical about the men she met. Here was at least one good guy.
Trish's arms shot into the air like a Raiders' cheerleader, nearly clocking Spenser in the eye. "I'm officially on maternity leave!"
Venus paused to clap. "So how did you celebrate?"
"I babysat Matthew all day today." She smiled dreamily at Spenser at the mention of his son.
Venus frowned and landed her hands on her hips. "In your condition?"
Trish waved a hand. "He's not that bad. He stopped swallowing things weeks ago."
"I'm finally not wasting money on all those emergency room visits," Spenser said.
"Besides, I got a book about how to help toddlers expect a new baby." Trish bounced lightly on the sofa cushion in her excitement.
"And?" It seemed kind of weird to Venus, since Trish and Spenser weren't engaged or anything. Yet.
Trish chewed her lip. "I don't know if he totally understands, but at least it's a start."
A sense of strangeness washed over Venus as she watched the two of them, the looks they exchanged that weren't mushy or intimate, just . . . knowing. Like mind reading. It made her feel alienated from her cousin for the first time in her life, and she didn't really like it.
She immediately damped down the feeling. How could she begrudge Trish such a wonderful relationship? Venus was so selfish. She disgusted herself.
She looked around the living room. "Where is -- "
"Venus!" The childish voice rang down the short hallway. She stepped back into the foyer to see Spenser's son, Matthew, trotting down the carpet with hands reached out to her. He grabbed her at the knees, wrinkling her silk pants, but she didn't mind. His shining face looking up at her -- way up, since she was the tallest of the cousins -- made her feel like she was the only reason he lived and breathed. "Psycho Bunny?" he pleaded.
She pretended to think about it. His hands shook her pants legs to make her decide faster.
"Okay."
He darted into the living room and plopped in front of the television, grabbing at the game controllers. The kid had it down pat -- in less than a minute, the music for the Psycho Bunny video game rolled into the room.
Venus sank to the floor next to him.
"Jenn is totally freaking out." Trish's eyes had popped to the size of siu mai dumplings.
"What brought all this on?" Venus picked up the other controller.
"Well, Aunty Yuki had a doctor's appointment today -- "
"Is she doing okay?" She chose the Bunny Foo-Foo character for the game just starting.
"Clean bill of health. Cancer's gone, as far as they can tell."
"So that's why she's taken over Jenn's domain?"
Trish rubbed her back and winced. "She took one look at me and decided I needed something to help the baby along."
Jenn huffed into the living room. "She's going to make me ruin the roast chicken!"
Venus ignored her screeching tone. "Sit down. You're not going to make her hurry by hovering." She and Matthew both jumped over the snake pit and landed in the hollow tree.
Jenn flung herself into an overstuffed chair and dumped her feet on the battered oak coffee table.
Venus turned to glance at the foyer. No Nikes. "Where's Lex?"
"Late. Where else?" Jenn snapped.
"I thought Aiden was helping her be better about that."
"He's not a miracle worker." Spenser massaged Trish's back.
"I have to leave early." Venus stretched her silk-clad feet out, wriggling her toes. Her new stilettos looked great but man, they hurt her arches.
"Then you might not eat at all." Jenn crossed her arms over her chest.
Venus speared her with a glance like a stainless steel skewer. "Chill, okay Cujo?"
Jenn pouted and scrunched further down in the chair.
Venus ignored her and turned back to the game. Her inattention had let Matthew pick up the treasure chest. "I have to work on a project."
"For work?"
"No, for me." Only the Spiderweb, the achievement of her lifetime, a new tool that would propel her to the heights of video game development stardom. Which was why she'd kept it separate from her job-related things -- she didn't even use her company computer when she worked on it, only her personal laptop.
A new smell wafted into the room, this one rivaling the other in its stomach-roiling ability. Venus waved her hand in front of her face.
When FBI Agent Clint Rollins takes a bullet during a standoff, it might just save his life. But not even the ugly things he's seen during his years working in the Crimes Against Children Unit could prepare him for the beast of cancer. As he continues to track down a serial kidnapper despite his illness, former investigations haunt his nightmares, pushing him beyond solving the case into risking his life and career. Clint struggles to believe God is still the God of miracles. Especially when he needs not one, but two. Everything in his life is reduced to one all-important question: Can God be trusted?
"Once again, Amy weaves a suspenseful tale of intrigue that will leave you begging for more. Healing Promises is heart-wrenching and powerful. The chase to stop a killer kept me turning the pages, and Clint and Sara's story broke my heart and kept me cheering for them right to the last page. Whether you want an emotional story straight from the heart or a suspense full of twists and turns, Healing Promises delivers it all."
— Wanda Dyson, author of Intimidation and Why I Jumped
"In Healing Promises Amy Wallace does what so few writers are willing to do: She looks down the gun barrel of reality, and she does it without flinching. This novel was so real, it nearly breathes on its own. I highly recommend it."
—Brandt Dodson, author of the Colton Parker Mystery series and White Soul
"The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord."
Job 1:21
Chapter One
Most days, Clint Rollins loved his work.
Most days. But not today.
He leaned back in his swivel chair and listened to the hum of voices, computer keys, and his partner's detailed explanation of a new case. Only a week back to work, and he already needed a quiet weekend to rest.
"You listening, Rollins, or still suffering from vacation withdrawal? Maybe it's just too early on a Friday morning."
Steven Kessler's ribbing jerked Clint back to the reality of working in the FBI's Crimes Against Children Unit. Another child missing. No easy cases.
"I'm listening." Clint rubbed the back of his neck.
Too bad criminals didn't care if cops were up to snuff or not. His head still ached from a nasty cold that'd been dogging him for weeks. According to his physician wife, he needed a vacation to recover from his unprecedented two-week vacation. But no one in DC stayed home with just a cold. So he was back on the job in mid-January, doing his second favorite thing.
Putting criminals in jail.
He'd still rather be hanging out with Sara and the munchkins.
"One of Baltimore's finest is heading our way—point cop for the kidnapping case." Steven handed over a new file. "The suspect was spotted with the child at a hotel outside Blacksburg less than an hour ago. His license plate matches the one given in the AMBER Alert. Local cops are keeping watch to be sure no one leaves, and there's a Learjet ready and waiting. We'll head out as soon as Sergeant Moore arrives."
At his partner's no-frills tone, Clint flipped through computer printouts and watched his quiet weekend disappear. "Why aren't the Baltimore or Virginia field offices handling this one?"
"Because we're the best." Steven grabbed paperwork and motioned for him to follow.
Clint checked his Glock and stood. "Cute. More details. Real ones."
"We are the best. But you're right. The reasons go deeper. The boy's mother is Ben Dickson's girlfriend."
"Dickson." Clint frowned. "The Baltimore police chief?"
"Yep. And Dickson's an old pal of Unit Chief Maxwell."
"Interesting queue of string pulling. What else do we know?"
"Wes Standish went missing from the playground after school yesterday. Babysitter called Dickson's girlfriend to say she'd lost him, and a missing-persons report was filed right away. So lots of cops went to work round the clock, and Dickson breathed down Quantico folks' necks to get their data inputted and analyzed."
Clint flipped through the file again as they walked. "They know who snatched Wes?"
"Mom says the ex-husband. A community college professor in Christiansburg named Ed Standish."
"So Mom and the chief want us involved to get a federal conviction when we catch the guy."
Steven shrugged. "Likely. But according to eyewitness accounts, Dad's not the kidnapper. A few people saw Wes leave with a tall, young-looking blond man. Dad's middle-aged, balding, and average height." Steven stopped and held out a second file, this one much thicker. "What makes this case top priority for us is ViCAP flagged three cold cases with a similar MO and victim profile."
Clint grabbed the file as adrenaline shot through him. "A serial?"
"Could be."
Clint scanned the info from the FBI's violent criminal database. "So we have January kidnappings from parks, boys ages five to six, brown hair, blue eyes. No ransom and no bodies. But this one looks more like a domestic, a disgruntled dad who lost custody."
"Whether it's the dad or not, we need to bring Wes Standish home and nab this suspect."
Clint froze midstep, staring at pictures in the file. "Any of these boys could be James's twin."
Steven's jaw clamped tight. "Coulda done without that."
"Sorry. I should've kept quiet."
They continued in silence. Steven's six-year-old son had been injured in a school shooting in October. His girlfriend, Gracie, had been kidnapped in November. And last summer, they'd been too late to save a little boy named Ryan and a teenage girl named Olivia—failures that still haunted Steven.
They both needed more recovery time. But work wouldn't wait. Wes Standish needed to come home. Today.
Steven answered his phone as soon as it buzzed. "Stay where you parked, and we'll meet you there. I'll drive to the airstrip."
Pulling up short in front of the outside door, Steven narrowed his eyes at Clint. "Let's make sure we bring Wes home before he ends up looking like Ryan. I don't want any more rescued kids never leaving the hospital."
And that was that. For both of them.
Copyrighted Material; Do Not Reproduce without permission.
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Trapped inside an abusive cult, one woman is dying to break free.
After her mother commits suicide, Elise Friedman travels to Germany to search for answers and discovers her mother's dark secret inside the walls of a medieval abbey. When the man who destroyed her mother threatens to destroy her as well, Elise fights for a way out of the darkness before she is consumed.
"From the moment I opened up to the first page of The Black Cloister, I was hooked. This intense, well-crafted story about a modern day cult will have you wondering long into the night." --Linda Hall, Shadows in the Mirror
Excerpt
Her fingers brushed over the seal that marked her arm. They could beat her to death if they wanted; she was ready to die. But she couldn't leave her children alone. Not with him.
Moonlight swept across the room, and she glanced over the line of twenty small beds crowded into the icy room. The older children slept on mattresses along the floor, and the younger ones were secured in the cribs by the drafty dormer windows.
Johanna slept in the third bed along the wall.
She tiptoed across the wood, knelt beside her daughter, and threaded her fingers through her hair until Johanna stirred in her sleep and opened her eyes. "Mommy?"
She leaned down and lifted her little girl. "I've got you, sweetheart."
Johanna wrapped around her neck and nestled into her shoulder. The child's long legs dangled down to her knees. When had her baby grown into a girl?
A cloud darkened the room, and she waited until the cloud passed. Then she whispered into Johanna's ear. "Where is she?"
Johanna lifted one of her arms and pointed to the first crib along the window.
"I'm going to pick her up," she said quietly, "and then we're going to run."
Johanna squeezed her neck, her gentle voice trembling. "Don't drop me."
She kissed her daughter's cheek. "I won't let you go."
She took a careful step toward the window and then a second one. Wind blasted through a crack in the glass, and Johanna shivered in her arms.
Another soft step.
The crib was only a few feet away now. She moved Johanna to her left hip so she could snag her baby with her right arm.
One of the boys cried out in the darkness behind her. She took a step back and saw Michael's curly blond hair thrashing on the pillow. She placed her hand on his head until he stopped shaking. She wished she could rescue all the children, take them someplace where they would be safe and warm.
Maybe she could come back later and steal all the little ones away, but tonight she needed to focus on saving her girls.
Another step forward. Johanna's hair was soft on her cheek, hands wrapped around her neck. God had entrusted her with these children. No matter what Sol or anyone else said, she had to get them away from here.
The floorboard groaned under her weight, and her shoulders shook as she leapt back and waited in the silence. And the darkness.
There were three more steps between her and her baby. She would pick her up and run toward the forest. Once they made it to the trees, Sol would never catch them.
As she stepped forward again, Michael bolted up. She bent down to comfort the boy, but it was too late. He shrieked as if he'd seen a ghost.
A flash of light blinded her for an instant, but it wouldn't stop her. She lunged toward the crib.
Phoebe slapped her hand away from her daughter. "What are you doing?"
A few other children cried out, but not her daughter. She could see her sleeping between the wooden slats, her black hair tangled around her forehead.
Phoebe held out her arms. "Give Johanna to me."
Her heart pounded as fear snaked through her skin. She would not leave her daughters with Sol.
Phoebe shone the light in her eyes. "I'll call him if you don't hand her over right now."
Adrenaline shot through her body, and she lurched forward. Phoebe couldn't stop her. She would grab her baby and run.
Phoebe stretched her arms across the crib and screamed. "Sol!"
She pushed forward, but Phoebe blocked the crib and yelled again for Sol.
She squinted through her tears to see her baby one last time. God help her. If Sol caught her, she'd never see either of her girls again.
She turned and ran—out the door, down the hall. Sol called out to her, but she didn't stop. She stumbled down the winding steps and into the kitchen.
The cold tile jolted her bare feet, but she didn't break stride as she raced toward the back door. Freedom.
The door smacked the wall behind her as Sol threw it open. He pointed his cane at her. "Where are you going?"
Johanna trembled in her arms as she turned and locked his gaze. His velvet robe hung crooked over his shoulders, and his long, graying hair made him look a couple decades older than forty-five.
"I'm leaving," she said.
"You're not leaving." He took a small step as he steadied his words. "You belong here with your family."
She pressed her palms into Johanna's back as she moved toward the door. "She is my family."
"You're too young to raise her." His cracked lips eased into a smile, his outstretched arms welcoming her back into the fold. "There's so much you need to learn."
Johanna's tears soaked through her mother's clothes and puddled on her shoulder.
"They need someone strong to care for them." His voice dropped to an eerie calm. "Someone to show them the way."
She froze, her legs anchored to the tile. He knew her obsession to be a good mother, her insecurity that her children wouldn't grow up with faith. He knew her too well.
"You can leave if you want, but don't force Johanna into the world." His bad leg faltered, and he grasped the kitchen counter to steady himself. "She will be safe with us."
She shivered. Sol would teach her daughter about sacrifice and sin and purity—and most of all, how to love as Christ loved the church.
His gaze moved from her to Johanna, and he devoured her with his stare. "I'll take care of her until you return."
With her daughter clutched in her arms, she threw open the door and raced down the steps. She didn't care what he did to her, but she would never let him have her girls.
(c) Melanie Dobson, Published by Kregel Publications, 2008
FOR PETE'S SAKE
#2 in the Piper Cove Chronicles
by Linda Windsor
Avon InspireISBN 978-0-06-117138-3$12.95
Ellen isn't sure true love exists…until she landscapes the estate of the widower next door. Adrian has it all—at least on the surface. He's engaged to a beautiful woman and he'll soon have a stepmom for his troubled son, Pete. Yet from the moment Ellen rescues him on her Harley, his well-ordered world turns upside down. With his business under investigation for espionage and his son pushing for the tomboy-next-door as his new mom, Adrian's façade of happiness shatters. As Ellen's three best friends step in to help her navigate the uncharted waters of love, she must ask herself if she's ready to risk her heart and trust that God has brought this family into her life for a reason. [Available at local and online bookstores.]
BEST BOOK AWARD, Long and Short Reviews: "Linda Windsor will have you laughing, hurting and loving along the way...packed with chemistry, emotion, action, suspense, laughter, fun, faith and love. It is truly one of a kind. There was not a boring moment among the pages and I found myself completely drawn into the lives of these characters and the town of Piper Cove."
Chapter One (condensed)
What a car! The Atomic Orange Corvette swept past Ellen Brittingham's motorcycle as though in flight. A moment ago, it had been a dot of orange moving up through a herd of beach-bound vehicles.
Probably a spring grad in his new graduation present. Ellen swerved Sheba onto the passing lane in the `Vette's wake. Talk about the perfect end to a shakedown ride on her new Hog. Pulses roaring like her engine, Ellen closed the distance between them for a better look. Sheba clawed the road as if eager to show this four-wheeled eagle what its two-wheeled counterpart could do.
Side by side now, Ellen savored its sleek lines and made out a profile through the tinted windows. A mature, square-jawed one with a dimpled chin…that turned toward her.
He was checking her out! Sheba wobbled, betraying Ellen's shock. Embarrassment freezing her smile, Ellen did what she'd been taught as a child. She waved a neighborly hello…and gave Sheba the gas.
*
"Go on, little—"Adrian Sinclair read the custom tag on the black and red Harley ahead. "—Sheba. You can run, but you can't outrun me."
Although he had no intention of actually catching the female biker. This was a matter of power versus power, nothing else.
"In one mile, turn right onto Route 90 East to Ocean Pines," his GPS lady told him, indifferent to the chase.
One mile in which to show Sheba she'd bitten off more than she could chew. He might even make it early to the closing for his new property.
Seconds later, he caught up with the bike. He had to admit it. Sheba and her rider definitely showed a poetry in motion that a man behind a steering wheel couldn't.
"In one half mile, turn right onto Route 90 East to Ocean Pines."
"Blast!" Adrian shot past the Harley. To his astonishment, instead of flipping him off, Sheba gave him a dazzling smile and a gloved salute.
Classy.
"Turn right onto Route 90 to Ocean Pines."
"Oh, alright then!"
As Adrian entered the curve of the exit, the Harley remained behind him at a practical distance. Curiosity drove him to wonder who and what Sheba was beyond that slender, almost boyish figure. Although the wind plastering her tank top revealed modest curves in the right places.
Not at all like his fiancée. Tall and curvaceous, Selena was more like the bike, built for comfort and speed, with an ambition that left other women in the dust. The total opposite of Adrian's late wife.
Carol had complimented Adrian's ambitious nature with her artistic one and serene sense of who she was. When Peter came along, she'd adapted to motherhood as if born to it, while Adrian had never quite been able to make his son the center of his life. Especially since Carol had sacrificed her life to give Peter his. When cancer claimed their last moment together, Adrian promised her that he'd make Peter the priority of his life. Easier made than kept.
Adrian's fingers tightened on the wheel. Perhaps that raw place in his heart would never heal.
"Turn left at the Piper Cove Road exit."
The exit led to a shoulder-less county road that cut through fields of yellow corn and green pastures. This remote setting would be a refreshing change for all of them.
Ahead a rusty pickup loaded with construction debris toddled at its own pace around a bend in the road. Adrian slowed, maneuvering the same when the `Vette rumbled over something, banging his teeth together. It dragged for a few feet before the vehicle shook it off at another sharp S turn. Adrian hit the brake, but the pedal went straight to the floor.
The `Vette shot off the road, a blur of cornstalks whipping it right and left. After what felt like minutes, it stopped in a swirl of dust and debris.
"Continue on your current route."
Adrian shut the bossy female off before she had him running over cows as well, when the roar of an engine in his flattened wake drew his attention to the side mirrors.
Sheba. It's rider hastily stopped and dismounted. Helmet removed and all business, she strode toward the car with long booted strides and knocked on the window.
"You okay in there?"
"I've been in better spots." Adrian climbed out of the cockpit, no easy task for his six-foot-plus frame. "A blasted time for my brakes to go out. I have an appointment."
Sheba lowered her sunglasses, revealing a hazel gaze, deep and direct. "Wow, there's almost as much of you as there is car," she chuckled.
A snort actually…dainty, but embarrassing by the way she hastily covered her mouth and nose.
"I could say there's more bike than there is woman in your case."
The friendly gaze sharpened. "I can handle my ride." Unlike some people went unsaid.
"I lost my brakes on the curve." She had him repeating himself.
"Yeah. Brake line's my guess."
Made sense. Although Adrian paid someone for mechanical knowledge. "I'd better cancel that appointment and call for help."
"Where are you headed?"
"A real estate settlement at my new river property."
"Where?" Sheba asked. "I live on the river."
"The Addison home."
"Hey, that's right up the creek from me." She extended her hand. "I'm Ellen Brittingham, your next door neighbor."
"Adrian MacAlister Sinclair, security consultant at your service, Ellen Brittingham." Adrian had no idea why he sounded so formal. But then, conversing with a tall, lean, Harley-riding, girl-next-door-pretty woman in a dusty cornfield was surreal in itself.
"You up for the ride of your life?"
Adrian dismissed his first thought before he made a fool of himself. There was no double entendre in her remark. Here was a woman who meant what she said and she meant the shiny black and red motorcycle. As for the longing he'd seen in her eyes, sad to say, it was undoubtedly for the `Vette.
Blast.
DEAR FRIENDS, Welcome to my home stomping grounds--the Eastern Shore of MD. I pray you'll enjoy, not just setting and Adrian and Ellen's story, but Pete's. Like my son, he has Asperger's Syndrome and struggles as a beautiful square peg in a world of round holes. And stop by my website and let me know if you love the Shore and its characters as much as I do.
To join our deeper discussion of these and other titles go to Chapter-a-Week Chat at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/CAWChat/ where authors and readers discuss new titles together. If you enjoy Chapter-a-Week take the time to tell a friend how to sign up. It's easy and free and a great way to find great books that fit each person's particular taste.
Unbridled Dreams by Stephanie Grace Whitson
"This new historical novel by a bestselling author entertains with
lovable characters, humorous scenes and the wisdom of faith that
Whitson and her characters share in her books."
4 stars from Romantic Times
Irmagard Friedrich dreams of becoming "Liberty Belle" in Buffalo
Bill's Wild West show. When her doting father orchestrates an
audition, she begins to realize that dream. But the Wild West is more
mud and manure than applause and acclaim, and Belle's willfulness
could ruin everything. . .including her budding romance with Shep
Sterling, the King of the Cowboys.
Chapter 1
YOU are in SO MUCH TROUBLE.
Seventeen-year-old Irma Friedrich sighed. If only Momma
hadn't shrieked a moment ago, Diamond wouldn't have startled. And if
Diamond hadn't startled Irma would have landed the dismount that
involved a handspring off the dapple gray gelding's withers and a
high arc through the air. She would be standing in the middle of the
arena--uh, corral--taking her bow as Liberty Belle, the star of
Buffalo Bill's Wild West. She would be waving to the imaginary crowd
of thousands and then going over to pat Diamond on the neck and
reward him with a few cubes of sugar. But Momma had shrieked--at the
worst possible moment when Irma had just put the reins in her teeth
and started her handstand on Diamond's back--and Diamond had broken
his stride and so here Irma was, sitting in the dirt trying to catch
her breath and wondering what in tarnation Momma and Daddy were doing
out here at the ranch at this time of day anyway. They weren't
supposed to drive out from town until suppertime and it was barely
past dinner.
As Irma got up and dusted herself off, Daddy stepped down off
back porch and hurried towards the corral. "Are you all right?" he
hollered. When Irma nodded and bent down to pick up the hat she'd
borrowed from her cousin Monte's room, Daddy stopped in mid-step, put
his hands on his hips and sputtered, "Then get yourself up on the
porch and apologize to your mother. You've frightened her half to
death." Spinning around, Daddy stomped back across the patch of dirt
that served for a back yard and up the unpainted stairs onto the
porch of Aunt Laura and Uncle Charlie Mason's two story ranch house.
Diamond ambled over and snuffled her pocket. Irma glanced
towards the ranch house where Momma was sprawled on the porch swing,
Aunt Laura standing over her, fanning to beat the band. Irma could
just imagine cousins Minnie and Mollie, Mamie & Maggie all gathered
at the kitchen window watching the drama unfold. The girls could be
counted on to stay out of sight now, but they could also be counted
on to take advantage of every future opportunity to tease Irma about
everything from the missed dismount to their Aunt Willa's dramatic
collapse.
With another sigh, Irma looked down at Monte's hat. The
smooth felt yielded as she tried--and failed--to re-shape the crown.
Monte was usually understanding about Irma's borrowing his old
clothes and hats, but he was going to be mad about this. She hadn't
exactly asked his permission to borrow it, and she knew he'd had it
all shaped and ready for tonight's barn dance over at the Double Bar
J. She should have left it in his room, but it just looked so right
when she tried it on and peered at herself in that little mirror
Monte had on the back of his bedroom door.
By the time Irma caught her breath enough to duck between the
corral poles and head for the house, Aunt Laura had stopped fanning
and gone back inside. Movement at the kitchen window indicated she'd
also shooed her daughters away from the window. Daddy was sitting
beside Momma now, patting her arm and murmuring something that must
be reassuring because Momma was nodding. Irma very much doubted Momma
had really fainted. How many women could faint in such a way as to
land perfectly draped on a porch swing? Momma could rival any
actress to ever appear on the stage at Lloyd's Opera House in town.
Half way to the house, Irma felt a twinge in her left ankle.
Now that she thought about it, her back hurt, too. And her backside
would probably bruise where she'd landed. The closer she got to the
porch, the more she hurt. Everywhere. But Momma was crying again and
Daddy was obviously in no mood to be wound around his only daughter's
little finger. Ignoring her aches and pains, Irma swiped a strand of
red hair away from her face. Tucked it behind her ear. Lifted her
chin and took a deep breath. YOU, she thought again, are in SO MUCH
TROUBLE.
www.stephaniewhitson.com
Unbridled Dreams is available online from your favorite supplier
and at bookstores everywhere
Copyright 2008 Stephanie Grace Whitson All rights reserved. No part
of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
or transmitted in any form or by any means--electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise--without the prior written
permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations
in printed reviews.
The place is the island of Rhodes; the time, 227 BC. In the ten years that Tessa of Delos has been in bondage as a hetaeira, a high-priced Greek courtesan to a wealthy politician, she has learned to abandon all desire for freedom and love. But when her owner meets a violent death, Tessa is given the chance to be free—if she can hide the truth of his death and maintain a masquerade until escape is possible. Now Tessa must battle for her own freedom and for those she is beginning to love, as forces collide that will shatter the island's peace and bring even its mighty Colossus to its knees.
"Shadow of Colossus is a beautifully told tale, richly detailed, and set beneath one of the great wonders of the world. If you've ever dreamed of traveling in the ancient world, you'll want to be there as a fallen woman rises and the great Colossus falls!"
—Ginger Garrett, author of In the Shadow of Lions
Chapter One
Rhodes, 227 bc
Seven Days Before the Great Quake
In the deceitful calm of the days preceding disaster, while Rhodes still glittered like a white jewel in the Aegean, Tessa of Delos planned to open her wrists.
The death of her body was long overdue. Her soul had died ten years ago.
Ten years this day.
Tessa took in a breath of salty air and shivered. From her lofty position outside Glaucus's hillside home, she watched the populace's torches flicker to life in the dusk. Across the city the day's tumult at the docks slowed. The massive statue of Helios at the harbor's frothy mouth caught the sun's last rays as it slipped into a cobalt sea. The torch he thrust skyward seem to burst aflame, as though lit by the sun god himself.
He had been her only constant these ten years, this giant in the likeness of Helios. A silent sentinel who kept vigil as life ripped freedom and hope from her. Painful as it was, tonight she wanted only to remember. To be alone, to remember, and to mourn.
"Tessa!" A wine-sodden voice erupted from the open door behind her.
The symposium had begun only minutes ago, but Glaucus was already deep into his cups. Bad form in any company, thought Tessa, but Glaucus rarely cared. Tessa inhaled the tang of sea air again and placed a steadying hand against the smooth alabaster column supporting the roof. She did not answer, nor turn, when she heard her fat master shuffle onto the portico.
"Get yourself back into the house!" Glaucus punctuated his command with a substantial belch.
"Soon," she said. "I wish to watch the sun god take his leave."
A household servant crept out and set two torches blazing. An oily smell surged, then dissipated. From the house floated harsh laughter mingled with the tinny sound of a flute.
Glaucus pushed his belly against her back and grabbed her arm. The linen chitôn she'd taken care to arrange perfectly fell away, exposing her shoulder. She reached to replace it, but Glaucus caught her hand. He brought his mouth close to her ear, and she could smell his breath, foul as days-old fish.
"The others are asking for you. `Where is your hetaera?' they say. `The one with more opinions than Carthage has ships.'"
Tessa closed her eyes. She had long entertained Glaucus's political friends with her outspoken thoughts on government and power. While his wife remained hidden away in the women's quarters, Glaucus's hetaera was displayed like an expensive pet with sharp teeth. Tessa had once believed she led an enviable life, but the years had stripped her of her illusions.
She stroked the polished filigree of the gold necklace encircling her throat and remembered when Glaucus fastened it there, a gilding for his personal figure of bronze.
"Now, Tessa." Glaucus pulled her toward the door.
Her heart reached for the statue, clinging to her first memory of it, when Delos had been home and innocence had still been hers.
[Tessa escapes the symposium and takes shelter in the central courtyard of the house, where she is joined by Glaucus's daughter.]
"Tessa!" Glaucus's voice was thick with wine and demanding.
Tessa turned toward the doorway. The girl beside her took a step backward.
"There you are," he said. "I've sent them all away." He waddled toward them. "I am sick of their company." He seemed to notice the girl for the first time. "Persephone, why are you not in bed? Get yourself to the women's quarters."
Tessa could feel the hate course through the girl as if it were her own body.
"I am not tired. I wished to see the stars." She pointed upward.
Glaucus stood before them now, and he sneered. "Well, the stars have no wish to see you. Remove yourself."
"And will you say goodnight to Mother?" Persephone asked. The words were spoken with sarcasm, tossed to Glaucus like raw bait. Tessa silently cheered the girl's audacity.
Glaucus was not so kind. "Get out!"
"And leave you to your harlot?" Persephone said.
In a quick motion belying his obesity, Glaucus raised the back of his hand to the girl and struck her against the face. She reeled backward a step or two, her hand against her cheek.
Tessa moved between them. "Leave her alone!"
Glaucus turned on Tessa and laughed. "And when did you two become friends?"
Persephone glared into her father's corpulent face. "I despise you both," she said.
Glaucus raised his arm again, his hand a fist this time, but Tessa was faster. She caught the lowering arm by the wrist and pushed it backward. Glaucus rocked back on his heels and turned his hatred on her.
Tessa kept her eyes trained on Glaucus but spoke to the girl, her voice low and commanding. "Go to bed, Persephone." She sensed the girl back away, heard her stomp from the room.
The anger on Glaucus's face melted into something else. A chuckle, sickening in its condescension, rumbled from him.
"High-spirited is one thing, Tessa. But be careful you do not go too far. Remember who keeps you in those fine clothes and wraps your ankles and wrists in jewels. You are not your own."
But I soon will be.
Glaucus reached for her, and she used her forearm to swat him away like a noisome insect. "Don't touch me. Don't touch her. Take your fat, drunken self out of here."
The amusement on Glaucus's face played itself out. The anger returned, but Tessa was ready.
Glaucus's words hissed between clenched teeth. "I don't know what has come over you tonight, Tessa, but I will teach you your place. You belong to me, body and spirit, and I will have you!" His heavy hands clutched her shoulders, and his alcohol-soaked breath blew hot in her face. Every part of Tessa's inner being rose up to defend herself.
It would all end tonight.
Copyrighted Material; Do Not Reproduce without permission.
You can read more of Shadow of Colossus on the author's website: www.TLHigley.com, plus go on an ancient Treasure Hunt through the Seven Wonders, and read about the author's travels through the ancient sites.
The last of five lowcountry sisters to find love, Elle Garvey is willing to give up her home and career for the man she loves. But when life doesn't turn out like she planned, Elle discovers God has a plan for her much better than her own.
Romantic Times, 4.5 Stars, Top Pick.
"Hauck is quickly making a name for herself as an insightful, thoughtful author."
- Melissa Parcel
Love Starts With Elle by Rachel Hauck
Beaufort, SC
December 21
From the loft of her Bay Street art gallery, Elle Garvey leaned against the waist-high wall, admiring GG Galley's "Art in Christmas" show. Visitors and patrons—some Beaufort residence, others curious tourists—milled among the displays, speaking in low tones, sipping hot cider.
The mellow voice of Andy Williams serenaded them. "It's the most wonderful time of the year . . ."
"Elle, are you the queen, surveying her kingdom?" Arlene Coulter gazed up from the bottom of the loft stairs, her bright red Christmas suit its own fashion work of art.
"Yes, and are you my loyal servant?" Arlene curtsied, her bottle-blonde hair falling forward like silky angel hair, the hem of her skirt sliding up her knee. "Yours and yours alone, O you of whom Art News wrote, `One of the lowcountry's finest galleries.'"
"Best hundred-dollar bribe I ever spent." Elle descended the stairs, catching sight of her baby sister, Julianne, selling a bronze sculpture to a young woman wearing pearls.
"Darling"—Arlene linked arms with Elle and led her to the back wall—"your artist eye is truly God gifted. Tell me now . . . is this the work of the great Alyssa Porter?"
"It is." Elle surveyed the paintings. They spoke to her each time she viewed them. She envied Alyssa and artists like her—the ones who had the courage to chase the dream. Elle had lost hers a long time ago.
"And what do you like about this artist?" Arlene squeezed Elle's arm tighter. "Her paintings move me." Elle freed herself from Arlene and moved to Alyssa's Rose Garden, convinced it'd be a masterpiece one day.
"Move you?" Arlene studied one of the abstracts through a one- eyed slit, her short, red-tipped fingers squeezing the point of her chin. "I suppose they move me too. I'm just not sure where."
"You're looking for a definite image, Arlene. Don't be so concrete. Let your imagination run . . ." Elle hooked her arm around the woman's shoulders. "Follow my hand. See how you just moved out of the sunlight into the shade?"
"No, but, girl, I really love your bracelets. Where'd you get those?" Arlene grabbed Elle's wrist to study the tricolor bangles.
"You beat all, Arlene." Elle twisted her hand free.
"Well, a good set of bracelets is hard to find." Arlene gazed again at the painting. "So, what should I do about Miss Porter?"
"Buy her. The New York art scene has discovered Alyssa and if you don't purchase something before her first auction, you'll never be able to afford it. Here . . ." Elle walked to the other side of the display.
"This one on the bottom right is only two thousand dollars."
Arlene stood an inch way from the bottom painting, tipping her head to one side. The track lighting haloed the back of her head. "I'm afraid if I buy one of these I'll wake up one night with the dang thing hanging over my head whispering, `I see dead people.'"
"If it does, call Pastor O'Neal, not me."
Arlene bent in half as if she hung upside down, then snapped upright. "What about this artist over here. Coco Nelson. Now this I get. Look—a woman's face, with eyes and hair."
"Coco's a wonderful artist," Elle said. "Very realistic work. This series is called `Love and Romance.'"
