Becca by the Book (A Getaway Girls Novel)

By Laura Jensen Walker

Freespirited Becca Daniels is still trying to figure out what she wants to be when she grows up. What Becca doesn't want to be is bored. That's why she quit her bookstore job, used her last bit of credit to go skydiving, and how she broke her leg. Becca will try almost anything—even her book club's crazy challenge. To prove she's not commitment-phobic, Becca agrees to twenty-five dates with whoever asks her out next. When churchy Ben—definitely NOT her type—calls, she gamely embarks on a hilarious series of dates that plunge her into the alien world of church potlucks and prayer meetings.

Excerpt from Chapter Three

I miss Jenna. She was my athletic partner in crime. None of the other girls even come close. I love `em, but other than Tess and Annie, they're pretty much all indoor adventure types.

Of course, so am I right now.

I scowl at the hated cast propped up on a pillow on the coffee table. No running, hiking, climbing, bicycling… none of my usual outdoor activities. Nothing at all. A sigh slips out. At least I got a cool cast out of the deal—a lime green one that starts just below my knee and goes beneath my foot.

Only my toes are visible. My chipped, blue-polished toes.

Thank God for books. Without them, my enforced convalescence would be even worse agony. In the four weeks since I've been off my feet, I've devoured Seabiscuit, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Rebecca, and the remainder of our book club selections for the year.

Growing up and moving all the time with my birth mom and her latest flavor-of-the-month husband, books were the only constant in my life. They never failed me. But a girl—even a book-loving one—can only read so much.

After finishing off all our Getaway Girl selections, a couple biographies and the latest David Sedaris, I started flipping through radio stations. I discovered that a lot of those radio shows have contests where you can win cool things—like DVD's, movie passes, even trips. I programmed their numbers into my cell and began hitting redial so I could be the seventh caller, or whatever number they assigned that day.

Pretty soon, I was winning things left and right. The dinner for two at a romantic restaurant I gave to Chloe and Ryan, the passes to the latest Jane Austen movie; to our resident Janeites Tess and Annette, and the theater tickets to Kailyn and Drew, her latest actor crush.

But the Jason Castro CD I kept for myself. The dreadlocked dude from Texas with the laid-back style and beautiful eyes was my favorite Idol contestant. I won't go so far as to say I love him, but I will admit to a serious crush.

The one thing I don't love, or even understand, is hate radio. Some people call it talk radio, but the few times I've heard it when flipping through stations, the guy was all mean and yelling and calling everyone names who wasn't exactly like him, or believed exactly the same way he did.

On a Christian radio station, no less.

I thought Christians were supposed to be all about love? I sure didn't feel an ounce of love coming over the airwaves. And Kailyn and Annette wonder why I don't want to go to church with them . . .

"Becca? Are you sleeping?" There's a buzzing in my head and my roommate's voice hovers above me.

I open my eyes to find Kailyn, Annette, Tess, Chloe and Annie looking down at me on the couch. "Sorry. I must have dozed off. What are you guys doing here?"
           

"It's book club night, remember?" Chloe said. "We're having dinner and discussing Seabiscuit."

"Oh yeah." I leaned forward and lifted my cast off the table with both hands, setting it gently on the ground and reaching for my crutches. "Thanks again for waiting to go riding until I'm free of this plaster prison."

"Not a problem," Tess said. "We didn't want you to miss out, especially since you're the one who picked the adventure." She glanced at my hair. "I like this latest color better than the last. What's it called?"

"Magenta marvel. Before it was bubblegum pink."

"Y'all keep changing Becca's hair color every couple weeks and pretty soon there won't be any hair left on her head," Annette warned.

"No worries. It's only temporary—nothing permanent and no peroxide, so it won't do any damage," Annie said. "I've used it in the past and not had any problems."

"Well, I hope so." Kailyn flipped her liquid gold locks away from her face. "That would be terrible if your hair fell out. I can't imagine anything worse."

"I can," Annie said. "Malnutrition, infanticide, illiteracy . . ."

Kailyn's face turned red.

            Annie's our resident activist and some would say, bleeding heart. But I see her as kind and compassionate. A real Mother Teresa type.

If Mother Teresa had piercings and tattoos.

Already at her young age, Annie's been to Guatemala, Costa Rica, and Rwanda, where she's helped build clinics, dig wells, and bring supplies to orphanages and those in need. She even helped in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina when she was barely a teen.

