The Story Beginnings...

In Too Deep

2012-01-27T00:40:00.001-05:00

Bluegrass Peril Bethany House (February 1, 2012) by Mary Connealy

In Too Deep

Ruth's Redemption

2012-01-27T00:04:00.001-05:00

Ruth's Redemption Moody Publishers/Lift Every Voice (February 1, 2012) by Marlene Banks

Prologue

Tidewater Region of Virginia, 1830

Her defiant dignity stood out even in this horrible circumstance. She was beautiful, standing tall, majestically arrogant in spite of such indecent exposure. It was obvious she wasn’t like the others in the line. He could see it, but more than that, he sensed it. Each of the women’s shoulders slumped, their heads hung low, humiliation and defeat apparent over every inch of them.

Some tried to cover their nakedness with their chained hands to no avail. No one cared about their shame. They were not afforded the privilege of pride or decency. To most of the spectators, they were not human but stock animals on parade for the highest bidder; assembled for inspection to be purchased for whatever the buyer desired.

Dear Lord, when will this end? How long must my people suffer this shame and bondage? He prayed silently, holding his anger in check, pushing down the urge to lash out. He noticed her head was held high and her stance impudent even in shackles.

No one at the auction took pity on these women being sold like prime cattle . . . no one but him and God. His heart always ached at the sight of their uncovered bodies shiny with oil, pulled with chains and fettered in leg irons linking them all together.Waiting to hear from God, Bo stood in the back as he always did, out of sight of the others eager to make their purchases.

Some of the patrons poked and prodded the merchandise, ignoring their cries of discomfort and whimpers of shame and fear. One woman made no sound. Her eyes were fixed in a hostile stare at nothing in particular, her full lips tight.

Montgomery Dale, a wealthy farmer from outside Richmond, wanted to see her teeth. “Open up!” he commanded. After all, good skin, teeth, and a pink tongue meant you’d be getting a healthy slave. She didn’t open her mouth.

“You heard me, you stupid wench, open up!” Her jaw visibly tightened.

Harvey Price moved over to her and struck her hard enough to rock her back. “You heard him! Open your mouth!” He took his hands and tried to pry her lips and jaw apart. She still resisted. He hit her a second time, trying again to open her jaws when, in an instant, she bit down on his fingers. He yelled and snatched his hands away.

“You bit me!” His fist slammed into her head. She did not open her mouth but her eyes shut tight from the blow. She bent over, groaning, and buckled to her knees.

“Never mind, I don’t want a slave I have to beat to death to make mind. Waste of good money.” Montgomery waved his hand as he walked away.

“I warned you, you troublesome . . .” Harvey punched her in the face once more. She grunted from the pain and crumbled to the wooden platform. “Joe, get over here and loose her! Take her to the tobacco barn! I’m gonna teach this wench a lesson she’ll never forget when she comes to. She won’t bite nobody else when I’m done with her.”

A thin, tall black man came from the rear of the stage holding a giant key. “Shame ya has ta whoop her, Mistah Harvey, she sho a good lookin’ healthy one. Pretty as kin be an’ got a good strong body. Shame ta scar up such a fine lookin’ one. Dat’ll bring down her worth, won’ it?”

“Don’t ask me no stupid questions, boy! Do as I say before I whip your black hide too!”

“Yessah, Massah Harvey, anythin’ ya says, Massah Harvey.”

Harvey grumbled, “Ain’t nobody gonna buy her actin’ like a stubborn mule. A good lashin’s what she needs to teach her not to bite white folks.”

Bo felt the strong stirring of his spirit. It was a forceful urging and he knew why. He made his way swiftly toward the front. Marshall Craig was watching him, his dislike for Bo apparent. Their farms were adjacent. Bo knew the man hated him, hated his being a free Negro and property owner, but there was nothingMarshall could do about it.Afree black man productively working the land was an insult to a struggling white farmer. Marshall Craig opposed Mister Maitland and everything the man and his family represented. He despised all God-fearing men like Maitland, especially those who spoke out against slavery.

Ten years ago Jordan Maitland died, leaving instructions for his thirty-five slaves to be freed and a parcel of land given to Bo Peace. Bo continually produced abundant crops and maintained healthy farm stock on the flourishing farm he owned. He lived on this land with other freed slaves, working and living in agrarian prosperity. It was an industrious community of free blacks. Craig despised the idea of blacks running a farm on their own. He particularly disliked Bo, the man he considered the leader of the out-of-place coloreds.

Bo stepped up to Harvey. “I’ll buy her, Mister Price, sir,” he said quietly.

Harvey snapped his head around and looked at Bo. He knew this educated freed slave all too well. He talked too proper and was too blasted proud. Harvey didn’t like Bo Peace but he didn’t care about likes or dislikes, politics, humanity, or religion. All he was concerned with was making a profit. To him this black man’s money was as good as anybody’s. “You sure you want this one?” he asked.

“Yes sir, that one.”

Harvey glanced at Joe then back at Bo. “Now I know she’s mighty good to look at, boy, but you sure you want this here hard-to-tame wench?”

“Yes sir; how much you asking for her?”

“Let me see now . . . Seein’ she’s a strong healthy one with a breedin’ history . . .” He rubbed his chin, which showed a week’s worth of stubble, and his grin sported a missing front tooth. “I’ll sell her to you for nine hundred fifty dollars.” His grin widened. “She’s awful fetchin’, you know.”

“Nine hundred fifty?” Bo knew a white man would pay less for a disobedient slave. That amount would take almost all he had to spend. He’d been hoping to purchase two slaves.

“That’s my price. She’s young and look at those hips . . . wide . . . made to have a passel of picaninnies. Valuable stock, she is and has a goodly caboose too, probably keep you warm and satisfied many a cold winter night to come. Shoot, appealin’ as she is, I was tempted to try her out myself.” Harvey watched closely for Bo’s reaction.

Bo kept his face emotionless. “Nine hundred fifty then is agreed.”

Harvey slapped his back. “Good enough, glad to get this troublesome one off my hands. Joe, help get this ornery critter outta here and onto his wagon.”

Bo handed Joe the two blankets he was carrying. Joe covered the woman even before unlocking her shackles. Bo observed all the women, sorry he couldn’t buy every one of them. He dropped his head, not wanting his eyes to meet their pleading faces.

“Now look here, boy, you already see she’s hardheaded, so no bringin’ her back complainin’.” Harvey snorted as he lit his pipe. “It’s a deal that won’t be bartered away for no reason, ya hear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Aaron Philpot stepped up. “That’s too much money, Bo. He’s cheating you.”

Harvey puffed smoke in Philpot’s face and growled. “Shut up and mind your own business.”

“Nine hundred fifty dollars in these parts for a hard-totame slave is robbery and you know it,” Philpot insisted.

“Listen up you treacherous blabbermouth good doer, it’s what I’m chargin’ and what he’s payin’. So git outta here causin’ trouble!”

“I’m satisfied, Mister Philpot. It’s as it should be.” Bo took hold of part of the limp, wrapped body Joe was carrying down the steps.

Love Blooms in Winter

2012-01-24T23:17:00.001-05:00

Love Blooms in Winter Harvest House Publishers (January 1, 2012) by Lori Copeland

Chapter 1

Dwadlo, North Dakota, 1892

The winter of ’92 is gonna go down as one of the worst Dwadlo’s ever seen,” Hal Murphy grumbled as he dumped the sack of flour he got for his wife on the store counter. “Mark my words.” He turned toward Mae Wilkey, the petite postmistress, who was stuffing mail in wooden slots.

“Spring can’t come soon enough for me.” She stepped back, straightening the row of letters and flyers. She didn’t have to record Hal’s prediction; it was the same every year. “I’d rather plant flowers than shovel snow any day of the week.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Hal nodded to the store owner, Dale Smith, who stood five foot seven inches with a rounded belly and salt-and-pepper hair swept to a wide front bang. “Add a couple of those dill pickles, will you?” Hal watched as Dale went over to the barrel and fished around inside, coming up with two fat pickles.

“That’ll fix me up.” Hal turned his attention back to the mail cage, his eyes fixed on the lovely sight. “Can’t understand why you’re still single, Mae. You’re as pretty as a raindrop on a lily pad.” He sniffed the air. “And you smell as good.”

Smiling, Mae moved from the letter boxes to the cash box. Icy weather may have delayed the train this morning, but she still had to count money and record the day’s inventory. “Now, Hal, you know I’d marry you in a wink if you weren’t already taken.” Hal and Clara had been married forty-two years, but Mae’s usual comeback never failed to put a sparkle in the farmer’s eye. Truth be, she put a smile on every man’s face, but she wasn’t often aware of the flattering looks she received. Her heart belonged to Jake Mallory, Dwadlo’s up-and-coming attorney.

Hal nodded. “I know. All the good ones are taken, aren’t they?”

She nodded. “Every single one. Especially in Dwadlo.”

The little prairie town was formed when the Chicago & North Western Railroad came through five years ago. Where abundant grass, wild flowers, and waterfalls had once flourished, hundreds of miles of steel rail crisscrossed the land, making way for big, black steam engines that hauled folks and supplies. Before the railroad came through, only three homesteads had dotted the rugged Dakota Territory: Mae’s family’s, Hal and Clara’s, and Pauline Wilson’s.

But in ’87 life changed, and formerly platted sites became bustling towns. Pine Grove and Branch Springs followed, and Dwadlo suddenly thrived with immigrants, opportunists, and adventure-seeking folks staking claims out West. A new world opened when the Dakota Boom started.

Hal’s gaze focused on Mae’s left hand. “Jake still hasn’t popped the question?”

Mae sighed. Hal was a pleasant sort, but she really wished the townspeople would occupy their thoughts with something other than her and Jake’s pending engagement. True, they had been courting for six years and Jake still hadn’t proposed, but she was confident he would. He’d said so, and he was a man of his word—though every holiday, when a ring would have been an appropriate gift, that special token of his intentions failed to materialize. Mae had more lockets than any one woman could wear, but Jake apparently thought that she could always use another one. What she could really use was his hand in marriage. The bloom was swiftly fading from her youth, and it would be nice if her younger brother, Jeremy, had a man’s presence in his life.

“Be patient, Hal. He’s busy trying to establish a business.”

“Good lands. How long does it take a man to open a law office?”

“Apparently six years and counting.” She didn’t like the uncertainty but she understood it, even if the town’s population didn’t. She had a good life, what with work, church, and the occasional social. Jake accompanied her to all public events, came over two or three times a week, and never failed to extend a hand when she needed something. It was almost as though they were already married.

“The man’s a fool,” Hal declared. “He’d better slap a ring on that finger before someone else comes along and does it for him.”

“Not likely in Dwadlo,” Mae mused. The town itself was made up of less than a hundred residents, but other folks lived in the surrounding areas and did their banking and shopping here. Main Street consisted of the General Store, Smith’s Grain and Feed, the livery, the mortuary, the town hall and jail (which was almost always empty), Doc Swede’s office, Rosie’s Café, and an empty building that had once housed the saloon. Mae hadn’t spotted a sign on any business yet advertising “Husbands,” but she was certain her patience would eventually win out.

With a final smile Hal moved off to pay for his goods. Mae hummed a little as she put the money box in the safe. Looking out the window, she noticed a stiff November wind snapping the red canvas awning that sheltered the store’s porch. Across the square, a large gazebo absorbed the battering wind. The usually active gathering place was now empty under a gray sky. On summer nights music played, and the smell of popcorn and roasted peanuts filled the air. Today the structure looked as though it were bracing for another winter storm. Sighing, Mae realized she already longed for green grass, blooming flowers, and warm breezes.

After Hal left Mae finished up the last of the chores and then reached for her warm wool cape. She usually enjoyed the short walk home from work, but today she was tired—and her feet hurt because of the new boots she’d purchased from the Montgomery Ward catalog. On the page they had looked comfortable with their high tops and polished leather, but on her feet they felt like a vise.

Slipping the cape’s hood over her hair, she said goodbye to Dale and then paused when her hand touched the doorknob. “Oh, dear. I really do need to check on Pauline again.”

“How’s she doing?” The store owner paused and leaned on his broom. “I noticed she hasn’t been in church recently.”

Dale always reminded Mae of an owl perching on a tree limb, his big, dark blue eyes swiveling here and there. He might not talk a body’s leg off, but he kept up on town issues. She admired the quiet little man for what he did for the community and respected the way he preached to the congregation on Sundays.

How was Pauline doing? Mae worried the question over in her mind. Pauline lived alone, and she shouldn’t. The elderly woman was Mae’s neighbor, and she checked on her daily, but Pauline was steadily losing ground.

“She’s getting more and more fragile, I’m afraid. Dale, have you ever heard Pauline speak of kin?”

The small man didn’t take even a moment to ponder the question. “Never heard her mention a single word about family of any kind.”

“Hmm…me neither. But surely she must have some.” Someone who should be here, in Dwadlo, looking after the frail soul. Mae didn’t resent the extra work, but the post office and her brother kept her busy, and she really didn’t have the right to make important decisions regarding the elderly woman’s rapidly failing health.

Striding back to the bread rack, she picked up a fresh loaf. Dale had private rooms at the back of the store where he made his home, and he was often up before dawn baking bread, pies, and cakes for the community. Most folks in town baked their own goods, but there were a few, widowers and such, who depended on Dale’s culinary skills. By this hour of the day the goods were usually gone, but a few remained. Placing a cherry pie in her basket as well, she called, “Add these things to my account, please, Dale. And pray for Pauline too.”

Nodding, he continued sweeping, methodically running the stiff broomcorn bristles across the warped wood floor.

The numbing wind hit Mae full force when she stepped off the porch. Her hood flew off her head and an icy gust of air snatched away her breath. Putting down her basket, she retied the hood before setting off for the brief walk home. Dwadlo was laid out in a rather strange pattern, a point everyone agreed on. Businesses and homes were built close together, partly as shelter from the howling prairie winds and partly because there wasn’t much forethought given to town planning. Residents’ homes sat not a hundred feet from the store. The whole community encompassed less than five acres.

Halfway to her house, snowflakes began swirling in the air. Huddling deeper into her wrap, Mae concentrated on the path as the flakes grew bigger.

She quickly covered the short distance to Pauline’s. The dwelling was little more than a front room, tiny kitchen, and bedroom, but she was a small woman. Pauline pinned her yellow-white hair in a tight knot at the base of her skull, and she didn’t have a tooth in her head. She chewed snuff, which she freely admitted was an awful habit, but Mae had never heard her speak of giving it up.

Her faded blue eyes were as round as buttons, and no matter what kind of day she was having, it was always a new one to her, filled with wonders. Her mind wasn’t what it used to be. She had good and bad days, but mostly days when her moods changed as swift as summer lightning. She could be talking about tomatoes in the garden patch when suddenly she would be discussing how to spin wool.

Mae noted a soft wisp of smoke curling up from the chimney and smiled. Pauline had remembered to feed the fire this afternoon, so this was a good day.

Unlatching the gate, she followed the path to the front porch. In summertime the white railings hung heavy with red roses, and the scent of honeysuckle filled the air. This afternoon the wind howled across the barren flower beds Pauline carefully nurtured during warmer weather. Often she planted okra where petunias should be, but she enjoyed puttering in the soil and the earth loved her. She brought fresh tomatoes, corn, and beans to the store during spring and summer, and pumpkins and squash lined the railings in the fall.

In earlier days Pauline’s quilts were known throughout the area. She and her quilting group had made quite a name for themselves when Dwadlo first became a town. Four women excelled in the craft. One had lived in Pine Grove, and two others came from as far away as Branch Springs once a month to break bread together and stitch quilts. But one by one the women had died off, leaving Pauline to sew alone in her narrowing world.

Stomping her boots on the porch, Mae said under her breath, “I don’t mind winter, Lord, but could we perhaps have a little less of it?” The only answer was the wind whipping her garments. Tapping lightly on the door, she called, “Pauline?”

Mae stepped back and waited to hear the shuffle of feet. Pauline used to answer the door in less than twenty seconds. It took longer now. Mae made a fist with her gloved hand and banged a little harder. The wind howled around the cottage eaves. She closed her eyes and prayed that Jeremy had remembered to stack sufficient firewood beside the kitchen door. The boy was generally responsible, and she thanked God every day that she had him to lean on. He had been injured by forceps during birth, which left him with special needs. He was a very happy fourteen-year-old with the reasoning power of a child of nine.

A full minute passed. Mae frowned and tried the doorknob. Pauline couldn’t hear herself yell in a churn, but she might also be asleep. The door opened easily, and Mae peeked inside the small living quarters. She saw that a fire burned low in the woodstove, and Pauline’s rocking chair sat empty.

Stepping inside, she closed the door and called again. “Pauline? It’s Mae!”

The ticking of the mantle clock was the only sound that met her ears.

“Pauline?” She lowered her hood and walked through the living room. She paused in the kitchen doorway.

“Oh, Pauline!”

The Mulligans of Mt Jefferson

2012-01-17T22:31:00.001-05:00

Bluegrass Peril David C. Cook (January 1, 2012) by Don Reid

MT. JEFFERSON, VIRGINIA 1959
Lt. Buddy Briggs was lying in bed next to his wife. On the nightstand, the clock radio Amanda had given him for Christmas two years ago said it was 5:16 a.m. It kept pretty good time for a dime-store special. In exactly fourteen minutes the alarm would go off under the guise of a radio show, and Crazy Charlie’s Coffee Pot would fill the room with a weather report, baseball scores, Khrushchev, and Connie Francis. Should he wait for the alarm and hope for a few more minutes of sleep, or just get up and get it over with?

“Are you awake?”

“I am now,” Amanda said with a sleepy smile in her voice.

“Sorry. But I was just lying here thinking about Shirley Ann and the baby. Are you going to call her this morning or wait to hear from her?”

“If we don’t hear something by eight, I’ll call her. But don’t worry now. She’s in good hands.”

“I know that. But those pains she was having last night … If the baby comes soon, how early would it be?” “The baby is due July twentieth. And today is what?”

“Wednesday.”

“I know that, silly.” She kicked him playfully under the sheets. “Wednesday, June seventeenth.”

“So that would mean it’s four more weeks and a few days to full term. She’ll be okay. They’ll be okay.”

“I still find it hard to believe that our sixteen-year-old daughter …”

“Seventeen!” she corrected him.

“Okay, seventeen-year-old daughter is about to be somebody’s mother.”

“And you, old man, are about to be somebody’s grandpa.”

“Don’t be so smug because you know that makes you …”

“Yeah, what does that make me?”

“That makes you the prettiest grandmother I’ve woken up next to … in weeks.”

“Okay, big boy, I can kick harder than that last one.”

“What? I said you were the prettiest—”

The ring of the phone stopped him in midsentence. Nothing is louder or more unsettling than a screaming telephone after bedtime or before breakfast. But as a police officer with the Mt. Jefferson force, he had learned to be a little less alarmed each time it rang. It was rarely good news, but it was almost always business. However, this morning—Shirley Ann weighed heavily on his mind—it could be personal. He reached for the receiver and picked it up in the middle of the second ring.

“Hello.”

The pause after the initial hello was so long that Amanda sat up in bed, wide awake, so she could see the expression on his face. There was none. He was listening intently. It scared her that he wasn’t writing anything on the pad that always lay on the nightstand next to a pencil ready for middle-of-the-night note taking. Names and addresses were hurriedly scratched down before he would leap out of bed and jump into clothes that he invariably put out the night before for just such emergencies.

Amanda put her hand on his arm and quietly said, “What is it?” but he only shook his head slightly and kept listening. He finally said, “I’ll be right there” and then placed the phone back in its cradle.

He looked at her and said, “Harlan has been shot.”

“Oh, no! Harlan? What happened?”

“Intruder. At his house. Just a few minutes ago. He’s on his way to the hospital.” But Buddy Briggs still wasn’t moving. He lay back down and exhaled as if a bad day was just ending instead of beginning. Harlan Stone was one of the closest friends he had in the world.

“Should I go with you to be with Darcy and the boys? They’re all okay, aren’t they?” Amanda asked.

“Yeah. They’re okay.”

“How bad is it, Buddy? And I dread asking you that because I don’t want to hear it.

“He’s alive. But how bad? I’m not sure. Nobody is yet. That’s where I’ll go first. To the hospital. Then I’ll let you know.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No. You stay here in case Shirley Ann calls. You may wind up at the hospital anyway if the baby comes early.”

He closed his eyes, and she rubbed his arm.

“Before I go, I need to call Cal,” Buddy said more to himself than to Amanda.

But before he could reach for the phone, a sudden loud voice startled them. “This is Crazy Charlie and it’s raging hot and the ole coffee pot is steaming and screaming and you lazy heads better get out of bed cause it’s five thirty-one and that lucky ole sun …”

Buddy slammed his fist hard on the Off button and dressed quickly in silence.

Amanda was at the counter pouring herself a cup of coffee when he walked past her and stopped at the kitchen phone on the wall. She knew, without looking, the number he was dialing. She could faintly hear Cal answer at the Methodist parsonage and then Buddy say, “Harlan has been shot. I’m on my way to the hospital. Meet me there.”