"Very fitting for you, sugar." Arlene arched a brow at Elle.
"This piece, Proposal, is stunning." Her voice rose and fell into a sing-song.
Elle ignore her subtle teasing. "Yes, there's something about it. An ordinary gentleman down on one knee proposing to an ordinary woman."
But the emotion Coco evoked in the scene was anything but ordinary. When she'd sent in the piece, Elle couldn't hang it at first. Too embarrassed after last year's Operation Wedding Day fiasco when she tried to date every available bachelor in Beaufort. She wanted no reminders of love and romance.
Until Jeremiah Franklin.
"Okay." Arlene spun around. "I'll take the Alyssa Porter and this Coco Nelson."
"You won't regret it."
"Says who?" Arlene passed Alyssa's abstract piece again, side stepping the image as if it might spring to life and spar with her.
Elle laughed, leading the way to her desk across the old, former hardware store. She treasured the talented, sometimes whacky, interior designer who landed lowcountry clients like doctors, lawyers, and hotel developers. In the early days of GG Gallery, business from Coulter Designs had helped keep the gallery lights burning and Elle's hopes alive.
"What's the damage?" Arlene flashed her checkbook.
"Hold on, now, let me add a few more zeroes." Elle jammed her finger on the adding machine's Zero button.
"Add all you want. I'm only writing three." Arlene fanned her face with her opened checkbook. "So, how's it going with the good pastor?"
The mere hint of Dr. Jeremiah Franklin made Elle feel bubbly. "Good."
"If the glow on your cheeks is any indication, I'd say it's more than good. How long y'all been together now? Few months?"
"Two." Elle wrote up Arlene's order with a ten-percent discount.
"And it's love?" Arlene leaned to see Elle's eyes. "Don't tell me it ain't 'cause I can see it written all over your face."
"Here." Elle laughed low, passing over the order ticket with the total circled. "I appreciate your business—and nosiness—Arlene."
"Any time, sugar. Any time." Arlene peeked at the total, then started to write.
"Hey, babe."
Jeremiah.
He still took her breath away after two months. When he'd told her he loved her in the setting sunlight during a beach walk, Elle had handed him her heart on a silver—no, gold—platter. Key included.
For more information on this and other books by Rachel Hauck, visit her web site and blog at www.rachelhauck.com.
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When Hurricane Gilda visited Glory, North Carolina, her winds tore the steeple off Glory Community Church. Everyone thought the town had narrowly escaped a major disaster until the body of the town's favorite resturant owner was found under the rubble. Was Gilda to blame ... or did someone else take advantage of Gilda to commit the perfect murder?
Chapter 1
"I am the administrator of Glory Community Church, gentlemen."
Ann Trask sat upright in her chair and spoke with determination. She hoped her rigid posture would make her look more formidable. "It is my responsibility to remain in the building in the event of an emergency—especially when Pastor Hartman is out of town."
One of the two big men standing in front of Ann's desk grinned at her. Rafe Neilson, Glory's Deputy Police Chief, was solidly in her corner. The other man scowled and made a disparaging gesture.
"We don't need false bravery today, Miss Trask. There's a major hurricane bearing down on our corner of North Carolina. Gilda is the proverbial `really big one,' a mid-September wind machine strong enough to be a killer. Her outer rain bands are flooding Glory's streets as we speak. You don't want to be here when the main storm arrives." He crossed his arms. "I say that as Glory's Director of Emergency Management."
Ann took a deep breath and prayed that neither man could hear her heart thumping. She knew to the depths of her queasy stomach that Phil Meade—a respected expert in disaster management—had spoken the truth. He even looked the part: late forties, tall, wide, florid-faced, gray at the temples, with a powerful basso voice that commanded respect. But right as Phil was, she couldn't run away. Not again. This time, she would take control of her fears.
"And, what do you think, Rafe?" Ann said, as evenly as she could. She noted that he had stopped grinning.
Please don't let Rafe side with Phil against me.
"Well, we all agree that Glory Community Church is one of the most solidly built structures in town. Moreover, it's located on the highest patch of ground we have. That's why we've designated it as an emergency shelter."
"Exactly..." Ann began, but Rafe kept talking.
"However, I feel uneasy that you'll remain when virtually everyone else has evacuated Glory."
"Dozens of people are staying," she protested.
Phil Meade jumped back in. "Correct! Police officers, firefighters, a few medical professionals, the mayor, me and my staff, and a handful of other essential personnel." He pointed at Ann. "We don't need a 24-year-old civilian making our work more difficult."
"I'm almost twenty-five, Mr. Meade. There are younger police officers patrolling Glory, and some of them have spouses and children to worry about. I'm single—free as the proverbial bird." Ann took a swift breath. "Someone has to be on duty in Glory's emergency shelter—I'm glad for the opportunity to be useful."
Phil turned to Rafe. "What do you think?"
"I'd have to put her in handcuffs to make her leave town."
"Pah! You deal with her. I have sensible people to worry about." Phil strode toward the door to Ann's office, and then spun around. "Miss Trask—make sure you give Rafe a phone number for your next of kin. Just in case."
Ann camouflaged the new jolt of anxiety she felt with a hollow laugh while she listened to Phil's boot-shod feet clomp down the church's hallway. He had said the perfect thing to push her panic button
Please don't make my mother deal with another visit from the police.
"Phil has a point," Rafe said. "This may not be the wisest decision you've made."
"Perhaps not..." Ann swallowed hard to clear the alarm from her voice. "But I have an important job to do."
And this time people are going to see me do it properly.
"Well—if your mind is made up..."
"Good!" Ann said quickly. "Now that that's settled, when will things get bad in Glory?"
Rafe's expression became grim. "Gilda's eye wall—and her strongest winds—will reach Glory at five o'clock this afternoon."
"So the worst of the hurricane should be over before nightfall, right?"
"I'm afraid not. Gilda's a massive storm. Her remnants could be with us until the wee hours of tomorrow morning."
"Do you think the lights will go out?"
Rafe nodded. "Everyone at the emergency command center expects the power to fail a few minutes after Gilda hits. We're prepared to spend Monday night in the dark." He smiled. "Correction! Most of us will. The church has an emergency generator that will switch on automatically. You'll be a beacon of light for the rest of Glory."
"That's part of every church's job description."
Rafe uttered a soft grunt of agreement then asked, "Are any volunteers still working in the church?"
"No," Ann said. "They're all gone. They hung the storm shutters early this morning and finished installing the plywood panels over our stained-glass windows about a half-hour ago." She made a vague gesture toward her own shuttered window. "It's as dark as a tomb inside the sanctuary."
"Tombs survive big hurricanes. Anyway, I'm glad the volunteers are finished."
"Me too," Ann said, although she'd been sorry to see the eight men go. They hadn't even taken time to say goodbye. Seconds after the hammering stopped, Ann heard eight engines rev. She understood completely. The volunteers had to protect their own homes from the approaching storm and then evacuate their families further inland.
"I see you're wearing the miniature tactical police radio I gave you," Rafe said.
Ann tugged at the lanyard around her neck. She felt the small lozenge-shaped gizmo bounce against her chest.
Rafe went on. "Our emergency command center is inside an addition to the back of Police Headquarters—less than three blocks from the church. Contact me if you need any help."
Ann bit her tongue. She wanted to say, You can count on it. Instead, she said, "I won't need any help. The church is fully battened down."
The building became astonishingly silent after Rafe made his goodbyes. "The church is one of the most solidly built structures in Glory," she reminded herself again. Gilda can huff, puff, and tear loose a few roof shingles, but the walls won't fall down.
You don't have anything to worry about... so stop worrying.
Excerpted from:
Grits and Glory by Ron and Janet Benrey
Published by Steeple Hill
Copyright 2008 by Ron and Janet Benrey
ISBN-13: 978-0-373-44300-0
Grits and Glory is available through bookstores everywhere, on www.amazon.com, www.barnesandnoble.com, and www.christianbook.com.
Try Darkness
by James Scott Bell
A Buchanan suspense novel from Center Street
Ty Buchanan is living on the peaceful grounds of St. Monica's, far away from the glamorous life he led as a rising trial lawyer for a big L.A. firm. Recovering from the death of his fiancee and a false accusation of murder, Buchanan has found his previous ambitions unrewarding. Now he prefers offering legal services to the poor and the under-represented, from his "office" at local coffee bar The Ultimate Sip. A mysterious woman with a six year old daughter comes to him for help. She's being illegally evicted from a downtown transient hotel, an interest represented by his old law firm and former best friend, Al Bradshaw. Buchanan won't back down. He's going to fight for the woman's rights.
But then she ends up dead, and the case moves from the courtroom to the streets. Determined to find the killer and protect the little girl, who has no last name and no other family, Buchanan finds he must depend on skills he never needed in the employ of a civil law firm.
The nun hit me in the mouth and said, "Get out of my house."
Jaw throbbing I said, "I can't believe you just did that."
"This is my house," she said. "You want more? Come on back in."
Sister Mary Veritas is a shade over five and a half feet. She was playing in gray sweats, of course. Most of the time she wears the full habit. Her pixie face is usually a picture of innocence. She has short chestnut hair and blue eyes. I had just discovered those eyes hid an animal ruthlessness.
It was the first Friday in April, and we were playing what I thought was some friendly one-on-one on the basketball court of St. Monica's, a Benedictine community in the Santa Susana mountains. The morning was bright, the sky clear. Should have meant peace like a river.
Not a nun like a mugger.
Backing into the key for a spin hook, I was surprised to find not just the basket, but a holy Catholic elbow waiting for my face. I'm six-three, so it took some effort for her to pop me.
"That's a foul," I said.
"So take it out," she said.
"I thought the Benedictines were known for their hospitality."
"For the hungry pilgrim," Sister Mary said. "Not for a guy looking for an easy bucket."
"What would the pope say to you?"
"Probably Well done, thou good and faithful servant."
"For a smash to the chops?"
"You're a pagan. It probably did you some good."
"A trash talking sister." I shook my head. "So this is organized religion in the twenty-first century."
"Play."
Okay, she wanted my outside game? She'd get it. True, I hadn't played a whole lot of ball since college. A couple of stints on a lawyer league team. But I could still shoot. I was deadly from twenty feet in.
Not this morning. I clanked one from the free throw line and Sister Mary got the rebound.
Before becoming a nun she played high school ball in Oklahoma. On a championship team, no less. Knew her way around a court.
But I also had the size advantage and gave her a cushion on defense. She took it and shot over me from fifteen feet.
Swish.
Pride is a sin, so Sister Mary tells me. But it's a good motivator when a little nun is schooling you. I kicked up the aggression factor a notch.
She tried a fadeaway next. I got a little bit of her wrist as she shot.
Air ball.
Sister Mary waited for me to call a foul.
"Nice try," I said.
"Where'd you learn to play," she said. "County jail?"
"You talking or playing?"
She got the animal look again. I hoped that wouldn't interfere with her morning prayers. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour we talk smack.
I took the ball to the top of the key. Did a beautiful cross-over dribble. Sister Mary swiped at the ball. Got my arm instead with a loud thwack. I stopped and threw up a jumper.
It hit the side of the rim and bounced left.
I thought I'd surprise her by hustling for the rebound.
She had the same idea.
We were side-by-side going for the ball. I could feel her body language. There was no way she was going to let me get it.
There was no way I was going to let her get it.
I was going to body a nun into the weeds.
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Chloe has led a safe, quiet life. Adventure? No thank you! But when her fiancé dumps her the night before their wedding, her book club friends convince her to take the vacation of a lifetime and timid Chloe blossoms into daring Chloe. A Chloe who just might be ready to face her biggest adventure of all.
Endorsements:
What could be better than adventures with your reading group based on the books you read? Walker's novel explores the outcome with Chloe, a woman afraid of many things. …Touching and inspirational, and even those who have no interest in France will be entranced by the exquisite descriptions when the book club travels there."
—Romantic Times (4 Star Review)
" . . . Laura has created the most lively and life-like ensemble of women I've ever read. . . Her best novel to date...I'm voting it "Best Chick-Lit of 2008!"
—Deena Peterson, A Peek At My Bookshelf Reviews
Daring Chloe
(Modified excerpt from Chapter One)
At 1:33 a.m., nine hours and twenty-seven minutes before my wedding ceremony, my fiancé dumped me. By text message.
The "Going to the Chapel" ring-tone woke me, and I grabbed my phone off the guestroom nightstand before it woke my sister, Julia, asleep in the twin bed next to me. I opened one eye, fumbled for my glasses, and peered at the luminous green numbers on the digital clock radio.
Poor baby. Probably too keyed up over the excitement of the big day to sleep. I smiled and snuggled under the covers to enjoy a romantic text message. Chris had been a little stressed and distracted at the rehearsal dinner earlier, but that was to be expected. Wedding preparations were definitely stressful. Thankfully, tomorrow—today—it would all be over, and we could at last start our happily ever after.
I read his text, eager to see what sweet, tender things he had to say.
SORRY, CLO. CAN'T DO IT. TOO MUCH. GOTTA GET AWAY. PEACE.
"Ryan?" My fingers flew over my phone. NOT FUNNY. JUST A FEW HOURS AWAY, CHRIS. LOVE YOU!
Ryan Chandler was Chris's best man and roommate. This kind of stunt didn't seem like him, but it had to be. Right? But Chris didn't answer my text. His battery must be low. I called him on his landline and got his answering machine. "Hey, it's Chris O'Neil. I'm not around right now, but I'll return your call when I get back, so leave a message."
He'd changed his greeting. Gone were the sarcastic comments about picking out flowers and schmoozing extended family members. His voice sounded odd. Strained and strange. Not the excited tone of a man about to leave on his honeymoon. I shoved the covers off as I tried his cell. It went straight to voicemail. I texted again. WHAT'S GOING ON? YOU OK?
No reply.
Concerned, I pulled up Ryan's number and dialed. He picked it up on the first ring. "Hi Chloe." There was no reassuring laugh in his voice.
"What's going on?" I whispered, not wanting to wake Julia. "Where's Chris? Is he okay?"
"He's fine. Physically fine." Ryan gave a heavy sigh. "Look, Chloe, there's no easy way to say this. The wedding's off. Chris doesn't want to get married. I know the timing really sucks, but-
I dropped the phone. It slid off the comforter and clattered to the hardwood floor between the beds, waking my sister.
"Chloe? What's wrong?"
I couldn't answer. I couldn't breathe.
In my daze, it dimly registered that Julia leaned down and picked up the phone. "Who is this?" she demanded. "Oh I see. Okay. Thank you."
Julia flipped the phone shut and looked at me, her gorgeous tawny eyes wet and filled with pity. "I'm so, so sorry." She flung the covers off and moved toward me, her silky nightgown swishing around her. She stopped when I raised my hand.
The hand with my engagement ring.
I let out a sob and sank back on the bed gasping as my eyes gushed and my nose ran, snot mixed with tears falling on my oversized T-shirt that was beginning to fray at the hem.
"What's going on?" My parents appeared in the doorway, my Dad's skimpy hair sticking up every which way.
I looked up at them through blurry eyes, unable to say the words.
"There's not going to be a wedding," Julia informed them.
"Not going to be a wedding?" My aunt Tess, champion and surrogate mother, strode into the room behind my parents and enfolded me in her wiry arms.
I laid my head against her chenille-robed chest and cried.
And cried.
And wondered if it was possible to text message a kick in the groin.
-----
As I approached the kitchen the next morning, I could hear my twin cousins, Timmy and Tommy, Tess's sixteen-year-old sons, plotting revenge.
"We'll give Chris something to think about."
"Oh yeah. And then some."
"Now boys-" my mother started, but broke off when she saw me in the doorway. "How are you feeling this morning, dear?" she asked.
"Just great. Especially for someone who just got dumped. It's not every day a girl gets left at the altar. We should celebrate."
Mom flushed and turned her attention back to frying bacon. Julia looked down at her lap.
"Take it easy, Chloe." My dad squeezed my shoulder as he set down a cup of coffee in front of me. "Sniping at your mother won't make things any better."
"You're right." I gulped the French Roast and scalded my tongue. "Sorry, Mom."
Mom, who is all sweetness and light, content to cook and clean for her family, sew costumes for church, do crafts, and volunteer in the nursery, is completely my opposite. I'm the undomestic, uncrafty daughter with perpetually bad hair who hates
sewing, cooking, cleaning, and especially, nursery work. Mom reads Better Homes and Gardens; I read John Grisham. Mom reads the Reader's Digest condensed version, and I read the unabridged, uncut version. And as such, our relationship is often about miscues and miscommunication.
Julia, the Perfect, is, of course, Mom's clone.
When I got engaged, though, Mom was suddenly in my world and in her element, helping clueless me pick out flowers, bridesmaid dresses, the cake, everything. Now, with one late-night text message, that was all gone.
Tess sent me a speculative look from behind her red rectangle glasses. "Know what I think you should do?"
"What?"
"Go on that cruise to Mexico anyway."
I stared at her. "My honeymoon cruise? Are you kidding?"
Copyrighted Material; Do Not Reproduce without permission.
Desperate to forget what happened to him in Iraq, Tyler Perkins flees to the emptiness of Wyoming. He's here to escape and also to fulfill a long-ago promise by accompanying his 86-year-old friend Soren Andeman on a fly-fishing trip—once more for old time's sake.
But their trek to an idyllic trout lake soon becomes something more deeply harrowing—a journey that uncovers long-held lies, deadly crimes, and the buried secrets of the past. Ty barely has time to contemplate the question of what constitutes justice when nature unleashes her own revenge. Trapped in a race back to safety, he must face his own guilt-ridden past or risk being consumed.
In this excerpt, taken from Chapter One, the setting is the Wind River Mountain Range in Wyoming, 16 years ago, and Ty and Soren – identified at this point only as "the boy" and "the man," have taken a break from hiking so the boy can try fishing in an alpine creek. Soren, having told Ty that the trout in this particular stream are too wild to be caught, has taken a seat on a rock and settled in for some reading. Ty has rigged up his flyrod and is determined to prove his mentor wrong….
------------------------------------
The boy reached the bank and parted the grasses. Near the center of the water, a large trout rose, its brown back bowing the surface before it dipped back down and resettled to the gravel streambed. Tapping his fingertips against his thigh, one beat to each second, the boy watched, and when the big trout rose again he resumed his count: tapping, tapping, tapping.
Five times he watched the big fish rise and fall. When it sounded for the sixth time, he pointed the rod tip through the parted grasses, keeping his thumb on the reel and pulling the tiny fly back toward him with his other hand, the way a prankster might pull back a rubber band in school. The rod tip bowed upward from the pressure, and the boy's lips moved, silently forming the numbers one, two, three ...
Then, just as the fish was due to rise again, the boy released the tiny fly and its hook.
The fly shot out and up on its spider thread of tippet. Then the minuscule ruff of fur around the shank caught air and the dry fly slowed and settled toward the water.
In the creek, a brown shape began rising.
There was a swell of crystal water, a splash, and the fly was gone, the tippet pulling tight and yanking the bamboo rod tip downward.
The boy fed line off the reel, letting the fish pull until the tippet had completely cleared the guides and a foot or two of pale yellow fly line was clear as well, pointing this way and that as the trout raced to and fro in the pool.
Standing, the boy held the rod high, clear of the shrubs near the creek bank, and glanced back at the man, who was slapping his thighs and laughing with delight.
The boy straightened up and did his work, cupping the rim of the fly reel with his hand and letting it run a little. When the fish turned, he took line with it, keeping tension on the barbless hook. He did this three times. Then the fish seemed to tire and the boy stepped down the bank and into the water, gasping as it reached his knees.
He kept the rod high, turning and guiding the fish until it drew next to him. Still keeping tension on the line, he dipped his free hand beneath the surface, cupped the fish behind its pectoral fins and lifted it free of the water. The red mark behind the big trout's gill plate gleamed fiercely in the bright mountain sun.
"Whoo-eee!" The man was standing on the creek bank now, a black Vivitar camera in his hands. "That fella's two pounds if he's two ounces. Hold him up and turn a little this way, Tyler."
Tyler trapped the fly rod between his arm and body and held the fish out with both hands, displaying it like the prize that it was.
The man took one picture, then another. He glanced at the sun and said, "Breakfast was kind'a on the light side this morning. Want me to break out the stove and fry that fella up for you?"
The boy shook his head. "I just wanted to see if I could catch him. Let's let him go."
The man crooked an eyebrow. "That's no rainbow, you know. Cutthroat are smart. They remember. You won't be pullin' that prank on him twice."
Tyler laughed. "Then I'll just have to come up with a new prank."
He cocked his head. "Don't you think I should put him back?"
The man held up an index finger and then opened to the front of the little book he'd been studying. He leafed forward a few pages.
"'And God blessed them,'" he read, "'and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea.'"
He closed the book and looked at the boy. "'Have dominion.' You know what that means?"
Tyler shook his head.
"It means you get to decide. That may be a fish of the creek instead of a fish of the sea, but it's close enough. You still get to call the shots. Cook him or set him free, God says you're the boss. Sure you don't want him for lunch?"
The boy shook his head again. "I want to put him back."
"All right. Turn him loose, then."
The hook came free with one turn and a pull, and the boy lowered the fish belly-first into the stream, moving him back and forth in the cold clear water until the trout's brown body quivered and it swam from his hands and shot for an undercut on the far side of the stream.
The boy handed the fly rod up to the man and clambered out of the water. The man had put the camera away and held out a dry pair of boot socks. Tyler nodded and accepted them, sitting down on the warm, rough surface of the boulder to pull off his sodden boots. A soft breeze ruffled the hair above his forehead as a yellow butterfly flitted nearby among the heather.
"Is that really true what you told me? That nobody has ever caught one of those trout before?"
"Not in all the years I've been comin' here. And I've been comin' here since before the war. Seen folks try it. Lots of folks. You're the only one I've ever seen do it."
The boy beamed, and the man seemed to dim a little, his smile straightening, eyes moving back to the jagged edge of the distant ridgeline.
"What are you thinking?"
The man smiled at him. "About how much I love coming here. About how I like being here with you."
"Then why did you look sad there for a little bit?"
The man cocked his head and studied the boy a moment, then turned his attention toward the ridge again, tucking the Bible back into his bib pocket and buttoning the pocket shut.
"I've been coming into the Wind River Range for more than fifty years, Tyler. Started when I was barely shaving. And now ... well, now I'm old."
"You're not old."
The man took his cap off and his white hair shone in the sun.
"There's snow on the mountain," he said, laughing.
"But you're still strong."
"Am now." The man nodded. "But I won't be forever. And I was just thinkin' that there'll come a day when I won't be able to do this anymore. When I won't be able to just pack up and go."
The boy looked at the ridge as well.
"Then I'll bring you," he finally said.
"How's that?"
"When you can't come on your own. I'll come and I'll get you and I'll bring you. I'll come to your and Miss Edda's house, and I'll put you in my truck and I'll bring you."
"You have a truck now, do you?"
Tyler shook his head. "Not yet. But I will when I'm a man. And I'll come and I'll get you and I'll take you into the Winds, just like you take me now."
The man smiled, tan skin crinkling more deeply behind his glasses at the corners of his blue eyes.
"Well, I'd like that," he said. "You wouldn't have to do it all the time. Who knows? When you grow up, you might live somewhere way across the country. But maybe when I'm too old to come up here all by my lonesome ... maybe you can come get me sometime and bring me back up for one last trip. Could you do that?"
"I'll do that."
"You promise?"
The boy spat on his palm and held his hand out.
The man spat on his own and they shook. No laughter. No jokes.
"It's a promise," Tyler told him.
"All right then." The man looked around the valley and took the boy's wet socks, putting them under the straps that held the tent on his pack so they'd dry as they walked in the sun. "One last time. One last trip into the Winds."
The Abbot agency doesn't do murder, but finds itself involved in it, just the same.
Velma is charm itself, especially when she's being inexact with the truth. She sets Bea on the track of a missing picture, not realising someone else is also after it. Can Bea rescue the picture and the two innocent girls who've been persuaded to carry smuggled art treasures to Bruges, without falling foul of someone who already has several murders to his credit?
Bea Abbot answered the phone with her mind on a bill from the tax people.
`The Abbot Agency. How may I help you?' The bill was horrific!
`Bea, thank goodness you're there. I'm desperate! Sandy's so scared. I mean…murder!'
Bea rummaged in the labyrinth of her mind and came up with the name of Velma, one of her oldest friends. Sandy was Velma's second husband whom Bea considered solid, in the nicest possible way. Velma, on the other hand, was somewhat given to exaggeration. `We're a domestic agency, Velma. We don't "do" murder.'
Velma wasn't listening. `I'll tell you all when we meet. One o'clock, the Patisserie near you.' She rang off before Bea could object.
Bea pulled a face at the receiver and put it down. Her dear husband was lying in his grave on the other side of the world, she felt every day of her sixty years, she owed the taxman more than she could pay, and it looked like rain.
She dropped the tax bill into the waste-paper basket. There! She felt better. Guilty, but better. She knew she'd have to fish it out in due course and deal with it, but for now it was off her desk, she was going to have lunch with one of her oldest friends, and she'd feel all the better for the break when she returned.
She renewed her lipstick, took her reading glasses off, put them into her handbag, and looked around for a jacket to wear. High summer it might be, but there was a nasty chill wind around.
Her receptionist was nowhere to be seen and the house was blissfully quiet. Maggie wasn't much good at paperwork but she was a brilliant cook and housekeeper, if noisy beyond the bounds of endurance. If she'd been around, the television, radio and food processor would all have been going full blast. Irritating girl. Maggie was obviously out.
He called himself Rafael. Behind his back they called him Raffles, the master thief, because he notched up one art theft every few months. He'd never been suspected of the thefts – or of murder. Was it six or seven by now? He'd lost count.
On this last one, the old woman had opened the door, no problem. He was so small, so unremarkable that no one ever found him threatening – at first. One thrust with his knife and she'd fallen like a rag doll, legs all over the place, blood spurting.
On with the latex gloves. The flat was crammed with valuables but there was no point in being greedy; the collection of snuff boxes was what he'd come for. He slipped each one into a padded envelope and fitted them into his briefcase.
It was the quiet hour, when no one was around to see a stranger leave the block.
Velma was only ten minutes late, and for once not entangled with shopping. `I'm frazzled, Bea. My dear Sandy is usually such a rock, and to see him fall apart like this…' She ordered soup and a roll.
`Calm down and tell me what's happened. You mentioned murder, but I don't suppose you really – '
`What it is, we want you to investigate, or at least find out if Philip – that's my step-son, Sandy's boy – is involved, which we think he must be, though he couldn't have done it. You do agree, don't you?'
`Now, Velma; you know perfectly well that the agency doesn't "do" murder.'
`Hear me out. When Sandy's first wife went off to live in Scotland with the intention of saving the planet – which is all very worthy though it's not clear how she meant to do it – the boy chose to live with his father. Philip's not exactly academic but he landed a job working in some television company, support procedures, something like that.'
`And you think Philip murdered someone?'
`Of course not.' But Velma's colour had faded and she looked more than her age, her pencilled eyebrows standing out against her fair skin. She pushed her half-finished soup aside. `It's just that he's got one of his godmother's pre-Raphaelite oil portraits – a Millais, would you believe? – which is worth hundreds of thousands which he says she gave him for his birthday which was months ago. Only, Sandy happened to see it in on the floor in her flat a fortnight ago, because it had fallen off the wall when the wire broke, and he offered to replace the wire and she said he wasn't to touch it because he'd only do it wrong.'
`Her name…?'
`Lady Lucinda Farne. Notorious in her day. A family friend. Philip was her godson.'
Bea half closed her eyes, remembering a newspaper item about a wealthy woman's death a week ago. `The picture was in Lady Farne's flat a fortnight ago, but Philip insists he's had it for months?'
Velma nodded, containing tears with an effort. `You'll help, won't you? I'll pay anything within reason.'
`Me?' Bea thought of the tax demand on her desk; no, in her wastepaper basket. `I couldn't possibly.'
Velma leaned forward, dropping her voice. `You think we should forgetPhilip has the picture? Let Sandy get a stomach ulcer, because his indigestion is something chronic ever since it happened? What I thought was that you could get someone into the flat to befriend Philip, worm their way into his confidence, get the truth out of him. He's a loner, it should be easy.'
Bea had a sneaky, awe-inspiring thought. Living with noisy Maggie was driving her insane. Could she possibly suggest that Maggie move into Philip's flat and befriend him? It would be the most enormous relief to have a quiet house again. Common sense told her Maggie would be useless as agent provocateur, but… `Maggie might do it,' said Bea, feeling guilty. `I suppose.'
`Oh, my dear, the relief! Bea, you are wonderful, I knew you'd come up with something. It has to be an accident. Right? I'm counting on you to prove it.'
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Do not reproduce without permission.
THE EDGE OF RECALL
By Kristen Heitzmann
Tessa Young is a landscape architecte who specializes in the design and creation of labyrinths. For years she has immersed herself in the healing aspects of these elaborate structures, searching for God and hoping to make sense of the nightmares that have plagued her since childhood.
When Smith Chandler, a colleague who once betrayed her, offers an opportunity to reconstruct a remarkable Colonial-era labyrinth, she can't resist this project of a lifetime. But one evening, as dusks falls, an assailant ambushes Tess and Smith and the real nightmare begins.
Houses smaller than her dollhouse, fields stretching out and away. A pond tossing sunrays as she leans against the window, nose pressed to the glass. The plane seat rumbles. She feels it in her fingertips, in her teeth.
Daddy points. "Look there."
And she sees it. Circle upon circle, living branches shaped like the inside of a seashell. Mesmerized, she follows the path with her eyes to the very center.
Daddy's voice holds all the mystery in the world. "It's a labyrinth."
"Miss Young?"
Tessa opened her heavy-lidded eyes to white light, beige walls. For a moment she'd thought she was in—but no, it was the emergency room. She rotated her wrist and winced. Her neck burned and she could almost feel the grip there still. She drew a ragged breath.
The nurse put a hand between her shoulder blades. "Let me help you up."
"Thank you." Tessa slid her legs over the side of the exam bed and sat up, woozy, as the curtain slid open with a squeal of metal rings on rod. A man with a hawkish face and wiry hair entered. Doctor Brinkley. She'd spoken with him . . . how long ago?
"You've had some rest, Ms. Young?"
She pressed her fingers to her temples and realized that between arriving and now they had sedated her.
"Sheriff Thomas is back, if you're up to seeing him."
Her chest quaked as her mind replayed the knife flashing, Smith's stunned face. Would she have to identify him? Could she do it? The sheriff entered, his pants and jacket shiny with rain.
"Is he . . . is he dead?"
"We went over the property, Ms. Young. There's nothing to indicate a homicide."
She had a moment of disconnect. What was he saying? "You didn't find Smith?" Her throat constricted. "That's impossible."
"The rain's ruined what trace of an altercation there might have been."
She jolted. "Someone attacked us. He stabbed Smith."
"Someone not quite human."
"I didn't say he wasn't human, just grotesque, misshapen—"
"Pale and malformed, rotten teeth and milky eyes. Wasn't that the description?"
The description conjured his image. "Yes. That's what I saw."
The sheriff slid out the pad he'd jotted her words on before. "Yours was the only vehicle."
She nodded. "I don't know how he got there, but it isn't the first time. I thought I saw him weeks ago."
"You said your boss was six-one, one-eighty. How would this small, malformed person with no transportation—"
"He must have hidden Smith, buried . . . the body."
"We searched the field and surrounding woods." The sheriff looked her over slowly. "I'll round up some dogs in the morning, but before I do, why don't you tell me what really happened?"
She stared. "What do you mean?"
"It appears you had a scuffle, but frankly your story is . . ." He spread his hands. "Not plausible."
Her panic rose. "It's not a story. I barely got away. Someone attacked us. He—" She fought the grief that raised the pitch of her voice. "Have you talked to Smith Chandler? Can you tell me he's alive?"
The sheriff narrowed his eyes. "I'm going to give you a while to come to grips with things, rethink your statement. Go home, now, and we'll talk in the morning."
Dazed, she got up and went out, shivering, to the dark, wet street. Go home? She was so far from home it made her head spin. Before driving her rental car back to the inn some miles out of town, she would try once more to make the sheriff listen. She huddled under the covered entrance and speed dialed her phone, needing someone to vouch for her, someone with credibility to make them realize she could never imagine something like this.
"Dr. Brenner? I'm sorry to call so late, but I need you to talk to someone."
"Hello, Tessa. Would that someone be Sheriff Thomas?"
Her jaw dropped. "You spoke to him?"
"You listed me as your emergency contact, and he was concerned. He said you were hysterical and incoherent."
She brushed her hair back with shaky fingers. "Did he tell you why?"
"He told me what you said."
"You mean what happened."
The pause said too much. "Tessa, this . . . experience. You do see the similarity to your dreams."
Her breath made a slow escape.
"All your classic elements—the maze, the fear of losing someone, abandonment. Even a monster."
"It's not a maze, it's a labyrinth. And I can tell the difference between dreams and reality." Her voice broke. "I saw Smith get stabbed."
"As his rejection stabbed you?"
"I— you can't think—"
"Listen to me, Tessa. It's possible the scenario you're describing is playing out like one of your dreams—or worse, that the real issues you've been dealing with have pushed you to a breaking point."
She started to shake. "Yes, I have dreams, terrible dreams. I also have a life. And I know the difference between what happens in my dreams and what happens in my life."
"To a soldier with PTSD, bombs landing on his home seem very real. The mind is a powerful thing."
She closed her eyes. "This is not in my mind."
"The condition can cause a person to overreact to a perceived threat or injury."
"What are you saying?"
"I want you to come back to Cedar Grove. Let me evaluate you. . . before you're charged with a crime you may not have been able to control."
"You can't believe I would hurt Smith."
"I think it more likely you've broken with reality."
"What about that I'm telling the truth?"
