tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83685412385937474202024-02-07T14:47:54.078-05:00The Story Beginnings...Bonnie S. Calhounhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11769607640246518804noreply@blogger.comBlogger597125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368541238593747420.post-1619141458927169572016-02-21T22:08:00.001-05:002016-02-22T00:10:03.983-05:00Robin by Julane Hiebert<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1A2SKLKLax4j8tjyeQHlDZbVRNuZDgj8TvrscUUPIlvfHnDE380iW7gvUhsJAidyetL2kHubNNSpRghKc9KiYzpsUzw7QxaPPGAZef2VRRbYSgtmySn8A9beWwueVleoz_eMpPz5uqVxm/s1600/Robin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1A2SKLKLax4j8tjyeQHlDZbVRNuZDgj8TvrscUUPIlvfHnDE380iW7gvUhsJAidyetL2kHubNNSpRghKc9KiYzpsUzw7QxaPPGAZef2VRRbYSgtmySn8A9beWwueVleoz_eMpPz5uqVxm/s320/Robin.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><center><span style="color: #993300; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1944309004">Robin</a></span></center><center>Wings of Hope Publishing Group (November 15, 2015)</center><center>by</center><center><span style="color: #006600; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://julanehiebertauthor.com/">Julane Hiebert</a></span></center><br />
<br />
<br />
<center>Chapter 1 - Excerpt</center><br />
<br />
<b>Cedar Bluff, Kansas<br><br />
Late April 1877</b><br />
<br />
<i>He didn’t come. Now you’re alone. We told you so. Now you’re alone.</i><br />
<br />
Her sisters’ admonitions taunted in rhythm as the big iron wheels of the steam engine began to roll, and the train hissed and chugged past Robin Wenghold. She braced herself against the strong, hot wind and gripped the handle of her valise so tight her fingernails dug into the palm of her hand.<br />
<br />
Squinting against the afternoon sun, she limped to the end of the platform that ran the length of the stone depot. Heat shimmered above the silver tracks which stretched as far as she could see in one direction, and a twist of dust skittered down the street when she peered toward town. Why wasn’t he here? He promised. Had he discovered her infirmity and changed his mind?<br />
<br />
A sleek, black cat occupied the one long bench on the platform, and Robin pushed it aside so she could sit. Her bad leg throbbed, and she longed to rub the pain away, but even after all these years her mama’s voice echoed in her mind. <i>You needn’t draw attention to yourself, Robin. Your infirmity is obvious. Learn to bear your cross without pity.</i><br />
<br />
The cat nudged its head under Robin’s elbow. “And for whom are you waiting, mister bad-luck kitty? Have you been jilted, too?” A steady purr vibrated beneath her hand while she stroked the cat’s warm back. If her papa were here he’d no doubt make a joke about his little bird and a cat occupying the same space like long-lost friends. But then, if Papa were here she wouldn’t be in this predicament—stuck in hot, windy Kansas waiting for an uncle she’d never seen to come to her aid.<br />
<br />
Robin sighed. <i>Sittin’ in a stew won’t fill a man’s belly.</i> Papa’s words. And Papa was right. Worry wouldn’t get her any closer to her intended destination. She stood, and the cat jumped to the floor then sat on his haunches, switching its long tail against the splintery boards. Robin bent and patted the downy soft head. “Suppose you could take me home with you if my uncle doesn’t come? At least I’d have someone to talk to.” She straightened, adjusted her bonnet, picked up her valise—determined not to panic—and sidled into the depot.<br />
<br />
One window on the far wall provided the only light in the dark room. The aroma of old tobacco smoke and mildew added to the dread, which lay like a cold biscuit in her stomach. Except for the steady ticking of the large black-framed clock which hung beside the window, silence hovered like a cloud. Even the skinny man behind the counter made no move to acknowledge her presence.<br />
<br />
“Ahem.” She eyed the empty room. He had to be aware she was the only one there, didn’t he? She drummed her fingers on the counter under his nose. Hot and tired, she had no patience for such nonsense.<br />
<br />
“Ahhemm. Sir?”<br />
<br />
He didn’t raise his head, but pointed to a crudely lettered sign next to the window separating the tiny office from the waiting room. <i>Ring wonce to git my atenshun. Ring twice if I don’t ansur the first time. If you kant see me, I ain’t here so jist take a seet and wate.</i><br />
<br />
This was absurd. Robin tapped the bell with the palm of her hand. Nothing. He didn’t even wince. “Sir?” She stared in disbelief as one bony finger underscored the instruction to ring twice. She dropped her valise to the floor, moved the bell in front of her and with determination hit it two times.<br />
<br />
“Name?” The little man licked the end of his pencil and peered from under a green visor balanced on protruding ears.<br />
<br />
“Name? Why do you need to know my name? I only want to ask you a question.”<br />
<br />
“Can’t answer no questions ’til you tell me your name. It’s my job.”<br />
<br />
“But, I only need to…”<br />
<br />
The man straightened his visor and thumped his chest. “This here says it all, ma’am.”<br />
<br />
She moved closer to read the badge, which hung from a frayed ribbon pinned to his vest. “It says, Ticket Agent.”<br />
<br />
His eyes crossed and forehead puckered as he peered at it upside-down. “Whooee, that do hurt them eyeballs.” He blinked, then gave a crooked grin and turned the button to the other side. “Sorry. Now, read it again and tell me what it says.”<br />
<br />
Robin rubbed her temples. Her head hurt. Where was her uncle? “This side says Carl Rempel, Station Master.”<br />
<br />
“See, what’d I tell you?” The little man shook his finger. “It’s my job, as the station master, to mark off the names of all them what get off at this here station. Gotta make sure ever’body who had a ticket used it at the right gettin’ off place.” <br />
<br />
“But no one else…”<br />
<br />
“Don’t matter. No, siree. Last week I put my mark beside five names. Next thing you know, I’m gonna need me a new pencil.” He tapped the stubby writing instrument on the counter. “Now accordin’ to my list here, you must be…”<br />
<br />
“Robin Wenghold, sir. R-o-b-i-n. Perhaps you know my uncle, John Wenghold?” She retrieved a letter from her reticule and waved it in front of the man’s face. “He wrote he’d meet me upon my arrival.” She sucked her top lip between her teeth.<br />
<br />
Mr. Rempel’s bald head turned red and his shoulders shook with laughter. “Well, what do ya know? Kinda late ain’t ya?” He winked.<br />
<br />
“Pardon me?” How could she be late? Had she misread the ticket? That couldn’t be. The silly man had marked her off his list.<br />
<br />
He rested his elbows on the counter and stuck his head through the little window. “Most robins what come in here fly in ’long about the first of March. Here ’tis late April, and you come in by train. Something happen to ruffle your feathers, did it?”<br />
<br />
Robin closed her eyes and counted to ten. “Indeed, sir. I don’t think it’s all that funny.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, it ain’t just your name what’s ticklin’ my funny bones.” He yanked a red bandana from his pocket and mopped his brow. “No, ma’am. You see, the real laugher is… Oh, my. See, your uncle owns a ranch they call the Feather. And it got its name from the creek running through it—Pigeon Creek, they call it.”<br />
<br />
Robin gritted her teeth and waited for Carl Rempel to quiet his funny bones. She knew all about the silly ranch name. Papa thought it quite humorous to tell anyone who cared to listen that his family included a nest of little birds—Robin, and her sisters Wren and Lark. But his one and only sibling’s claim to fame was a feather.<br />
<br />
“What d’ya know. Robin. Feather. That do make me laugh” Mr. Rempel slapped the counter with his hand.<br />
<br />
Robin clenched her teeth. A lady could only take so much. Uncle John didn’t keep his word. She wouldn’t keep hers, either. She would take the first train home and forget she ever heard of Cedar Bluff, Kansas.<br />
<br />
She rummaged in her reticule. “Mr. Rempel. I would like to purchase a one-way ticket to Chicago, please.” She counted the money and plunked it on the counter.<br />
<br />
The man sobered. He took his watch out of his pocket, tapped it on his hand a couple of times, then peered at it from arm's length. “Oh, I’m sorry Miss Robin, ma’am. I can’t sell it to you.” He removed his visor.<br />
<br />
“What do you mean you can’t sell it to me? I have the money.”<br />
<br />
“Well, now, you see, according to my granddaddy’s pocket watch, the Ticket Agent is off duty ’til t’morrow mornin’.”<br />
<br />
“But…but…you’re the Ticket Agent, aren’t you?” She pinched the bridge of her nose.<br />
<br />
“I was the Ticket Agent when the train came in, but weren’t nobody what needed a ticket, and ain’t no more trains comin’ or goin’ today so that makes me the Station Master, and his job ain’t to sell tickets. His job is to…”<br />
<br />
“I know, I know. His job is to take names.” A lump worked its way up her throat, but she would not let this little man get the best of her. “Mr. Rempel. Please try to understand. I don’t know what to do. I have nowhere to go.”<br />
<br />
He sidestepped around the counter, closed the half door, and hung his visor on a peg on the wall. One crooked finger beckoned her to follow him out of the station, then he locked the door behind them.<br />
<br />
“Sorry to leave you all alone like this, but it’s the rules.” He plopped a tattered black hat on his head and bow-legged his way down the steps. Tiny puffs of dust followed him as he shuffled a few steps away, then stopped and pointed to the sky. “Storm a brewin’ I’d say. Hope John gets here before it hits.” <br />
<br />
“Wait! What if he doesn’t come? Where can I go if it storms?” <i>Don’t they have gentlemen in Kansas. Does he plan to leave me here all alone in this strange town?</i><br />
<br />
“Don’t suppose you need to get fretful, ma’am. That there weather change has a whole lot of hills to cross before it gets to Cedar Bluff. If John Wenghold told you he’d come get ya, he’ll be here. Never knowed the man to whistle a windy.” He scratched his head through a hole in his floppy hat. “Reckon if you have to, you could go to Emma’s Mercantile down the street a ways. That’d likely be the first place John would look if ya wasn’t at the station.”<br />
<br />
He pursed his lips and kissed the air. “C’mon, Cat. We best see what Mrs. Rempel fixed us good to eat.” The black cat hopped from its seat on the platform, then arched its tail and marched behind the man as he shuffled away from the depot. <br />
<br />
<i>So much for taking me home with you, fickle kitty.</i><br />
<br />
Robin waited until she could no longer see the stationmaster and his cat, then checked the gold watch pinned to her lapel. Four-thirty. One hour since the train chugged away, but it seemed a lifetime. Uncle John still had time to get here before dark. She rotated her shoulders and moved her head from side to side. No need to panic.<br />
<br />
She sat on the long bench, and massaged her left leg. She would give Uncle John another hour. Mr. Rempel said the storm remained a long way off, and her leg was too painful to attempt to walk any distance.<br />
<br />
She leaned her head against the rough stone. Did her uncle know she was crippled? Surely Papa mentioned something to him over the years. But what if he hadn’t? Would Uncle John send her back to Chicago? <i>Oh, Papa. If only you could tell me what to do.</i><br />
<br />
Hot wind stung her cheeks, and she closed her eyes against the glare of the sun in her face. It wouldn’t do any good to pray, but she did so want Uncle John to get there before the storm.<br />
<br />
<center>###</center><br />
Robin jerked from unbidden sleep. Heat radiated from the stone wall of the station behind her, and perspiration trickled down the side of her face. She limped to the end of the platform to search once more for any sign of her uncle. Another glance at her watch revealed a mere forty-five minutes had passed. Yet, in the short measure of time, the storm had crossed Mr. Rempel’s whole lot of hills.<br />
<br />
Ever-changing clouds scudded low across the prairie toward her. Behind them, a roiling, seething mass of green-black turbulence advanced above the horizon and flattened into a seemingly impenetrable wall as it continued its march across the prairie. An eerie silence hovered over the little Kansas town like a pall, yet belied the fury of activity up and down the dusty street.<br />
<br />
Men ran to untie skittish teams from the hitching rails. Conveyances of all sizes careened past her. Many held wide-eyed women clutching open-mouthed babes in their arms— infants’ cries swallowed by the pounding of hooves and clatter of iron wheels.<br />
<br />
She gulped down the growing knot of fear. To venture forth amongst such bedlam would be foolhardy. She needed time to navigate any distance, and time evaded her.<br />
<br />
Lightning snaked from cloud to cloud, occasionally spearing the ground. Thunder reverberated through the dusty streets. It reminded her of a Fourth of July parade she’d witnessed once—the boom of the bass drum and the vibration of marching feet sensed long before the band could be seen.<br />
<br />
The sky darkened and long fingers of hot wind hurled handfuls of grit and dirt at anyone who dared to remain within range. Her eyes stung from the debris, and salty tears added to the pain. As quickly as the heat of her tormentors passed, large drops of rain began to fall. She hid her face in her hands and sought refuge against the side of the building.<br />
<br />
Tiny pebbles of ice assaulted her, then larger and larger ones. She hunched her shoulders to ward off the attack, but they pummeled her painfully. No longer able to contain the storm of fear warring inside her, Robin screamed.<br />
<br />
Without warning, strong arms wrapped around her middle and pulled her along the wooden platform.<br />
<br />
“Don’t fight me, ma’am. I don't mean you any harm. But you must get out of this storm before the hail beats you to pieces.”<br />
<br />
The arms tightened, lifted her over the side of the platform and planted her, without ceremony, on her feet.<br />
<br />
“We’ve got to hurry. If we can get to my wagon we might still have a chance to outrun this thing.”<br />
<br />
“I can’t run.” Robin yelled above the fury of the storm.<br />
<br />
Strong hands whipped her around. Her breath caught in her chest. Black hair hung to the stranger’s collar, but curled at the ends, even in the rain. With his face so close she could see the ring of blue around his otherwise dark eyes. A shadow of a beard covered his square jaw.<br />
<br />
“You’ve got to, ma’am. We’re going to get hit hard if we stand out here like this.” A frown settled between his eyes. He leaned toward her and put his arms around her shoulder, urging her forward.<br />
<br />
“Please,” she twisted away from him. “I can’t run.”<br />
<br />
A sudden stillness dropped like lead around them, and in an instant she lay against the rough stone foundation of the depot, the weight of the stranger heavy across her. A rivulet of muddy water slid past her cheek, and the scent of bay rum filled her otherwise numb senses.<br />
<br />
“I’m not going to hurt you, but when the wind stops like that it’s a sure sign of a fierce storm, most likely a twister. We need to stay as low to the ground as possible and pray the monster won’t suck us up in it, or blow something––”<br />
<br />
A roar like an approaching locomotive, accompanied by a cacophony of splintering wood and breaking glass sent fear coursing through her.<br />
<br />
“It’s a twister for sure,” he yelled. “But it’s headed for open country. It’s only going to hurl its wreckage our way. I’ll tell you when it’s safe.”<br />
<br />
When the storm at last subsided, he rolled away from her and helped her to her feet. “Terrible way to meet, isn’t it?” He smiled. “You are John Wenghold’s niece, aren’t you? Miss Robin Wenghold from Chicago?”<br />
<br />
Robin nodded. “I thought he would meet me.” Silver flecks danced before her eyes, and her back and shoulders hurt from the barrage of hailstones. She ran her tongue over her teeth to remove the dirt. What must she look like?<br />
<br />
“I know. I’m Ty Morgan, your Uncle John’s neighbor.”<br />
<br />
“Is he ill? He knew I would arrive today” She pressed her fingers against her forehead.<br />
<br />
“He didn’t forget you, ma’am. I guess he figured, since I planned to come in for supplies, it would save him a trip if I agreed to bring you back to his ranch.”<br />
<br />
<i>Save him a trip? What kind of man issues an invitation to visit, then sends a neighbor in his stead so he can save a trip?</i> If only she could sit before her legs buckled.<br />
<br />
Gentle hands rested on her shoulders, and dark eyes peered into hers. “Miss Wenghold, do you need…”<br />
<br />
Though his lips moved, the swish of her pulse drowned out his words. She attempted to smile as a dark veil dropped over her eyes.<br />
<br />
Bonnie S. Calhounhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11769607640246518804noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368541238593747420.post-38388247059970156562016-02-14T22:49:00.001-05:002016-02-14T23:07:44.445-05:00Pharaoh's Daughter by Mesu Andrews<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC_kh-2eRSaaOGJrzMMxaPkzqCAAuIMKbszxKi2T6v-8VloDTC-PUy-R2B8UnfSBbgeKfFQ9SR62w_ml4Lokp9x-KFuEZz5nRG_FCMgouYawaSQxOIkkNaAHM9ftcLCj00x1Un8vYmmHgm/s1600/PharaohsDaughter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC_kh-2eRSaaOGJrzMMxaPkzqCAAuIMKbszxKi2T6v-8VloDTC-PUy-R2B8UnfSBbgeKfFQ9SR62w_ml4Lokp9x-KFuEZz5nRG_FCMgouYawaSQxOIkkNaAHM9ftcLCj00x1Un8vYmmHgm/s320/PharaohsDaughter.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><center><span style="color: #993300; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1601425996">Pharaoh's Daughter</a></span></center><center>WaterBrook Press (March 17, 2015)</center><center>by</center><center><span style="color: #006600; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.mesuandrews.com/">Mesu Andrews</a></span></center><br />
<br />
<br />
<center>Chapter 1</center><br />
<br />
<i>Then a new king, to whom Joseph meant nothing, came to power in Egypt.</i><br />
<br />
—Exodus 1 : 8<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Four years later<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Anippe dipped her sharpened reed in the small water jar and swirled it in the palette of black powder. Her scroll had only one stray drop of ink—one less drop than Tut’s—and she was determined to best her big brother. She drew a second water symbol, adding it to <i>bread, water, basin, box,</i> and <i>owl,</i> to finish her brother’s name: T-t-n-k-h-m-n. Leaning to her left, she peeked at Tut’s progress. Her letters were much clearer, and he now had three stray ink drops.<br />
<br />
“Very good, Anippe.” The tutor peered over her shoulder, his breath reeking of garlic and onions. “Your writing is almost as precise as the divine son’s.” Tut smirked, and Anippe rolled her eyes. “Thank you, revered and wise teacher.” Maybe his vision was blurred by the cloud of his stinky breath.<br />
<br />
“My letters are just as good!” Ankhe shouted from across the cramped classroom. She slammed her reed on the small, square table and began tearing her scroll into pieces. “You spend all your time with Tut and Anippe.”<br />
<br />
The tutor grabbed his willow switch, and Ankhe turned her back in time to save her face from the lashing. “If I spend more time with you, Ankhe-Senpaaten-tasherit, you will likely be whipped more often. Is that what you wish? You will show me respect in this classroom, and you will act like the daughter of a god.”<br />
<br />
Tears stung Anippe’s eyes, but she blinked them away. Daughters of gods didn’t cry. The tutor had never used his switch on her, but she didn’t wish to test him. She reached for Tut’s hand under the table, silently begging him to intervene. The divine son was never punished.<br />
<br />
“Oh wise and knowing teacher, let us resume our lesson.” Tut raised one eyebrow, seeming much older than his ten years. “If I am to rule Egypt someday, I must understand why some vassal nations have betrayed Pharaoh Akhenaten and pledged allegiance to Hittite dogs. Our eastern border is at risk if I can’t control buffer nations between us and our greatest threat.”<br />
<br />
Anippe gaped at her brother. He remembered nations and territories as if they were written inside his eyelids.<br />
<br />
The tutor issued a final glare at Ankhe before returning to a stool beside his favored pupil. “Very astute questions, son of the good god Akhenaten, who is king of Two Lands and lord of all. The Hittites are indeed our greatest eastern threat, a military machine with iron weapons, but we must also beware the Nubians in the south. They pose as loyal servants to Egypt’s king, his officials, and our military, but you must never trust a people not your own.”<br />
<br />
Anippe slipped away from the table, certain the tutor was lost in his topic, and slid onto the bench beside Ankhe. Her little sister was still whimpering, head down. When Anippe tried to smooth her braided wig, Ankhe shoved her hand away.<br />
<br />
Like always.<br />
<br />
Ankhe hated discipline, but she didn’t like to be loved either. Soon after Ummi Kiya’s death, Tut told the grownups that <i>all</i> Pharaoh Akhenaten’s children should be tutored, and he tried to have Ankhe at the same table—between her older brother and sister. But as she grew, her tantrums became worse. Sometimes even the switch wouldn’t stop her. So the tutor moved her to a separate table.<br />
<br />
Separate. That was what Ankhe would always be, no matter what her siblings tried.<br />
<br />
Anippe saw welts rising on Ankhe’s back under her sheer linen sheath, marks from the tutor’s switch. “I’ll ask Ummi Amenia for some honey to put on your back.”<br />
<br />
“She’s not my ummi.” Ankhe picked up her reed and dipped it in water and pigment. “They didn’t adopt me.”<br />
<br />
“But Amenia still cares for you, Ankhe.” Anippe wanted to hug her, but she’d tried that before. Ankhe hated hugs. She hated to be touched at all.<br />
<br />
The sound of soldiers came from the hallway, spears tapping the tiles as they marched. This sounded like more than the two guards who always stood at their doorway. This sounded like a full troop. Tut looked at Anippe, afraid, and Anippe grabbed Ankhe’s hand. Her little sister didn’t pull away this time.<br />
<br />
General Horemheb appeared at the doorway, his big shoulders touching the sides and his head too tall to enter without ducking. He looked scary in his battle armor—until he saw Anippe and winked.<br />
<br />
She wasn’t afraid anymore. Her abbi would protect her against anything. He’d loved her and spoiled her since the day Amenia introduced them.<br />
<br />
But when he saw Ankhe, his face turned as red as a pomegranate. He scowled at the tutor. “Why is my daughter seated with the little baboon? You have been told to keep them apart.”<br />
<br />
Before the tutor could answer, Abbi Horemheb grabbed Anippe’s arm, lifted her from the bench, and landed her back on the stool beside Tut. Anippe’s eyes filled with tears. Abbi was always rough with Ankhe but never Anippe—never his little habiba. She sat straight and tall beside Tut, blinking her eyes dry, trying to be the princess Abbi wanted her to be.<br />
<br />
When her abbi returned to the doorway, Anippe noticed two other people standing with the soldiers—a beautiful lady and Vizier Ay. Abbi Horem hated the vizier. Maybe that was why he’d lost his temper.<br />
<br />
<i>Who is that pretty woman with them?</i> The woman wore a long, pleated robe, fastened at her shoulder with a jeweled clasp. Her braided wig fell in layers with pretty stones woven through it on gold thread. Anippe studied her face. She looked familiar, but she wasn’t one of Amenia’s friends who visited the Memphis Palace.<br />
<br />
Vizier Ay took three steps and stopped in front of Tut and Anippe’s table. “Pharaoh Akhenaten has journeyed beyond the horizon. The priests have begun the customs of Osiris.”<br />
<br />
Tut straightened and hid his shaking hands under the table. He was quiet for a while, breathing as if he’d run a long race. When his breath came smoothly again, he said, “The good god Akhenaten will cross the night sky and warm us with the sun each day.” His voice quaked. He was trying hard to be brave, but Anippe knew how much Tut loved Abbi Akhenaten. The weight of Egypt now rested on her brother’s slim shoulders. “When do we sail for the burial ceremony?”<br />
<br />
Vizier Ay tilted his head and smiled, as if Tut had seen only five inundations. “We have much to discuss with you, divine son, but first I would have you meet your new wife.”<br />
<br />
“Wife?” Tut squeaked and then peered around the vizier at the woman. Anippe’s big brother withered into a shy boy. He motioned for General Horemheb’s approach and then beckoned him close for a whisper. “I have no need of a wife, Horemheb—not yet.”<br />
<br />
Abbi Horem leaned down, eye to eye. “Divine son and beloved prince, a young king needs three things to rule well: a teachable ka, wise advisors, and a good wife.” He tilted his head toward the pretty lady at the door. “Senpa is your good wife. Ay and I are your advisors. And you have demonstrated teachability. You are both humble and powerful. I am honored to bask in your presence, most favored son of Aten.”<br />
<br />
Tut’s throat bobbed up and down, perhaps swallowing many words before the right ones came to mind. A bead of sweat appeared on his upper lip while everyone waited for him to speak.<br />
<br />
“How old is she?” Ankhe blurted out the question Anippe wanted to ask but didn’t. Tut’s eyebrows rose, clearly awaiting an answer. <br />
<br />
Abbi Horem’s face turned red again, and he slammed his hand on Ankhe’s table. “You will be silent unless asked to speak.” <br />
<br />
Ankhe raised her chin in defiance but didn’t say another word. <br />
<br />
Vizier Ay guided the pretty woman toward the table where Tut and Anippe sat. “Divine prince, meet your wife, Ankhe-Senpaaten. She is your half sister—daughter of Akhenaten and Nefertiti. You may call her <i>Senpa.</i>”<br />
<br />
Anippe stared at Nefertiti’s daughter. All their lives, they’d been warned of Nefertiti’s evil. Now Tut must marry one of her daughters? How could they ask it of him? Senpa was beautiful, but she was ancient—at least twenty inundations, maybe twenty-five. How could a ten-year-old be a husband to a twenty-year-old queen?<br />
<br />
Anippe shivered and earned a stern glance from Abbi Horem.<br />
<br />
Vizier Ay cleared his throat and nudged Senpa aside. “Divine son and ruler of my heart, we have many details to discuss regarding the burial ceremony and your coronation. Perhaps you, in your great wisdom, could dismiss your sisters to Amenia’s chamber to plan the wedding festival?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, you may go.” Tut’s voice sounded small.<br />
<br />
Anippe wanted to stay, but Abbi Horem was already instructing a contingent of guards to escort them to Amenia’s chamber.<br />
<br />
“Wait!” Anippe’s outburst quieted the room. “If it pleases my dear abbi, I would ask one question.” She stood and bowed to her abbi, using her best courtly manners to gain his pleasure before asking what burned in her belly.<br />
<br />
“You may ask it, my daughter.”<br />
<br />
Lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders, she tried to speak as a king’s sister—not as sister to a crown prince. “Will Ankhe and I remain here at Memphis Palace with Tut and Senpa after their marriage?”<br />
<br />
Vizier Ay laughed, startling Anippe from her composure.<br />
<br />
Abbi Horem turned her chin gently, regaining her attention. “No, little habiba. Tut will remain here at the Memphis Palace with me and Vizier Ay. However, Senpa, Amenia, you, and Ankhe will relocate to the Gurob Harem Palace with the other noblemen’s wives and children. The king’s officials visit Gurob several times a year. You’ll enjoy helping in the linen shop and have many little girls to play with.”<br />
<br />
Anippe worked hard to keep her smile in place, but her heart felt ripped in two parts. First Ummi Kiya and now Tut? Would the gods take away everyone she loved?<br />
<br />
She bowed slightly to her abbi and then reached for the scroll on which she’d drawn Tut’s name—a memento of their last class together.<br />
<br />
The tutor blocked her path, hand outstretched. “I’m sorry, Princess. I can’t let you keep that scroll.”<br />
<br />
“But why? I—”<br />
<br />
Ankhe jumped to her side, grabbed the scroll, and hid it behind her back. Abbi Horem snatched it away, gave it to the tutor, and raised his hand to strike Ankhe. Anippe stepped between them, halting the general’s hand.<br />
<br />
Grabbing Anippe’s shoulders, he shook his head. “You protect her too much, habiba. She must learn to behave as a princess.” He hugged her tight and kissed her cheek. When he stood, towering above Anippe and Ankhe, he addressed them both. “You can no longer write your brother’s name in hieroglyph. He is now divine, and his name is sacred. Only royal scribes may write the six-part name of a king within an oval cartouche. Now, my guards will escort you to Amenia’s chamber with Senpa.”<br />
<br />
Anippe obeyed without argument. She looked over her shoulder as they left, wondering when Tut would become a god. This morning they’d laughed and teased and even raced from their chambers to the schoolroom. She’d almost beaten him. Surely a god could run faster than a girl.<br />
<br />