His Steadfast Love

2012-01-10T23:26:00.002-05:00

His Steadfast Love Thomas Nelson (November 1, 2011) by Golden Keyes Parsons

**Coming soon**

The Captive Heart

2012-01-08T23:10:00.000-05:00

The Captive Heart Bethany House (January 1, 2012) by Dale Cramer

The Captive Heart

The Rose of Winslow Street

2012-01-03T23:23:00.000-05:00

The Rose of Winslow Street Bethany House (January 1, 2012)
by Elizabeth Camden

The Rose of Winslow Street

The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

2012-01-01T22:30:00.000-05:00

The Maid of Fairbourne Hall Bethany House (January 1, 2012) by Julie Klassen

The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

Lost Melody

2011-11-27T23:29:00.001-05:00

Lost Melody Zondervan (October 25, 2011) by Lori Copeland and Virginia Smith

Chapter 1

*****Coming Soon****

A Marriage Carol - Excerpt

2011-11-22T23:28:00.001-05:00

A Marriage Carol • Moody Publishers (September 1, 2011) by Chris Fabry and Gary Chapman

The Shortcut

“When do we tell the children?”

He said it without feeling, without emotion, without giving weight to the words. He said it as though he
was asking the latest stock price for Microsoft or Google. These were his first words after nearly twenty minutes in the car together. On our anniversary.

“After Christmas,” I said, matching his evenness, his coldness. “Not tonight or tomorrow.”

“Don’t you think they know by now? At least that something’s up?”

“Not David, he’s too young. Justin asks questions and just looks at me with those doe eyes, but he keeps it in. Becca is the one I worry about.”

“Kids are resilient. If they don’t know, they’ll under¬stand. It’s for the best. For all of us.” I hope he’s right. “Now they’ll have two Christmases,” he said.

The windshield wipers beat their own rhythm as wet snow fell like rain. The landscape had retreated under the white covering, adding to a previous snowfall that hadn’t fully melted. The roadway, where you could see it, shone black with treachery from the moisture and fall¬ing temperatures. Cars inched along ahead of us on an incline as Jacob drove faster, crowding the car in front of us, looking for a chance to pass.

“Are you sure he’ll be at his office?” I said, looking out the window, bracing for impact. “In this weather? On Christmas Eve?”

“He’s still there. I called before we left. The papers are ready.”

“Does he have a family?” I said.

“What?” He said it with a healthy dose of condescen¬sion, and added a look I couldn’t stand. The look I could live the rest of my life without seeing.

“Does he have a family. A wife? Kids?”

“I have no idea.” More condescension. “I didn’t know
that was a prerequisite for you.” “It’s not. I was just wondering. Working on Christmas Eve. No wonder he’s a divorce lawyer.”

So much for a congenial discussion. The silence was getting to him now and he flipped on a talk station. I was surprised he hadn’t done that earlier. The clock showed 3:18, and a delayed Rush Limbaugh was going into a break. A commercial about an adjustable bed. Local traffic and the forecast. Snarled intersections and cold weather reporting. Expect an even whiter Christmas. Several inches whiter. Maybe more. A cold front moving in and more precipitation at higher elevations.

“Can we listen to something else?” I said.

He suppressed a huff and pressed the FM button. This was his car so nothing on the FM dial was pre-set. He hit “scan.”

He frowned. “Punch it when you hear something you like.”

I passed on Gene Autry and Rudolph. The song brought an ache for the children. Especially David who still believed in Santa and reindeer. At the next station, José Feliciano was down to his last Feliz Navidad. On the left side of the dial, the local Christian station played yet another version of “Silent Night.” I couldn’t stay there because of the guilt of what we were doing.

Paul McCartney said the mood was right and the spirit was up and he was simply having a wonderful Christmastime. I wished I could say the same. The band Journey sang “Don’t Stop Believin’,” but I had stopped long ago, at least concerning our marriage. This was not how we planned it twenty years ago, though the snow¬storm felt similar. Twenty Christmas Eves after I walked the aisle in a dress my mother and I had picked out, I was wearing jeans, an old T-shirt, and an overcoat, cruising in sneakers down the slippery road to a no-fault divorce.

Three children and the bird would live with me (a dog made too much mess and Jacob is allergic to cats), and he would move into an apartment after the New Year. Jacob promised to stay involved. There wasn’t another woman, as far as I knew, as far as he would let on. That wasn’t our problem. The problems were much deeper than infidelity.

I hit the button on singer Imogen Heap. Nothing at all about Christmas. Just quirky music and a synthe¬sized voice that took my mind off the present, which is supposed to be a gift, I know. I’ve heard that.

“I’m done with this road,” Jacob said. “I’m taking the shortcut.” “Over the hill? In this weather?” Two interrogatives to his one statement of fact. “It’ll cut the travel in half. Nobody takes County Line anymore.” “Don’t you think we should stay where they’ve plowed?”

He ignored my entreaty and turned left sharply. The rear of the car slid to the right. I grabbed the door handle instinctively as he corrected. He gave the Jacob head shake, and with shake you get eye roll and a sigh on the side.

“Trust me for once, will you?” he said.

I wanted to bring up a million little ways I’ve tried to trust him. A million little ways I’ve been let down. For twenty years I’ve searched for reasons to place my trust squarely on his shoulders. But how do you trust some¬one who has failed at the life you wanted? There were flashes of caring, a dozen roses to say “I’m sorry,” but the roses wilted and died. And then we started on this direction, him on the Interstate and me on the Frontage Road, separate but still traveling in a semblance of the
same direction. Two moons orbiting the same planet, rarely intersecting. “I don’t want the kids going to our funeral,” I muttered.

He slammed on the brakes and I yelped as we went into another slide. Passive-aggressive driving is his spe¬cialty.

“Fine, I’ll turn around.”

Both hands to my head, tears welling, I hit the power button on the radio and heard myself say, “No, just keep going.”

Promise Brides

2011-11-20T23:23:00.000-05:00

Promise Brides Barbour Books (November 1, 2011) by S. Dionne Moore

Chapter 1

Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, 1863

The prayer of the reverend, standing on a raised platform for all to see and hear, droned in Ellie’s ears. She saw him but did not see him. Her heart and eyes focused more on the huge arch designating the entrance to Evergreen Cemetery and the rising fog that still clung over the raw mounds of dirt, marking the fresh graves in the new burial site of Gettysburg, about to be officially dedicated.

Reverend Stockton got louder, his prayer building, the words plucking at the taut chords of her heart. “. . .because Thou hast called us, that Thy blessings await us, and that Thy designs. . .”

Blessings!

Witnessing the terror of her friends and family during those terrible days of intense battle between the North and South. This was a blessing? What of the mourning Wade family, grieved over the loss of Genny, their young daughter, killed by a stray bullet as she made bread? The stench of death, still a powerful memory in her mind, when bodies lay in the fields bloated and rotting. Ellie’s breath choked and she pressed her hand against her mouth. What of the blessing of a husband of less than two years lying in a grave in hated Southern soil, lost and forgotten except by the one person who had loved him?

“. . .in reverence of Thy ways, and in accordance with Thy word, we love and magnify the infinite perfections. . .”

Ellie pressed her hand tighter to her lips. A touch on her elbow made her turn toward her friend.

“Ellie?”

She could hear the concern in Rose’s voice.

“You need to rest. Why don’t we go home?”

Ellie took a deep breath. She couldn’t allow her own grief to pull her friend away from this very important program, not with the president set to speak. Besides, at some point she needed to distance herself from her grief if she was to be of any use to Rose. Her quiet friend’s swelling body and pale face showed signs of her own private torment, what with the impending birth of her first child and the continued report of her husband missing in action.

Ellie led her friend through the crowd, mostly women. Some reached out to her, widows themselves. She felt their isolation in a physical way that pinched her vision to a narrow tunnel, and at the end of that tunnel was the cold stone of a grave marker.

Sunshine broke through the haze that marked the beginning of the day and shone down on her head, yet she felt it from a distance, the warmth unable to penetrate the shell of her grief.

“I believe we will see some sunshine today after all,” Rose murmured, resting a hand on her stomach. “It will be good to feel warm again.”

“Yes. It would feel good,” Ellie said, more to placate her friend than from any feeling of conviction. How long had it been since she’d felt the lulling warmth of peace? Seven long months. Ever since the news came that Martin had died.

“You don’t have to stay for me,” Rose said.

Ellie closed her eyes and swallowed. Forced a smile. “You wanted to hear Mr. Everett. We should stay.” Mr. Edward Everett’s speech would be long. She knew the man’s reputation, and she was unsure what reserve of strength she would draw from to survive what was surely to be a long day of even longer speeches. “And Mr. Lincoln, of course. What a treasure to have him come and speak on our behalf.” She again pressed her hand to her lips, recalling the president’s own recent grief. To lose a child so young. She chided herself for being selfish. Others knew grief and still functioned. She must as well. “I—I think I’ll take a stroll.”

She felt Rose’s eyes on her, and when her friend held out a handkerchief, Ellie took it without comment. That Rose knew where Ellie’s stroll would take her didn’t surprise her. The sight of row upon row of neatly placed graves tore at her. She rolled with the wave of fresh grief, shocked anew by the bitter taste of despair that sucked away what fleeting strength she had tried to cloak herself with.

She stopped at the edge of the field of graves. Disbelief swirling. All of this was a mistake. It had to be. Martin should be here, in Gettysburg, not buried haphazardly in some Southern field. She closed her eyes and went to her knees in the damp soil, uncaring of those who might be staring. No, they would have their attention fastened upon the speaker, she comforted herself. She shifted, grinding dirt into her skirts, dimly aware that the long prayer had ended and music played. She made use of Rose’s handkerchief until it became a saturated mass.

The music went quiet, and a man’s rich voice began the slow rise that marked the beginning of a speech. Everett. Rose must be entranced. Having heard so much of the orator and his absolute support of the Union’s cause, her friend had been excited to hear him talk. Ellie caught only bits and pieces of the man’s speech as she walked along the perimeter of the crowd, too restless to sit, too grieved to stand still.

Her legs had begun to ache when a smattering of applause broke her reverie. Ellie headed back toward the place where she had parted from Rose. Thousands of people crowded around the raised platform. When Ellie could not discern the familiar shape of her friend, panic plucked at her. Rose wouldn’t leave her. She was sure of it. Her throat closed. Maybe something terrible had happened. Dread squeezed her chest. She would be alone. Again.

Ellie took in the smear of pale faces staring her way. One moved in her direction and touched her arm. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

She did not recognize the man, nor the woman beside him. A couple. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.

“Ellie?”

Rose!

She turned, and Rose’s small form hurried toward her. “I was keeping an eye out for you.” Concern etched Rose’s expression and dimmed the twinkle in her eyes. “You’ve been crying.”

“I’m fine.”

Ellie could see the protest form on Rose’s lips, but she turned her attention back to the speaker, steeling herself. She did her best to concentrate on the speech, but only when President Lincoln stood did she feel anything close to anticipation. Here was the man—black crepe around his top hat in honor of the death of his own son—who understood death in a personal way. President Lincoln’s presence injected a measure of life into the corner of her heart that the news of Martin’s death had withered.

Papers in hand, his higher-pitched voice strong with conviction, Lincoln began. “Fourscore and seven years ago. . .”

***

Theodore watched from the shadows of Rupp’s Tannery as a group of men on horseback cantered down Baltimore Street, passed him, then eased onto Emmitsburg Road. He pressed his back to the building that squatted parallel to Baltimore Street and prayed the moonlight would not reveal him. He withdrew to the back of the building, crossed the yard, forded a small stream, and passed through several yards before he reached Breckinridge Street. He stared at the house in front of him. It was the one he remembered from the day of his cousin’s marriage. His cousins’s bride’s house, left to her by her mother. The place Theo hoped to find her.

His tension eased when he realized the windows of the brick house were dark. A wide oak tree blocked the front of the house from view, but his cousin’s letters had described the clever entry to a cellar at one end of the porch and how his wife worked hard at putting up vegetables and storing various canned goods in the cool space. It was the place he hoped to call home for the night.

Theo rested against the cold brick and dared to close his eyes. His feet burned with rawness, a torture worsened with every passing day but endured out of necessity. He dared not loose the bloody strips of cloth he had tied on to relieve the pain in his bare feet.

In slow degrees, his body relaxed, but he jerked alert in the next breath. Exhaustion would be his downfall. He pushed himself away from the brick wall and went to his hands and knees. With ears keen from nights spent discerning the difference between the sounds of humans or animals approaching, Theo absorbed the atmosphere. Where his vision might fail, his ears would not.

Satisf ied that nothing out of the ordinary moved, he stood and hastened toward the house. Sweat broke out on his upper lip as the porch came into view. He squeezed himself up close to the brick wall of his cousin’s house and slithered toward the porch. In the darkness, he felt for the hinges of the cellar door and found the ring used to pull the door open.

Theo spit into his hand and smeared the wetness on first the top hinge then the lower one and prayed the added moisture would work as a lubricant and keep the door from squeaking. With trepidation, he eased the door toward him, drawing a breath only when the opening became large enough for him to slip through.

With the door firmly shut behind him, he felt his way along with his hands, a damp, cool wall of stone greeting his fingertips and scrubbing his palms. For a moment he stood perplexed. The porch ran the length of the house, a good ten feet by his estimate, yet he guessed that he had come only five feet. This stone wall must be to support the middle section to avoid sag. Sure his assessment must be correct, he followed the wall into a room that smelled of apples, with undertones of dust and mildew. But the scent refreshed him. He longed for a light to see by but dared not risk giving himself away, even if he had possessed a lantern.

His fingers skimmed the jars of produce and rough gunnysacks of apples and potatoes. Food. His hand closed around the smooth skin of an apple, and he sank his teeth into the fruit, surprised by the tart bite of the tender flesh. He munched as quietly as he could then began on a potato and finished with another apple.

A dull thud brought him up straight. His hands went clammy and he lowered the apple and cocked his head to listen harder.

The sound did not repeat. He took another bite, quieter this time. It must be someone in the house turning over in bed or falling out. If Martin’s wife, Ellie, was not alone, or if she had relatives living with her in the wake of her grief, his chances of being identified increased. The thought congealed the contents of his stomach into a heaving mass.

He put the apple aside and stretched out on the dirt floor, his body demanding rest. With his fist, he made a pillow of a small sack of apples. He closed his eyes and tried to plan how he would introduce himself into the household.

What would Ellie Lester be like in person? He had read so much about her in Martin’s letters that Theo felt as if he knew her. But among Martin’s personal effects, he never located a picture. Not everyone, he supposed, had the benefit of such a treasure to remember a loved one by, but he had hoped to remind himself what she looked like before coming face-to-face with her. His cousin’s wedding to the woman had been a long time ago, and though Theo recalled the day, the faces had receded a bit as the horrors of war had driven the pleasant memories into hiding.

Something tickled along Theo’s arm, and he slapped at the place, feeling the crush of a tiny body. A spider, no doubt. With a weary sigh, he rolled to his side and fell into a deep sleep.

Christmas In Sugarcreek

2011-11-17T23:26:00.001-05:00

Christmas In Sugarcreek Avon Inspire (October 25, 2011) by Shelley Shepard Gray

Chapter 1

Ten Days Until Christmas

“Judith, are you sure you don’t mind locking up tonight?” asked Joshua, a guilty tone heavy in his voice. “I feel bad, letting you close the store two nights in a row.”

“You shouldn’t. I don’t mind staying late at all. That’s what sisters are for, jah?”

When Josh continued to look doubtful, Judith Graber lifted her chin, forced a smile she didn’t feel inside. “Come, now. Gretta needs you. As does Will. Go on, or you’re going to be late. You two have plans, don’tcha?”

“Nothing much. We’re just getting together for supper with some other couples. You know, before things get too busy.”

She knew Joshua was talking about Christmas gettogethers and other holiday parties. Every frau she knew was busy baking and cooking for the planned activities.

Being single, she was not. “Go now, Joshua. I’ll be fine.”

“I promise, I’ll close the rest of the week,” he said as he shrugged on his coat.

Judith crossed her arms over her chest. “You better,” she teased with a mock frown.

However, she doubted her bruder had even noticed her expression. He was already beyond the wreath-adorned door that was closing behind him with a jangling of bells.

Judith watched through the store’s large picture windows as her brother weaved in between two parked cars and then, reaching the sidewalk, almost knocked into a woman carrying a wrapped package. He was practically racing home.

To his new home.

Just two months ago, he and Gretta had told the whole family that they were moving into a small house two blocks from the store. Living above the family shop no longer made sense, especially with Gretta in a family way again.

No member of the Graber family disagreed with their decision.

But, of course, none of them had been prepared for the adjustments that would have to be made now that Joshua would no longer be on the premises at all times. Now each member of the family had to take turns opening and closing the shop. Well, she, Joshua, and her father. Mamm was still too busy at home with the little ones to come in much, and Caleb had recently started at the brick factory. Anson was still a little too young to be of any real help.

So, it fell on Judith to do the majority of the work. As always.

Because she was the steady one.

The reliable one.

More like the one who had no life, Judith thought wryly. All while Joshua had been falling in love, and her brother Caleb had been struggling with his future, and even as Anson wrestled with his own growing pains, she had held steady and had quietly done what was expected of her.

Everyone was appreciative, to be sure. But that didn’t ease the restless ache that seemed to be growing inside.

Wistfully, Judith looked out the window at the gently falling snow, the wheel ruts in the lane, the road beyond that led . . . somewhere else.

She wished that she, like Joshua, had somewhere to run to. Wished she had someone who counted the passing minutes of her absence. . .

If only. . .

Realizing she’d been standing there in a daze, Judith slapped her hands on the counter. “If you’re going to be so dreamy, you might as well be truthful about it,” she said out loud. “You don’t wish just for someone. You wish you had a man, a sweetheart, counting the minutes until he saw you again.”

Her hollow laugh echoed through the empty store, a store that surely needed tending. And she knew from experience that wishes and dreams didn’t get things done.

Since there were only five more minutes until closing time, she left her spot behind the counter and began her usual walk through the store. As she did so, she organized stock and picked up stray pieces of trash people had left behind. A child’s toy, a gum wrapper. A grocery list.

The bells on the door jingled merrily, causing her to straighten.

“Hello?” a deep voice called out.

Well, of course someone decided to come in, now that it was mere minutes before closing time. Irritation flowed through her as she stood with her hands full of trash and a metal toy car, as the person darted toward the front. “May I help you?” she called out.

Then skidded to a stop. Because right there in front of her was Benjamin Knox.

Recognition flashed in his eyes as he glanced her way. And then a long, slow smile spread. A knowing and too-personal smile. “Judith Graber . . . Hi.”

“Ben.” She lifted her chin, pretending that she wasn’t shocked to her core. Two years ago, Ben Knox had left Sugarcreek under a haze of disapproval. Gossips reported that he’d gone to Missouri to help some cousins on their dairy farm, but had in truth done little besides flirt with the girls.

She needed to remember that. Keeping her voice cool and even, she asked, “May I help you?”

Under his black hat’s thick felt brim, his hazel eyes seemed to take in every inch of her. She felt his gaze’s sweep as surely as if he’d run a hand right down her periwinkle dress, down her black apron, along her black stockings.

“Nee,” he said.

She couldn’t remember what she’d asked him. “Nee?”

“No, I don’t need your help,” he said with an almost- smirk. “I’m not here for anything special. Just thought I’d look around for a few minutes. You know. See if there was anything that catches my eye.”

“And do you think there might be?”

“Doubt it.”

Judith went cold. Was he purposely being rude, or was she being too sensitive?

Probably a bit of both.

Keenly aware of the tension she felt around Ben— that bit of unease she’d always felt around him—she cleared her throat. “Just to let you know, we’re closing in exactly one minute.”

An eyebrow rose. “In one minute, huh? Then what happens? All customers get locked in?”

“Of course not!” Oh, but of course he was teasing her. “What I meant to say is that you should probably leave.”

“Right now? Before I get a chance to look around some more?” He turned around and stared at the clock above the door. The ridiculous clock with birds on the face instead of numbers. The clock that chirped on the hour, much to the amusement of her mother . . . and to her extreme annoyance.

Before she could answer, the clock struck six and chirped. When he grinned, she felt her cheeks heat. Wished she was absolutely anywhere else but here, with him. Alone together in the store.

Ben Knox bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

It wasn’t because of the clock—his Aunt Beth had a large collection of hand-painted birdhouses on a shelf in her kitchen. He was used to such silly items.

No, what had him tempted to laugh was the girl standing across from him. Standing as stiff and looking as ruffled as the clock’s fierce mother sparrow painted where the number three would be.

But that was where the similarities ended. Judith Graber was far from being just a difficult, fussy girl, and she was not drab at all. No, her bright blue eyes and lovely light brown hair with its streaks of auburn caught his eye like little else.

He found her exasperation with him amusing. And very little had amused him in a long time.