His silence stung. She hung up and clutched the phone to her throat. Fear and dread loomed like monsters, but this was real. She knew it. Only . . .
With trembling fingers, she dialed another number.
Excerpted from: THE EDGE OF RECALL by Kristen Heitzmann Published by Bethany House Publishers Kristen Heitzmann, copyright 2008 ISBN 978-0-7642-2831-5
THE EDGE OF RECALL is available through bookstores everywhere, on www.amazon.com, www.barnesandnoble.com, www.christianbook.com, and at your local Christian bookstores.
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Shadows at the Window is the second in the `Shadows' trilogy which features women who must make peace with their past before moving on- and finding love in the present. Lilly Johnson, the heroine writes:
I wasn't always the law—abiding, churchgoing young woman I am today. Not too long ago I did shameful things and then ran far away. Not even my beloved fiancé, youth minister Greg Whitten, knows the truth about my past. But now my worst nightmare has come true. Someone has pictures of the old me and is sending them to me, to Greg, to the church. And if I want to live happily ever after—if I want to live at all—I'll need my newfound faith and Greg's love more than ever.
Chapter one:
I was in my boyfriend Greg's office when the e-mail came that would change everything. Greg is the youth pastor at the church I've been attending for seven years. My apartment building is just two doors away, so it's easy for me to pop over. Of course, that's something I do a lot. Any excuse is a good excuse for a visit.
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary that day. I traipsed into the church carrying my backpack, my classical guitar and a cardboard tray containing four coffees, plus a small bag of doughnut holes, which I had to hold in my teeth. There wasn't a whole lot of time for a visit and a chat. I had a guitar student at the music store where I work part-time, plus a music class of my own at the college in the afternoon.
Even though I was visiting Greg, I knew better than to bring coffee for just the two of us. There would probably be at least two more bodies in the church this morning. Brenda, the church secretary, would be there, along with Dave, the senior pastor. Paige, the music director, works part-time so I wasn't sure she'd be there but I was hoping she would. I had written a few of the worship songs that we sang in church and was having difficulty resolving the last verse of a new song—I was eager for her input. For the past seven years, Paige has been my music mentor. She's also been my good friend. She and her husband Henry are those rare people who you could call at three in the morning when bad news comes. Their daughter Sara is taking classical guitar lessons from me. I like her a lot.
I managed to push open the church door with my shoulder without spilling the coffee and found a gaping hole in the floor. The entire place was strung with caution tape. I'd have to walk through the basement, get lost and try to find my way up through narrow hallways back to the office area. The old building was undergoing a massive facelift. It was either that or tear it down. Since it's a heritage building, the church really had no option but to renovate.
This past summer the exterior was fully refurbished, complete with new copper turrets. And now that it was getting cooler, the inside was being torn out and rebuilt.
"I smell coffee," Brenda said, poking her head out of her office and talking to me over the yellow tape and the hole in the floor.
I dropped the doughnuts on top of the coffees and answered her.
"Yeah, but can I get there from here? Can I jump over?"
She shook her head. "I wouldn't even try it. They're taking up the floorboards and we've been warned that it's dangerous. I don't want you falling down two floors. Do you know the way through the basement?"
"Barely," I said. "I always get lost down there." It's full of bugs, too, I wanted to add, but didn't. "You guys need to put up a detour sign," I joked.
"Don't laugh. Dave wants me to do just that. Wait there. I'll come around and get you. Greg's on the phone or he would."
"Thanks." I leaned against the wall, laid my guitar case on the floor, and rested the tray of coffees and the doughnuts on top of it. Paint-splattered workmen chatted among themselves as they hammered and sawed. I heard the far-off sound of drills, saws and other equipment. Dust was everywhere. With both hands I pulled my hair out of my eyes and shoved it behind my ears. It was frizzing more than usual in the wet weather we'd been having. As I waited, I hummed a new praise song we'd sung here a week ago.
It seemed like five minutes before Brenda reappeared and picked up the bag of doughnut holes and the tray of coffees, saying, "How nice." I followed her down the main staircase to the basement, along an uneven cement corridor flanked on either side by tiny, dusty rooms which looked as though they were used for storage. I am seldom down in the bowels of the church—it's not a particularly appetizing place. I brushed cobwebs out of my hair as we made our way through the narrow hallways.
She said, "Soon this'll be torn up, too. They're planning to open up this whole area, tear out every single wall you see and put in bigger classrooms."
"That'll be nice."
"How's school?"
"It's great. I didn't think I'd like it, but I'm settling in. It's been more than ten years since I've been in school, but I'm right back in the routine."
"You'll do fine," Brenda said.
We went up a set of skinny, creaky steps—the wood was shiny, worn down by a century of footsteps—and into yet another passage that led into the brightness of the wide church hallway, which housed the offices. I gave Brenda two coffees and some of the doughnut holes, and took the rest to Greg's office.
He was still on the phone, leaning against his bookshelf. I set my offerings on his desk. He smiled when he saw me. His grin widened when he saw the doughnut holes.
I realized that he was standing because the two chairs in his office were entirely covered with books, papers, CDs, DVDs, leaflets and odd bits of things. His entire office was in disarray. I moved one pile from a chair onto the floor as Greg said, "That would be fine. Yes, that's doable…"
I looked at his face, at the crinkles around the edges of his light blue eyes, the way he absently brushed his hands through his messy dark-blond hair. He was wearing faded jeans and a dark blue golf shirt with a little sailboat embossed on the pocket. To most people, Greg seemed like one of those big, affable teddy-bear kind of guys. Very few people know that a lot of pain is hidden behind that happy-go-lucky exterior. Sometimes it frightens me, the depth of pain both of us have come through to get to a point where we are almost ready to commit to each other. But we did, and we are, and sometimes I have to pinch myself for my good fortune and God's blessings. Life is good…
ABOUT LINDA:
Linda Hall is the award winning author of fifteen suspense novels and many articles and short stories. She has worked as a newspaper reporter and feature writer and now writes fiction full time. Currently she is writing romantic suspense for Harlequin's Steeple Hill/Love Inspired line.
She has been short listed twice for the Christy Award and her books have won many other awards. Hall is known real characters facing real life challenges.
Maybe you will see yourself in one of the characters in Shadows at the Window.
Linda invites you to visit her website: Http://writerhall.com
To join our deeper discussion of these and other titles go to Chapter-a-Week Chat at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/CAWChat/ where authors and readers discuss new titles together.
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The fantastic land of Amara is recovering from years of war inflicted on its citizens by outside forces–as well as from the spiritual apathy corroding the Amarans' hearts. With Kale and her father serving as dragon keepers for Paladin, the dragon populace has exploded. It's a peaceful, exciting time of rebuilding. And yet, an insidious, unseen evil lurks just beneath the surface of the idyllic countryside.
Donita K. Paul is a retired teacher and award-winning author ofseven novels, including DragonSpell, DragonQuest,DragonKnight, and DragonFire. When not writing, she is often engaged in mentoring writers of all ages. Donita lives in Colorado Springs, Colorado where she is learning to paint–walls and furniture! Visit her website at www.dragonkeeper.us. The books are available at <(www.bn.com<http://www.bn.com> , www.amazon.com<http://www.amazon.com> , www.christianbook.com<http://www.christianbook.com> , and fine bookstores everywhere. Do Not Reproduce without permission.
"What's wrong?" asked Kale, but her answer came as she tuned into the leader of the dragon watch.
Artross trilled orders to his subordinates. Kale saw the enemy through the eyes of this friend.
[Au: Can we trim these first six pages back to get to this a little sooner?] An anvilhead snake slid over the stone floor of a room stacked high with large kegs. His long black body stretched out from a nook between two barrels. With the tail of the serpent hidden, she had no way of knowing its size. These reptiles' heads outweighed their bodies. The muscled section behind the base of the jaws could be as much as six inches wide. But the length of the snake could be from three feet to thirty.
Kale shuddered, but continued down the passage.
Artross looked around the room and spotted another section of rope-like body against the opposite wall. Kegs hid most of the snake.
Grimacing, Kale eyed the two sections. Another snake? Or the end of the one threatening my dragons?
The viper's heavy head advanced, and the distant portion moved with the same speed.
One snake.
"Toopka, stay here," she ordered and ran past the doneel. She tossed the globe from her right hand to her left and pulled her sword from its hiding place beneath her robe. Nothing appeared to be in her hand, but Kale felt the leather-bound hilt secure in her grip. The old sword had been given to her by her mother, and Kale knew how to use the invisible blade with deadly precision.
"Don't let him get away," she called, as she increased her speed down the steps.
The wizard robe dissolved as she rushed to join her guard. Her long dress of azure and plum reformed itself into leggings and a tunic. The color drained away and returned as a pink that would rival a stunning sunset. When she reached the cold, dark room, she cast her globe into the air. Floating in the middle of the room, it tripled in size and gave off a brighter light.
The dragons circled above the snake, spitting their caustic saliva with great accuracy. Kale's skin crawled at the sight of the coiling reptile. More and more of the serpentine body emerged from the shadowy protection of the stacked kegs. Obviously, the snake did not fear these intruders.
Splotches of brightly colored spit did not cover the creature's loathsome hide. A gray pattern in the scales repeated a hammer design. Toward the tail, rings represent each year of the beast's growth.
Kale's two missing dragons could easily provided a snack for the serpent. She searched the room with the talent Wulder had bestowed upon her and sighed her relief when she sensed the little ones still lived.
The reptile hissed at her, raised its massive head, and swayed in a threatening posture. The creature slithered toward her, propelled by the elongated body still on the floor. Just out of reach of Kale's sword, the beast stopped, pulled its head back for the strike, and let out a slow, menacing hiss. The snake lunged, and Kale swung her invisible weapon. The severed head sailed across the room and slammed against the stone wall.
Kale eyed the writhing body for a moment. "You won't be eating anymore small animals." She turned her attention to the missing dragons and pointed her sword hand at a barrel at the top of one stack. "There. Gally and Mince are in that keg."
Several dragons landed on the wooden staves, and a brown dragon examined the cask to determine how best to open it. Toopka ran into the room and over to the barrel. "I'll help."
Kale tilted her head. "There is also a nest of snake eggs." She consulted the dragon most likely to know facts about anvilhead vipers. Crain landed on her shoulder and poured out all he [Au: is the she Crain or Kale here? Crain is referred to as male earlier.] knew in a combination of chittering and thoughts.
The odd reptiles preferred eating young farm animals, grain, and feed. They did nothing to combat the population of rats, insects, and vermin. No farmer allowed the snakes on his property if he could help it. "Find the nest," Kale ordered. "Destroy them."
The watch of dragons took flight again, zooming into lightrock-illuminated passages leading off from this central room. Kale waited until a small group raised an alarm. Four minor dragons had found the nest.
She plunged down a dim passage, sending a plume of light ahead and calling for the dispersed dragons to join her. Eleven came from the other corridors and nine flew in a V formation in front of her. Gally and Mince landed on her shoulders.
"You're all right. I'm so glad."
They scooted next to her neck, shivering. From their minds she deciphered the details of their ordeal. A game of hide and seek had led them into the depths of the castle. When the snake surprised them, they'd flown under the off-center lid of the barrel. As Mince dove into the narrow opening, he knocked the top just enough for it to rattle down into place. This successfully kept the serpent out, but also trapped them within.
Kale offered sympathy, and they cuddled against her, rubbing their heads on her chin as she whisked through the underground tunnel in pursuit of the other dragons.
Numerous rooms jutted off the main hallway, each stacked with boxes, crates, barrels, and huge burlap bags. Kale had no idea this vast amount of storage lay beneath the castle. Taylaminkadot, their efficient housekeeper and wife to Librettowit, probably had a tally sheet listing each item. Kale and the dragons passed rooms that contained fewer and fewer supplies until the stores dwindled to nothing.
How long does this hallway continue on?
Welcome back to Blessing, North Dakota
Book 4 in the Daughters of Blessing series
Deaf from birth, Grace Knutson has always favored a local boy. Then Jonathan, son of wealthy New Yorkers, arrives in Blessing to learn the value of hard work and is drawn to gentle, courageous Grace. But whom does her heart truly desire?
A Touch of Grace
By
Lauraine Snelling
Where in the world am I?
Jonathan Gould stared at the open window with a sheer white curtain puffing in a light breeze. While the world outside had light, the sun had yet to blue the sky. The voice came again.
"Jonathan, time for milking."
Milking? He lifted his head enough to focus around the room. That's right; he was back in North Dakota at the home of the Bjorklunds. And this time wouldn't be like the first. This time he was here for the summer to find out what manual work was like. The thought sent him burrowing back into the pillow.
"Jonathan, the others are leaving for the barn."
"I saw you were very patient with him in the barn," Grace said in her careful way, as the men left the kitchen. While they'd all learned to sign when they were children, Grace had fought and struggled to learn to speak like those who could hear, along with learning to read lips.
"Thank you. I was so sure he was going to be …" Astrid made a face, searching for the right word. "You know, snobbish, thinking he is better than we are because he comes from New York. His hands and forearms were really hurting by the end of the third cow, but he tried not to show it."
"Wait until he spends a couple of hours on the end of the spade and rake. I wonder if he brought leather gloves." Ingeborg Bjorklund squinted, thinking. "Not sure if I included that in my letter."
They'd planted much of the garden weeks earlier. Astrid nodded toward Jonathan, who was carrying a spade.
"Where do I start digging?"
"Well it's not exactly digging. Spading turns the soil so we can break up the clods with a rake and hoe." Why is he staring at me like that? Grace took a step backward. Surely he knows I can read lips. Or is he even aware I cannot hear? "You start over there." She pointed to the corner where the plow and disc pulled by one of the teams had, as always, missed turning the soil."
"All right."
"Do I have mud on my face or something?"
"No. Sorry. I've not seen a hat like that before. You look lovely in it."
Grace could feel heat streaking up from her neck and it wasn't due to the sun. "I… ah… thank you." Her fingers fluttered into motion as her tongue stumbled over the words. Then remembering that he couldn't sign, she clenched her hands together.
He started working close to the fence, pushing the shovel in with his arms.
Grace and Astrid stared at each other. With a mischievous smile Astrid motioned with her head for Grace to go help him. Grace gave a quick shake of her head and mouthed, "You." Astrid picked up her hoe and started trenching back to the other end of the garden, effectively ignoring Grace by keeping her back to her.
Grace humphed and stomped over to where Jonathan had turned over three shallow shovelfuls. Remember, this is just like teaching Trygve or Samuel. But when he looked up from what he was doing, his smile made her swallow. "I-I could show you an easier way, if you'd like?"
"There is an easier way."
"Ja, here." She reached for the spade and moved back to the edge that was already plowed. "If you start here, that helps. And then you push the spade into the ground with your foot, like this." She demonstrate and continued, She looked up to see him studying both her and the ground intently. She handed him the spade and motioned for him to follow her example.
He stuck the spade in next to her spot, rammed it in with his foot, and turned it, just like she'd shown him. "Good enough?" He had one eyebrow raised, giving him a devilish air.
"Ja, good." Grace forced herself not to spin around and flee like she wanted to. Why was she feeling so flushed again? Instead she walked back to where Astrid was bend over dropping beans and thumped her on the shoulder as she passed.
How silly, she told herself. You know that you care for Toby and always have, so behave yourself. She remembered how one of the girls had been talking about the newly arrived Geddick young men. All she ever thought about was Toby Valders. And yet she couldn't tell the others that. Even though he was a man now, Toby did not have the best reputation.
Would she be willing to run away with Toby if he asked her? He wouldn't have to. Blessing was his home just like it was hers. Although since graduation she had not seen him at all which seemed odd.
Sometime later Grace got to her feet and brushed the dirt off her apron, She caught a smile from Jonathan and sent him one in return. He must feel very odd here. Maybe he just needs a friend. Sometimes it's hard to be marked as different.
Coming from the well house with a basket under one arm and a crock of buttermilk in the other, she saw Jonathan coming toward her and smiled.
"Can I carry that for you?" He held out his hands.
She shook her head. "I'm fine, thank you."
A frown blew across his brow as he stepped off the pathway to let her pass.
I should have let him, she thought. Maybe that would have been more polite. But carrying these is what I always do. She could feel his gaze drilling into her back but refused to let herself turn around. If he kept volunteering to help her, when would he have time to do his own work? This promised to be an unusual summer. Now, if Toby had been there and volunteered, would she have let him take her basket? And walk beside her?
Excerpted from:
A Touch of Grace
by Lauraine Snelling
Published by Bethany House Publishers, copyright 2008ISBN: 978-0-7642-2811-7
Who is this woman who captured the heart of our country's founder? While still a young woman, Martha Custis is a widow with two children. As the richest widow in Virginia she has many suitors. But one man, a striking French and Indian War hero, steps into her life and makes her realize she is ready to love again.
Yet will this man, George Washington, who is accustomed to courageous military exploits, settle down to a simple life of farming and being a father to her children? Even as Martha longs for domestic bliss, she realizes she will have to risk everything to find the courage to get behind a dream much larger than her own. United in their Glorious Cause, the love of the Washingtons deepens until he calls her "My other self."
It is said that without George Washington there would be no United States.
But without Martha there would be no George Washington.
CHAPTER ONE
Death mocked me.
Daniel's booming voice was forever still. Never again would I hear his explosive laughter, or his whispered, "I love you, Martha."
I walked away from the grave of my husband. Seven short years was not enough. Yet it was not just his death that scorned me. . . .
I was sick to death of death.
"Dow!"
I held little Patsy, but a toddling fourteen months, in my arms. "No, dear one. Let Mamma hold you."
Let Mamma never let you go.
I looked about the Queens Creek cemetery, at all who had come to offer their condolences. Their eyes revealed their compassion, their wish to help. But how could anyone help?
My mother approached, wearing the black of mourning that had become far too familiar within the Dandridge and Custis families. Patsy extended her arms to her grandmother. I relinquished her.
"Come, little one," Mother said. Her eyes included me. "Let us go back to the house. It is time for a nap."
A nap would be of great relief—though unattainable. For whenever I attempted sleep I was greeted with the sight of my husband's eyes as he suffered. Although I had prayed for the best, he had expected the worst.
His throat thick with a virulent infection, he had struggled to speak. "I am so sorry, Martha. So sorry to leave you."
I was sorry too.
There would be no nap for a second reason: my son was still ill. Three-year-old Jacky lay abed, still holding on to a fever and the same swollen throat. For a month we had tried to make Jacky better, even bringing Dr. Carter the twenty-five miles from Williamsburg when my own medical abilities proved unworthy. Having just suffered the death of my second-born, Frances, two months previous, I would take no chance.
Nearly a week ago Daniel had succumbed to the sickness. No treatment helped. And he died.
My Daniel died.
The doctor said his heart was weak and further weakened by the fever.
It mattered not what took him, only that he was gone.
And I was left behind.
We reached the family home we used when in Williamsburg and I put Patsy to bed and checked upon Jacky, who was better of body, though not of spirit. Then I took solace in the study, needing silence and solitude above social commiseration. It was startling to realize being alone was a permanent state.
Perhaps I should have sought the company of others. . . .
Perhaps I should have.
But I could not do it.
There was a soft knock on the door.
Before I could utter a response—tell the intruder to please leave me alone—the door opened. It was Mother.
She entered the room, closed the door of the study with a subtle click, then took a seat beside me on the settee, her black skirts touching mine. "What can I do to help you, daughter?"
Such a simple question, but one I could only answer in a most ungenerous manner. I sprang to my feet and faced her as though she were the enemy. "You can help me by explaining why our family is made to suffer so cruelly. Eighteen years of my life were passed with nary a sorrow, but in the past eight . . . First, my brother drowns in the river, then my father-in-law—after finally consenting to our marriage—dies before the ceremony. Daniel and I are blessed with his namesake—who dies at age three. And six months later my own father, your husband, dies from the heat at a racetrack and—"
"It is not wise to dwell—"
"I do not dwell! I speak facts. After Father died, three more children blessed us. Then death found us again—twofold in one year! My dearest baby Frances—but four years old—is ripped away from me, and now, but three months later, my husband?" My final words came amid sobs. "I am only twenty-six! How can I be asked to bear such grief?"
"You are not asked."
Her words, so plainly said, stunned me to silence. No indeed, death had not asked my permission to inflict its wounds. For if it had solicited my opinion, I would have barred it at the door, saying, "Halt! You will not enter here!"
My vehemence fueled a new thought, more than a mere thought, a new resolve. I faced Mother and raised my chin with the tenacity that had become a necessary part of survival in these Colonies. "I will not allow death to hurt me again! I will not!"
Mother opened her mouth to speak, thought better of it, then opened it again. "Then you best not love again."
I ignored the truth in her words. To love was to risk pain.
Then perhaps I would not love anew.
I continued my vow. "As God is my witness, I will protect what I do love. I will enshroud my two surviving children with constant attention, devotion, and protection. Death will not dare approach us, nor make any attempts to breech my fortification."
"But, Martha—"
I swiped away my tears. "I am done with death! And I swear, it is now done with me."
I strode from the room and hurried upstairs, pausing at the door that led to poor Jacky. I steadied my breathing as well as my hand upon the knob.
I entered the dim room, the draperies closed against the afternoon sun that scorned us with its brightness. I let my eyes adjust to the light and was about to seek the children's nanny—whom I had instructed to watch upon my son whilst I was gone. How dare she leave him alone.
And yet . . . Jacky was not alone. For as I edged closer I saw that my dearest Patsy had left her room and had climbed beside her big brother. My two darlings lay snuggled in each other's arms, Patsy's head upon Jacky's shoulder.
I reached to lift her from his sickbed, then thought better of it. Jacky's breathing seemed easier. Perhaps the comfort of his little sister was a balm beyond the meager medicines Dr. Carter had offered. Brother and sister, bonded by their need as well as their love.
Gazing upon them, I put a hand to my lips, stifling a sob. For beyond my loss of a husband, my children had lost a father. There would be no more games of ride-the-pony or sitting in their father's lap by the fire as he told stories.
" `London bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down . . .' " The familiar song came to my lips unbidden.
I forced it to silence.
There would be too much silence in this house now.
The sobs threatened once again. Would they ever leave me alone?
I nodded once. They must leave me. I could not let them wield their power, for once unleashed, the sobs would lead to despair, which would lead to surrender and—
Death would claim further victory, not against the dead, but against those it left behind.
I moved a chair beside the bed, hoping the soft rustle of my skirts would not awaken my darlings.
This is where I belonged. This is where I vowed to remain, standing guard against all that dared come against my children.
Nancy Moser is the author of nineteen novels including Solemnly Swear, Just Jane, Mozart's Sister, Christy Award winner Time Lottery, and the Sister Circle series co-authored with Campus Crusade co-founder Vonette Bright.
BEYOND THE NIGHT
By Marlo Schalesky
They say love is blind.
This time, they're right . . .
A poignant love story. . .
A shocking twist . . .
Come, experience a love that will not die.
A Nicolas Sparks (The Notebook) type love story meets a M. Night Shymalan (The Sixth Sense) twist in this moving story of two people trying to find love in the dark.A woman going blind, a man who loves her but can't tell her so, a car crash, a hospital room, and an ending that has to be experienced to be believed.
Excerpt:
They tell me it never happened. They say it couldn't have. Some call it a dream. Others say I'm a romantic. But I know what they're thinking: I'm crazy. Touched by grief. Making up stories to ease my pain.
But I have no grief. Not anymore. And my pain is only a single note in the symphony of my peace, for I know what's true. I was there that day. I watched her hand reach toward him. I heard his voice in the darkness. I saw their love. Paul and Maddie. So call me crazy if you must. But I know the power of love. I've glimpsed its mystery. I've witnessed its light.
If you doubt, come with me. Step through the shadows of time to when it began. A cold night. Dark. And beyond the night…well, come and see.
***
Paul gripped the steering wheel tighter as the Ford Pinto curved along the mountain road. Rain fell in heavy sheets, slamming against hood and pavement. The swish of the wipers played a dissonant beat to the thrum of water on metal.
This is mad. We should turn back. Paul glanced at his wife, sleeping in the seat beside him. Maddie's breathing remained steady, her eyes closed. A deep snore drifted from her open mouth.
Paul smiled. Maddie hated it when he told her she snored. "It's not snoring," she'd say, "just strong breathing." Strong enough to be heard over the rain. Of course, she'd never believe him. One day, he'd record it, if he dared. His smile melted into a low chuckle. She'd never forgive him for that. At least not until he brought her a Hershey's bar—with almonds. The chocolate was no good, she insisted, without the almonds.
The rain quickened until the sound became a thunder on the rooftop. Paul leaned forward and squinted into the darkness. The car's headlights formed circles of yellow, reflecting off the rain in countless shards of light. He rubbed his eyes. He couldn't see the lane divider, or the white line along the shoulder. Or the road that lay beyond the million falling diamonds blinking in the brightness.
The snoring stopped.
"Are we there?" Her sleepy question rose above the roar of rain.
"Not yet." Paul's knuckles whitened on the wheel. "We're going to be late."
"Told you so." The humor in her voice relaxed his grip.
He peeked over at her. A few curls of russet hair gleamed in the faint light. A smile touched her lips, curving into that funny half grin that he loved so much.
He reached over and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. "Go back to sleep, smarty pants. I'll get us there…eventually."
"It's too loud in here to sleep." Maddie raised her voice to a mock shout. "This rain is like listening to a bad rock band."
Paul slapped a tape into the player on the dash. "You just need the right music, that's all."
Maddie groaned. "Not that old tape again."
"What else?"
The strum of a guitar clamored against the rumble of rain. A second later, voices picked up the story of Puff the Magic Dragon just as Jackie Paper came no more. Paul sang along, adding another off-key note to the cacophony of sound.
Maddie reached for the volume control. "You know that song's about marijuana, don't you?"
"Urban legend. Can't be proved." Paul tapped his fingers on the wheel in time with the song's beat. "Besides, our daughter agrees with me."
"Mandy's only five."
"Exactly. No one knows more than a five-year-old."
Maddie chuckled as Paul sang even louder. He belted out a full stanza before she sat up straight and pressed her hand against the side window. "Turn it down, Paul."
"Aw, just because you don't like Puff."
"No, really." She leaned over and squeezed his arm. "Listen to that rain. It's coming down so hard the windows are shaking. Maybe we should pull over."
Paul ground his palms against the vinyl of the steering wheel. "The road straightens out just ahead. Besides, ten minutes and we'll be there."
"Promise?"
He downshifted as the Pinto approached a turn. "Nope. Might be fifteen."
The car lurched around the bend. Tires hit a puddle in the road, sending a spray of water across the hood and window. The wipers whooshed it away, revealing, for the briefest moment, a deer standing in the circle of the headlights.
The creature froze. Still. Wide-eyed.
Paul shouted. Brakes squealed. The Pinto swerved right. He jerked the wheel left.
Tires skidded across gravel as the car spun off the road into the trees.
Branches slapped the sides of the Pinto, scraped across the windows in a blur of water, leaves, and glass. He threw his arm across Maddie. The trunk of a pine flashed in front of him.
The car hit.
The steering wheel slammed into his chest. The dash rushed toward him, carrying with it a small square of color.
With sickening clarity, the colors took shape, and he recognized the Polaroid photo he'd taped there days before. A little girl in yellow pigtails. A crooked half-smile. And words scrawled beneath in childish script. Words he did not need to read to remember.
Drive Carefully Daddy.
What Others Are Saying . . .
I've just finished Beyond the Night and can barely see through my tears. What a beautiful love story! Paul and Maddie's story--a powerful tale of both darkness and glorious light--moved me deeply. Move over, Nicholas Sparks! There's a new girl in town. -Laura Jensen Walker, author of Miss Invisible and Reconstructing Natalie
Beyond the Night is an incredible novel that reminds readers of the supernatural power of everlasting love.
-Kristin Billerbeck, author of The Trophy Wives Club
To view the book trailer, see a video tour of StanfordUniversity, hear a personal message from Marlo, and for other information about Beyond the Night and Marlo's other books, visit www.marloschalesky.com
To join our deeper discussion of these and other titles go to Chapter-a-Week Chat at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/CAWChat/ where authors and readers discuss new titles together.
The winner of our Summer Reading Giveaway is Charles Jenkins of Mechanicsville, Virginia! Thanks to all who entered the contest. We'll be doing more of these in the future so tell your friends to sign up for Chapter-a-Week.
From a Distance
by
Tamera Alexander
What happens when dreams aren't what you imagined,
And secrets you've spent a lifetime guarding are finally laid bare?
Determined to become one of the country's premier newspaper photographers, Elizabeth Westbrook travels to the Colorado Territory to capture the grandeur of the mountains surrounding the remote town of Timber Ridge. She hopes, too, that the cool, dry air of Colorado, and its renowned hot springs, will cure the mysterious illness that threatens her career, and her life.
Daniel Ranslett, a former Confederate sharpshooter, is a man shackled by his past, and he'll do anything to protect his land and his solitude. When an outspoken Yankee photographer captures an image that appears key to solving a murder, putting herself in danger, Daniel is called upon to repay a debt. He's a man of his word, but repaying that debt will bring secrets from his past to light.
Forced on a perilous journey together, Daniel and Elizabeth's lives intertwine in ways neither could have imagined when first they met . . . from a distance.
Chapter One
Rocky Mountains, Colorado Territory
April 15, 1875
Elizabeth Garrett Westbrook stepped closer to the cliff's edge, not the least intimidated by the chasm's vast plunge. Every moment of her life had been preparing her for this. That knowledge was as certain within her as the thrumming inside her chest. At thirty-two, she still wasn't the woman she wanted to be, which was partially why she'd traveled nineteen hundred miles west to Timber Ridge, Colorado Territory. To leave behind a life she'd settled for, in exchange for the pursuit of a dream, for however long she had left.
A chill fingered its way past her woolen coat, into her shirtwaist, and through the cotton chemise that lay beneath. She pulled the coat closer about her chest and viewed the seamless river and valley carved far below, the mountains heaved up and ragged, draped in brilliant dawn to the limits of sight. She peered down to where the earth ended abruptly at the tips of her boots and the canyon plunged
to breathtaking depths.
The Chronicle offices in Washington, D.C., were housed in a four-story building, and she estimated that at least ten of those buildings could be stacked one atop the other and still not reach the height of the cliff where she stood. She'd never before experienced such a sense of possibility. Standing here, she felt so small in comparison to all of this, yet in awe that the same Creator who had orchestrated such grandeur was also orchestrating the dissonant fragments of her life.
The competition had been rigorous, but she'd made it—one of three final candidates being considered for the position of staff photographer and journalist at the Washington Daily Chronicle. The other two candidates were men—men she'd met, liked and respected, and who knew how to frame the world through a lens as well as they did with words—which meant she would have to work extra hard to prove herself.
A breeze stirred, and she brushed back a curl. She inhaled the crisp, cold air, held it captive in her lungs, and then gave it gradual release, as the doctors had instructed. Hailed for its purity and ability to heal, the mountain air was even thinner than she had expected, and more invigorating.
Refocusing on her task, she strapped on her shoulder pack and checked the knotted rope encircling her waist for a second time, then untied her boots and placed one stockinged foot onto the felled tree.
She tested her weight on the natural bridge and judged it would more than hold her. Even though the tree looked solid, she'd learned the hard way that things were not always as they appeared. She trailed her gaze along the length of the gnarled trunk to where it met with the opposite ledge some twenty feet away. Heights had never bothered her, but once she started across, she purposed to never look down. Better to keep your focus on the goal rather than on the obstacles.
She adjusted the weight of her pack, concentrating, focusing, and took that crucial first step.
"Don't you go fallin' there, Miz Westbrook!"
Startled by the interruption, Elizabeth stepped back to safety and turned to look behind her. Josiah stood on the winding mountain trail, gripping the other end of the rope that was secured to a tree behind him.
Uncertainty layered his mahogany features. "I's just offerin' one last warnin', ma'am. 'Fore you set out."
Heart in her throat, she tried to sound kind. "I assure you, I'm fine, Josiah. I've done this countless times." Though, granted, never over so great a height. But be it eight feet or eight hundred, the ability
to traverse a chasm successfully lay in focus and balance. At least that's what she kept telling herself. "But it would help me if you would stop your screaming."
His soft laughter was as deep as the canyon and gentle as the breeze. "I ain't screamin', ma'am. Womenfolk, now, they scream. Us men, we yells."
She threw him a reproving look. "Then, please . . . stop your man-like yelling."
He tugged at the rim of his worn slouch hat. "I won't be havin' to yell if you'd start actin' like a normal-headed woman. Instead of some . . . hoople-head traipsin' herself across a log for some picture of a bird's nest."
The felled tree was large, nearly fifty inches in circumference, hardly the log Josiah referred to, and crossing it to the opposite ledge would provide a better vantage point of the eagle's nest. The aerie was built on a precipice jutting from the side of the mountain, slightly below the level of the cliff and some thirty feet beyond. The photograph of the nest with the chasm below and the mountains in the backdrop would be breathtaking—if she didn't fall and break her neck first.
She'd crossed wider drop-offs on much narrower tree bridges than this. Doing such things always made her feel a little like a girl again, and took her back to a time when she hadn't yet been told that certain things were impossible.
"May I remind you that I'm paying you, very well"—she raised a brow, appreciating the ease of banter they'd shared since the outset of their association—"to carry my equipment and assist me in my work, not to offer opinions on my decisions."
"Ain't no extra charge for them, ma'am. They's free."
She shook her head at his broad smile. For the past week Josiah Birch had followed her instructions to the letter, as well he should. When properly motivated, the Washington Daily Chronicle had deep pockets.
Two other men had applied for the job as her assistant. They'd both seemed capable, but there was something about Josiah Birch that she innately trusted. He wasn't an educated man, but he knew how to read and write, and he'd learned to handle and mix the chemical solutions for her trade as fast as she had. And that he weighed twice what she did and held the excess in lean hard muscle and in an honest, open gaze had only bolstered his nonexistent résumé.