Tut sat utterly still, expressionless, listening to his advisors. Perhaps that was what a god looked like—empty.<br />
<br />
Anippe made sure Ankhe was behind her and then followed the beautiful daughter of Nefertiti down the open-air corridor to the women’s chambers. Losing herself in the sound of chirping birds and sandals on tile, she breathed in the smell of lotus blossoms as they passed a garden pond.<br />
<br />
<i>Like the waters of the Nile, I will flow. I am Anippe, daughter of . . . Horemheb and Amenia.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Bonnie S. Calhounhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11769607640246518804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368541238593747420.post-14388077216464584192016-02-07T23:28:00.001-05:002016-02-07T23:42:08.176-05:00Soul's Prisoner by Cara Luecht<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirvW-zwACgJPE-Gt8yaw91-zzUvzZ0DbfH69bJwvlYwypCMzUZgkJCGae6kjqYpaHeJaS14SfAu46cV7keCjS7hEPW4wDEcREaXzfTpMTogPg6xODevHxv2JWbwJJ4ruZBCF2q6iWu0-Cz/s1600/SoulsPrisoner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirvW-zwACgJPE-Gt8yaw91-zzUvzZ0DbfH69bJwvlYwypCMzUZgkJCGae6kjqYpaHeJaS14SfAu46cV7keCjS7hEPW4wDEcREaXzfTpMTogPg6xODevHxv2JWbwJJ4ruZBCF2q6iWu0-Cz/s320/SoulsPrisoner.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<center>
<span style="color: #993300; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1939023327">Soul's Prisoner</a></span></center>
<center>
(WhiteFire Publishing (December 15, 2015))</center>
<center>
by</center>
<center>
<span style="color: #006600; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.caraluecht.com/">Cara Luecht</a></span></center>
<br />
Chapter 1<br />
<br />
<i>Chicago, 1891</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Rachel eased along the seeping basement wall. Fresh linens, stacked high in her arms, almost blocked her view. The musty corridor reeked of hasty construction and paper-thin concrete. The polished marble floors in the halls above gave no indication of the dank underbelly where Rachel delivered clean laundry. Over her head, heaving mechanical guts twisted and disappeared into the ceiling, carrying cold water and flickering lights to the stomping nurses and their charges.<br />
<br />
Condensation trickled from a shoulder-height steam pipe and collected in a slick, green puddle. Rachel stepped around it. At the far end of the hall, mildew overpowered the respectively benign odor of the underground. She filled her lungs with the stagnant air, because what came next was worse.<br />
<br />
She tucked her nose into the rough, clean fabric and backed into the swinging metal doors. They were heavier than the kind that separated the kitchen from the laundry, where she spent most of her days. They whispered open on well-oiled hinges.<br />
<br />
Certain maintenance requests never went unanswered—never her requests, of course, but a laundry list of things that had nothing to do with the laundry. At least, that’s what she’d heard. But she didn’t have to be there long to know at Dunning, hinges never squeaked, dumb waiters sank silently into oblivion, and orderlies secreted around corners on sighing shoes. If her beau knew where she worked, what she did during the day…<br />
<br />
Lights in metal cages were bolted to the basement ceiling at ten foot intervals all the way down the hall leading to the patient rooms. Rachel scurried from one circle of light to the next, holding her breath for the screams she knew would be coming. The lowest, windowless levels of the asylum had never been intended to hold patients, but they’d run out of room on the floors above and converted one wing into patient rooms. Conveniently, the basement housed the most disturbing cases: those whose families were only too relieved to forget.<br />
<br />
Rachel stopped at an echoing, muffled scream.<br />
<br />
“I’ll take those,” a quiet voice slithered from behind her. Rachel jumped but quickly corrected the feeble imperfection. Straightening her posture, she forced her shoulders down and turned to face the sniveling excuse for a man she now realized had followed her.<br />
<br />
“Sure.” She handed over the pile, avoiding the brush of his hands. He tried, he always tried, but she’d learned to avoid his pale, clammy fingers. He was a too-young Irish man with greasy red hair. And even though Rachel towered above him, there was a hungry determination in his stature that she didn’t possess.<br />
<br />
Rachel did her best to look as big as possible, leveling her almost-black eyes down at him. His returning, wet smile warned her he would not be intimidated by a laundress. He hissed through his crooked teeth, maneuvering the pile to one hand. With the other, he reached to brush her cheek. Rachel backed away in time. She couldn’t make it through the swinging doors, though, before the swell of his discordant laugh filled the hall.<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
Paint dripped from Miriam’s brush onto the wood plank floor of her studio. Speckled and spotted with the waste of more inspired days, the floor had long ceased to shine. If only she could rework that squander.<br />
<br />
Her art had taken a dark turn.<br />
<br />
Ice shards clawed at the window. The night beat its way into the brightly lit room. When her father had had the townhome built for her mother, it had been lit only by gas lamps. Michael, after their marriage, insisted on electric lights in her studio. Miriam had agreed but rarely used them. Tonight, both the electric and gas lamps burned loud.<br />
<br />
Miriam inhaled the waxy air. She used to like the dark. After her father’s death, she had found comfort in the anonymity. Her painting had been her reason for being. Now, she had other reasons. But the dark shapes on the canvas shifted, the black eyes of a woman she’d never met watched, pleaded.<br />
<br />
Miriam cut white into the deep gray on her palette to fight the dark hues that pervaded. She lifted her brush to the canvas, dragged it along the top edge until the paint dwindled, and then repeated the process, relieved to see the brighter color. <br />
<br />
She brought green into the lighter gray, scraped it together with her knife and applied it with heavy strokes until spring-like color dominated the edges of the tightly stretched fabric. Enough for one night. She swirled her brushes in a jar of turpentine and then tried to rub the smell off her hands.<br />
<br />
The electric light knob had been installed near the door she never used, so she crossed to it and turned it to the off position. The harsh light faded, leaving only the warm glow of the gas bulbs. Her painting called again, and Miriam turned to examine it once more before disappearing into the secret passageway that connected most of the rooms in the house.<br />
<br />
The light paint hadn’t changed anything. The soft green only boxed in and imprisoned the strange woman who stared back from the canvas with pleading, empty eyes. Miriam tore her gaze from the pain on the canvas and made her way into the dark passages. The night would be long.<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
“Ya sure took yer fair time.” The portly Irish laundry matron, Bonah, slapped her red palm down on the counter. Rachel obeyed the wordless directive and heaved the last bundle of sheets onto the chipped, wooden surface. It was almost time be done for the night.<br />
<br />
“I had to…” Rachel let the excuse die off as the uninterested woman untied the bundle and pulled the sheets apart, separating those in need of extra soaking time.<br />
<br />
“You could start on those over there, gal.” With a slight push of her head, she motioned to a mountain of linens that would never again be white.<br />
<br />
“Yes, ma’am.” Rachel hurried to pick up one of the heavy clumps of fabric and lift it to the wide counter. She untied the knot, found the corner of a sheet, and coaxed it out of the twisted mess. Streaks of blood gave her pause.<br />
<br />
“What ya found?” <br />
<br />
The smell of feces and sweat pushed Rachel back a step. She lifted her wrist to cover her nose. Bonah rolled her eyes.<br />
<br />
“These people don’t got it all right in there”—she thumped on her sweaty forehead with a red, cracked finger. “You’re gonna have to get used to surprises.”<br />
<br />
Rachel nodded, still breathing in the smell of her own shirt.<br />
<br />
“Goodness, gal,” Bonah dropped her dirty linens and bustled around to Rachel’s side of the table. She elbowed her away and jerked the sticky sheets apart. “You know, I thought you was a farm girl.” Bonah huffed disapprovingly while she yanked the bundle apart. “You should be able to handle working in a laundry. You just gonna have to… Oh, my.”<br />
<br />
Bonah took a step back before quickly covering what she had discovered and securing the bundle again with a tight knot.<br />
<br />
“What was that?” Rachel whispered to Bonah’s back.<br />
<br />
“Don’t you tell no one ’bout this, ya hear?”<br />
<br />
“But what was that?”<br />
<br />
Bonah lifted the bundle and dropped it into a cart. “Don’t you touch this one. It’s gotta be burned.”<br />
<br />
Rachel nodded, meeting Bonah’s serious gaze. Bonah glanced back to the cart, and then to the rest of the pile of laundry that needed sorting. <br />
<br />
“Gal, let’s sit a spell, that laundry ain’t goin’ nowhere. And with it snowing like it is out there, we’ll likely be spending the night anyway.” <br />
<br />
“Where will we sleep?” Rachel’s mind shifted to the cells in the basement of the main building. The ones with locked doors, writhing women, huddled and muttering old men, and sneering orderlies.<br />
<br />
“We’ll bunk with the kitchen maids in the attic. Rooms are usually warm. Why, you got someplace to be?” Bonah leveled her squinted gaze at Rachel.<br />
<br />
“Well, yes.” Rachel looked up at the windows and the blinding white of the storm. “I was supposed to go to the Foundling House.” She had an appointment to speak with the head nurse about a teaching position there. It was the kind of job she’d hoped to do at Dunning. <br />
<br />
But that wasn’t the whole truth. She was also hoping to see Winston. He was supposed to introduce her to his family soon. Rachel glanced to the mountainous carts of laundry. When she’d left the farm, it had been with the hopes of securing a teaching position in the poor house here on the Dunning grounds. But she’d arrived to find another had already taken the position, and she ended up in laundry.<br />
<br />
Bonah snorted. “You’ll make more money here. They don’t pay nothin’.” She reached her round arms behind her back and fought the damp knot of her apron. “But they ain’t crazy there, I suppose.”<br />
<br />
Rachel listened to the blowing snow hit the windows set high on the walls. Somehow, she expected it to melt before piling against the panes. The laundry was perpetually hot. The boiling vats bubbled almost around the clock, and the sheets hung heavy and lifeless in the hot drying room. Any cool draft that might have found its way to drift across the floor was blocked by their long skirts and close quarters. Rachel glanced back to Bonah, still struggling with the knot at her back.<br />
<br />
“Let me help you.” Rachel stepped closer to the older woman. “They need someone to teach after the Christmas holiday. Right now I could tend the infants.” <br />
<br />
The knot released. Bonah turned and with a curt nod acknowledged the helpful gesture.<br />
<br />
“What was in those sheets?” Rachel’s eyes drifted to the bundle in question.<br />
<br />
“Gal, just because someone’s mind don’t work, it don’t mean their other parts don’t.” She shifted under Rachel’s unwavering stare before dropping her voice to an urgent whisper. “The womens sometimes find themselves in a condition.”<br />
<br />
“You mean…”<br />
<br />
“Yes, gal.” Bonah hung her apron on a peg next to the swinging doors and rolled her eyes. “Yes, that’s what I mean.”<br />
<br />
“But…” Rachel hurried to catch Bonah before she disappeared down the hall toward the lunch room. “…the women and the men are on their own floors. How…”<br />
<br />
“I suspect it’s not the other patients that are the problem, or they was in the condition before they came.” Bonah stopped in the middle of the hallway and turned to meet Rachel’s wide eyes. “People don’t work here because they want to help. They work here because they need a paycheck. And bad people need a paycheck just like good people do. What was twisted up in those sheets was too little to live anyway. Don’t you worry ’bout that none. The ones born big never survive neither. Crazy mothers don’t breed healthy babies.”<br />
<br />
Bonah started walking again, and Rachel fell into step.<br />
<br />
“But…”<br />
<br />
“Never you mind anything else,” Bonah interrupted. “You just do your job and stay out of the places you don’t need to be.”<br />
<br />
“Yes, ma’am.”<br />
<br />
The windows in the hallway were lower. Their dusty panes provided a view of the expansive stone asylum. The gray block towered overhead, looking back through its own glowing, gas-lit square eyes. Patient shadows hung and wavered against the barred glass. Two rooms in the attic flickered to life. Snow whipped between the buildings, obscuring the small, infrequent windows of the misery-infested basement. They persisted in their black, shuttered stare.<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
Miriam slipped out of the passageway and into what had once been her father’s bedroom. Now it was Michael who slumbered in the huge four-poster bed, unaware of her night-veiled visit to her studio. The woman still called from the painting. She had dark hair, dark eyes, and the palest of complexions. Miriam wanted to think her pallor was natural, but she knew it wasn’t. It was the color of fear. And again, Miriam railed against her changing gifting. She used to see people on the street—sometimes they were strangers, sometimes she knew them, but they would be people whose faces she’d studied. She would paint them, and then paint who they would become. This change—now painting someone she’d never met, a completely unfamiliar face, someone she knew lived and breathed, and then painting them in distress—this was new. This was different. And if this was real, she was powerless to do anything. <br />
<br />
Miriam sat at her husband’s dressing table and fingered the silver handle of his shaving brush. The clock in the downstairs hall chimed five times. The heavy drapes remained dark. The sky was too thick, the early snow too demanding. She was scheduled to visit the warehouse today. Beatrice planned on meeting her there after her tour of the Foundling House. There were new contracts in the making, but with the snow, it promised to be a quiet day. One she should spend painting. One she should dedicate to completing that tortured stranger’s portrait. Miriam tucked her cold fingers into her pockets and looked back to her dozing husband.<br />
<br />
If she were a better wife, she would abandon the woman upstairs, the one who stared back from the painting. She would climb back into bed with her husband, she would mold her body against his and wake him up with softness and promise. But she was not. Miriam stood and crossed to the heavy brocade drapes. They had decided on the fabric together: a cascade of peacock-like colors with gold and cream thread woven into blossoming almond trees that grew from floor to ceiling. The pink- and cream-laced blooms only opened at the very tips of the fragile branches near the top, where the mahogany carved rods echoed the unpredictable movement of tree bark. <br />
<br />
“Come back to bed.” Michael spoke softly. He was always so careful not to disturb her thoughts. Miriam knew he’d taken on a burden when he married her. Marrying a woman who painted the future, one who preferred to be alone, one who would rather sit quietly than be forced to make polite conversation with strangers, was not on the list of dreams for any man—especially one who needed a wife on his arm for a unending list of social and business obligations. What he would think of her shifting focus, she didn’t want to consider.<br />
<br />
Miriam nodded and unbuttoned her robe. She draped it across the chaise and slid beneath the sheets to where his warmth gathered.<br />
<br />
“You’ve been gone for a while.” Michael’s breath rustled Miriam’s hair as she turned and he pulled her close.<br />
<br />
“I was just upstairs.” Miriam tucked the quilt beneath her chin, breathing in the scent that was uniquely theirs.<br />
<br />
Michael hummed his understanding. It was a sound that communicated everything left unsaid. Miriam smiled and closed her eyes as Michael’s breathing shifted back to a soft snore.<br />
<br />
When it was light, Miriam would go back to the woman who haunted her mind from the floors above and try to fix her again. Maybe, if she tried hard enough, she could paint satisfaction into the stranger’s existence. After all, if she’d never met her…<br />
<br />
Miriam bit the inside of her bottom lip until it hurt. It would be what it would be.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
“Hi, Ma.” Jed filled the doorway. Rachel watched the icy snow convulse around his lantern.<br />
<br />
Jed stooped under the frame and shuffled into the laundry. His movements were too slow for someone who needed to hide from the dark, icy blast. He in no way resembled Bonah, which made sense, because she was not really his mother. But the way she babied the giant would lead anyone to believe that he had come from the small, stocky woman.<br />
<br />
“Where ya been?” Bonah reached up to help him unwind his scarf. Jed bent at the waist while she pulled. Once it was removed Jed stood, and Bonah hooked her hand under his forearm, leading him to a bench in the corner of the room.<br />
<br />
Jed set the lantern on the folding table and wrestled his gloves from his hands. He didn’t loosen the fingers first, instead he grabbed them at the wrist and yanked until his huge hands were free. He shoved the gloves into the pockets of his overcoat and turned the wick down, all the time watching the flame die. He looked up and smiled at Bonah. Her face softened, and she nodded back. He had done a good job. Exactly with what, Rachel had no idea. The nod could have communicated that he’d completed a task only Bonah had known about, or it could have meant that she was proud he had removed his gloves without assistance. In the short time Rachel had worked in the laundry, she had learned that questioning Bonah or Jed was a fool’s errand. It was enough to know that they took care of each other.<br />
<br />
Rachel picked a sheet out of a bundle of clean linen and spread it on the table. <br />
<br />
“Oh, don’t mess with that now.” Bonah waved her hand, indicating she was done for the evening. “We’ve already put in more hours than we should have waiting for that snow to lighten up.” Bonah glanced out of the high windows again. This time they were nearly completely covered. “I think we’d better make our way to the main building with this last load before it gets any darker or starts blowing any harder.”<br />
<br />
Rachel nodded and tossed the sheet on top of the bundles in the wheeled laundry cart. Before she could push it up against the wall in line with the rest of the carts, Jed jumped up to stop her.<br />
<br />
“I’ll do that.” He shrugged his huge shoulders and moved into her path. Rachel had no choice but to let him help.<br />
<br />
“Thank you, Jed.” Rachel caught Bonah’s approving glance and nodded her understanding.<br />
<br />
Jed had been at the asylum longer than anyone could remember. The most accepted rumor was that he had been dropped off as a child. No one ever came to visit him, but then the only regular visitors seemed to be the university students who studied the mind or the reporters who wanted to interview the most recent sensational case. And no one wanted their visits.<br />
<br />
“There should be a bed made up for ya upstairs here in the laundry. I’ll have to find a bed in the upper floor of the main building.” Bonah frowned and wound the scarf around Jed’s neck again before attending to her own. She pulled on her mittens and tucked them into the sleeves of her coat. “Don’t ya have any mittens, gal?”<br />
<br />
“I’ll be fine.” Rachel shoved her bare fingers deep into her coat pockets. Her coat was too thin for this weather, but the walk to the main building was short. It was the walk back alone that she didn’t look forward to. Although the maids stayed together above the laundry, and they typically ate together, that was as far as the friendships went. And as a laundress, Rachel was even further removed. The only thing worse than staying on the asylum grounds was staying there alone.<br />
<br />
Bonah shook her head. Jed stared at the door handle.<br />
<br />
“Go ahead,” Bonah gave Jed the permission he was waiting for as she re-lit the lantern and turned the knob for the last gas light that still flickered in the metal fixture overhead. The lantern illuminated the door, and Jed blocked the rest of the light. Rachel ducked into Jed’s shadow and sank into the cold snow. It filled her shoes, even though she followed Jed’s footprints.Bonnie S. Calhounhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11769607640246518804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368541238593747420.post-13641010021110848222015-11-15T21:39:00.001-05:002015-11-15T21:39:24.256-05:00Hand Me Down Princess by Carol Moncado<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLv2c5a1IP0WOsZuVaJTF5HSCjq9Pr0CRvTyttykBKTK4PCwzSF-_6HbzkXrguHFMC4jupiOX3sJdVpxH6V3-0nDG9QvJWr6LqhZGyyUsx9rjc2yjfnD-Agh__T0mB62WnixkN1QIptibt/s1600/Hand-Me-Down+Princess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLv2c5a1IP0WOsZuVaJTF5HSCjq9Pr0CRvTyttykBKTK4PCwzSF-_6HbzkXrguHFMC4jupiOX3sJdVpxH6V3-0nDG9QvJWr6LqhZGyyUsx9rjc2yjfnD-Agh__T0mB62WnixkN1QIptibt/s320/Hand-Me-Down+Princess.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><center><span style="color: #993300; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/B00ZYYUMYQ">Hand Me Down Princess</a></span></center><center>CANDID Publications (August 31, 2015)</center><center>by</center><center><span style="color: #006600; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.carolmoncado.com/">Carol Moncado</a></span></center><br /><br />
<br /><center>Chapter 1</center>***Coming Soon***Bonnie S. Calhounhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11769607640246518804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368541238593747420.post-28103665089725953022015-11-08T22:30:00.002-05:002015-11-09T12:47:25.428-05:00A Father's Second Chance by Mindy Oberhaus<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-CegUrbiiqEM3zGQAsiMj2zyQb5yz9lwJfi_AllOPdF4l7uWcNewQlMUsQ4EOCquLzUbc_V2y8qzwuOpD-R6Oh7mw7O9OdzCDNeIEEb3IyNSsA2gXhd1VV_H9xmTiQ4fUkX5HDIWP6E5P/s1600/AFathersSecondChance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-CegUrbiiqEM3zGQAsiMj2zyQb5yz9lwJfi_AllOPdF4l7uWcNewQlMUsQ4EOCquLzUbc_V2y8qzwuOpD-R6Oh7mw7O9OdzCDNeIEEb3IyNSsA2gXhd1VV_H9xmTiQ4fUkX5HDIWP6E5P/s200/AFathersSecondChance.jpg" width="125" /></a></div><center><span style="color: #993300; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0373879784">A Father's Second Chance</a></span></center><center>Love Inspired (July 21, 2015)<br />
</center><center>by</center><center><span style="color: #006600; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://mindyobenhaus.com/">Mindy Oberhaus</a></span></center><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center>Chapter 1</center><br />
Perhaps love wasn't a fairy tale.<br />
<br />
Watching the bride and groom share their first dance, Celeste Thompson was taken aback by the longing that filled her heart. She'd never been one to entertain romantic notions. Yet she suddenly found herself wondering what it would be like to be in love. To share your life with someone. To give that person your whole heart.<br />
<br />
Celeste froze, the long pearl-handled knife midway through another slice of wedding cake. She could never trust her heart to anyone. She laid the piece of raspberry-filled white cake on a plate. Precisely why she was the caterer, not the bride.<br />
<br />
As the romantic ballad came to an end, her eyes again roamed the crowded, dimly lit reception hall in Ouray's Community Center. From all appearances, Cash and Taryn were the epitome of forever and always. Yet how could anyone promise forever? People change. At least that was what her mother said. Countless times. Usually followed by a less-than-flattering remark about Celeste's wayward father.<br />
<br />
"Cake, please."<br />
<br />
Celeste glanced down to see small fingers gripping the edge of the lace-covered table. A pair of large sapphire eyes framed by white-blond curls peered up at her.<br />
<br />
A smile started in Celeste's heart, spreading to her face. "Well, hello there, sweet girl." The child was adorable, her frilly lavender dress making her look like a princess. "You must be the flower girl."<br />
<br />
The little girl nodded, her mischievous grin hinting that she might not be as innocent as she appeared.<br />
<br />
"Emma… " A man with dark brown hair and Emma's same blue eyes sauntered toward them. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his tuxedo slacks and his loosened bow tie dangled from beneath the unbuttoned collar of his starched white shirt. Very GQ. Tall, dark… Of course, at five foot two, everyone seemed tall to Celeste. One of many reasons high heels were her best friend.<br />
<br />
He stopped beside the child. "You've had enough cake, young lady." His baritone voice was firm. Unyielding.<br />
<br />
Emma frowned. Her bottom lip pooched out as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Cassidy had two pieces."<br />
<br />
"Your sister ate her dinner." The man stared down at her, seemingly unfazed by the pathetic look.<br />
<br />
"No fair." The little girl stomped her foot.<br />
<br />
He held his hand out to the child. "Let's go see if we can find some more of that brisket. Then we'll discuss cake."<br />
<br />
Emma's lip quivered, her eyes welling with tears. Her face reddened and contorted in ways Celeste had never witnessed firsthand. Nonetheless, she recognized the markings of a tantrum. And, from the looks of things, this was setting up to be a good one.<br />
<br />
Perhaps she could find a way to change the subject. She opened her mouth, but the man she presumed was Emma's father held up a hand to cut her off.<br />
<br />
"I've got this."<br />
<br />
Fine by her. After all, Emma was his daughter.<br />
<br />
He dropped to one knee. "Emma, please. Not here."<br />
<br />
His plea was met with a loud wail.<br />
<br />
Celeste bit back a laugh. Seemed the poor man had been through this before.<br />
<br />
Pulling his daughter close, he begged her to stop crying. His tuxedo jacket was doing a fair job of muffling Emma's sobs, still…he glanced up at Celeste, defeat and perhaps embarrassment marring his otherwise handsome features.<br />
<br />
Surely there was something she could do.<br />
<br />
Then again, Emma's father had made it clear he didn't need her help.<br />
<br />
The child let out another cry. This time loud enough to be heard over the music.<br />
<br />
People started staring.<br />
<br />
Celeste couldn't help herself. While she might not be an expert with kids, she'd quelled many an executive tantrum in the boardroom. Perhaps those tactics would come in handy now.<br />
<br />
She wiped her hands on a napkin and rounded the table. Knelt beside the pair. "Emma?" She touched the baby-fine curls.<br />
<br />
Emma hiccupped then slowly turned her head until her red-rimmed eyes met Celeste's.<br />
<br />
"Have you ever had a birthday party?"<br />
<br />
The child nodded against her daddy's chest.<br />
<br />
"And all your friends and family were there?" She looked at Emma's father, afraid he'd tell her to back off. Instead, he seemed to wait for his daughter's reaction.<br />
<br />
Emma nodded again, this time lifting her head.<br />
<br />
Celeste continued. "Now, suppose one of your friends got mad and started crying at your party. How would that make you feel?"<br />
<br />
The child's eyes darted back and forth across the wooden floor. She wasn't answering, but she wasn't crying anymore, either.<br />
<br />
"Would that make you sad?" Celeste offered.<br />
<br />
Emma nodded, gnawing on her thumb.<br />
<br />
"Well, this is Cash and Taryn's party. You wouldn't want to make them sad, would you?"<br />
<br />
Emma shook her head, her eyes growing even bigger. "Tawyn's my aunt."<br />
<br />
"I see." She dared a glance at Emma's father. He seemed to have relaxed, though he didn't necessarily look happy. "Well then…" Her gaze shifted back to Emma. "You want to be a big girl for your aunt Taryn, right?"<br />
<br />
Emma's smile returned. She nodded once more.<br />
<br />
Celeste pushed to her feet.<br />
<br />
So did the child's father.<br />
<br />
She took hold of Emma's hands and spread her arms wide. "Look at your pretty dress." She let go of one hand and twirled the child with the other. "That's a dancing dress if I ever saw one."<br />
<br />
Emma giggled, and Celeste didn't know if she'd ever heard a sweeter sound.<br />
<br />
"Now—" stopping, she smiled down at Emma "—do you think you can do what your daddy tells you?"<br />
<br />
Emma nodded.<br />
<br />
"Good girl. And then, maybe, if it's okay with your mommy and daddy—"<br />
<br />
"I don't have a mommy."<br />
<br />
Celeste blinked, her cheeks growing warm at the child's candor. "Oh. Well then…" She swallowed, her gaze flitting briefly to Emma's father. "If it's all right with your dad, I can send a piece of cake home with you for later. How does that sound?"<br />
<br />
"Yay!" The little girl just about bounced out of her white patent leather shoes. She tugged her father's hand. "Come on, Daddy. Let's get some more bisket."<br />