“I guess the cardinal’s trill is my signal to leave?”

Long Trail Home

2011-11-16T01:35:00.000-05:00

Long Trail Home Moody Publishers; New Edition edition (November 1, 2011) by Vickie McDonough

Prologue

WACO, TEXAS, 1858

That one right there—he’s your mark.”

Annie Sheffield slipped past her daddy and peeked around the corner of the building. A handsome youth with wheat-colored hair stood in the dirt road in front of the mercantile, a shiny pocket watch dangling from his fingers on a silver chain. Annie squinted when a shaft of light reflected off the watch, and she blinked several times, refocusing on her prey. A much younger boy with the same color hair reached for the watch, but the other boy lifted the treasure higher to safety.

The older boy’s look was stern but gentle. “No, Timothy. Remember this watch was Grandpa’s. It’s very old, and we must be careful with it.”

The younger boy’s face scrunched up but he nodded. Then the comely youth bent down and allowed Timothy to hold the shiny watch for a moment before he closed it and put it back in a small bag, a proud smile on his handsome face.

Ducking back into the alley, Annie leaned against the wall in the early evening shadows. She glanced at her daddy. “Do I have to?”

“You wanna eat, don’tcha? We need that watch.”

“But that boy looks so proud of it.”

Her father narrowed his gray eyes. “I’d be proud if’n it was mine.”

Annie sighed. If her father possessed the watch, he’d just go hock it or gamble it away.

“Go on with ya.” He flicked his thin index finger in the air, pointing toward the street. He tugged down on the ugly orange, green, and brown plaid vest that he always wore. “Scat!”

Annie peered around the building again, taking a moment to judge how fast she’d have to run and where she could hide once she’d taken the watch. She’d come to hate being a pickpocket. Ever since she heard that street preacher several months back in Galveston hollering to a small crowd of spectators that stealing was breaking one of God’s special laws, it had nagged her worse than a swarm of mosquitoes. But she was hungry, and they had no money.

She studied the boy’s long legs. Could she outrun him? And what about his little friend?

Her daddy was an expert pickpocket. He could snitch a wallet and disappear into a crowd like a crow in a flock, but when it came to running away from a target, well, that’s where she came in.

The tall cowboy was probably only a few years older than her thirteen years. He motioned to the younger boy, and they hopped up on the boardwalk and strolled toward her, completely unaware they were being spied on. He held one hand on the younger boy’s shoulder, as if wanting to keep him close. Now that they both faced her, she could see their resemblance. They had to be brothers. The big boy glanced at his watch bag, tucked it in his vest pocket, and gave it a loving pat.

Annie jumped back. “He’s coming,” she whispered over her shoulder.

Her father scowled. “I want that watch. Go!”

He gave her a shove. She stumbled forward and turned.

The youth’s blue eyes widened. “Hey, look—”

They collided—hard. Annie was knocked backwards, arms pumping, and her cap flew off. The youth grabbed her shoulders, and in a quick, smooth move that had taken Annie her whole life to master, she slipped his watch from his pocket and into hers. She ducked her head and stepped back. “Sorry, mister.”

Her apology was more for stealing his treasure than crashing into him. She spun around and ran, hating the baggy trousers her father made her wear so she’d look like a boy. Hating the life she was forced to live. Hating that the handsome youth would hate her. She ran past a bank and a dress shop, then ducked down another alley. Behind the building she turned right instead of going left and back toward her daddy. Right now she didn’t want to see him.

“Hey! Come back here, you thief!”

Annie’s heart lurched, and she switched from trot to gallop. She could no longer see the watch’s owner, but she knew it was him hollering. Bumping into that young man had flustered her. She hadn’t expected him to be so solid for a youth not even full grown yet. Men grew taller and tougher here in Texas than in the other cities of the South where she’d mostly grown up—a different city every few weeks. A thief wasn’t welcome in town for long.

Loud footsteps pounded behind her. She ducked under a wagon that sat behind the smithy, rolled, and dove into the open doorway. She crawled into the shadows of the building and curled up behind a barrel that had oats scattered on the ground around it. She took several gasps of air and listened for footsteps. The watch pressed hard against her hipbone, causing her guilt to mount. A horse in a nearby stall snorted and pawed the ground. Annie’s heartbeat thundered in her ears as she listened for her pursuer’s footsteps. Would he thrash her if he found her?

She peeked around the barrel. The tall boy stood in the doorway, looking around. She shrank back into the shadows like a rat—like the vermin she was.

After a moment, he spun around and quick steps took him away. Annie leaned against the wall, hating herself all over. Why couldn’t she have been born into a nice family who lived in a big house? She’d even be happy with a small house, if she could have regular meals, wash up every week or so, and wear a dress like other girls.

But no, she had to be born the daughter of a master pickpocket.

The blacksmith—redheaded, with huge shoulders and chest—plodded over to a shelf directly across from her, pulled something off it, then returned to the front of the building. He pounded his hammer, making a rhythmic ching.

What would he do if he found her hiding in his building? Would he pummel her like he did that horseshoe? He’d have to catch her first, and surely a man that muscled couldn’t run very fast. And if she was anything at all, she was fast.

Annie yawned and glanced at the door. Was it safe to leave yet?

Nah. She’d better wait until dark. Her stomach gurgled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since early this morning, when her pa stole a loaf of bread right off someone’s table. The family had been out in the barn, doing chores, and he’d walked right in as if he owned the place. He’d laughed when he told her that the only person who saw him was a baby in her cradle—and she wasn’t tattling.

The sweet scent of fresh straw and leather blended with the odor of horses and manure. Annie leaned back against the wall, wincing when it creaked, then closed her eyes. She was so tired of her life. Of moving from place to place. If only her daddy could get a real job and they could live in a real house. . . .

Riley chased the boy, running until his side ached, but the little thief had disappeared. He bent and rested his hands on his knees, breathing hard as he watched the street for any sign of the pickpocket. Few people were on the streets of Waco this late. Most businesses had closed before suppertime, except the saloons. The lively tune of a piano did nothing to soothe his anger. How could he have not noticed that thief had slid his grandpa’s watch right out of his pocket?

Movement drew his attention to a couple strolling arm-in-arm on the far side of Main Street. Maybe he should ask if they had seen the pint-sized robber, but then they only seemed to be looking at each other. Riley glanced toward the boardinghouse where his family’s wagon was parked. They’d stay there tonight, then travel to their new ranch, a few miles outside of town, along a river called the South Bosque.

Riley heaved a sigh and shoved his hands into his pockets. He studied the small town that sat all cozied up to the Brazos River. He hadn’t wanted to come here in the first place—and neither had his mother. Their old farm had been perfectly fine, but his father said there were new opportunities in Waco and inexpensive land, too. Riley scowled and blew a heavy breath out his nose. He hadn’t wanted to leave his friends, especially Adrian Massey, a pretty neighbor girl he planned on courting once he was a few years older. He hoped that she would follow through and write to him as she promised.

His mother’s tears hadn’t swayed his father, though they made Riley’s heart ache. She wanted to go back to Victoria where her family and the rest of the Morgans lived. But not Pa. He loved his siblings, but he had a need to be independent, to play a part in developing Texas—and now they were even farther away.

At least his pa had pacified his ma by taking her for a visit back with her family and then on to the ranch where the Morgans had been raised, so they could see his aunt and attend her wedding. Talking with his aunt Billie about her time as a captive with the Comanche had been the most interesting part of the trip—that, and seeing the beautiful Morgan horses his uncle Jud raised. At least he could look forward to the delivery of the dozen broodmares and the young stallion his pa bought.

Staring down the street, he watched his pa take a small box off the wagon and hand it to Timothy. Riley winced, as the realization hit that he’d run off and left his little brother. Pa slowly turned in a circle, looking all around. Riley ducked into the alley. He couldn’t head back without searching for that thief again. The boy had to be here somewhere, because the town wasn’t all that big.

He ran his fingers through his hair, dreading seeing his father’s disappointment. Riley had overheard his pa’s initial objection to giving him the watch when Uncle Jud had suggested it—said that he wasn’t responsible enough to have something so valuable to the family. Riley kicked a rock and sent it rolling. Why didn’t his pa have more faith in him? Gritting his teeth, he had to admit he’d been right—at least in this instance. He raked his fingers through his hair and gazed down the alley, realizing that somewhere along the way he’d lost his hat too.

Half an hour later, as the sun ducked behind the horizon and cast a pink glow on the clouds, Riley headed back to the boardinghouse. Maybe if he were lucky, Timothy hadn’t tattled about him losing the watch. But as much as he loved his younger brother, he knew the truth. Pa would be waiting, and he would insist on hearing the whole story. And once again, his pa would be disappointed.

A horse’s whinny startled Annie and she jerked awake. During the night, she’d huddled up in a ball to stay warm and must have pulled hay over her from the empty stall on her left. She yawned and stretched, her empty belly growling its complaint. Bright shafts of sunlight drifted through the cracks on the eastern wall, and dust motes as thick as snow floated in the air. The front door creaked open. She jumped, then ducked back behind the barrel and peered over it. Chilly air seeped through the cracks in the walls, making her wish for her blanket. She wrapped her arms tight across her chest.

Her daddy would be so mad that she’d disappeared all night.

At least this town—Waco, he had called it—was small enough she shouldn’t have trouble finding him. The blacksmith plodded through the building and opened the back door, letting in a blast of cold air. Annie waited a few minutes while he fed the five horses, then grabbed a bucket and headed out the back door. She tiptoed to the opening and peered outside. The large man walked toward the river then bent down, lowering the pail into the water. Annie spun around and raced to the front door, peeked out, then dashed down the street and into the first alley she came to. Would her daddy be upset with her for being gone so long? Would he wallop her? Keeping as close to the buildings as possible, she hurried back to the spot she’d last seen him.

Three long days later, Annie nibbled on the moldy bread crust she’d dug out of someone’s trash heap and gazed out over the small town from the tree she had climbed. Her pa had up and left her—as he’d threatened on so many occasions when she hadn’t returned to their meeting spot with enough stolen goods.

She watched people coming and going, doing their Saturday shopping. Mamas held the hands of their youngsters and stood chatting with other women or walking between shops. Men compared horses, checking their hooves and sometimes their teeth. And the girls all wore dresses—some prettier than others—but dresses all the same. Her eyes stung. One man swung his daughter up in his arms, and even from so far away, Annie could see her smile. She rubbed her burning eyes. Her daddy wasn’t much of a family, but he was better than none at all—most of the time, anyway.

She swung on a nearby branch and dropped to the ground. With so many folks around, she should blend in. Hurrying past the livery and several other buildings, she stopped only to dip her hand in the horse trough for a quick drink, then continued to the far end of Waco. The house she aimed for sat a short ways out of town. She’d been there the past two days, drawn by the delicious aroma of baking bread and the children’s happy squeals.

Squatting down next to a sparse shrub, she peered through the wooden fence at the house she’d dreamed about—the one she longed to live in. Two stories, white with a dark roof, half a dozen rocking chairs on the porch, and even a few flowers out front, in spite of the chill that still lingered at night.

The children, all younger than she was, were an oddity, though. They walked around, holding their hands out in front of them, feeling their way along knotted ropes that lined the path. She decided they must be blind, just like some of the beggars she’d seen in New Orleans.

But these children wore nice clothes without ragged hems and torn sleeves, and their cheeks were rosy, and smiles lit the faces of most of them. Annie shook her head. What kind of person was she to be jealous of the blind?

The youngsters felt their way to the far side of the house, and Annie stooped down and ran around back. The odor of something delicious wafted out the back door. Someone inside banged cooking pots.

Annie hunkered down behind a rain barrel. A barn sat a short ways behind the house. Maybe she could sleep there tonight.

The back door opened, and a pretty woman who reminded Annie of her mama glided down the steps in a bright blue dress. Her yellow hair was piled up on the back of her head. Annie tugged at her short, plain brown hair. It had never been long enough to put up like that—not after her pa hacked it away with his knife. Besides, she wouldn’t know how to fix it anyway.

Fragrant odors drifted toward Annie. Her stomach moaned a long complaint.

The woman clapped her hands. “Children, time for lunch.”

As one, the youngsters turned toward her voice, carefully feeling their way toward her. Would anyone notice if she sneaked inside with them?

She glanced down at her dirty hands and fingernails. Her pants stunk, and her head itched. Maybe those kids couldn’t see her, but they sure would be able to smell her.

The idea she’d been chewing on for two days sounded better and better. Those children had everything she wanted—they were clean, had decent clothes, ate regular meals, and lived in the house she wanted.

Come morning, she’d be sitting on the front porch. And if she had to pretend to be a blind orphan in order to be taken in—so be it.

Shadowed In Silk

2011-11-13T23:05:00.000-05:00

Shadowed In Silk WhiteFire Publishing (September 1, 2011) by Christine Lindsay

Chapter 1 Excerpt

December, 1918

Abby Fraser gripped the railing of the New Delhi and lifted her chin to defy the solitary expanse of sea. She refused to believe a wife needed an invitation to join her husband. The war was over at last. Nick and she were married, and it was about time he remembered that.

One of the Queen Alexandra nurses escorting the Indian troops home stood beside Abby. With a rustle of starched cotton, Laine Harkness leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Why do you look like you’re headed for the Black Hole of Calcutta and not about to have a passionate reunion with the love of your life?”

Abby ran a hand down her linen skirt and watched the blue line of shore draw closer. What could she possibly say? Instead of replying she cuddled her little son, Cam, nearer to her side. In less than an hour he’d meet his father for the first time. Had she been foolish not to wait for an answer from Nick? So few letters from him in four years.

“I know you’re American,” Laine went on, “but I assure you, the only thing to be afraid of in this part of the British Empire is the wife of your husband’s commanding officer.” She shuddered with drama and grinned maliciously. “Once you’re settled in your shady little army cantonment, the old battle-axe will whip you into shape in no time. Then you’ll be quite the proper memsahib. It’s them that run the colony for us Brits. Don’t you think for a minute it’s the Viceroy or our army—it’s the average colonel’s wife.”

Abby crinkled her nose as she smiled. “You win. Is this better?”

“Much better. You were altogether too peaked for meeting your handsome lieutenant.”

The New Delhisliced her way through the narrows of Kolaba Point, and the familiar scent of Bombay reached out to Abby. Laine was right. No sense worrying. Tucking a strand of hair into her chignon, she savored a tantalizing whiff of overripe fruit, roses, marigolds and cloves, mingled with the acrid smell of dust. She lifted Cam up and snuggled her face into his neck, but he wiggled in her arms. At three years old he was heavy, much too big to be carried.

On the deck below, Indian soldiers stood with their British officers waiting to disembark. Yanking on her arm, Cam laughed and pointed to the tugboat pushing the ship into her berth, and Abby laughed with him. She felt six years old again. Like the troops, she was home. So close. In a few minutes she could touch her birthplace, so much brighter and warmer than Aunt Doreen’s dismal mansion in upstate New York or her father’s retirement manor in the Yorkshire Dales.

As soon as the liner stopped, it was as though an oven door dropped open, and hot air rushed in. On the quay, a kaleidoscope of color and humanity dazzled Abby’s eyes—Hindu women in saris of every hue, hot pinks, ochre yellows, lime greens. Parsee women wore their skirts of equally brilliant shades, their black hair ornamented with lace and gold. People balanced immense bundles on their heads. Bengali clerks rushed here and there, wearing yards of white muslin and Hindu caps, while other men wore turbans or solar topis. On the dock, uniformed soldiers joined the throng. So many people. She’d forgotten that claustrophobic feeling, the teeming press of millions. But she loved it all.

She hugged Cam and scanned the crowds of people on the quayside for Nick’s lean face and startling blue eyes. He’d be down there waiting for her, wouldn’t he? Her gaze stopped.

There he was. Her pulse pounded.

A tall soldier wearing his tan uniform, epaulets at his shoulder, his cap on his head, peered upwards at the passengers lining the ship’s railing. She could barely catch her breath as she waved. Cam, not seeing who she waved at, threw out his small hand, pumped it up and down, and laughed.

Nick looked up and waved. Her wide smile dimmed, and her hand went still. It wasn’t Nick. Someone farther along the ship’s railing sent an answering wave to the stranger on the quay.

Abby steadied her breath and swung her gaze over the crowd. Where was he? In addition to her letter announcing she was coming, she’d telegrammed Nick with her itinerary before she left Southampton. She’d sent another telegram and checked twice with the purser when they stopped at the Port of Aden days ago, and still there’d been no message from him.

“See you soon . . . goodbye . . . Christmas . . . take care of yourself,” the nurses said between hugs as they crowded toward the gangway. But Laine remained at Abby’s side.

“Please, Laine, go with the others. You’ve been wonderful, but Nick will be here.”

“You don’t know that for sure.” Laine’s practiced look was that of a nurse hating to give bad news. “You can’t fool me with that Yankee stoicism of yours. The whole voyage out, you’ve tried to hide your concerns.”

“Laine, please.”

“Oh, all right.” Laine grew gruff as she relented, tucking a dark strand of hair under her nursing veil. “I’m always sticking my nose in where I shouldn’t. Occupational hazard.”

Abby took Laine’s arm and shook it. “Don’t be silly. I don’t know what I’d have done those first days of the voyage if you hadn’t taken pity on me till I got my sea legs. We’ll see each other on the train later anyway.” She gave the nursing matron a firm hug.

Laine joined the nurses, but Abby didn’t watch them leave the ship. She arched her neck to look into the sea of faces below. Sunlight glinted off the tin roofs at the quay and bounced off the ground. She squinted like a cat soaking up its rays and, taking a deep breath, moved toward the gangway.

A half hour later she carried Cam on her hip and walked out of the blistering customs shed. A hired bearer followed with their baggage.

The warm breeze loosened tendrils of hair at the base of her neck, and she blew from the side of her mouth to free a strand clinging to her cheek. Too bad she couldn’t tie it back in a plait like she used to. But as the wife of a British officer the time had come for chignons, silk stockings, and serving tea with cucumber sandwiches in flower-laden gardens. Time at last to be a proper memsahib. Her insides skittered. Time at last to be a wife.

Please, Nick, where are you?

The crowd thinned, and her fixed smile began to slip. She kissed Cam on his grime-streaked cheek. Her little boy made up for everything. He had Nick’s deep blue eyes, the right one slightly more narrow than the left so it always seemed one side of his face grinned in mischief. Without the help of the single photograph she had of her husband she doubted she’d have remembered his features. The echo of his voice faded long ago. Had that happened during the first year of the war? Or the second? But they’d only known each other those few weeks in England before he’d shipped out to India.

Coldness seeped into her veins. Was it possible she’d disappeared from Nick’s thoughts? She roused herself. If that indeed had happened, she’d fight it. She’d win back their brief flash of love and turn it into something to last a lifetime.

“Won’t be long, honey,” she said to Cam, more to bolster herself. Nick would be here. Of course he would.

“I’m thirsty, Mama.” Cam fussed, but she didn’t have the heart to scold him.

Over his complaints came the reed-like notes of a lute, the backdrop to thousands of voices, calling out, bartering, chattering. Overlaying the odor of burning cow dung patties hung the pungency of blossoms. Dust and spices clouded the air. Horns beeped and trolley cars rattled past. Wooden axles on bullock carts squeaked, counterbalanced by the tinkling of bells. It all smelled and sounded like home, except there was no sign of her husband.

“Mrs. Abigail Fraser,” boomed a voice with a Cockney accent. “Paging Mrs. Abigail Fraser.”

Abby whirled around to wave to a burly English sergeant.

The soldier presented her with a telegram. “Here you are, madam. May I hold the boy for you?”

Entranced by the soldier’s uniform, Cam went to him willingly while she held the envelope for a long moment before tearing it open to read:

Sorry STOP Away on Business STOP Meet your train in Amritsar STOP Nick STOP

All noise ceased and a buzzing filled her head, leaving her only marginally aware of the sergeant returning Cam to her arms and leaving. She blinked and raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sharp colors and white sunshine.

The last of the passengers moved away, and a swarm of children with extended bellies called out to her, “Maa maa, maa maa,” all stretching out small hands to grab her skirt.

“I’m sorry.” She gave them a few annas from her bag. “I’m sorry I don’t have any more.” She wasn’t sure if the moisture blurring her eyes was for Nick not meeting them or for these poor children as young as Cam begging for their food. Most of the children wandered off when the coins were gone, but a few stayed at her knee gazing up at her. A lump grew in Abby’s throat as she caressed one little girl’s head, but even this tiny one fled when a stench came close, gagging Abby.

Proof of Heaven

2011-11-08T23:24:00.002-05:00

Proof of Heaven William Morrow Paperbacks (November 1, 2011) by Mary Curran Hackett

Chapter 1

Colm Francis Magee had died seven times before his seventh birthday. Cardiac arrest. Not to be mistaken for a heart attack in which clogged arteries prevent blood from reaching the heart and then the muscle withers. There was nothing wrong with Colm’s strength of heart. No, Colm Francis Magee’s heart simply and inexplicably stopped beating at the most inopportune moments.