Kind of puts the rest of us to shame.

Except now, Annie's the one bearing the shame. "I'm sorry, K," she said. "I didn't mean to be so didactic."

"Di-what?"

"Moralizing," Tess said.

"Sometimes I just can't help myself. But that doesn't give me an excuse to be mean," Annie said. "Forgive me?"

"Of course I forgive you." Kailyn pointed to the WWJD bracelet on Annie's wrist.

It always blows me away that Annie and Kailyn share the same religious beliefs. Thankfully, Annie's not one of those perky Christians. She keeps it real. What really blows me away is that every single one of the Getaway Girls is a Christian. Except me.

I'm surrounded.

Jenna's not. A Christian, I mean. But Jenna's in Napa now, so I'm the only pagan in the group—which is strange, since I'm the one who founded the book club in the first place. I sure didn't advertise for Christians. It just wound up this way. I've told my friends not to preach at me or try to convert me, though, and they respect that. Usually. But sometimes I get the sneaking suspicion that they're praying for me.

As long as they don't drag me down to the river for baptism or sacrifice a goat in the living room, we're good.

Do Not Reproduce Without Permission

Becca by the Book is published by Zondervan (2009) and is available at fine bookstores everywhere and on-line at www.amazon.com or www.christianbook.com.

Author Laura Jensen Walker lives in Northern California with her husband Michael and their canine-daughter Gracie. To find more about other books by Laura, please visit www.laurajensenwalker.com

The Christmas Dog

By Melody Carlson

This heartfelt story is the perfect thing to put you in the holiday spirit…the healing power of animals combines nicely with the true spirit of Christmas. God really does work through unexpected people and events.

Romantic Times, September 2009

Christmas miracles can come from unlikely sources.

Betty Kowalski isn't looking forward to the holidays. She just can't seem to find Christmas in her heart. Maybe it's because her husband is gone. Maybe it's because she's missing he children. Or maybe it has something to do with obnoxious new neighbor, who seems to be tearing his house apart and rearranging it on the lawn. But when a mangy do appears at her doorstep, the stage is set for Betty to learn what Christmas is really about.

The Christmas Dog

By Melody Carlson [Baker/Revell, September 2009]

Chapter 1

As Betty Kowalski drove home from church on Sunday, she realized she was guilty of two sins. First of all, she felt envious—perhaps even lustful—of Marsha Deerwood's new leather jacket. But, in Betty's defense, the coat was exquisite. A three-quarter-length jacket, it was beautifully cut, constructed of a dove-gray lambskin, and softer than homemade butter. Betty knew this for a fact since she had touched the sleeve of Marsha's jacket and audibly sighed just as Pastor Gordon had invited the congregation to rise and bow their heads in prayer.

"It's an early anniversary present from Jim," Marsha had whispered after the pastor proclaimed a hearty "Amen." As usual, the two old friends sat together in the third pew from the front. On Marsha's other side, next to the aisle so he could help with the collection plates, sat Marsha's husband, James Deerwood, a recently retired physician and respected member of the congregation.

Naturally Betty showed not even the slightest sign of jealousy. Years of practice made this small performance no great challenge. Instead, Betty simply smiled, complimented Marsha on the lovely garment, and pretended not to notice the worn cuffs of her own winter coat, a charcoal-colored Harris Tweed that had served her well for several decades now. Still, it was classic and timeless, and a new silk scarf or a pair of sleek leather gloves might dress it up a bit. Not that she could afford such little luxuries right now. Besides, she did not care to dwell on such superficialities (especially during the service). Nor would she want anyone to suspect how thoughts such as these distracted her while Pastor Gordon preached with such fiery intensity about the necessity of loving one's neighbors today. He even pounded his fist on the pulpit a couple of times, something the congregation rarely witnessed in their small, dignified church.

But now, as Betty drove her old car toward her neighborhood, she was mindful of Pastor Gordon's words. And thus she became cognizant of her second sin. Not only did Betty not love her neighbor, she was afraid that she hated him wholeheartedly. But then again, she reminded herself, it wasn't as if Jack Jones lived right next to her. He wasn't her next-door neighbor. Not that it made much difference since it was only a decrepit cedar fence that separated their backyards. It was, in fact, that rotten old fence that had started their dispute in the first place.