<br />
"Brisket, sweetheart." As his overzealous daughter pulled him toward the buffet table, he shot Celeste an irritated look. "Thanks for the help. But I can take care of my daughter."<br />
<br />
Celeste bristled. She hadn't expected his praise, but she hadn't expected him to be so rude, either. That'll teach her to get involved.<br />
<br />
Shrugging off the exchange, she watched the pair walk away. Emma obviously knew she had her father wrapped around her little finger. But did she have any clue how blessed she was to have a father who cared?<br />
<br />
I don't have a mommy.<br />
<br />
Celeste ached for the child. And wasn't there some mention of a sister?<br />
<br />
She shook her head. A single dad with two daughters. No wonder the guy looked defeated. He didn't stand a chance.<br />
<br />
"Celeste?"<br />
<br />
She turned as Erin, one of her part-time servers, approached.<br />
<br />
"We're down to crumbs on the brisket."<br />
<br />
"No problem. I've got another tray in the kitchen." Celeste pointed to the cake. "You mind taking over?"<br />
<br />
"Not at all." Erin picked up the long knife as Celeste started toward the swinging door. "Sausage is running low, too."<br />
<br />
Celeste waved a hand in acknowledgment and continued into the community center's small yet efficient commercial kitchen. The groom's request for Texas barbecue seemed to be a hit with the guests. Good thing Granny had taught her the art of smoked meat. Building the catering side of Granny's Kitchen was important to her bottom line. As were those old hotel rooms over the restaurant.<br />
<br />
Donning her oven mitts, Celeste grabbed another foil-covered pan of meat from the oven. The smoky aroma wafted around her as she carried it into the main room. It had taken her all summer to decide how best to address the upstairs units, but she'd finally decided to convert the cluster of six tiny rooms into three large suites. All while remaining true to the building's character and Victorian architecture.<br />
<br />
She set the pan into the chafer, thinking of all the beautiful millwork throughout the upstairs space. The wide baseboards and detailed moldings…quality like that was hard to find these days. She could only pray God would lead her to the right contractor. One who didn't cringe when she mentioned the word salvaging.<br />
<br />
After replenishing the sausage, she topped off the grated cheese and bacon bits at the mashed potato bar, pleased that everything had turned out so well. Word of mouth was a powerful thing, especially in a small town like Ouray.<br />
<br />
A popular tune boomed from the DJ's speakers and people flooded the dance floor. Celeste paused to watch. Young and old, everyone appeared to be having fun. Including two little blond-haired girls in lavender dresses. Emma held her daddy's hand, as did the other girl Celeste presumed was her sister.<br />
<br />
Although she found Emma's father to be a bit on the arrogant side, the adoring look on his face as he twisted and twirled his two precious daughters around the dance floor melted Celeste's heart. His girls were obviously the center of his universe. And though they were without their mother, Celeste got the feeling that Emma's dad was the kind of guy who would do whatever it took to be both mother and father. He would never desert them, like Celeste's father had.<br />
<br />
A sad smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Those two were lucky girls indeed.<br />
<br />
Gage Purcell escorted his daughters, Emma and Cas-sidy, off the dance floor. In the year and half since his wife, Tracy, had left, Emma's tantrums had grown more and more frequent. Maybe it was a coping mechanism. Maybe she blamed him for her mother's absence. Whatever the case, he needed to find a way to make them stop.<br />
<br />
The fact that a total stranger could settle his daughter better than he could had bugged him all night. Not that he wasn't appreciative of the caterer's intervention. The last thing he'd want to do is ruin his sister's special day. Still.<br />
<br />
He raked a hand through his hair, eager to call it a night. Dinner and dancing had gone on far longer than he anticipated, though the latter had afforded him some special moments with his daughters. But now that the bride and groom had made their exit.<br />
<br />
"Time for us to think about going, too, girls. It's way past my bedtime." Gage wove his daughters between the round cloth-covered tables to retrieve their sweaters.<br />
<br />
"But you go to bed after us, Daddy." Seven-year-old Cassidy peered up at him with serious eyes.<br />
<br />
"That is true. So it must be way, way, way past your bedtimes."<br />
<br />
"I'm not—" yawning, Emma leaned against a folding chair "—tired."<br />
<br />
He chuckled, knowing his youngest would likely crash before he even put his truck into Drive. Kneeling beside her, he held up her pink sweater. "But your old dad might fall asleep at any—" His eyes closed, he lowered his head and pretended to snore.<br />
<br />
Emma giggled. "Wake up." Her tiny hand nudged his shoulder. "Wake up!"<br />
<br />
"What?" He jerked his head. "I must have dozed off."<br />
<br />
Emma shoved her arms into the sleeves of her sweater.<br />
<br />
"You're silly."<br />
<br />
Turning his attention to Cassidy, he held up the purple sweater.<br />
<br />
His oldest complied immediately, a dreamy smile lighting her face. "I loved this day."<br />
<br />
Standing, he donned his tuxedo jacket and stared down at his two beautiful girls. Their usually straight blond hair had been curled and pulled back on each side and their fingernails were painted the same pale purple as their dresses. "I guess you did. You look like little princesses. And you got to hang with the big girls."<br />
<br />
"That was the best part," said Cassidy.<br />
<br />
A twinge of guilt prodded Gage. With their mother out of the picture, the girls didn't get to do many girlie things, so he was glad Taryn had included them in all the primping and pageantry that leads up to a wedding.<br />
<br />
"Don't forget the cake, Daddy."<br />
<br />
He should have known Emma wouldn't forget. He could only hope the caterer didn't.<br />
<br />
Taking his daughters by the hand, he started across the hardwood floor.<br />
<br />
"Hey there, Gage." His old friend Ted Beatty, a shift supervisor at one of the mines outside town, walked alongside them.<br />
<br />
Gage had been trying to get a job with a local mine since moving back to Ouray last year. So far, though, not one nibble.<br />
<br />
"Whatcha know, Ted?"<br />
<br />
"Not much." He stopped.<br />
<br />
So did Gage. He eyed the man who was a little older than his thirty-one years. A deep love of mining and its history had bonded the two from a young age.<br />
<br />
"Any hiring going on?"<br />
<br />
Ted shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Don't give up, though, buddy." He gripped Gage's shoulder. "Things could change at any time."<br />
<br />
Easy for him to say. Ted had remained in Ouray, getting his foot in the door early when the first gold mine had reopened. Gage, on the other hand, had gone off to Colorado's School of Mines for a degree in mining engineering. If only he'd hung around. Maybe he'd be following his dream instead of biding his time working construction.<br />
<br />
"Daddy…what about the cake?" Emma squeezed his hand, bringing a smile to Gage's face.<br />
<br />
His girls were the reason he gave up his dream job in Denver and moved back to Ouray. He needed the support of his family. And he'd do it a thousand times over, whatever it took to provide a stable, loving environment for them. He only wished he could say the same for their mother.<br />
<br />
He shifted his focus back to his friend. "We're on a mission, but let me know if you hear anything."<br />
<br />
"Sure thing, Gage."<br />
<br />
Emma skipped alongside him as they continued on to the kitchen. He hoped she wasn't getting a second wind. If that happened, they could be up all night.<br />
<br />
He carefully pushed open the swinging door.<br />
<br />
"Nana!" Both girls bolted toward a long stainless steel work table as his mother, Bonnie Purcell, stooped to meet them with open arms.<br />
<br />
Behind her, the caterer moved aside and busied herself at the sink. But not before her deep brown eyes narrowed on him.<br />
<br />
"Oh, my precious girls." Mom embraced her granddaughters. "You were so good today." She released them, smoothing a hand over her shimmering dress as she rose. "Gage, have you met Celeste?" His mother's gaze drifted between him and the caterer, that matchmaking twinkle in her eye.<br />
<br />
Man, Taryn hadn't been married but a few hours and his mother had already set her sights on him.<br />
<br />
Well, she could try all she wanted, but Gage wasn't going down that road again. He was a failure at marriage and had no intention of setting himself or his daughters up for another heartbreak.<br />
<br />
"Not officially." The caterer grabbed a towel from the counter. Chin jutted into the air, she held out a freshly dried hand. "Celeste Thompson. Nice to meet you."<br />
<br />
Recalling the irritation that had accompanied his parting words earlier in the evening, he reluctantly accepted the gesture. "Likewise."<br />
<br />
Long, slender fingers gripped his with surprising strength.<br />
<br />
"Celeste was telling me that she's looking for a contractor to do some renovations in the space above her restaurant." Mom fingered Cassidy's soft curls, her attention returning to the caterer. "Gage has quite an eye for detail."<br />
<br />
"Well, it just so happens that I'm a detail kind of girl. I'm very particular about how things are done." Her smile teetered between forced and syrupy. "But, if you think you can handle it, you're welcome to come by and look things over."<br />
<br />
"Oh, don't be silly." Mom took hold of his daughters' hands. "Gage can handle just about anything." She beamed at Celeste first, then Gage. "Come on, girls. Let's go say good-night to Papa."<br />
<br />
The trio stole through the door, leaving him alone with the caterer. Talk about awkward.<br />
<br />
She stepped toward the counter and retrieved a disposable container. "Here's the cake I promised Emma. I included enough for you and her sister, too."<br />
<br />
He wasn't sure how he felt about that, but accepted the package anyway. "Cassidy."<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry?"<br />
<br />
"My other daughter is Cassidy. I'm sure she will appreciate the cake every bit as much as Emma and me. Thank you. And…" He forced himself to meet her gaze. "Thank you for helping me out earlier."<br />
<br />
"You're welcome." Her golden-blond hair was slicked back into a long ponytail. Save for one wayward strand, which she promptly tucked behind her ear. Her expression softened. "Look, I realize that was kind of an uncomfortable situation with your mother." She peered up at him with eyes the deep, rich color of espresso. "If you'd like to drop by and check out the project, great. However, I understand if you don't have time."<br />
<br />
She was actually giving him an out?<br />
<br />
He hadn't expected that.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, his finances dictated he not turn down a job. "How about Monday at two?"<br />
Bonnie S. Calhounhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11769607640246518804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368541238593747420.post-68497395829752704192015-11-01T20:49:00.000-05:002015-11-02T00:00:38.835-05:00Thornbearer by Pepper Basham<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXcft5orJix1KCenirUM2C5lZH1WlWRga-AKV85pfsiEWAIXKQVJ_nqnB_KO7CEUAbN4rGQ_CMSvsammp3FjgnjrHL_zVijMZOzqcfoTQcYiZiLqOz5if9yfWFYS1fdLUSQaAk3gyGLHuK/s1600/Thornbearer.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXcft5orJix1KCenirUM2C5lZH1WlWRga-AKV85pfsiEWAIXKQVJ_nqnB_KO7CEUAbN4rGQ_CMSvsammp3FjgnjrHL_zVijMZOzqcfoTQcYiZiLqOz5if9yfWFYS1fdLUSQaAk3gyGLHuK/s320/Thornbearer.gif" width="213" /></a></div><center><span style="color: #993300; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0990304272">Thornbearer</a></span></center><center>Vinspire Publishing, LLC (May 7, 2015)</center><center>by</center><center><span style="color: #006600; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://pepperdbasham.com/">Pepper Basham</a></span></center><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center>Chapter 1 - Excerpt</center><br />
May 1, 1915<br />
<br />
There is a distinct difference between marrying a man you do not love, and falling in love with a man you cannot marry. As Ashleigh Dougall locked eyes with Sam Miller across Manhattan’s crowded dock, the sting of that truth stripped all doubt. Pinpricks of fresh awareness rifled through her like the sharp May wind off the wharf of the Atlantic, bringing to life a shocking realization.<br />
<br />
Heaven help her. She was in love with her sister’s fiancé.<br />
<br />
Even through the space of noisy travelers and hurried porters, Sam’s grin tripped her heartbeat and introduced a myriad of emotions she’d reserved for three-volume novels and daydreams. Ash-brown curls twisted in an unruly manner from under his brown Fedora and shadowed his best feature – his eyes.<br />
<br />
In love with her sister’s fiancé? A man who’d become her dearest friend? Nonsense.<br />
<br />
But her mental reprimand did nothing as her pulse skittered into rhythm with Alexander’s Ragtime from the pier. She waited for her mind to catch up with her errant heart, to blame the high emotions of departure, but each thought confirmed the growing attraction. He’d provided escort for the long journey from North Carolina and only now her emotions swelled from girlish fancy to—<br />
<br />
No. The idea was utter madness and complete betrayal, a family trait of which she would not fall prey. Whether she blamed youthful blindness or disappointed hopes, the truth remained: Sam was ever faithful – and forever Catherine’s.<br />
<br />
Or the woman he thought her sister was.<br />
<br />
Ashleigh drew her day suit jacket taut. Rumors had made their way across the Atlantic in Mother’s letters and Fanny’s quick missives. The faithful maid gave more insight into Catherine’s notorious flirting and dogged pursuit of Edensbury’s elite, flaunting a wealth her family didn’t possess. After a year abroad to help her mother grieve, nothing had changed.<br />
<br />
A child’s scream pierced through her mental fog. Ashleigh turned in time to see a little girl tumble forward and land in a crumpled mess of lace and cloth on the dock floor, arm pinned beneath her.<br />
<br />
A woman with the same blush of auburn hair, rushed to the child’s side. “Alice, are you all right?”<br />
<br />
Without another thought to the maddening confusion of her heart, nursing instincts quickened Ashleigh’s steps to the pair on the dock. The older woman pulled the child into her lap.<br />
<br />
“My wrist hurts, Mama.” The girl’s cries were muffled against her mother’s chest.<br />
<br />
Ashleigh dropped her valise and reticule and lowered herself to the dock beside the pair. Their faded, but pressed clothes, suggested poor – but hardworking. Like so many she’d served over the past two years in the rural North Carolinian Mountains.<br />
<br />
She met the mother’s frantic gaze with the cool calm of her specialty. “My name is Ashleigh Dougall. I am a trained nurse. Might I be of assistance?”<br />
<br />
Alice whimpered. “I can’t move it, Mama.”<br />
<br />
“My girl, Alice, has hurt her wrist.” The mother’s voice pitched higher, a sudden awareness raising her volume and drawing attention from the passersby. “If it’s broke what are we going to do? I used my last dollar to pay for our tickets. How am I going to—?”<br />
<br />
“Let’s see what we have here, first. What do you say? I’ve watched magical recoveries with little girls and wounded wrists before.” Alice peeked her teary gaze from her mother’s shoulder. “I shouldn’t wonder if this might not be the perfect setting for another bit of magic.” Ashleigh smoothed her words into softer tones and the spell worked.<br />
<br />
The mother’s breathing slowed. Alice sniffled and squinted at Ashleigh, her eyes a beautiful umber hue.<br />
<br />
“Hello, darling, I’m very sorry for your spill. I would like to help you. I’m a nurse and know a bit about things like bruised wrists and skinned knees. May I look at your arm, Alice?”<br />
<br />
The little girl tightened her hold on her doll, proving the wound was more a sprain than a break. Painful, but not as serious and certainly a less expensive fix.<br />
<br />
Sam emerged in Ashleigh’s periphery a short distance across the dock, his whistle at full volume. She caught his gaze in a solid hold of unspoken messages. He paused. Ten years of friendship worked its wonders. He surveyed the situation and increased his pace toward them, resuming his tune along with the band.<br />
<br />
She turned to the little girl and lowered her voice to increase the suspense. “My friend Sam has a secret. Do you like secrets?”<br />
<br />
Alice’s whimpers died altogether. A smile tickled at the corners of Ashleigh’s lips in response to the interest glittering in Alice’s golden eyes.<br />
<br />
Sam removed the newspaper from beneath his arm and knelt at Ashleigh’s side, bringing with him his usual scent of soap and lemon. Heat swirled up her neck and planted firmly on her cheeks, no doubt darker than her mauve day suit.<br />
<br />
She acknowledged him with a nod, but kept her attention fastened on Alice’s movements, in part to monitor her injury and in part to gain time to cool the sudden warmth around her chest at his nearness. “Have you ever had a LifeSaver? I wouldn’t wonder if one or two might be the medicine you need to feel better. What do you think, Sam?”<br />
<br />
Alice’s sharpened gaze fastened on Sam.<br />
<br />
“Well…” His rich bass voice melted into conversation. “You have to be pretty special to get a piece of my candy.” He pulled a colorful roll of paper from his pocket and slowly opened the wrapper.<br />
<br />
Alice didn’t miss one twist of Sam’s fingers.<br />
<br />
“So, Alice, I need you to reach those fingers out for that candy, and if you use both hands, Sam will put a LifeSaver in each.”<br />
<br />
“Two?” Her lips wobbled into an ‘o’ shape.<br />
<br />
“Two.” Ashleigh looked to the mother. “If she can clasp this candy, then it will confirm my suspicions of a sprain rather than a break.”<br />
<br />
The mother gave a feeble nod.<br />
<br />
In an easy sweep of his hand, Sam popped a piece from the wrapper with his thumb, tossed it up in the air and caught it in his mouth. He sighed and closed his eyes with a look of utter satisfaction. “Mmm, that’s some good candy.”<br />
<br />
Bonnie S. Calhounhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11769607640246518804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368541238593747420.post-12784659316778472342015-10-25T21:52:00.000-04:002015-10-27T14:34:27.572-04:00Deadlock by Diann Mills<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUY9bFHOCQuM-Az9ZXyTsk4yD0ieOZwzHWJZcc_K7pPuUda-oXAUppN0ujiCpjI9aHGd6PAFTqin1TAV_IO58SUGwRS8RD4O8yobiC6NEoCQQNZFU-lrGP_ja4dsCWr0RX0a5_bgx2Hh-i/s1600/Dead+Lock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUY9bFHOCQuM-Az9ZXyTsk4yD0ieOZwzHWJZcc_K7pPuUda-oXAUppN0ujiCpjI9aHGd6PAFTqin1TAV_IO58SUGwRS8RD4O8yobiC6NEoCQQNZFU-lrGP_ja4dsCWr0RX0a5_bgx2Hh-i/s320/Dead+Lock.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><center><span style="color: #993300; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1414389957">Deadlock</a></span></center><center>Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. (October 1, 2015)<br />
</center><center>by</center><center><span style="color: #006600; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.diannmills.com/">Diann Mills</a></span></center><br />
<br />
<br />
<center>Chapter 1</center><br />
<b>HOUSTON, TEXAS <br />
<br />
NOVEMBER <br />
<br />
7:15 A.M. MONDAY </b><br />
<br />
FBI Special Agent Bethany Sanchez swung open the door of her truck with the same jitters she had her first day at Quantico. On this gray morning, she was beginning a violent crime assignment and would meet her new partner, Special Agent Thatcher Graves, the man who'd sent her brother to jail. <br />
<br />
Bethany caught her breath and took in the unfamiliar sur- roundings. The residential area was flooded with Houston police officers and unmarked cars, part of a task force between HPD and the FBI. Alicia Javon had been murdered here late yesterday afternoon, leaving behind a husband and two daughters. <br />
<br />
The homes rose like monuments in this older, exclusive neighborhood, a mirror of refinement and dollar signs. The Javons' two-story brick with classic black shutters was no excep- tion. Not a dog or cat in sight. In her parents' neighborhood, dogs ran loose and usually in packs, whether the four-legged or two-legged type. Here, a pair of squirrels scampered up an oak. The bushes and hedges received regular manicures. Freshly mowed yard. The three-car garage was the size of her apartment. <br />
<br />
Contrast the tranquility with a woman who'd been shot, and it was Bethany's job to help bring down the killer. <br />
<br />
She arched her shoulders and walked to the front door, wishing her first day in violent crime could have been less stressful. She'd been up most of the night giving herself a pep talk about working with Thatcher Graves despite their history. A little confidence on her end would boost her ego. She looked like a professional. Wore a black pantsuit and a white blouse. Hair secured at the nape. No rings. No bracelets. Just tiny gold balls in her earlobes, a small gold cross necklace, and a keen sense of determination that had never failed her. <br />
<br />
After greeting two police officers and displaying her credentials, she entered the home, and another officer directed her toward a hum of activity to the right. She passed through a living area, where an upright bass, grand piano, and harp filled a third of the space. Beyond there she'd find Special Agent Thatcher Graves. <br />
<br />
Her gaze pulled ahead. She wanted the partnership to work so badly that her blood pressure flared at the thought of it. She moved through the room to the kitchen. Thatcher bent behind the crime scene tape, where the body had been found. He glanced up, his earth-colored eyes stormy. <br />
<br />
She extended her hand and hoped he didn't observe the trembling. "Good morning, I'm Bethany Sanchez." <br />
<br />
He stood and towered over her, but most men did over her small frame. "My new partner. The gal from the civil rights division who solved a cold hate crime in the Hispanic community. And was influential in bringing peace to an Asian business district where a prostitution ring worked the streets. Welcome to violent crime." He gripped her hand, not too firm and not an ounce of wimp. "We've met before." <br />
<br />
She offered a slight smile while her stomach rolled. "Yes, we have." <br />
<br />
"I think it was the Labor Day picnic. Certainly not what the victim had here." <br />
<br />
Had he forgotten Papá's threat at the courthouse, or did he expect her to elaborate? "I understand there's a link between this murder and a previous one, and that's why the FBI's been called in." <br />
<br />
"Right. Three weeks ago, Ruth Caswell, an elderly woman in the River Oaks area, was murdered. She was under hospice care but otherwise lived alone. Shot with a 9mm to the forehead, hollow-point bullet, and the killer left a plastic scorpion on her body. At that time, HPD requested our help, due to the unusual circumstances. Alicia Javon's murder appears to be identical, but it'll take weeks before we learn if the two women were killed with the same weapon." <br />
<br />
"Didn't realize the lab was so far behind. Fingerprints?" <br />
<br />
"Too soon to have the report. We'll see about the DNA." <br />
<br />
"Anything to go on?" <br />
<br />
"Looks like a serial killing." <br />
<br />
"But the husband is a viable suspect. Looks to me like a domestic squabble that went bad." <br />
<br />
He lifted a brow. "I've been at this longer than you have. The family will arrive in the next thirty minutes for an interview. They spent the night at a hotel." <br />
<br />
"Can't blame them." She glanced around the kitchen. A stock- pot rested on the stove, a box of pasta beside it. A dinner that never happened. "I wouldn't want to stay here either. What else do you have?" <br />
<br />
He grabbed a large Starbucks cup from the kitchen counter and toasted her. The man wore a muscular build like an Italian suit. "You fit your MO." <br />
<br />
She lifted a brow. "What do you mean?" <br />
<br />
"No-nonsense. Gets the job done. Analytical. Outstanding record—" <br />
<br />
"Whoa. You're armed, and all I have is office chatter and media headlines." <br />
<br />
He sipped the coffee. "I'm sure it's all true." <br />
<br />
Egotistical, but with a sense of humor. She stared into his chiseled face. "I hope not or I'm doomed." <br />
<br />
"Doubt it, General Sanchez. Your reputation is outstanding." She drew in a breath. The ring of his tone pierced her like a dull knife. <br />
<br />
"Guess I won't call you a general again." The muscles in his jaw tightened. "Okay, back to the case. The killer is most likely a psychopath." <br />
<br />
"We need more information to make that determination, a sus- pect whose behavior we can psychologically examine to determine if he's hearing voices and the like." <br />
<br />
"Not every psychopath is a killer, but serial killers are psychopaths." She'd mull his explanation when she had time to think about it. <br />
<br />
"Has the blood spatter been analyzed?" <br />
<br />
"Yes. Nothing additional for us to follow up on there. I've been here since five thirty poring over the reports, trying to find a motive for both murders. We have two victims killed with the same type of weapon and identical scorpions left on each body. <br />
<br />
I sent a copy of the reports to you about an hour ago." <br />
<br />
"Hold on a moment while I retrieve them." She eased her shoulder bag to the floor and snatched her phone, berating herself for not checking it sooner. She scrolled through the various reports. There it was. "Go ahead. I'm ready." <br />
<br />
"Alicia Javon was a forty-five-year-old wife and mother. She held a vice president position at Danford Accounting. Two daughters are enrolled at Rice University majoring in music. Her husband is currently unemployed and on disability due to a spinal injury sustained in an auto accident. He told the police his wife's Bible and several pieces of her jewelry are missing. All heirlooms from her family. HPD noted a sizable inheritance from her family's estate." <br />
<br />
Bethany read the list of diamonds, rubies, and sapphires stolen. Motive? "The husband claims the jewelry is insured. Has HPD checked the pawnshops?" <br />
<br />
"Yes, and they will continue," Thatcher said. "No signs of forced entry." <br />
<br />
"She may have known her killer or opened the door without a visual check. Where was her husband? Do her daughters live at home?" <br />
<br />
"The girls were out with their father. Walked in and discovered the body," he said. "It's in the report. I labeled it Scorpion." <br />
<br />
Ouch. Could this get much worse? <br />
<br />
"Hey, I'm messing with you. Don't worry about it." <br />
<br />
She smiled but didn't feel it. "I noted Mrs. Javon's arm was in a cast. Worth looking into." <br />
<br />
"I agree. Have a few thoughts about the injury." <br />
<br />
"Theory or fact?" Immediately she regretted her question. <br />
<br />
Arguing fact and logic solved nothing. "That was inappropriate. <br />
<br />
I know you operate on instinct, and you're quite successful." <br />
<br />
"But you have no respect for my methods, right?" <br />
<br />
She reddened. "I'd like to think our partnership could work well organically." <br />
<br />
He took another sip of coffee. "Well said. We could fail or become a dynamic team. When we're finished here, let's head back to the office and discuss the case." <br />
<br />
A police officer stepped into the kitchen. "The family has arrived." <br />
<br />
"They're early." Thatcher glanced out the kitchen window to a patio and pool area, his face stoic. "Tell them Special Agent Sanchez and I will talk to them in a few minutes. We're stepping outside for privacy." <br />
<br />
<br />
Bonnie S. Calhounhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11769607640246518804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368541238593747420.post-18271449630060698312015-10-18T21:41:00.000-04:002015-10-18T23:15:21.011-04:00Promise to Keep by Elizabeth Younts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwerzgCpW3vw34Y4uD_7T0g1VHfyuAmeRP7gaGZT9rtq7SpbXG7sEZVKYhf7hxWPjEcRhIl6P2Vcn1U0KWLoeiXVNZFmnF0iYLneE_7xmp3InjRVESyP7kq8s8V0cpFOyrOfpQotE5D34H/s1600/Promise_to_Keep.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwerzgCpW3vw34Y4uD_7T0g1VHfyuAmeRP7gaGZT9rtq7SpbXG7sEZVKYhf7hxWPjEcRhIl6P2Vcn1U0KWLoeiXVNZFmnF0iYLneE_7xmp3InjRVESyP7kq8s8V0cpFOyrOfpQotE5D34H/s320/Promise_to_Keep.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><center><span style="color: #993300; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1476735050">Promise to Keep</a></span></center><center>Howard Books (October 13, 2015)</center><center>by</center><center><span style="color: #006600; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://elizabethbyleryounts.com/">Elizabeth Younts</a></span></center><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center>Chapter 1 </center><br />
Chapter 1 of Promise to Keep<br />
<br />
<b>1946<br />
<br />
Sunrise, Delaware</b><br />
<br />