The first time it had happened he was an infant. He was sitting up in the bathtub while his young mother gripped his arms as he kicked and splashed water into her smiling face. His auburn hair was wet and formed a crown around his head as he gazed at his adoring mama. His green eyes gleamed, wide with pride and wonder at what he could do with his tiny feet.

“That’s a boy. That’s my good boy. You’re gonna swim the Hudson. Swim for your mama.” When Cathleen cooed at him, she used her Irish mother’s nonsense-sounding baby-speak, a mixture of brogue and Brooklyn. She scooped the warm, cloudy water in her hand and poured it gently over the boy’s head, careful to keep soap from running in his eyes. His body relaxed and slowed with each pour, and so did her own.

When she first arrived home from work to feed, bathe, and put Colm to bed, she still carried the stress and anxiety of her day. She could feel it rise through her shoulders and neck, where it settled with an excruciating pressure in her temples. But as each moment passed while bathing the boy, her eyes brightened and her limbs loosened as a smile spread across her entire face.

Every morning had been the same for the past six months. She woke up tired at five a.m. a moment before Colm did and, out of lifelong habit, she said a quiet Hail Mary to herself before getting out of bed. Though her body needed sleep, it seemed to defy its own biology for the sake of another’s. Their bodies seemed to be in perfect tune; even his hunger brought her pain. Rising out of the bed slowly, she wondered about the odd evolutionary design of mother and child. It’s one thing to feel my own pain, but to physically feel it for my own child? She was at once grateful for and confounded by this phenomenon. And as she thought this she said her own version of a made-up prayer, From the beginning of time it has been the same. Every mother knows exactly what her child needs. And every child is dependent on that knowledge. May I always know what to do.

She concluded her silent prayer and, with an audible Amen, walked over to Colm’s crib and found him looking at her as if he had been waiting all night for her to come and get him. She lifted him before he even had a chance to let out his first sound and carried him over to her mother’s rocking chair from the old country, which she had set facing the window. The dawn always lightened the room just enough so that as Cathleen looked at Colm, he seemed to her to glow from within. As he drank from her, she rubbed his head softly and felt the folds of his fat thighs rippling around the edges of his diaper. Every day he seemed longer, larger, more ungainly.

Then, after taking more than his small stomach could handle, he’d pull himself away from her. He would do it so quickly that the release of the suction sent a surge of pain throughout her entire body. Before she had a second to shout out in pain, she would curse herself for lingering too long. She always gave him more than he needed, and she always paid the price. So much for knowing what to do.

Every day the same routine played out. Running late, she set Colm down in his bouncy chair and got ready for work before lugging the boy and his gear out onto the busy street. From the time they left the apartment, she was on a mission. She worked up such a sweat pushing the stroller that by the time she reached his day care, her freshly pressed blouse revealed sweat rings under her arms and down the center of her back. Once there, she set Colm down again and only had a couple of minutes to chat with his caretaker and kiss him good-bye before she dashed out the door and hustled to catch the subway to Midtown, where she began her daily duties as an office assistant.

While waiting at Starbucks to place her coworkers’ usual orders, she watched through the window as her bosses and peers arrived with designer handbags and expensive haircuts. She would never know what it would be like to be one of them—to live a single life without a child, let alone to build a career of her own making. Somewhere deep inside she also knew that married life and all that came with it was just another pipe dream for her. Dreams were like prayers, she thought. They brought comfort and moments of serenity, but in the end one couldn’t expect much of them. So Cathleen, like her mother before her, who had spent her life in the service of God and her children, did whatever she could to get by. Still, she never escaped the nagging feeling that in another time, in another place, in another world, she might have been able to realize her hopes for herself and her son.

Contrary to Cathleen’s constant state of concern, Colm was thriving. When Cathleen picked him up every evening, he always greeted her with an openmouthed smile. She often asked his teachers if he did OK without her. Did he cry or seem to miss her? They always responded the same way: “Nope. Not once. He’s a happy little guy.”

He seems to do just fine without you.

She knew she should be relieved he was doing so well, but it always hurt to hear. I’m so desperate and needy, she reprimanded herself. And then she would force herself to be grateful that Colm seemed no worse for wear.

Colm was a special sort of child. She even knew it from the night he was born, when she had asked the nurse to put him in bed with her so she could cut the loneliness in the room with no husband. She knew right then and there she would do anything for him. And then it happened. The moment everything changed. She thought it was an aberration at first, some sort of trick of her own eye or that she must be hearing things, but it was no such thing. Colm laughed. He laughed a small, almost silent laugh in his sleep. She stayed up all night—waiting for it— and he rewarded her for her vigilance again and again. There she sat in wonder, watching his slanted eyes, his two pronounced dimples, and his round toothless grin as he chuckled to himself in his sleep.

She had hoped to turn around and to share the miracle with someone. Did you see that? Did you see him smile? But there was no one there to hear her and no one to see him smile then or thereafter. His father was long gone by then. She had thought of reaching for the phone, pulling out the number scribbled on a piece of paper, and begging him to come back. But she knew he wouldn’t come, so she never made the call. Instead she lay in the quiet hospital room alone with her son.

There was no one in the bathroom with Cathleen either the day six-month-old Colm finished his imaginary swim down the Hudson and looked at his mother before his eyes rolled back into his head as he blacked out, slamming his head on the porcelain tub.

“Colm Francis.”

Cathleen ran with him to her bed where she felt for his pulse. Nothing. Panic filled her neck and face with a hot searing burn. She dialed 911 and yelled her address into it.

“Hurry, my baby isn’t breathing.”

Colm lay on the bed. She watched as his lips and nose and fingers turned blue, and his cheeks went from pink to gray. He made no sound. She could, for the first time since before she gave birth to him, hear only her own breathing in the room. She howled a deep guttural moan, the same sound she had heard once before as she pushed Colm out of her and into the world.

Without another thought, she grabbed Colm from the bed and held him close, pushing him to her breast as if forcing him back into her own body, as if she could start it all over, redo the past six months, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, and rewind all the way to the beginning to start over. And stop it.

She held him tightly as she rushed down the hall and down the stairs, where she heard the first faint sound of the ambulance on its way. When the paramedics arrived, she was already waiting for them on the sidewalk. Her gray work slacks and white shirt were drenched with bathwater, and she stood alone holding Colm, still naked in her arms.

Colm Francis Magee died his first godless death at seven in the evening on a Tuesday in June. His mother would find it hard to ever forgive him.

Valley of Dreams

2011-11-06T19:01:00.000-05:00

Valley of Dreams Bethany House (November 1, 2011) by Lauraine Snelling

Valley of Dreams

A Lasting Impression

2011-11-01T22:51:00.000-04:00

A Lasting Impression Bethany House (November 1, 2011) by Tamera Alexander

A Lasting Impression

Maggie's Journey

2011-10-30T22:16:00.000-04:00

Maggie's Journey Realms (October 4, 2011) by Lena Nelson Dooley

Excerpt of Chapter 1

Margaret Lenora Caine sat in the library of their mansion on Beacon Hill. Because of the view of Puget Sound, which she loved, she had the brocade draperies pulled back to let the early September sunshine bathe the room with warmth. Basking in the bright light, Maggie concentrated on the sketch pad balanced on her lap. After leaning back to get the full effect of the drawing, she reached a finger to smudge the shadows between the folds of the skirt. With a neckline that revealed the shoulders, but still maintained complete modesty, this dress was her best design so far, one she planned to have Mrs. Murdock create in that dreamy, shimmery green material that came in the last shipment from China. Maggie knew silk was usually a summer fabric, but with it woven into a heavier brocade satin, it would be just right for her eighteenth birthday party. And with a few changes to the design, she could have another dress created as well.

Once again she leaned forward and drew a furbelow around the hem, shading it carefully to show depth. The added weight of the extra fabric would help the skirt maintain its shape, providing a pleasing silhouette at any ball. She pictured herself wearing the beautiful green dress, whirling in the arms of her partner, whoever he was. Maybe someone like Charles Stanton, since she’d admired him for several years, and he was so handsome.

“Margaret, what are you doing?”

The harsh question broke Maggie’s concentration. The charcoal in her hand slipped, slashing an ugly smear across the sketch. She glanced at her mother standing in the doorway, her arms crossed over her bosom. Maggie heaved a sigh loud enough to reach the entrance, and her mother’s eyebrows arched so quickly Maggie wanted to laugh . . . almost, but she didn’t dare add to whatever was bothering Mother now. Her stomach began to churn, a thoroughly uncomfortable sensation. Lately, everything she did put Mother in a bad mood. She searched her mind for whatever could have set her off this time. She came up with nothing, so she pasted a smile across her face.

“I’m sketching.” She tried for a firm tone but wasn’t sure it came across that way.

“You don’t have time for that right now.” Florence Caine hurried across the Persian wool carpet and stared down at her. “We have too much to do before your party.”

Of course her mother was right, but Maggie thought she could take a few minutes to get the new design on paper while it was fresh in her mind. She glanced toward the mantel clock. Oh, no. Her few minutes had turned into over two hours. She’d lost herself in drawing designs again. No wonder Mother was exasperated.

She jumped up from the burgundy wing-back chair. “I didn’t realize it was so late. I’m sorry, Mother.”

Florence Caine took the sketch pad from her hand and studied the drawing with a critical eye. “That’s a different design.”

Maggie couldn’t tell if she liked the dress or not, but it didn’t matter. Designing was in Maggie’s blood. Her grandmother was a dressmaker who came up with her own designs instead of using those in Godey’s Lady’s Book or Harper’s Bazar. And, according to Mother’s sister, she never even looked at a Butterick pattern. Aunt Georgia had told her often enough about all the society women who wouldn’t let anyone but Agatha Carter make their clothing. They knew they wouldn’t be meeting anyone else wearing the exact same thing when they attended social events in Little Rock, Arkansas. Not for the first time, Maggie wished she could talk to her grandmother at least once.

With the news about people being able to converse across long distances with something called the telephone, someday she might talk to her that way. But Maggie wanted a face-to-face meeting. Knowing another dress designer would keep her from feeling like such a misfit. Mother kept reminding her that she didn’t really fit the mold of a young woman of their social standing in Seattle. At least, Daddy let her do what she wanted to. She didn’t know what she’d do without him to offset Mother’s insistence, which was becoming more and more harsh.

According to Aunt Georgia, the business Grandmother Carter started was still going strong, even though her grandmother had to be over sixty years old. Maggie planned to go visit her relatives in Arkansas, so she could tour the company. She hoped her journey would happen before she was too late to actually meet Agatha Carter. Her deepest desire was to follow in her grandmother’s footsteps, since she had inherited her talents.

The sound of ripping tore through her thoughts. Aghast, she turned to catch her mother decimating her sketch. She lunged toward the paper, trying to save it, but Mother held the sketch just out of her reach.

“What are you doing?” Tears clogged her throat, but she struggled to hide them.

Dribbling the tiny pieces into the ornate wastepaper basket beside the mahogany desk, her mother looked up at her. “Just throwing it away. You had already ruined it anyway.”

Anger sliced through Maggie’s heart, leaving a jagged trail of pain. She still wanted to keep the sketch. She could use it while she created another. Her plan was to ask her father to help her surprise Mother. The design would set off her mother’s tall stature and still youthful figure. She planned to ask him for a length of the special blue satin brocade that would bring out the color of Mother’s eyes. The dress would make Mother the envy of most of her friends when the winter social season started in a couple of months. Now she’d have to begin the drawing all over again. So many hours of work and her dreams torn to shreds.

“Darling.” That syrupy tone Mother used when she was trying to make a point grated on Maggie’s nerves. “When are you going to grow up and forget about your little pictures of dresses?”

Little pictures of dresses? The words almost shredded the rest of Maggie’s control. She gripped her hands into fists and twisted them inside the folds of her full skirt.

They’d had this discussion too many times already. She gritted her teeth, but it didn’t help. In a few days she would be eighteen, old enough to make decisions for herself—whether her mother agreed or not.

She stood as tall as her tiny frame would allow her. “Those aren’t just ‘little drawings,’ Mother. I am going to be a dress designer.”

The icy disdain shooting from her mother’s eyes made Maggie cringe inside, but she stood her ground.

“Margaret Lenora Caine, I am tired of these conversations. You will not become a working girl.” Mother huffed out a very unladylike deep breath. “You don’t need to. Your father has worked hard to provide a very good living for the three of us. I will not listen to any more of this nonsense.”

Maggie had heard that phrase often enough, and she never liked it. Mother swept from the room as if she had the answer to everything, but she didn’t. Not for Maggie. And her sketches were not nonsense.

She tried to remember the last time she pleased her mother. Had she ever really?

Her hair was too curly and hard to tame into a proper style. And the hue was too red. Maggie wouldn’t stay out of the sun to prevent freckles from dotting her face. She could come up with a long list of her mother’s complaints if she wanted to take the time. She wasn’t that interested in what was going on among the elite in Seattle. She had more things to think about than how to catch a husband.

Maggie wanted to get married someday. But first she would follow her dream. Become the woman she was created to be. That meant being a dress designer, taking delight in making other women look their best. If it wasn’t for Grandmother Carter, Maggie would think she had been born into the wrong family.

The enticing aroma of gingerbread called her toward the kitchen. Spending time with Mrs. Jorgensen was just what she needed right now. Since she didn’t have any grandparents living close by, their cook and housekeeper substituted quite well in Maggie’s mind.

She pushed open the door, wrinkling her nose and sniffing like the bunny in the back garden while she headed across the brick floor toward the cabinet where her older friend worked. “What is that heavenly smell?”

Mrs. Jorgensen turned with a warm smile. “As if you didn’t already know. You’ve eaten enough of my gingerbread, for sure.”

Pushing white tendrils from her forehead, the woman quickly sliced the spicy concoction and placed a large piece on a saucer while Maggie retrieved the butter from the ice box. Maggie slathered a thick coating on and watched it melt into the hot, brown bread.

“Here’s something to drink.” Mrs. Jorgensen set a glass of cold milk on the work table in the middle of the large room.

Maggie hopped up on a tall stool and took a sip, swinging her legs as she had when she was a little girl. Mother would have something else to complain about if she saw her. That’s not ladylike and is most unbecoming. The oft-spoken words rang through Maggie’s mind. But Mother hardly ever came into the kitchen. Mrs. Jorgensen met with Mother in her sitting room to plan the meals and the day’s work schedule. “This is the only place in the house where I can just be myself.” Maggie took a bite and let the spices dance along her tongue, savoring the sting of spices mixed with the sweetness of molasses. “Ja.” The grandmotherly woman patted Maggie’s shoulder. “So tell me what’s bothering you, kära.”

The 13th Demon

2011-10-25T23:26:00.003-04:00

is introducing The 13th Demon Realms (October 4, 2011) by Bruce Hennigan

Chapter 1 Excerpt

Lakeside, Louisiana

Along the western horizon the sun settled, bloodred—the very eye of Satan glaring down upon the man who stood in front of the horror that had once been his church. Alone on the second floor balcony, his voice echoed into the coming night.

“God, what have I done to deserve this?”

He backed up to the wrought iron railing, then gasped as he realized he was leaning against the bent, misshapen portion of the railing where it had all begun. He pushed away, bit his thumbnail, and looked around at the huge white columns and across the empty balcony. In front of him were the two intimidating wooden doors that led into the foyer of his church. Four windows were on each side, coated with caked dust. No one had been inside the church in weeks. But that did not mean it was empty.

He had to get to his office.

A squeaking filled the silence. The man watched in horror as the doorknob began to turn. He backed away until he felt his heels at the top of the stone stairs. Sweat poured down from his forehead, and he felt his dress shirt sticking to his ribs. The squeaking stopped. Silence descended.

“Is someone there?” he whispered. There was no answer. He sighed and pushed his glasses back up on his nose. His heart slowed, and he wiped his coat sleeve across his forehead. The coat swallowed him. He had lost twenty pounds in the last month. “I’m not walking away this time,” he said to the lifeless door. “You won’t scare me away!”

The door burst open with a rush of wind, and a red mist engulfed him. He could taste the red liquid in the air; it was coppery, salty. Blood! Through the tiny red droplets on his glasses, he watched a river of it surge through the open doorway. His foot slid as he tried to stumble away, and he fell backward, bouncing off the stone banister, rolling down onto the steps. He slowed his fall halfway down the stairs and looked up at the open doors. Blood cascaded over the top step and poured down the steps, tendrils of crimson coming after him.

He slid back, tumbled once again until he came to a halt on his back on the sidewalk in front of the church. The blood came down the stairs, pooling at the base just inches from his feet. He scooted back away from the pool, watching it grow into a large circle of shimmering red.

“Do you think this is going to scare us away?”

He watched as the girl and her child appeared around the corner of the stairway. The girl’s yellow hair rested on her shoulders, and she wore the same cotton dress with sunflowers as on the day she had wormed her way into his life. She couldn’t have been over sixteen, but that didn’t seem to matter to the toddler who held her left hand. The boy was dark-headed and somewhere between a year and two years of age. His nose was running, and he wore only a disposable diaper. The young woman picked up the child.

“No! This is not my doing. Don’t you know what is going on around here?” The man pointed a bloody hand up the stairs.

“You know what I want. Time is running out,” she said. The toddler smiled.

“It’s in my office, and I can’t get inside because of ”—he gestured at the pool of blood—“this!”

“I’m not leaving, Thomas. We’re in the nursery.” She disappeared from sight, back toward the door under the stairs that led into the basement of the old church.

A fly buzzed by his head and landed on his glasses. He swatted at it. Another fly circled his head. He shook his bloody hair as more flies appeared and moved toward the pool of blood. One landed on the shiny, crimson surface and instantly burst into flame. More flies dove into the pool until a circle of flame hovered above the blood. It gently floated higher, growing larger with each dying fly until it was the size of a beach ball.

More flies filled the evening air, circling in dizzying arcs, until they surrounded the ball of flame. A hole opened in the front of the fly ball, and the flames showed forth from within. The man blinked as the opening turned toward him. It was a huge flaming eye! More flies arrived and flew about the flaming eye to form a spiral that pulsated and spun around it.

“We know about the girl,” the raspy voice proclaimed as the eye lifted higher in the air.

At that, the man lost all reason, all civility, and scuttled backward like a crab into the road in front of the church. The hot asphalt blistered his palms. The buzzing grew louder as the voice spoke the words over and over. His heart pounded. He heard a high, keening whimper and realized it was his own voice.

Suddenly, against the insane noises, there came another roar, approaching fast, and then the sound of squealing brakes, the whoosh of hot wind, the smell of burning rubber, and the grill of a recreational vehicle as it stopped just inches from his face.

The man glanced back at the flaming eye with its pulsating spiral. It had disappeared, leaving only a pool of blood behind. The doors of the church were shut. The sudden silence was punctuated by the creaking and popping of the RV to his left. A long shadow fell over him as a figure stepped into the man’s sight.

He was six feet tall with wiry muscles and dressed in a V-neck T-shirt, blue jeans, and work boots. His hair was reddish blond and short, his face tight and expressionless. His eyes were hidden behind mirrored sunglasses.

“How long has it been bleeding?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

“It just started.” The man wiped blood from his face. “Are you Steel?”

“Get up.” The figure disappeared into the RV.

He grabbed the grill of the RV with bloody hands and pulled himself shakily to his feet. He walked around the vehicle and entered through the open door. Inside, a table with two laptops and one large monitor sat where he would have expected the kitchen table to be. The man he presumed to be Jonathan Steel reappeared with a black backpack in one hand and a plastic container of disinfectant wipes in the other. He handed him the wipes.

“Clean up. You stink.”

“Hey, I asked you a question.” He pulled wipes from the container and wiped the blood from his hands. “Are you Steel?”

Steel opened a cabinet and took out a huge flashlight. “Are the lights working inside the church?”

The man wiped blood from his glasses. “I don’t know. Listen, you haven’t answered my question.”

The mirrored sunglasses turned in his direction. “Yes. I am Jonathan Steel.”

“I’m . . . I’m Thomas Parker. And this is my church.” He tossed the bloodstained wipes into the sink.

“I know,” Steel answered.

“What are you going to do?”

“We are going inside.” Steel pushed past him toward the open door.

“But don’t we need to sit down and talk about this?” Parker followed the man out of the RV. “Maybe over a cup of coffee? Maybe after I’ve had a shower?”

Steel ignored him and paused at the pool of blood. A fly landed lazily on the surface of the pool and then burst into flames. “Now there’s something you don’t see every day.”

Parker grabbed the man’s arm to turn him. He swallowed. “No one has been inside for six weeks.”

Steel took off his sunglasses, and Parker was shocked by his bright, turquoise eyes. Steel glared at him. “Whose blood is this?”

Parker looked at the blood and then back into Steel’s penetrating gaze. “I don’t know. It just appeared.”

Steel nodded and slid the sunglasses into a pocket of his T-shirt. “Then we need to find the source. Let’s go.”