"This fence is encroaching on my property," Jack had said to her in October. She'd been peacefully minding her own business, enjoying the crisp sunny day as she raked leaves in her backyard.

"What do you mean?" She set her bamboo rake aside and went over to hear him better, which wasn't easy since his music, as usual, was blaring.

"I mean I've studied the property lines in our neighborhood, and that fence is at least eight feet into my yard," he said.

"That fence is on your property line, fair and square." She looked him straight in the eyes. "It's the public access strip that's—"

"No way!" He pointed toward the neighboring yards where the public access strip had been split right down the middle. "See what I mean? Your yard has encroached over the whole public access strip and—"

"Excuse me," she said, shaking her finger at him like he was in grade school. "But the original owners agreed to build that fence right where it is. No one has encroached on anyone."

He rubbed his hand through his straggly dark hair, jutted out his unshaved chin, narrowed his eyes. "It's over the line, lady."

Betty did not like being called "lady." But instead of losing her temper, she had pressed her lips together tightly and mentally counted to ten.

"And it's falling down," he added.

"Well," she retorted, "since it's on your property, I suggest you fix it." As she turned and walked away, she felt certain that he increased the volume on his music just to spite her. It seemed clear the battle lines had been drawn.

Fortunately, the weather had turned cold after that. Consequently, Betty no longer cared to spend time in her backyard, and her windows had remained tightly closed to shut out his noise and music.

Betty tightened her grip on the steering wheel, keeping her gaze straight ahead as she drove down Persimmon Lane, the street on which Jack Jones lived. She did not want that insufferable young man to observe her looking his way. Although it was hard not to stare at the run-down house with the filthy red pickup truck parked right on the front lawn. Obviously, the old vehicle couldn't be parked in the driveway. That space was buried in a mountain of junk covered with ugly blue tarps, which were anchored with old plastic milk bottles. She assumed the bottles were filled with dirty water, although another neighbor (who suspected their young neighbor was up to no good) had suggested the mysterious brown liquid in the containers might be a toxic chemical used in the manufacturing of some kind of illegal drugs.

Betty sighed and continued her attempt to avert her gaze as she slowed down for the intersection of her street, Nutmeg Lane. But despite her resolve, she glanced sideways and let out a loud groan. Oh, to think that the Spencer house had once been the prettiest home in the neighborhood!

As she turned the corner, she remembered how that house used to look. For years it had been painted a lovely sky blue with clean white trim, and the weed-free lawn had always been neatly cut and perfectly edged. The flower beds had bloomed profusely with annuals and perennials, and Gladys Spencer's roses had even won prizes at the county fair. Who ever would've guessed it would come to this?

Check out http://www.melodycarlson.com to learn more about this book or the author. And to order this book, go to http://www.amazon.com or to any of your other favorite bookstores.

© 2009 by Melody Carlson

Published by Revell

a division of Baker Publishing Group

P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

www.revellbooks.com

Printed in the United States of America

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—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Within the eyes of a helpless and abused wife, attorney Briley Lester discovers a haunting secret.

Let Darkness Come

Angela Hunt

Mira, $7.99 ISBN 978-0-7783-2653-3

Hunt (The Face) whips out a shut-the-cellphone-off, cancel-all-appointments legal thriller whose surprise plot twist caroms out of nowhere. When Erin Tomassi is arrested for the murder of her husband, prominent Illinois state senator Jeffrey Tomassi, his powerful father arranges for Erin to be represented by inexperienced attorney Briley Lester. The defense seems hopeless: abused wife, her fingerprints on the murder weapon, no intruders. Even the opening description of the murder leaves the reader convinced of Erin's guilt. But once Hunt's sophistication with plot and character development kicks in, there is no escaping the notion that Erin is indeed innocent and Briley just might get her acquitted with a shocking and elegant final move. Readers will find the story gripping and compelling from start to finish. –Publishers Weekly

Chapter One

The night was made for murder.

She waits until his breaths are deep and even; waits until he snores in a regular rhythm. Then she slips out of bed and moves to the window, raising the blind until a wave of silver moonlight floods the room.

She won't risk waking him by turning on the lamp. Moonlight suits her purposes; it has always suited her nature.