A morning rain whispered a harmony of delicate drops against the second-story bedroom window. Esther Detweiler kept her eyes closed as she lengthened her legs and arms. Even as she stretched, dampness crawled through the cracks of the old house and wrapped around her like a shawl. A gentle nudging pushed her from the warped mattress, and she swung her feet onto the floor. The cool wooden planks were smooth and comforting. When she stood, the floorboard didn’t creak as it usually did. The house was perfectly still.<br />
<br />
Her gaze landed on Daisy Garrison, the seven-year-old deaf English girl, who slept peacefully in the cot against the opposite wall in the same room. Esther had been caring for her deceased cousin’s child for four years. She was drawn to touch the girl’s silken cheek, but a sudden chill drew her attention away from the sleeping child.<br />
<br />
She turned and her eyes landed on the embroidered wall hanging her mother had given her decades earlier as a Christtag gift. For God alone, O my soul, wait in silence, for my hope is from Him. It was the last Christmas gift Esther received from her mother.<br />
<br />
She shivered and pulled on her housecoat, then tiptoed down the staircase. At the bottom was Mammie Orpha’s bedroom. The door was cracked open. Orpha always kept her door open at night, saying it was welcoming to the heavenly beings. But something was different this morning. Was it too open? Or too quiet? She leaned a shoulder against the wall next to the door frame, her eyes squeezed shut. She should hear her mammie’s easy snore through the small gap, but all she heard was the warm breath of summer wrapped in the scent of freshly turned soil. She reopened her eyes.<br />
<br />
With her fingertips splayed, she gently pushed the door. Even the usual creak was silenced. Esther stood in the doorway. In front of her, Orpha lay as still as a painting. A faint smile was cast over her lips as if she was dreaming something pleasant behind her closed eyelids. She looked happy. Losing her husband decades ago had set the stage for many losses and hardships for the past forty years. She had been like an Israelite wandering, only she never found her promised land. Maybe now, in death, she would.<br />
<br />
Orpha’s hair, though disheveled the night before when Esther had bid her good night, was now perfectly combed and smooth, her night covering tied neatly around her soft-skinned chin. She’d taken the time to comb her long hair before she’d gone to bed. It occurred to Esther that Orpha had said good-bye last night instead of goodnight. Had she somehow known that she would pass into eternity while she slept?<br />
<br />
The quilt neatly tucked around Orpha’s chest had been on her bed for decades. Esther eyed the simple pattern, rows of triangles forming squares. Together, they’d repaired many of the pattern pieces, salvaging her mother’s dresses to use as patches. She and Daisy had both learned to sew on the blanket.<br />
<br />
A breath hiccupped in her throat and her hand clapped over her quivering mouth. She hated crying. Her heart drummed like the wooden mallet threshing harvested wheat, every beat aching more than the one before. Tears warmed her face and salted her lips. She heard a low groan just before she fell on this dearest of old women, a treasure that now was an empty vessel.<br />
<br />
Orpha had been such a humble woman. A woman to follow after. Dedicated. Loyal. A mammie to everyone.<br />
<br />
Esther wept, thankful to be alone. Loss burned within her, and her heart was heaped with ashes. Too many burdens to count. She’d faced death before, but when her mem and dat passed, the innocence of youth had cushioned her grief. Losing Orpha now was worse.<br />
<br />
<br />
By lunchtime, the furniture in Esther’s house had been pushed aside and the rooms filled with rows of backless benches and mourners whose presence provided comfort to Esther. Daisy remained glued to Esther’s side, eyes wide, rosebud lips pursed, and hands mute. Orpha had never understood the little girl’s deafness, but they still had had a special relationship.<br />
<br />
Funerals weren’t foreign to Esther. Life had come at her like an unbroken horse hitched to a buggy without a driver. Her father had left for the war in 1917 and had died as a conscientious objector in prison a year later. Her mother, Leah, gave up on living and died two years after that. Since Esther was only eight, the deacons had suggested that she go live with her other younger, healthier grandparents in Geauga County, Ohio. But that might as well have been another country, and Esther had refused. She would stay with Orpha. Stubbornness came as easily to her as pretending not to be hungry.<br />
<br />
But those years had passed. A spinster at thirty-four, she and Orpha had made a life for themselves, and bringing Daisy into it had somehow completed their unusual family. It had been hard at times, and Daisy’s deafness compounded the difficulties, but having three generations in a home had given hope and some peace that Esther hadn’t realized she’d lost when her cousin Irene, Daisy’s mother, had passed away. Before her death she had been lost to her community and shunned for her marriage to an Englisher.<br />
<br />
The scales had tipped again with Orpha’s death, and she knew what would happen next. Eventually Daisy’s father would come home from war, though they hadn’t received a letter from him in over a year when he explained he would be helping with reconstruction. A melancholy shadow in the shape of Joe Garrison hovered over her. While she never wanted harm to come to him, she didn’t like to think about his homecoming and taking Daisy away, especially now that Orpha was gone. Orpha’s death, however, made her consider when she may lose Daisy to Joe. And be alone.<br />
<br />
“Dangeh,” Esther said as she shook an offered hand and attempted to refocus on her thoughts. Since there was no church service on the in-between Sunday, many people had already visited her. Esther found sympathetic, lingering, and mournful eyes as she greeted her visitors, though their tight grips tired her hands. She thanked another sober-faced, bearded man as the line of visitors finally ended. Then she stood in the doorway alone and watched as the Peterscheim family walked down the drive in a black, single-file row, like worker ants always well ordered and never idle.<br />
<br />
Beyond the families dressed entirely in black, shades of English brightness appeared, parting the small crowd. Mrs. Norma White walked with such an air about her. As she passed, the entire Peterscheim family turned their heads and stared. The skirt of her neighbor’s peach-colored dress, tightly cinched about her waist with a belt, swished around her tan stockings. A small group of girls standing on the porch leaned their heads together, whispering.<br />
<br />
“I brought a pie,” Mrs. White said as she entered the house. She looked around, never meeting Esther’s eyes, as she handed over a crumb-crusted apple pie. Esther had worked for Mrs. White at the neighboring farm since she was thirteen. Mrs. White was a strong-minded woman. She’d run the farm and raised her daughters after losing her husband in a farming accident. Mrs. White was a rigid and uncompromising employer, but she’d never used her husband’s death as an excuse to forsake living, the way Esther’s mother had. The woman’s grit had stirred Esther over the years not to give in to loss. Mrs. White hadn’t depended on anyone to rescue her from her circumstances and had risen to the occasion. She had run the farm on her own for many years, when many other women would have sold it and walked away.<br />
<br />
When Esther had started working there, she’d seen Mrs. White in overalls doing men’s work. That was why she needed a housekeeper in the big farmhouse. That had been years ago, however, and although she still ran the farm, she now wore stylish dresses instead of overalls. She no longer needed to do the hard work herself, but the earlier years had taken their toll. It was rare that the woman didn’t wear dainty gloves. Esther understood why when she realized that the elegant woman had the hands of a hard-working man with gnarled knuckles and rough skin. Esther then understood why there was a bottle of skin cream in every room.<br />
<br />
“Thank you.” She accepted the pie with both hands and set it down on the wooden countertop, along with the array of other goods. Esther had baked the pie herself only the previous day in Mrs. White’s modern oven, which she privately coveted. She gestured toward the small table in the center of the kitchen. “There’s coffee and water.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, Esther. I’m so sorry, but I can’t stay. I’m already running behind.” Mrs. White smiled and slowly batted her eyelashes. “I have a prayer meeting at church tonight, and you know how I dislike tardiness. I would have been over sooner, but I had so much cleaning to do after church and dinner.” Mrs. White cleared her throat. “You understand, I’m sure.”<br />
<br />
Esther inhaled as gently as possible. Making dinner for one could not have been of any consequence, and the farmhands served themselves on Sundays with food Esther had prepared ahead of time. Mrs. White wouldn’t have had to do more than perhaps sweep the kitchen or run a washcloth over her newly installed laminate countertops—in Lillypad Pearl, as Mrs. White called it. Esther considered it just plain green.<br />
<br />
“Please accept my condolences,” Mrs. White offered as she patted Esther’s arm. Though her gloved hand was warm, a chill pressed through the thin black fabric of Esther’s sleeve and onto her skin. Mrs. White turned to leave, but returned a moment later. “Oh, will I see you tomorrow?”<br />
<br />
Esther’s lips pinched, and a moment later she relaxed them, not wanting her employer to see her vexed.<br />
<br />
“We have three-day wakes and then the funeral. I’m sorry, but I won’t be there until the day after the funeral.”<br />
<br />
“And must you—” the English woman began.<br />
<br />
“I can send a cousin’s wife in my place. Dorothy,” Esther suggested, keeping her voice steady. “Dorothy is one of the women on the food delivery route—she could use the extra money. You will be pleased with her.”<br />
<br />
One of Norma White’s thin eyebrows pushed up toward her hairline. Several moments of silence passed between the two women before the elder nodded curtly.<br />
<br />
“Send her over in the morning, and I’ll handle it from there.”<br />
<br />
Esther watched through the kitchen window as her neighbor tiptoed across the road to keep her pumps from pressing through the damp gravel. In less than a minute, Mrs. White was behind her picket-fenced, colorful existence, leaving behind Esther’s plain life in shades of black and white.<br />
<br />
As Daisy slipped around behind Esther, her left arm curled around the little girl’s shoulders. She squeezed three times, their special way of saying I love you. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been told the same sentiment by anyone but Daisy, and the gesture was as intimate as she’d ever been with another person.<br />
<br />
“Sellah hooheh frau realleh meint sie sahvet,” Lucy, Esther’s aunt and Daisy’s grandmother, said in a low voice.<br />
<br />
Esther wondered how long the older woman had been standing there. She nodded in agreement that the English woman did think very highly of herself. But hadn’t Esther herself learned to stand taller and stronger because of the high-and-mighty woman?<br />
<br />
“Are you sure you need to work for her?” Aunt Lucy whispered candidly.<br />
<br />
Esther sighed. “Where else can I work?” She and Aunt Lucy stepped in front of the sink and washed out water cups to put out again. “Now that most of the men are back from the war, many of the factory women are out of their jobs. I know not all of them will keep working, but either way, housekeepers are a dime a dozen right now.”<br />
<br />
“You could teach. Our school needs a good teacher. If you don’t do it, then it’ll probably be that silly girl Matilda Miller from the district over. She’s a fright.”<br />
<br />
“I am not a teacher.” Esther raised an eyebrow at her aunt.<br />
<br />
There would never be enough support or approval within the Amish leadership for that to happen anyway. Esther had far too many unusual circumstances to make her a good example to kinnah. Although she strived to follow the church’s standards as laid out in the Ordnung, she was still an orphaned unmarried woman raising a deaf English child.<br />
<br />
“Maybe not, but you sure have taught Daisy.” Aunt Lucy patted her granddaughter’s kapp. Daisy smiled at her mammie before burying her face in her guardian’s long black skirt. Lucy sighed. “She looks so much like Irene did at that age. You’ve been very good for her.” An expression of loss and hurt cascaded over the elderly woman’s face. She swallowed hard and looked away from Esther and through the window.<br />
<br />
Esther patted Lucy’s hands. They both knew Lucy would have liked to have taken Daisy when Joe joined the Marines after Irene’s death, but she didn’t know—no one knew—how much additional work it would take to raise a child like Daisy.<br />
<br />
What Esther had never told Lucy was that Irene had pleaded with her that if something ever were to happen to her, she wanted Esther to help Joe with Daisy. Irene made Esther promise. Joe admitted to Esther that Irene had made him make the same promise. Somehow she sensed it, he said. She could hear his words engraved in her memory. She said you would love Daisy like your own and take care of her in a way that her parents never could. She made me promise.<br />
<br />
Lucy, however, insisted so passionately that she wanted to care for her granddaughter herself that Joe allowed his mother-in-law to keep her overnight before he shipped out. It didn’t take long for Lucy to see that Daisy needed a great deal of attention—more than she could give—and finally agreed that Esther was a better match.<br />
<br />
Esther gazed out the window, reminiscing. Her eyes landed on the harmonica that lay on the kitchen windowsill. It had been her father’s. When he left, he told her to keep it and said that someday, when he came back, he’d teach her to play. He’d never returned. Orpha’s death compounded on all the former ones.<br />
Bonnie S. Calhounhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11769607640246518804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368541238593747420.post-28571136545899411192015-10-11T21:45:00.001-04:002015-10-11T21:45:09.470-04:00Lightning by Bonnie S. Calhoun<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkE1QM1TGD5xIgTvkRFTBYZk_hpmiLmI4T2sK8W0n0Pl-L5AEENrcvhmOuTRZ6nJ8Oq5PJE_y71Vj2wq9dxTBQPoq7a_pV8tM1Wbv72SK-zmRmathgcdb0S7_DP3nWTWv31R9vcikzsocc/s1600/Lightning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkE1QM1TGD5xIgTvkRFTBYZk_hpmiLmI4T2sK8W0n0Pl-L5AEENrcvhmOuTRZ6nJ8Oq5PJE_y71Vj2wq9dxTBQPoq7a_pV8tM1Wbv72SK-zmRmathgcdb0S7_DP3nWTWv31R9vcikzsocc/s200/Lightning.jpg" width="127" /></a></div><center><span style="color: #993300; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Lightning-Novel-Stone-Braide-Chronicles/dp/0800723775">Lightning</a></span></center><center>Revell (October 6, 2015)</center><center>by</center><center><span style="color: #006600; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://bonniescalhoun.com/">Bonnie S. Calhoun</a></span></center><br /><br />
<br /><br />
<br />
<center>Chapter 1</center><br />
Day 1<br />
<br />
A clipped sound echoed along the cavernous street as Selah Rishon raised her foot onto a stone bench. She jerked her head up to glance around the abandoned streetscape. <br />
<br />
A groan bounced from the building facades.<br />
<br />
Eyeing the landscape cautiously, she secured her dark mop of unruly curls that sorely needed a visit from Mother’s shears and finished tightening her exercise shoe. She stretched her calf muscle. Time to get this done before the sunrise and hot temperatures took over. <br />
<br />
She switched feet, tightened her other shoe, and stretched again as she squinted into the soft rays of the morning sun trying to climb over the horizon. Dramatic shadows sliced across the ancient brick buildings creating elongated, one-dimensional fright-men. She shuddered and pushed off on a slow jog down the broken, weed-congested street. A shadow slid to the edge of the surrounding darkness in a doorway two building cavities away on her side of the street.<br />
<br />
Selah stopped. Her chest constricted as her heart rate ticked up, pushing starbursts into her vision. She squinted at the different shades of black, attempting to distinguish a face among the sprinkled flashes. She deciphered the outline of a short club protruding from an overly thick hand, probably gloved. Her mouth went dry. She sniffed at the air. She could almost distinguish his smell. Sweat and vegetation mixed with musk and dirt. A male.<br />
<br />
The black-clad figure separated from the darkness and lunged onto the uneven sidewalk. She inhaled to draw in calm and studied the shape and posture of the figure. A little taller than her five foot six. Broad at the shoulders, rectangular stance between legs and hips. Yes, it had to be a man.<br />
<br />
Her heart pounded a staccato rhythm against her rib cage, drowning out her thoughts. Control your breathing.<br />
<br />
She turned to run the other way. Adrenaline surged, prickling up the back of her neck and across her scalp. A movement whispered in front of her.<br />
<br />
A second figure emerged from one of the numerous doorways, blocking her retreat.<br />
<br />
How did she miss him? Not paying attention could get her hurt.<br />
<br />
She pivoted and her back faced the street. No! Bad move. Another attack angle unprotected. She spun, positioning her back against the building. One assailant stood to her left, the other approached from the right. If she let them get close at the same time, she’d be done. Her legs trembled. She steeled herself for an attack.<br />
<br />
A squeak. An audible click. The man to her left flicked open an auto-blade. He brandished the knife and lunged. Selah jerked her wrist up to block the attack but overswung. Her hand accidentally connected with her own chin and she bit her lip. The taste of copper heightened her senses. Selah balled her fists tight to her chest and thrust out her left leg, planting her foot in his stomach.<br />
<br />
He doubled over as air expelled from his lungs with a grunt. The knife flew from his hand and skittered across the broken street surface. He scrambled for the weapon. Selah bounced to a defensive stance. Pivoting her hip up, she kicked out to the side with her right leg, connecting with his chest. He collapsed to the road, gasping.<br />
<br />
Emboldened that she hadn’t suffered a blow, she bolted in the other man’s direction. He raised his club and she assumed a fighting posture. He swung. She blocked the downward motion of his left wrist with an upward thrust of her right forearm. It rocked her core, stinging her arm. An adrenaline rush absorbed the pain.<br />
<br />
His right fist jabbed at her head. She pulled to the right side. Her left leg shot out in a low kick and connected with the outside of his knee, knocking him off balance. As he started to fold, she maneuvered a hefty jab and shoved her fist into his nose.<br />
<br />
Spittle flew from his mouth.<br />
<br />
The man grabbed his face. “My nose! Why, you—” He cursed and released the club. It clattered to the ground.<br />
<br />
She sprinted down the street, crossing to the other side. Her core buzzed with the electricity of rapid-fire movements and precision strokes. Her speed felt fluid and natural.<br />
<br />
Pay attention. Focus. Focus, she recited until her breathing leveled off.<br />
<br />
Stinging. She shook her hand, blew on her fingers, and examined them. Tiny smears of blood dotted the back of her hand. She had skinned two knuckles.<br />
<br />
White AirStream at three o’clock. Someone in the pilot’s seat.<br />
<br />
This time she wasn’t taking chances. She dodged behind a tree and used the street-side refuse container to hide her advance. She sprang from the hiding place, ran to the AirStream, and crept along its length to the front. With her back against the sleek side, she reached across her chest with her left arm and snatched the occupant out by his tunic. As his torso exited the cockpit, she jammed her right hand into the space between his left arm socket and shoulder blade. She felt his shoulder separate and he howled in pain.<br />
<br />
Lowering his center of gravity to throw him off balance, she drove his face into the narrow grassy strip at the edge of the sidewalk and planted her knee on the back of his neck.<br />
<br />
“All right, all right! I’m down!” With his plea muffled by the grass, the man fell limp.<br />
<br />
“Okay, Selah,” boomed the speaker mounted high on the side of a nearby building. “Your session is done, and by the looks of it, so are my men.” Taraji, the head of TicCity security, chuckled over the intercom.<br />
<br />
Selah looked up at the tiny visi-unit mounted on the street illuminator and smiled. “Okay, Taraji. I think I may have broken Arann’s nose. He zigged when he should have zagged. And Hex needs to lubricate his auto-blade. His prop has a serious squeak.” She looked down the street and assessed her friendly victims.<br />
<br />
Arann, still holding his nose, raised his hand in a thumbs-up. Selah waved and jogged back to the training zone entrance.<br />
<br />
A black-clad form dropped in front of her. Selah recoiled as the hooded figure crouched like a jumping spider and charged. She blocked the charge and spun to the right, executing a roundhouse sweep. The figure jumped her leg and came in with fists flying. The two of them parried back and forth, blow for blow, slice for slice. Selah’s comfort level with the defensive moves increased with her added speed and confidence.<br />
<br />
A smile pulled at the corners of her lips. She felt exhilarated.<br />
<br />
The spider figure lunged, rolled, and swept Selah’s feet from under her with one fell swoop. Selah landed on her back with a grunt as the air rushed from her lungs. The figure scrambled over her and pressed a glove-covered fist to Selah’s throat.<br />
<br />
Selah raised open palms. “Augh! I surrender.”<br />
<br />
The black-clad spider figure ripped off its hood. Taraji grinned at Selah. “Never let an opponent see your level of confidence because they will use it against you every time.”<br />
<br />
“I really thought I had you.” Selah shook her head.<br />
<br />
Taraji held out a hand and yanked Selah to her feet. “You would have, if you hadn’t stopped to grin at me. It made for a perfect break in your concentration. But your increased speed is phenomenal. You’re ready to move to the next level of training.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Bonnie S. Calhounhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11769607640246518804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368541238593747420.post-41697352481516089762015-10-04T22:49:00.000-04:002015-10-05T13:15:18.319-04:00Firefly Summer by Kathleen Y'Barbo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1HdaWYM7su3prZdYTbIqp9BFRibaRhsD_Xs4qAkS1rqPJJ7TPYjndebrubi5qbroJCIV7BT575kBKZn0duh2mlj09m4FRSywWQwIcnWXN8I0pi192FY3upuWccYEgieEbbC1WK5nuMmel/s1600/FireflySummer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1HdaWYM7su3prZdYTbIqp9BFRibaRhsD_Xs4qAkS1rqPJJ7TPYjndebrubi5qbroJCIV7BT575kBKZn0duh2mlj09m4FRSywWQwIcnWXN8I0pi192FY3upuWccYEgieEbbC1WK5nuMmel/s320/FireflySummer.jpg" width="209" /></a></div><center><span style="color: #993300; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1942265042">Firefly Summer</a></span></center><center>Redbud Press (June 23, 2015)</center><center>by</center><center><span style="color: #006600; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://kathleenybarbo.com/">Kathleen Y'Barbo</a></span></center><br />
<br />
<br />
<center>PROLOGUE<br />
</center><br />
<br />
"Next rider in the College National Finals is our oldest in the competition today. He's almost finished with medical school, but first he's got to finish this ride. Give Trey Brown a hand, ladies and gentlemen!"<br />
<br />
Sessa Lee Chambers shifted in her seat to watch her five-year-old son stand in rapt attention watching the cowboys in gate seven move in perfect synchronization. One held the gate, one held the rope, and another sat astride a bronc that looked as if it would easily take the rider's head off if given the opportunity. A fourth man spoke energetically into the rider's ear, his words lost on the cheering crowd inside the Sam Houston Arena.<br />
<br />
Her attention shifted back to Ross. Was that…a smile? <br />
<br />
"Come on, cowboy," Ross shouted over the din as his lifted his little red cowboy hat to mimic the others now crowding the gate. "You can do it!"<br />
<br />
Clutching her throat, Sessa fought back the tears that were already blurring her vision. Ross hadn't smiled or spoken a word since his father died nearly one month ago. Taking him to the rodeo had been Ross's grandfather's idea. Get him outside. Expose him to some good old-fashioned commotion. Let him pet a horse or two.<br />
<br />
That last one was the most difficult of all. Just last week, her dwindling finances had caused her to sell the last of Ben's beloved horses to an old friend who lived south of town. Bud Jones would take good care of them, this she knew. What she hadn't known was how heartbroken Ross would be at their loss.<br />
<br />
Of course, because she was too far gone in her grief to see anything, it had been Daddy who'd pointed out Ross's sadness. And not very nicely.<br />
<br />
But he was right. And she had to do better.<br />
<br />
The gate opened just a few feet away from them, and the horse bucked out, jarring her thoughts. The rider bounced with legs out and hat flying, but he held on until the buzzer sounded.<br />
<br />
"Now that was a ride, wasn't it folks? Hard to believe he's thirty one!" The speakers blared with the announcer's excitement. "Good job, cowboy!"<br />
<br />
Funny. The man striding victoriously across the arena was two years older than she. Her memories of college were brief and dimmed by time and distance. One semester was all she'd gone, but she'd somehow managed to meet Ben Chambers, marry him, and forget all about any ideas of pursuing higher education. Looking back, it was the worst decision of her life. Then she looked at Ross and realized that decision had been the best.<br />
<br />
Ross waved his hat like the others standing at the gate. "Good job, cowboy!" he echoed.<br />
<br />
He was still waving the hat when the long-legged cowboy ambled by. "Good job, cowboy," he repeated.<br />
<br />
To Sessa's astonishment, the cowboy stalled right there and knelt down to get eye-to-eye with Ross. She couldn't hear what transpired over the noise of the crowd, but a moment later, one of the other men was handing the cowboy a pen. <br />
<br />
Ross ran toward her as fast as his little legs could carry him. "Look, Mama!" he shouted. "The cowboy signed his name on my hat! He said someday I could be a cowboy just like him!"<br />
<br />
"Hold on there, cowpoke."<br />
<br />
Sessa looked up to see the sandy-haired cowboy once again kneel beside Ross. "I said you could be a cowboy like me, but only if you study hard and keep your grades up so you can get into college. Oh, and be sure and listen to your mama." <br />
<br />
He looked over Ross's head to offer Sessa a wink. <br />
<br />
Through the haze of numbness, she felt a twinge of…something. Attraction, maybe. Unwelcome as it was. She let her gaze drop to her son, avoiding further eye contact with the cowboy.<br />
<br />
Oblivious, Ross beamed up at the man, one hand clapped to the hat on his head, steadying it. "I will," he said. "I promise."<br />
<br />
The cowboy straightened Ross's hat and then stuck his hand out to offer the child a firm handshake. "I have a feeling I'm going to see you again someday," he told Ross as he rose.<br />
<br />
"Me too!" Ross said with a broad grin.<br />
<br />
He wore his grin, and that cowboy hat, all the way home. Even as he fell into a deep slumber in his bed, Ross still bore the traces of that smile.<br />
<br />
And of course he wore the hat.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center>CHAPTER ONE</center><br />
<br />
<i>Fifteen years later</i><br />
<br />
Venting her frustration, Sessa fashioned a block of the finest ash into the shape of a lion's nose then moved to the table where the next task awaited—carving a replacement ribbon for a century-old prancing carousel horse. <br />
<br />
Every satisfying jab of the chisel had chipped away at another piece of her resentment until exhaustion, and the completion of the piece, forced her to quit. Still the aggravation teased at her, daring her to forget her belief in the Lord's plans in favor of believing He was out to get her. <br />
<br />
He had to be.<br />
<br />
She set the well-used carving tool in its place and shook her head to remove the sawdust from her hair. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the thick file of papers neatly packaged for mailing. <br />
<br />
Today of all days, she should be on top of the world. Unlike some of her smaller commissions, the pieces strewn across her workspace could soon be replaced by several dozen intended for use in the Smithsonian's traveling carousel display. After years of careful planning and despite the death of its founder fifteen years ago, Chambers Carousel Restorations had a real shot at hitting the big time.<br />
<br />
Her husband, rest his soul, would have been so proud. On the other hand, their son Ross would be unimpressed. What a cruel irony that she and Ben had worked to build something to pass on to the next generation, only to find their only child entertained no interest in the family business. <br />