Parker watched in horror as Steel squished through the puddle of blood and started up the stairs. He hurried after him, trying his best to avoid the rivulets of blood on the stairs. They arrived at the upper level, and Steel paused in front of the closed doors. Blood still trickled from the threshold. His head turned as he studied the walls, the windows, and finally the wrought iron railing that ran around the huge balcony. Parker followed the direction of the man’s gaze and felt a chill when it stopped on the far railing. He knew that if Steel went to the edge and looked down he would see the impression where the body had landed in the soft, grassy soil. The grass still had not grown back. Steel reached for the doorknob and paused.

“Wait a minute!” Parker said. “Do I have to go with you?”

Attracted to Fire

2011-10-23T23:03:00.000-04:00

Attracted to Fire Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. (October 1, 2011)
by DiAnn Mills

Washington, DC

“If he doesn’t muzzle his daughter, he’s going to lose the presidential nomination.”

Special Agent Meghan Connors cringed at the TV anchor’s analysis of Vice President Hall’s campaign, even though the statement rang with validity.

“Although early popularity polls indicated Hall to be a strong contender for the presidential race, his ratings are dropping daily.” The blonde reporting the news gave the camera a tilt of her head. “We are currently waiting for a statement from his office regarding Lindsay Hall’s appearance on The Barry Knight Show last evening, where she made the following statement, ‘My father is a poor excuse for the office of President of the United States.’”

The screen flashed a clip of Lindsay Hall sporting cleavage and lots of leg.

“And she’s our new assignment?” Special Agent Bob Lawson eased back in his chair and stuck his thumbs inside his pants pockets. “I’ve heard she swears like a convict. Smacked a couple of agents in the face.”

Meghan kept her opinions in check. She focused on the TV mounted in the corner of the coffee shop, the one located not far from the White House. Thank goodness the shop was empty except for the barista moving to whatever was playing on his iPod.

The news anchor continued her report. “Take a look at Lindsay Hall’s escapade three nights ago.” The screen reverted to footage taken in a local nightclub. Lindsay toasted the camera with a bottle of beer. Clearly inebriated, she sat in a booth enjoying media attention. The news anchor shook her head with a smile, an obvious display of her political preference. “Many are asking, ‘If Vice President Hall cannot control his daughter, how can he effectively run our country?’”

Ouch. That nailed the situation. Meghan wrapped her fingers around the loop of her coffee cup and walked out onto a patio filled with umbrella tables and chairs. A steady mist filled the afternoon heat with humidity. She needed to focus on her new assignment—and the challenges ahead. Protecting the VP’s daughter was supposed to be a promotion. If she failed, this could mean a permanent stall in her career.

Sensing Bob standing beside her, she turned to give him her views about their situation. “We’re made of better stuff than the agents dismissed from Lindsay’s protection team.”

“I keep telling myself that.”

“They let her manipulate them. Plain and simple.”

“But we’re not babysitters. We’re Special Agents for the Secret Service.”

Meghan didn’t know the agents who’d been reassigned as a result of Lindsay’s latest antics, but Bob had called them friends. She took a sip of her strong coffee, ignoring the raindrops gaining momentum. “Escorting her to the TV station and not informing the vice president was poor judgment. Her statements severely damaged the VP’s image. Maybe even his chances of securing the party’s nomination.”

“Everything she says and does chips at his ability to lead the country. The Barry Knight Show and that entire TV network are out to crucify him and the party.”

“So we’re back to our assignment.” Meghan stepped under the coffee shop’s canopy to avoid the rain. “I’m committed to protecting her, and I know you are too.”

“I have to be.” Bob set his cup on an empty table. “Taking a bullet for her would qualify as above and beyond . . . .” He pressed his lips. “But that’s what we do. Right? Can’t let personal opinions get in the way of duty.”

“Absolutely, and I’m sure there are plans to curb her actions. In fact—” Her phone rang, and she reached inside her shoulder bag. A quick glimpse told her it was Supervisor Tom Warrington from the Secret Service office.

“Bob there with you?”

“Yes sir.”

“I need both of you in my office at 1400. Ash Zinders, the SAIC for this assignment, needs to brief you and the other agents assigned to the protectee.” Meghan slipped her phone back into her shoulder bag and relayed the information.

Bob whistled. “Good old A2Z isn’t wasting any time.”

The nickname for the Special Agent in Charge assigned to Lindsay Hall’s protection detail wasn’t a title any agent would say to his face. He was known for his obsession with detail and his domineering personality. Meghan hadn’t met the agent, and she didn’t look forward to his browbeating.

“It really bothers me that she now has six agents protecting her when any other VP family member has three.” Bob pulled a dollar from his wallet and anchored it beneath his cup. “Did I say I regret accepting this assignment? Hasn’t been two hours since the call.”

“There’s a reason, Bob. We were chosen because the VP needed agents who could get the job done. But I question the number of us, too, and what it means.”

The potential to fulfill her dreams, the circumstances surrounding Lindsay Hall’s unpredictable behavior, and the nightmare of working under Ash Zinders had Meghan wondering if the challenges ahead would be worth it.

# # #

Ash believed in Vice President Hall, known as the Shield by the Secret Service. He respected his commitment to his country and his devotion to his family. Books had been written about his political views, and one had been on the bestseller list for six months. How could a man of such integrity have a daughter who was a source of embarrassment for the whole country? International media laughed at her irresponsibility, and critics used her for comic relief in their opening monologues. Four years of protecting Lindsay Hall, and the situation had grown worse. Why couldn’t the VP and his wife control their daughter’s behavior? Ship her off to the Peace Corps, Siberia . . . anywhere but in the media’s playground.

Across the desk sat his supervisor, Tom Warrington.

“Ash, I need to brief you on a few changes in protocol prior to meeting with your team.” Warrington shuffled papers in front of him. “They’ll be here in thirty minutes.”

“Changes, sir?”

Warrington drummed his fingers. Not good. “You’ll continue your role as SAIC for Lindsay’s protection team, but the vice president has made a request. After last night’s unfortunate incident on The Barry Knight Show, we’ve decided to bring in a woman agent.”

A woman agent? “Why?”

“Special Agent Meghan Connors has an excellent reputation for getting the job done. And we think she’ll be able to help keep Lindsay out of trouble. Possibly provide some direction with her medical issues.”

“In what way? Our job is to protect her, not help her buy lipstick.”

Warrington lifted a brow. “Connors will be a part of the six agent team.”

The addition of more agents, including a woman, ground at him. “Why six agents for a VPs daughter?”

“That will be explained in depth when the VP arrives.”

“Sir, I don’t understand the changes.”

He cleared his throat. “Note that Agent Connors will be assigned to Lindsay seven days a week, 0800 to 1700.”

A woman agent wouldn’t work with the way Ash managed his team. Why was she being assigned his hours?

Warrington handed him three files. “These are the new agents. You’ve worked with Bob Lawson and Rick Norris before.”

“With all due respect, sir. I prefer to work with men.”

Warrington frowned. “The VP is desperate. We need to give her a chance for Lindsay’s sake. For the VP’s sake.”

“I understand, but—”

“You and I go back a long way, and I know why you feel this way. I’d like to think you could get beyond judging every woman agent because of one bad experience. Agent Connors has a stellar record. She’s tough, and she’s dedicated to her job. Do this for the vice president, Ash. She might be the one person who could turn Lindsay around. And that would help the VP and this country.”

“I’ll do my best. However, I’d—”

“Deal with it, and do your job.”

Resentment seeped into Ash’s bones. He had a spotless record, and he’d been reduced to taking care of two women? She might be a dynamic personality, a fine person, but women had no place in the Secret Service.

“The Vice President has located a working ranch in Texas for Lindsay.” He turned his computer to show a satellite image of a large ranch-type house, a barn, horse stables, and a couple of outbuildings.

“She can’t run there.”

“I agree. It’s about a hundred miles west of Austin. She won’t have access to a phone or computer. Just fresh country air.”

“I’m assuming the VP needs her out of sight.”

“There’s more to the problem. A call was made to the VP about 0300 this morning. A man said he had a bullet with Lindsay’s name on it if she didn’t pay up. He claimed she owed him for meds.”

The situation grieved him. Lindsay had so many opportunities to better herself. Maybe another woman would help. “She’s in deep this time.”

Warrington handed him another file. “Here are the details of the ranch, photos, list of employees. The VP and his wife are deciding on a doctor to treat Lindsay at the ranch.”

“I knew they’d been investigating an alternative method of treatment. I saw the short list of the psychologists and psychiatrists.” Ash studied Warrington’s face— obviously he’d been awake since the threatening call. “So this is crisis intervention in a big way.”

“And the media have to stay out of it.”

“Any leads on the caller?”

“Not yet. Working on it. The transfer will be made in the next couple of days.”

Lindsay did need to be out of the public’s eye.

“One more thing here. President Claredon is back in the hospital. Looks like VP Hall will be taking on more responsibilities.”

Ash had heard rumors that the cancer had spread. “I’ll do what needs to be done, sir.”

Wonderland Creek

2011-10-18T23:24:00.000-04:00

Wonderland Creek Bethany House (October 1, 2011) by Lynn Austin

Wonderland Creek

Love on the Line

2011-10-16T22:31:00.000-04:00

Love on the Line Bethany House (October 1, 2011) by Deeanne Gist

Love on the Line

Reclaiming Lily

2011-10-11T23:20:00.003-04:00

is introducing Reclaiming Lily Bethany House (October 1, 2011) by Patti Lacy

Reclaiming Lily

A Wedding Invitation

2011-10-09T22:44:00.000-04:00

A Wedding Invitation Bethany House (October 1, 2011) by Alice Wisler

A Wedding Invitation

House of Secrets

2011-10-04T23:09:00.000-04:00

House of Secrets Bethany House (October 1, 2011) by Tracie Peterson

House of Secrets

The Mercy

2011-10-02T23:04:00.000-04:00

The Mercy Bethany House (September 6, 2011) by Beverly Lewis

The Mercy

Dangerous Mercy - Chapter 1

2011-09-27T22:44:00.001-04:00

Dangerous Mercy David C. Cook (October 1, 2011) by Kathy Herman

Chapter 1

Adele Woodmore steadied herself with the hand-carved Black Forest cane she had bought in Germany and hurried across the living room and into the coat closet. She left the door cracked and dabbed the perspiration on her cheeks and nose with her monogrammed handkerchief.

“O-kaaay,” she sang out. “Come and find me.”

“Where are you, Addie?” the little voice replied.

“I’m over heeeere.” Adele smiled, wondering how she had survived all those years without knowing the joy of loving a child.

She heard the sound of little feet racing straight for the closet. The door slowly opened, and Grace Broussard, looking like a Hummel figurine with her rosy cheeks and blond pigtails, peered inside.

“Peek-a-boo. I find you!” The two-year-old squealed and clapped her hands with delight.

“Goodness! You found me again.” Adele came out of the closet and straightened Grace’s pink-and-white sundress. “Addie needs to cool off. This July humidity gets to me. Why don’t we sit down and have our ginger cookies and milk?”

“I want this many cookies.”

Adele met the child’s pleading gaze and kissed the three fingers she held up. “Why don’t we start with two and see if you’re still hungry? We don’t want to spoil your lunch.”

“I wuv cookies!”

Adele chuckled. “Me, too. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear we were related.”

She held Grace’s tiny hand and walked out to the kitchen and pushed the button on the intercom.

“Yes, Mrs. Woodmore?” Isabel Morand’s voice filled the room.

“We’re ready for that snack now, hon.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be right there.”

Grace’s topaz eyes grew wide and animated. “Where Izzybell?”

“She’s in the laundry room, darlin’. When I talk into that silver gadget on the wall, Isabel can hear me, and I can hear her. It saves Addie from having to shout or go looking for her.”

Grace cocked her head, a smile dimpling her cheeks.

“Clear as mud, eh?” Adele brushed the little wisps of curls that framed the child's face. “After we have our cookies, I’ll show you how it works.”

Isabel breezed through the door, her thick, dark hair falling over her shoulders and down to the middle of her back. “Ready to try those gingersnaps we made?”

Grace gave a nod. “I wuv cookies.”

“Let me get you some milk to go with it.”

Adele got Grace situated in her booster chair while Isabel set the plate of cookies, a glass of milk, and a sippy cup on the table.

The doorbell rang.

“Gee”—Isabel winked at Grace—“I wonder who that could be on a Monday morning?”

“It’s probably Murray,” Adele said. “Would you let him in, hon? I asked him to come paint that back bedroom a nice shade of pale blue. I’m not fond of lilac.… Why are you smiling?”

“I was just wondering what you’re going to do when you run out of things for Murray to fix, paint, or remodel.”

Adele felt her face warm. “He needs the work. And I always have something that needs attention. He’s the most reasonable handyman in Les Barbes.” Adele smiled in spite of herself. “Are you going to let him in or not?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m on my way.”

Isabel left to answer the door.

Half a minute later Murray Hamelin came into the kitchen, holding his gold New Orleans Saints cap in his hands, his carrot red hair showing a line where the hat had been. “Hello, Mrs. Woodmore. Little Miss Grace. I hope it’s okay that I brought Flynn Gillis from Haven House to help me move furniture so I can paint.”

“Of course it's okay.” Adele held up the plate of cookies. “Better take a handful of these gingersnaps with you. Take some for Flynn.”

“I wuv cookies!” Grace set her sippy cup down, using the back of her hand to wipe away a drop of milk that had escaped her smile.

“I knew that.” Murray took a generous handful of cookies off the plate, his boyish grin and red hair reminding Adele of Richie on Happy Days.

“Were you able to get the paint I picked out?” Adele asked.

“Sure was. Should be enough to do the job and leave a little for touch-ups later on.”

Touch-ups. Adele smiled to herself. That back bedroom would likely never be used. “Will you finish today?”

“I should. But I’ll need to let it dry. I’d like to bring Flynn back tomorrow to help move the furniture back—if that’s okay with you.”

“It is. I’ll be here.”

“We’ll go get started. Thanks for the cookies.”

“You’re welcome, hon. Come and go as you need to.”

“Murray is nice.” Grace’s words were muffled by a mouth full of gingersnap.

“He is nice.” Adele glanced up at Isabel. “And he’s a fine handyman. It’s always good to have someone I can trust.”

“Murray seems nice enough,” Isabel said. “But you really don’t know anything about him. Just because Father Vince discovered that Murray’s good with his hands is no guarantee that he’s honest.”

“I’m a pretty good judge of character, Isabel.”

“Ma’am, with all due respect, a few months ago he was homeless. Don’t you wonder why? How do you even know that he’s who he says he is? Or that you can trust that Flynn fella he brought with him? I saw him standing out in the driveway. His hair is longer than mine, and he looks tough as nails. He could be casing the place.”

Adele took a bite of cookie. “You let me worry about the people I hire. Murray’s been nothing but polite and efficient. If he needs Flynn to help move furniture, who am I to second-guess him? He deserves a chance to get back on his feet.”

“Maybe so. Just be cautious. You’re so trusting and accepting of everyone.”

Adele fingered the gold cross around her neck. “I don’t necessarily trust everyone, hon. But I trust God. He brings people into my life for a reason.” She smiled at Grace. “I take them as they come.”

“Well, they’re coming in the front door.” Isabel arched her eyebrows. “Take a look at this Flynn character, and see if you’re still comfortable letting him in your house.”

Adele heard the front door open and close again. A second later the two men stood at the kitchen door.

“Mrs. Woodmore, this is Flynn Gillis.” Murray nodded toward a man who reminded her of a young Willie Nelson.

“Nice to meet you,” Adele said.

Flynn gave a nod and mumbled something, never making eye contact.

“We’re going to get started now.” Murray tipped the bill of his cap.

“Good. I’ll be eager to see what a difference the pale blue makes.”

Murray and Flynn turned and walked down the hall.

“Well?” Isabel whispered.

“I’m not in the habit of judging a man by the length of his hair, hon. If Murray asked him over here, he trusts him. And I trust Murray.”

Isabel didn’t reply.

Adele mused. Of course she trusted Murray. Hadn’t he proven himself time and again? Yet something about Flynn was off-putting. Was it his long hair? His lack of manners? She couldn’t put her finger on it, but it was a moot point. He was already here.

Captive Trail - Chapter 1

2011-09-18T23:10:00.003-04:00

Captive Trail Moody Publishers (September 1, 2011) by Susan Page Davis

Prologue

Taabe Waipu huddled against the outside wall of the tepee and wept. The wind swept over the plains, and she shivered uncontrollably. After a long time,the stars came out and shone coldly on her. Where her tears had fallen, her dress was wet and clammy.

At last her sobs subsided. The girl called Pia came out of the lodge. She stood before Taabe and scowled down at her.

Taabe hugged herself and peered up at Pia. “Why did she slap me?” Pia shook her head and let out a stream of words in the Comanche language. Taabe had been with them several weeks, but she caught only a few words. The one Pia spat out most vehemently was “English.”

“English? She hit me because I am English?”

Pia shook her head and said in the Comanche’s tongue, “You are Numinu now. No English.”

Taabe’s stomach tightened. “But I’m hungry.”

Pia again shook her head.“You talk English.Talk Numinu.”

So much Taabe understood. She sniffed. “Can I come in now?”

“No,” Pia said in Comanche.

“Why?”

Pia stroked her fingers down her cheeks, saying another word in Comanche. Taabe stared at her. They would starve her and make her stay outside in winter because she had cried. What kind of people were these? Tears flooded her eyes again. Horrified, she rubbed hem away.

“Please.” She bit her lip. How could she talk in their language when she didn’t know the words?

She rubbed her belly, then cupped her hand and raised it to her mouth. Pia stared at her with hard eyes. She couldn’t be more than seven or eight years old, but she seemed to have mastered the art of disdain. She spoke again, and this time she moved her hands as she talked in the strange language.Taabe watched and listened.The impression she got was, “Wait.”

Taabe repeated the Comanche words. Pia nodded. Taabe leaned back against the buffalo hide wall and hugged herself, rubbing her arms through the leather dress they’d given her. Pia nodded and spoke. She made the “wait” motion and repeated the word, then made a “walking” sign with her fingers. Wait. Then walk. She ducked inside the tepee and closed the flap.

Taabe shivered. Her breath came in short gasps. She would not cry. She would not. She wiped her cheeks, hoping to remove all sign of tears. How long must she wait? Her teeth chattered. It is enough, she thought. I will not cry. I will not ask for food. I will not speak at all. Especially not English. English is bad. I must forget English. She looked to the sky. “Jesus,help me learn their language. And help me not to cry.” She thought of her mother praying at her bedside when she tucked her in at night. What was Ma doing now? Maybe Ma was crying too.

Stop it, Taabe told herself. Until they come for you, you must live the way the Comanche do. No, the Numinu. They call themselves Numinu. For now, that is what you are.You are TaabeWaipu,and you will not speak English.You will learn to speak Numinu, so you can eat and stay strong.

She hauled in a deep breath and rose. She tiptoed to the lodge entrance and lifted the edge of the flap. Inside she could see the glowing embers of the fire. The air was smoky, but it smelled good, like cooked food. She opened the flap just enough to let herself squeeze through. She crouched at the wall, as far from Pia’s mother as she could. The tepee was blessedly warm. If they didn’t give her food, she would just curl up and sleep. Since she had come here, she had often gone to bed hungry. Pia didn’t look at her.Pia’s mother didn’t look at her.Taabe lay down with her cheek on the cool grass. After a while it would feel warm.

She woke sometime later, shivering. Pia and her mother were rolled in their bedding on the other side of the fire pit. The coals still glowed faintly. Taabe sat up. Someone had dropped a buffalo robe beside her. She pulled it about her. No cooking pot remained near the fire. No food had been left for her. At least she had the robe. She curled up in it and closed her eyes, trying to think of the Comanche words for “thank you.” She wasn’t sure there were any. But she would not say it in English. Ever.

CHAPTER ONE

PLAINS OF NORTH CENTRAL TEXAS, 1857

Faster. Taabe Waipu had to go faster, or she would never get down from the high plains,

down to the hill country and beyond. South, ever south and east. Clinging to the horse, she let him run.The land looked flat all around, though it was riddled with ravines and folds. She could no longer see any familiar landmarks. The moon and stars had guided her for two nights, and now the rising sun told her which way to go on her second day of flight. She’d snatched only brief periods of rest. At her urging the horse galloped on, down and up the dips and hollows of the land.

Taabe didn’t know where the next water supply lay. The only thing she knew was that she must outrun the Numinu— Comanche, their enemies called them. No one traveled these plains without their permission.Those who tried didn’t make it out again. She glanced over her shoulder in the gray dawn. As far as she could see, no one followed, but she couldn’t stop. They were back there, somewhere. She urged the horse on toward the southeast. South to the rolling grasslands where the white men had their ranches.Where Peca and the other men often went to raid. Where Taabe was born.

The compact paint stallion ran smoothly beneath her, but as the sun rose and cast her shadow long over the Llano Estacado, his breath became labored,his stride shorter.Where her legs hugged his sleek sides, her leggings dampened with his sweat. He was a good horse, this wiry paint that Peca had left outside her sister’s tepee. Without him she wouldn’t have gotten this far. But no horse could run forever.