Focusing again, Elizabeth placed her right foot on the tree. Arms outstretched like a tightrope walker's, she compensated for the heavier-than-usual shoulder pack and took a carefully plotted first step. Then a second step. And a third . . .
A NOTE FROM TAMERA:
Stories are journeys, and each story I write is a journey for me.
Rekindledbegan with a dream—the image of a man returning home on horseback. He came upon a freshly dug grave and when he knelt to read the name carved into the roughhewn wooden cross, he discovered the name was…his own. The inspiration forRevealedgrew from two characters inRekindledwhose stories needed to be told. But even more, whose storiesIneeded to tell. WritingRevealedwas a very personal journey for me, and a healing one. ForRemembered, I met that story's heroine (figuratively, of course) while strolling the ancient cobblestoned pathways of a three hundred-year-old cemetery in northernParis,France. AndFrom a Distancecame from a question I was struggling with in my own life at the time, "What happens when the dream you asked God for isn't what you thought it would be?"
For me, the greatest thrill of these writing journeys is when Christ reveals Himself in some new way, and I take a step closer to Him. And my deepest desire is that readers of my books will do that as well—take steps closer to Him as they read. After all, it's all about Him.
In the Potter's Hand,
Tamera
Tamera Alexander is the bestselling novelist of Rekindled, Revealed, and Remembered. Her deeply drawn characters, thought-provoking plots, and poignant prose resonate with readers and have earned her multiple industry awards.After living in Colorado for seventeen years, Tamera has returned to her Southern roots. She and her husband now make their home in Franklin, Tennesseewhere they enjoy life with their two college-age children and Jack, a precious—and precocious—Silky Terrier.
Bethany House Publishers All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without permission.
WAGERED HEART
by Robin Lee Hatcher
Zondervan, June 2008
Bethany Silverton can't resist the challenge of charming a rough cowboy. But when she makes an innocent wager, unexpected results could turn a little flirtation into a lifetime of love. A sheltered preacher's daughter stakes her heart on love in this action-filled romance in the wild west of 1880s Montana.
"Hawk and Bethany's journey is fraught with misunderstandings, personal tragedy and the schemes of a treacherous man adding excitement to a tale that overflows with simmering attraction and blossoming love. Interspersed with humour and electrifying dialogue, Wagered Heart is a summer treat not to be missed." -- Relz Reviews
EXCERPT
Bethany Silverton swept her lime green and white striped gown out of the way and closed the picket gate of her family's new home. Then with gloved fingers, she opened a matching striped silk parasol and rested it against her shoulder. From down the street, the sounds of laughter mixed with the brassy tinkle of piano keys spilled from the nearest saloon and into the main street of Sweetwater, Montana.
Bethany's friend, Ingrid Johnson, shook her head. "It is shameful that those men drink so early in the day." The words rolled off her tongue in a soft Swedish accent. "I do not know why the good reverend wanted to build his church here. He could have settled in a more civilized place long before this."
Bethany hid her amusement behind her parasol. She couldn't admit to Ingrid how much she liked this raw frontier town. After all, she had complained without ceasing when her father announced they were leaving Philadelphia to go west. She had declared to both of her parents she would never forgive her father for withdrawing her from Miss Henderson's School for Young Ladies, for making her leave all of her friends behind, for removing her from the glittering society of which her wealthy grandmotherand by extension, Bethany herselfwas a part. She had pouted when they traveled, and she'd pouted whenever they stopped along the way, waiting for her father to hear from the Lord if they had reached the place God meant for them to call home.
She stopped walking at the far corner of the Plains Saloon and tacked a notice about her father's first church service to the clapboard siding. The noise coming from inside was louder than ever. Twice she glanced toward the door, battling an almost irresistible temptation to peek inside and learn the cause of so much merriment. But, of course, she couldn't do anything so unbecoming. She might relish her many new freedoms, but as a preacher's daughter she had to be mindful of her position. Besides, Ingrid would go straight to the reverend if Bethany did anything so brash as look inside a saloon.
She turned from her task, ready to head for home, then stopped when she felt the hem of her dress catch, cringing as she heard the tearing of fabric. This was one of her favorite dresses, a gift from her Philadelphia cousin, Beatrice Worthington. She'd taken great care of it, and if it was ruined, she would be heartsick. There would be no replacing it in Sweetwater.
"Allow me," a deep voice said.
She glanced over her shoulder in time to see a stranger bend down to free her skirt from the troublesome nail. When he straightened, she found her head tilting backward, ever backward in order to look him in the face.
He was over six feet tall with broad shoulders, lean but exuding an aura of power. She had never felt so slight as she did now. His features were boldly spaced, his skin dark, his jaw smooth and square. Blue-black hair brushed the collar of his shirt. She could read nothing in his expression, but his midnight blue eyes seemed to look right inside her head, reading her mind, judging her thoughts.
She gasped and stepped backward.
One corner of his mouth lifted, suggesting a smile. He turned away without a word.
"Bethany?" Ingrid's hand clasped her arm.
She took another step back, her gaze still on the man.
"Look at this, Hawk." A second cowboy, one Bethany hadn't noticed before, pointed at the notice she had tacked on the wall. "They're startin' a church here in Sweetwater. We're gonna get civilized. You gonna come to the service on Sunday?"
The man named Hawk looked behind him, his enigmatic gaze meeting Bethany's once again. She held her breath, awaiting his reply.
"No," he said and walked away.
"Come on, Bethany." Ingrid tugged at her arm.
"Did you see him?"
"Of course I saw him."
"I wonder who he is. Have you ever seen anyone so … so …" She didn't know what she wanted to say about him. So handsome … so mysterious … so dangerous.
"He looked like every other cowboy we have seen in Montana. And certainly not the kind of man you would find in church."
Bethany turned. "Why do you think that?"
"He said so himself. Weren't you listening? He would not come even if you invited him."
"But it's our Christian duty to encourage everyone to come to church. How else are we to reach them with the good news?"
Ingrid shook her head. "Many are called, but few are chosen."
His eyes were as wild and raw as this land. As if he's a part of it. Surely that is why God called Papa to this place, to reach men like him.
A delayed shiver of reaction ran through her.
"I can see what you are thinking, Bethany, and I tell you, it will not happen."
"Who says?" She tossed her head. "I'll wager I could get him to services if I tried hard enough."
Ingrid shot her a frown. "Gambling is a sin."
"Oh, pishposh. This isn't gambling. It's a little game between friends."
"Bethany"
"I'll wager you five dollars I can get him to come to church within thirty days."
"I do not have five dollars."
"Well, we'll pretend you do. See. Then it isn't gambling."
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The Guardians
Jack Cavanaugh
David C. Cook, 2008
"Jack Cavanaugh, the acknowledged master of historical fiction, welcome to the present! The Guardians is a seat-belt-mandatory page-turning conclusion to the Morgan family series."
—John Culea, Emmy-award winning news anchor
A cop on the wrong side of a crime scene, Ethan Morgan is left with nothing but his brother's widow, a missing family heirloom, and a heart filled with rage. The search for his brother's killer uncovers an evil that threatens the spiritual foundations of America.
Chapter 1
Death had no good reason being out on a night like this.
It was September warm. A Santa Ana wind had scrubbed the sky clean. The harvest moon cast a soft light. It was a night for carefree strolls. Not a killing night at all.
From the back seat of a patrol car, through the wire mesh screen, Ethan Morgan saw two things that didn't belong together—his house and a crime scene.
The media vultures were circling while his neighbors clustered in nervous pods on the sidewalk, pointing and whispering.
Ethan closed his eyes and took a deep breath, praying for the strength to face what awaited him. In his hand he clutched the program of an elementary school production.
The World Premiere
of
An American Family Portrait
A play adapted from the graphic novels of
Andrew Morgan.
He found it difficult to believe that just a short time ago he'd been sitting in a school auditorium bored out of his mind.
_______________________________________
"Trust me. You're going to survive the night."
Ethan Morgan's knee was pumping up and down like a piston. Seated next to him, Meredith placed a hand on the knee to quiet it. He took a deep breath and told himself to calm down.
He checked his watch.
"Ethan, will you relax? He'll be here."
The houselights went down
"Sky promised me I wouldn't have to do or say anything tonight," Ethan said. "All I had to do is show up."
His leg started doing the piston thing again.
A spotlight hit the crimson curtain, center stage.
Like a traveler stepping through a portal from the world of make-believe into the world of reality, a man slipped through the curtain. He was rail-thin with baggy brown trousers, a long-sleeved pale yellow shirt, and an argyle sweater-vest. His reddish-brown mustache twitched side to side as he cleared his throat.
"That's Mr. Pandurski," Meredith whispered. "He's the sixth grade teacher who approached Andrew about doing the play."
Ethan's eyes narrowed on the wretch responsible for this night of torture.
Mr. Pandurski adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses.
"Welcome to William Jennings Bryan Elementary School," he said, with exaggerated enunciation. "Tonight, we take great privilege in presenting to you the world premiere of An American Family Portrait, a play adapted from the graphic novels of Andrew Morgan."
Meredith leaned against Ethan. "How does it feel to have a play written about your family history?"
"Uncomfortable."
Mr. Pandurski continued. "A little later in the show I'll introduce our guests of honor. It is our privilege to have with us tonight the author himself, Andrew Morgan; his lovely wife, Meredith; and his brother—his identical twin brother—Ethan Morgan, who is a detective with the San Diego Police Department."
Ethan groaned. This was shaping up to be the worst night of his life.
Meredith's brow furrowed into a scowl. "If you had brought the Bible in the first place, Andrew would be here now."
"I didn't forget it on purpose."
_______________________________________
A black figure slipped silently from bush to bush. Everything was exactly as it had been described. The alley. The security light on the telephone pole. The fence. The layout of the backyard. The white clapboard house.
From the pouch of a shoulder bag he pulled a flat metal blade and jimmied the screen, then the window. A rush of warm interior air spilled out. It smelled of fried potatoes.
There was something wickedly pleasurable about knowing that a short time ago the cop had shoveled fried potatoes into his maw. Sort of like a prisoner's last meal before execution.
Corby surveyed the surrounding neighborhood for signs of anybody walking their dog or jogging by or taking an untimely peek out a window. Confident nobody had seen him, he hitched up his shoulder bag and climbed inside, his heavy work-boots stepping onto a white linoleum kitchen floor.
Satisfied he was alone, he closed the window.
There was something about walking through another man's house when he wasn't there that gave Corby the willies. He would be glad to get out of here as soon as Morgan was dead.
The cop's lair was an old house with small rooms. The furniture had been purchased for comfort, not for entertaining.
One piece of furniture in the living room didn't fit. From a distance, it appeared to be an old-fashioned accountant's desk, the kind a bespectacled keeper of ledgers would labor over while sitting on a high stool. Only the wood was too fine and polished for a desk and the tilted flat surface on top wasn't wood, but glass. Corby wasn't confused by its appearance. He knew exactly what it was, a museum-quality display case. He also knew exactly what the case had been built to display.
He peered inside.
"That's not right…" he muttered. "It's supposed to be empty."
But the case wasn't empty. Inside was an old Bible, laying open to the Psalms, with elaborately drawn colorful vines cascading down the margins.
He tried opening the case. It was locked.
For a long minute he stared at his reflection in the glass with the Bible in the background. He'd been told Morgan would have the Bible with him when he returned. As it was, all Corby had to do was have the cop unlock the case before he killed him. The result would be the same. The cop would be dead and Corby would have the Bible.
He positioned the recliner so that it was facing the front door and settled into it with the semi-automatic on his lap. From here, through sheer curtains, he could see headlights turning into the driveway and ghost-like images of anyone walking up to the front door.
A framed picture caught his eye. It was of a slim, attractive red-head standing between a pair of human bookends. Two identical males.
"Well, whatta you know," Corby said. "There's two of them."
Libby Keating is forced to share a Colonial era row house in Philadelphia with her estranged twin Tori. Instead of the renewed relationship she hopes for, she finds a body on the doorstep with a cryptic warning embedded in a crossword puzzle.
"Roper's dialogue and character development are spot-on…this novel is a pleasure from start to finish."-Publisher's Weekly
Condensed from FATAL DEDUCTION
By Gayle Roper
Prologue
I opened the front door at five A.M. on a July Thursday and stepped into murder.
Actually I tripped into murder, catching my foot on the unexpected body lying on the front stoop of my late Great-Aunt Stella's colonial era row house in Philadelphia.I went flying, all grace and beauty.
I pushed myself to my feet and checked to see the extent of the damage.I sighed.I needed Bactine and a Bandaid. Then I needed a pitcher of cold water to throw on the man to waken him and get him to move.The last thing I wanted was for Chloe to find him.She'd have a thirteen-year-old hissy fit.Then again, she might find him fascinating, local color and all.I could never predict my daughter anymore, and I found it very disconcerting.
I raised a foot to step over the drunk when I noticed three things.No smell of booze and body odor wafted off the man like you'd expect with a street person in July.There was a note with TORI written on it, a white rectangle lying on the dark of his shirt.And the man did not appear to be breathing.
Chapter 1
One Day Prior
I turned into the alley and slammed on the brakes.Vaguely I heard Princess tumble off the back seat and hit the floor with an indignant doggie umph!
I stared in amazement at the narrow lane of row houses ahead of me.
"Wow, Mom," Chloe said."Those houses are little!"
And we had to live in the fifth house on the left for the next six months.
With Tori.
Aunt Stella, what were you thinking?
I turned off the ignition and climbed out.I slid the keys into my shorts pocket, feeling like I should glance around to see if anyone had seen where I'd stashed them.
Foolish.No one was going to rush me, grab the keys, and make off with the van.It wasn't a matter of crime not happening in broad daylight.It was more that no self-respecting car thief would be caught dead taking our dinged and scabrous vehicle.
"I am so not a city person," I muttered."The size alone scares me."
"I'm not scared," Chloe announced."I think coming to Philadelphia is cool."
"Yeah, cool." I stared at my daughter, the joy of my life.Thirteen was so scary.And so were the bad guys lurking around every city corner ready to prey on the girl's innocence.
I snapped on the dog's lead and determined not to think about all the daunting possibilities out there. There was no sense in looking for trouble before it came.And it would come.I knew it as certainly as I knew Princess's shrill bark would alienate all the neighbors.
If Tori didn't accomplish that feat first.
I stopped at the fifth unit, and taking a deep breath, I inserted the key in the front door.
"Are you Libby or Tori?"
Jumping slightly, I turned to find a woman with beautiful white hair and a warm smile standing in front of the house directly across from ours.
"I'm Libby Keating.And this is Chloe."
"I'm Tinksie Mowrey."She looked at Chloe curiously."I didn't realize a child was coming.Stella never mentioned her."
I bit back a smile at the expression on Chloe's face at being called a child.As far as Chloe was concerned, the only thing keeping her from leaving home to manage on her own was lack of a driver's license.And money.At least Aunt Stella hadn't made the mistake of providing that.
"Mrs. Mowrey," I said."It's nice to meet you." "Oh, no, dear.Tinksie."
Oh, no, dear was right.How could I ever call a woman older than my grandmother Tinksie?
"I know, dear," Tinksie said."Terrible name for an old lady, isn't it?Why don't people think about the fact that you're not always going to be three years old when they give you nicknames?"
Tinksie adjusted the pearls at her neck, the huge rock on her ring finger flashing in the sun."Welcome to the neighborhood."With a cheery wave she walked away.
"A child."Chloe's voice dripped with disgust.She said child in two syllables, chi-uld.
I bit back a smile.Tinksie was going to have to go a long way to recover from that inadvertent insult.
"Is she gone?"The whisper emanated from the miniscule crack in our now open front door.
"Tori?"I peered into the shadowed interior.
"Yep, it's me!"The door flew open, and I blinked at the vision before me.Tori's blonde hair was pulled into a curly topknot with tendrils falling against her nape and over her ears.Her eyes were a vivid blue, the color accented by artfully applied shadow, mascara, and liner.She wore a tight pink camisole with a built-in bra—at least I hoped there was a built-in bra—and a short denim skirt.Her long tanned legs were bare, as were her feet.She looked beautiful.As always.
I thought of my own blonde hair scraped back in a haphazard ponytail, any strands breaking free not tendrils but springs of frizz.My cheap navy tee shirt had side seams so skewed that they ended up in the centers of my stomach and back, and my khaki shorts were more wrinkled than a dozen Tinksies.
"Aunt Tori!" Chloe cried, throwing herself at Tori.
"Hey, kiddo!"Tori hugged her."Good grief!You're as tall as I am, a young woman."
Chloe smiled happily."That's what I keep telling Mom."
"And you, little lady."Tori scooped up Princess and planted a kiss on her nose.Princess returned the favor with an enthusiastic lick and settled against Tori.
Tori, Chloe and Princess disappeared into the house, talking and laughing.
"Chloe, there's luggage to carry in!"
But Chloe was struck with selective deafness, an affliction common to teens, its cure unknown to modern science.
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Finally a Family
Carolyne Aarsen
Love Inspired – June, 2008
A Farm – A desire to atone for past wrongs – And two people caught in the middle.
This is MY Farm:
Arrogant Ethan Westerveld could scream that from the barn roof if he wanted, but half the place was now Hannah Kristoferson's. Not that she wanted one inch of the farm that reminded her of the only father she'd ever known- and his heartbreaking betrayal. Yet according to the terms of his will, she had to spend six months at Riverbend or forfeit the inheritance. Six months butting heads with too-handsome Ethan in order to make a quick sale and a new life far away? She'd do it. But Hannah didn't count on Ethan feeling like family…or that she'd want to stay forever.
Top Pick – Romantic Times:
. . .Carolyne Aarsen delivers a spunky heroine who keeps the story fun while a warm romance brews at just the right temperature. You'll be glad to read Finally A Family (4 ½)"
Chapter One
So this was the town Sam scurried back to thirteen years ago.
Hannah rocked back and forth on her feet as she looked up and down the main street of Riverbend studying it through the eyes of a one left behind for this place.
The downtown boasted older-style brick buildings and ash trees lining the street, the first hint of spring in the fresh green misting their bare branches. Pleasant enough.
Before Sam left Hannah and her mother all those years ago, he promised he would come back for her and bring her to Riverbend. Two days ago, however, Hannah received the news that Sam had passed away three weeks previous. Even though Sam wasn't Hannah's biological father, she thought his nine-year stay with her and her mother would have given him some stake in their lives. But this town and his extended family had obviously exerted a pull stronger than her and her mother's because in the thirteen years he was gone he never came back for her, or wrote or even phoned.
She glanced down main street and pulled a face. Too small for this big city girl's liking. Too removed from any major centre and far too many pickup trucks, Hannah thought, her attention drawn by a particularly loud, red one making its way down the street toward her.
Hannah flipped open her cell phone and though she'd had it on since she left Toronto, she checked her messages again. Nothing from Lizzie or Taylor though Lizzie had said she would talk to Taylor about changing their meeting from Saturday to Monday. She stifled a beat of fear. What if Taylor changed his mind about selling her and Lizzie the salon while he was gone? What if he was angry because she wasn't in Toronto the day she and Lizzie were supposed to finalize the deal?
Hannah pushed back her own concerns as she drew in a long, slow breath catching the tantalizing whiff of coffee blending with the distinctive scent of yeast and bread.
She rolled her stiff shoulders, stretched her arms in front of her as the light changed, already anticipating the bite of the dark brew combined with a warm muffin. Or maybe a Danish.
A couple of young girls slipped past her and dashed across the street, waving at the driver of the noisy, red pickup who had turned onto the main street and was parking in front of the bakery.
Hannah followed them, smiling at their exuberance. But her smile changed to a frown when one of the girls bumped into a little boy coming out of the bakery.
The boy dropped his doughnut and his lip quivered as he looked at the frosted treat now lying on the sidewalk. She hurried to his side and knelt in front of him. "Are you okay?" she asked.
He only nodded as she dug in her pocket, looking for loose change, but all that came up were a few nickels.
"Susie Corbett, get back here." A man stepping out of the fancy red truck called out to the delinquent girls.
One of the girls obeyed the summons and slowed her steps. The other kept running.
"I said now, Susie." While he barked out his demand, the man walked over to Hannah and the little boy.
"You okay, Todd?" he asked, his deep voice quieter now as his gaze flicked over the boy, then came to rest on Hannah.
His eyes, an unusual color of sage, fringed with thick, dark eyelashes, caught and held her gaze. His finely shaped lips curved into a crooked smile emphasizing his hollow cheekbones, which clearly had one intention. "Thanks for helping," he said, the timbre of his voice lowering and in spite of knowing what he was playing at; Hannah felt a lift of attraction.
"Back at you." She kept her smile aloofly polite. No sense encouraging one of the locals. Though she had to admit, he was tempting enough to make her re-think the length of her stay.
She forced her attention back to the little boy. "Sorry, I don't have any money to buy you another doughnut," she said.
He sniffed and nodded.
"That's okay. Susie will pay," the man said as the girl came nearer. "Won't you Susie? I think you owe Todd about fifty cents."
"Uncle Ethan," she wailed, but even as she protested, she dug in her pocket. "You won't tell mom, will you?" she asked as she handed the money over.
"Of course I won't tell your mom, you little twerp. Just don't act like such a toughie." He made the letter V with his fingers and pointed them at his eyes. "Remember, I see everything."
Susie gave a nervous laugh.
"Okay, Uncle Ethan." She shoved her hands in her pockets and took a few, hesitant steps backward. "Can I go now?"
Uncle Ethan flipped his hand toward her in a dismissive gesture. "Shoo. Run along." Ethan handed the coins to his nephew who took them with a quick murmured thank you and scooted inside the bakery.
When Hannah stood, Ethan looked at her again. This time he frowned. Just a faint downturn of his even brows and she caught a hint of puzzlement in his eyes.
"Do I know you?"
Hannah laughed then. Any number of smart remarks came to mind but his self-conscious laugh spilled out before she could share any of them.
"That was as lame as a two legged cat. Sorry." He scratched his head, rearranging his artfully tousled hair.
Weekend cowboy, Hannah deduced, taking in the long, lean legs clad in crisp blue jeans and the polished cowboy boots.
"It's so hard to come up with original lines these days. All the best ones have been taken." Hannah worked up a sympathetic look, underlined it with an arch lift of her eyebrows.
Christy Award-winning author of River Rising and The Cure
Romantic Times: "Top Pick!"
Library Journal: Starred Review
Christian Fiction Review: Five Stars
Athol Dickson's writing has been favorably compared to the work of
Octavia Butler (by Publishers Weekly), Daphne du Maurier (by Cindy Crosby of FaithfulReader.com) and Flannery O'Connor (by the New York Times).
EXCERPT
I fled along the cliff top, following a narrow band of soil between the ageless trees and the open bit of sky beyond the edge. Eternal darkness beckoned from my right. On my left and far below lay certain death. Behind was something I could not imagine, and ahead . . . ahead in the waning light I saw a massive tree trunk sprawled across my path, fallen from the forest to hang cantilevered out into midair above the cove, a barrier almost twice my height in repose, which I could only get around by entering the forbidding blackness underneath the trees, where the hissing thing awaited.
I looked wildly for another way. I knelt on all fours at the edge of the cliff and peered down. I saw what seemed to be a ramp, or ledge carved in the stone, spanning from the cliff top close beside me to the translucent haze below. I did not want to descend into the fog, but then, above the sound of distant surf and rhythmic chopping, I heard the hissing, sobbing thing again.
Startled at how close it was, I screamed. My cry echoed from the cliff across the cove and disappeared into the treetops. The sound of chopping stopped. Without another thought I scrambled down the narrow ledge.
The fog below lay strangely effervescent in the first beams from a rising moon. The rocky path was thin and delicate, a mere ribbon tightly stretched along the sheer drop of the precipice. Winter Haven gave me nothing for a handhold, no bush or crack within the granite. I put my back against the flawlessly smooth stone and edged sideways, moving downward, afraid to stop, afraid to turn back, afraid to move so slowly and yet afraid to hurry. Inch by inch I went, glancing back sometimes to see what might be following. Above, I saw the awful crooked blackness of the forest's trunks and limbs, which gestured toward me in mockery. I grew strangely colder with each downward sideways step. At first I thought the chill must come from so much naked stone sucking heat out of the atmosphere. But while that might account for a few degrees of difference, the temperature dipped lower than the presence of mere granite could explain. I tried to fight my fear with numbers. Was it forty degrees Fahrenheit? Thirty-five? How could it be so cold when the temperature among the trees above the cove was nearly seventy? And the fog . . . How was this fog even possible when I had seen it nowhere else that day? How could it lie only there, only in Gin Gap Cove?
No answers came. Unable to apply logic, my mind concocted images of Pilgrims, of puny axes turned against the very trees looming above me, the ancient sentinels who stood guard in that place a thousand years before the colony's disappearance and would be watching for a thousand more. I remembered poltergeists, the sudden chills they were said to bring, along with the eerie mist of ectoplasm. I began to shake. I did not know if I trembled from fear or the cold or from the strain of holding my position on the narrow ledge. This was folly! I must get myself to level ground again, find a place to sleep beneath the trees, wake up in the morning and follow the path through the forest, where it would surely lead me back to the village.
Determined to ascend, I faced up the trail. And there I saw a pestilent shadow, black and indistinct and streaming toward me like a flock of crows.
With a moan, with no care for the consequence of one wrong step, I stumbled on along the narrow ledge, descending, descending, until I reached the level of the fog. Without a backwards glance I went into the mist. Soon the beaded moisture on my glasses and the fog aglow with moonlight made it impossible to see even the rocky trail beneath my feet. I went on blindly, feeling forward with my toes, clutching uselessly at frigid slabs of stone behind my back, trusting there would be something solid beneath my next step and my next. I tried to hold my eyelids open wider, stretching them to capture every possibility of light, staring downward, whimpering, because of course the floating shape above me would not slow for fog.
I heard something scraping, very close, as if trailing claws along the unforgiving stone. Did this sound come from up above or down below? Was this really happening, or was I drifting in the nothingness of white again, my mind a misplaced thing? Uncertain, I pressed myself harder back against the cliff face. My effort was futile. I could no more disappear into the rock than I could fly. The sound grew louder, closer. I stared into the whiteness, swinging my head wildly left to right, desperate to see the creature before it saw me. I heard it coming from behind, higher up. No. It was down below and rising. I looked up, and down, and up again, and then I turned and it was there, close enough to touch, black and featureless except for the silhouette of head and shoulders and an upraised axe.
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CONTROLLING INTEREST by Elizabeth White THERE'S TROUBLE IN RIVER CITY...
Matt Hogan's Memphis detective agency has been on the skids since a recent attack of conscience cost him an important case. When a wealthy investor steps in and saves River City Investigations, Matt thinks all his prayers have been answered-until he finds out that with the investor comes a new partner.
Fresh out of criminal justice school and a two-year stint in the Tunica County Sheriff's Department, Natalie Tubberville is out to prove she can cut it in the world of private investigations. But her reluctant partner is just as determined to have nothing to do with her--until Natalie makes him an offer he can't refuse! If Matt solves the next case before she does, she will return her share of the company. And the race is on. As two strong personalities compete, mutual attraction grows…while a simple case of a runaway bride threatens to become an international incident. Will Matt and Natalie call off the competition-or discover an entirely new arrangement?
Zondervan ISBN 0310273056
CHAPTER ONE
Natalie Tubberville had one thing on her mind as she whipped her ice-blue Miata up the ramp to the Memphis International Airport terminal. Well, three things. A Big Mac, super-size fries, and a chocolate shake. Chasing down details for one of Dad's oil-rich clients since five a.m., she hadn't stopped to breathe, much less satisfy her howling stomach. Screeching into a parking space, she shoved the gear shift into park and hopped out of the car. She glanced at her wrist. Tweetie Bird pointed to ten minutes of five. Ouch. She had to book it. Yasmine Patel, having come all the way from Pakistan, deserved a warm welcome, and Natalie hated to make her wait. It wasn't Yasmine's fault her dad had put a twist on Eddie Tubberville's arm-thereby hijacking a good chunk of Natalie's vacation. She had no idea what a Pakistani girl would look like. Did they wear the hookahs you always saw in the movies? Wait, hookah didn't sound right. Come to think of it, that was a pipe. The caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland smoked a hookah. Bookah, then. No, burka. Something like that. She should have asked Daddy for a picture. Yasmine would be dark-haired, no doubt, and small. Maybe with one of those red paint splotches between her eyes. If more than one middle-eastern young woman had arrived on this flight, Natalie was going to be in big trouble. She hauled it across the lobby toward baggage claim. These platform clogs made it hard to run, but she couldn't stand to leave them in the closet this morning. When you got new shoes, you were supposed to wear them. It was a rule somewhere. Besides, at five-foot-four she needed the extra inches. Should have made a sign. Wait. Good idea. She dug in her purse-a little red-beaded wrist bag, barely big enough to carry a credit card-until she found a folded-up Orpheum program from Annie and a Crimson Tide lip pencil. By the time she reached baggage claim, she had the program covered in crooked red letters: YASMINE P. Smiling, holding the program above her head, she took up a station facing the hallway where deplaning passengers entered the baggage claim area. Tourists and home folks began to stream by like minnows in a creek. She caught the eye of a businessman in a tired-looking suit. "Excuse me. Were you on Flight 57 from Amsterdam?" "Huh?" The man glanced at her over his shoulder. "Yeah. First one off the plane." Considering the Patel fortune, Yasmine had probably flown first class, too, and shouldn't be far behind. Natalie could spring for a late lunch at Mickey-D's. Or maybe Ruby Tuesday. Daddy wouldn't mind paying. A couple of old women in polyester pants outfits shuffled by. Then a cluster of teenagers, apparently home for spring break. Natalie waited, dancing with impatience-and aching insoles-on her cork platforms. Maybe she'd take them off and pretend she was a model some other time. One clog in hand, she spied a dark young woman hesitating behind a middle-aged couple in matching "I Love Holland" T-shirts. The girl wore a long, silky apple-green tunic over loose-fitting matching leggings. Shiny black hair peeked out from under a diaphanous embroidered shawl, and intricate beaded earrings swung against her fragile jawline. A series of thin gold bangles jingled on one wrist, and a diamond pendant sparkled at her throat. Wow. Exquisite. But the big black eyes were shadowed with fatigue, the full mouth turned down at the corners. The twelve-hour flight must've been a killer. "Yasmine!" Natalie waved the program. She dropped her shoe and tried to shove her foot in it before Yasmine disappeared. "Yasmine Patel!" The young woman stopped, passengers swarming around her like bees around a particularly exotic orchid. She stood on her toes and caught Natalie's gaze. Her eyes flicked up to the improvised sign, then widened. She looked over her shoulder and bolted around the Holland tourists. Away from Natalie. Natalie got her shoe on without twisting her ankle. "Yasmine! Hey, it's me, Natalie Tubberville. I'm your ride!" She dodged a mom pushing a baby stroller and caught up to her passenger. "Aren't you Yasmine?" She swung around in front of the Pakistani girl, forcing her to stop. Good grief, she was a little thing. Natalie felt positively gargantuan. Yasmine's shoulders slumped. "I am Yasmine Patel." A hesitant smile showed small, perfect white teeth. "You are sent for me?" "Sure am." Natalie held out a hand. Yasmine offered her slim, elegant fingers. "So happy. Thank you for coming." Extravagant black lashes swept downward. "I am feeling…some lost." Natalie tried to peg the accent. A bit sing-song, infused with a British twang. Sophisticated, compared to her own Tennessee drawl, but definitely wobbly. Natalie's heart softened. Maybe the girl was acting weird because she'd expected her fiancé to meet her. "Well, come on, let's snag your luggage and I'll buy you some lunch. You hungry?" She took off toward baggage claim. Yasmine tip-tapped along beside Natalie on jeweled sandals. "Thank you, I am not hungry, just-please, could you slow down?" "Good grief, I'm sorry." Natalie slowed, looking down at her diminutive companion, who was panting like a peke-a-poo on a leash. "Wasn't thinking." "It is no worry. But I would like a drink of…" Yasmine took a deep breath, as if coming to a monumental decision. "Starbucks. Yes, caramel vanilla macchiato, if you please. Whole milk with a packet of Splenda. Whipped cream on top." Natalie blinked. Yasmine hadn't seemed to be the demanding type. "Starbucks?" That was going to add fifteen minutes onto her wait for lunch. She switched the mental list around and decided on Carrabba's for lunch. Big juicy steak with Caesar salad on the side. Daddy owed her big-time for this.
Beth White www.elizabethwhite.net Controlling Interest (Zondervan, May 2008) Available at http://www.amazon.com/Controlling-Interest-Elizabeth-White/dp/0310273056/ http://www.christianbook.com/Christian/Books/product?item_no=273056&netp_id=509396 or...your friendly neighborhood bookstore!
Dear Baby Girl
By Jane Orcutt
From Publishers Weekly Unlike most Christian fiction with prolife themes, this sweet, inspirational novella gently unfolds a tale of how God redeems tragedy for three people in difficult circumstances, without resorting to heavy-handed proselytizing...Orcutt's fellow Christian writers should take note that a message-driven novel can be much more than just a sermon.
Mama had been to Austin several times, she'd told Merrilee. Once when she was in a high school track meet – she'd been pretty good back in her day at jumping the hurdles and running sprints, she'd bragged. Then later with some man for a weekend, just for a lark. Mighta been my daddy for all I know. Maybe that's where they brought me into being. Wouldn't that be funny, me bringing this baby back to be born where I came from?
Merrilee popped open the suitcase again and slipped her hand inside the frayed elastic side pouch, fingers digging for the carefully trimmed photo she'd downloaded at the library. The paper was already worn around the edges from too much handling, even though she'd never shown it to anyone, not even Miss Ponds.She squinted at the photo, trying to pretend she'd never seen it before. As if she'd just turned the page of a picture album and come across this couple with their dog – which is exactly how she'd found them on the Internet through the Palmwood public library's lone computer.