She creeps into the bathroom and pulls the basket with his sharps and bottles from beneath the sink. These she transfers to the nightstand, then she lifts a syringe, unwraps it, and presses the thin needle into the neck of a bottle.

He took his insulin before bedtime, a dose guaranteed to stabilize his blood chemistry throughout the night. This second injection will stabilize him forever.

She measures out fifty units of regular insulin and drops the bottle back into its basket. The gentle chink of glass against glass does not rouse him. The man sleeps like a log, particularly on nights when he is so full of himself that he can't resist berating his wife.

Idiot. White trash. Slut.

Never again will those words pass his lips. Never again will she wear long sleeves on hot summer days.

Never again will his fist slam into her belly.

She lowers herself to the mattress, lifts the syringe in her left hand, and gently tugs on the covers with her right. His snoring halts, then erupts in an explosion of breath. His body has sensed the abrupt change in temperature and his fingers fumble at his pajama top, searching for the comforter.

When he stops moving, she slides the thin needle into the pale flesh of his abdomen and presses the plunger. The instrument of death makes no sound, nor does its bite make him flinch. The needle has nipped at this flesh many times.

Like a loving mother tucking in a child, she covers him again and stands as he slumbers on, oblivious to his fate.

She returns the basket of supplies to the bathroom vanity and tosses the syringe into the trash. Her gaze falls on the mirror, where a ghostly image of her form is reflected in shadows. Then she crawls back into the warm bed and closes her eyes, willing herself to sleep.

* * *

In the windowless waiting room outside the morgue at the Cook County Medical Examiner's office, Erin Tomassi shivers beneath a thin blanket. Her brain buzzes with the faint rumblings of a headache while disjointed memories of the morning jostle in her mind. Impossible to believe that she's sitting in a public place in her robe, pajamas, and slippers. Impossible to believe that Jeffrey lies in the room beyond, lifeless and blue.

She stares at her hand and counts off five fingertips, one for each year of their marriage. Jeffrey is thirty-five years old; men of that age do not die in their sleep. But dead is what he is, or so the EMTs insist. They have to be mistaken, because Jeffrey is king of whatever hill he's climbing. When it comes, Death will have to wait for an appointment like everyone else.

An older man in a lab coat steps into the drab room and offers a sad smile. "Coffee?" He gestures toward a pot on the counter. "It's not very good, but it's hot."

She shakes her head. "I'm fine."

The man moves toward the counter and takes a foam cup from a slanted stack. As he pours the fragrant liquid, he glances in her direction. "Do you need to call someone to pick you up?"

"That—my father-in-law is on his way."

The man pours two sugar packets into his cup, then stirs the brew with a ballpoint from his pocket. "Never a spoon around when you need one," he says, a thread of apology in his voice as he taps his pen on the side of the cup. "Are you sure you wouldn't like a cup of coffee?"

"Never learned to like it." She catches her breath, horrified that the words have sprung so easily to her lips. If Jeffrey were here, he'd tell her to take the coffee, drink it, and act grateful for it, because one never offended voters by refusing offers of kindness.

She lowers her eyes, afraid the man might see a trace of the emotions warring in her breast. Jeffrey might be dead . . . and if he is, she will mourn him, but she will be free. Free to refuse cups of coffee, to sleep past seven, to stay in her house and ignore the clamoring world. If she can trust what the EMTs told her, she will finally be able to relax inside her own home. She'll be able to slip on her pajamas and go to bed without a sense of dread.

But Jeffrey can't be dead. Because the city is still running, the sun still shining, and the planet still turning. Most telling, she is still breathing . . . and Jeffrey always said she'd die before he did.

He'd make sure of it.

Available for purchase at your favorite bookstore or at www.amazon.com.

ISBN 978-0-7783-2653-3

© 2009, Angela E. Hunt Do not reproduce without permission

Slow Burn

By Mary Demuth

"A brave story, written in heart-wrenching, gorgeous prose." Tosca Lee, author of Havah

"Beautifully and sensitively written, her characters realistic and well-developed. Mary DeMuth has a true gift for showing how God's light can penetrate even the darkest of situations." – Chuck Colson

She touched Daisy's shoulder. So cold. So hard. So unlike Daisy. Yet so much like herself it made Emory shudder. Burying her grief, Emory Chance is determined to find her daughter Daisy's murderer—a man she saw in a flicker of a vision. But when the investigation hits every dead end, her despair escalates. As questions surrounding Daisy's death continue to mount, Emory's safety is shattered by the pursuit of a stranger, and she can't shake the sickening fear that her own choices contributed to Daisy's disappearance. Will she ever experience the peace her heart longs for? The second book in the Defiance, Texas Trilogy, this suspenseful novel is about courageous love, the burden of regret, and bonds that never break. It is about the beauty and the pain of telling the truth. Most of all, it is about the power of forgiveness and what remains when shame no longer holds us captive.