Taabe slowed him to a trot but didn’t dare rest. Not yet. Another look behind. No one. Would she recognize the house she’d once lived in? She didn’t think so, but she imagined a big earthen lodge, not a tepee. Or was it a cabin made of logs? That life was a shadow world in her mind now. Fences. The warriors talked about the fences built by the white men, around their gardens and their houses. She thought she recalled climbing a fence made of long poles and sitting on the top. When she saw fences, she would know she was close.

At last she came to a shallow stream, sliding between rocks and fallen trees. It burbled languidly where it split around a boulder. She let the horse wade in and bend down to drink. Taabe stayed on his back while he drank in long, eager gulps, keeping watch over the way they’d come. She needed to find a sheltered place where the horse could graze and rest. Did she dare stop for a while? She studied the trail behind her then took her near-empty water skin from around her neck. Leaning over the paint’s side, she dangled it by its thong in the water on the horse’s upstream side. She wouldn’t dismount to fill it properly, but she could stay in the saddle and scoop up a little.She straightened and checked the trail again.The horse took a step and continued to drink. She stroked his withers, warm and smooth. With a wry smile, she remembered the bride price Peca had left. Six horses staked out before the tepee.A stallion and five mares—pretty mares. Healthy, strong mounts. But only six.

The stallion raised his head at last and waded across the stream without her urging. They settled into a steady trot. Tomorrow or the next day or the next, she would come to a land with many trees and rivers. And many houses of the whites.

Would she have stayed if Peca had left twenty horses? Fifty? Not for a thousand horses would she have stayed in the village and married Peca—or any other warrior. Staying would make it impossible for her ever to go back to that other world—the world to the south.

Eagerness filled her, squeezing out her fear. She dug her heels into the stallion’s ribs.Whatever awaited her,she rushed to meet it.

The paint lunged forward and down. His right front hoof sank,and he didn’t stop falling.Taabe tried to brace herself,too late.The horse’s body continued to fly up and around.She hurtled off to the side and tucked her head.

“Today’s the day, Ned.”

“Yup.”

Ned Bright coiled his long driver’s whip and grinned at his partner in the stagecoach business, Patrillo Garza. He and “Tree” had scraped up every penny and peso they could t outfit their ranch as a stage stop, in hopes of impressing the Butterfield Overland Mail Company’s division agent. Their efforts had paid off. Tree was now the station agent at the Bright-Garza Station, and Ned would earn his keep as driver between the ranch and Fort Chadbourne.

“Never thought everything would go through and we’d be carrying the mail.”

“Well, it did, and as of today we’re delivering,” Tree said. “Now, remember—the mail is important, but not at the passengers’ expense.”

“Sure.”

Ned took his hat from a peg on the wall and fitted it onto his head with the brim at precisely the angle he liked. “But if we lose the mail on our first run, we’re not apt to keep the contract, are we?”

Tree scowled. “We ain’t gonna lose the mail, ya hear me?”

“I hear you.”

“Right. We’ve made this run hundreds of times.”

It was true. The two had hauled freight and passengers to the forts for several years. They’d scraped by. But the contract with the Butterfield Overland would mean steady pay and good equipment. Reimbursement if they were robbed.

Naomi's Gift - Chapter 1

2011-09-18T22:50:00.005-04:00

Naomi's Gift Zondervan (September 12, 2011) by Amy Clipston

Chapter 1

Caleb sucked in a deep breath as the taxi van bounced down Route 340 toward Bird-in-Hand, Pennsylvania. After nearly a decade, he’d returned to the town of his birth. He clasped his hands together. Why was he nervous? This was supposed to be a happy reunion with his family, and yet, his palms were sweaty with anticipation despite the biting December wind.

“Dat!” Susie said, grabbing the sleeve of his coat and yanking with one hand while pointing toward the indoor farmers market with the other hand. “Dat! Can we stop there? Can we? Please? Please?”

“Why would we stop there?” he asked. “We have a farmers market back home that’s much the same.”

She blew out an exasperated sigh and glowered with annoyance. “To get a gift for Aenti Sadie, of course. Teacher Linda says that you should always bring a nice dessert to dinner. Please, Dat? I’ll pick something out fast like we do at the market at home.” She batted her eyelashes and gave her prettiest and cutest smile. “Pretty please, Dat?” She looked like a mirror of her beautiful mother, and his heart turned over in his chest. At the tender age of eight, Caleb Schmucker’s
daughter already knew how to wrap him around her little finger.

He gave a sigh of defeat, and Susie clapped her hands while grinning with triumph.

“Driver?” Caleb asked. “Could we please make a quick stop at the farmers market?”

The middle-aged man nodded and merged into the parking lot.

“We have to make this quick,” Caleb said as the van steered into a parking space. “Your aenti and onkel are expecting us. They know that our train arrived less than an hour ago and will worry if we don’t get to their house soon.”

“I’ll be quick. I promise.” Susie nodded, and the ties to her black winter bonnet bobbed up and down on her black wrap. “We should find a nice pie to bring for Aenti Sadie.”

“That sounds gut.” Caleb touched her nose and smiled. Oh how he adored his little girl. There was no greater love in his life.

Except for Barbara.

Pushing the thought from his mind, he took Susie’s little hand in his and they climbed from the van. He glanced across the parking lot toward the highway, and his eyes fell on the Kauffman & Yoder Amish Furniture Store, owned by an old family friend, Eli Kauffman. Caleb’s elder sister, Sadie, had married Robert, the oldest of the Kauffman sons, while the youngest Kauffman son, Timothy, had been Caleb’s best school friend. He wondered how his old friend was doing these days. He would have to stop by and visit him before he and Susie returned to Ohio.

“Dat!” Susie yanked Caleb toward the entrance to the farmers market. “Let’s go.”

Caleb stifled a laugh. The little girl had her mother’s impatience too. “I’m coming, mei liewe.”

They stepped through the double doors and the holiday smells of freshly baked cookies and breads, spices, and pine assaulted Caleb’s senses. The market bustled with customers, English and Amish, rushing to the many booths. Scanning the area, Caleb spotted booths for baked goods, jellies and jams, crafts and gifts, and paintings. A sea of shoppers pushed past Caleb and he dropped his hold of Susie’s hand as he approached the baked goods counter.

“What kind of pie did you want to get, Susie?” Caleb asked. “Do you think a pumpkin pie or apple?” When his daughter didn’t answer, he turned around and found a group of English customers pushing toward the counter.

“Susie?” he called. “Susie?” He glanced through the crowd, finding only unfamiliar faces. “Susan? Susan?” Caleb’s heart raced as he pushed through the knot of holiday shoppers, searching for his only child. “Susan!”

Naomi King straightened a king-size Lone Star patterned quilt and glanced at her best friend Lilly Lapp, who was glancing through the order book. “I can’t believe Christmas is next week. Where has the year gone?”

Lilly shook her head. “I don’t know. That’s a very good question.” An English customer approached and began asking Lilly questions about custom ordering a queen-size quilt as a gift.

Turning her back to the counter, Naomi hummed to herself while mentally listing all she had to do before Christmas. She still needed to shop for her parents and her eight siblings. And then there was the baking for the cookie exchange. And she had to —

“Excuse me,” a little voice asked, interrupting her mental tirade.

Naomi spun to find a little girl leaning over the counter and pointing toward the king-size Lone Star quilt Naomi was draping over a wooden dowel. “May I help you?”

The girl adjusted the black bonnet on her head. “Did you make that?”

Naomi nodded. “Ya, I did.”

“It’s schee.” The girl studied the quilt, her eyebrows knitting together in concentration. “My mamm made a quilt like this once, only she used blues and creams instead of maroons.”

Naomi smiled. “I bet that was schee.”

“Can I touch it?”

“Of course.” Naomi held the quilt out, and the girl ran her hand over it.

The girl studied the quilt, her eyes trained on the intricate star pattern. “My mamm promised she would teach me how to quilt someday.”

“I bet she will. I think I was about your age when my mamm started teaching me.”

The girl looked up, and Naomi was struck by her deep green eyes. They reminded Naomi of the deep green the pasture turned every spring.

“My mamm is gone,” the girl said, her expression serious.

“Gone?” Naomi set the dowel in the rack and leaned over the counter. “What do you mean?”

“She’s in heaven with -Jesus.” The girl ran her fingers over the counter.

Naomi gasped, cupping a hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry. You must miss her.”

“I do. I was only — ” she began.

“Susan!” A man rushed over, his expression full of fear. He placed his hands on the girl’s shoulders and angled her to face him. He crouched down and met her at eye level. “I turned my head for a moment and you took off. Do you know how much you scared me? I thought I’d lost you. What were you thinking?”

“I’m sorry, Dat.” The girl shook her head, tears filling her striking eyes. “I saw the quilt stand, and I wanted to come see the quilts.”

The man sighed and closed his eyes for a split second. Standing, he took her hand in his. “Don’t do that ever again.” His voice pleaded with her. “Promise me?”

“Ya.” A tear trickled down her rosy cheek, and she sniffed.

His expression became tender, and Naomi’s heart swelled.

“Don’t cry, Susie,” he said, brushing her tears away with his fingertip. “It’s okay, mei liewe. You’re all right, and that’s all that matters.” He glanced toward the clock on the wall. “We need to get going. Your aenti is expecting us.” He turned to Naomi. “I’m sorry for creating such a scene. My dochder took off and scared me so.”

Naomi opened her mouth to speak, but her voice was stuck in her throat for a moment. Her eyes were lost in his, which were the same deep shade of emerald as the girl’s.

“It was no bother,” Naomi finally said. “We were having a nice discussion about quilts. I’m sorry she scared you.”

“Danki.” He glanced at his daughter. “We must be going.” He turned back to Naomi. “Frehlicher Grischtdaag.” He smiled, and his handsome face was kind. Yet, there was something sad in his gorgeous eyes. Naomi surmised it was the loss of his wife. Her heart ached for him.

Before she could respond to his Christmas greetings, the man and the girl were gone. He held the girl’s hand as they turned the corner. The girl waved at Naomi, and Naomi waved back, her heart touched by the sweet gesture.

The customer who had been chatting with Lilly walked away from the stand.

“What happened?” Lilly asked, leaning over to Naomi.

“What?” Naomi asked, searching the crowd for the man and girl.

“What was all the commotion with the man and the girl?” Lilly closed the order book.

“The girl wandered off from her father, and he was worried about her.” Naomi leaned against the counter. “She told me that her mother made quilts.”

“Oh, that’s sweet.”

“Ya, it is.” Naomi lifted a twin-size quilt from the bag below the counter and began to fold it. “But she also said her mother had died.”

Lilly frowned and shook her head. “How bedauerlich.”

“Ya, I know.” Naomi glanced toward the door, wishing she could see the girl just one more time. “There was such sadness in her eyes. I saw it in her father’s eyes too.”

“I can imagine that the sadness was from losing her.” Lilly
straightened the pens by the register. “I know how hard it was to lose my mamm, and I’m much older than she is.”

Naomi touched Lilly’s arm. “I know. There was just something . . .” She let her voice trail off and pushed the thought away. She’d been burned more than once by misreading her own thoughts and feelings. It was silly to even consider she’d felt something for the man and the girl, but the feeling was strong, deep in her gut. She’d wanted to hug the girl and ask her how long her mother had been gone, to take away some of the pain in her eyes.

But that wasn’t Naomi’s business. She didn’t even know the girl or her father. She’d never seen them before. She wondered which district they belonged to. Were they from Lancaster County or were they visiting for the holidays? Now she would never know. The moment was gone and so were the girl and her father.

“What is it?” Lilly asked, a grin splitting her pretty face. She jammed a hand on the hip of her purple frock. “You’re scheming something, Naomi King.”

“Don’t be gegisch.” Naomi draped the quilt over a dowel. “I was just thinking about that poor little girl without a mother. My heart goes out to her.”

“Is that it? Or were you thinking about her father who misses his wife?”

Naomi frowned. “Please, Lilly. I don’t know his name or even what district he’s a member of. There’s no such thing as love at first sight. Love is a feeling that grows over time. It can’t just appear out of thin air.”

Lilly’s expression was pensive. “You’re different than you were when you were seeing Timothy Kauffman.”

Naomi shrugged. “No, I’m not different. I just matured. My mamm told me I was boy crazy and made a fool of myself the way I ran after Luke Troyer and then Timothy.”

Lilly touched Naomi’s shoulder. “That’s not true. You were never a fool.”

“Ya, I was.” Naomi cleared her throat to prevent a lump from swelling in her throat as the humiliation rained down on her. She could still feel the sting of her mother’s harsh words after she and Timothy broke up. “My mamm told me that I need to concentrate on my family and stop worrying about finding a husband. So, my focus now is my siblings. If I’m meant to find love, God will bring it into my life. But honestly, I think God wants me to help my mamm raise my eight siblings.”

Lilly shook her head. “You don’t honestly believe that, Naomi. God wants us to get married and have kinner.”

Naomi busied herself with hanging the quilt onto the rack in order to avoid Lilly’s probing stare. “Ya, I do believe it. I tried love twice and failed. That was the sign that I wasn’t meant to find true love, if there even is a true love for me.”

“Naomi.” Lilly took Naomi’s hand and gave her a gentle smile. “Listen to me. I didn’t think there was a true love for me, but I was wrong.”

Naomi raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You found love?”

Lilly’s cheeks flushed a bright pink.

“Why haven’t you told me?” Naomi asked. “I thought I was your best friend.”

“You are.” Lilly sighed and sat on a stool. “We were going to keep it a secret until we get published next year.”

Naomi gasped. “You’re getting married?”

Lilly smiled, and Naomi shrieked and hugged her.

“Is it Zach Fisher?” Naomi asked.

Lilly nodded. “I wanted to tell you, but we’re trying to keep it a secret.”

Naomi smiled. “That’s wunderbaar. You deserve to be froh.”

Lilly touched Naomi’s arm. “You do too. God will lead you to the path He wants, and I believe He wants you to find true love. You’ve been hurt in the past, but that doesn’t mean you’re meant to be alone.” She gave a gentle smile. “Just remember this verse from Corinthians: ‘And our hope for you is firm, because we know that just as you share in our sufferings, so also you share in our comfort.’ ”

Naomi nodded in agreement, but she struggled to believe she was meant to be with someone.

“Excuse me,” an English customer said, approaching the counter. “I would like to pick up a -couple of quilts for my kids for Christmas. Do you have any queen-size quilts available that are Christmassy?”

“Yes, ma’am, we do,” Lilly said, moving to the rack. “Let me show you what I have here.”

As Lilly pulled out two quilts, Naomi glanced toward the market exit and wondered where the handsome widower and his daughter were headed when they left.

Here’s to Friends - Chapter 1

2011-09-18T22:12:00.002-04:00

Here’s to Friends David C. Cook (September 1, 2011) by Melody Carlson

Chapter 1

Abby

Still trying to catch her breath and barely able to put one heavy foot in front of the other, Abby shuffled her way into the women’s locker room. Feeling twice her actual age, she eased herself down onto the only unoccupied bench and gazed blankly around the steamy room as women in various stages of undress—with firm, sleek, healthy bodies—paraded themselves around as if they were trying to rub it in.

Lowering her eyes in defeat she stared down at her pudgy white thighs and suddenly found herself craving cottage cheese. Without a doubt, she had lost her ever-loving mind. Why else would she have allowed Janie and Caroline to talk her into this? And why would she have bragged to Paul about her grandiose plan to join the fitness club. “I’m starting tomorrow,” she’d boasted last night. “After I become a member, I’ll start of by taking—what’s it called—a circuit something class, I think that’s what Caroline said.”

“You’re starting with a circuit training class?” he frowned at her. “You sure you want to do that?”

“Janie and Caroline said it’s really fun. A bunch of women in one class with upbeat music working out. It’s probably like aerobic dance. I loved doing that back when the girls were little.”

His mouth twisted to one side. “Yeah, but circuit training is hard work, Abby.”

“Are you saying I can’t do it?”

He shook his head. “I’m saying you should start with something easier. When I joined the club, I started with a trainer and a special—”

“Yeah, well, you were recovering from a heart attack, Paul. I’m in a lot better shape than you were.”

He looked skeptical.

“I’ve been walking three or four times a week. I’ve even lost a little weight this fall.”

“Yeah…but starting out with circuit training—”

“Why do you always have to rain on my parade?”

“Because I know you, Abby.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning if you start out with something too tough, you’ll give up.”

“I will not!”

“I’ll be you don’t last a week.”

“I will!” she insisted. “You’ll see. I’m going to join the club and take that class. And maybe I’ll go in five days a week at first, to jump start things. I could swim on Tuesdays and Thursdays and—”

“Why don’t you just use that a free one week coupon I gave you,” he suggested. “Just to make sure you know what you’re getting into before you plunk down all that dough.”

“I know what I’m getting into. Janie and Caroline swear by that class. They go three times a week—and love it.”

He looked like he wanted to say something, but stopped himself. “All I’m saying is that the club is pretty expensive, Abby, and I think—”

“You think I’m not worth it?” She shook her fist at him. “Sure, it’s fine for you to belong to the club, but poor old Abby doesn’t deserve—”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” His brow creased. “You’re worth it. I just don’t want to see you pay all that money up front and then change your mind.” And, of course, this was his opportunity to start listing all the activities Abby had started but never finished. But instead of falling for that old bait and getting into a ridiculous fight, Abby had taken their counselor’s advice and the high road.

“If you love me,” she calmly informed him, “you will support me in this. I’m making a healthy decision for my life and you should respect that, Paul.”

He held up his hands in a surrender position. “Fine. Just take it easy, okay? Don’t kill yourself on the first day. Remember slow and steady wins the race. Pace yourself.”

“That’s exactly what I plan to do.”

But like mice and men, Abby’s plan had fallen by the wayside today. It wasn’t so much that she was trying to impress anyone in the circuit training class. She knew better than that. But going from station to station, attempting to figure out the confusing machines and realistic weight amounts and form was more than she’d bargained for when she’d joined the club and paid her membership fees this morning. And trying to stay one step ahead of the perky energetic woman who followed Abby in the circuit had been no picnic either. The petite blond kept nipping at Abby’s heels. “You know there’s a special class for people who don’t know how to properly use the equipment,” she sniped as Abby untangled herself from one of the machines.

As she tried to hurry along, Abby decided to call this snippy woman Trixie (after an ill-tempered Chihuahua the girls had begged her to get for them long ago—fortunately Paul got fed up and found the feisty dog another home).

“Maybe you should try out the pool aerobics,” Trixie said in a snarky tone. “I hear the older ladies really enjoy the slower pace.” She folded her toned arms across her flat front, leaning against a pole and scowling darkly as she waited for Abby to move to the next machine.

The last straw came about midway through the class. Abby knew it was midway because she kept one eye on the lethargic clock the entire time—she’d never seen a minute hand move so slowly. But when Trixie laughed loudly to discover that Abby had been using the biceps machine with no weights actually plugged into it, it was just too much.

“You gotta be kidding,” Trixie said in a deriding tone. “You’ll never get into shape doing that.”

Fed up and worn out, Abby had released the handle, letting the bar slam loudly back into the machine, which she knew was a no-no. Then glaring at Trixie, she’d turned on the heel of her frumpy walking shoes and stormed out of there. No doubt, Trixie had been hugely relieved. Right now, she was probably telling everyone how hopeless and out-of-shape Abby was—and how fat old women like her should be banned from circuit training and maybe the whole fitness club altogether. So humiliating.

At least Caroline and Janie, stuck in a bank appointment regarding Caroline’s mother’s estate, hadn’t been there to witness her embarrassment. That was something to be thankful for. What had made her think could pull off something like this? She felt like crying. Paul had been right—she had wasted their money. She really was a failure.

As she slowly stood, searching the room for some sort of a stall or private area where she could discretely disrobe, she wondered how hard it would be to convince the club to refund her membership fee. Maybe there was some sort of 24 hour cancellation clause. She would have to find out. But first she needed to find a place to change.

“Excuse me,” she asked one of the only women with clothes on. “Where are the changing rooms?”

The woman laughed, waving her hand around the open area. “This is it.”

“Oh.” Abby nodded stiffly. “Yes…okay…I’m new here.” Wondering why she hadn’t noticed this insane lack of privacy when she’d been given the tour of the club this morning, Abby picked up a white towel from the neat stack and sniffed it. At least it smelled clean. And it was actually rather soft and thick. Nice. As were many of the other amenities that had distracted Abby from noticing the absence of dressing stalls earlier.

It figured that she’d been too busy checking out things like attractive tile designs and chic light fixtures and rain shower heads, too distracted by fluff to be concerned with function. And, she reminded herself, she’d arrived here in her workout clothing (workout clothing that, like her, was out of style and out of shape) but consequently she’d had no need for a changing room then. And, really, she should just get over herself and strip down and not worry about what anyone else thought. That’s probably what Caroline and Janie did when they were here—why couldn’t Abby?