It'd taken her days to work up the courage to even access the Austin adoption agency's Web page, but once she had, she'd listlessly paged through image after identical image of smiling, hopeful couples. Merrilee fingered the scrap of paper in her pocket. They had no idea she was even on her way. The agency said she could call them when she got to town, if she wanted to wait. It was her decision, they said. All the arrangements were hers to decide.
Merrilee shivered. She squeezed her eyes shut and wrapped her arms around her thick waist, swaying to a gentle hum. "Jesus loves me this I know. For the Bible tells me so…The bus rumbled closer to Austin, and bit by bit, Merrilee finished the popcorn. The saltiness made her throat burn, but she doggedly finished it all. Mr. Kenner didn't pay those four cents for her to waste.
In proportion to the bag emptying, however, her fears multiplied. What if no one was there to meet her? She didn't even have enough money to use a pay phone. Would someone loan her a quarter? Or what if Adoption Lifeline had changed its mind about accepting her? Maybe they didn't have enough room, or maybe they didn't want someone as young as her, from a small hick town.
She squeezed her eyes shut against the rising panic. God, oh God, I have nowhere to go now. I have nowhere to go later.
"This is Austin," the driver announced loudly, so that Merrilee could hear. He looked in the rearview mirror, even though she knew he couldn't see her sitting all the way at the back. "This is where you get off."
Merrilee crumpled the empty bag and tucked it into her shorts pocket. It felt greasy, but she couldn't just leave it on the seat for someone else to clean up. She'd already stashed her belongings back in the suitcase, which she gripped by the handle and balanced beside her on the floor. The bus lurched into the station, halted, and she was there.
The station bustled with activity – furloughed soldiers playing cards while they waited for buses to take them home, elderly women disembarking into loved one's arms, businessmen in polyester suits buying tickets at the counter. Merrilee clung to the suitcase, her fears rising on a wave of too much popcorn and too little hope. She lowered her gaze, concentrating on the dirty linoleum.
***
Steven logged on to the Internet, his hands still damp. Standing behind him, Nora curled her fingers around his towel-wrapped shoulders, holding her breath as she leaned over to watch the mail screen pop up.
"We have eleven messages," Steven announced unnecessarily, scrolling through the list.
Nora dragged an antique Windsor chair beside Steven's ergonomic one. "I wonder why she didn't phone?"
Steven shrugged, his eyes trained on the screen. "The agency said we can call her. Here's the email, the last once. It's from…Fatgirl."
"Fatgirl?" Nora had always pictured their birth mother as a slim, beautiful cheerleader who'd gotten caught up in the throes of passion with an athletic boyfriend.
Steven poised the cursor over the on-screen envelope. "Ready?"
Nora nodded. Steven double-clicked the mouse and they both leaned forward.
Dear Nora and Steven,
I saw your picture on the Adoption Lifeline Web page. You look very nice. I like your house and your dog, too. Please call me at the agency if you want to talk. My name is Merrilee Hunter.
"Merrilee," Nora whispered. It was a pretty, old-fashioned sort of name. At least it worked to dispel the image "Fatgirl" invoked. Given the two discordant pieces of information, Nora pictured a stocky girl with a ponytail, dressed in a gingham shirt and jeans.
"She didn't give us much to go on." Steven pushed back his chair. "Do you want to call, or should I?"
"We can each get on an extension." Nora rose, shivering as air blasted from the vent and chilled her wet swimsuit. "Don't you think we should change clothes first?"
"She might decide we're not interested and leave for a while," Steven said, the practical surgeon taking over.
We had such a great response to our last book giveaway that we've decided to make it a regular event! So we are giving away a ten-pound box of autographed Chapter-a-Week books to one Chapter-a-Week member for summer reading fun.
Simply send an email with "Chapter-a-Week Summer Reading Giveaway" in the subject line to cawcontest@... and you'll be entered in the drawing. The deadline for signing up is June 6th and the winner will be announced June 13th. Get your entries in and be sure to tell your friends to sign up for Chapter-a-Week!
To qualify, the return email address must be on the Chapter-a-Week membership list. Continental U. S. residents only, please. Industry professionals should refrain from entering, and though we'd love you to share our books with your friends, these books are not for resale.
Amish quilts and horse drawn buggies . . . and murder.
After years of running, Hannah Schwartz has finally built a life for herself. Far from the insecure husband who bullied and abused her. Far from the close-knit Amish community who raised her, then shunned her. Still haunted by nightmare memories of her parents' murder . . . and the guilty secret that made her an anathema—a true outcast—from her friends and family.
Only love can bring her home again. Love for a child she had feared was lost forever.
And love for the peaceful people who shaped her life. But can love heal old wounds . . . or keep the community safe from a deadly danger?
Anathema
By
Colleen Coble
Bubble lights atop the four squad cars parked outside the farmhouse strobed into the night. Deputy Matt Beitler parked his SUV behind his partner's truck and got out. He opened the back door and let Ajax, his year-old K9 search dog out of the back.
The odor of manure from the barn wafted over him as he strode over the rough ground. Double homicide on an Amish farm. The Amish were peaceable and model citizens. Reece had sounded almost incoherent when he called, which made Matt break every speed record getting here. His partner wasn't often anything but calm and methodical. O'Connor loathed losing control of anything.
Generator-powered floodlights illuminated the yard. The sheriff had already called in the state boys, and technicians were busy looking for clues left by the perp. O'Connor was comforting a young Amish woman. In the dark, it was hard to make out more than her white bonnet.
Matt watched the woman put her face in her hands as O'Connor left her. Her shoulders heaved. It must be her family or friends who were murdered. O'Connor would give him the details.
"Stay," Matt told the dog. He looped the leash around a hitching post and met his partner halfway, near the front door.
"Thanks for getting here so fast." O'Connor took off his hat and swiped at his blond hair.
Thirty, O'Connor was already showing signs of early balding. He wore a distracted expression. O'Connor was one of the most dedicated detectives in the sheriff's department. He'd helped Matt get the job and had been quick to partner with him, even though he was the senior officer.
"Bad scene?"
"Worse than you can possibly imagine." In the glare of the lights, O'Connor looked deadly white. "Both of the parents." He nodded toward the young woman. "She found them covered with a quilt." He hesitated. "Their limbs are contorted, backs and necks arched."
"Strychnine poisoning?"
"Maybe."
"You interrogate her?"
O'Connor looked away. "Not yet. I—I was in the area and heard her scream. When I got here, she was outside, in shock. I think she passed out briefly."
"We'd better talk to her." Matt started toward the woman, but his partner grabbed his arm.
"Go easy on her," O'Connor said. "In fact, let me handle it. She's all alone now."
Unusual in an Amish family. "Easy? We need the truth before the trail goes cold. What's going on with her, boss?"
O'Connor dropped his hand from Matt's arm. "Just be careful."
Matt approached the woman. "Ms. Schwartz? I'm Deputy Beitler. I'd like to ask you some questions."
In the brighter wash of light, he guessed her age between twenty and twenty-two. She looked almost colorless between her white bonnet and shapeless gray dress.
O'Connor stepped around him and took Hannah's hand. "Can you handle this now?" he asked the witness.
Matt shot his partner an incredulous glare. Since when did they tiptoe around witnesses? The media would be swarming the area any minute. "Ms. Schwartz?" he said again.
She looked up. In the glare of lights, her eyes took on a golden glow, eyes like a tiger. He could see clear down to her soul, and there was only goodness. Matt shook off the thought. In his experience, the first place to look for a perp was among a victim's family and friends.
She rocked back and forth, back and forth.
"Can you tell me what happened?"
"I came home from—from a walk and found my parents." Her voice was hoarse.
He could see she was still in shock. "What about before your walk? Was there anything out of the ordinary, anyone else you saw while you were out?"
She rubbed her head. "I—I don't remember."
He straightened from hunching over the notepad in his hand. "You don't remember?"
"Everything is a blur. I can't think." She rubbed fiercely at her temple as though trying to force her brain to cooperate. She looked up at him with a piteous expression. "It was my fault."
He clicked his pen on again. "What do you mean?"
"Of course it wasn't your fault, Hannah," O'Connor said, his voice a little too loud. "You need to rest. You'll remember more tomorrow."
Matt poised his pen over the paper. "How was it your fault?"
She raised her gaze to his then. "I mixed up the lemonade. It was a free sample we got in the mailbox. The poison was in that, wasn't it?"
"What makes you think they were poisoned?"
"The—the way they looked. Poisoned rats look like that." She shuddered. "We use it in the greenhouse."
He and O'Connor exchanged glances. "I'll go," O'Connor said. With a reluctant glance at Hannah, he moved off toward the front door
Matt turned back to Hannah. "You prepared lemonade before you went for your walk?"
She nodded. "With lots of sugar because my Datt has a sweet tooth. I poured glasses for everyone, including an extra for the guest. Someone was coming to look at Mamm's quilts."
"Was it a man or woman who came to buy a quilt?"
She scrunched her forehead and went even paler. "Cyrus. Cyrus Long. At least I think he was here tonight. My memory is all jumbled up. Maybe he was here last night. I can't remember."
"Can't or won't?" he asked as O'Connor rejoined them.
"Matt," O'Connor said with a warning in his voice. "I want to talk to you." He retreated a few steps from the woman.
Matt joined him. "What is with you, man? I've never seen you act like this. You're mucking up the investigation."
O'Connor glanced at Hannah, then back to Matt. "She was with me."
Award-winning author Colleen Coble writes romantic mysteries because she loves to justice prevail. Colleen is CEO of American Christian Fiction Writers and has won their Mentor of the Year award twice and Book of the Year three times. She's finally realizing her dream of being a grandmother the end of September. Visit her website at www.colleencoble.com.
DAWN'S LIGHT
Restoration Series—Book 4
Terri Blackstock
Book 4 in Terri Blackstock's popular Restoration Series is in stores now!
As the Pulses that caused the massive global power outage are finally coming to an end, thirteen-year-old Beth Branning witnesses a murder. Threatened by the killer, she keeps the matter to herself. But her silence could cost her life. Will technology return to normal in time to save the Brannings from their worst crisis yet?
Chapter 1
Beth Branning sat on her bike a block up the street from Alabama Bank and Trust and watched the hungry mob waiting in the rain. The violent May thunderstorm pounded and cracked like special effects on a Hollywood set, drenching those who waited to get their money. If her parents saw her they would freak. It was no place for a thirteen-year-old, they would say.
Even from a block away, she could feel the tension and thrill of those who would go from poverty to plenty in a matter of minutes. Armed deputies surrounded this bank and all the others in Crockett, along with the few running vehicles in town—sheriff's department patrol cars, ambulances, fire trucks. Clearly, they expected violence. The banks had been closed since the power outage began a year ago, crushing the economy and leaving even Beth's family poor. With the poor and homeless so desperate, no one with cash would be safe today.
The newspaper warehouse was on the other side of Crockett, so she turned her bike around, careful not to tip the bike trailer she pulled. Rain or shine, she had to deliver papers. Raindrops pricked her skin, soaked her softball jersey, and made her shiver. It would take longer to prepare her stacks today, since she'd have to wrap the papers in plastic to keep them from getting wet. She might as well get it done.
As she turned the corner onto a less populated road, a bolt of lightning flashed in front of her, thunder cracking instantly. Her heart kicked through her chest.
People got struck by lightning riding bicycles all the time. And a great-uncle of hers had been fishing in a boat when lightning struck him dead. She had to get to shelter. She looked around for a safe place to wait it out, and saw the Cracker Barrel up ahead. It, too, had been closed for a year—since the power outage began—but its rustic porch would shelter her until the storm passed.
She pulled her bike onto the parking lot and rolled it up toward the porch, wishing they'd left their famous rocking chairs out. Lightning burst and thunder crashed again, making her jump.
Her clothes were soaked, and beads of water ran from her long blonde curls into her eyes. She shivered, wishing she'd listened to her parents. There were probably tornados coming, and–the winds would pick her up and blow her away, like Dorothy and Toto.
Leaving her bike and trailer in the rain, she sat on the porch floor. Hugging her wet knees, she heard a sound from somewhere behind the building. A garbled cry, a muttered curse.
"Don't shoot!"
She sprang up and crept to the end of the porch.
"Please . . . I'll give you the money!"
Her breath caught in her lungs as she peered around the side of the building.
Two men—one on his knees, facing her. The other stood behind him, holding a revolver to the kneeling man's head.
Beth's knees went weak, and she crouched, making herself smaller. The man with the gun wore a black raincoat with the hood pulled up. She couldn't see his face. But the one on his knees looked young—no more than twenty-five. His wet hair strung into eyes squeezed tightly shut.
She watched, frozen, as the gunman bent and pulled a stack of bills out of the other man's pocket. He shoved it into his, then cocked the pistol against the back of his victim's head.
The gun went off . . . . the victim thudded forward.
Beth's scream drew the killer's cold gaze.
Get away! Get help! She lunged for her bike, picked it up. Her necklace caught on the handlebars, breaking the chain. The cross pendant fell, and the bike tumbled into the mud. She heard pounding footsteps behind her—no time to right the bike. She would have to run.
As she leaped over it, the gun fired again. Hot wind whizzed past her calf, and she fell over the bike, flipping quickly onto her back to defend herself. She screamed again as the killer came closer, aiming for her chest.
She raised her hands to cover her face. "I won't tell!" she squealed. "I didn't see anything! Please . . ."
His eyes were piercing, death staring her down. His finger curled over the trigger.
Lightning exploded again, hitting a nearby tree. Thunder cracked like an axe . . . or another gunshot. From the edge of her vision, she saw movement. A man with a chest-long beard and a dirty T-shirt came out of nowhere and tackled the killer, knocking off his aim.
Beth scrambled to her feet and grabbed her bike. She heard the grunts of the two men wrestling for the gun as she leaped onto it. Standing on the pedals to move the weight of the trailer, she felt the bike's tires slide in the mud.
As she reached the street, the gun went off again. She looked back,—her rescuer had fallen. The killer leaped over his body, aimed his gun at her.
Her bike slid again, and she fell. He fired again, missing.
She jumped back on the bike and pumped the wheels, putting distance between them before he pulled the trigger again.
"You say a word, and I'll kill you and your family, Beth," he shouted after her. "I know where you live!"
Shivering, she realized her name was on the back of her jersey. Why had she worn it? Why had she even come out today? He must know her family—her father and mother, her sister or brothers. Flying for her life, Beth rode toward home, praying the man wasn't following her.
Terri Blackstock
www.terriblackstock.com
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Book One in the "Shadowside" sci-fi/fantasy trilogy for YA (young teen) readers
Oriannon is living the good life on the bright side of Corista, a small planet circling three suns. But things get crazy for the teen when a new music teacher arrives at her school with strange songs and even stranger ideas. Soon Oriannon is pressured to spy on her teacher, Jesmet, by using her powers to record everything she sees and hears.
Could Jesmet really be a faithbreaker, the way Oriannon's friend Margus says? She's not so sure, but her life is turned upside-down when she loses her way on the dark side of the planet and is taken in by an odd, cliff-dwelling people. And when her new friends face a deadly threat, can the once self-centered Oriannon follow her heart… and save half the planet?
Chapter 12
"Oriannon Hightower!
Ori snapped to attention at Mentor Narrick's words, but a moment too late. He looked over his Astronomy textbook and frowned at her.
"Mentor?" She brought up her most innocent smile; it was worth a try.
"Since you seem so interested in staring out at the sky today, perhaps you could answer a couple of astronomy questions that, by the way, you might expect to appear on the upcoming Level Three examination."
She could do that.
"So tell us," droned their third-hour mentor, "how many klicks to the nearest of our three suns?"
She felt her face redden a shade and promised herself this would not happen again. Slowly she brought her hand to her ear.
Want to know the answer? came the small voice.
No! she answered, then paused. I must not have read that book.
If she had, she would have known. He laughed. Margus, not the mentor.
Either that, or you're forgetting, again.
I am not!
"Did you hear me, Miss Hightower?" Mentor Narrick tapped his toe of his sandal on the floor. Good thing he didn't hear any of the back-and-forth.
Fifty-two million… Margus sounded smug. Three hundred, sixty-two thousand…
Margus, don't!
But the numbers sounded right, so she repeated them aloud as if from memory, watching Mentor Narrick's expression melt from nasty to somewhat less-than.
"Hmm." He frowned once more. "Close enough. But in the future, Miss Hightower, I'd appreciate your entire attention during the lesson. Even Eidichs need to study."
"Of course, Mentor." She added the proper amount of meek submissive student to her voice so he would continue with his speech about the volcanoes of their twelve moons circling the Big Planet.
I thought you knew that answer, Oriannon. Margus was all business, now. Didn't we study that, once?
I don't care. She sat up straight to stay awake and gave him a hard stare to let him know she meant it. I want to know what happened to you at the concert. What were you doing there?
Same thing as you.
"And when these volcanic eruptions…"
Yeah. But why did you tell me to leave?
Margus shook his head and pressed his lips together, as if he wasn't going to answer.
You saw what happened. I just didn't want you to get hurt.
But you knew it was coming.
Sure I did. Jesmet playing, the Assembly's looking for ways to fire him. Didn't you expect it, too?
Fire him, sure. But that was something else.
Margus didn't answer. And perhaps she should have known the answers, the way he said. But by now old Mentor Narrick was on a roll with his planetary lecture. He would go on for at least the next thirty minutes on everything from orbits to the pull of gravity, in detail. He would explain anything, of course, except the Shadowside of Corista, one of the twelve moons of…
Ori's mind drifted once more as she gazed out the tall bank of ornamented glass windows facing the school's central plaza and its hanging gardens full of bright yellow orsianthus flowers. Nothing made sense any more, except Jesmet's music. But now even that was gone.
A rap at the classroom door interrupted Mentor Narrick's lecture and Ori's daydream, and all the level eight students turned in their seats to see a pair of black-uniformed securities quietly step inside. Mentor's face went pale—for just a moment—but he recovered quickly and stepped forward to intercept the two men.
"A problem?" he asked. Obviously. Why else would a tight-faced security interrupt a class? Usually they hardly came on campus; only for problems.
They said nothing at first, only opened a hand-held comm at him to show an image. The apprentices didn't have to wonder long when Mentor Narrick cast a worried glance at Oriannon.
"Oriannon," he told her, his voice low. "Please go with these securities to the Health Center. Immediately."
Still the two securities didn't even look at her, just stood with their arms crossed, now in position at the door. Mentor must have seen her eyes widen, too, and his voice softened even more.
"Just go, Oriannon. You don't have to take your books; they'll be here when you get back. Everything will be fine if you just do what they say."
For a moment Ori wondered what would happen if she launched herself out the window to the garden below, wondered if Jesmet might be up to healing every broken bone in her body.
But now the two securities shifted at the door, waiting.
Be careful. Margus whispered in her earbud, and she glanced over to where he was slouched in his back-row seat.
Easy for him to say. She had no choice about going this time, but she didn't have to open her mouth. She could hold back the memories, hide them in some secret part of her mind, cling to what she knew was inside—and they didn't. So she drew herself up like a Hightower, glaring at the securities the way her father might have done.
They ignored her until she reached the door, then gripped her arms on both sides as they hurried down the hallway.
"Health Center, huh?" She tried to keep her voice from breaking. "But I'm feeling great. Haven't been sick in years. Dad said it's the air around our house. The altitude really clears out our lungs. What do you think?"
Neither of the men answered, just continued into what would have been the sparkling bright white domain of Nurse Anno, the school Health Center Supervisor. Only instead of cheery sunlight the nurse had shaded all the clinic's windows with black. What was this about?
Ori shuddered when she saw how most of the nurse's regular equipment had been shoved into a corner and covered by a gray tarp. Another cart had been wheeled into place, topped by a small, humming laptop computer projecting a blank blue hologram screen.
She locked her legs at the sight, which only meant the securities grunted and nearly knocked her onto her face as they all entered the room.
"No!" Ori tried to wiggle free, screaming and flailing at the securities with all her strength. "Do you know who I am? You can't do this!"
Available at your local Christian bookstore, wherever good books are sold, or online at Christianbook.com. Just paste this link into your browser if it doesn't take you there immediately:
Also be sure to visit Robert's website www.RobertElmerBooks.com to learn more about the trilogy. Two more books are on the way. And finally, please do not reproduce without permission, but that goes without saying. Enjoy!
She Always Wore Red
By Angela Hunt
"When reading an Angela Hunt book, one must be prepared for two things. The first is that the reader will be entertained with quirky characters, intriguing plot lines and snappy dialogue. The second is that the reader will come away completely blown away by what they have just finished reading. Their thought process will have changed by the story and one starts seeing things in a whole different light." --Deborah, of "Books, Movies, and Chinese Food" blog
"Angela Hunt's sequel to her innovative Doesn't She Look Natural?affirms her exceptional abilities as a writer. Outstanding characterisation and an engaging story line continue to be a hallmark of this series. Tackling the issues of abortion, racial discrimination and God's sovereignty in a sensitive and perceptive manner, Angela delves deeply into the fears and frailty of humanity as seen through the eyes of Jennifer and McLane. There isn't as much levity in this tale as the first but rightly so, given the subject matter. The intricacies of the embalming process are revealed in a way that is intriguing rather than repugnant, a sure sign of Angela's talent and maturity as a wordsmith. I stated in my review of Doesn't She Look Natural?that I couldn't wait to see where Angela planned to take this series, She Always Wore Redhas ensured I am in for the long haul! Can't wait for book three!"--Relz Reviewz blog
Chapter One
The nameless cadaver on the cover of my anatomy textbook—a middle-aged man who is no longer black, white, or brown—would be counted among the orange in a census of the embalmed.
Someone should have adjusted the tint before they juiced him.
I flip the book open and study the color photographs of the cadaver's aortic arch and brachiocephalic veins, then close my eyes and try to commit the multi-syllable words to memory. Here I am, near the end of my first semester of mortuary school, and I'm still having trouble keeping my veins and arteries straight.
Behind me, an irate mother in the carpool line is honking, though we have a good three minutes before kindergarten dismissal. She probably has to pick up her child and get back to work before the end of her lunch hour. While I sympathize with her impatience, I wish she'd lay off the horn so I can concentrate.
I open one eye and peer at the book propped on my steering wheel. The right internal jugular branches off the right and left brachiocephalic veins, which lie outside the brachiocephalic trunk. Bra-chio-ceph-alic . . . sounds like some kind of dinosaur. Bugs would like that word.
I turn the book sideways, but the photograph on the page looks nothing like a prehistoric animal. I find it hard to believe, in fact, that anything like this jumble of tunnels and tubes exists in my body, but skin covers myriad mysteries.
I snap the book shut as the bell at Round Lake Elementary trills through the warm morning. The kindergarten classes troop out into the sunshine, their hands filled with lunch boxes and construction paper cutouts. The tired teachers stride to the curb and peer into various vehicles, then motion the appropriate children forward.
My spirits lift when my red-haired cherub catches my eye and waves. My son, Bradley "Bugs" Graham, waits until his teacher calls his name, then he skips toward me.
"Hey, Mom." He climbs into the back seat of the van as his teacher holds the door.
"Hey yourself, kiddo." I check to make sure he's snapped his seatbelt, then smile my thanks at his teacher. "Did you have a good morning?"
"Yep." He leans forward to peek into the front seat. "Do we hafta go home, or can we stop to get a snack?"
My thoughts veer toward the to-do list riding shotgun in the front passenger seat. I still have to run to the grocery store, swing by the dry cleaner's to pick up Gerald's funeral suit, and stop to see if the bookstore has found a used copy of Introduction to Infectious Diseases, Second Edition. Textbooks are usually pricey, but medical textbooks ought to come with fixed-rate mortgages. Still, I need to find that book if I'm going to complete my online course by the end of the semester.
"I'll pull into a drive-through," I tell Bugs, knowing he won't mind. "You want McDonalds?"
He nods, so I point the car toward Highway 441.
"Mr. Gerald make any pickups today?" Bugs asks.
I ease onto the highway, amazed at how easily my children have accepted the ongoing work of the funeral home. "None today."
"See this?"
I glance in the rear view mirror and see Bugs waving his construction paper creation. "Yes."
"It's a stegosaurus. Can I give it to Gerald?"
"I think he'd like that."
I force a smile as an unexpected wave of grief rises within me. Like a troublesome relative who doesn't realize she's worn out her welcome, sorrow often catches me by surprise. Gerald, the elderly embalmer at Fairlawn, has become a surrogate father for my sons. Thomas, my ex-husband and my children's father, has been gone for months, but in some ways he's never been closer. He lies in the Pine Forest Cemetery, less than a mile from our house, so we can't help but think of him every time we drive by.
I get Bugs a vanilla ice cream cone at the McDonald's drive-through, then we run to the grocery and the dry cleaner. I'll call the book store later; no sense in going downtown when a simple phone call will suffice.
Finally we turn into the long driveway that leads to the Fairlawn Funeral home. Gerald has poured a new concrete pad next to the garage, and as I park on it, Bugs notices that the call car is gone.
"Uh oh." He looks at me. "Somebody bit the dust."
I press my lips together. A couple of months ago I would have mumbled something about the old station wagon maybe needing a wash, but now I know there's no reason to shield my children from the truth—we are in the death care industry. The squeamishness I felt when we first arrived vanished the day I walked into the prep room and gloved up to help Gerald lay out my ex-husband.
"Come on in the house," I tell my son. "I'll pour you a glass of milk."
*****
(c) 2008 Angela E. Hunt. Do not reproduce without permission.
She wrote the book--literally--on finding the right mate. But does she really understand what love's about?
Five hours before her Nantucket beach wedding--and on the eve of her big book launch--celebrity marriage counselor Kate Lawrence has everything in place. Everything, that is, but the groom. She might not have a career, either, when her nationwide audience finds out their marriage guru has been left at the altar.
Enter Lucas Wright, who offers to stand in for the missing husband-to-be and marry her. Kate's desperate enough to agree--although she's sure this Mr. Wright is completely wrong for her. But can they pull it off? And why would Lucas marry her in the first place?
Could it be that "Dr. Kate" doesn't know the first thing about love?
Chapter One
Dating is like shopping for a garment. Everything looks great in the display window. Once inside the store, some of the dazzle disappears.
—Excerpt from Finding Mr. Right-For-You by Dr. Kate
The red light on Kate Lawrence's cell phone blinked a staccato warning. But before she could retrieve the message, her maid of honor, Anna Doherty, waved her pale arms from the beach, stealing her attention.
Anna's smooth voice sounded in her headset. "Kate, can you come here? We've got a few glitches."
"Be right there." Kate tucked her clipboard in the crook of her elbow, took the steps down Jetty Pavilion's porch, and crossed the heel-sinking sand of the Nantucket shoreline. In six hours, thirty-four guests would be seated there in the rows of white chairs watching Kate pledge her life to Bryan Montgomery under a beautiful hand-carved gazebo.
Where was the gazebo anyway? She checked her watch then glanced toward the Pavilion where workers scurried in white uniforms. No sign of Lucas.
She approached Anna, who wore worry lines as naturally as she wore her Anne Kline pantsuit. Anna was the best receptionist Kate could ask for. Her capable presence reassured the troubled couples she ushered through Kate's office.
Right now, Anna's long brown hair whipped across her face like a flag gone awry, and she batted it from her eyes with her freckled hand. "Soiree's just called. Their delivery truck is in for service, and the flowers will be a little late. Half an hour at the most."
Kate jotted the note on her schedule. "That's okay." She'd factored in cushion time.
"Murray's called and the tuxes haven't been picked up except for your dad's."
Bryan and his best man had been due at Murray's at nine-thirty. An hour ago. "I'll check on that. What else?"
Anna's frown lines deepened and her eyes blinked against the wind. "The carriage driver is sick, but they're trying to find a replacement. The Weatherbys called and asked if they could attend last minute—they were supposed to go out of town but their plans changed."
Kate nodded. "Fine, fine. Call and tell her they're welcome. I'll notify the caterer."
"Your publicist—Pam?—has been trying to reach you. Did you check your cell? She said she got voicemail. Anyway, your book copies did arrive this morning. She dropped this off." Anna pulled a hardback book from under her clipboard. "Ta-da!"
"My book!" Kate stared at the cover, where the title Finding Mr. Right-For-You floated above a cartoon couple. The man was on his knee proposing. Below them, a colorful box housed the bold letters of Kate's name. She ran her fingers over the glossy book jacket, feeling the raised bumps of the letters, savoring the moment.
"Pam wants a quick photo shoot before the guests arrive. You holding the book, that kind of thing. You should probably call her."
Kate jotted the note. While it was on her mind, she reached down and turned on her cell.
"Ready for more good news?" Anna asked. Her blue eyes glittered like diamonds. The news had to be good.
"What?"
"The New York Times is sending a reporter and a photographer. They want to do a feature story on your wedding and your book."
Fresh air caught and held in Kate's lungs. Rosewood Press was probably turning cartwheels. "That's fabulous. They'll want an interview." She scanned her schedule, looking for an open slot. After the reception? She hated to do it, but Bryan would understand. The New York Times. It would give Kate's initial sales the boost it needed. Maybe enough to make the bestseller's list.
"Here's the number." Anna handed her a yellow Post-It. "That tabloid guy has been hanging around all morning trying to figure out who the groom is. I told him he'd find out in six hours like everyone else. The rest of the media is scheduled to arrive an hour before the wedding, and Pam's having an area set up over there for them." Anna gestured behind the rows of chairs to a square blocked off with white ribbon.
"Good. I want them to be as inconspicuous as possible. This is my wedding, and a girl only gets married once, after all."
"One would hope." Anna said. "Is there anything else I can do?"
Kate gave her sideways hug, as close to an embrace as she'd ever given her assistant, her fingers pressing into Anna's fleshy shoulder. "You're a godsend. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Oh! I know what I forgot to tell you. The gazebo. It should have been here by now. I tried to call Lucas, but I got the machine, and I don't have his cell number."
"His shop's closed today, and he doesn't have a cell." The man didn't wear a watch, much less carry a phone. She should've known better than to put something this crucial in his hands. Kate checked her watch. "I'll run over and check on it."
The Convenient Groom can be purchased at Christian bookstores everywhere or at
Espionage, faith, love, and an ancient treasure. The plot thickens in this third installment of the Chronicles of the Spanish Civil War series by acclaimed author Tricia Goyer.
The fighting between the Nationalists and the Republicans grinds on across Spain, threatening to destroy everything and everyone in its path. International volunteers Sophie, Philip, and Deion are slowly coming to grips with the fact that if they are going to survive to help the people of Spain, they must escape this foreign land soon. But the line between friends and enemies is increasingly blurred, and the journey out of the country is fraught with danger.
And then there's the gold. Walt has a plan for the treasure that he promises will help the people of Spain if Sophie will help him get it out of the country. But Michael is hot on their trail with plans of his own for the precious metal.
A Whisper of Freedom reminds readers that victory is often unsure in times of war. Danger and darkness can threaten to silence all courage and faith. But as this committed band of volunteers and Spanish patriots learns--hope is more precious than gold.
Chapter One
The ominous, glowing eyes of a human face stared up at Sophie from the embossed coin. Ancient treasure lit by harsh lamps and protected by thick glass was a common sight at the museum of art back in Boston—but this was the first piece of priceless history she'd ever held in her hand.
The coin was heavier than she'd imagined and more intricately designed. It warmed her hand with its radiance. The pure, soft, and deep yellow metal had been sought for centuries for its symbolic and real value.
Only the movement of the truck broke her trance. She took one last look at the coin, shuddered slightly, and gave it back to Philip. He glanced at her, his blue eyes resting only a moment on hers before he looked away and slid the coin into his pocket.
Sophie knew there was no turning back. Since she'd arrived in Spain a year ago, there were a dozen times when she could have escaped. But she was in too deep now. She had helped to steal Spain's greatest treasure. She'd turned her back on Michael. She'd put her complete trust in Walt . . . and she'd dragged Philip into the mess. This final adventure would either bring all things right, or ruin everything.
Warm air with a hint of moisture blew through the open window. The sun overhead filtered through the trees, creating patterns of light and shadows on the narrow roadway before them. She rolled up the sleeves of her shirt as far as she could, but sweat still glistened on her skin. She brushed back damp hair from her cheek and scanned the roadside for any sign of life. It seemed important to get her mind off the urgent. To let her worries dissipate the way the dust behind the truck tires settled after they passed.
It was no use. The roar of questions that filled her mind seemed even louder than the noise of the truck engine. And the silence of the man on either side of her told Sophie her concerns were not unique.
She glanced at Philip. His wrinkled brow and tired eyes proved his weariness. Though only inches separated them on the seat of the large cargo truck, the wall of tension seemed too much to penetrate. She whispered a silent prayer that they'd find a safe place to hide their truck for the night—and that she'd have a chance to talk with Philip, to explain her seeming betrayal.
On her other side, Walt, too, was silent as he drove, and Sophie wondered if he was thinking through their options of escape and forming a plan. She hoped so. If anyone could take them to safety and get the gold into the hands of those who would make sure the people of Spain benefited, it would be Walt.
If they succeeded in transporting the gold safely across the borders, to the hands of eager collectors, it meant more funds to buy arms. It meant hope for the battle-weary Republic. But if they were caught with it in Nationalist-held territory, the gold would profit Franco and the Fascists. The treasure had already cost so many so much.
Sophie still worried about Michael. The wound from the blast wasn't something to be taken lightly, and she hoped he'd found a doctor.
But as she thought about Michael, anger overwhelmed her worry. Her mind flashed back to the last time she'd seen him injured —dead, she had thought . . . but in reality faking.
Who would do such a thing? Who would put another person through such pain to save his own skin—or more accurately, his own hunt for treasure?