<br />
If only Ben had lived to help raise him. Maybe Ross would have been the man she hoped he'd become. <br />
<br />
But then, Sessa could spend hours thinking about what might have been. Instead she chose to live in the present, only thinking of her prodigal on carefully chosen occasions. She went back to her work only to find her control had slipped.<br />
<br />
It happened more often these days. Sometimes a glance at her son's baby pictures would bring a memory to mind, while other times it would be the sound of laughter from a child on a radio commercial or the photograph of a dark-haired boy in the newspaper. Other times her longings might stem from a conversation between herself and her mother, some snippet of a past memory that would turn happy then stab her in the heart. Then there was the red cowboy hat on the shelf in his room, faded by time and dusty from her own inability to spend much time in a place where memories hung deeper than morning fog, that hat gave rise to the best memory of Ross she had.<br />
<br />
The day he spoke. The day some stranger turned a boy from inward to outward. To horses and riding and rodeo. She smiled and batted at the dust motes dancing in the sunshine.<br />
<br />
Remembering Ross as the baby, the child, and the young man prevented her from thinking of him as the adult he had become. The adult she barely knew and hardly recognized. <br />
<br />
How long had it been since she'd seen him? The months had stretched long and distant until nearly a year had gone by since his last visit. Even then, he'd been someone she loved but did not like. It shamed her to think of how relieved she'd been when he'd left.<br />
<br />
And now this. An impossible situation with no good solution. <br />
<br />
Her smile faded. This.<br />
<br />
A litany of if only's assaulted her, and she covered her ears to stop them. When they'd finally quieted, Sessa reached for the next piece, a delicate rabbit's ear made of maple. <br />
<br />
Wood shavings littered the floor of her studio, and a fine dust danced in the rays of morning sun. Seemed she might never come to terms with the guilt plaguing her. <br />
<br />
"Guilt is not of the Lord." She reached for a piece of cheesecloth and gave the prancing horse's nose a thorough cleaning. "You're doing the right thing. There's absolutely no proof."<br />
<br />
But the right thing seemed so wrong. And the proof was in those eyes. In the dimple in that tiny chin. In that bawl that sounded as if it came all the way up from those tiny toes.<br />
<br />
Her cell phone mocked her, daring her to do what she knew she should, and even as she made a swipe for it, she felt the pain of doubt. "Lord, I can't," sprung to her lips in a desperate plea. "I'm too old, too busy, too… You're the one who made me, so you know how terrible I am at doing more than one thing at a time. Surely you understand."<br />
<br />
The clock over the door read exactly eleven-thirty. One hour from now the decision would be taken away from her; it would be done. All she had to do was wait it out.<br />
<br />
Cradling the phone in her hand, she blew a fine film of dust off its black surface only to watch the particles settle on the envelope. All her dreams, the hope for a secure future, lay beneath the dust of shattered plans. Somehow, with the Lord's guidance, she could make new plans, find new dreams.<br />
<br />
Slowly she punched in the number she'd been given last night, a number she tried to forget yet couldn't help but remember. An eternity later, the phone rang. Sessa cleared her throat and said a prayer for guidance then found her voice when a young woman answered the phone.<br />
<br />
"I'll meet you at the bus station." Sessa hung up before she could take back the words. "I did what I should have, didn't I, Lord?"<br />
<br />
Even as she spoke, she knew the answer. "I can do all things through Christ," she said on an exhale of breath, "who gives me strength." <br />
<br />
"Well amen to that!" <br />
<br />
Coco.<br />
<br />
Sessa heard high heels clicking on the concrete and knew the cavalry approached. What was it about her best friend that brought her running at the first sign of trouble, even when she had not yet been told about the trouble?<br />
<br />
To the untrained eye, Cozette "Coco" Smith-Sutton hadn't aged a day since she reigned supreme as Sugar Pine High's head cheerleader and then married the quarterback—after he successfully completed his college career at Texas A&M and made it into the pros, of course. The fact that she'd also held the titles of Homecoming Queen, Cotton and Corn Princess, Miss Sugar Pine (twice!), and fourth runner up to Miss Texas should have disqualified her as friend material for a woman who would rather read or spend time in her father's workshop than just about anything else.<br />
<br />
And yet Sessa and Coco, who began life together as babies in the church nursery, had defied the odds to remain closer than sisters all these years. Coco had been her rock when Ben's delivery truck rolled off the highway that icy night so long ago, had tucked Ross into bed at her place alongside her boys on nights when Sessa's work kept her in the workshop because not working would have seen the electricity turned off or the mortgage not paid.<br />
<br />
In turn, Sessa had brought casseroles and fended off well-meaning church ladies when Coco's mama died and her daddy suddenly became the most eligible bachelor in the Over-Sixty Seekers Sunday School class. She'd also held Coco up through the long dark days and nights after media darling and NFL quarterback Ryan "The Rocket" Sutton, the man that ESPN called unstoppable, stopped loving perfect Coco and her boys and took up with a twenty-something stripper from Fort Worth.<br />
<br />
Oh, they fought. For all her sweetness, Coco could go sour fast if she found out you were doing one of the three things she detested most: hiding something she thought she ought to know, telling a lie, or messing with Texas.<br />
<br />
"I'm out in the workshop," Sessa called as she tossed off her gloves and swiped at the sawdust in her hair.<br />
<br />
"Well of course you are," she said. "I was just heading to the grocery store and thought I'd see if you needed anything."<br />
<br />
Today Coco had poured her long lean legs into white jeans, thrown a turquoise top over them, and finished the ensemble with matching turquoise high heel sandals. While Sessa's hair was moderately tamed in a messy bun, Coco's artfully created blonde ponytail looked as if it had been styled in an exclusive Hollywood salon instead by Vonnette over at the Hairport.<br />
<br />
She dropped her keys into her signature oversized designer purse, this one the same color as her heels, and removed the sunglasses that hid her perfectly made up face. A dozen silver bracelets jangled as she rested her hand on her hip.<br />
<br />
"Honey, you look like something the cat drug in. What's wrong?"<br />
<br />
Right to the point. Typical Coco.<br />
<br />
"I've been better." Sessa tossed off her gloves.<br />
<br />
Coco's green eyes opened wide. "What has Ross done now?" She continued walking toward Sessa. "No, do not answer until I can get you inside and pour you a cup of coffee. You look like you need something stronger than that, though. A pity neither of us drinks."<br />
<br />
"Coffee won't fix this." <br />
<br />
"Don't be silly. Coffee fixes…wait—" Coco shook her head. "This is really bad, isn't it?"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Bonnie S. Calhounhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11769607640246518804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368541238593747420.post-15951829648119405292015-09-27T23:21:00.000-04:002015-09-29T02:00:23.850-04:00The Bones Will Speak by Carrie Stuart Parks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYi-RRBXasqQDzWxQIy9I1NEbeKXRe_uU0Sz5LN6jZ_sMCiBrFIb4X17LpfsnY6SotUK4eOd8fZdVkWcP6D7n2XOjz8dCa-a8Gx2H7k1Ba_lsCabpIf_EwKyThuFDszVJyp21ZeR9c2MYO/s1600/BonesWillSpeak.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYi-RRBXasqQDzWxQIy9I1NEbeKXRe_uU0Sz5LN6jZ_sMCiBrFIb4X17LpfsnY6SotUK4eOd8fZdVkWcP6D7n2XOjz8dCa-a8Gx2H7k1Ba_lsCabpIf_EwKyThuFDszVJyp21ZeR9c2MYO/s320/BonesWillSpeak.jpg" width="209" /></a></div><center><span style="color: #993300; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1401690459">The Bones Will Speak</a></span></center><center>Thomas Nelson (August 11, 2015)<br />
</center><center>by</center><center><span style="color: #006600; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.carriestuartparks.com/">Carrie Stuart Parks</a></span></center><br />
<br />
<center>Chapter 1</center><br />
<b>April 15, Five Years Later </b><br />
<br />
<br />
I charged from the house and raced across the lawn, frantically waving my arms. "Stop digging! Winston, no!" <br />
<br />
Winston, my Great Pyrenees, paused in his vigorous burial of some form of road kill and raised a muddy nose in my direction. <br />
<br />
"I mean it!" Why hadn't I bought one of those nice, retriever-type dogs who mindlessly played fetch all day? Winston spent his time wading in the creek, digging pool-sized holes in the lawn, and―judging from the green stain―applying <i>eau de</i> cow pie around his ear. I crept toward him. <br />
<br />
He playfully raised his tail over his back and dodged left. <br />
<br />
"I'm warning you." I pointed a finger at him. Phthalo-blue watercolor rimmed my nail, making my gesture less threatening and more like I was growing a rare fungus. <br />
<br />
Unfazed, he darted toward the line of flowering lilac bushes lining the driveway, temporarily passing from sight. <i>How could a <br />
hundred-and-sixty-pound canine move so fast?</i> I circled in the other direction, slipping closer, then carefully parted the branches. No dog. <br />
<br />
This was ridiculous. I could chase my dog until I retrieved the road kill from his mouth, or scrub it off the carpet for the next week. And it was getting dark, with Prussian-blue shadows stretching between Montana's pine-covered Bitterroot Mountains. <br />
<br />
I glanced to my left. Winston crouched, wagging his tail. I moved toward him. He snatched his prize and shook it. <br />
<br />
Two black hollows appeared. <br />
<br />
I couldn't move. The air rushed from my lungs and came out in a long hiss. I patted my leg, urging the dog closer. <br />
<br />
Winston lifted the object, exposing a hole with radiating cracks. <br />
<br />
Crouching, I extended my hand. "Come on, fellow. Good doggie, over here." <br />
<br />
He placed his find on the ground. It came to rest on its even row of ivory teeth. <br />
<br />
I approached gingerly, knelt on the soggy ground, and inspected the sightless eye sockets. "Oh, dear Lord." <br />
<br />
Winston nudged the skull forward. <br />
<br />
I yelped and sprawled on my rear. An overfed beetle plopped out of the nasal aperture and landed on my shoelace. <br />
<br />
Heart racing like a runaway horse, I violently kicked the offending bug, skidded backward, and stood. Fumbling my cell phone from my jeans pocket, I punched in Dave's number. <br />
<br />
"Leave it to you, Winston, to find a skull full of bugs—" <br />
<br />
"Ravalli County Sheriff 's Department, Sheriff Dave Moore." <br />
<br />
"She's dead. You've got to come now, Dave!" Winston pawed at the skull like a volleyball. <br />
<br />
"Stop that, Winston. You're just going to make more bugs fall out." I bumped the dog away with my leg. <br />
<br />
"What is it now, Gwen? You're calling me because Winston has bugs?" <br />
<br />
I rubbed my face. "Of course not. Don't be silly. I already told you she's dead―" <br />
<br />
"Question one: Are you okay?" <br />
<br />
"Yes! Well—" <br />
<br />
"Good, good. Now, question two: Where are you?" "I'm home. Near home. The edge of the woods—" <br />
<br />
"Choose one." <br />
<br />
"Doggone it, Dave, don't patronize me." I wanted to sling the phone across the yard, then race over to the sheriff 's office and kick Dave in the shin. "Stop being irritating and get over here." <br />
<br />
"Ah, yes. That brings me to question three. Who's 'she'?" <br />
<br />
"She's a skull. Or technically a cranium. Didn't I say that? She was murdered." <br />
<br />
"Murdered? Are you sure she isn't a lost hiker or hunter?" <br />
<br />
"Oh, for Pete's sake, Dave. She's got a neat bullet hole in her forehead, and a not-so-neat exit wound shattering the back." The dog reached a paw around my leg and attempted to snag his plaything. I tapped it out of reach with my shoe. I sincerely hoped no one was watching me play a macabre version of skull soccer with my dog. I already had a reputation for being eccentric. <br />
<br />
"Are you positive it's female?" <br />
<br />
<br />
Bonnie S. Calhounhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11769607640246518804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368541238593747420.post-41973817256241457192015-08-23T23:09:00.001-04:002015-08-23T23:36:06.846-04:00Cold as Ice by M.K. Gilroy<center><span style="color: #993300; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0991212479">Cold as Ice</a></span></center><center>Sydney Lane Press<br />
</center><center>by</center><center><span style="color: #006600; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.markgilroy.com/">M.K. Gilroy</a></span></center><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIapJ2_wphrCnZfOofC0qR0nPo4MtyxPaDvwWHDY5gbBLBYHm02xXPK9ii1PjHTg8Abqo5Cv5-JKc0u6XNrIguziIWhXSSnJCm0UP_XggS9Tz-5L4PfjbBDeyEXudF_IhwQJeoZh_eMsal/s1600/ColdAsIce.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIapJ2_wphrCnZfOofC0qR0nPo4MtyxPaDvwWHDY5gbBLBYHm02xXPK9ii1PjHTg8Abqo5Cv5-JKc0u6XNrIguziIWhXSSnJCm0UP_XggS9Tz-5L4PfjbBDeyEXudF_IhwQJeoZh_eMsal/s320/ColdAsIce.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><br />
<center>Chapter 1</center><br />
IT WAS FOUR in the morning in New York City, the city's quietest hour—perhaps only quiet hour. Francis "Frank" Nelson, Jr., stepped off the curb in front of the Dexter Arms on West 58th Street, and looked left and right. A cab was idling across the street, but still no driver behind the wheel. He had crossed the street a few minutes earlier to rap on the driver's window, but the car was empty then, too. That seemed odd, but what isn't odd at four in the morning in New York City? He looked left and right again, but still saw no sign of another cab. Preferably one with a driver. <br />
<br />
Where is the driver? <br />
<br />
He had been freezing his butt off for almost ten minutes now, and his impatience was beginning to ball up into a tight, throbbing knot in the base of his stomach. He wasn't a New Yorker, but he did enough business in the city to embrace the cynical and sometimes too true belief that the only time you can't find a taxi or a cop is when you need one. <br />
<br />
Stage two hypertension. Doctor says I've got to manage stress better. If I don't get out of here I'm going to stroke out tonight. <br />
<br />
He was tired and anxious to get back to the second floor of the brownstone on the east side of Central Park. Very nice but at twenty-five thousand dollars for the week it cost too much under the circumstances—his company was on the ropes financially. So was he. Everything he had was sunk in the company. <br />
<br />
That is why I had to do what I did tonight. <br />
<br />
Nelson was ready to scream with the tension. He was already irritated that no one was working the bell stand at the Dexter to make a cab appear right away. The young lady attending the registration desk, barely able to speak English and barely awake, he thought with a snort, assured him that she could get a cab in no time. Right. He paced inside the lobby and then paced outside on the street for as long as he could stand the cold. Not very long. <br />
<br />
He had hired his own car and driver for the week, but he was cabbing it tonight because he didn't want his activities known. Nor did the people he was meeting with. The man in charge—not what he was expecting—said it would be much less conspicuous to catch a cab back to the brownstone at this time of night. He agreed. But where was the cab? Just how hard was it to get an open cab at four in the morning? <br />
<br />
Okay, I know the cab across the street is open, but how about an open cab with a driver? <br />
<br />
He was late to say the least, and if his wife, Justine, was awake or woke up with him coming back now, she would kill him. She would accuse him of cheating and drinking. Neither was true, of course. At least not tonight and not in the sense she would assume it. <br />
<br />
But things could get bad, very bad, if she or anyone else began asking questions about why he was at the Dexter Arms throughout the night. <br />
<br />
Nelson told her not to come this trip. That only made Justine more set on travelling with him. <br />
<br />
She loves to disagree. I should have begged her to come. <br />
<br />
<br />
••• <br />
<br />
<br />
"Kristen, what are you doing? Tell me you aren't going out in this weather." <br />
<br />
"It's my last chance to run in Central Park." <br />
<br />
"It's below zero." <br />
<br />
"Don't exaggerate, Klarissa. The weather guy said it would be at least five degrees this morning." <br />
<br />
I can't understand what my sister just mumbled from under the covers but I don't think it was very nice. <br />
<br />
Her head pops into view. "Really, Kristen? Really?" <br />
<br />
<br />
I'm tugging my leggings up. "We grew up in Chicago, Sis, this is child's play." <br />
<br />
"It's not even four in the morning, Kristen. Go back to sleep. Or at least get out of here and let me sleep." <br />
<br />
"I'm going. Give me a sec. I'm going." <br />
<br />
"Good." <br />
<br />
"But not for real long. I've got to pack for my flight later this morning. Mom will be calling fairly soon to make sure I've given myself plenty of time to get to LaGuardia." <br />
<br />
Klarissa finally sits up to glare at me. I stifle a smile. Her glorious mane of golden blonde hair looks as beautiful mussed as when it's done up for her television work. Women pay big bucks to have a stylist try to make their hair look like Klarissa's does with a simple toss of her head when she wakes up. My hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail for my run. Same as I wear it for work. Life's not fair. <br />
<br />
"Okay, Kristen," she says. "You're right—like always. Far be it from me to argue. We grew up in a freezing cold city. So I guess that makes your obsessive . . . your obsessive stupidity toward physical activity understandable. Since you're crazy enough to run in this weather, at least be quiet about it so one of us gets some sleep," she finishes in disgust, rolling away from the nightstand light and putting a pillow over her head. "And stay warm!" she adds, muffled but loud enough to wake our wing of the Hilton. <br />
<br />
I look over at Klarissa, her hair cascading from underneath the pillow. So beautiful. Always the princess. I'll never understand my sister. I lift the pillow, give her a quick kiss on the top of her head, smile when she mumbles something else, nice or otherwise, and head for the door. <br />
<br />
Hey, what did she say about me being obsessive and stupid? And what's with giving me the business on being noisy? I was being quiet. I think. And what's with her claiming I always have to be right? <br />
<br />
I've got to run. I'll argue with her later. <br />
<br />
••• <br />
<br />
After the door shuts behind Kristen, Klarissa sighs and gets up to go to the bathroom. <br />
<br />
My sister. Is it possible one of us got put into our family by mis- take? Detective. Workout warrior. Fighter. Kristen isn't happy unless she's fighting or getting ready to fight. Or sweating. She doesn't have a clue how beautiful she is. I'll never understand my sister. <br />
<br />
Bonnie S. Calhounhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11769607640246518804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368541238593747420.post-47204928373972301972015-08-16T23:02:00.002-04:002015-08-16T23:22:22.068-04:00Once Upon a Summertime by Melody Carlson<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF8j4Jqvd68KwZc61F069Ssx1f7rClW4TERYVwmnDsWpw1MVd_R54wGoEWJZGCD1C-jLyOt3Pq2KE9Ou_SX9OeA1kZny_EZgFlyy9s2LzAfdEApzEydAARv8z8ibGbrQ5pBbKdhkgZI9h5/s1600/OnceUponASummertime.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF8j4Jqvd68KwZc61F069Ssx1f7rClW4TERYVwmnDsWpw1MVd_R54wGoEWJZGCD1C-jLyOt3Pq2KE9Ou_SX9OeA1kZny_EZgFlyy9s2LzAfdEApzEydAARv8z8ibGbrQ5pBbKdhkgZI9h5/s320/OnceUponASummertime.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><center><span style="color: #993300; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0800723570">Once Upon a Summertime</a></span></center><center>Revell (June 2, 2015)</center><center>by</center><center><span style="color: #006600; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.melodycarlson.com/">Melody Carlson</a></span></center><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center>Chapter 1</center><br />
<br />
It had never been Anna Gordon's dream to work for a motel—certainly not the Value Lodge. And most definitely not in the same sleepy town she'd grown up in. But as her grandma had reminded her just that morning, "A job is a job, and I'm sure there are plenty of unemployed folks who would be grateful to trade places." Even so, as Anna walked the six blocks from her grandmother's apartment to her place of employment, she longed for something more. <br />
<br />
As Anna came to Lou's Café, someone backed out the front door with a watering can in hand, nearly knocking Anna down. "Excuse me!" the careless woman cried as she slopped cold water onto Anna's good Nine West pumps. <br />
<br />
As Anna caught her balance, she recognized the o ender. "Marley Ferris!" she cried out. "What on earth are you doing here in Springville?" <br />
<br />
Marley blinked in surprise. "Anna?" <br />
<br />
"I can't believe it's you." Anna stared at her old friend in wonder. Marley set aside the watering can and the two hugged—long and hard—exclaiming joyfully over this unexpected meeting. <br />
<br />
"It's been so long," Marley said as they stepped apart. "Way too long." Anna slowly shook her head. <br />
<br />
"And look at you." Marley studied Anna closely, from her shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair to her shoes. "So professional in your stylish suit. And still looking way too much like Nicole Kidman's little sister." <br />
<br />
Anna smiled. "Thanks." <br />
<br />
"What're you doing in these parts anyway?" <br />
<br />
"I was about to ask you the same thing." Anna adjusted her purse strap. <br />
<br />
"I'm just home for a few days." She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. "Helping out with my parents' café. My mom's laid up after back surgery." <br />
<br />
"Oh dear. Is she okay?" <br />
<br />
"Yeah. It was a ruptured disc, but sounds like they got it cleaned up. She just needs to take it easy for a few days." Marley pointed at Anna. "Seriously, what're you doing back in Springville, and looking all uptown too?" <br />
<br />
Anna grimaced, wishing for a better answer. "I'm, uh, I'm managing the, uh, the motel," she mumbled. <br />
<br />
"Oh?" Marley's brow creased. "A motel? In this town?" Anna tipped her head down the street with a somber expression. <br />
<br />
"The Value Lodge?" <br />
<br />
"Uh-huh." Anna glanced at her watch. "And I should probably get going." <br />
<br />
"Oh yeah, sure." Marley looked doubtful, as if she was still processing this bit of news. <br />
<br />
"It's great seeing you," Anna said. "You look fantastic." <br />
<br />
"Hey, why don't you come back over here for lunch?" Marley said quickly. "Give us time to catch up. The Value <br />
<br />
Lodge does give you a lunch break, doesn't it?" <br />
<br />
"Absolutely." Anna nodded eagerly. "At 1:00." <br />
<br />
"I'll be right here." Marley picked up the can and began to water the large terra-cotta pot by the front door, which was overflowing with colorful pansies and red geraniums. "I promised Mom I'd keep her plants alive until she gets back. Can you believe how hot it's been? And it's only May!" She plucked o a dried bloom, tossing it into the gutter. <br />
<br />
"I adore your mom's flowers. So pretty and cheerful." Anna waved as she continued on her way. And it was true—she did love seeing the café's flowers. It was a bright spot in her day. The blooms reminded her of the small hotel she'd worked at during her college years. Some students in the hospitality management program had disparaged the old Pomonte Hotel by calling it the Podunk Hotel. But compared to the Value Lodge, the thirty-six-room Pomonte was quite chic, from its cast iron flowerpots by the door to the bubbling fountain in the lobby. It was true what they said: you don't know what you've got until it's gone. <br />
<br />
Anna felt a familiar wave of disappointment wash over as her destination came into view. The boring two-story motel had been built in the early eighties, and most Springville residents agreed it was an eyesore. Some more motivated citizens had even gone to the city council demanding improvements. Anna couldn't blame them. When she'd accepted the managerial job, she had convinced herself that she could make a difference in the humdrum lodgings—or she could move on after a year. Unfortunately, she'd been wrong on both accounts. <br />
<br />
As she got closer to the building, her general dismay was replaced by some ironic gratitude—she was thankful that none of her college chums could see her now. It was bad enough having to confess her lackluster vocation to a childhood friend this morning. But if her college acquaintances knew—like her ex-roommate who now worked in Paris, or the ex-boyfriend who managed a Caribbean Ritz—Anna would feel thoroughly humiliated. <br />
<br />
She wasn't a big fan of social networking, but she occasionally sneaked a peek at friends' Facebook pages—not for long, lest she feed any jealous green demons festering inside of her. Naturally, she never posted a single word about her own personal or professional life. Occasionally she was tempted to fake some exotic photos and falsify her whereabouts, just for fun, but really that wasn't her style. Better to remain honest and simply suffer in silence. <br />
<br />
From across the street, she frowned at the garishly painted Value Lodge. Not for the first time, she wondered what idiot picked out those colors. The bright yellow and red stripes had always reminded her of a fast-food restaurant; they looked like mustard and ketchup, but much less appetizing. In Anna's opinion, almost everything about this motel was unappealing, from the "free continental breakfast," which consisted of small cardboard boxes of cereal and cartons of milk and juice, to the kidney-shaped swimming pool in its varying shades of blue and sometimes green, to the lumpy queen beds topped with bedspreads with a texture akin to fiberglass. For the life of her, she could not understand why anyone would stay here on purpose. Well, except that the Value Lodge boasted the "lowest rates in town." She would give the motel that much—it was definitely cheap. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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Bonnie S. Calhounhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11769607640246518804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368541238593747420.post-30402767318659746832015-08-09T21:33:00.000-04:002015-08-10T23:46:44.102-04:00Hope Harbor by Irene Hannon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji4-jreuEPiQEHfo8vAXOY6e3SQGSvAabR80vlYglM1g9gwIpHw-0t2N0W7iElT2Cx1s9xvk_WdHsem03gY_dTTIumXrFlTZxXHpHc9yixUvrlFVnaJK5eIO0bX-Kj1fzlr8slfCrjPVdR/s1600/Hope_Harbor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji4-jreuEPiQEHfo8vAXOY6e3SQGSvAabR80vlYglM1g9gwIpHw-0t2N0W7iElT2Cx1s9xvk_WdHsem03gY_dTTIumXrFlTZxXHpHc9yixUvrlFVnaJK5eIO0bX-Kj1fzlr8slfCrjPVdR/s320/Hope_Harbor.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><center><span style="color: #993300; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0800724526">Hope Harbor</a></span></center><center>Revell (July 7, 2015)</center><center>by</center><center><span style="color: #006600; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.irenehannon.com/">Irene Hannon</a></span></center><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center>Chapter 1 - Excerpt</center><br />
<i>Closed until June 13 <br />
</i><br />
Michael Hunter stared at the hand-lettered sign on the Gull Motel office, expelled a breath, and raked his fingers through his hair. <br />
<br />
Not the welcome he'd been expecting after a mind-numbing thirty-six-hour cross-country drive to the Oregon coast. <br />
<br />
And where was he supposed to stay for the next three weeks, until the place opened again? <br />
<br />
Reining in the urge to kick the door, he leaned close to the glass and peered into the dim, deserted office. Rattled the rigid knob. Scanned the small, empty parking lot. <br />
<br />
The sign hadn't lied. This place was out of commission. <br />
<br />
He swiveled toward the marina down the hill, where boats bobbed in the gentle swells. The motel might be a bust, but at least Hope Harbor was as picturesque as promised. Planters overflowing with colorful flowers served as a bu er between the sidewalk and the sloping pile of boulders that led to the water. Across the wide street from the marina, quaint storefronts faced the sea. A white gazebo occupied a small park where the two-block-long, crescent-shaped frontage road dead-ended at a river. More shops lined the next street back, many adorned with bright awnings and flower boxes. <br />
<br />
The town was exactly what he'd expected. <br />
<br />
But with the only motel closed, it didn't appear he'd be calling it home during his stay in the area. <br />