“Janie and I have so much fun at the club,” Caroline had told Abby and Marley last week at the Clifden Coffee House. The four Lindas had been discussing their upcoming cruise, talking about things like spray-on tans, waist-trimming swimsuits, and how they only had six weeks to get into shape. Motivation was high. Especially with the holidays upon them. And, for Abby, the initial thrill of winning her Mexican cruise for four was quickly turning into high anxiety. She hadn’t purchased a new swimsuit since her girls were small. And the sorry threadbare thing she wore in the hot tub was not fit for public viewing. Neither was her body!

“You and Marley really should come try out the club,” Caroline urged Abby. “We can get you free passes.”

“I know,” Abby said, “Paul’s always telling me that.”

“But if you guys joined, we could do classes together,” Janie said. “We could encourage each other to get fit.”

“And the club’s running a special until the end of the year,” Caroline told them. “If two people sign up, the second one is half off. You guys could split it.”

“I don’t know.” Marley shook her head with a doubtful expression. “I’ve never really been a fitness club sort of girl. I think I’d rather do yoga or pilates.”

“They have those classes too,” Janie told her.

The Doctor's Lady - Chapter 1

2011-09-13T22:13:00.000-04:00

The Doctor's Lady Bethany House (September 1, 2011) by Jody Hedlund

The Doctor's Lady

Wings of A Dream - Chapter 1

2011-09-11T22:32:00.000-04:00

Wings of A Dream Bethany House (September 1, 2011) by Anne Mateer

Wings of a Dream

To Have and to Hold - Chapter 1

2011-09-06T22:14:00.000-04:00

Bluegrass Peril Bethany House (September 1, 2011) by Tracie Peterson
and

Judith Miller

To Have and To Hold

A Whisper of Peace - Chapter 1

2011-09-04T23:03:00.000-04:00

A Whisper of Peace Bethany House (September 1, 2011) by Kim Vogel Sawyer

A Whisper of Peace

The Survivor - Chapter 1 Excerpt

2011-08-30T22:48:00.000-04:00

The Survivor Avon Inspire; Original edition (August 30, 2011)
by Shelley Shepard Gray

Chapter 1

Finally, Mattie Lapp had Graham Weaver trapped. For most of their visit to the hospital, she’d been trying to speak privately with him. But every time she’d found her nerve, something would happen. Either she would get called away for one more blood test, or Graham would be busy chatting with one of the Englischers in the waiting room.

As the hours passed, she’d bite her tongue and bide her time. Not very patiently, however. She’d always secretly thought patience was somewhat overvalued.

Now was her chance.

At the moment, she and Graham were the only two people on the elevator at the Geauga County Hospital. As the elevator doors closed, Mattie knew she had only mere seconds before they would reach the ground level. Only seconds to speak her mind.

Clearing her throat to get his attention, she said, “Graham, wouldja do something for me?”

Though he’d been standing in front of the doors and watching the numbers blink overhead, Graham turned to her with his usual understanding smile. “Of course. Anything.”

Nervously, she glanced at the blinking number. Nine.

The elevator stopped. The doors opened. Her breath caught. This had been the very worst of ideas!

Maybe she’d get a reprieve?

Nee. No one entered. The Lord was obviously telling her it was now or never. As the doors closed with a whoosh, she blurted, “Graham, it’s like this. I need you to help me find a husband.”

In a flash, his kind expression turned dark and stormy. “Mattie, the things you think of. Why in the world would I want to do that?”

Ach! This was a terribly bad idea. But now that she’d said it, she had to follow through. “I don’t want to be alone anymore. I want a man of my own,” she said in desperation. Felt herself blush at her poor explanation. Honestly, it sounded as if she wanted a puppy, not a husband.

Graham leaned against the wall. Crossed his well-built arms over his terribly solid chest. “Why?” he asked. His voice was hard now.

The elevator stopped at the third floor. “I’ll explain later. Another time,” she blurted as she stepped backward and waited for the elevator doors to open and allow people inside.

Except they did not.

The doors didn’t open, that was.

Instead, the overhead light started blinking, blanketing them in pitch-blackness every other second. Without thinking, she stepped closer to Graham. Comforted by his presence, she searched his face. Looking for answers.

For a moment, true worry appeared in his eyes before he stood straighter and gently reached out and clasped her shoulder. “S’okay, Mattie,” he murmured. “I’m sure this is just a temporary thing.”

Of course, his first thought was to reassure her. He’d always been that type of friend.

“I wonder what is going on?” What was she asking, really? Was she concerned about the doors not opening . . . or what was finally happening between them?

“I don’t know,” he murmured, this time in Pennsylvania Dutch. That was the only sign that maybe he wasn’t as calm about their situation as he wanted her to believe.

Mattie pivoted and glared at the stark metal doors. Though it had only been a few seconds, already their enclosure felt confining. So much like the MRI machine that the technicians used to look for cancer. The air felt thick. Too thick.

“I hope the doors open soon,” she said. “I don’t know what we’ll do if they don’t.”

Behind her, he reached out and raised his other hand to her shoulder, gently squeezing. Reassuring. “They will. You just need patience. A bit more patience in everything,” he murmured under his breath.

But she still heard it. Turning again, she faced him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You just asked me to help you find a man,” he pointed out, none too kindly. “Like . . . like I was some kind of courting service for Amish women.”

“That’s not fair. I only asked because you work at the garage door factory now. And there’s lots of Amish men there . . .”

“Who I would want to start trying to match you with?”

His voice was condescending. And . . . a bit hurt?

Well, she was hurt, too. And confused. As the lights continued to flash, she watched him jab at the glowing buttons. “Graham, why are you so upset with me? Is it because I want to find someone? Because I want to get married one day soon? Because I want to have a life like the rest of our friends?” As she said the last words, Mattie heard the whine in her voice and mentally winced. She didn’t want to sound so pitiful. But at the moment, she also couldn’t help how desperate she was feeling.

With a jerk, Graham turned from the button panel. “I’m not upset about your dreams.”

Dreams. Yes, that was one way of putting it, wasn’t it? She had dreams that might never amount to anything. Ruthlessly, she pushed the bitter thoughts away.

Fingering her black apron covering her violet dress, she said, “If you’re not upset . . . would you? . . . Would you help me?”

“Not now.” He turned from her and started punching buttons. Again. As if the doors would suddenly open because of his fingertip on the right button!

Though she wanted to talk more, she found herself hoping his efforts would be fruitful.

But of course they were not.

Why would they?

These days, it seemed as if nothing was ever easy. After all, hadn’t she been diagnosed with cancer at twenty-one and not only endured a mastectomy, but lost all her hair and a good portion of her weight, too . . . all while her friends were going about their lives? Finding love and planning weddings?

Eager to get out of their prison, she pointed to a red knob to the right of the doors. “Should I pull this? Pull the alarm?”

“Pull it, if you want.”

His voice was still cool. Unused to that tone, she reached out to him again. “Graham, please don’t be upset with me. After all, you have Jenna.”

“You know things with Jenna and I didn’t work out.”

“Well, I’d like a chance for a relationship. All I want is for you to talk to some of the men you are working with and see if you think one of them would be a gut match for me. It makes perfect sense.”

“Mattie, I’m not meant to be your personal dating service.”

Oh, but Graham always knew the perfect sarcastic quip to make her feel ridiculous. Beyond discouraged, Mattie shrank from his glare. Pulled at her collar. Though she was sure it was only her imagination, already the confines of the elevator felt warmer. Too warm.

After a long look, he stepped closer. Wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. Just like he had when she was so, so sick from the chemotherapy drugs. Leaning toward him, she rested her cheek on his shoulder.

He cuddled her closer. Just like he usually did when she was ill. But no, this felt different. There was more tension between them.

More energy.

“Graham?” she whispered, moving so she could see his eyes under the brim of his straw hat.

He was staring at her. His lips were slightly parted, as if all his words were frozen inside of him. Just like hers suddenly were.

Slowly his head lowered. Realizing what was about to happen, her pulse quickened. She raised her chin. Suddenly, everything felt all right.

Was this what she’d been wanting, but hadn’t even realized?

Ding!

They sprang apart. Dropped their hands just as the elevator door opened with a cloying jerk.

Air rushed forward, cooling Mattie’s cheeks.

“You two all right?” asked a man in a light blue cotton shirt with the name Tom embroidered on the pocket. Holding the metal door open, he waited for them to exit. “We’ve been worried.”

“We are fine,” Graham answered. “What happened?”

Tom shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? Everything around here runs like clockwork for days, then suddenly it all falls apart!” He rolled his eyes as Mattie stepped out of the elevator.

Thunder in the Morning Calm - Chapter 1

2011-08-28T22:56:00.001-04:00

Thunder in the Morning Calm Zondervan (August 2, 2011) by Don Brown

Chapter 1

Office of Naval Intelligence (ONI)
Suitland, Maryland

The massive Suitland Federal Center, located in suburban Maryland just eight miles southeast of the Pentagon, sprawled across 226 acres of grass, well-manicured shrubbery, and brick-and-mortar federal office buildings.

Reachable by subway off the Washington Metro’s Green Line, yet unknown to most Americans, the center is home to several federal agencies, the most recognizable being the United States Census Bureau.

From the Pentagon, the ride to Suitland by car was scenic, even on a barren mid-November day. Crossing the Potomac River, the government-issued Ford Taurus passed by the Jefferson Memorial and the Tidal Basin, the reflections in the pools and basins of Washington’s great monuments a reminder of the great force for freedom that America had been, still is, and, hopefully, will remain.

But in a few short minutes, the images of grandeur disappeared as the Taurus left behind the glamorous buildings of government and drove into the crime-infested southeast sector of the city, past the Washington Navy Yard to the right and slumlord government housing to the left.

In the front passenger seat, Lieutenant Commander Gunner McCormick, United States Navy, checked his watch. They had departed the Pentagon thirty minutes after the end of rush hour, with plenty of time to spare, unless one of those notoriously inconvenient Washington-area fender benders paralyzed traffic.

“We’ve got a few minutes, sir,” said the senior chief petty officer driving the Taurus. “Be happy to stop and buy you a coffee.”

“Sounds great, Senior Chief,” the commander said. “I could use the caffeine. Come to think of it, I could use a smoke.” He checked his watch again. “But I’d rather be early than take any chances. How about on the way back I buy you a coffee or, better yet, maybe something a little more substantial.”

“That’ll work,” the senior chief said, sporting a sly grin as the Taurus rolled east across the Pennsylvania Avenue bridge spanning the Anacostia River.

Not much was said for the rest of the trip as the commander gathered his thoughts. Three days ago, they plucked him off his ship in the Pacific, flew him to Hawaii, then to San Diego, and then to the Pentagon for one day. And now they were driving him over to Suitland, to the Office of Naval Intelligence, for a top-secret meeting about a top-secret subject. He still had no clue why he had been called.

His boss at sea, Rear Admiral James S. Hampton Jr., had not been too happy about it. But then, Admiral Hampton had not been happy about much lately. Gunner thought the admiral had been on his case over just about anything and everything. He had no idea what was bothering him. Who knew? He’d learned long ago that in the Navy, you don’t second-guess the orders of your superiors. Half those orders never made sense anyway. And you don’t try to read officers’ minds. Flag officers, especially, could change their minds as quickly as the wind shifts directions. So what was the point?

They crossed the Maryland state line into Prince George’s County. They made a right and then a left on Branch and Alabama Avenues, then stayed to the right for the final stretch along Suitland Road Southeast. As they approached Gate 1, the driver slowed down, then turned in. After presenting their credentials, they drove onto the grounds of Suitland Federal Center. The road dead-ended at Swan Road, the main corridor within the center. Most of the signs pointed to the left, toward the buildings of the giant US Census Bureau. But the senior chief clicked on the right-turn signal and made a sharp right turn.

A moment later, they reached Gate 9, with its armed Marine Corps guards. A Marine staff sergeant snapped to attention and shot a sharp salute.

“Good morning, sir,” the sergeant said. “May I help you?”

“I’ve got a meeting with the admiral at ONI,” Gunner said, referring to the Office of Naval Intelligence.

“Aye, aye, sir,” the sergeant said. “Your identification and orders, please.”

“Senior Chief,” the commander said, “show the sergeant our papers.”

“Aye, sir.” The senior chief passed the orders out the window.

The sergeant studied the papers, then passed them back. He shot another perfectly stiff salute with precision-like bearing. “You may proceed through the gate. ONI is in the building straight ahead. The duty officer is awaiting your arrival, Commander, and will escort you to the admiral’s spaces.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Gunner replied, and the Taurus rolled through Gate 9 past two other Marine guards and parked near the National Maritime Intelligence Center building.

Gunner stepped through the double doors into the marble-floored foyer. Flanking the entryway to the left was the flag of the United States. To the right was the US Navy flag.

“Lieutenant Commander McCormick?” A Navy lieutenant smiled and extended her hand. The gold cord hanging from her left epaulette designated her as an aide to an admiral.

“That’s me. My friends call me Gunner.”

“Yes, I’ve heard.” Hers was a dimple-accentuated smile. “I’m Lieutenant Mary Jefferies.”

“You’re the admiral’s aide?”

“That’s right.”

“Nice to meet you, Lieutenant.” He released her handshake.

“You too, Commander. I’ll take you up to the conference room on the sixth deck. We have some background information for you to read. Then the admiral and I will brief you.”

“Excellent,” Gunner said and followed her onto the elevator. “But you can call me Gunner if you’d like.”

Lieutenant Jefferies punched a button and the elevator lifted quickly to the sixth floor — the sixth deck — where the doors parted and Jefferies stepped into the hallway just ahead of Gunner.

“Right this way,” Jefferies said, holding her hand out to the left.

They walked down to the end of the long hallway. Jefferies stopped in front of a door, punched a combination lock, and pushed open the door to a windowless rectangular conference room, complete with table and chairs. In the middle of the long table was an 8-by-10-inch envelope with the words TOP SECRET in red.

“In the envelope you’ll find your orders, Commander, along with general background on the political and military situation surrounding your next assignment. I’ll leave you here to go over the material. I’ll be back in a few minutes to let you know when the admiral will be ready.”

“Excellent,” he said, “but you can call me Gunner.”

Jefferies beamed at him. “Very persistent, I see. Just like your dossier says.”

“You’ve read my dossier?”

“Would you expect otherwise?”

“I think you’re bluffing, Lieutenant. You don’t have an actual dossier on me.”

“Oh, I’m bluffing, am I?” She raised one eyebrow.

“So just what about me have you read?”

“Hmm. Let’s see what I can recall. Graduated from Virginia Tech. Four-year backup quarterback on the football team, but didn’t play much. You got to carry a clipboard and wear a headset and send in plays to the starter.”

“Ooh, that hurt.”

“Did it now?” She smiled at him. “You got tired of not seeing any action, so you joined the Navy.”

“I just want you to know I’m in better shape now than I was when I played on the football team. We had a wimpy strength-and-conditioning coach. The guy didn’t know how to teach power lifting. An hour a day on weights now does more than two hours in the gym back then.”

“Okay. Let’s see. You attended Officer Candidate School in Newport, and after OCS, you got picked up for intel, where you finished, unimpressively I might add, in the middle of your class at Dam Neck.”

“Unimpressively? Hey, I was a football jock! At least I passed.”

“Then you got yourself assigned to a Cruiser Destroyer Group, where you met your surface warfare obligations. Again bored, you got out of the Navy. Took a high-paying job as a commodities analyst in New York. But then you got bored with that too.”

“What can I say?” Gunner quipped. “I get bored easily.”

“Yes, of course you do. This time you tried something a little less boring. You returned to active duty from the reserves and volunteered as an intel officer attached to a SEAL unit in Afghanistan.”

Gunner shrugged. “I flipped on the TV one morning and saw the commercial that said, ‘The Navy — it’s not just a job. It’s an adventure.’ Guess I missed that the first time.”

“You certainly made it an adventure the second time, Commander. Let’s see. What did it say? While attached to the SEALs, you jumped in a hole, grabbed a live grenade tossed in by the enemy, and tossed it out half a second before it exploded, saving the life of the injured Marine waiting to be medevaced out. You were cited for heroism and bravery and awarded the Navy Cross.”

“You’re embarrassing me, Lieutenant. Why do you bring this up?”

“You’re the one who said I hadn’t read your dossier. Just proving I did my homework.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

“Well, then, I’m sure you know the admiral will expect you to have these papers read prior to your meeting.”

“That your way of telling me to shut up and get to work?” He chuckled.

“That is correct,” she said. She opened the door to step out, then turned back. “I hope you will find a suitable level of excitement there.”

“You did nail me.”

She tried suppressing a smile but failed. “I’ll see you in a few minutes, sir.” She stepped out of the room and the door closed behind her.

Gunner sat down. Time to get to work. He opened the envelope and spread its contents on the table.
Date: November 17

From: Deputy Chief of Naval Operations for Information Dominance (N2/N6) and Director of Naval Intelligence (DNI)

To: LCDR Chris-tianson Pendleton McCormick, USN, Staff Intelligence Officer, Carrier Strike Group Ten

Subj: Initial Intelligence Briefing Carrier Strike Group Ten Yellow Sea Deployment

Classification: TOP SECRET

1. Due to increasing hostilities on the Korean Peninsula, the Republic of Korea has requested joint naval exercises with the United States Navy in the Yellow Sea as a show of unity, solidarity, and force between the US and the ROK to deter possible aggression from North Korea.

2. The National Command Authority has ordered Carrier Strike Group Ten (USS Harry S. Truman Battle Group) into the Yellow Sea to conduct joint naval exercises with the ROK Navy. Commander Strike Group Ten shall be informed of these orders imminently.

3. As senior intelligence officer for the Strike Group, the purpose of this communiqué is to brief you on (a) the historical and political situation of the conflict as relevant to the Strike Group’s mission; (b) the positioning of North Korean shore batteries that may pose a threat to the Strike Group; and (c) the positioning of North Korean naval and air forces that are a potential threat to United States naval forces.

4. A summary of the historical and political background is as follows:

KOREAN CRISIS

HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL BACKGROUND
In 1910, Japan attacked and conquered Korea. The brutal military occupation ended more than one thousand years of Korea’s sovereignty as a nation and was a major source of shame to Koreans.

Thirty-five years later, Japan lost Korea in World War II. Just as Europe was divided along the “Iron Curtain,” Korea was divided along the 38th parallel into the American-backed Republic of Korea in the south (ROK) and the Communist-backed Democratic -People’s Republic of Korea (DPRK) in the north. The DPRK was led by a young rebel and disciple of Joseph Stalin named Kim Il-sung.

In 1950, Kim Il-sung invaded the South to unify the country. North Korean Communist forces rapidly drove south, gaining control of almost the entire country before American and United Nations forces, under General Douglas MacArthur, executed a daring amphibious landing at Inchon, which decapitated the Communist supply lines into the South.

After Inchon, the military pendulum swung to the West. American forces pushed the Communists back, driving them back into North.

Korea — their goal to obliterate the dictatorial regime in Pyongyang. But the surprise entry of overwhelming Communist Chinese forces secretly crossing the border into North Korea changed the dynamic of the war. The US and Korean forces that had advanced north toward the Yalu River border with China on the western side of the peninsula were driven back by the surprise entry of Chinese soldiers, who had crossed secretly into Korea. On the eastern side of the peninsula, Chinese forces attacked the First Marine Division commanded by Major General O. P. Smith near the Chosin Reservoir on their push north. Surprised and surrounded by Chinese forces outnumbering it eight-to-one, the division, fighting in subzero conditions, rallied around General Smith and battled through Chinese fortifications, inflicting mortal damage to the enemy before returning south. Many have said that the Battle of Chosin Reservoir was the Marines’ finest hour.

In 1953, after three years of fighting, Korea remained divided in almost exactly the same place it had been divided before the war began.

The 38th parallel.

The armistice kept the two heavily armed warring armies separated, 2,500 yards apart, by a no-man’s land now known as the “Demilitarized Zone,” the DMZ.

As many as four million -people died in the Korean War, which had some of the most brutal warfare the world has ever known. The US dropped nearly one million gallons of napalm on North Korea. Eighteen of twenty-two major cities in the North were at least half obliterated.

While most -people think the war ended almost sixty years ago, there never was a peace treaty. More than 21,000 days later, the long cease-fire continues.

North Korea remains the most oppressive regime on the planet. Although intelligence is somewhat sketchy, best evidence from eyewitness reports suggests that North Korea maintains several dozen forced-labor prison camps, reserved primarily for political dissidents who dare to challenge the regime. These camps have been used over the years to dissuade political opposition.

Even to this day, rumors have circulated and circumstantial evidence from the North has suggested that North Korea may be holding a few elderly American prisoners never returned from the war.

“What?” Gunner mumbled aloud. He rubbed his eyes and reread the last paragraph.

Even to this day, rumors have circulated and circumstantial evidence from the North has suggested that North Korea may be holding a few elderly American prisoners never returned from the war.