Chapter One

Defiance, Texas 1977

            Worry had its way with Emory, enticing her to stay up late past her night shift, hoping against hope that her missing daughter Daisy'd walk through the front door laughing and shouting and singing all at once. It made for groggy, sleep-sloppy mornings, where the only promise of coherence was a cup of joe followed by a tepid shower. Under the stream of water, Emory shook hands with her tears, let them slip down her face, run down her chin and mingle with lukewarm creeks of shower water and grief, all racing in lines down her skin into the rusty drain circled by soap suds at her feet. Even then, she listened. Turned off the nozzle three times when she thought she heard a noise.

But Daisy hadn't barged through the front door for two months now. Her unmade bed stayed that way, waiting for Daisy's warm thirteen-year-old body, bronzed from too much Texas sun, to collapse into it. Emory, drip-wet, stood in Daisy's doorway this morning, haunted it really, and memorized the wrinkle of the sheets. Towel clutched around her like the day gave a chill, she took five barefooted steps into her daughter's room, dropped the towel, and curled naked on Daisy's bed.

She didn't weep; that was for the shower. She didn't even pray. Preachers handled that. Every Defiance preacher prayed up a storm, she'd heard, but even their multitudes of prayers did nothing to undo Daisy's disappearance. Prayer didn't amount to much of nothing. No kidnapper nabbed. No one but Daisy's dad identified as a suspect, and he was nowhere to be found. Praying? No, she moaned instead, a guttural anguish she pushed through her lungs, vibrating Daisy's bed with her grief. Two months without her only child and all she could do was groan, hug her knees, and smell Daisy on the sheets, hoping this whole ordeal was a cruel nightmare, and that when she woke up, Daisy'd be standing over her, a sharp-witted look in her eyes, and a sassy, "Mama, you're naked. Get yourself some clothes."

Daisy'd only found her near naked once. Or was it five times? On the day Daisy went missing, Emory lay on the living room floor half naked, strung out on the drug-du-jour. Emory remembered the shame, how it felt hot, simmering her face. She noticed her clothing—just a bra and panties—with no clothes in sight to cover herself, her body displayed like abstract art on the canvas of a hardwood floor.

"Mama," Daisy said. "I'm tired of taking care of you, you hear me?" Though Daisy's voice scolded, she grabbed a favorite quilt, the one she camouflaged their old couch with because she hated that ugly thing, and pulled it over cold toes, knees, belly, shoulder and neck. "There, Mama. There. You sleep. I'm going to see Jed, okay? I'll be back for dinner."

Emory murmured a hungover okay. She pulled the quilt around herself, closed her eyes, and slept away the afternoon, while Daisy played, then disappeared into the Defiance dust and never came back.

She stood, her thirty-year-old frame feeling arthritic. She wrapped the towel around her and headed to her room where a floor full of half-clean clothes made up her wardrobe.

A knock startled her. Three stark raps against an aging door. "Just a minute," she hollered. She pulled on a ripped pair of Levis and a gauzy shirt. Emory caught her gaze in the full-length mirror. Gaunt blue eyes stared back. The eyes of a bitter old woman.

Three more raps.

Halfway between her room and the front door, she knew.

            She knew.

            Emory stood in front of the door, the passageway Daisy was supposed to skip through, and tried to settle herself, but her heart hammered her ribcage. She took a deep breath, letting out a whisper of a moan. She opened the door. It creaked on its hinges.

Officer Spellman stood at her door, his patrol hat in his hands.

            "Ma'am." He cocked his head, his eyes moist.

            "No." She backed away two steps. Then again, "No."

            "We found Daisy."

            "No." Emory's gut wrenched sideways, her cold hands turned to sweat.

            "I need you to ride with me to Tyler. To identify the body."