<br />
A prick of anger penetrated his fatigue. Why had the clerk let him book a room if the motel was going to shut down for several weeks? And why hadn't someone corrected the mistake in the thirty days since he'd put down his deposit? <br />
<br />
If shoddy business practices like this were indicative of the much-touted laid-back Pacific Northwest lifestyle, the locals could have it—especially since such sloppiness meant he was now going to have to find another place to rest his very weary head. <br />
<br />
He reached for the phone on his belt, frowning when his fingers met air. Oh, right. He'd taken it o as he'd rolled out of Chicago two days ago—a very deliberate strategy to make a clean break from work. Wasn't that the point of a leave of absence, after all? <br />
<br />
But the cell was close at hand. <br />
<br />
Back at his car, he opened the trunk, rooted around in the <br />
<br />
smaller of his two bags, and pulled it out. <br />
<br />
Three messages popped up once he powered on, all from the Gull Motel. <br />
<br />
He played the first one back, from a woman named Madeline who identified herself as the manager. <br />
<br />
"Mr. Hunter, I'm afraid we've had an electrical fire and will be closing for about three weeks for repairs. Please call me at your earliest convenience so we can help you find other lodging." She recited her number. <br />
<br />
The second and third messages were similar. <br />
<br />
So the shutdown had been unexpected, and someone had tried to call him. <br />
<br />
Slowly he inhaled a lungful of the fresh sea air, forcing the taut muscles in his shoulders to relax. Driving for fifteen hours two days in a row and getting up at the crack of dawn this morning to finish the trip must have done a number on his tolerance. Giving people the benefit of the doubt was much more his style. Besides, he was used to operating on the fly, finding creative solutions to problems. Glitches never phased him. His ability to roll with the punches was one of the things Julie had loved about him. <br />
<br />
Julie. <br />
<br />
His view of the harbor blurred around the edges, and he clenched his teeth. <br />
<br />
Let it go, Hunter. Self-pity won't change a thing. Move on. Get your life back. <br />
<br />
It was the same advice he'd been giving himself for months— and he intended to follow it. <br />
<br />
As soon as he figured out how. <br />
<br />
Fighting o a wave of melancholy, he tapped in the number the woman had provided, his index finger less than steady on the keypad. For a moment he examined the tremors, then shoved his hand in his pocket. He was tired, that's all. He needed food and sleep, in that order. The sooner the better. Things would seem brighter tomorrow. <br />
<br />
They had to. <br />
<br />
If this trip didn't help him sort out his life, he was out of options. <br />
<br />
While the phone rang, he looked toward the harbor again, past the long jetty on the left and the pair of rocky islands on the right that tamed the turbulent waves and protected the boats in the marina. His gaze skimmed across the placid surface of the sea, moving all the way to the horizon where cobalt water met deep blue sky. From his perch on the hill, the scene appeared to be picture perfect. <br />
<br />
But it wasn't. Nothing was. Not up close. That was the illusion of distance. It softened edges, masked flaws, obscured messy detail. <br />
<br />
It also changed perspective. <br />
<br />
If he was lucky, this trip would do all those things for him—and more. <br />
<br />
"Mr. Hunter? This is Madeline King. I've been trying to reach you." <br />
<br />
He shifted away from the peaceful panorama and adjusted the phone against his ear. "I've been traveling cross-country and my cell was o . I'm at the motel now. What can you suggest as an alternative?" <br />
<br />
"Unfortunately, there aren't many options in Hope Harbor. But there are a number of very nice places in Coos Bay or Bandon." <br />
<br />
As she began to rattle o the names of hotels, he stifled a sigh. He hadn't driven all the way out here to stay in either of those towns. He'd come to spend time in Hope Harbor. <br />
<br />
"Isn't there anything closer?" <br />
<br />
At his abrupt interruption, the woman stopped speaking. <br />
<br />
"Um . . . not anything I'd recommend. I could probably find you a B&B that's closer, but those are on the pricey side. Most people book them for a night or two at most, and I believe you intended to stay for several weeks. Plus, B&Bs tend to be geared to couples." <br />
<br />
Good point. A cozy inn would only remind him how alone he was. <br />
<br />
"Okay . . . why don't you line me up with someplace for a few nights while I decide what I want to do. Bandon would be my preference, since it's closer." <br />
<br />
"I'll get right on it." <br />
<br />
"Don't rush." He inspected the two-block-long business district, such as it was. "I'm going to wander around town for a while and grab a bite to eat." <br />
<br />
"Sounds like a plan. And again, I'm sorry for the inconvenience." <br />
<br />
Once they said their good-byes, he grabbed a jacket from the backseat and locked the car. The midday sun was warm, but the breeze was cool—by his standards, anyway. Perhaps a slight nip in the air was normal for Oregon in the third week of May, though. <br />
<br />
Stomach growling, he started down the hill. If he weren't famished, he'd head the opposite direction and check out the big, empty beach at the base of the blu s on the outskirts of town that he'd spotted as he drove in. A walk on the sand past the sea stacks arrayed o shore would be far more enjoyable than wandering along—he glanced at the street sign as he arrived at the bottom of the hill—Dockside Drive. <br />
<br />
The two-block waterfront street didn't take long to traverse, and by the time he was halfway down the second block it was clear his food options were limited to a bakery and a bait-and-tackle shop with a sign advertising takeout sandwiches for the fishing crowd. <br />
<br />
All the real restaurants must be in the business district, one street removed from the marina. <br />
<br />
Just as he was about to retrace his steps, a spicy, appetizing scent wafted his way. He squinted toward the end of the block, where a white truck with a serving window on one side was perched at the edge of the tiny waterside park with the gazebo. Charley's, according to the colorful lettering above the window where a couple of people were giving orders to a guy with a weathered face and long gray hair pulled back in a ponytail. <br />
<br />
Another whi of an enticing aroma set o a loud clamor in his stomach. <br />
<br />
Sold. Whatever they were cooking, he was eating. <br />
<br />
With a quick change of direction, he stepped o the sidewalk to cross the street. <br />
<br />
"Hey! Watch it!" <br />
<br />
Bonnie S. Calhounhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11769607640246518804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368541238593747420.post-66431577500200127122015-07-26T22:51:00.000-04:002015-07-26T22:51:14.927-04:00Dead Dog Like Me by Max Davis<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKKWH1e2e6_x88Li8_8N2tEyC7gJSiKp-TDBXv1NS2Uia7BMi2a4rG25ZsG4zHd9-bQ3xI9elzGRNM9m4JSF-mIkTAn8NgZyCE_WZu2uT959hi68MqndJIckqP6ogWPlZ0sllzF2XJNXZ0/s1600/Dead_Dog_Like_Me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKKWH1e2e6_x88Li8_8N2tEyC7gJSiKp-TDBXv1NS2Uia7BMi2a4rG25ZsG4zHd9-bQ3xI9elzGRNM9m4JSF-mIkTAn8NgZyCE_WZu2uT959hi68MqndJIckqP6ogWPlZ0sllzF2XJNXZ0/s320/Dead_Dog_Like_Me.jpg" width="206" /></a></div><center><span style="color: #993300; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1617955248">Dead Dog Like Me</a></span></center><center>Worthy Publishing (June 23, 2015)<br />
</center><center>by</center><center><span style="color: #006600; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.maxdavisbooks.com/">Max Davis</a></span></center><br /><br />
<br /><br />
<br />
<center>Chapter 1</center><br />
***Coming Soon***Bonnie S. Calhounhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11769607640246518804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368541238593747420.post-76326080638845057732015-07-19T21:27:00.000-04:002015-07-19T21:27:35.743-04:00No Safe Harbor by Elizabeth Ludwig<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQxWSIdFs_C_4Jl3J-_cUxlHPXLaEO8Oh869GNloEp7Qm50n34hX3INu9lKBwhcAz4FZcZ1pB2xPp759DifCxBpjz0eeRsgoxteuK-eheE9-v64PP-L8qmNyp2nhatRamAdnF02tzHtIE_/s1600/No_Safe_Harbor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQxWSIdFs_C_4Jl3J-_cUxlHPXLaEO8Oh869GNloEp7Qm50n34hX3INu9lKBwhcAz4FZcZ1pB2xPp759DifCxBpjz0eeRsgoxteuK-eheE9-v64PP-L8qmNyp2nhatRamAdnF02tzHtIE_/s1600/No_Safe_Harbor.jpg" width="128" /></a></div><center><span style="color: #993300; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0764210394">No Safe Harbor</a></span></center><center>Bethany House Publishers (October 1, 2012)</center><center>by</center><center><span style="color: #006600; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.elizabethludwig.net/">Elizabeth Ludwig</a></span></center><br />
<br />
<a title="View No Safe Harbor on Scribd" href="http://www.scribd.com/doc/102354637/No-Safe-Harbor" style="margin: 12px auto 6px auto; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,Sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; -x-system-font: none; display: block; text-decoration: underline;">No Safe Harbor</a><iframe class="scribd_iframe_embed" src="http://www.scribd.com/embeds/102354637/content?start_page=1&view_mode=scroll&access_key=key-ont0psy4n7pt6k6u51m" data-auto-height="true" data-aspect-ratio="0.646934460887949" scrolling="no" id="doc_35009" width="100%" height="600" frameborder="0"></iframe>Bonnie S. Calhounhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11769607640246518804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368541238593747420.post-29781268201997448552015-07-12T22:35:00.000-04:002015-07-12T22:35:01.100-04:00Jack Staples and the Ring of Time by Mark Batterson and Joel Clark<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX7P63O9cDy0QacM8KPw9b5ftsxXZgn5tLz-_zhD-Tt2qchmRrBT51NktBS7IL9KuYnt5uM0oxxc6gYDHYqtIpN1Sidc4d1Pm401pTSYTtH0LQTPbw0yVemYj4E41JQ0zygd_UFaqmoxV4/s1600/JackStaples-theRingTime.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX7P63O9cDy0QacM8KPw9b5ftsxXZgn5tLz-_zhD-Tt2qchmRrBT51NktBS7IL9KuYnt5uM0oxxc6gYDHYqtIpN1Sidc4d1Pm401pTSYTtH0LQTPbw0yVemYj4E41JQ0zygd_UFaqmoxV4/s320/JackStaples-theRingTime.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<center>
<span style="color: #993300; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0781411076">Jack Staples and the Ring of Time</a></span></center>
<center>
David C. Cook (September 1, 2014)</center>
<center>
by</center>
<center>
<span style="color: #006600; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.markbatterson.com/">Mark Batterson and Joel Clark</a></span></center>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Chapter 1<br />
<br />
A NIGHT TO REMEMBER<br />
<br />
A blackbird fluttered through the open flap of an enormous circus tent. Only one boy out of the hundreds of men, women, and children sitting inside noticed. The boy was as thin as a rail with bushy brown hair and bright blue eyes. His name was Jack Staples, and today was his eleventh birthday. Jack sat sandwiched between his fourteen-year-old brother, Parker, and his mother, whose age he did not know.<br />
<br />
No one else in the crowd had noticed the bird because their attention was drawn to the center of the tent where a girl in a crimson hooded cloak walked along a rope suspended between two platforms. The girl’s daring walk was only part of what had the onlookers so entranced. Not far beneath her tightrope, two lions— one with a golden mane, the other’s black—circled and snarled. As the girl walked the rope, the beasts leaped and swiped their razor- sharp claws, barely missing her feet. With each miss, they roared their frustration, and the crowd gasped in fear.<br />
<br />
Encircling the lions was a blazing ring of fire. And just out- side the flames were four tumblers. Each held a torch and moved continuously, somersaulting and leaping about to ensure the beasts stayed within the circle of flames and away from the watching crowd.<br />
<br />
Jack should have been mesmerized by the death-defying spec- tacle, yet he was becoming more irritated by the second. As the balancing girl neared the center of the rope, bringing the bottoms of her feet closer to the lions’ claws with every step, Jack couldn’t stop his eyes from drifting upward. The annoying blackbird was still flapping about near the tent ceiling.<br />
<br />
This girl, thought Jack, is only moments away from being eaten, and here I am looking at a stupid bird!<br />
<br />
Jack’s eyes shot downward as the crowd gasped. The girl flailed her arms, trying to regain her balance. Jack clutched his brother’s hand as the rope pitched and swayed beneath her.<br />
<br />
Throughout the tent, the crowd shouted instructions and words of encouragement. Just as it seemed the girl was sure to plunge to her death, she stretched out her right leg and stood on the toes of her left foot. Amazingly, these movements allowed her to regain balance.<br />
<br />
A collective sigh of relief rose from the stands as the balancing girl took the final step to the center of the rope. The beasts bounded upward, gnashed their teeth, and roared wildly. Outside the flames the tumblers flipped and spun as their blurred torches sent sparks hurling in every direction. Jack didn’t breathe. Even when something hard and cold bumped against his leg from beneath the bleachers, he barely noticed.<br />
<br />
As the tightrope walker crouched low, she wrapped her crimson cloak around her body. At the same moment, the tumblers gave a final leap before also dropping to their knees.<br />
<br />
The black-maned lion roared as both beasts bounded upward, snapping their jaws at the girl taunting them from above. Yet the girl also leaped high, spreading her crimson cloak wide and per- forming the most magnificent spinning backflip.<br />
<br />
As she landed, the rope pitched dangerously beneath her, but she maintained her balance. And when she extended her arms wide, the crimson cloak enveloped each, making her look like a bird with wings outstretched. From beneath her hood, the girl grinned widely.<br />
<br />
For a moment, perfect silence hung inside the circus tent. Even the stupid bird was quiet. And then, as if it were the easiest thing in the world, the tightrope walker stood tall and bowed, giving an extravagant flourish of her cloak.<br />
<br />
The crowd roared their praise; Jack let out a great sigh of relief. When the poised girl turned to continue up the rope to the opposite platform, she made it look as if the rope were as wide as a road and she didn’t have a care in the world. The applause grew to a crescendo as men threw hats and children high into the air.<br />
<br />
“I was so scared!” Jack had to yell to be heard above the cheers of the crowd.<br />
<br />
“Me too!” shouted Parker. “Did you see how close those claws came?” Parker made a growling sound and curled his hand into a claw, mimicking the lions.<br />
<br />
Jack laughed as his eyes drifted to the ceiling once more. The blackbird was still flapping about and screeching loudly. As the girl continued her walk to safety, the ridiculous bird rammed into the ceiling one final time and then plummeted downward in a daze.<br />
<br />
Crouched low on the sandy ground was the black-maned lion. Its eyes were also locked on the falling bird. With a new target in sight, the beast leaped higher than ever before. And though it missed the bird, it did manage to chomp through the tightrope.<br />
<br />
Shrill screams erupted as the lion landed on the sandy ground. Fingers pointed toward the dazed girl who was now lying between the two beasts. The lions seemed puzzled at the girl’s presence, yet it was only when the four tumblers leaped into the ring of fire that the beasts became angry.<br />
<br />
The tumblers stood shoulder-to-shoulder, shouting as they whirled their torches with dizzying speed, thrusting them forward in a threatening manner. But the lions stood their ground. No matter how close the men came, the beasts refused to back away from the girl. They paced in front of her, roaring at the approaching men.<br />
<br />
The tumblers were now so close to the lions that they could have touched the beasts with their firebrands. Yet the lions swiped at the torches, refusing to move. As the men took yet another step forward, both lions let out a defiant roar, then turned and took three running steps toward the now unguarded ring of fire … and jumped.<br />
<br />
The crowd surged into motion, people screaming and running wildly in every direction. The lions’ roars were like thunder as they bounded into the mass of men, women, and children, nipping and swiping at anyone unfortunate enough to be in their way.<br />
<br />
Jack was terrified. His mother grabbed his hand, as well as Parker’s, and began running toward the exit. Even without the lions, though, the run was perilous. The crowd had become frantic. Everyone sprinted blindly with no regard for those around them. It was chaos.<br />
<br />
Jack’s mother skidded to a stop, knelt, and pulled both boys close. As the panicked crowd sprinted past, Jack could see where she was looking. On the far side of the tent, a young girl sat on the sandy ground, screaming. A short distance away, the golden lion stalked slowly toward the girl.<br />
<br />
Jack’s mother placed Parker’s hand over his. “Parker,” she shouted, “take your brother and get him out of here. I need to go help that girl.” As the crowd rushed past, bumping and jostling them without care, Jack’s mother bent and kissed each of them on the forehead. “Make your way to the wagon, and I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.” Without another word, she gently shoved them in the direction of the exit, then turned and ran back for the girl.<br />
<br />
Jack was panicked. Parker dragged him a few steps toward the exit, but Jack escaped his brother’s grasp and ran backward, desperate to find his mother in the crowd. What is she doing? he wondered. She’s going to be eaten by the lion!<br />
<br />
Parker caught up to Jack and tugged his arm, shouting, “We have to keep running!” Jack hadn’t realized he’d stopped. Whenhe turned to continue his run, the fabric walls of the circus tent burst into flames. Someone must have knocked over one of the lampstands, he realized. Both boys shared a fearful look as the fire spread quicker than Jack could have imagined. They bolted forward again as the flames shot toward the ceiling and thick smoke filled the air.<br />
<br />
Jack struggled to keep his feet as Parker was knocked to his knees only to get up again and continue running. Jack looked over his shoulder one last time in hopes of finding his mother, but she was lost amid the smoke and hysteria. As he turned back, he collided headfirst with someone’s elbow. Bouncing backward, Jack landed flat on his back on the sandy ground.<br />
<br />
For a moment, everything went dark. Then, as his vision returned, he felt disoriented. He stared at the ceiling in a daze. It was positively beautiful. Bright flames danced far above as bits of fire and ash fell all around. He lay on his back watching in wonder, the flaming walls and ceiling seemingly spinning around him.<br />
<br />
“Jack!” Someone’s scream interrupted his cloudy thoughts. “You put me down! Jack! Can you hear me?” the voice screamed again.<br />
<br />
Why are the walls on fire? And why does my head hurt? Jack’s mind felt sluggish.<br />
<br />
“Jack! Get up! I’m telling you, put me down!” The same voice shouted again, yet this time it sounded farther away.<br />
<br />
I recognize that voice. That’s Parker! As he sat up to look for his brother, tears leaked from his eyes. The air was filled with billowing smoke that was growing thicker by the second.<br />
<br />
“You let me go! That’s my brother in there! Let me go!”<br />
<br />
Jack finally saw him; Parker was in the arms of a large man who was carrying him away like a sack of grain. His brother hit the man with his fists and continued yelling to Jack.<br />
<br />
“Get up, Jack! It’s coming! You have to get up! The lion is coming!”<br />
<br />
Before Parker could say more, the man had carried him out of the tent.<br />
<br />
As fire exploded along the cloth walls, Jack remembered where he was. And with the memory came a paralyzing fear.Bonnie S. Calhounhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11769607640246518804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368541238593747420.post-82286145744954072082015-06-21T22:21:00.000-04:002015-06-27T03:50:14.691-04:00The Ticket by Debra Jeter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIM20l3DLXu7qeiBzU1TahAdxc1riUhKv5o9-ZmPhNbqx2Yu5kq7E_19w8HVvjAZI0JNGsXgw3eiAsSkqQ-iQqBFZ56ysRbdO7EExabwpzF7_LiQKtVuY7qdeA5pWEATAdkL8WbBijJdoh/s1600/Ticket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIM20l3DLXu7qeiBzU1TahAdxc1riUhKv5o9-ZmPhNbqx2Yu5kq7E_19w8HVvjAZI0JNGsXgw3eiAsSkqQ-iQqBFZ56ysRbdO7EExabwpzF7_LiQKtVuY7qdeA5pWEATAdkL8WbBijJdoh/s320/Ticket.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><center><span style="color: #993300; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1941103863">The Ticket</a></span></center><center>Firefly Southern Fiction (May 20, 2015)<br />
</center><center>by</center><center><span style="color: #006600; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Debra-Coleman-Jeter/e/B00UDTPPC6/">Debra Jeter</a></span></center><br />
<center>Prologue</center><br />
PROLOGUE<br />
<br />
<i>The mind is its own place, and in itself<br />
Can make a heav’n of hell, a hell of heav’n</i> ~John Milton(Paradise Lost)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
My name is Tray, and I live in Paradise, Kentucky. <br />
<br />
They say Kentucky is known for its fast horses and beautiful women. The joke is maybe it should be beautiful horses and fast women. Neither applies to the women in my family, except maybe Mama. She’s definitely beautiful, but she isn’t fast. At least not normally, though she can be when she’s in one of her manic states. But those aren’t beautiful. In fact, they are downright ugly. <br />
<br />
“How’d this town ever come to have a name like Paradise?” I used to ask Gram when I was little. Enough times I got to know her version of the story pretty much by heart. It goes like this:<br />
<br />
“It started at a crossroads where there was a little store owned by a man name of Sullivan, and folks just called it Sullivan’s Stop. Some folks got there by foot, others by stage coach, and a lot by horse and buggy. It was on the turnpike between Paducah, Kentucky, and Nashville, Tennessee. <br />
<br />
“One day, a rascal of a fellow came to Sullivan’s Stop and began challenging the men unlucky enough to be there that day with a pair of dice. Pretty soon he owned Sullivan’s store, and he discovered the men around there were such easy marks for his pair of dice, he started expanding. Before long, there was a blacksmith shop and a tavern, even a hotel. A bustling community, folks called it Pair o’ Dice. <br />
<br />
“Then one day a traveling preacher came to town. He preached hellfire and brimstone, and showed the local folks the error of their ways: the sin of gambling. So when the church was built, they changed the spelling to Paradise.”<br />
<br />
Even though I knew the answer to my next question, I’d ask it anyway. “Did you know those men yourself, Gram?”<br />
<br />
She would laugh her deep-throated chuckle and her blue eyes would crinkle with amusement. “I may be old, child, but I haven’t lived forever.”<br />
<br />
She changed up the words in the story a little from one telling to the next, but you get the gist. Now I don’t know if there’s any truth in the tale or not. But for a time the year I was fourteen, I thought the name might suit us after all. I’d never had much in the way of luck, and I was tired of being too tall, too bony, too uncoordinated. Then something unimaginable happened, and it looked like all our lives were set to change for the better. <br />
<br />
<br />
<center>Chapter One</center><br />
<br />
<br />
<i>“. . . The lottery was a great charity, the friend of the people, a vast beneficent machine that recognized neither rank nor wealth nor station … Invariably it was the needy who won, the destitute and starving woke to wealth and plenty, the virtuous toiler suddenly found his reward in a ticket bought at a hazard.” </i> ~Frank Norris<br />
<br />
McTeague: A Story of San Francisco<br />
1899<br />
Paradise, Kentucky<br />
September 1975<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I am content, curled on the sofa with the afternoon light streaming in through the picture windows, warming me as I allow myself to be carried away to Egypt, where I am a beautiful, dark-skinned, blue-eyed spy deeply in love with a dashing adventurer. But, even more, I am deeply committed to my cause and uncertain on which side of the political fracas my love’s true allegiance lies. I must not—I cannot—be swept totally by the passion that threatens to consume my soul …<br />
<br />
So when my father charges through the door, reeking of stale coffee and fatigue, I momentarily forget who or where I am and am taken by surprise. <br />
<br />
I look up, and our eyes meet. He sighs and turns away without a word. Then he whirls back to face me. He strides to my side, jerks the book from my hands, throws it on the floor so that I cry out.<br />
<br />
“Why aren’t you outside playing like any normal kid?” he barks. “What’s the matter with you?”<br />
<br />
Before I can think of a reply—I am still in transit, being jerked from the beauty and passion of the Nile spy to the awkwardness of my fourteen-year-old body—he is gone, leaving me bookless and defenseless. In that instant, the real me is back: pale skin splattered with angry, reddish acne spots, frizzy dark hair, long, narrow face, thin legs and arms. <br />
<br />
I blink back tears and bend to retrieve the discarded book, smooth out the new crease in its spine. Then I fling it back to the floor, trying not to cringe when it slaps the worn beige carpet at a precarious angle. <br />
<br />
“Gram,” I moan. My long skinny legs assume a life of their own, carrying me to the refuge of my grandmother’s room, where I flop onto Gram’s bed with a heavy sigh.<br />
<br />
“What’s wrong, Tray?” Gram quickly hides her snuff brush and can, but not before I catch a glimpse and a whiff of tangy, gooey tobacco juice.<br />
<br />
“Nothing.” I rise up on my elbows to look at her. She’s responsible for a lot of my features. The same long, narrow face, lined now with years of hard work and worry; the same thin legs and arms, beginning to sag the way mine probably will some day; the same dark hair, still thick, but threaded with silver. <br />
<br />
Silence. Gram sews a while. Her fingers whip the needle in and out, in and out, of the tiny garment she is stitching. Gram’s sewing is not the greatest. She sews some of my school clothes. The other kids can tell they’re homemade, and they make fun of me. I hate those kids for the way they make me feel. And, even more, for the way I make Gram feel when I spew, “I don’t want your old tacky clothes anymore.” <br />
<br />
I love it, though, when Gram makes doll clothes because, with a little imagination, they are spectacular. The dolls provide a perfect working model for my plan to be a fashion designer. I’ll create glorious ball gowns, like in a fairytale, and wedding dresses, and exotic dance costumes … <br />
<br />
I tell my ideas to Gram. Sometimes I draw them too, though I’m not as good at drawing as I wish. Trying the clothes on the dolls to see how they fit is a lot like trying on different personalities for Gram. Some days I pretend to be a brainiac, testing my latest ten-dollar words from Dickens or Jane Austen. I would be afraid to do this with anyone else. But, with Gram, I can savor their flavor on my tongue. <br />
<br />
Sometimes I pretend I’m the kind of girl who attracts all the boys. Like Scarlett O’Hara. I make up stories to tell Gram, about my beaus and what happened during recess. With Gram, I can be pretty and popular, which is the furthest thing from the truth. I know Gram sees right through my stories, but she never says so. Not like Mama, who calls me out if I stretch the truth one whit, who sees me as flawed in every way and reminds me of it every chance she gets. <br />
<br />
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?” <br />
<br />
I consider telling Gram about Dad throwing my book on the floor, but there’s something else, something that bothered me even before I started reading. <br />
<br />
“I wouldn’t want to go to their stupid party anyway,” I say. <br />
<br />
“Whose party?”<br />
<br />
I feel my lip curl. “Rita Davis, of all people.”<br />
<br />
“What do you mean by that?”<br />
“By what?”<br />
<br />
“Of all people.”<br />
<br />
“It’s just that—she’s—I don’t know—I mean, I do know, but it’s stupid. She’s even taller and skinner than I am. I bet her arms aren’t this big around.” I make a circle with my thumb and index finger. “One day last week she was talking about having this party, and how she was afraid nobody would come. She was talking to me. To me. I mean, why was she talking to me about it if she wasn’t even going to invite me?”<br />
<br />
“I don’t know. Maybe she decided not to have it or—”<br />
<br />
“No, that’s not it. That’s what I thought at first, when I didn’t get an invitation. But then today I heard all these people talking about the party, and when I looked at Rita, she wouldn’t meet my eyes. And after I was so nice to her! I’m such a spaz. S—P—A—Z.” I strike my head with the palm of my hand. “I told her not to worry, that I would come to her party. Like she gave a flip if I would come or not. No, it’s the popular kids she’s after.”<br />