There was a time she'd believed Michael loved her, but obviously that wasn't the case. If he had, he wouldn't have left her alone in Madrid when she first arrived. He wouldn't have left her fate to the mercy of Nationalist soldiers just hours ago.
The truck's movement over the uneven road jostled Sophie's body between Philip and Walt. The truck bed, laden with the heavy gold, creaked with each jolt.
Sophie took another quick breath of the dusty air as it blew in the window. "I have the strangest, creepy sensation, don't you?" She searched Philip's stoic face. "Maybe it's just that I'm being driven through enemy territory, feeling the creaking of this truck as it carries priceless gold"—she switched her gaze to Walt—"with no idea of how or when we'll make it out of Spain."
Walt cleared his throat and glanced at her for the briefest moment. "Yes, there is danger. But perhaps the sensation is due to something more."
Sophie glanced at Walt's fingers as they tightened around the steering wheel. "What do you mean? All that I'm worried about isn't enough? Is there more danger I should know about?"
Sophie felt Philip tense next to her. He'd been silent most of the trip, but from the way he crossed his arms over his chest and set his chin, she knew he wasn't happy. The worst part was knowing she'd caused his pain.
"People have always felt small in comparison to the great universe," Walt continued, ignoring Sophie's question. "They made up legends and myths to make sense of the world—the Greeks with their myths, the Jews with their stories about God. The Aztec nations paid a lot of attention to omens. If the moon was red before a battle, they believed the blood of their enemies would flow. They looked for signs of danger ahead and worried their actions would be displeasing to the gods. I imagine when they saw this gold they felt the same as we do." Walt sighed. "I can imagine them shuddering with each step, wondering if they were making the right moves."
"And if they'd be struck down with lightning if they weren't?" Philip scoffed.
"Or captured before nightfall?" Sophie studied the road ahead intently. A chill moved up her arms, and she wished she hadn't held the coin or looked into its eyes. "Of course, I don't believe in omens," she quickly added. "But if I did, then surely the fact that we outsmarted our enemy is a good sign."
What mysteries lie hidden beside the dark waters of the bayou?
Swept away from Louisiana bayou country as a child, Miranda Miller is a woman without a past. Now she has a husband and child of her own and a fulfilling job in a Manhattan museum.But she also has questions—about the tragedy that cut her off from family and caused her to be sent away, and about those first five years that were erased from her memory entirely.When she inherits her grandparents' antebellum estate, Miranda goes back to Louisiana for the first time as an adult.There, she soon finds herself plunged into a nightmare of unknown enemies, buried secrets, and priceless treasure.
RT Book Club Magazine says:"Top Pick!Intricately plotted and exquisitely detailed, Clark's latest novel is fantastic."
CHAPTER ONE
The man appeared in the doorway of my studio unannounced, a brown paper package tucked under his arm.He was younger than he had sounded on the phone, thirty at the most, with dark wavy hair, mottled skin, and a narrow caterpillar of a mustache along his upper lip.
"Miranda Miller?" he asked in what sounded like a thick Long Island accent."Jimmy Smith.We spoke this morning?"
I was elbow deep in plaster and not in a position to shake hands, so I just smiled and told him to come on in. Ready for a break, I extricated myself from my project and rinsed off my arms and hands at the utility sink.I didn't usually see private clients, but he had been so persistent over the phone that I had made an exception.
*****
[An art restoration expert, Miranda evaluates and cleans the man's painting as he fidgets nervously and talks nonstop.She is just
finishing when he poses one last question:]
*****
"What can you tell me about this symbol, here?" He pointed to a strange shape painted in black on the back of a man's overcoat.
I adjusted the light and bent over the painting with a magnifying glass to study it more closely.The symbol appeared to be an elaborate sort of cross inside a bell, or an upside-down shield.I would have passed it off as a simple embellishment if something about it hadn't seemed so familiar.
"I've seen this shape somewhere before," I said, though I couldn't quite place it.
"Really?" From the corner of my eye, I could see him licking his lips, the caterpillar undulating.
"It was painted onto this picture later," I added, not bothering to explain the subtle differences between the surface of the symbol and the texture of the surrounding area."Looks like someone dabbed it on with acrylic.The rest of the work is in oil."
"Ah."
He was finally quiet for a moment, so I again leaned down to take one last look.I had a mind for shapes but the origin of this image eluded me.Finally, I gave up and tucked the magnifying glass away. I had been working in art restoration since graduate school, and by now had probably seen millions of symbols and shapes.It stood to reason that one or two had faded from memory.
*****
[Once the man is gone, Miranda walks to an appointment.]
*****
The restaurant wasn't far, and I covered the first three blocks fairly quickly.To avoid the heavy pedestrian traffic of Newton Square, I made my usual cut-through down the alley I had fondly come to think of as "odor row".Sandwiched between a seafood store and an Italian restaurant on one side and Indian fast food and a dry-cleaner on the other, the alley's cement walls caught and held all the smells of all four places.Though it wasn't the most appetizing way to get to lunch, it was worth the trade-off in avoiding the bottleneck at the intersection.
I was still holding my nose when a flash of movement off to the side caught my eye.Before I could even turn to look, a man was behind me, one strong hand clamped over my mouth and the other pinning my arms to my waist.He pushed me through a narrow doorway into a small, dark, cement room.There, a second person closed the door behind us and joined in the struggle to force me to the floor.I fought violently against them, to no avail.Other than landing a few solid kicks to what was probably shins, I was no match for their strength or their carefully-laid ambush.
When they finally had me pinned to the floor, I felt a hand grabbing for my shirt, ripping it upward from my back. With desperate force, I was able to shake free from the hand that was clamped about my mouth and nose.As soon as I took a breath to scream, however, something else went into my mouth, a wide strip of fabric which they roughly tied off at the back of my neck, gagging me so that I could breath but not speak.
I inhaled through my nose, ignoring the stench as I struggled to catch my breath.As I did, I realized that the room was no longer completely dark, that at some point they had turned on a flashlight, the shadows it created dancing wildly along the cinderblock walls.
What happened next left me stunned and confused.After having pulled my shirt all the way up to my shoulders, they suddenly left it alone and grabbed the bottom hem of my pants leg instead, pulling to reveal my ankle and calf.They did the same with the other leg then ripped off both shoes and socks, an act which was followed by noises of frustration but no words.
Their final move was the strangest of all.
Leaving my bare feet alone, they next went for my head.While one of the men pressed my face into the cold, slimy cement floor to hold it still, the other kept running his hand back and forth through my hair.
"Wait!"said the one holding me down."There."
Reversing the direction of his fingers, the other guy moved back a few inches and then gasped.Both men leaned forward and grew still, as if they were studying something. I waited in silence, terrified of what might come next.
"Got it?"
"Yeah."
Finally, the guy with his fingers in my hair simply gripped a handful by the roots and leaned down to put his lips next to my ear.
"Thanks for your cooperation," he whispered."Sorry it had to be like this."
With a final, sharp tug for emphasis, he let go.Then the door opened and they both took off, their footsteps sending a telltale echo through the alley as they ran away.
Harvest House Publishers, Trade Paperback, $13.99 • ISBN 0-7369-1879-5 Available at www.christianbook.com, your local Christian book store, or wherever books are sold. Visit Mindy's website at www.mindystarnsclark.com to learn more or to read the entire first chapter of Whispers of the Bayou.
On Sparrow Hill
by Maureen Lang
Tyndale House Publishers
As the commercial manager for Quentin Hollinworth's family estate, Rebecca Seabrooke is focused on just two things: making hers the most successful historic home in the country and forgetting the childhood crush she's had on Quentin since her father worked as his family's valet. After all, they don't exactly run in the same social circles. But when she and Quentin uncover letters in the family vault written by Berrie Hamilton—one of Quentin's ancestors—Rebecca discovers that Quentin isn't the only one with a legacy to appreciate. Only Berrie's words can prepare Rebecca for the dramatic turn her life is about to take.
An excerpt from Chapter One:
"Let's see what's inside," he said.
She rocked the lid loose. It was stuck tight from years of disuse. At last it came free, squeaking as she lifted it.
"Papers," she said. "Letters, with a note on the top."
"Does it say whose they are?"
Rebecca shook her head, reading bold words written at the top of the yellowed sheet of paper. "`For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.'" She looked at Quentin. "That's from St. Paul's letter to the Romans."
"Does it say anything else?"
She read the rest of the note. "`My dear Berrie's life can be summed up by hope and worship, along with a fair share of suffering to keep her fixed on eternity. Enclosed are the letters she sent to me so long ago, when we were both young and had much to learn.'
"Hope, worship, and suffering," Quentin said grimly. He looked from the box to Rebecca, holding her gaze. "The life of a Hamilton—and a Hollinworth. At least my father's. Maybe mine, to some extent."
She wanted to dwell on his observation, discuss the suffering he'd been through since the loss of his brother and father when their small plane went down in a fog, ask countless questions to fathom if it had turned him bitter or soft toward worship. But old fears stood in the way. Too personal, don't pry. And yet . . .the look in his eye . . . Perhaps he wanted her to.
No sooner had she identified such a look than it disappeared. "Let's take this with us to the veranda, shall we?" he said. "Have a peek over dinner, before it gets too dark outside?"
She nodded, following him from the vault.
Minutes later Rebecca sat with the box on her lap. The sun set to the west, and the scent of a 150-year-old rose garden wafted on the air to mingle with the enticing smell of potted chicken, herb bread, and almond tarts.
Despite having been tucked away in an environmentally regulated vault, the words were fading, particularly along the creases. But they were still legible.
"It's exciting, isn't it?" she asked. "A portion of your family's history is here, perhaps something you don't yet know about."
Quentin shrugged. "I confess I'll be interested in contacting this American relative who inspired our search. Beyond that I haven't nearly the fascination for the past that you—and the American, I presume—have. Read one."
Rebecca obeyed. The letter on top was addressed in a neat, feminine script.
To Cosima Hamilton
"Not from your great-great-great-grandmother. To her. To Cosima." Rebecca realized she'd reverently whispered only after the words left her mouth.
"From Berrie, I assume from the note," he said. "That would be Beryl, from the portrait next to the one of Cosima and Peter Hamilton."
Untying the ribbon, Rebecca gently opened the fragile envelope. Whatever wax had once sealed it had long since dried, leaving behind a faint blue shade. She glanced down the page. "It goes into some detail."
"Let me," he said, setting aside his cup. "It's the only way I can prove I'm not bored by the topic, historical though it is, and at the same time give you a chance to eat."
Rebecca put the letter into his outstretched hand, took a bite of the creamy chicken, then pushed it away and settled back in her chair.
She knew exactly what Beryl Hamilton had looked like. Berrie was forever young in Rebecca's mind and lovely too. She had dark hair like her brother Peter's, though she didn't have his dark brown eyes. Rather, Berrie had unimaginably blue ones that somehow survived in Quentin today.
Rebecca had no trouble picturing what it was like on the day Berrie Hamilton had written that letter. . . .
Loving greetings from Berrie, April 6, 1852
My dear Cosima,
Do you recall I once feared that I should find myself before the judgment seat of God with an unlit lamp? There I might have stood, ordained with some talent—surely I had one; I convinced myself of that—and yet not having used that with which I had been blessed.
But I have begun to fear I am ill-equipped to answer what God has called me to do. My life, to date, simply has not paved a way for me to serve but rather to be served, to my shame. I was raised to think I should be wife and mother, yet in such a role would I have served even a family? Had I the faintest idea what true servanthood really is?
Besides those shortcomings, even if I were qualified for this role, there are many things beyond my control. Despite these two years of planning, studying, and preparation, I have now reached the point where others must make the final decisions. Let me list some of the outsiders I now find myself beholden to: First, various inspectors, surveyors, clerks, and officers of health must approve of all I have done. Second, I must rely upon the long-lasting generosity of donors. Third, and perhaps most importantly, I must establish—then maintain—the trust of parents bringing their children here.
And another thing I shall need, as taught to me already by your dear brother Royboy: I need physical perseverance as never before to answer this calling.
Yesterday was a prime example of my ineptitude. The day began with such promise, yet before the sun was very high I proved the depth of my incompetence. . . .
The sequel to THE OAK LEAVES is as impressive and thought provoking as the first book. Readers are treated to two different time periods, Victorian Ireland and contemporary England. Wonderful characters are written with style, grace and charm. Keep the tissues close by! 4 1/2 Stars
A young woman searching for independence and adventure.
A handsome Columbian Guard striving to protect and defend.
A little boy caught in a web of intrigue and deceit.
Emily Ralston is delighted when she lands a job at the Children's Building at the Chicago World's Fair. And the White City seems to be living up to its promise of excitement when she meets Stephen Bridger, a handsome Columbian guardsman. Surely Emily isn't the only one to sense the spark of electricity between them?
When Stephen finds a lost boy, he delivers him to the Children's Building to be cared for until his mother is located. But when a dead body believed to be little Adam's mother is found, a mystery begins to unfold. While unraveling the truth, Emily and Stephen are drawn deeper into danger and closer to each other.
"Carol Cox has skillfully woven a heart-tugging romance and page-turning intrigue around a fascinating historical setting, bringing all three to life." --Linda Windsor, author of Wedding Bell Blues and For Pete's Sake
"This talented author's sweet and charming love story—set during the Chicago World's Fair of 1893—is a delightful diversion." --Romantic Times BOOKReviews
from Chapter Three –
Emily and Lucy, with Adam between them, hurried past the Woman's Building and pushed their way through the crowds heading for the Midway as they pressed on toward their goal, the Fifty-ninth Street exit Even in the early evening, throngs of people still poured in through the turnstiles, making the foot traffic more like a logjam.
Emily clung tightly to Adam's hand, fearful she might lose him in the crush and knowing how horrible it would be for him to be alone on the fairgrounds twice in one day. As if feeling her anxiety, Adam tightened his grip on her fingers, and his steps lagged.
Emily looked down at him, concerned he might be frightened at the prospect of going off with two strange women, but the look on his face was one of exhaustion, not rebellion. She stopped long enough to pick him up then went back to shouldering her way through the mob in Lucy's wake.
A family burst through the nearest turnstile and stopped squarely in front of her.
"I want to see the displays first," the mother announced.
A young boy with an eager expression on his face protested, "Come on, Ma. The Ferris wheel is right down there." He pointed toward the Midway, where the giant wheel loomed high above the grounds. "Can't we do that first?"
The pretty matron hesitated and looked up at her husband, who smiled. "Shall we?"
"I guess it would give us a chance to get a good view of the way the fair is laid out," she said. Without waiting to hear more, the children set off ahead of their parents, shrieking gleefully.
Lucy leaned over and shouted to be heard above the din. "That would be fun, wouldn't it? We'll have to try that on one of our days off."
Emily eyed her friend. In contrast to her own feeling of imminent doom, Lucy seemed perfectly cheerful, as though they were taking part in some adventurous game.
But it wasn't a game. Emily found it hard to push down her increasing sense of panic.
What were they doing? Adam didn't belong to them, and they had no right to take him along with them. What if his mother showed up at the Children's Building before Miss Strickland left and was told her son had been turned over to the Chicago police? Emily glanced over her shoulder, wondering what would happen if the woman suddenly appeared and accused them of abducting her child.
Near the gate, they joined the line getting ready to push through the exit. Emily let her steps lag.
Lucy turned around, a frown creasing her forehead. "What's wrong?"
Emily hitched Adam up higher on her shoulder. "I'm not sure we've thought this through. What do you think will happen when his mother returns and is directed to the police, then finds out they've never heard of Adam? We could lose our jobs for doing this."
Lucy tugged at Emily's sleeve, drawing her out of the swirl of activity until they reached an island of relative quiet. "But that isn't the way it's going to happen. You'll be up at the reception desk. When his mother comes looking for him, you'll just tell her he's perfectly safe, right there in the building. She'll be so grateful, she'll never think to wonder where he spend his time when the building was closed."
She grinned at Adam, who gave her a sleepy smile in return. "Besides, think what he's already been through. Which is more important, following Miss Strickland's orders or protecting him from even more upheaval?"
It sounded logical enough. Emily had vivid memories of her first day at the children's home and wouldn't wish that experience on any child, certainly not one as sweet as Adam. And she couldn't deny that she and Lucy had done their share of bending the rules at the Collier Home. But then, the prospect of getting caught meant a demerit or reprimand, nothing more. In their current situation, the consequences would be far more severe.
What had they let themselves in for? Miss Pierce, the head matron, always warned her about her tendency toward impulsive behavior. Had she or Lucy considered the consequences of their actions before committing to this foolhardy plan? Hardly.
Lucy tugged at her arm again, this time urging Emily toward the exit. "Come on. We don't want to be late for supper."
Emily wavered, then followed her out the gate, feeling as though she had just crossed an invisible line. There would be no turning back now.
They walked on, parallel to the fence that separated the Midway from Fifty-ninth Street. "Keep your chin up," Lucy admonished "You'll feel better once we get back to the boarding house and have a hot meal. After we put Adam to bed, we can talk about it more, if you still want to."
Emily nodded wearily. "That sounds like a good—" She stumbled to a stop and stared at Lucy. "What are we going to tell our landlady?"
Lucy blinked twice then looked off into the distance. From the years they'd known each other, Emily recognized the signs of a maneuver to gain time for Lucy to think up a plausible answer. "I'm sure she won't mind."
Emily knew false bravado when she heard it. She shifted Adam to her other arm. "Mrs. Purvis may be a little eccentric, but don't you think she'll notice a new arrival? I'm not so sure this is a good idea, Lucy. Maybe we should go back to the Children's Building now and—"
"And what? Tell Miss Strickland we didn't do exactly as she said? Can you imagine what she would do? We wouldn't have jobs to go back to tomorrow morning." She paused a moment to let the implications of that sink in. "Besides, she's probably already left for the night. We really don't have any choice now." She nudged Emily's elbow, and they started walking again.
"A quirky `who done it,' Death of a Six-Foot Teddy Bear is the perfect mystery for women who love bargains and surprise endings." --Melanie Dobson, author of Together for Good and Going for Broke
"If you enjoy whimsy, humor, and fun characters with your mystery, Death of a Six-Foot Teddy Bear is for you! But beware! Under the laughs are buried strong spiritual truths. A delightful, thoughtful read." --Gayle Roper, award-winning author of Fatal Deduction
"The bargain hunter gals are at it again! Dunn's riotous romp seamlessly tucks in truth and light and leaves us in stitches. A must-read for those who think living by faith is boring." --Lois Richer, author of Healing Tides
Summary: Ginger and her bargain hunter friends head down the Wind-Up Hotel in Calamity, Nevada to outlet shop, attend the world's largest garage sale and help Ginger's husband Earl get his invention off the ground at the Inventor's Expo. But their girlfriend time vacation doesn't go quite how they had planned…
Chapter Eight
…Darkness and desert night cold greeted Ginger. Water lapped against the shore. Anchored boats banged against each other. Her feet pounded along the boardwalk. She ran toward the backside of the Little Italy hotel.
Light spilled from a downstairs room as did the aroma of Italian spices. The clinking of silverware and quiet chatter floated out from a covered terrace. Ginger exhaled. Up ahead on the boardwalk, Phoebe sat beneath a street lamp grooming herself.
"Phoebe." She trotted across the wooden sidewalk. "Phoebe, come back here."
Phoebe lifted her behind and swished her tail. Then she scampered into darkness out onto the pier. Gondola boats were tied and lined up along the dock in strings of three and four. The further Ginger ran down the pier, the darker it got. Phoebe's white paws showed up in the dim light. The cat was leaping from boat to boat.
"What I do for you." Ginger kicked off her flip flops and stepped into the first wobbling boat.
One gondola banged against another and she nearly sailed headfirst into the water. Her fingers got stuck between two boats banging together, a Ginger sandwich. She pulled her fingers free and shook out the pain. Four boats away, Phoebe posed at the front edge of one of the boats, head tilted, tail tucked under.
"Here, Kitty. Come to mama."
The cat didn't so much as flinch.
"Tell me you haven't killed that squirrel. Any squirrel but that one."
Ginger crawled into Phoebe's boat. The cat leapt to the bottom of the boat. She gathered Phoebe into her arms. Phoebe purred against her chest. "I thought I was going to lose you."
Across the water several boats away, she saw a circle of light. Somebody was in one of the boats. Holding onto Phoebe, Ginger scrambled back out to the dock and ran until she was parallel to the string of boats. In a gondola, the farthest vessel from shore, a man bent over as if staring at something.
"Yo, who's is out there? What are you doing?" Yo? Where did that come from? She sounded like a sailor or one of those hip-hop falls.
A familiar voice floated across the water. "Is that you?"
"Earl, Earl, I am so glad I found you. I have been looking for you all night." Ginger walked to the edge of the dock and leaned over to see better. Earl's light bobbed up and down. "What are you doing out here?"
Water lapped against the shore. Laughter, soft and distant, rose up from the restaurant. On the other side of the hotels, cars rolled over concrete.
A shiver trickled down Ginger's back. "Earl?" At the same moment she spoke, Phoebe squirmed free, scratching Ginger's hand in the process. Ginger recoiled from the sting of broken skin and the warm seep of blood. "Earl, what is it?" Phoebe scampered up the pier, but Ginger remained frozen by some unnamed fear.
Earl stood up. The flashlight cast a circle of light on the boat next to the one he stood in. Ginger focused on the sound of her own exhale and inhale until it seemed to match the rhythm of the water licking the shore. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Earl's voice floated across the water. "You might want to go inside and get security." He turned directing the light toward the front of the boat. "There is a man in a bear costume and as far as I can tell he is not breathing."
You can learn more about Sharon Dunn and her humorous who-dun-its at www.sharondunnbooks.com. Death of a Six-Foot Teddy Bear and the other Bargain Hunters mysteries at available at www.amazon.com , www.christianbook.com and most Christian bookstores.
Sharon Dunn is also the author of the Ruby Taylor mysteries. The second book in the series, Sassy Cinderella and the Valiant Vigilante, was voted Book of the Year in 2004 by American Christian Fiction Writers.
The creators of Chapter-a-Week are always looking for deeper, more meaningful ways for readers to connect with great Christian fiction. So we've come up with Chapter-a-Week Chat, a place where fans of Christian fiction can discuss the weekly offerings on Chapter-a-Week as well as talk to the author. A more in-depth look at each week's books and a great place to connect with like-minded readers!
Simply go to http://groups.yahoo.com/group/CAWChat/ and join the group. There you'll find all the books featured here but in a more in-depth discussion. Each week's authors will be on hand to answer questions and tell you about their inspiration as well as the happenings in Christian fiction.
Just released--Amber Morn, the climactic conclusion to Brandilyn Collins' bestselling "Kanner Lake" series.
As the nationally read "Scenes and Beans" bloggers gather at Java Joint coffee shop for a special celebration—chaos erupts. Three gunmen burst in and take them all hostage, shooting one person and dumping the body outside. Police Chief Vince Edwards must negotiate with the desperate trio. What they demand, he can't possibly provide. But if he doesn't, over a dozen beloved Kanner Lake citizens will die…
"Best Christian suspense of 2007." –Library Journal for Crimson Eve, previous release in the series
CHAPTER 1
Any man going on this mission wasn't coming back.
Cluttered kitchen, cluttered head. Kent Wicksell could hardly think straight. It wasn't supposed to start like this. Dread anticipation pumped through his veins as he faced off with his second son. Vigilante Brad, gunning to take on the world. At twenty-nine, he thought he knew more than anybody.
Kent's voice seethed. "For the fifteenth time—this job's for me and Mitch. You are staying home. We ain't leaving your mother alone."
They'd been arguing for the past ten minutes. Too long. They needed to get out of there.
Brad stood his ground, face like granite. His cool blue eyes stabbed Kent. "I ain't staying here." His voice pulsed low. "I watched over T.J. since he was born, just as much as Mitch has. And I ain't stopping now."
Kent surged forward two steps, finger punching the air. "I'm telling you no! I won't let you—"
Lenora caught his arm. "Stop, Kent! Let him go."
He turned to her, jaw loosening. She stared back, a terrible, grim determination pressing her lips. Kent's knees went weak.
No, no, no.
Where had that look on her face come from? Just this morning she'd clutched at the knowledge she wouldn't be left by herself. "You'd let him go?" Accusation heated Kent's cheeks. "You'd trade two of your sons for another?"
She held his gaze until her chin trembled. "It's for T.J.," she whispered. And she started to cry.
Kent's heart cracked. T.J.—their youngest son. Once their greatest hope. Smart. Well-liked. Going somewhere in life. Never did drugs.
Four fractured ribs, he'd told them in his weekly phone call from prison two nights ago, his words racked with pain. Eyes swollen almost shut. A broken arm. An innocent eighteen-year-old in prison. Now beaten—just for being there.
Of all three sons, this never should have happened to T.J.
At thirty-three, Mitch still lived at home, bouncing from job to job, in and out of jail on various drug or burglary charges. Meth was his latest drug of choice. Just last night he'd shot up for this special event. To Mitch, the greatest day of his purposeless life had dawned this morning. Rescue his littlest brother, betrayed by injustice. Show the world he was worth something.
As for Brad, he was unpredictable. Angry. In jail twice for beating on girlfriends. A high school drop-out, like his dad.
Brad flicked his eyes from his mother back to Kent, his mouth drawn in a victorious line. "Don't forget who went with you yesterday on your scouting mission. Don't forget who took you to a computer in the library and showed you the blog."
On Main Street in Kanner Lake they'd watched traffic, people. Noted the police station two blocks up from Java Joint coffee shop. They went into the café and ordered coffee and pastries. Sat, nerves taut, at a table, eyes roaming over the big front windows, the layout and size of the place. Kent and Mitch took turns walking down the back hall in search of the bathroom. They'd noticed the other rooms off the hall—a small office, a storage area. The rear door with no glass, a lock and deadbolt ...
Kent fixed his gaze on Lenora, watched her tears fall. It's for T.J.
No way. She'd lost enough. Brad was not walking out of here and leaving her alone. Kent and Mitch would take Java Joint, just like they'd planned. Kill every person in the place, if they had to. Brad would stay with his mother.
Mitch stormed into the kitchen, a Rambo expression on his gaunt face. Wired for action. His pupils were huge. He swiveled from Brad to Kent. "What're you doing standing here? We're late."
Kent planted his legs apart, hands on his hips. He wasn't about to lose this battle. Bad way to start the day, and his hostages would soon feel it. His anger was pumping all the higher—and he'd have to let it out on somebody. "Your brother thinks he's going with us." He aimed a burning stare at Brad. "I say he's not."
Brad's eyes narrowed. Without a word, without a backward glance at his mother, he snatched up the lightweight jacket he'd brought into the kitchen—a jacket with a bulging, heavy pocket—and stalked out the front door toward the weapon-loaded truck.
AWAKEN MY HEART by DiAnn Mills tells the unlikely love story between 18-year-old Marianne, a wealthy rancher's daughter, and the infamous Mexican rebel leader warring against her father.
--What Reviewers are saying:
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"AWAKEN MY HEART is a colorful inspirational tale of romance and adventure! - Diana Risso
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Chapter 1
April, 1803, The Colony of Tejas
Before the rooster had crowed three times, forbidden adventure had crept into Marianne's mind. In the shadows of her room, she quickly dressed and stole from her father's house to the outside. Cool air bathed her face, and a yellow-orange sunrise streaked the eastern sky. She made her way to the stables and peered inside the dimly lit building for signs of the servants before gathering up her skirts and squeezing through the latched entrance. Safely inside, she eased the heavy door closed and cringed at the creak, fearing its sound would arouse attention.
The smell of horses and leather met her nostrils, their familiarity breeding both comfort and excitement. She stopped and listened for voices. Her heart pounded furiously at the thought of being discovered. Glancing upward, she saw a glimmer of sunlight filter through a high window, illuminating a golden, straw-laden path to Diablo's stall.
Her father's sleek, milky-white stallion pawed at the ground and snorted as though defying any intruder to enter his domain. Weston Phillips, Marianne's father, owned the horse, but not his spirit. Only the stableman could groom him. Only Marianne could ride him.
Marianne gasped and hurried to his stall. "Hush, Diablo. Someone will realize I am here."
At the sound of her voice, the stallion ceased his complaints. She lifted the latch and stepped inside, being careful to gently close the door behind her. She eagerly anticipated the two of them racing across the dew-bathed hills dotted with live oak and juniper. How she yearned for the freedom of flying with the wind and being as one with the powerful Diablo.
She wrapped her arms around the stallion's neck. He neighed softly and nuzzled into her embrace. "Oh, I have missed you, too." She planted a kiss on his forehead. "And we have a long morning to ride."
The low rumble of male voices pricked her ears and paralyzed her. Papa! He and Clay Wharton, the hacienda's foreman, had entered the barn. She held her breath and glanced about the stall. If Papa found her, his wrath would echo across the vast expanse of the Phillips Hacienda.
When the voices of Papa and Clay grew closer, she slipped her hands from Diablo's neck and crouched against the wall next to the stall door. She prayed neither Papa nor Clay heard her heart slamming against her chest.
"Quiet, you devil." Papa stopped outside of Diablo's stall. "I would welcome the opportunity to blow a hole through you, but I need you to breed with my mares."
Clay chuckled. "Are you sure you want more horses with his temperament?"
"I will sell them to the Spaniards," Papa said. "Let them deal with it."
Diablo lifted his head. His notched ears lay back as though he understood Papa's contemptuous words.
Her father banged his fist against the side of the stall. "Remember, I still own you."
Marianne clasped her arms around her trembling body. She envisioned her father's penetrating, blue-gray eyes, framed with the many lines of age and Texas sun. The servants called them relampago, lightning eyes, for they flashed with his ravings and curses.
"Where are our horses?" her father shouted. "Lazy Mexicans. None of them worth their pay."
"My guess, all of `em here are aiding Armando Garcia," Clay said. "That rebel needs a bullet in his head."
She'd heard the stories about the man who rallied the peasants to fight against Papa's demands to leave their valley. The young girls dreamed of him and proclaimed him more handsome than any man ever born. The boys and men sang Armando Garcia's praises—the hero who dared to defy the harsh treatment of her father.
"You get rid of him, and there's a bonus for you," Papa said. "I'm tired of dealing with his arrogance."
"You know what I want."
Papa seemed to ignore him.
"I plan to talk to Garcia today. Our cattle need to graze in La Flor. Those Mexicans can move closer to one of the missions along the San Antonio River and leave me their valley."
"Weston, they haven't agreed to leave in the past. What makes you think they will now?"
Her father laughed. "I refuse to give them a choice. They'll either clear out of there, or I'll force them out. We have more weapons than they could ever hope to steal."
"What about men to carry it out? The vaqueros will not fight against their own people."
"I've already sent for some friends of mine back in Virginia. Everything is handled."
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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Traci DePree, co-moderator
MY HEART REMEMBERS
By Kim Vogel Sawyer
Published by Bethany House Publishers, March 2008
Orphaned in a tenement fire, three Irish-immigrant children are sent to Missouri to be adopted. Despite eight-year-old Maelle's desperate attempts to keep her siblings together, each child is taken by a different family. Yet Maelle vows that she will never stop searching for her brother and sister...and that they will be together one day in the future.
Seventeen years later, Maelle is still searching. But the years have washed away her hope... and her memories. What are Mattie and Molly doing now? Where has life taken them? Will she ever see her brother and sister again?
Chapter One
Maelle New York City March, 1886
Maelle Gallagher sat straight up, careful not to bump Mattie, who slept sideways in the bed, his head near her hip. An odd yellow glow lit the tenement's bar-covered window, making shadows dance on the far wall. Maelle frowned. Light came from sunshine, but Ma and Da in their bed across the room meant it must still be nighttime. She rubbed her eyes, then looked again at the glowing window.
She smelled something that reminded her of the fireplace back at their cottage in Ireland. The smell made her throat tighten and her stomach feel full. She tugged at the buttoned collar of her nightshirt, covering her mouth and nose. Her heart pounded in fear, although she wasn't sure why she was frightened.
She scratched her short-cropped hair—oh, how she missed the long curls Da used to tug when teasing her—and slipped from the bed. Tiptoeing, she crossed the room and peeked out the window. The light was brighter there, making her squint. Sounds she hadn't heard in the city before—like dry grass crunching under someone's feet and the far-off roar of a river—came through the open window, increasing her confusion. The fireplace smell was stronger by the window, and she coughed.
"Who is it?"
She sucked in her breath, realizing she'd roused her father. She whispered, "Me, Da."
"My ... elle." Her name split with his yawn. "Lass, what're ya doin' up in the middle o' the night?"
The gently scolding tone made Maelle shrug her shoulders and look down in shame. Suddenly he leapt from the bed and let loose a string of language of which Ma did not approve. Da only cursed when angry. Maelle shrank against the window frame.
"Lass, wake yer brother!"
Maelle stared stupidly at her father as he raced to the bureau, yanked open the top drawer, and withdrew a cloth bag. She watched him throw several items into the bag and then spin toward her. "D' ya hear me, Maelle?" He shoved the bag into her arms. "Wake yer brother 'n get out!"
Maelle's fuzzy brain could not comprehend the strange order. Get out? Why would Da pack her a bag and send her away? And why make Mattie leave? Mattie still slept like the good boy he was. He had done no wrong. She remained rooted in place with the bag in her arms, shivering although the night was unusually hot.
"I'm tellin' ya, lass. Get out!"
Da's hollering woke baby Molly, and she wailed from her basket on the floor. Ma sat up then, as did Mattie. Still Maelle stood by the window, watching, listening, her breath coming hard and fast as fear made a foul taste in her mouth. Screams pierced the night, adding to the crackling and roaring that seemed to grow louder by the minute.
Rubbing her eyes, Ma said, "Angus, what—?"
Da snatched up the wailing Molly. "A fire, Brigid!"
"Fire?" Ma leaned into the corner, pulling the sheet to her chin. Her eyes looked wild. She began to moan. "Oh, saints in heaven, save us!"