            Emory wilted into the doorframe, not caring a bit if it held her up or gave way and let her crash to the floor. Daisy. Her Daisy. Laughing, singing, skipping Daisy. A body. Nothing more.

            The journey to Tyler in the back of a police car took ten years, or maybe ten minutes. She couldn't be sure. But she felt her body aging in the seat, the wrinkles forming around her frown, her eyes deteriorating in the light of this terrible day. She'd be an old woman by the time she reached Tyler. An old, childless woman.

            "We're here," the policeman said. He opened the car door for her. Opened the door to the hospital too.

A gentleman even in death, she thought.

They wound through the hospital's underbelly, down stark corridors. Heels—hers and his—clicked a cadence she'd never forget. A heel-floor metronome that would rhythm her nightmares from here on out.

Another door opened.

Then another.

She filled out forms. In triplicate. Answered questions no mama should ever have to answer. Officer Spellman sat in an antiseptic chair, hat in hands, eyes to the floor.

A man in a white coat said, "Right this way, Mrs. Chance."

"It's Ms." Emory didn't look up.

"My mistake," he said. "We won't know her exact time of death until the autopsy's done. I'd wait on ordering the gravestone just yet, until we pinpoint it."

"Gravestone," she croaked to the sterile air.

"She's right in here." The nameless man opened another door.

Emory felt her heartbeat pounding her neck, put her hand there, as if to calm it back down to its proper rhythm. In front of a pale green wall was a gurney with a white sheet stretched over a body. Her little girl.

Signature: http://www.marydemuth.com, http://www.amazon.com/Slow-Burn-Defiance-Texas-Trilogy/dp/0310278376/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1249482232&sr=8-1, copyright 2009, Zondervan.

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FIT TO BE TIED

Robin Lee Hatcher

Who says a woman can't do a man's job?

It's 1916, and Idaho rancher Cleo Arlington knows everything about horses but nothing about men. So when charged with transforming English aristocrat Sherwood Statham from playboy into cowboy, she's totally disconcerted. So is Statham, who's never encountered a woman succeeding in a "man's world." Their bumpy trot into romance is frustrating, exhilarating, and ultimately heartwarming.

The Library Journal's starred review of FIT TO BE TIED says: "A master of lively historical romances, Hatcher demonstrates an expert ability to craft spunky, unlikely heroines who go against the tide of the times in which they live, making for fun, exciting stories."

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EXCERPT

Dunacombe Manor, England


March 1916

"Your father is waiting in the library, my lord."


"Thank you, Chadworth." Head pounding from the previous night's enjoyments, Sherwood Reginald Wakeley Statham, the youngest son of the Duke of Dunacombe, shrugged out of his coat and handed it to the butler, followed by his hat and gloves. "Is Mother with him?"

"No, sir. I believe her grace has taken to her bed."

Sherwood flinched. That didn't bode well for this meeting. His mother had acted as a buffer between him and his father's anger since he was a boy. "Is she ill? Maybe I should go up to see her first."

Chadworth lifted his eyebrows but said nothing. He didn't have to. Sherwood knew he was expected in the library immediately, not fifteen or thirty minutes from now. The duke hated to be kept waiting, especially by Sherwood, the son who disappointed him at every turn.

"I'll go straight in." Might as well receive whatever dressing down his father wanted to mete out.

"Very good, my lord."

Sherwood followed the long hallway to the library, accompanied by the sound of his uneven gait—a sharp click upon the tiled floor followed by a soft slide. He hated it. Hated even more how the walk down this hallway for a meeting with his father never failed to make him feel ten years old again. Not a good feeling for a man of thirty years.

He caught a glimpse of himself as he passed a large, ornate mirror and was immediately sorry. The ragged scar on his face blazed a bright red against his pale skin. Dark circles ringed his eyes, evidence of the many nights he'd gone without sleep, instead drinking and gambling till morning.

When he entered the library, he found the duke standing near the windows that overlooked the extensive gardens of Dunacombe Manor, hands clasped behind his back.

"Good morning, sir," Sherwood announced himself.

His father turned and gave him a dour look. "So . . . you're here at last."

"I came as soon as I received your message."

"Hmm." The duke walked to a nearby chair and sat, then waited for Sherwood to do the same. "I have come to a decision about this . . . this latest escapade of yours."