<br />
“Maybe it got lost in the mail or something. Why don’t you ask her?”<br />
<br />
“Are you kidding? That would be way too humiliating. Besides I know it didn’t. That crowd never invites me to their dumb old parties. I just thought—but I don’t know why I thought …”<br />
<br />
“Thought what?”<br />
<br />
“Thought maybe this year was going to be different.”<br />
<br />
Gram looks over the top of her spectacles, which have slid down her rather large nose so they rest just above the small brown mole on the right-hand side, not far above the nostril. “Why don’t you have one of your own?”<br />
<br />
I stare at Gram, feeling almost hopeful for a second. “Maybe I could have a party at the roller rink.” <br />
<br />
Then reality hits me, and I can tell by Gram’s expression that she, too, is thinking of the cost. “It would probably be cheaper to have one here,” she says. <br />
<br />
I glance around the familiar room, seeing it with new eyes. The worn rug, the circles on the ceiling from a variety of old leaks, the chipped paint on the little bedside table, the faded Bible, Gram’s snuff can and spit cup. Of course, we wouldn’t necessarily be in this room, but still …<br />
<br />
I think of my mother. “It wouldn’t work,” I say, rolling over onto my back and staring at the swirly brown patterns in the ceiling, like spilled coffee on a dingy sheet. “Even if it weren’t for Mama, I don’t know if anybody would come. And if they did, and if she had one of her moods or something, I could never look at anyone again.”<br />
<br />
“I suppose it’s too risky,” Gram says, and I can tell from the disappointment in her voice that she knows I’m right.<br />
<br />
“They’re all so stupid anyway, with their expensive clothes and shoes, and their pretentious banter: Where did you get those buffalo sandals and toe socks—they’re out of sight!” I mimic one of the girls in my class, Debbie Worthington, making her sound even more nasal and ridiculous than she really is.<br />
<br />
“What are buffalo sandals and toe socks?” Gram goes back to her stitching.<br />
<br />
I start to explain that they’re these goofy leather sandals with wedge heels and four straps, but I figure Gram doesn’t really need to know the details. I break off and stare at her blankly, picturing the stupid toe socks in my mind, which are just what they sound like. Every toe has its own shape, like gloves for your feet. I wouldn’t wear them even if somebody gave me a pair.<br />
<br />
“I tell you, Gram, it’s the dumbest fashion I ever saw in my entire life.” I sigh and roll over on my side to look at her. “Anyway, I wouldn’t have any fun if I did go to their old party. That’s why I said it was nothing. Because it is nothing. It just makes me feel like such a spaz remembering how nice I was to Rita.”<br />
<br />
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Being nice is not a sin, you know.”<br />
<br />
“Yes, it is!”<br />
<br />
“Come here, sweetheart.” Gram sets her sewing aside, pats her lap. I go to her and put my head in her lap, inhaling the familiar smells of Jergens lotion and snuff. She runs cool fingers through my hair, fingers that are beginning to gnarl like the old dogwood tree in our backyard. <br />
<br />
“You’re going to be a knockout someday, you know. You just have to be a little bit patient. Your day is coming. I’m sure of that.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, Gram, you always say that.”<br />
<br />
“Only because it’s true. Now run along and do your chores.” <br />
<br />
Someday. Someday. Doesn’t Gram know anything? Someday doesn’t matter. Someday isn’t here, may never be here. All that matters, all that I can feel, is now. And now is pathetic. Now stinks. What can I do about now? <br />
<br />
Well, for one, I have chores to do. I leave Gram and saunter into the kitchen where I put away the last of the dishes from the drainer, slamming the cabinet door shut so hard the plates inside rattle. If only I had some decent clothes, something stylish, something that would deserve a grudging compliment, if not outright envy. We aren’t all that poor. I know we aren’t. My dad’s just stingy, and I hate him for it.<br />
<br />
I return to my bedroom and switch on my turntable. I stand and gaze glumly into my closet. The rows of bargain basement clothes—their sleeves or legs too short—stare back. I reach for the well-worn catalog from Tall Sophisticates, which I hide under my bed like a boy hiding his dirty magazines, not wanting Dad to catch me lusting after that ridiculously overpriced merchandise. <br />
<br />
Not long ago, I made the mistake of showing a favorite outfit to my mother. “Isn’t it cute?” I’d said, hoping for … what? <br />
<br />
“Mm. A bit old for you, don’t you think? I mean, those models are fully developed. It wouldn’t look like that on you.”<br />
<br />
I turn to the picture I’d once loved—a coppery shift that clings to the model’s chest and slim hips, catches the light and shimmers with a promise of gold, a hint of lavender. <br />
<br />
That ensemble is tarnished now by the memory of Mama’s nonchalant dismissal, so I flip to another favorite. The model, tall and thin with dark hair like mine, leans casually against a fat white column. Her lips are parted in a dreamy smile and the soft blue cashmere sweater clings to the curves of her chest. Her breasts are small, yet alluring. Powder blue, the catalog says. I like the sound of that, though I wonder what it means. Who would put on blue powder? <br />
<br />
I imagine myself as a famous designer, the head of a creative team. “I’m not sure about the neckline,” I say to those standing around, just waiting for my opinion. “Perhaps it would work better with something less round, something more angular, off the shoulders even, like this.” I quickly sketch the neckline as I envision it, and my assistants nod their approval. <br />
<br />
I stand, catalog in hand, and walk to the mirror on my bedroom dresser. There’s an ugly pimple just below my lip. I dab a bit of medicated acne cream on the spot, crinkling my nose at the smell. Still clutching the catalog, I lift my shirt and stare at my bony chest. I suck in my stomach and expand my chest. I frown at my reflection; the effort only makes my ribs stick out more than they already do. <br />
<br />
I look away, close my eyes and, inside my mind, my breasts swell to the size and shape of the catalog model’s. Okay, a little larger. For good measure. <br />
<br />
The phone rings because, in my imagined world, the phone rings all the time. I snatch the receiver and say a casual hello. <br />
<br />
“Tonight?” My tone says: short notice. “Oh, I don’t think I can make it. I’m pretty busy.”<br />
<br />
A sudden rapping on my door causes me to start. My eyes pop open, my breasts deflate, and the imaginary conversation shrivels on my breath. <br />
<br />
“Tray? Who are you talking to in there?”<br />
<br />
Dad. <br />
<br />
I tuck in my shirt hurriedly. The door swings open before I can answer, and he enters. His face wears the expression that means he’s trying to figure out how to say something, and I cringe at what’s coming. <br />
<br />
“Nobody,” I mumble. “Must be the record player.” I look over at the turntable where Rod Stewart blares out a lyric about handbags and glad rags. I rush to turn the volume down. <br />
<br />
“What’s that?” Dad points to the catalog.<br />
<br />
Still clutching it to my chest, I look down guiltily. “This? Oh, this is—nothing, really. Just a catalog.”<br />
<br />
Dad seems to accept this explanation, and I’m not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. <br />
<br />
“Tray, the thing is … I don’t know how to say this, but … I’m sorry about—you know, earlier today. I guess I was just frustrated about something else, and I took it out on you.” He sits on the edge of my bed and fingers the quilt Gram made for my last birthday. It’s a wedding ring pattern and I have not told Gram that the thought of wedding rings depresses me because I know no one in his right mind will ever want to marry this bony-breasted girl. <br />
<br />
I shrug. “It’s all right.”<br />
<br />
“No, it isn’t. I shouldn’t be so—I just want what’s best for you, and I worry that you read too much when you should be out having fun.”<br />
<br />
“It’s all right,” I say again because how can I explain that I would like to be out having fun too but I have no one to have fun with? <br />
<br />
“I worry that books are a way of escaping reality,” he continues.<br />
<br />
Well, yeah … exactly. I look at my father’s handsome face, a faint vertical line marring his forehead now. He has no idea what it’s like to be unpopular. He and Mama, with their compact, attractive figures and natural good looks, have produced a changeling in me. I see no possible way to bridge the gap.<br />
<br />
He rises from the bed and moves toward the door, straightening his shoulders just a bit as if in rebuttal of the defeat in his voice.<br />
<br />
“I know, Dad,” I say, almost feeling sorry for him. Then I make an abrupt decision. I open the catalog at random. “Dad, do you suppose I might be able to order some new clothes?”<br />
<br />
He turns back and glances at the catalog I’m holding out to him. He takes it and moves an index finger across the page to find the price. His eyes widen slightly, and I know he’s found it. He looks again, as if double checking the number of digits. He stands stock still. His silence strikes me as more expressive than words, as though he is listening with every fiber of his being. Like a cat whose fur lifts in the presence of an animal intruding upon his territory. <br />
<br />
A page flutters to the floor, and I reach down to pick it up. <br />
<br />
“What do you have there?” He glances at my drawing of a sweater with a different neckline.<br />
<br />
I turn the page facedown on the dresser. “It’s nothing. Just some scribbles. The thing is—I do sort of need some new clothes. I know these are pretty expensive,” I rush to say, “but I thought—”<br />
<br />
He slams the catalog shut with a grunt. “Tray, I wish we could afford to buy clothes like that. But we can’t. It’s hard for me to believe anyone can pay those kinds of prices.” He shakes his head, his face a mix of wonder and frustration, and I wish I had not asked. <br />
<br />
“It’s okay, Dad.”<br />
<br />
“I hate to tell you how many days sometimes go by before I get an insurance commission large enough to buy even one of those outfits.” He thumps the catalog, hard. “By the time I do, we’re behind on so many bills; it’s already spent.” <br />
<br />
“I know you work hard,” I say. <br />
<br />
“You’re darned right; I work hard. But that doesn’t seem to matter very much, does it?” He sighs. “I’m sorry for laying all this on you—you shouldn’t have to think about any of this, but it burns me—it really does—how many people there are who work no harder than I do and who can order clothes like that without thinking twice.” <br />
<br />
He thumps the catalog once more and turns to go, his back conveying both indignation and disappointment. My eyes go to a spot on the back of his head where the hair is beginning to thin.<br />
<br />
Alone again, I turn the volume up on Rod Stewart. I pick up the needle and set it back to the beginning of the song. In “Handbags and Gladrags,” the girl’s grandfather had to sweat to buy her stuff. My Grampa would have loved buying nice things for me, I just know it—if only he’d lived long enough. But he was taken too soon, from me and from Gram, before I was old enough to care a gritty Fig Newton about clothes. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Bonnie S. Calhounhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11769607640246518804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368541238593747420.post-10147033419975296532015-06-14T20:48:00.000-04:002015-06-14T20:48:11.754-04:00The Midwife’s Tale by Delia Parr<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPIqiP0J0TnQVtER70Pb58BbWJzTIJSRxyQStqlA2WFhGk1jGUgBdS81kauJjcnSHQ228V0yqwfXh3eWNNl0sxB3LXGAH4-iFsEDuF5hBHqzv94J4WhfejtsSKRKlQ-XoAOXYkJ0QBSxBu/s1600/MidwifesTale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPIqiP0J0TnQVtER70Pb58BbWJzTIJSRxyQStqlA2WFhGk1jGUgBdS81kauJjcnSHQ228V0yqwfXh3eWNNl0sxB3LXGAH4-iFsEDuF5hBHqzv94J4WhfejtsSKRKlQ-XoAOXYkJ0QBSxBu/s320/MidwifesTale.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><center><span style="color: #993300; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/076421733X">The Midwife’s Tale</a></span></center><center>Bethany House Publishers (June 2, 2015)</center><center>by</center><center><span style="color: #006600; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Delia-Parr/e/B001IXMHFY">Delia Parr</a></span></center><br /><br />
<br /><br />
<br />
<center>Chapter 1</center><br />
<p style=" margin: 12px auto 6px auto; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,Sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; -x-system-font: none; display: block;"><a title="View The Midwifes Tale on Scribd" href="https://www.scribd.com/doc/261979103/The-Midwifes-Tale" style="text-decoration: underline;" >The Midwifes Tale</a> by <a title="View Bethany House Publishers's profile on Scribd" href="https://www.scribd.com/bethanyhouse" style="text-decoration: underline;" >Bethany House Publishers</a></p><iframe class="scribd_iframe_embed" src="https://www.scribd.com/embeds/261979103/content?start_page=1&view_mode=scroll&access_key=key-GgEWfKNsjEOLUNsRac2U&show_recommendations=true" data-auto-height="false" data-aspect-ratio="0.6470588235294118" scrolling="no" id="doc_42756" width="100%" height="600" frameborder="0"></iframe>Bonnie S. Calhounhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11769607640246518804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368541238593747420.post-47132988868572469972015-06-07T23:13:00.001-04:002015-06-07T23:13:55.718-04:00London Tides by Carla Laureano<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRJjhW2DBgGv4XxseWZ2FH7FO1TNtOG42P7e2VLKUy1Tw7FZtwjVLP2e7F2lctejmNayoRBNH8OSg0sSnRrUi5I_Nj1MlPwV2Q6qCvG76al6kw1bj_eVUQNT5GFdkRIxFD3prdMivU2q43/s1600/LondonTides.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRJjhW2DBgGv4XxseWZ2FH7FO1TNtOG42P7e2VLKUy1Tw7FZtwjVLP2e7F2lctejmNayoRBNH8OSg0sSnRrUi5I_Nj1MlPwV2Q6qCvG76al6kw1bj_eVUQNT5GFdkRIxFD3prdMivU2q43/s200/LondonTides.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><center><span style="color: #993300; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1434708225">London Tides</a></span></center><center>David C. Cook (June 1, 2015)<br />
</center><center>by</center><center><span style="color: #006600; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.carlalaureano.com/">Carla Laureano</a></span></center><br /><br />
<br /><br />
<center>Chapter 1</center>Bonnie S. Calhounhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11769607640246518804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368541238593747420.post-33938694248883004712015-05-31T23:06:00.002-04:002015-05-31T23:06:59.090-04:00Justified by Varina Denman<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0_r3ZSQrPiI_JC7ywGK1NyHbga79EImlnI5UPLrzxoNPNalz728G0mwNbQylWiJyXcwFQiscsgTZE76K7AWBRapJKPX7f7J1R-4-WyT68q2KrWcymwpi2NQojyEe679UCMdE3qvDI0SFV/s1600/Justified.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0_r3ZSQrPiI_JC7ywGK1NyHbga79EImlnI5UPLrzxoNPNalz728G0mwNbQylWiJyXcwFQiscsgTZE76K7AWBRapJKPX7f7J1R-4-WyT68q2KrWcymwpi2NQojyEe679UCMdE3qvDI0SFV/s320/Justified.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><center><span style="color: #993300; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0781412161">Justified</a></span></center><center>David C. Cook (June 1, 2015)<br />
</center><center>by</center><center><span style="color: #006600; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://varinadenman.com/">Varina Denman</a></span></center><br /><br />
<br /><br />
<br />
<center>Chapter 1</center><br />
***Coming Soon***Bonnie S. Calhounhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11769607640246518804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368541238593747420.post-42750227644223406292015-05-24T23:18:00.000-04:002015-05-31T23:11:40.489-04:00When Hope Rises by Dora Heirs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfOPl3YyLJikAHwLcwuYUA90VBoqhpnuFgwZkcEYo5MAnYiYyBh6tBAl6shfwStkwtqr22p92Gl1hqMlqY3pex0Niokw84F3-H6k7L98JHmuVmDBW7D0AtzA8cwmodKBcx5J9gXknZlj_O/s1600/When+Hope+Rises.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfOPl3YyLJikAHwLcwuYUA90VBoqhpnuFgwZkcEYo5MAnYiYyBh6tBAl6shfwStkwtqr22p92Gl1hqMlqY3pex0Niokw84F3-H6k7L98JHmuVmDBW7D0AtzA8cwmodKBcx5J9gXknZlj_O/s320/When+Hope+Rises.jpg" width="194" /></a></div><center><span style="color: #993300; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://pelicanbookgroup.com/pureamore/">When Hope Rises</a></span></center><center>Pelican Book Group (May 2015)</center><center>by</center><center><span style="color: #006600; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://dorahiers.com/home.html">Dora Heirs</a></span></center><br />
<i>Keep your lives free from the love of money and be content with what you have, because God has said, “Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.” Hebrews 13:5</i><br />
<br />
<center>Chapter 1</center><br />
<br />
<br />
What about “no” couldn’t the hulk understand? Shelby Coltman grimaced and lowered her head, ducking through the first door on the right. Not that she could do anything to disguise her thick veil of apricot hair or pale complexion. <br />
<br />
The normally bustling hall of Beaver Pond High School was deserted this late in the afternoon. <br />
<br />
She could only hope the football coach didn’t see her. With her back pressed against the door, she closed her eyes and listened to the footsteps echo in the quiet corridor, the electronic tablet clutched to her chest. Please keep going. Don’t stop. She needed to have a heart-to-heart with the burly coach. It was only early February. She couldn’t dodge him for the rest of the school year. <br />
<br />
“Make it a habit to visit the men’s restroom, Ms. Coltman?” The amused voice, velvety and deep, cut through her admonition.<br />
<br />
The men’s bathroom?<br />
<br />
Her head popped up, along with her eyelids. Her nose verified her location. Ammonia and citrus collided. She wrinkled her nose, glancing at the sinks, stalls, urinals, and…Tate Malone. <br />
<br />
The guy she always wanted to see. Except in the men’s bathroom. She winced and her words came out squeaky. “Only when I know you’re in here.”<br />
<br />
Heavy dark brows lifted over warm, cinnamon-tinted eyes, and he continued wiping his hands on the paper towel, but other than that, he didn’t respond to her teasing. He never did. Her attempts to get him to open up only made him tighten that cloak of reserve.<br />
<br />
Unlike the coach who kept spewing unwelcome date invites.<br />
<br />
Sighing, she loosened her chokehold on the tablet, her arm dropped to her side. “Coach Joe’s out there. I didn’t want to run into him.”<br />
<br />
Tate nodded. One slow, long, knowing look.<br />
<br />
Did he not believe her?<br />
<br />
“It’s really not what it sounds like. He’s asked me out and I’ve told him no, especially after I heard about his reputation.” Shelby shuddered. A guy like that just didn’t line up with her purity vow. “He’s definitely persistent. Probably what makes him such a good football coach. I can’t seem to make him understand that I don’t want to go out with him, but the school hallway just doesn’t seem like the right place for that conversation.” She could just hear what Tate didn’t say. <br />
<br />
So the men’s bathroom was a better spot? <br />
<br />
Why was she babbling to a guy who didn’t care about her not wanting to date the coach? She pinched the bridge of her nose. How did she get herself into these situations?<br />
<br />
“Come on.” Tate flicked the towel in the trashcan and cupped her elbow.<br />
<br />
“W-w-where?”<br />
<br />
“Let’s take care of this situation right now. Before it turns ugly.” Determination lined Tate’s lips as he opened the door. Why did he look as if he was upset with her? “I know just the right place for this discussion. The principal’s office.”<br />
<br />
She was being sent to the principal’s office again? Memories of her high school years flooded back. The principal’s repeated warnings to stop daydreaming in class and start paying attention, or she’d risk not graduating. Shelby closed her eyes and groaned. If the principal canned her, she might never be able to open her storefront.<br />
<br />
“It’ll be OK.” Tate reassured.<br />
<br />
His brief touch on her arm was enough to propel her into the hallway, squeezing through the opening, catching a whiff of Tate’s clean, woodsy smell. Close enough to feel irritation vibrate from Tate’s limbs, to hear the pressure in the hitch of his breath. <br />
<br />
She licked dry lips as Tate followed her into the hallway. <br />
<br />
“Hey, Joe, wait up.”<br />
<br />
The hulk turned. Heavy brows hiked up, and then narrowed when he spotted Shelby standing next to Tate. His gaze shot to the sign above the men’s bathroom. Scorn gleamed from his eyes as they made a slow trip from her chest to her legs and back again. <br />
<br />
She tucked the tablet against her blouse.<br />
<br />
The giant sneered. “I didn’t know you two were an item.” <br />
<br />
Shelby sucked in a breath “What? We’re not—”<br />
<br />
Joe’s gaze speared her mid-section. <br />
<br />
She glanced down. Tate’s fingers were curled around her arm. When did that happen?<br />
<br />
“Coach, Ms. Coltman and I are headed to Principal Winecoff’s office. I thought you might like to join us.” Tate didn’t move his hand.<br />
<br />
“Why?” The coach practically snarled.<br />
<br />
“Because we’ll be discussing sexual harassment.” Tate’s tone was firm, and although the burly coach had about a hundred pounds on him, Tate never flinched or backed down from the big man’s glare.<br />
<br />
“Thanks, but I have better things to do with my time.” Coach Joe whirled and stalked away.<br />
<br />
Claiming sexual harassment? <br />
<br />
Dread boiled in her belly. That sounded like the kiss of death for her teaching career at Beaver Pond. And her dreams of opening her store, From Junk to Treasure.<br />
<br />
Shelby turned to Tate, the man responsible for the demise of her dreams. She wanted to be mad at him, so she avoided his cinnamon-flecked eyes, choosing to focus on the mole just below his cheek. Next to his lips. <br />
<br />
Big mistake. “W-we are?”<br />
<br />
“Yeah.”<br />
<br />
“But why? The words ‘sexual harassment’ never came out of my mouth.”<br />
<br />
“They didn’t have to.” His fingers curled around her arm again, guiding her towards the administrative office. <br />
<br />
Shelby gulped. “Tate, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I can’t afford to lose my job.”<br />
<br />
“You won’t lose your job, Shelby. Trust me.” <br />
<br />
Trust him? <br />
<br />
She’d heard those words before. A few times from her ex-boyfriend. When he wanted something precious that she wasn’t willing to give. Could she trust Tate? Or was he just like all the other guys she’d dated?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
~*~<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Why was she so worried about losing her job? She didn’t need it. Not like he did, or the countless other teachers who supported families and barely survived from one paycheck to the next.<br />
<br />
She cast a worried look in his direction. “But—”<br />
<br />
“You said Coach doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, right?”<br />
<br />
Long apricot locks rippled against her shoulders as her pretty head wobbled.<br />
<br />
“I don’t want this situation to escalate into something much worse.” Or to risk her being hurt by the heartless jock. Not that he’d mention that.<br />
<br />
They reached the administration office. The place was dark, except for the principal’s office, and the only sound was the occasional chatter of the custodians over the radio. Tate rapped lightly on the door. <br />
<br />
“Come in.” The heavy door muffled the principal’s response.<br />
<br />
Shelby’s fingers pressed lightly against his hand on the doorknob. Her head tilted at an angle, desperation clouding her expression.<br />
<br />
“Shelby, I can’t not report this.”<br />
<br />
Her head dipped to her chest. <br />
<br />
He nudged her chin up with a thumb and found himself gazing into beautiful blue eyes, as clear and pristine as a cloudless North Carolina sky. He breathed deep, but all he could smell was an alluring combination of roses and some kind of citrus. He exhaled and vowed not to breathe until more than a couple of feet separated them.<br />
<br />
He’d managed to keep a healthy distance between them for the entire first semester of staff meetings. This was the closest he’d gotten to Shelby, and he didn’t like it. Didn’t welcome the intense longing that hummed through his body from being so close to her. Didn’t appreciate how being around her awakened the dreams of family, the possibility of a forever love that he’d squashed to oblivion along with his parents’ desertion fourteen years ago. No. Those dreams were best left dormant.<br />
<br />
Shelby Coltman was born into wealth, obvious from the expensive car she drove, the elegant clothes she wore, the perfectly straight teeth and flawless complexion. Even her exquisite creations. <br />
<br />
He made it a point to wander past her classroom every afternoon on his way to the parking lot and peek in at her artwork.<br />
<br />
She couldn’t possibly know what it felt like to move twenty times during one year, to be yanked from one school after another. To wear the same clothes to school day after day because that was the only set of pants he owned. Or to lug a bucket to the park at night to transport water home so his sister could bathe because their water had been disconnected. Or to carry toothpaste and shampoo because he never knew when he might have the opportunity to wash. Or to sleep in their coats because the electricity had been cut off for non-payment. His life had been ugly. <br />
<br />
Until God cleaned it up.<br />
<br />
No. He had nothing in common with the pretty art teacher. Shelby would never understand the poverty he came from. Not that he wanted her to, but he’d do well to remember they came from two completely different worlds. His frustration came out in a huff. “Hey. It’ll be OK.”<br />
<br />
She nodded, resignation drooping her shoulders.<br />
<br />
What was she so upset about? Didn’t she say she wanted to put an end to the coach’s unwanted advances?<br />
<br />
So did Tate. He didn’t want to see her fall for Joe’s charm like the countless other females who’d succumbed to muscles and ego. But if he were truthful, it was more than that. He didn’t like the way Joe looked at Shelby, the way he leered at her. Tate wasn’t willing to risk her safety. If that meant keeping tabs on her to see that she was safe, he intended to do just that. <br />
<br />
He pushed the door open and gestured for Shelby to enter first. She slid past him, and he got another whiff, this time of her hair. She was all about berries and springtime. Dreams and…forever. She made him think about the future. <br />
<br />
OK. Maybe it would be best if he kept tabs on her from a distance.<br />
<br />
“You guys are working late.” Principal Winecoff looked up from the paperwork sprawled across his desk, his reading glasses hanging low on his nose. He scratched his balding head and removed his specs. The chair squeaked as he leaned back. “Have a seat.”<br />
<br />
Shelby settled in the chair, her tongue sliding out to lick her lips. <br />
<br />
Tate lost his train of thought.<br />
<br />
“What can I do for you?”<br />
<br />
Tate flicked his attention back to the principal and sank into the other chair. “Shelby’s experiencing an issue with Coach Joe.”<br />
<br />
Understanding hardened the Principal’s face. He scrubbed a hand across his jaw and shot forward, his chair emitting another obnoxious screech. “I see.”<br />
<br />
“It’s not really a problem—”<br />
<br />
“He keeps asking her out after she’s refused his invitation to the point where she’s avoiding him.” Tate interrupted.<br />
<br />
“That is a problem then, Ms. Coltman.” The principal pulled a desk drawer, tugged out a note pad, and slid it on the desk. “We will not tolerate bullish behavior, especially if it borders on sexual—”<br />
<br />
Shelby gave her head a vigorous shake. “I wouldn’t call it by that name, Mr. Winecoff. I’m sure once we have a heart-to-heart, Coach Joe—”<br />
<br />
“How about if I have a chat with him?” The principal said, jotting some notes on the paper. “And remind him of the consequences of this type of behavior.”<br />
<br />
“I really don’t want to get him in any trouble…” Shelby nibbled on her fingernails and shot Tate a glare as close as her pretty face could come to a glower. <br />
<br />
Tate bit back a grin.<br />
<br />
“Coach Joe makes enough trouble for himself. You’re not responsible. Now, you be sure to let me know if this continues to be a problem, you hear?” Principal Winecoff stood. <br />
<br />
That was their cue that the meeting was over. <br />
<br />
“All right.” Shelby didn’t look as if it was all right. Anything but.<br />
<br />
Tate followed her to the door. He opened it and gestured for her to go first, trying not to breathe, or grin, while she stalked past. Her shoulders pressed back and fire shot from her glare. <br />
<br />
The principal halted his progress with a hand to Tate’s shoulder. “Tate, would you mind keeping a close eye on this situation for me? A rather discreet eye.”<br />
<br />
“Sure.” He’d planned to. The principal didn’t need to ask.<br />