Da stood for a moment, staring at Ma. Then he shook his head and whirled toward the bed Mattie and Maelle shared. Holding Molly against his shoulder, he grabbed Mattie by the arm and jerked the boy from the bed. Mattie cried out as Da shoved him in Maelle's direction. Mattie fell against her, nearly knocking her down. Maelle caught him, holding him up, though her limbs quivered. Da had never been so rough.
"Out! Out!" Da yelled in Maelle's face, and finally Maelle found the ability to obey. Clutching the bag Da had given her, she took hold of Mattie's hand and stumbled behind Da to the hallway. Molly's high-pitched screams carried over all other sounds, the baby's red face furious as it bounced on Da's shoulder.
Smoke hung heavy in the hallway, stinging Maelle's eyes. People milled in a jumbled stream toward the stairway that led to the lower floors, their feet pounding, voices calling out to hurry, hurry. At the top of the stairs, Da shoved Molly into Maelle's arms and then stepped away from her. "Follow the others, lass, 'n get yerself 'n the wee ones outside. I'll get yer mither 'n some more o' our things, 'n then I'll follow. Take care o' the wee ones. Don' let them out o' yer sight. D' ya hear me, lass?"
"I hear ya, Da," Maelle gasped. Then Da touched her hair— her short hair—and gave a little pat. A gentle pat. The kind Maelle expected. His smile flashed, and he turned and disappeared into the smoke.
Gagging against the horrid smell that cut off her breath, Maelle struggled to keep hold of Molly. The baby bucked and cried in her arms as they made their way down the stairs. "Hold tight t' me, Mattie!" She felt his hand grasp a fistful of fabric at her back. Others, all set on escape, pushed past them, and Maelle feared they would be separated. But Mattie's hand held tight to her nightshirt, and finally they burst through the outside doors and sucked in great gulps of night air.
Clanging bells and horse hooves on cobblestone sounded above the voices of frightened tenants. Men in blue uniforms with sticks in their hands pushed in front of the building, forcing people away from the entrance. "Get back! Get back now! The fire wagons are comin'! Make way!"
Maelle led her brother across the street, where they could watch the doors for Da and Ma. She sat cross-legged, the sack at her feet and Molly in her lap. Mattie stood beside her, his hand clamped on her left shoulder. Mattie and Molly both cried, but Maelle didn't cry. Blinking to clear her vision, she squinted across the street. She didn't want to miss seeing her parents come through those doors.
She would show Da she'd done just as he'd asked—she'd looked out for the wee ones. Remembering his hand on her hair, she smiled. He'd be so proud of her.
Throughout World War II, Second Lieutenant Red Meyer anticipated the day he could return to Hideaway, Missouri, and to his sweetheart, Bertie Moennig. His dreams are shattered, however, when he is wounded in the last stages of the war in Europe. Bertie is beautiful inside and out—she deserves a whole man. Red is determined to keep his distance until a tragedy on the home front brings the couple face to face for the first time in a year. Now a dangerous mystery threatens Bertie's life. As they fight for survival in their tiny Ozark town, Red has to summon the faith and courage to protect the woman he has never stopped loving.
Red Meyer stepped around the rear north corner of the house and stopped. Something pop-pop-popped through the trees, softly at first, like the wings of a moth flitting against the window on a summer night. Then it grew louder, more insistent.
Red's breath caught. He froze in place, clutched by fear as surely as a rat in a trap. He knew that sound. It was too familiar, too close, too threatening.
The snap-pop, snap-pop was…the sound of distant artillery fire…it was drawing closer…
His hand lost its grip on the cane. He hit the ground quick as a burned cat, and tasted the grit of dust between his teeth, felt the pain in his leg as he rammed it to the ground. He prepared to fight, though he had no rifle.
The Germans couldn't've found him here in Missouri. They'd surrendered. This didn't make sense.
He closed his eyes, waiting for the thud-crack of incoming…waiting for the sharp burn, the agony of metal slicing through him.
But as he lay paralyzed, his mind swarming over all sorts of things a soldier should do at a time like this, the sound began to change. Now it wasn't quite right.
He lay with his cheek pressed against the earth, unable to stop the shakes that had caught him while he continued to listen to that sound, which grew stranger even as it grew louder.
The familiar changed, but it was still familiar—not artillery fire at all. No, not at all.
It was the sound of rubber tires rolling slowly along the rocky road, a sound as familiar to him from the war as it was back here at home. The roads they'd driven in Italy were all dirt and rock—barely roads at all until the hundreds of tires wore them down from advancing troops.
He looked up and saw the black hood of Ivan Potts' Chevrolet skimming past the top of the sumac growing along the roadside.
Before the car could reach the clearing and all the passengers see him lying in the dirt like a whimpering cur, he scrambled to his feet. Shaken by his reaction, he brushed as much of the dust as he could from his clothes, grabbed his cane and limped toward the front porch.
How could he have lost his senses so totally? He'd heard stories of men coming home shell-shocked from the war, but he'd never realized how real it could seem, like he was back in the war, like that bad nightmare coming back to tap him on the shoulder in spite of the sunlight streaming from the sky.
He was standing on the steps, watching the road, when the car came into view. His gaze shot to the shining blond hair of the woman in the backseat.
Bertie. His beautiful Bertie. He couldn't look away.
Even when she stepped out of the car, he couldn't do anything but stand there staring. She wasn't a figment of his imagination this time—not wishful thinking. Bertie was here. He'd thought about this moment, longed for it, ever since he'd seen her last, crying at the train station.
He wanted to run to her and touch her face, catch her in a hug, tell her she was even more beautiful than he'd told the guys. He wanted to tell her that she'd saved his life. She was the reason he'd fought so hard to stay alive. She was what kept him going. Her faithfulness. Her sweet letters. Just knowin' she was there…he wanted to tell her all that, but he just kept staring.
She looked up at him, that sweet face filled with all the spirit she'd written into her letters to him, and her hand raised in a wave. She took a couple of quick steps to circle the car, her eyes filled with sudden, wild joy.
Then her gaze dropped to the cane in his left hand. She gasped, and looked back up into his eyes, her own eyes widening. The joy vanished, and the expression that replaced it stabbed at him. The disappointment was obvious. The hurt. Her lips parted, and he heard a soft cry.
*****
Bertie grabbed the car fender to keep from falling over. That cane!
Dozens of thoughts leapt through her mind, and to her shame, some of them were not sympathetic. She realized those thoughts were plain on her face, because Red winced.
Fancy that. A man who had experienced the horrors of war for three years made anxious by one small woman with hurt and anger in her eyes.
This was why he hadn't written? Would he have ever contacted her again if not for her father's death? No one had even told her he was coming home.
Maybe Red didn't want her hanging around now that things had gotten tough. Maybe he didn't think she was woman enough to handle it.
All this time, she'd thought she meant more to him than that.
Stop it, Roberta Moennig. He's been wounded. Think about someone besides yourself.
And yet…when had he been wounded? Why had no one told her about it?
She shot a look over her shoulder at Lilly and Ivan in the car. Neither could hold her gaze. She looked at Edith, and found strength in her eyes, kindness in her gentle nod.
Bertie nodded back.
Bertie had never known a dearer, more stalwart friend than Edith Frost. As the world seemed to be shifting and crashing down, Edith understood because her own world had crashed three and a half years ago.
Odd how those folks Bertie had known and trusted the longest had let her down, while someone she'd only known for eight months could be so solid for her now.
But that wasn't the whole story. It couldn't be. Bertie knew she was overreacting.
***
(Copyright Hannah Alexander, published by Steeple Hill, Love Inspired Historical)
You may read more about this author at www.hannahalexander.com
Hannah Alexander is the pen name of Mel and Cheryl Hodde, who live and write in a small Ozark town much like their settings. Their Hideaway novels have won multiple awards, including the Christy.
Endorsements:
"Hannah Alexander…has the unique ability to bring tears to your eyes and God's touch to your heart."
Romance Reviews Today
"Alexander's skill at meshing spiritual truths with fascinating suspense is captivating. Well-drawn characters help the two separate plots move rapidly toward an exciting conclusion."
In honor of Chapter-a-Week's 1000th member (actually we're past 1020!) we're having a celebration. Sara Mills is our honoree 1000th person to sign on—she hails from British Columbia and we're thrilled to send her a box of Chapter-a-Week's favorite new releases, including books by Traci DePree, Angie Hunt, Robin Lee Hatcher, Kim Sawyer, DeAnna Dodson, MaryLu Tyndall, Tamera Alexander, Hannah Alexander, Louise M. Gouge, DiAnn Mills, Camy Tang, Tricia Goyer and Judith Miller! You just never know what surprises will come your way with Chapter-a-Week. Congratulations, Sara! Let's keep spreading the word so others can discover new, great reads.
Sincerely,
The moderators of Chapter-a-Week
Leaving November
(Howard Books/Simon & Schuster March 2008)
by Deborah Raney
Daughter of the town drunk, Vienne Kenney has escaped Clayburn for law school in California. But after failing the bar exam—twice––she's back home with her tail between her legs, managing Latte-dah, the Clayburn café-turned-upscale-coffee-shop. Jackson Linder runs the art gallery across the street and Vienne has had her eye on him since she was a skinny seventh grader and he was the hunky high school lifeguard who didn't know she existed. Now it's his turn to fall for her and suddenly Clayburn seems like a pretty nice place to be...until Vienne discovers that Jack is fresh out of rehab and still struggling with the same addiction that ultimately killed her father.
Chapter One
November
Vienne Kenney closed her eyes, inhaling familiar scents. Moldy books. Fresh shavings from the pencil sharpener. A bouquet of wilting chrysanthemums. The tick, tick, tick of the ancient grandfather clock in the library's main hall threatened to carry her straight back to her childhood.
The computer fan clicked on and its whirr rescued her, jolting her into the present—not that the Clayburn Public Library had changed one iota in the eight years since she'd moved away from this two-horse Kansas town. But the Internet was her lifeline, tethering her to California. To her future. Adrenaline surged through her veins as she clicked the mouse and scrolled down the Web page, scanning the list for the only name that mattered.
Her name had to be on that list. It had to be.
One cautious letter at a time, she retyped her name into the search field and clicked again.
Nothing. There must be some mistake. Staring at the computer screen, her vision blurred and she fought to catch her breath.
She took a sip of lukewarm coffee from the travel mug she'd snuck in, then pushed it to the back of the book-cluttered desk. She'd agonized over this moment for three months, and now it was here. And if this official State of California-sanctioned Web site was up-to-date, she had good reason to agonize. The site supposedly verified the name of every person who passed the July bar exam.
So why wasn't her name showing up? She glanced at the connection icon on the screen. Maybe there was something wrong with the library's Internet service. Maybe the system was pulling up an old page from when she'd checked earlier today. That had to be it.
She typed in the URL again and entered her information hunt-and-peck style. The page refreshed––with the same results. She slid the ponytail holder from her hair and combed her fingers through the tangled mass of curls.
She couldn't have failed. Not a second time. A sick feeling settled in the hollow of her stomach. She'd lived through this humiliation once.
She massaged her temples in slow circles. She'd done everything right this time. Studied her heart out. Spent money she didn't have on a course that practically guaranteed her success at passing the bar. She'd been so confident….
How would she ever live it down if she'd flunked the bar exam again? Tens of thousands of dollars wasted on a law degree—money she'd spent grudgingly because of its source.
She lifted her head and stared at her cell phone lying on the desk beside the computer's mouse. Her mother would be calling any minute, expecting to celebrate good news. And Jenny, too. Her roommate had another semester to go, but Jenny was brilliant. She would pass easily. On her first try. Salt in the wound.
Vienne put her head in her hands. She'd probably be fired from her job the minute word got out. And if she knew Richard Spencer, he was probably online at this very moment back in California, checking the results to make sure her name was there. When he discovered it conspicuously absent, he'd no doubt call to offer consolation and a shoulder to cry on.
But he would fire her just the same.
A sour taste filled the back of her throat, and she washed it down with a sip of lukewarm coffee. At least she wouldn't have to walk in to work and face everyone Monday. But she couldn't stick around here either.
Mom probably had half of Coyote County praying for her. Since the day testing started in July, her name had no doubt been at the top of the prayer chain list at Community Christian, complete with all the gory details: Please pray God will bless my daughter, Vienne, with success as she takes the bar exam. This is especially important since she flunked—by a margin of quite a few points—the first time she took the exam.
Vienne gave a silent, humorless laugh. Ironic she would find her name on that dubious prayer list, and nowhere in sight on the list that mattered.
The walls of the library closed in on her. She started to push away from the desk. But something—some misguided sense of hope—compelled her back to the computer. She put her hand over the mouse again. Did this Podunk library even have the right software to display the page correctly?
A glimmer of optimism sparked in her. Maybe she'd just missed it. The page refreshed, and the ominous message appeared again: No names on the pass list match "Vienne Kenney." And this time she knew the truth. She'd failed. Again. Thirty years old and she would never be able to sign her name Vienne Renée Kenney, Attorney at Law.
Brinkerman & Associates had been forced to keep her on after the first time she'd failed. But without a license, they didn't have a position for her––at least not at a salary she could survive on. Not that she'd consider staying at the firm after this humiliation. And she would not take the test a third time. She'd wasted too many years and too much of her mother's money. Her father's money.
She shuddered. It was time to cut her losses, and move on. But the job market in Davis was pathetic. Besides, did she really want to face the chance, every day, that she might run into some well-meaning Brinkerman associate who'd feel obligated to pat her arm and tell her how sorry they were and how much they missed her and how was she doing? And was she taking the exam again, etc., etc., ad nauseam?
But where could she go now? She stared at a large painting hanging on the wall in front of her—a misty landscape of gnarled cottonwood trees and a green-watered river. It was probably supposed to be the Smoky Hill that Clayburn was built upon. It was a peaceful scene—and nicely done. But it was locus classicus Kansas. And she had shaken the dust of Clayburn off her feet when she left town the summer after high school graduation. The only dreams she'd ever entertained about returning involved thumbing her nose at this hick town and her so-called friends who had made her persona non grata when she needed them most.
ONLY UNI
By Camy Tang
Will Trish Sakai be able to follow her three simple rules and hold out against two gorgeous guys?
Trish Sakai is ready for a change from her wild, flirtatious behavior. And her three cousins are anxious for her to change, too. Trish is always knocking something over, knocking herself out, and taking hard knocks in her perpetual confusion about men.
When Trish's ex-boyfriend, Kazuo the artist, keeps popping up at all the wrong moments, Trish decides to be firm with herself. She creates three simple rules from First and Second Corinthians and plans to follow them to the letter. No more looking at men! No more dating non-Christians! She will persevere in hardship by relying on God.
Except now Kazuo is claiming Trish is his muse, and he can't complete his major work of art without her. And a gorgeous coworker is reassigned, bringing him in daily contact with Trish. But her cousins are determined to hold her accountable to her plan. She thought three rules would be a cinch, but suddenly Trish's simple rules don't seem so simple after all.
Chapter One
Trish Sakai walked through the door and the entire room hushed.
Well, not exactly pin-drop hushed. More like a handful of the several dozen people in her aunty's enormous living room paused their conversations to glance her way. Maybe Trish had simply expected them to laugh and point.
She shouldn't have worn white. She'd chosen the Bebe dress from her closet in a rebellious mood, which abandoned her at her aunt's doorstep. Maybe because the explosion of red, orange, or gold outfits made her head swim.
At least the expert cut of her dress made her rather average figure curvier and more slender at the same time. She loved how well-tailored clothes ensured she didn't have to work as hard to look good.
Trish kicked off her sandals, and they promptly disappeared in the sea of shoes filling the foyer. She swatted away a flimsy paper dragon drooping from the doorframe and smoothed down her skirt. She snatched her hand back and wrung her fingers behind her.
_No, that'll make your hips look huge._
She clenched her hands in front.
_Sure, show all the relatives that you're nervous._
She clasped them loosely at her waist and tried to adopt a regal expression.
"Trish, you okay? You look constipated."
Her cousin Bobby snickered while she sneered at him. "Oh, you're so funny I could puke."
"May as well do it now before Grandma gets here."
"She's not here yet?" Oops, that came out sounding a little too relieved. She cleared her throat and modulated her voice to less-than-ecstatic levels. "When's she coming?"
"Uncle picked her up, but he called Aunty and said Grandma forgot something, so he had to go back."
Thank goodness for little favors."Is Lex here?"
"By the food."
Where else would she be? Last week, her cousin Lex had mentioned that her knee surgeon let her go back to playing volleyball three nights a week and coaching the other two nights, so her metabolism had revved up again. She would be eating like a horse.
Sometimes Trish could just kill her.
She tugged at her skirt—a little tight tonight. She should've had more self-control than to eat that birthday cake at work. She'd have to run an extra day this week … maybe.
She bounced like a pinball between relatives. The sharp scent of ginger grew more pungent as she headed toward the large airy kitchen. Aunty Sue must have made cold ginger chicken again. Mmmm. The smell mixed with the tang of black bean sauce (Aunty Rachel's shrimp?), stir-fried garlic (any dish Uncle Barry made contained at least two bulbs), and fishy scallions (probably her cousin Linda's Chinese-style sea bass).
A three-foot-tall red streak slammed into her and squashed her big toe.
"Ow!" Good thing the kid hadn't been wearing shoes or she might have broken her foot. Trish hopped backward and her hand fumbled with a low side table. Waxed paper and cornstarch slid under her fingers before the little table fell, dropping the _kagami mochi_ decoration. The sheet of printed paper, the tangerine, and rubbery-hard mochi dumplings dropped to the cream-colored carpet. Well, at least the cornstarch covering the mochi blended in.
The other relatives continued milling around her, oblivious to the minor desecration to the New Year's decoration. Thank goodness for small—
A childish gasp made her turn. The human bullet who caused the whole mess, her little cousin Allison, stood with a hand up to her round lips that were stained cherry-red, probably from the sherbet punch. Allison lifted wide brown eyes up to Trish—hanaokolele-you're-in-trouble—while the other hand pointed to the mochi on the floor.
Trish didn't buy it for a second. "Want to help?" She tried to infuse some leftover Christmas cheer into her voice.
Allison's disdainful look could have come from a teenager rather than a seven-year-old. "You made the mess."
Trish sighed as she bent to pick up the mochi rice dumplings—one large like a hockey puck, the other slightly smaller—and the _shihobeni_ paper they'd been sitting on. She wondered if the _shihobeni_ wouldn't protect the house from fires this next year since she'd dropped it.
"Aunty spent so long putting those together."
_Yeah, right._ "Is that so?" She laid the paper on the table so it draped off the edge, then stuck the waxed paper on top. She anchored them with the larger mochi.
"Since you busted it, does it mean that Aunty won't have any good luck this year?"
"It's just a tradition. The mochi doesn't really bring prosperity, and the tangerine only symbolizes the family generations." Trish tried to artfully stack the smaller mochi on top of the bottom one, but it wouldn't balance and kept dropping back onto the table.
"That's not what Aunty said."
"She's trying to pass on a New Year's tradition." The smaller mochi dropped to the floor again. "One day you'll have one of these in your own house." Trish picked up the mochi. Stupid Japanese New Year tradition. Last year, she'd glued hers together until Mom found out and brought a new set to her apartment, sans-glue. Trish wasn't even Shinto. Neither was anyone else in her family—most of them were Buddhists—but it was something they did because their family had always done it.
"No, I'm going to live at home and take care of Mommy."
Thank goodness, the kid finally switched topics. "That's wonderful." Trish tried to smash the tangerine on top of the teetering stack of mochi. Nope, not going to fly. "You're such a good daughter."
Allison sighed happily. "I am."
_Your ego's going to be too big for this living room, toots._ "Um … let's go to the kitchen." She crammed the tangerine on the mochi stack, then turned to hustle Allison away before she saw them fall back down onto the floor.
Camy Tang is the loud Asian chick who writes loud Asian chick lit. She used to be a biologist, but now she is a staff worker for her church youth group and leads a worship team for Sunday service. She also runs the Story Sensei fiction critique service. On her blog, she gives away Christian novels every Monday and Thursday, and she ponders frivolous things like dumb dogs (namely, hers), coffee-geek husbands (no resemblance to her own...), the writing journey, Asiana, and anything else that comes to mind. Visit her website at http://www.camytang.com/ for a huge website contest going on right now, giving away five boxes of books and 25 copies of her latest release, ONLY UNI.
Endorsements:
"SUSHI FOR ONE is an entertaining romp into the world of multi-culturalism. I loved learning the idiosyncrasies of Lex's crazy family—which are completely universal. Enjoy!" –Kristin Billerbeck, author of WHAT A GIRL WANTS
Look for SUSHI FOR ONE and ONLY UNI at your local bookstore, www.Amazon.com, www.Christianbook.com, or order an autographed copy at www.SignedByTheAuthor.com.
It is 1568 and Mary, Queen of Scots, is imprisoned in Lochleven Castle. But her supporters, including noblewoman Heather Gordon, are planning a rescue. Heather travels to a cottage in the frigid Highlands to teach a simple man—who just happens to resemble someone with access to Lochleven—how to act the part of a nobleman in order to gain entry to the castle. But in the close quarters of the cottage there is more stirring than political rebellion.
"Kathleen Morgan weaves a love story rich in ancestry, betrayal, and the passionate journey of two stubborn hearts destined to war—and to be conquered."
--Tamara Alexander, bestselling author of Rekindled, Revealed, and Remembered
"Come, lass." Robert Gordon guided Heather into the library and shut the door. "There's trouble afoot and much I have to discuss with ye."
She shot her father a worried look. "Has this trouble, then, aught to do with this day's council with the lords and other nobles?"
"Aye, it does." He led her to two armchairs standing before the small hearth fire. "Sit, lass," he urged.
Heather settled herself on the farthest chair's green, blue, and yellow tartan-covered seat, and snugged up her shawl more securely about her shoulders. Robert Gordon took the chair opposite his daughter.
"What I next speak of, ye must swear on yer mither's grave not to reveal to a soul. Swear it now, or I can't tell ye a word more."
Apprehension plucked at Heather. This was far, far worse than she had imagined.
"Aye, Father," she said softly, "I give ye my word. But I'd like also to know why ye require such a solemn oath."
He leaned back and sighed. "It's the Queen. She must be freed from Lochleven."
Heather frowned. Though she knew her father was part of a group of loyalists who had never accepted Mary's abdication, she had hoped he'd have allowed the younger, more hot-headed members of the faction to lead any plot to rescue the Queen. It was beginning to appear, however, that wasn't the case.
"What has this to do with me," she prodded when no reply was forthcoming, "or with the secret ye asked me to keep?"
"We can't rescue her with force of men. Lochleven is too well-fortified. It would withstand us long enough for Moray to send a superior army against us. We must, instead, enter the castle by more devious means, and spirit Mary away before they can sound an alarm."
Her hands outstretched, Heather leaned toward the fire to warm fingers gone suddenly cold. "It'll take a clever plan to fool Lochleven's chatelaine and her son. We can't just float up to the castle and ask their permission to visit Mary."
"Nay, we can't," her father admitted. "In fact, we can't appear to be involved in the Queen's rescue. But we can send a man viewed as friend and ally into Lochleven to aid in Mary's escape. A man who, though they assume him loyal to their cause, is, in truth, loyal instead to the Queen."
Her hands still spread to the fire, Heather glanced over her shoulder at her father. "And who would such a man be?"
Robert Gordon smiled. "A man the exact double of that young fop, Colin Stewart. Ye remember him from yer days at Court, don't ye?"
"A man who looks exactly like Colin?"
Heather turned to face her father. She was well-acquainted with the handsome if dissolute Colin Stewart.
"But how can that be? And how did ye come to know of this man?"
"It's a long story."
"Well, I've the time to hear it, if ye've the time to tell it."
Her father grinned. "Ye've yer mither's blunt way of speech. I like that. Unlike her, though, ye know when to temper it with good grace."
Warmth stole into Heather's cheeks. Her mother, Margery Mackenzie, though of noble birth, had been a Highlander through and through. She had been as feisty and fiery as they came, leastwise until her unrequited love for Robert Gordon had finally crushed the spirit of his beauteous young wife.
"I try, Father," she murmured, "to be all ye wish of me. Truly, I do."
"I know ye do, lass. As I know ye won't fail me in this, either." He sighed and settled more comfortably in his chair. "The man I spoke of…the double of Colin Stewart…lives in the Highlands amongst Clan Mackenzies. He's more, though, than an uncanny double for Colin. He is, in fact, Colin's twin brother."
The shock of such a revelation sent Heather's heart to pounding. "In all the times I spoke with him, Colin never once mentioned a brother. Indeed, he said his mither had died birthing him."
"Aye, that she did, lass, but she died birthing twins, not a single child. Times were unsettled then for Lord Stewart. He feared a clan uprising that might overthrow him. So he came to me for help. It was I who suggested he send one of his sons away to ensure, if the uprising succeeded, at least one would live to inherit."
"And the child was sent to the Mackenzies because they were Mither's kin and could be trusted," Heather supplied, her agile mind quickly picking up the thread of the tale.
"Aye. Yer Uncle Angus took the bairn and hid him with a trusted clansman and his childless wife. There he has grown to manhood, unaware of his true heritage, living the rough if wholesome life of a Highlander."
"But he's a full thirty years old now." There was something amiss here, Heather thought. "His father did indeed die in the uprising," she said, watching her own sire now with more care, "but Colin survived and was raised by his grandparents. Why, in all this time, hasn't this other twin been brought back?"
Something passed across Robert Gordon's face. Something dark and furtive. "It seemed best not to complicate things," he finally offered. "Until now, it was decided kindest to let the Highland-reared lad live out his life unaware of what he'd never have."
"And who made that decision for him?" Unease twisted her gut. "Indeed, who was left of his real family to decide such a thing? Surely not Colin? And his grandparents died several years ago."
"Colin doesn't and must never know. It would be the ruination of our plans." Robert Gordon shrugged. "What does it matter anyway? It'll serve our needs well in the rescue of the Queen. And that, lass, is all that truly matters. The Queen…our Queen…and the ultimate welfare of our nation, is of far more import than the twisted path one man's life has taken."
Copyright 2008, Kathleen Morgan. Do Not Reproduce Without Permission. AS HIGH AS THE HEAVENS, Historical romance. A January 2008 release from Fleming H. Revell, an imprint of Baker Publishing Group, ISBN# 978-0-8007-5816-5. Available at www.Christianbook.com <http://www.christianbook.com/> and fine bookstores everywhere. See www.kathleenmorgan.com <http://www.kathleenmorgan.com/> for more information about this and other books.
Stuck in the Middle By Virginia Smith Revell, February 2008
Book 1 of the Sister-to-Sister series combines budding romance, soul searching, and a healthy dose of sibling rivalry that is sure to make you smile.
"What do you get when you have three generations of women living under one roof? Laughter, tears, and a ton of love. Smith knows how to use everyday situations in a humorous, caring way. This is a great start to a new series."—Romantic Times (4-Star Review)
CHAPTER ONE (modified excerpt) Brrring. Brrring. From the desk behind the sales counter in the rear of the showroom, Joan Sanderson scanned the empty store. Fluorescent ceiling lights cast a harsh glow that reflected off the polished wooden surfaces of the furniture artfully arranged for display. Where was . . . oh yes. Rosa would be a couple of hours late this morning, after her daughter's doctor appointment. She reached for the phone and punched the button for the first line. "Good morning, Abernathy Sales and Rental." "I'm going to kill her." Joan closed her eyes. Patience. I need patience. "Hi, Mom. What has Gram done?" "She alphabetized my underwear drawer." "She what?" A snort of unladylike laughter blasted through Joan's nose. "It's not funny, Joan. My bras are all in the first row, color-coded alphabetically from left to right, and then a row of panties, all folded in little squares, and then slips. And socks along the back row. Everything's so neat it makes me want to throw up." Joan picked up a pile of invoices on the edge of the desk and shuffled them into a tidy stack. "C'mon, Mom, your underwear drawer is a disaster. What's wrong with a little order?" "That is not the point, and you know it. She went into my room! She touched my underwear. She invaded my privacy! I've been sitting here for the past twenty minutes afraid to look in the closet. What if she got in there too?" A hint of panic colored the anger in Mom's voice. Gram was harmless, but she did have an obsessive-compulsive tendency to alphabetize everything she touched. Lately everything she did grated on her only daughter's nerves like a snowplow on icy roads. Joan feared one day Gram would do something to push Mom over the edge. The front page of tomorrow's Advocate-Messenger flashed into her mind: CRAZED WOMAN SLAUGHTERS ALPHABETICALLY CORRECT MOTHER "I'm sure your closet is fine." Through the glass doors Joan watched a red pickup zoom into a parking space near the store. "She was only trying to be helpful, you know." Mom huffed. "She can organize the cans in the pantry and the jars in the spice rack all she wants. But three women living under one roof have got to have boundaries. Bedrooms should be off-limits." "So tell her that. Gram understands the need for boundaries." A couple emerged from the truck and made their way toward the store. The door alarm bleeped a stuttering double tone as the pair stepped from the clammy Kentucky heat into the air-conditioned store. They were college freshmen if Joan was any judge, much too young to be shopping for furniture. "Be with you folks in a minute," she called, then spoke in a lower voice into the phone. "I've got customers. I need to go." Mom ignored her. "Do you think I haven't told her that a dozen times? She pays no attention to me and does as she pleases. I don't think I can take this much longer." Joan clutched the receiver, a cold lump settling in the pit of her stomach. "What do you mean?" After a pause, Mom sighed. "I don't know. I wish I did. But really, we've got to do something before—" Joan's mouth went dry. Something in her mother's tone hinted that she was about to launch into a subject that left Joan sick with dread. She couldn't get into this right now, not on the phone, and not when she was the only one in the store. She turned her back toward the watching couple and spoke quietly into the receiver. "I've got to go, Mom. We'll talk about this later. Goodbye." The phone clicked down into its cradle harder than she intended as she sucked in a slow, deep breath. Time to calm down. She could think about Mom and Gram later. A professional smile plastered on her face, she weaved her way through the furniture displays. Her young customers stood just inside the door as though they had happened across a patch of superglue. The guy looked a little shell-shocked as his gaze slid around the store. The girl, on the other hand, watched Joan like a cat in front of a fishbowl. Oh, puh-lease. Joan stifled a chuckle. I'm twenty-five years old! Your college boy is safe with me. Stale cigarette smoke assaulted her nostrils as she approached them, strong enough that she struggled not to take a step backward to escape the stench. Both wore jeans and flip-flops. The girl sported a belly shirt revealing a glimpse of silver in the center of an incredibly tiny waist; the guy, a loose, rust-colored T-shirt. Still eyeing Joan warily, she had a grip on his arm like a monkey with a banana in a cageful of hungry primates. "Hi, I'm Joan." The telephone rang from the back of the store. For a moment, she was tempted to let it go to voice mail. But that was bad business. Joan smiled at the newlyweds and took a backward step toward the sales counter. "Feel free to look around." She edged toward the desk. "The dinette sets are here, with formal dining room furniture over there. You'll find the payment amounts and contract periods on the yellow labels." As she reached the telephone, her customers' feet came unstuck, and they wandered toward the dinette displays. "Good morning, Abernathy's." "Did you just hang up on your mother?" Joan winced at her sister's scolding tone. Word traveled at roughly the speed of light in the Sanderson family. "Hi, Allie. I guess she called you?" "Of course she called me. She's upset. I would be too if you slammed the phone down in my ear." "I did not hang up on Mom." Joan picked up a pencil and rolled it between her fingers. "Not technically, anyway. I said goodbye first. But all she wanted to do was complain about Gram, and I had customers. They're still here, by the way." A disgusted grunt sounded in Joan's ear. "Okay, okay, I'll let you go. But you call her and apologize, you hear?" "When I get a chance." Joan replaced the receiver with extreme care. Having Mom upset with her was bad enough. Best not alienate her big sister too. *********************************
COPYRIGHT 2008 BY VIRGINIA SMITH Published by Revell, a division of Baker Publishing Group
Virginia Smith is a writer of humorous novels, a speaker and an avid scuba diver. She's released five books since launching her career in 2006, including her debut Just as I Am, and Murder by Mushroom. To read more about Virginia Smith's books, visit www.virginiasmith.org.
Thomas Nelson/Women of Faith Fiction, February 2008
Katherine Clarkson has the perfect life--until the day a reporter appears with shocking allegations. Splashed across the local news are accusations of her husband's financial impropriety at his foundation and worse, an affair with a former employee. Her world spinning, Katherine wonders if she can find the truth in the chaos that consumes her. How can she survive the loss of what she thought was the perfect life?
CHAPTER ONE (modified excerpt)
By tradition, Saturday mornings were savored in the Clarkson household. My husband, Brad, usually prepared breakfast, and then the two of us—still clad in our pajamas—read snippets from the newspaper to each other while we dined on French toast or omelets or a hash-brown casserole.
On this particular Saturday morning in April, I'd just taken a sip of freshly squeezed orange juice when I picked up the local section of the paper. I opened the fold, saw the headline, and choked.
"Katherine?" Brad rose and came to my aid.
"I’m all right." I waved at him to sit down again, then wiped tears from my eyes. "But look at this."
I laid the paper on the table and turned it toward him, pointing at the headline on the front page.
Brad Clarkson: Humanitarian of the Year In Step Foundation leader says it truly is more blessed to give
Brad groaned. "Well, if that doesn’t make me sound like a prig, I don’t know what would."
"But you did say it." I tried to hide my amusement. Not very hard, I admit, but I did try. "You told me so."
"Some help you are."
Smiling now, I stood and rounded the table to stand behind Brad so we could read the article together.