This latest escapade. The duke had obviously learned of his involvement with Lady Langley. The scandalous divorcée, twelve years his senior, had a reputation for enticing wealthy young men. Sherwood had been only too willing to become one of her conquests.

"I am sending you to America, Sherwood."

"America?"

"I trust you remember Morgan McKinley. He and his mother stayed with us for a number of months about seven years ago. Yes, well . . . I have arranged with Mr. McKinley to find you employment and a place to live."

So this wasn't a sudden decision that had come about solely because of Lady Langley. This had been in the planning stages long enough for letters to pass back and forth between the duke and Morgan McKinley. Even before he'd made Lady Langley's acquaintance. 

"How long am I to stay in America, sir?"

"You will remain there a year. You will put your life in order, my boy. You will work for the money you spend and learn the value of it. I am done covering your gambling debts and paying for the liquor you and your wastrel friends consume. If you refuse to go, I will turn you out. Do you understand me, Sherwood? If you do not abide by my terms, you will no longer be welcome at Dunacombe Manor nor will I make good on your debts. You will not see your mother or me again."

Sherwood didn't give his father an argument. He hadn't the energy to protest—not with his head pounding as it was now. At least in America he wouldn't have to see more former school chums leave to fight in the war. Nor be required to attend another funeral when they returned in a box. And perhaps, on the other side of the ocean, the nightmares would stop. Maybe he would be able to sleep again without drinking himself into a stupor first.

"When is it I'm to leave, sir?"

The duke's eyes widened. It was obvious he hadn't expected Sherwood's quick acquiescence. But he hid his surprise a moment later with a brusque response. "You will sail from Liverpool on Monday."

Sherwood stood. "I'll be ready. Now, if you'll excuse me, I shall see Mother. I understand she's unwell."

"See that you don't upset her." And with that, he rose and walked to the window, his back once more turned toward his son.

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

Copyright 2009, Robin Lee Hatcher

Do not reproduce without permission from the author.

FIT TO BE TIED is available on-line at Amazon.com (http://is.gd/4P2qJ), Christianbook.com (http://is.gd/4P2pG) and other on-line retailers, as well as in local bookstores everywhere. To obtain autographed bookplates or for more information about books by Robin Lee Hatcher, visit her web site at www.robinleehatcher.com.

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A BLUE AND GRAY CHRISTMAS

Surrender yourself to the forces of love in four engaging Civil War Christmas romances. Ride out the storm with Rachel Thornton as she resists her attraction to the wounded artist-correspondent James Galloway who is on assignment to cover the battles near Union occupied Nashville, Tennessee. Co-authors: Vickie McDonough, Lauralee Bliss, and Tamela Hancock Murray.

"Shelter in the Storm"

By Carrie Turansky

October 1864

Springside Plantation, outside of Nashville, Tennessee

Chapter One

A gust of wind rattled the shutters over the parlor windows. The lantern flame flickered, sending shadows dancing across the walls. Rachel Thornton's hand stilled, and she looked up from her sewing.

Her younger sister Susan stopped reading aloud mid-sentence and glanced across at her, questions shimmering in her blue eyes.

A shiver raced up Rachel's back, but she forced a smile for her sister's sake. "It's just the wind, dear. Go on."

Susan nodded though uneasy lines creased the area between her slender brows. She tilted the Bible toward the lantern light. "Thou, O Lord, art a God full of compassion, and gracious, long-suffering, and plenteous in mercy—"

A shot exploded outside. Rachel gasped and pricked her finger. A shout and second shot followed.

Susan dropped the Bible and spun toward the windows. "Do you think that's Father?"

 "I don't know. Stay here." Rachel strode into the wide entrance hall.

Her sister ignored her words and hurried after her. "Maybe it's Colonel Hadley and his men on patrol."

Rachel's mind raced with possibilities. It could be the Colonel. Union troops occupied the Nashville area and often called on their family, but they rarely came to Springside this late at night unless they needed medical help from her father.

 "Do you think they're chasing a deserter or a Confederate spy?" Excitement overshadowed any fear in sixteen-year-old Susan's voice.

A more alarming question rose in Rachel's mind. Had Father been attacked on his way home by one of the bushwhackers who lurked along the roadside, robbing travelers and stealing their horses?

She hurried to her father's library, jerked opened the desk drawer, and pulled out his revolver.