<br />
“Thank you. I’m not sure I trust Ms. Coltman to let me know if the situation continues.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah. Me, either.”<br />
<br />
Shelby was too sweet, too naïve for her own good. None of the ladies had refused Coach Joe before. He might not take rejection well. Coach Joe was blunt. Tate wouldn’t put it past him to sling hateful words. <br />
<br />
Much like Tate’s last girlfriend. Decent and sweet enough until he refused her advances. Then, she’d called him a “freak” and quite a few other vile names.<br />
<br />
Yeah. He’d look out for Shelby, but he’d do his best to avoid her and the tender, protective feelings she evoked in him.<br />
<br />
<br />
Bonnie S. Calhounhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11769607640246518804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368541238593747420.post-89880282635868167182015-05-17T23:08:00.001-04:002015-05-18T15:44:57.071-04:00The Art of Losing Yourself by Katie Ganshert <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0HC3JLRmfok_2w0wGyLravmqsSBwC3BjVssyydvvr3uLrFiK-43IYTaLX4Nm7pvrAgp0PF4hYUzFixjIrapgkbFcLASfAZfmEoI8sqhR0kFMJhinNW8eQSLt6An9sFSq85jwSwtrJrP_6/s1600/Art-of-Losing-Yourself.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0HC3JLRmfok_2w0wGyLravmqsSBwC3BjVssyydvvr3uLrFiK-43IYTaLX4Nm7pvrAgp0PF4hYUzFixjIrapgkbFcLASfAZfmEoI8sqhR0kFMJhinNW8eQSLt6An9sFSq85jwSwtrJrP_6/s320/Art-of-Losing-Yourself.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><center><span style="color: #993300; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1601425929">The Art of Losing Yourself</a></span></center><center>WaterBrook Press (April 21, 2015)</center><center>by</center><center><span style="color: #006600; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://katieganshert.com/">Katie Ganshert</a></span></center><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center>Prologue and Chapter 1</center><br />
Prologue<br />
<br />
Carmen<br />
<br />
The nurse rolled me down a hallway and through a door where my husband waited on a chair pushed into one corner of the small recovery room. He stood as soon as we entered.<br />
<br />
“She’s pretty groggy, but she’s awake. She has to be up and walking before y’all can go.”<br />
<br />
“Is she in any pain?” Ben asked.<br />
<br />
I closed my eyes, feigning sleep.<br />
<br />
“She shouldn’t be.”<br />
<br />
The door closed.<br />
<br />
Ben came to my bedside and wrapped my cold, lifeless hand in his strong grip, as if the tighter he held, the closer I’d stay. But it was too late. I was already gone.<br />
<br />
When the nurse returned, Ben stepped back. She gently shook my shoulder, encouraged me to sit, then stand, then walk across the room. And just like that, they released me—as if getting up and walking meant I was all better now.<br />
<br />
Ben hovered as we made our way outside, his stare heating the side of my face more intensely than the Florida sun. He hadn’t stopped looking at me since the nurse rolled me into that room. I had yet to look at him. He opened my car door. I eased inside, pulled the seat belt across my chest, and stared straight ahead with dry eyes and an empty heart. As soon as he turned the key in the ignition, Christian music filled the car.<br />
<br />
Like a viper, my hand struck the power button.<br />
<br />
We drove in silence.<br />
<br />
Unable to get warm, I wrapped my arms around my middle and watched the palm trees whiz past the window in streaks of vibrant green. Ben white-knuckled the steering wheel, darting glances at me every time we hit a red light. When he pulled into the driveway of our home, neither of us moved. We sat in the screaming silence while I drifted further and further away—out into a sea of drowning hopes.<br />
<br />
“Carmen.” An entire army of emotions marched inside the confines of my name, desperation leading the way.<br />
<br />
A better wife might have met her husband halfway, might have even offered him some reassurances—a glance, a hand squeeze, some sign that all would be well. I could do nothing but gaze at the pink blossoms on the crepe myrtle in our front lawn. New life.<br />
<br />
How ironic.<br />
<br />
Ben reached across the console and set his hand on my knee. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to make this better.”<br />
<br />
Something feral clawed its way up my throat. A baby would make this better. Give me a baby.<br />
<br />
Ben and I did everything right. We did things God’s way. So why wasn’t this happening? Why did this continue to happen? But I swallowed the wild thing down and moved my leg.<br />
<br />
His hand slid onto the seat—bereft and alone.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center>Chapter One</center><br />
Gracie<br />
<br />
When you grew up in a small town like New Hope, Texas, obscurity was a luxury that didn’t exist. I was the daughter of Evelyn Fisher, a woman known for two things—making frequent visits to the corner liquor store and baptizing herself in the creek every other Sunday.<br />
<br />
My little-girl self would sit on the tire swing beneath our oak tree, my big toe tracing circles in the dirt, and watch as my mother crossed herself in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost before walking out into the water that bordered our backyard. I remembered being more puzzled by the crossing than the actual baptizing. Back then, we went to a Baptist church where folk didn’t do that sort of thing.<br />
<br />
“You can take the girl out of the Catholic, but you can’t take the Catholic out of the girl,” she’d say.<br />
<br />
“I don’t know what that means.”<br />
<br />
“It means old habits die hard, Gracie-bug.”<br />
<br />
That, I understood. Because as often as she emptied her bottles into the sink and dunked herself in that creek, the liquor cabinet never remained empty for long. Needless to say, we were odd ducks in New Hope, and the oddest ducks of all at our church. Not so much because Mama carried a rosary in her purse, or cried during the sermons, or crossed herself during the benediction, but because she drank, and according to our pastor, drinking was the same as dancing with the devil.<br />
<br />
One Sunday, as she headed toward our small house, soaking wet from head to toe, I stopped my tire-spinning and squinted at her through the afternoon brightness. “Why do you dunk yourself into the creek like that?”<br />
<br />
She paused, as if noticing me for the first time. That happened a lot—her forgetting I was around. Usually I had to go and get into some real trouble in order to remind her. Mama brought her hand up to her forehead like a visor. “To be made new, baby girl.”<br />
<br />
Eventually, she gave up on the baptizing and decided on rehab instead. I was at the end of fourth grade when she dropped me off at my father’s for three months. When she finally picked me up, all of our belongings were crammed into the back of our rusty station wagon. We left New Hope behind and drove east to the town of Apalachicola, Florida. Mom got a job as a waitress and I went to school at Franklin County. No more church. No more creek-dunking. The one thing that hadn’t changed? Mama’s dance with the devil.<br />
<br />
<center>***</center><br />
At the sound of my alarm, I experienced a wave of two diametrically opposed emotions. Relief, because this was my final year of high school at Franklin. And dread, because this was only the first day.<br />
<br />
I slapped my phone into silence and picked up the mood ring on my nightstand, its stone the color of stormy sky. I didn’t actually believe it could read my mood, but I found it beneath a Laffy Taffy wrapper in one of the many roadside ditches I delittered over the summer. It was actually a nice ring, made with legit silver—not like those cheesy five-dollar ones you find at chintzy stores like Claire’s. Plus, it fit. So I cleaned it off and stuck it in my pocket. My single, solitary treasure from a summer filled with trash.<br />
<br />
Muffled conversation filtered through the sliver of space between the worn carpet and my bedroom door—a female-male exchange about a water main breaking in downtown Tallahassee. Mom was either (a) already awake watching the news or (b) passed out on the couch from the night before with the TV still on. If I had any money to bet, I’d put it all on option b.<br />
<br />
I pressed my thumb over the mood ring’s stone and pictured violet—a color that meant happy, relaxed, free. I knew because last spring, I’d found this behemoth paperback at Downtown Books titled The Meaning of Color and read it in a single day. I removed my thumb from the stone and took a peek. The amber color of a cat’s eye stared back me—mixed emotions.<br />
<br />
Maybe the ring worked after all.<br />
<br />
With a resigned sigh, I kicked off the tangle of sheets covering my legs and poked my head outside the door. The TV cast a celestial glow on my mother, who lay sprawled on the couch, one arm flung over her head. Dead to the world.<br />
<br />
One hundred eighty days…one hundred eighty days…one hundred eighty days…<br />
<br />
This became my mantra as I brushed my teeth, rinsed my face, lined my eyes with liquid liner, and dressed in a simple tee, frayed jeans, and a pair of combat boots I had purchased at a consignment shop back when I still had money. Thanks to Chris Nanning and my bad decision and the fat judge with a chronic scowl, my bank account had been wiped clean. I checked my reflection one last time.<br />
<br />
The faded postcard I kept wedged in the corner of my dresser mirror had come loose. I pulled it all the way out and flipped it over. The invitation on the back was equally faded, but sharp and clear in my mind. It was the only place where my company wasn’t just tolerated, but requested. Desired, even. If the evidence wasn’t there, staring me in the face, I’d probably chalk the memories up to a serious case of wishful thinking.<br />
<br />
I rewedged card back into place and tucked a strand of coal-colored hair behind my ear. It didn’t stay. Two days ago, in a moment of impulsivity, I chopped off my hair and dyed it black. At the time, the change had felt bold, symbolic even, like a thumbing of my nose at the student body, which would undoubtedly be whispering behind my back extra loud on the first day of school. The new do was my message to them that I didn’t care what anyone said or thought.<br />
<br />
If only that were true.<br />
<br />
In the kitchen, an empty bottle of wine stood at attention on the counter; another lay tipped on its side in the basin of the sink. I grabbed a strawberry Pop-Tart from one of the cupboards and glanced at the clock. Seven forty-five.<br />
<br />
“Mom!” I turned on the faucet and slurped in a drink from the running water, then snagged my school bag from the back of a chair in the dining room. “It’s time to go.”<br />
<br />
She mumbled something incoherent.<br />
<br />
I picked up the remote from the coffee table and shut off the female news anchor. “You need to get ready.”<br />
<br />
She wiped at a string of drool and rolled over. Even with the smudged mascara, the tangled mat of hair, the angry red crease running the length of her cheek, she managed to pull off beautiful. Too bad for me, I took after my father.<br />
<br />
“I’m gonna be late for school. And you’re gonna be late for work.”<br />
<br />
“Too tired,” she croaked.<br />
<br />
More like too hung over.<br />
<br />
Heat stirred in my chest. I took a deep breath and exhaled. I had no idea how many more times she could be late before she got the ax, but my mother’s tardiness wasn’t my problem. It would only become my problem if I stayed here. Her boss might extend some grace; Principal Best (a name too ironic for words), on the other hand, would not. I dug inside her purse and grabbed her keys.<br />
<br />
<i>One hundred eighty days…one hundred eighty days…one hundred eighty days…</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Bonnie S. Calhounhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11769607640246518804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368541238593747420.post-65444041973655181712015-05-10T22:31:00.002-04:002015-05-10T22:31:54.091-04:00The Wood's Edge by Lori Benton<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFjxjOTf_pHUKTS-hisD-dPXJsKiSey9r38cETma5W9P5bam5PYOk1XsAd-Uibg8kSIBL_j2BbK1wWjbVG20_r62kGZjmEt94GXMzYc0HMIlPupIwByMg-O_RE0zU8yPkPPFu0vDsimk7v/s1600/WoodsEdge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFjxjOTf_pHUKTS-hisD-dPXJsKiSey9r38cETma5W9P5bam5PYOk1XsAd-Uibg8kSIBL_j2BbK1wWjbVG20_r62kGZjmEt94GXMzYc0HMIlPupIwByMg-O_RE0zU8yPkPPFu0vDsimk7v/s320/WoodsEdge.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><center><span style="color: #993300; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1601427328">The Wood's Edge</a></span></center><center>WaterBrook Press (April 21, 2015)<br />
</center><center>by</center><center><span style="color: #006600; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://loribenton.blogspot.com/">Lori Benton</a></span></center><br /><br />
<br /><br />
<center>Chapter 1</center><br />
August 9, 1757<br />
<br />
A white flag flew over Fort William Henry. The guns were silent now, yet the echo of cannon-fire thumped and roared in the ears of Reginald Aubrey, officer of His Majesty's Royal Americans.<br />
<br />
Emerging from the hospital casemate with a bundle in his arms, Reginald squinted at the splintered bastion where the white flag hung, wilted and still in the humid air. Lieutenant Colonel Monro, the fort’s commanding officer, had ordered it raised at dawn — to the mingled relief and dread of the dazed British regulars and colonials trapped within the fort.<br />
<br />
Though he'd come through six days of siege bearing no worse than a scratch — and the new field rank of major-beneath Reginald's scuffed red coat, his shirt clung sweat — soaked to his skin. Straggles of hair lay plastered to his temples in the midday heat. Yet his bones ached as though it was winter, and he a man three times his five-and-twenty years.<br />
<br />
Earlier an officer had gone forth to hash out the particulars of the fort's surrender with the French general, the Marquis de Montcalm. Standing outside the hospital with his bundle, Reginald had the news of Montcalm's terms from Lieutenant Jones, one of the few fellow Welshmen in his battalion.<br />
<br />
"No prisoners, sir. That's the word come down." Jones's eyes were bloodshot, his haggard face soot-blackened. "Every soul what can walk will be escorted safe under guard to Fort Edward, under parole ..."<br />
<br />
Jones went on detailing the articles of capitulation, but Reginald's mind latched on to the mention of Fort Edward, letting the rest stream past. Fort Edward, some fifteen miles by wilderness road, where General Webb commanded a garrison two thousand strong, troops he’d not seen fit to send to their defense, despite Colonel Monro’s repeated pleas for aid — as it seemed the Almighty Himself had turned His back these past six days on the entreaties of the English. And those of Reginald Aubrey.<br />
<br />
Why standest thou afar off, O Lord?<br />
<br />
Ringing silence lengthened before Reginald realized Jones had ceased speaking. The lieutenant eyed the bundle Reginald cradled, speculation in his gaze. Hoarse from bellowing commands through the din of mortar and musket fire, Reginald’s voice rasped like a saw through wood. “It might have gone worse for us, Lieutenant. Worse by far.”<br />
<br />
“He’s letting us walk out of here with our heads high,” Jones agreed, grudgingly. “I’ll say that for Montcalm.”<br />
<br />
Overhead the white flag stirred in a sudden fit of breeze that threatened to clear the battle smoke but brought no relief from the heat.<br />
<br />
I am feeble and sore broken: I have roared by reason of the disquietness of my heart —<br />
<br />
Reginald said, “Do you go and form up your men, Jones. Make ready to march.”<br />
<br />
“Aye, sir.” Jones saluted, gaze still fixed on Reginald’s cradling arms. “Am I to be congratulating you, Capt — Major, sir? Is it a son?”<br />
<br />
Reginald looked down at what he carried. A corner of its wrappings had shifted. He freed a hand to settle it back in place. “That it is.”<br />
<br />
All my desire is before thee; and my groaning is not hid from thee—<br />
<br />
“Ah, that’s good then. And your wife? She’s well?”<br />
<br />
“She is alive, God be thanked.” The words all but choked him.<br />
<br />
The lieutenant’s mouth flattened. “For myself, I’d be more inclined toward thanking Providence had it seen fit to prod Webb off his backside.”<br />
<br />
It occurred to Reginald he ought to have reprimanded Jones for that remark, but not before the lieutenant had trudged off through the mill of bloodied, filthy soldier-flesh to gather the men of his company in preparation for surrender.<br />
<br />
Aye. It might have gone much worse. At least his men weren’t fated to rot in some fetid French prison, awaiting ransom or exchange. Or, worst of terrors, given over to their Indians.<br />
<br />
My heart panteth, my strength faileth me—<br />
<br />
As for Major Reginald Aubrey of His Majesty’s Royal Americans . . . he and his wife were condemned to live, and to grieve. Turning to carry out the sentence, he descended back into the casemate, in his arms the body of his infant son, born as the last French cannon thundered, dead but half an hour past.<br />
<br />
<center>***</center><br />
The resounding silence brought on by the cease-fire gave way to a tide of lesser noise as soldiers and civilians made ready to remove to the entrenched encampment outside the fort, hard by the road to Fort Edward. There the surviving garrison would wait out the night. Morning promised a French escort and the chance to put the horrors of William Henry behind them.<br />
<br />
All thy waves and thy billows are gone over me—<br />
<br />
Reginald Aubrey ducked inside the subterranean hospital, forced to step aside from the path of a surgeon spattered in gore. The balding, sweating man drew up, recognizing him. “Your wife, sir. Best wake her and judge of her condition. If she cannot be moved . . . well, pray God she can be. Those who cannot will be left under French care, but I’d not want a wife of mine so left—not with the savages sure to rush in with the officers.”<br />
<br />
“We neither of us shall stay behind.” Reginald turned a shoulder when the surgeon’s gaze dropped to the still bundle.<br />
<br />
He’d been alone with his son when it happened. Spent after twenty hours of wrenching labor, Heledd had barely glimpsed the child before succumbing to exhaustion. She’d slept since on the narrow cot, the babe she’d fought so long to birth nested in the curve of her arm. Craving the light his son had shed in that dark place, Reginald had returned to them, had come in softly, had bent to admire his offspring’s tiny pinched face, only to find the precious light had flickered and gone out.<br />
<br />
A hatchet to his chest could not have struck a deeper blow. He’d clapped a hand to his mouth, expecting his life’s blood to gush forth from the wound. When it hadn’t, he’d taken up the tiny body, still pliable in its wrappings, and left his sleeping wife to wander the shadowed casemate, gutted behind a mask of pleasantry as those he passed offered weary felicitations, until he’d met Lieutenant Jones outside.<br />
<br />
How was he to tell Heledd? To speak words that would surely crush what remained of her will to go on? These last days, trapped inside a smoking, burning hell, had all but undone her. And it was his fault. He’d known . . . God forgive him, he’d known it the day they wed. She wasn’t suited for a soldier’s wife. He ought to have left her in Wales. Insisted upon it. But thought of being an ocean away from her, likely for years . . .<br />
<br />
Born an only child on a prosperous Breconshire estate not far from his own, Heledd had been raised sheltered, privileged. Reginald had admired her from afar since he was a lad. She’d taken notice of him by the time she was seventeen. Six months later Reginald, twenty-three and newly possessed of a captain’s commission, had proposed.<br />
<br />
When it came time for them to part, Heledd had begged. She’d pleaded. She’d made all manner of promises. She would follow the drum as a soldier’s wife. He would see how brave she could be.<br />
<br />
She’d barely weathered the sea voyage. The sickness, the filth, the myriad indignities of cramped quarters had eaten away at her fragile soul, leaving behind a darkness that spread like a stain, until he barely recognized the suspicious, defensive, unreasoning creature that on occasion burst from beneath her delicate surface. Nor the weeping, broken one.<br />
<br />
But always she would rally, come back to herself, beg him not to leave her somewhere billeted apart from him, love him passionately, sweetly, until he lost all reason and caved to her pleas.<br />
<br />
Then had come the stresses of the campaign, the journey from Albany to Fort Edward, then to Fort William Henry, Heledd scrubbing laundry for the regiment, ruining her lovely hands to earn her ration. Brittle smiles. Assurances. Clinging to stability by her broken fingernails while his dread for her deepened, a slow poison taking hold.<br />
<br />
Then she’d told him: she was again with child. After an early loss in the first months of their marriage, she’d waited long before informing him. By then they were out of Albany, heading into wilderness, she once more refusing to be left behind. Would that the babe had waited for this promised safe passage to Fort Edward. Maybe then . . .<br />
<br />
How long shall I take counsel in my soul, having sorrow in my heart ?<br />
<br />
Why standest thou afar off, O Lord?<br />
<br />
Providence had abandoned him. He alone must find the words to land what might be the final blow for Heledd, and he’d rather have stripped himself naked to face a gauntlet of Montcalm’s Indians.<br />
<br />
Shaking now, Reginald started for the stuffy timbered room where his wife had given birth—but was soon again halted, this time by sight of a woman. She lay in an alcove off the casemate’s main passage. He might have overlooked her had not two ensigns been coming from thence sup- porting a third between them, dressed in bloodied linen. They muttered their sirs and shuffled toward the sunlit parade ground, leaving Reginald to peer within.<br />
<br />
The alcove was dimly lantern-lit. Disheveled, malodorous pallets lined the walls, all vacated except for the one upon which the woman lay. A trade-cloth tunic and deerskin skirt edged with tattered fringe covered her slender frame. Her fair sleeping face was young, the thick braid fallen across her shoulder blond. No bandages or blood marked any injury. Reginald wondered at her presence until he saw beside her on the pallet a bundle much like the one he carried, save that it emitted soft kittenish mewls. Sounds his son would never make again.<br />
<br />
He remembered the woman then. She’d been brought in by scouts just before Montcalm’s forces descended and the siege began, liberated from a band of Indians a mile from the fort. For weeks such bands had streamed in from the west, tribes from the mountains and the lake country beyond, joining Montcalm’s forces at Fort Carillon.<br />
<br />
How long this white woman had been a captive of the savages there was no telling. She’d no civilized speech according to a scout who had claimed to understand the few words she’d uttered. One of the Iroquois dialects. She’d been big with child when they brought her in. Reginald vaguely recalled one of the women assisting Heledd telling him she’d gone into labor shortly before his wife.<br />
<br />
Heledd’s travail had been voluble, even with the pound and crash of mortars above their heads. But he hadn’t heard this woman cry out. Had she survived it?<br />
<br />
He looked along the corridor. Voices rose from deeper in the case- mate, distracted with evacuating the wounded. Holding his dead son, Reginald Aubrey stepped into the alcove and bent a knee.<br />
<br />
The woman’s chest rose with breath, though her skin was ashen. A heap of blood-soaked linen shoved against the log wall attested to the cause. He started to wake her, thinking to see if she knew the fort had fallen — could he make himself understood. That was when he realized. The bundle beside her contained not a baby, but babies. One had just kicked aside the covering to bare two small faces, two pairs of shoulders.<br />
<br />
Reginald glanced round, half expecting another woman to appear, come to claim one of the babes as her own. They couldn’t both belong to this woman. They were as different as two newborns could be except — a peek beneath the blanket told him — both were male.<br />
<br />
That was where resemblance ended, at least in that dimness. For while the infant on the left had a head of black hair and skin that foretold a tawny shade, the one on the right, capped in wisps of blond, was as fair and pink as Reginald’s dead son.<br />
<br />
<center>***</center><br />
The ringing in Reginald’s head had become a roar as he bent over Heledd to wake her. His heart battered the walls of his chest like a thirty-two pounder set at point-blank range, waging internal war. Despite his mistakes with Heledd, he’d still considered himself a good man. An honorable man. For five-and-twenty years he’d had no indisputable cause to doubt it. Until now.<br />
<br />
How could he do this thing?<br />
<br />
With a groan, he backed from his wife. He would set this right, re- turn things as the Almighty had — for whatever inscrutable reason — caused them to be. There was time to undo what ought never to have entered his thoughts.<br />
<br />
Only there wasn’t.<br />
<br />
Heledd’s eyes blinked open. A slender, reddened hand felt for the infant gone from her side. With a cry she heaved up from the cot, hair flowing dark across her crumpled shift.<br />
<br />
“Where is he? My baby!” Panic pinched her voice, twisted her fine- boned face into a sharp mask.<br />
<br />
Reginald’s heart broke its pummeling rhythm, swelling with love, aching with shame. “He’s here. I have him here.”<br />
<br />
With grasping hands Heledd took the swaddled babe. The child’s features were scrunching to cry, but the instant it settled in Heledd’s embrace, it calmed.<br />
<br />
Reginald’s hands shook as his wife stared at the child in her arms. She would know. Of course she would. What mother wouldn’t? In another heartbeat she would raise those brown eyes that had claimed his heart, sear him with accusation, unleash the darkness that he knew bedeviled her, and he’d have lost more than a fort and a son and his honor this day.<br />
<br />
Heledd’s narrow shoulders heaved. Like a mirror of the babe’s, her face calmed, softening in a manner Reginald had never seen. Not even on their wedding day when she’d looked at him as though he’d lit the moon. It was as though, in the face of the child in her arms, she’d found her sun.<br />
<br />
“Oh . . . it is well he looks. When I saw him before I thought — was his color not a bit sickly? But do you look at him now, Reginald. Our son is beautiful.” With a bubble of laughter she raised her face to him, joy shining from her porcelain features, her beautiful eyes alight in their bruised hollows.<br />
<br />
He couldn’t see the darkness.<br />
<br />
For a fleeting moment Reginald was glad for the thing he had done. “He is —” The catch in his voice might have been for reasons purer than the truth. He was beautiful, Heledd. As I lay him beside the dark child, I saw he had your eyes . . . my mouth . . . and I think my father’s nose.<br />
<br />
“Major?” a hurried voice hailed from the doorway. “Ye’ve but moments to be on the parade ground, sir.”<br />
<br />
Reginald nodded without looking to see who spoke. Grief and guilt swallowed whole his gladness.<br />
<br />
For mine iniquities are gone over mine head . . . neither is there any rest in my bones because of my sin —<br />
<br />
As footsteps hurried away, he tore through his soul for refuge, even the most tenuous — and found it in Heledd and what he must now do to see her safe across fifteen miles of howling wilderness. He clenched his hands to stop their shaking. “Quickly,” he told his wife. “Let me help you dress.”<br />
<br />
Heledd wrenched her gaze from the babe to echo vaguely, “Dress?” “Aye. You must rise, and I am sorry for it, but we have lost this ground.<br />
<br />
We’re returning to Fort Edward.”<br />
<br />
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Bonnie S. Calhounhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11769607640246518804noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8368541238593747420.post-88214519177227645252015-04-26T23:39:00.002-04:002015-04-26T23:39:47.332-04:00Gathered Waters by Cara Luecht<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi359lQC3emidlLRtRzlOqR6ZKF8vkSlpOjIp0LAq7XnmsxxWVRB1vERu3D408-uuSZY4vv_JrPQZmfgA3kVCsTan4gDdAHO3zYKgJYo2o8Dor0k_pGyOdcr8KXtYn5_i8840pNcgfNR3nk/s1600/GatheredWaters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi359lQC3emidlLRtRzlOqR6ZKF8vkSlpOjIp0LAq7XnmsxxWVRB1vERu3D408-uuSZY4vv_JrPQZmfgA3kVCsTan4gDdAHO3zYKgJYo2o8Dor0k_pGyOdcr8KXtYn5_i8840pNcgfNR3nk/s1600/GatheredWaters.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div><center><span style="color: #993300; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1939023300">Gathered Waters</a></span></center><center>WhiteFire Publishing (April 15, 2015)<br />
</center><center>by</center><center><span style="color: #006600; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.caraluecht.com/">Cara Luecht</a></span></center><br /><br />
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<br />
<center>Chapter 1</center><br />
***Coming Soon***Bonnie S. Calhounhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11769607640246518804noreply@blogger.com0