There were two photos accompanying the article. The first was of Brad and four of the administrative assistants who worked in the foundation’s downtown office. Brad was in the center, his arms around the shoulders of the women on either side of him. All of them were laughing at something. More than likely at something he'd said. The second photo was also of Brad, this time wearing a hardhat, smiling his irresistible smile, and standing in front of one of In Step's finished remodels. Beside him was a petite woman who looked to be in her early thirties. She held a small child in her arms. I could tell there were tears in her eyes as Brad handed her the keys to her new home.
Brad had been in the spotlight often in recent years. He claimed it made him uncomfortable, that he wished articles and news reports would focus on what the Lord was doing with the ministry, but I wasn't completely convinced. He was a natural with the media, and they loved him. He had an easy charm that drew people to him.
"I wish you'd been with me for that interview," he said
He often said things like that, but he'd given up asking me a long time ago. He knew it was useless. It had been ten years since I'd been involved with the day-to-day running of the foundation; I wouldn't have anything of interest to say to a reporter. My main role for the last decade—by my own choice—had been as chauffeur for two active teenagers involved in an array of extracurricular activities, as chief cook and bottle washer for my hungry family and many of their friends, and later as mother of the bride at our daughters' weddings.
"You’re so beautiful," Brad continued. "If you were in that photo, no one would notice the stupid headline."
Okay, that was one of the reasons I loved Brad so much. He was never short on compliments. He always knew the right words to make me feel good.
I was a woman blessed with a wonderful life. We worked hard and tried to follow Christ as He would have us. And God had blessed us. I couldn’t want for anything more than what I had—a wonderful husband, two beautiful daughters, and a couple of grandbabies on the way.
Brad read aloud. "'Clarkson says he never imagined In Step would be anything more than a small charity he and his wife ran out of their home. Seventeen years later, the foundation has provided remodeled, affordable homes for nearly a hundred "recipient families"—as their clients are called—and In Step now occupies an entire floor of the Henderson Building in downtown Boise and employs a staff of twenty-five.'"
"See." I kissed the top of his head. "It’s a good article. It will bring much deserved attention to the foundation."
Pride welled in my heart. Humanitarian of the Year. No one deserved the accolades more than Brad. In the seventeen years since he was first inspired to create In Step, he'd worked hard to bring his vision to fruition. And God had honored his desire to serve, blessing the foundation far beyond anything I'd ever dreamed possible.
The telephone rang. I knew without looking at the caller ID that it would be one of our daughters. I answered on the second ring. "Hello?"
"Mom, have you and Dad seen the paper?" It was Emma, our youngest.
"Yes."
"I like that photo of him in front of one of the remodels. Randy Travis in a hardhat."
Brad rolled his eyes, as if he knew what Emma said. He'd heard it before. Many times. Although he was a fan of country music, he hated people saying he looked like Travis—even though he did. Same square jaw, complete with tiny cleft in his chin, same deep-set eyes, same thin lips, same high forehead, same touch of gray at his temples. Knowing he hated the comparison, the girls and I teased him about it. Unmercifully.
"I’ll tell him you said so."
The Call Waiting sound beeped in my ear. I checked the ID. It was Hayley.
"That's your sister calling now. Want to hold on?"
“No. Gotta run. I'll see you and Dad tonight. Love you."
"You too. Bye." I clicked over. "Hi, honey."
"Hi, Mom. I take it you've seen the paper."
"Yes. We've seen it."
"Did Dad notice how much he looks like Randy Travis in that picture?"
"That's what Emma said when she called." I stifled a laugh. "Do you want to tell your dad what you think about the photo? He's sitting right here."
Now Brad definitely knew what we were talking about. He shook his head and waved both hands in a back-off motion. "Give Hayley my love. I'm going to take a shower." He rose and left the kitchen.
"Oh-oh. I’ll have to apologize for all of us now." Not really. I knew he wasn't upset. We loved to tease in our family. Brad too. In fact, he was the worst of the lot. "Emma said you're still suffering from morning sickness."
"Ugh. It's awful. I thought you said I'd be over it by now."
"No, I said I was over it by four months. Some women are sick throughout their pregnancy. The full nine months."
Hayley groaned. "Just shoot me now."
We chatted a few more minutes, making plans to go shopping the following week, then said our good-byes and I hung up the phone.
I remained on the kitchen stool, staring out the window at our backyard—brushed in shades of spring green and the first appearance of colorful flowers—and thought again how wonderful my life was.
Absolutely perfect.
**************************
Copyright 2008, Robin Lee Hatcher. Do not reproduce without permission.
THE PERFECT LIFE is available on-line at Amazon.com, B&N.com, Christianbook.com, etc., and in bookstores everywhere. To obtain autographed bookplates or for more information about books by Robin Lee Hatcher, visit her web site at www.robinleehatcher.com<http://www.robinleehatcher.com>.
******
SOLEMNLY SWEAR
by
Nancy Moser
Patti McCoy, a kitchen worker at a local resort, is accused of
killing her boyfriend, Brett Lerner, the restaurant's maitre d'. But was she
simply in the wrong place at the wrong time? It's up to the jury to decide.
Each member comes from a different background, but one in particular has a lot
at stake by being on this jury. The circumstantial evidence against the accused
piles up, yet Patti McCoy isn't the only one who has to deal with innocence and
guilt. Or judgment.
Review from Publisher’s
Weekly:“[An] absorbing,
Grishamesque Christian novel by Christy Award-winner Moser (Time Lottery)
. . . In the course of the trial, each of the four learns powerful life
lessons, but this is not merely a feel-good inspirational read. It is also
well-paced and suspenseful.”
Excerpt:
I’d rather be flipping burgers.
It was an amazing thought
considering Bobby Mann hated his burger job. He hadn’t wanted to be selected
for a jury, but when he had, he’d tried to think positively about it. Maybe it
wouldn’t be so bad. After all, he loved watching “Law & Order” and “CSI” on
TV. He loved the forensic stuff and the give and take of the lawyers against
the witnesses, especially when the lawyers made them break and tell stuff they
didn’t want to tell.
He hoped that would happen during this
case—a murder case. The defendant, Patti McCoy, was a kitchen worker at a local
resort. She was accused of killing her boyfriend, Brett Lerner, the
restaurant’s maitre d’, while he sat in a hot tub in his backyard. She hit him
over the head with a wine bottle. Allegedly hit him. Or pushed him under. Or
something.
The whole thing sounded pretty fishy,
with good potential to hold Bobby’s interest.
But so far, it had been boring. If he
was bored this bad on the first day...
He found himself admiring the
courtroom. The room was probably built in the 1930’s when budgets allowed
craftsmen to paint the mural that swept the wall behind the judge: rolling
hills and upright people, standing together with their chins held high as they
searched for justice. The budget had also included intricate wrought iron
chandeliers that hung from a tin-roofed ceiling. The windows were high, letting
in light but no view. There would be no distraction from the job at hand. At
least not on their account.
But what impressed Bobby the most was
the woodwork. The massive mountain of oak that raised the judge on a level
above the rest of them was set off by layers of fluted trim topped with carved
corners. The half-wall separating the lawyers from the spectators, and the jury
from the rest of the courtroom, was created with large curved spindles beneath
a massive rail. I can make spindles like
that on my lathe . . .
The chairs were also oak, yet were
surprisingly comfortable because they had armrests and were designed to curve
around a person’s back. They were classic. Timeless. He made a quick sketch on
his note pad.
Maybe this wouldn’t be a total waste of
time.
**
The prosecutor
could have been hired by central casting. Abigail had seen his type in dozens
of productions: a striking man skirting the edge of handsome who made up for
his lack of hunky looks through his commanding manner, immaculate grooming, and
impeccable taste. He wore an expensive coal-gray suit, white starched shirt,
cerulean blue tie, and polished oxfords.
Actually, the color of the tie was
unexpected. The standard dress for a conservative man-in-power would have
dictated maroon. This flash of individuality piqued Abigail’s interest, making
her pay more attention to the man—and his words—rather than less.
As intended?
She wouldn’t doubt it. Lawyers were
like that. Just as the ideal theatre set did not contain a single prop that
wasn’t vital to the story, a savvy lawyer thought through every detail of his
production—the trial. Visual or audible, everything was taken into account in
an attempt to predict a response. An outcome. A verdict in their favor.
The prosecutor’s name was also in his
favor: Jonathan Cummings. Very authoritative and persuasive. The man wouldn’t
have had the same impact if his name had been Jon. Or especially John. What’s
in a name?
Plenty.
Abigail looked at the defendant. Patti.
With an i not a y. By the looks of her, Abigail guessed Patti signed her name with
a little heart to dot the i. It was hard to believe she was capable of murder.
And yet, by what Cummings was saying...
“... will prove that Patti Jo McCoy had
both the motive and the opportunity to take the life of her lover, Brett
Lerner. Hers was a motive that is timeless and transcends all segments and sections
of society.” He paused in the middle of the courtroom and turned toward Patti,
managing a look that conveyed both pity and scorn. “Unmarried. Alone. She was
carrying his child, with Brett, the unwilling father.”
Abigail looked at Patti, watching for her
reaction. The girl didn’t try to hide her condition by looking ashamed; or
ignore it by staring straight ahead. Patti put a hand on her abdomen.
Ah. A love child. If that tidbit of
information had been in the news, Abigail had missed it. A love child and the
heel who wouldn’t marry her.
Abigail knew she shouldn’t jump to such
conclusions before the case was made. And yet... life was revealed in the
details. One hand placed lovingly on one belly...
Cummings continued with a list of the
evidence against little Patti: “The state will show through eye-witness
accounts that Ms. McCoy was at the murder scene. Through fingerprint evidence
we will show she touched the murder weapon. And we will reveal, through a
neighbor’s testimony, that upon killing her lover, she screamed in shock at her
own actions. Overcome by guilt, she then ran away.”
Guilty as charged. Case closed. Can I go home now?
Abigail was shocked by how quickly
these thoughts appeared. She’d always prided herself with having an open mind.
But also a logical one. If there was hard evidence...
Poor little thing. As it stood now,
Patti Jo McCoy was toast.
**
Ken Doolittle
pinched a piece of lint from his khakis and let it fall to the ground between
his chair and the chair of his fellow-juror, Jack, the car-guy. Jack slowly
turned his head and watched it fall, then looked at Ken as if he’d just
witnessed something offensive.
Ken hoped their seating order wasn’t
set in stone because the thought of looking at Jack’s grease-stained
fingernails day after day... to tick Jack off, Ken plucked
another—invisible—piece of lint from his pants and let it fly between them. Bug off, buddy.
Ken realized he hadn’t been listening
to the defense attorney’s opening statement. Not that he was missing much. Stan
Stadler was no more impressive than his defendant. Ken would bet his Ping
driver the man was a public defender. Stan was a good hundred pounds overweight
and carried the majority of the fat in front. With no backside, he was
constantly hitching up his pants, which balanced under his belly with gravity a
constant enemy.
Stadler had made an attempt to slick
his dark hair back, but it rebelled, leaving strays shooting from his head at
odd angles as if the wisps didn’t want to be associated with this obvious bad
hair day. And when the man wasn’t rescuing his pants, he was pushing his
aviator-shaped glasses further up his nose—which was the only skinny thing
about him. Actually, when Ken thought about it, he realized the nose might be
the only body part not affected by fat. Interesting.
With a deep intake of breath, Stadler
wound things up. “The defense will show that the defendant, Patti McCoy, did
not kill Brett Lerner.” With a nod to the jury, Stadler returned to his chair.
That was it?
Patti looked hopeful.
Ken was not impressed.
**
Deidre Kelly
was determined to soak in every word of the trial’s opening statements. Her
husband would want a play-by-play that evening. When Deidre had been chosen for
this particular trial... they’d both agreed it was an amazing twist of fate.
She was glad the judge had said they
could take notes because Deidre had trouble remembering three items to get at
the store without writing them down. She was no Abigail Buchanan—who seemed to
be taking it all in but wasn’t writing down a thing.
The defendant, Patti, was a bitty thing
who could have benefited from some beauty parlor expertise. There was some
natural beauty present, but with her minimal makeup, washed out lips, and dull
hair pulled back in a ponytail, Patti blended into the background, a prop as
unremarkable as other items that occupied the defendant’s table: as
inconsequential as her lawyer’s briefcase, a manila folder, a yellow legal pad,
or a pitcher of water.
Patti’s job as a dishwasher at The
Pines restaurant at the Country Comfort Resort and Spa was not a stretch. Patti
was someone Deidre would have glimpsed through the kitchen door without really
looking at her, an invisible service employee like those she’d come into
contact with a hundred times. There, but not there. Although Patti had not
spoken aloud as yet (would she be allowed to testify?) Deidre guessed her voice
would be soft. “You’ll have to speak up, Ms. McCoy...”
Yes indeed. The girl would have to
speak up if she was going to be acquitted of this murder charge. But if Patti
didn’t take the rap, who would?
Deidre knew justice was occasionally
fooled or interrupted, but it was rarely completely blocked. Justice was
relentless.
The truth would come out.
Deidre shivered.
Copyright 2007, Nancy Moser,
published by Tyndale House Publishers
Nancy Moser is the author of eighteen novels including The Good Nearby, Just Jane, Mozart’s Sister,
Christy Award winner Time Lottery, and
the Sister Circle series co-authored with Campus Crusade co-founder Vonette
Bright.
The
sun rises in a pinkish-blue spring sky over the Beaufort River as I exit the
old drawbridge and turn left onto Bay Street. My rusty red ’68 Mustang jerks
and shimmies, threatening to quit on me—again—while from the radio, Tim McGraw
sings about when the stars go blue.
The old girl’s
carburetor sputters and chokes. Mimicking my dad, I bang the dash. “Don’t die
on me, Matilda. I’m late for work.” I mash the clutch and gun the gas,
desperate to keep her alive. Matilda rattles and clanks in defiance.
Last month, she
broke down while waiting for the drawbridge to swing closed.
Sitting
first in line at the bridge’s stoplight with a bazillion cars lined up behind
me, Matilda shot a plume of black smoke out her tailpipe and stalled with a kerplunk. What followed was a lot of
car-horn swearing, then being pushed across the bridge by angry drivers who’d
as soon shoot me as help me.
The car is
giving me a rep.
But today I make
it over the bridge in spite of Matilda’s rattle trapping. Paul Mulroney of
Mulroney’s Bistro glances up from sweeping his walk as I rumble down Bay
Street. He shakes his head, shouting something I can’t quite make out. I smile
and wave, doing my part to enhance community relations.
At seven-thirty
in the a.m., downtown Beaufort wakes up with a slow, sleepy feel. By midday,
the streets will flow with tourists and tanned retirees looking to buy a slice
of lowcountry life. If only people would make their way down to Jones
McDermott’s—may he rest in peace—little Frogmore Café on the corner of Bay and
Harrington.
“A town
treasure,” the Beaufort Gazette
called the Café in a story about Jones the day after his funeral. More like forgotten treasure. If it weren’t for
the regulars—most of them senior citizens over sixty—the Café would be sunken treasure.
Making the light
at Church Street, I swerve into the Café’s gravel-and-crushed-shell parking
lot. Stopping in the shade of a thick, ancient live oak, the Mustang’s motor
chokes and, at last, dies. “Ho, boy.” When I try to restart, the engine refuses
to fire.
“Fine, swell,
great. Be that way.”
Anointing the
moment with a few soap-worthy words as I climb out, I fish my cell phone from
the bottom of my backpack and auto-dial Dad. While it rings on his end, I study
the back of the Café. The paint is faded and peeling from a thousand afternoons
of baking in the hot South Carolina sun. One side of the porch leans and
slopes.
Since Jones’s
sudden death from a heart attack a few weeks ago, I’ve been managing the place
with the rest of the crew—Andy, Mercy Bea, and Russell—trying to make a go of
things. Business is slow. Money is almost nonexistent. Unfortunately, the
heyday of the Frogmore Café echoes in the Valley of Time alongside beehive
hairdos and eight-track cassettes.
Daddy’s phone
rings for the third time. Come on, pick
up.
Mercy Bea Hart,
the Café’s senior waitress, steps through the kitchen door, lighting a
cigarette, indicating to me with a jab at her watchless wrist that I’m late.
Thirty-some
years ago Mercy Bea had her fifteen minutes of fame when she won a Jane
Mansfield look-alike contest. Got her picture in a Hollywood magazine and
appeared on The Mike Douglas Show.
Ever since, she’s maintained her once-won image—dyed-blonde bombshell hair,
curvy figure with just the right amount of cleavage, red lips, and long,
lacquered fingernails.
“Yeah, Caroline,
what’s up?” Dad’s crisp question is accompanied by the grind of heavy
equipment.
“Matilda.”
“Again?
Caroline, it may just be time to get rid of that thing.”
We’ve had this
conversation.“Can you tow it to
CARS? Please?” I glance at my watch. Seven thirty-five. While I take care of
the Café books, I also wait tables and my regulars arrive at 8:02.
“Where are you?”
Dad asks.
“The Café
parking lot.” Hitching my backpack higher on my shoulder, I lean against the
car door. The morning is muggy but breezy, fragrant with the sour scent of the
dark, soft pluff mud of the river marsh.
“At least you
made it to work this time.” A chuckle softens his tone.
Kudos for Matilda. “See, Matilda isn’t all bad.”
“Keep telling
yourself that, Caroline. I’ll be along after this job. I’m down in Bluffton and
we’re having trouble with the equipment.”
“Thank you a
thousand times over, Daddy.”
“You’re welcome
a thousand times over.”
Pressing End, I stuff
my phone into the front pocket of my backpack and head for the Café’s kitchen
door. Mercy Bea snuffs out her cigarette in a stained-glass ashtray. “You’re
late.”
“What are you,
the time-clock gestapo? I was caught in bridge traffic.”
“Can’t be running
in here late, Caroline.” She settles the ashtray on the windowsill and follows
me inside. “And you best get rid of that broken-down heap. Half the town’s
push-started you. Growing tired of it.”
“How lucky I am
to live in such a warm, friendly town. How’s business this morning?” In the
office, just off the kitchen, I flip on the light and unzip my backpack.
“Slow. I cleaned
the bathrooms for you.” Mercy Bea leans her shoulder against the door jamb and
picks at her brilliant-red fingernails. “Land sakes, I’ve got to get my nails
done.”
“You cleaned the
bathrooms? For me.” Tying on my apron, I gaze over at her. “I was going to get
to them this morning.”
“Don’t act all
surprised.” She pops and cracks her gum. “You covered for me a few times when
my young-sons got into trouble.” Mercy Bea is a single mom of two teen boys she
affectionately refers to as “young-sons.”
Every Secret Thing
is the story of a woman who returns home after many years away. Beth Gunnar
hasn’t lived in Delaware since high school graduation, but when she’s offered a
teaching job at Seaton Preparatory School--her alma mater--she accepts. Once
there, she’s faced with an unresolved loss that she and her friends experienced
during their senior year. She realizes that the suicide of a favorite teacher
has haunted her all her life, and she wants to find out the truth about what
happened that night. There’s a little bit of mystery and a little bit of
romance, and ultimately it’s a story of faith and reconciliation.
“Intelligent, introspective, and beautifully, hauntingly
written….”
-
Tom Morrisey, author of In High Place
Prologue
The first thing I
want you to know is that there really is a state called Delaware.
You see, when I
left home to go away to college in the Midwest, I discovered I had spent my
whole life in a place most people were only vaguely aware existed. “So where
are you from?” I was asked time and again, and time and again when I replied,
“I’m from Delaware,” the response I got was, “What state is that in?”
No, no, no, you
see, Delaware isn’t in a state; it is a state. It was and is, in fact, the
First State. So says the license plate of every car owned by every Delawarean.
One of the 13 original colonies, Delaware earned its rank as number one when,
on December 7, 1787, it was the first state to approve the United States
Constitution. Now, there’s something to be said for that, isn’t there? Delaware
was a state before most other states were so much as a twinkle in the
government’s eye.
So, you might ask,
if it led this country into nationhood, why is it we never hear anything about
this state called Delaware? Good question, one I’ve often pondered myself. Did
it accomplish this one historic act, and then sit back to rest on its laurels?
I mean, let’s face it. Delaware seldom makes the headlines, seldom makes the
national news at all, save for those instances when a certain senator stirs up
the waters in Washington again with one biting partisan remark or another. But
most people just ignore that kind of thing. I know I do.
When I was a child, a Bible passage I
heard in Sunday school always made me think of Delaware. It was the story in
the Gospel of John where Philip goes and finds Nathanael to tell him they’ve
found the Messiah, the one Moses and the prophets wrote about. This should be
good news for a couple of Jewish fellows, right? But oddly enough, the man is
Jesus of Nazareth, son of Joseph. Instead of rejoicing because the Messiah has
come, Nathanael is appalled to think he came from Nazareth, that haven for the
Roman army, persecutors of the Jews. And so Nathanael cries out, “Can any good
thing come out of Nazareth?”
Those words stuck
with me until my impish mind tweaked the question, turning it around to become,
“Can anything at all come out of Delaware?”
While growing up,
my best friend Natalie and I dubbed our home state Dullaware. To us it was The
Place Where Nothing Ever Happens. We did, however, think that people outside
our state at least knew we existed. That crushing realization was saved for
later.
It might be that
Delaware is largely overlooked because of its size. In spite of the idealistic
promotional slogan selling the state as a “Small Wonder,” the epithet
nevertheless exposes Delaware for what it is: just a little slip of land, too
pint-sized a place even to have its own commercial airport. To fly to Delaware
you have to land in Philadelphia, or maybe Newark, New Jersey or even Dullas
Airport in Washington, but you don’t land in Delaware proper unless you’re in a
private jet or a military plane. It might be said--only partly in jest, I
suppose--that there is simply no place to put the runway. Consider the old joke
of road travelers: “Delaware. If you blink, you miss it.”
It’s true that
lengthwise, Delaware measures only 85 miles. And the width--well, the southern
end of the state is the widest part and that’s only 35 miles. Farther north,
just below Wilmington where I grew up, the state is eight miles wide.Eight miles!
“Hey, want to hike across the state?”
“Sure. There’s nothing better to do until
supper.”
I know, I know. It
doesn’t look promising. You just don’t hear of people saving up for their dream
vacation to Delaware or grabbing up land to retire there. You don’t hear of
people talking up its splendors in such a way that everyone longs to experience
the place for himself.
When it comes to
Delaware, you don’t really hear much of anything.
But then, you have
to consider, the state itself is not so different from most of us, is it? Think
about it. You, me, that person down the street--we’re all here, just as real as
the next person, living out a life as real as any other life, and yet--unless
you’re as influential as New York or as big as Texas--very few people know that
you exist, or that I exist, or that anyone exists beyond a vague knowing that
there are “other people out there.”
Can anything good
come out of such a life?
In the same way
Philip answered Nathanael’s question about the good that can arise out of so
doubtful a place, I can only invite you to come and see.
“The gritty tale will have readers cheering for Steve as he desperately tries to put the pieces of his life back together. The scenes and characters jump off the page to create a startling, emotionally stirring story.” – Romantic Times
Indio, California
1983
They put Robert in Stevie's room when Stevie started getting night terrors. He was five and the terrors came hard one night when he woke up sure that a monster was trying to get him. He woke up screaming in the dark and when no lights went on he screamed louder because he thought the monster heard the screams and would try to kill him now.
His mom flicked on the light that first time, and Stevie saw through sleepy eyes his older brother Robert, seven, rubbing his own eyes with his hands. He was in his train pajamas. Stevie would never forget that. All those years later, he would think of Robert in his train pajamas wondering why his little brother was screaming.
The terrors came three nights in a row. The third night was the worst and Stevie wet the bed and cried.
Stevie's dad yelled at his mother the next night. Stevie could hear them in the kitchen, arguing, like they usually did. His dad yelled, "You're not putting Robert in that room with the baby bed wetter."
His Mom yelled right back at him. "You're not the one who has to get up! You don't even hear him you're so bombed. Robert's going to sleep with him for awhile and that's the way it's going to be."
Then Stevie heard a noise and thought it was somebody falling hard to the floor in the kitchen. He never found out if it was his mom or his dad.
•
Robert didn't have a problem moving in with Stevie. The little house in Indio had three bedrooms. Four if you counted the living room as one, because that's where his dad slept most of the time. He'd drink beer and watch TV and usually fell asleep with the TV on.
That first night Robert said he'd tell Stevie a story. That was way cool. Stevie loved his big brother, because he was athletic and fearless. Stevie wanted to be like Robert in every way, even wishing his brown hair was sandier like Robert's, and his eyes blue.
And he loved hearing Robert tell stories. Robert could tell the best ghost stories. But tonight he hoped he wouldn't tell one of those because he'd get too scared. Then Robert said he was going to tell him a monster story and Stevie said maybe not, and Robert said just hang on and listen.
"Once upon a time," Robert began – the room was dark except for the moonlight, and Robert's bed was close enough for Stevie to touch with his foot – "there were two baby monsters. Their names were Arnold and Beebleobble."
Stevie cracked up. Arnold was a funny name, but Beebleobble was even funnier. Funny names for monsters. A funny monster story he could deal with.
"One was green," Robert said, "and one was blue."
"Which one was green?" Stevie asked.
"Arnold. Beebleobble was blue."
"Cool."
"Listen to the story."
"Okay."
"One day Arnold and Beebleobble decided to go to the store. Arnold wanted some peanut butter and Beebleobble wanted some gum. So they went into the store and the man screamed Monsters! and ran out of the store. But Arnold and Beebleobble didn't want to scare him. They were friendly monsters. They just wanted some peanut butter and some gum."
"Was anybody else in the store?"
"No. So Arnold got some peanut butter and Beebleobble got some gum and they left without paying for it. Then the police came and said, Why did you scare that man? and they said, We didn't mean to. We don't want to scare people. We just want to get something to eat. We have money. So the policeman scratched his head and said to the man, If they have the money then everything's okay. And the man said, I guess so. I'm sorry. I thought they were trying to scare me. So they paid him and went home and ate the peanut butter and chewed gum."
Stevie smiled in the moonlight. "I didn't think monsters did that."
"They were baby monsters," Robert said. "They didn't know about scaring people yet."
That night Stevie didn't have the terrors.
A week later, at Kindergarten, it occurred to Stevie that Robert told the story that way just so he wouldn't be afraid of monsters trying to get him.
The terrors never came back. Until the night of the shattered eyes, when the real monsters came.
The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out (#7 in the Yada Yada series)
By Neta Jackson
Turkey dinners, tree trimming, and decking the halls--it's that time of year again! And I, Jodi Baxter, can't wait to celebrate. My kids are coming home for the holidays, and then all of us Yadas are getting decked out for a big New Year's party.
But God's idea of "decked out" might just change the nature of our party plans. A perplexing encounter with a former student, a crime that literally knocks me off my feet, a hurry-up wedding, and a child who will forever change our family . . . it's times like these that I really need my prayer sisters.
This holiday season, we Yada Yadas are learning that no one can out-celebrate God. So let's get this party started!
Prologue
The steady ding-a-ling of the Salvation Army bell down the street punctuated the Christmas lust of the three boys gawking into the window of the game store. “Look, they got PlayStation Portable! That’s what I want, man. ’Member those ads we saw on TV, JJ? Awesome graphics.”
“Ha! Look how much it cost. That PSP is over two hundred bucks! How you gonna get that, Boomer?”
Boomer, almost as tall as his thirteen-year-old cousin even though he was two grades younger, shrugged inside his bulky jacket. “I dunno. Ask for it for Christmas. Why not?”
The older boy snorted. “Yeah, right. Yo’ mama ain’t gonna spring for no two hundred bucks. ’Specially when she finds out you ain’t home, grounded like she said when you cut class yesterday.”
“She ain’t gonna find out ’less you tell her, JJ. She at work.”
The third boy snickered.
Boomer glared at his cousin’s friend. “Don’t you start, Mitch. C’mon, let’s go in. I wanna check out the new games.”
The three middle school boys pushed their way into the crowded store, jackets unzipped, knit caps pulled over their ears, wet gym shoelaces dragging. The week after Thanksgiving had followed early winter’s treacherous trend: first a drizzling rain, then freezing temperatures, then a light snow to dust the icy sidewalks and streets. Shoppers filled the aisles of the game store, even though it was a weeknight. With only “24 Shopping Days till Christmas,” stores were open all over Chicago until ten at night, every night.
Boomer pulled back the hood of his sweatshirt layered under his sport jacket as he paused in front of the big display featuring the new game console: SonyPlayStation Portable! Get it while supplies last!“Oh, man, you think they gonna run out ’fore Christmas?”
His cousin, the cuffs of his baggy jeans hanging wet around his ankles, rolled his eyes. “C’mon. You wanted ta look at the games. . . . Oh, hey, dudes! Look at this.” JJ snatched up a game under a sign that screamed, Grand Theft Auto: LibertyCity Stories! New!
Mitch punched his shoulder. “Forget it, JJ. See that ‘M’? That means ‘Mature.’ Ya gotta be eighteen ta buy it.”
“That sucks.” JJ turned it over to read the back.
The other two boys sauntered along the game shelves, the intense cover graphics competing for attention. Boomer pounced. “Oh, man. This is the one I want. Twenty bucks. That ain’t so much.”
“What’s that?” Mitch looked over his shoulder.
Boomer’s eyes glowed. “Ridge Racer. Driving simulator. Really cool, man. I played it once—”
“Lemme see that.” Coming up behind them, JJ grabbed the game, read the fine print, then waved it in his cousin’s face. “Ha. Even if you had fifty bucks, ya gotta have a PSP to use it.”
“So? Told ya I’m—”
“Man comin’,” Mitch hissed.
A store clerk in a rumpled white shirt hugging a paunch headed toward them, pushing past other customers until he stood in their way. “You boys buying?”
Boomer put on a smile. “Just lookin’, mister.”
“Well, look someplace else. Go on, git. An’ keep your hands off the merchandise.”
JJ shrugged. “Oh, all right. C’mon guys. Let’s go.”
Boomer looked at his cousin in surprise. JJ wasn’t one to be pushed around. He’d expected some lip.
Out on the sidewalk, JJ headed up Clark Street at a fast clip, zigzagging around other early-evening shoppers. “Hey, wait up, JJ! Where you goin’ so fast?” Mitch and Boomer scurried after him, pulling up their sweatshirt hoods and zipping their jackets, hunched against a smart wind off the lake. “What’s his problem?” Mitch mumbled as JJ turned the corner at the next intersection, walking fast.
When they’d left the bright streetlights and storefronts along Clark Street, JJ turned to his two companions. “Man! He never even saw it!” Gleefully, he pulled something out of his jacket. Even in the dimmer light along the side street, Boomer could see the title: Ridge Racer.
“Oh, man! How’d you—?” Boomer’s eyes widened. “Really? You just walked out with it?”
“Said you wanted it, didn’t ya?” JJ tossed it at his cousin.
Boomer caught it. “Yeah, but . . .” He held the treasured game hungrily.
Mitch giggled nervously. “Man, oh man. You coulda got us all in big trouble back there, JJ.” He laughed harder. “Ooo, JJ, you one slick dude.”
JJ punched Boomer on the shoulder. “So, how ’bout a little gratitude, huh?”
Boomer frowned. “Thanks . . . I guess. ’Cept I can’t play it without that PSP console.”
JJ glanced down the street, and suddenly pulled Boomer and Mitch into the shadows. “Well now, maybe we can fix that too.”
“Whatchu mean?” Boomer craned his neck, following JJ’s gaze. All he saw was a woman getting out of a car, carrying several boxes.
“Look how that lady carryin’ her purse,” JJ murmured.
Even in the dim streetlights along the residential street, the boys could see the woman’s purse slung over one shoulder, swinging freely.
“So? White women carry green money. Credit cards too.”
“Hey, wait.” Boomer grabbed JJ’s jacket sleeve. “I don’t want no trouble. I’m in enough already with my mom.”
“You wanna play that video game or not, Boomer?” JJ jerked his arm away. “Now come on.” He headed out of the shadows, running lightly on the snow-covered sidewalk. An adrenaline rush of excitement drowning his apprehension, Boomer followed in his cousin’s wake, Mitch tight on his heels as they closed the distance to the woman walking ahead of them.
With one smooth move, JJ jerked the purse from the woman’s shoulder and kept going. The jerk caused the woman to spin on the slippery sidewalk and she fell sideways, the boxes in her arms flying in all directions. “Run!” yelled JJ.
As the woman landed, she let out a cry of pain. Mitch and Boomer parted ways as if she were a traffic island they had to go around and kept running after JJ.
“Help!” the woman cried. “My ankle! . . . Somebody, help me!”
Boomer slowed and looked back. Something about that voice . . .
“Ohh . . . My ankle . . . I can’t . . .”
Boomer turned. Somewhere down the street he heard JJ yelling, “Boomer! Whatchu doin’? Come on!”
The woman on the ground was crying, trying to get up, but falling back. Desperately, Boomer looked up and down the street, hoping someone else would hear her. But no one else was out. No doors opened.
“Boomer, you idiot! Get outta there! . . . We’re leavin’, man!”
Itching to run, Boomer’s feet moved like lead back to the fallen woman. She was still moaning with pain. Pulling his knit cap down low and his hood around his face, he bent slightly to get a look.
It couldn’t be her. But it was! Half his mind screamed, Run, idiot! The other half said, You can’t! What if she’s really hurt?
The woman looked up. She flinched. Then she gasped, “Help me . . . please. I’m hurt. I need my cell phone. I . . . lost it when I fell. Do you see it?”
He glanced this way and that among the boxes—they were empty! But there . . . a glint in the snow. He picked it up. A silver cell phone. Without a word, he flipped it open and punched in three numbers: 9-1-1. Then he hit Send and set it down within her reach.
And fled.
(c) Neta Jackson. Published by Thomas Nelson, 2007.
To learn more about the Yada Yada Prayer Group series, go to www.daveneta.com. The Yada Yada novels can be found at your local Christian bookstore, Barnes & Nobel, Borders, Books-a-Million, and other fine stores, as well as www.christianbook.com and www.amazon.com.
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