Susan gasped. "What are you doing?"

Rachel opened the chamber, checking to be sure all six bullets were in place. Her father had taught her how to fire it, though she'd never shot anything but a homemade target in the pasture beyond the stable.

She swallowed and tried to steady her voice. "I'm going to make sure everything's all right." If she hadn't been so frightened she would have laughed at those words. Nothing had been all right for more than three years, ever since this terrible war had broken out.

Gripping the revolver, she returned to the entrance hall and approached the front door. She would not stand by and let someone hurt her family or destroy their home. Not after all they had endured.

Susan ran after her and clutched her arm. "You can't go outside."

Rachel brushed her sister's arm aside. "I have to. What if Father has been shot and needs our help?"

Panic filled her sister's eyes, and her chin began to tremble.

Rachel laid her hand on Susan's arm. "I'm sure it's just—"

A solid thump and low moan sounded beyond the front door.

The sisters froze, their eyes locked on each other. Rachel swallowed and grasped the revolver with both hands.

A loud pounding rattled the door. "Miz Rachel? Open up. It's Amos."

Relief melted through her. She sagged and lowered the gun, though she had no idea why Amos didn't go around back and let himself in with his key. She laid the revolver on the side table and hurried to the door. Susan stayed behind her as she turned the heavy lock.

Dim light from a lantern on the table shone past them to the tall figure on the portico. Amos stepped forward carrying a lifeless man in his arms.

Rachel's hand flew to her throat. "Who is it, Amos?"

"I don't know, Miz Rachel. I ran out front when I heard the shots. I found him layin' in the road by the gatepost."

Susan leaned around Rachel. "Is he dead?"

"Not yet, but he's gonn'a be, if we don't do something to stop the bleedin' in his arm."

Rachel quickly surveyed the man's pale face and bloodstained jacket. Weary lines etched his forehead and the area around his closed eyes. A scraggly blond beard and moustache covered the lower half of his face, making it difficult to tell his age, though he looked young rather than old. His tattered clothes gave no clue to his identity. Was he a rebel on the run or a Union man?

Sinner or saint, she couldn't banish him to the barn. "Bring him inside."

"But what if he's a bushwhacker or thief?"

"We'll worry about that later. Right now he needs our help."

"But what will Father—"

"I'm sure he'd agree. Now, go get some towels and a basin. And find Esther. I'll need her help."

Susan stood her ground. Rachel met her sister's gaze with a firm steady look. Finally, Susan huffed and flounced off toward the kitchen.

Rachel turned to Amos. "Take him up to the front bedroom."

Amos hesitated, his dark eyes regarding her cautiously. "You sure about that, Miz Rachel?"

"Yes." Rachel motioned to the large curving staircase at the back of the entry hall. "Put him in Nathan's room."

"All Right, but I don't know what your daddy gonn'a say about you bringing this man inside when he's gone." Amos grunted as he shifted the man's weight, then he headed toward the stairs.

Had she'd made the right decision? Father might not return for several hours. She would have to treat the man herself. Her palms grew moist at that thought. All she knew she'd learned at her father's side as they attended wounded soldiers in makeshift hospitals in and around Nashville. Rebel or Union soldier, each man received the best care her father could give. She could do no less.

But did she have the skills he needed to save this man's life? That question weighed heavy upon her as she lifted the lantern and followed Amos up the stairs.

Carrie Turansky

www,carrieturansky.com

Available at Carrie's website, www.christianbooks.com, and fine bookstores everywhere.

Do not reproduce without permission

Though Waters Roar

by Lynn Austin

Bethany House Publishers

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

Publisher's Weekly says:

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

CHAPTER ONE

It was ironic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Grandma was in jail.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just Between You and Me

By Jenny B. Jones

Thomas Nelson Publishers

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

Prologue

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

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

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

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

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

            "You need therapy," Carley says.

            "I need a chocolate éclair."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Beggars."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because I've seen the world.

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

Copyright 2009. Do not reproduce without permission.

***

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

The Sound of Sleigh Bells

Cindy Woodsmall

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

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

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

  
~~~~~~~~~

The Sound of Sleigh Bells~

Chapter one

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fannie glanced to her Daed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amazon:

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

Christianbook.com

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

© Material 

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

 LEAH'S CHOICE

By Marta Perry

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

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

Chapter One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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