“I can’t believe this.” He looked back at the communiqué.
Due to the highly sensitive political nature surrounding enforcement of the tenuous nature of the armistice, the US has been unable to confirm or deny the validity of such rumors.
“What the heck is that supposed to mean . . . ‘Unable to confirm or deny’?”

A knock on the door. Gunner heard someone working the combination lock, then the door opened. Lieutenant Jefferies was standing alone in the passageway. “The admiral is ready for you now, Commander. If you will come with me, please.”

Gunner stood, grabbed the folder, and joined Lieutenant Jefferies out in the hall. His briefing with the admiral would be interesting. But he knew that nothing the admiral could say would erase the idea growing in his mind.

American Marines could be alive in North Korea. And he intended to find them and bring them home.

Ransome’s Quest - Chapter 1

2011-08-21T23:07:00.001-04:00

Ransome’s Quest Harvest House Publishers (August 1, 2011) by Kaye Dacus

Chapter 1

It is too dangerous.”

William Ransome snapped his cutlass into its scabbard and turned to face his wife. “The longer I delay, the farther away they take Charlotte.”

Dread froze his lungs, his stomach, his heart. Charlotte. His sister. Taken. “If anything happens to her…”

Julia wrapped her arms around her abdomen and leaned against one of the heavy posts at the end of the bed. “Why the message to my father? What has he to do with Charlotte?”

William double-checked the load of his pistol and tucked it under his belt. “Your father has publicly vowed—more than once—to rid the Caribbean of pirates and privateers for good. Charlotte was likely a target of opportunity, not purpose.”

“But if the man’s argument is with my father, it should have been me taken, not Charlotte.”

William could not disagree with her. Nor could he agree, as the very idea of Julia’s being taken by pirates nearly ripped his heart from his chest. “I should have put her on that ship in Barbados returning to England. If I had followed my conscience”—instead of listening to Julia’s and Charlotte’s emotional arguments—“she would have been well out of harm’s way by now.”

They both startled at a knock on the door.

“Come.”

The door opened at his command, revealing Jeremiah. “The horses are ready, Commodore.”

“Very good.” William took up his case and hat and moved toward the door.

Julia stepped in front of him, expression imploring. “Please, William, wait until dawn. The roads are treacherous enough in the full light of day. At night…and you do not know where you are going. What good will it do Charlotte if you become lost or…or something else happens to you or the horse? Or what if the pirates have laid a trap and done this to lure you from the safety of the house?”

A mirthless laugh expanded in his throat, but he stifled it. Safety of the house? Was the house safe when the brigands had snatched Charlotte from the porch almost directly outside this very room?

“I am sending Asher with him, Miss Julia,” Jeremiah said. “He knows the roads ’twixt here and Kingston better than anyone I know.”

William tore his gaze away from Julia’s anxious face. “Jeremiah, I am depending on you to protect Mrs. Ransome and ensure no harm comes to her while I am away.”

“I will protect her with my life, sir.”

He stepped around Julia and handed his bag and hat to Jeremiah. “Thank you. I shall join you in a moment.”

As he hoped, Jeremiah understood the dismissal. He gave a slight bow and left the room, closing the door behind him.

William took Julia by the shoulders and directed her to the chaise positioned at the end of their bed. He had to apply more pressure than he liked to make her sit. “You are to stay at Tierra Dulce. You will keep an escort with you at all times. I want armed guards posted near the house.”

She nodded, never blinking or breaking eye contact. “Yes, William.”

“If you hear any word from Charlotte or receive”—his voice caught in his throat—“a ransom demand from the pirate, you will send a messenger to Fort Charles. They will get word to me.”

“Yes, William.”

Heart tearing asunder at the necessity of leaving Julia behind, he bent over and pressed his forehead to hers. “Pray for Charlotte.”

Julia’s hands slid around behind his neck, her fingers twining in his hair. She angled her head and kissed him. “I promise. I will pray for you also, my love.”

He kissed her again and then tore himself away from her embrace. “I must go. I promise I will return—and I will bring Charlotte with me.”

Determined to not look back, he made for the door. He opened it and then hesitated. Without turning around, he said the words he needed to say, just in case they were the last he ever said to his wife. “I love you.”

“I love you, William.” Though softly spoken, her words acted as the command that loosed him from his mooring. He stepped through the door and closed it, leaving her on the other side.

Ned Cochrane paced the drive below the porch steps when William exited the house. He barely spared his former first officer a glance. Intellectually, he knew Ned had done his best, having been taken by surprise and set upon by several men. However, in his heart, he wanted to rail at the younger man for failing to protect Charlotte.

Though a horse was his least favorite mode of transportation, William easily swung himself up into the saddle. Once he was settled—and Ned appeared to be also—William nodded at Asher to lead the way.

Darkness enveloped them. Behind, the light from the house acted as a siren’s call, beckoning him to turn, to look, to regret his decision to leave in the dead of night and wish he had taken Julia’s advice and waited until dawn.

His neck ached from the effort of keeping his face forward instead of giving in to temptation and taking one last look at the house, hoping to catch a final glimpse of Julia.

He focused on the bumpy motion of the animal underneath him. He must leave all thoughts of—all worries about—Julia behind, just as he now left her home behind. Jeremiah had known Julia most of her life. He had been as much of a substitute father for Julia as her father, Admiral Witherington, had been for William.

No, he could not worry about Julia and her safety. Rescuing Charlotte must be his only focus, his only thought.

The monotonous rhythm of the horses’ hooves, at a walk over the dark, deeply rutted dirt roads, along with the necessity of keeping his eyes trained on the light shirt stretched across Asher’s broad back, lulled William into a stupor.

Ahead lay his ship. The thought of boarding Alexandra and getting under sail chipped away at his anxiety. As soon as he was on the water, as soon as he stood on the quarterdeck and issued the command to weigh anchor, he would be that much closer to finding Charlotte and bringing her home.

The road widened, and Ned pulled up beside him.

“You are certain the man did not identify himself?”

“No, sir. He did not give his name. He only said her safety depended on the mercy of a pirate.” Ned’s voice came across flat and hoarse.

“What were you doing out on the porch, alone with her in the dark?” Even as William asked this, he reminded himself Ned was not at fault. But if Charlotte had been inside, perhaps…

“I followed them—Miss Ransome and Winchester—when they went for their walk. I did not trust Mrs. Ransome’s steward to behave honorably.” He paused. “I need not have worried. Char—Miss Ransome handled the situation admirably and dispatched Winchester, and their engagement, with aplomb.”

“Winchester was with you when she was taken? Why did you not tell me this before?”

“No, sir. Miss Ransome dismissed him. He had been gone for…several minutes.”

Could Winchester be involved? Dread sank like a cannonball in William’s gut. Julia already suspected the steward of embezzling money from the plantation. And William had left her there with that man—

“I asked her to marry me.”

If Winchester were involved, and this was a ploy to get William away from Tierra—he yanked the reins. The horse voiced its protest and jerked and swerved, nearly unseating William. “I beg your pardon?”

“After Charlotte broke her engagement with Winchester, we talked about our mutual regard. I proposed marriage to her, and she accepted.” Ned’s words barely rose above the sounds of the horses’ hooves on the hard-packed earth.

From a sinking ship into shark-infested waters. Could Charlotte not have waited even a full day after breaking one engagement before forming another—again, without her family’s knowledge? “And if I refuse my permission?”

“Then we shall wait. We’ll wait until you think I am worthy to marry her, sir.”

Worthy to marry her. William did not have to think hard to remember standing before Julia’s father twelve years ago and saying the same words. Sir Edward had graciously given him—a poor, threadbare lieutenant with no prospects and nothing to recommend him as husband or son-in-law—a father’s blessing for William and Julia to marry based on nothing other than their love for each other. William had been the one to deem himself unworthy of her affections, and he had almost lost her forever.

“We shall discuss this after we return Charlotte home.”

“I pray that will be soon, sir.”

“So do I, Ned. So do I.”

Charlotte awoke with a gasp. Wooden planks formed the low ceiling above her. A canvas hammock conformed to her body and swung with the heave and haw of the ocean beneath the ship.

A ship?

Not possible. They had made port, hadn’t they?

She stared at the underside of the deck above, trying to clear the haziness from her brain. Yes. They had made port. Left Alexandra and ridden in carriage across those horrible, rutted roads to Tierra Dulce, Julia’s sugar plantation. The low, sprawling white house with the deep porch that wrapped all the way around and the white draperies billowing through the open windows.

The porch. She blinked rapidly. The porch. At night. In the dark. Henry Winchester and…and Ned.

She bolted upright and then flung her torso over the side of the hammock as her stomach heaved.

Why should she be sick? She hadn’t experienced a moment of seasickness on the crossing from England to Jamaica. She climbed out of the hammock, skirt and petticoats hindering her progress until she hoisted them above her knees, and made for the small table with a glass and pitcher.

Wan light from the stern windows sparkled through the glass, revealing a residue of white powder in the bottom of it. She set the glass back on the stand. Last night the pirate had made her drink from the glass, and then everything had gone hazy. But before that…

She buried her face in her hands. Being torn away from Ned. She prayed they had not killed him. She’d heard no gunshot, but as their raid had been one of stealth, they would more likely have used a blade to end Ned’s life.

A sob ripped at her throat, but she forced it to stay contained. She would not give the pirates the satisfaction of seeing her upset. And she must, and would, find a means of escape.

Thirst got the better of her, and she lifted the china pitcher of water and rinsed her mouth before drinking deeply the brackish liquid. She then turned and surveyed the cabin. Obviously the pirate captain’s quarters. Though smaller than Ned’s aboard Audacious, which was in turn smaller than William’s aboard Alexandra, the room was neatly kept, with serviceable furnishings, whitewashed walls and ceiling, and plain floors. Nothing to exhibit the extravagance or wealth she’d expected to see in a pirate’s private lair.

The desk. Perhaps something there would tell her more about her captor. She crossed to it, rather surprised by the empty work surface. No stacks of the papers or books like the ones resting on William’s or Ned’s worktables. Her fingers itched to open the drawer under the desktop and the small doors and drawers along the high back of it, but Mama had taught her better than that.

Two miniatures hanging above the desk caught her eye. One showed a woman, probably a few years older than Charlotte, with dark hair and angular features. Too plain to be called pretty, but not ugly either. The green backdrop of the second painting contrasted vividly with the reddish-brown hair of a pretty girl and matched her vibrant green eyes.

Mahogany hair and green eyes—just like Julia. Why would a pirate have a portrait of Julia hanging in his cabin? But, she corrected herself, the painting was of a girl no older than thirteen or fourteen. Surely the resemblance to Julia was merely coincidental.

“She was lovely, was she not?”

Charlotte gasped and whirled. A dark-haired man dressed in a blue coat that resembled a commodore’s or admiral’s—complete with prodigious amounts of gold braid about the cuffs, collar, and lapels—stood in the doorway of the cabin.

He tossed a bicorne hat—also similar to a navy officer’s—onto the oblong table in the middle of the cabin, clasped his hands behind his back, and sauntered toward her, his eyes on the portrait.

“What do you want with me?”

“I am sorry for the manner of your coming here, Miss…?” He cocked one eyebrow at her.

“Ransome. Charlotte Ransome. My brother is Commodore William Ransome. He will hunt you down. And when he finds you—”

“When he finds me,” the pirate said, sighing, “I am certain the encounter shall be quite violent and bloody. Is that what you were going to say?”

Charlotte ground her teeth together. The man stood there, serene as a vicar on the Sabbath, acting as if they stood in a drawing room in Liverpool discussing the weather. “What do you want with me?”

“With you? Nothing.” He flicked an invisible speck of dust from the oval frame. “My business is with her.”

“With her?” Charlotte nodded toward the painting. “Is that…?”

“Julia Witherington—or Julia Ransome, as I have lately learned. Empress of the Tierra Dulce sugar empire.”

The strange lilt in his voice when he said Julia’s name sent a chill down Charlotte’s spine. “Yes, she is married. To my brother.”

“The famous Commodore Ransome.” The pirate turned and ambled toward the dining table. “His reputation precedes him.”

Worry riddled Charlotte at the pirate’s lack of worry over the thought of William’s hunting him down and blowing him and his crew out of the water. After Charlotte escaped, naturally.

“You were not part of my plan, little Charlotte Ransome.” He turned, leaned against the edge of the table, and crossed his arms. The coat pulled across his broad chest and muscular shoulders. A lock of dark hair fell over his forehead, softening the way his heavy black brows hooded his eyes. His nose had been aquiline once, but now it sported a bump about halfway down from whence the rest of the appendage angled slightly to his left. A scar stretched across his forehead and down into his left eyebrow. On first sight he could have passed for Spanish, but his accent marked him as an Englishman.

If he weren’t a no-good, dastardly, cowardly, kidnapping pirate, she might consider him handsome.

“Did you kill him?” The question squeezed past her throat unbidden.

“Him?”

“Ned—Captain Cochrane. The man with me on the porch.” She schooled her emotions as best she could, pretending the man standing before her was none other than Kent, her nemesis during her days aboard Audacious as a midshipman.

“If he is dead, it is through no work of me or my men. We do not kill for sport, only for defense.”

“Ha!” The mirthless laugh popped out before she could stop it. “Morality from a pirate? Someone who spends his life pillaging and thieving and destroying and killing and…and…” Heat flooded her face.

“And?” The pirate stood and stalked toward her, an odd gleam in his dark eyes. “And ravishing young women? Is that what you were going to say?”

Charlotte backed away, right into the edge of the desk. She gripped it hard. “N-no.”

The pirate leaned over her, hands on either side of her atop the desk, trapping her. “Do not try to lie to me, little Charlotte Ransome. You have no talent for it.”

Stays digging into her waist, she bent as far back as she could. “Yes, then. Ravishing.” Not that he would get a chance to ravish her. A fork. A penknife. Anything with a sharp edge or point. Once she had something like that in her possession, she would be able to defend herself against him.

Up close, the pirate’s brown eyes held chips of gold and green. A hint of dark whiskers lay just beneath the skin of his jaw and above his upper lip.

He blinked when someone knocked on the door but didn’t move. “Come!”

“Captain, Lau and Declan are back.”

“Very good. I shall meet with them in the wheelhouse momentarily to hear their report. Dismissed.”

Charlotte wanted to cry out to stop the other man from leaving, but she knew she deluded herself. She was no safer with any man on this ship than with their captain.

Would Ned still want her—even be able to look at her—after the pirates were finished with her?

“What’s this?” The pirate reached up and touched Charlotte’s cheek. “Tears?”

She shook her head, more to dislodge his hand than in denial.

With another sigh he straightened and then handed her a handkerchief. “Calm yourself, Miss Ransome. I have no intention of ravishing you. Nor of allowing anyone else to ravish you. While you are aboard my ship, you are under my protection.”

He crossed to the table and retrieved his hat. “You, however, must stay to this cabin at all times. Though my men know my rules of conduct, a few of them might give in to the temptation of their baser desires should they see you about on deck.”

Charlotte leaned heavily against the desk. The handkerchief in her hand was of the finest lawn, embroidered white-on-white with a Greek-key design around the edge. She frowned at the bit of cloth. Why would a pirate carry something so delicate?

He settled the bicorne on his dark head, points fore-and-aft, the same way the officers of the Royal Navy wore theirs.

“Who are you?”

He touched the fore tip of the hat and then flourished a bow. “I am called El Salvador, and you are aboard my ship, Vengeance. Welcome to my home, Miss Ransome.”

Dancing on Glass - Prologue

2011-08-14T23:10:00.001-04:00

Dancing on Glass B&H Books (August 1, 2011) by Pamela Ewen

Prologue

The images have no color. There are only shades of gray, like ash, and each one flashes through her mind and disappears before the next one takes its place. There is a raw, harsh scream, but as she struggles through the mist the thoughts and sounds slip away. Won’t stick. What was the question, anyway?

“Where is Phillip, Amalise?”

Through heavy lidded slits she can see a man in white bending over her. His grave eyes focus on hers. “Are you cold?” he says. “You’re shivering.” The voice is deep and low and soothing. He reaches across the bed and she can feel him tucking something warm around her, binding her arms against her sides, wrapping her in a cocoon. The cocoon feels safe and warm.

“Where is your husband?” he asks again. “Think of Phillip. Can you remember?”

His face wavers before her. She cannot part her lips—cannot speak.

“Try to remember,” he says. “It’s important. Think of the cottage on the lake and of Phillip and try to remember.”

She shuts her eyes and the room disappears. In a split second a hand grips her shoulder. “Wake up, Amalise. Don’t fall asleep.”

The dark is soft, but the images emerge again and sharpen—shards of Phillip’s face—the flat smile, those high, angular cheekbones, brown eyes, protruding brow—moving, bending, twisting like reflections in a fun house mirror that slip away before you pin them down. Aound her there is sand and water.

Her heart begins to pound. The blanket constricts—no longer a cocoon. She shoves the blanket away, twisting, pushing it out with her elbows as she fights to loosen the grip. Pain knifes through her head, and surprised, her eyes fly open and she cries out.

“Careful!” His voice is strident, loud. “You have had an accident.”

The pain lingers, but she stops struggling and listens in silence. “It’s a fracture—just here, on the left side.” She feels the pressure of a touch on the side of her head. The voice turns milky now, soothing. “That’s it. Stay with me. There’s nothing to worry about, but you must try to stay awake for awhile, Amalise.” Two beats. “Can you hear me?”

There is something that frightens her. Don’t say a word.

“Where is Phillip? We need your help.”

“Phillip,” she repeats. He bends forward; she can feel his breath on her cheek. Images emerge from the dark and recede, one after the other. A lake. A pier. A beach. White bird. And Phillip.

“Phillip,” she whispers. “The beach…white bird.”

“And…? Go on, Amalise.”

Footprints. She sees footprints on sand, but they disappear into the black and she is sleepy, so sleepy.

The milky voice grows loud, urgent--Leave her alone—and another voice, harsh, impatient—Doc, doc, there’s not much time.

“Don’t push. Not now. She’s fragile.”

“She’s dreaming Doc. There’s no beach out there. Outside that clearing, we got water, we got woods, we got swamp.”

Shuffling footsteps moving away. A door opens; the harsh voice says, “I got men out there in the rain and there’s not much time; it’s almost dark.” A sharp laugh follows. “Guess we’ll have to follow that bird, huh?”

A door closes.

Dad’s voice comes—wake up, Amalise! And Mama’s voice, from somewhere far away…you cannot go to sleep…concussion…please don’t sleep!

Images explode. Phillip’s eyes, hard with sudden recognition, lips twisting, contorting. Comes again the white coat’s milky voice…don’t sleep, don’t sleep, don’t sleep…She fights to stay awake and there’s an electric hum around her now…Judge, we’re losing her…Amalise wake up…and then that harsh raw scream intrudes inside, that silent fateful scream that shatters thoughts, and voices in the room are fading, and Phillip now is pleading, pleading.

She moans, fighting the memories—willing the darkness to veil the terror. The white bird soars in the light, a pulsing light inside of her…sheets of stark and angry light that blind…Phillip loved her, loved her, always loved her… Ama, Ama, Ama. You are mine. But the voice is filled with something fierce; something that she cannot name. And then the voice shatters into glassy glittering points of light, like stars, and at last the stars wink off, one by one so that the merciful black haze, called upon, descends.

Echoes from the past, present, future, pulse and disappear.

Amalise wake up!

She’s slipping away.

But the voices fade. Here is peace—here is silence, refuge. Nothing exists; there is no space, no boundary, no time.

We’re losing her!

Forgive me… For…give… me…

A Most Unsuitable Match

2011-08-07T18:48:00.000-04:00

A Most Unsuitable Match Bethany House; Original edition (August 1, 2011) by Stephanie Grace Whitson

A Most Unsuitable Match

The Hardest Thing to Do - Chapter 1

2011-08-07T18:02:00.000-04:00

The Hardest Thing Crossway Books (July 31, 2011) by Penelope Wilcock

Chapter 1

Brother Thomas sat impassively in his stall in the choir: he felt irritated nonetheless. The air was astir from Father Chad’s bustling as the prior made his way with exaggerated purpose to the abbatial seat. The energy of his going generated a crack and flap of robes that grated on Brother Thomas’s nerves.

Why can’t he just tread quietly? Why does he have to exude this self-importance every blessed time someone gives him something to do? Oh, ye saints and archangels, just sit down, Chad—whatever it is I bet we’ve heard it all before.

Ash Wednesday. The smell of the burnt palm crosses mixed with chrism pervaded the chapel.

Prime, then the morrow Mass and imposition of the ashes: “Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris... Remember, O man, that dust thou art, and to dust thou shalt return... Turn away from sin and be faithful to the Gospel.”

Tom rose to his feet, his brow marked with ashes by the prior’s thumb. He returned from the altar rail to his stall, where he sank down to his knees again, wanting to repent about Father Chad and not finding it possible to rid himself of baser thoughts: His voice is annoying. His face is annoying. That little nervous laugh is annoying. The way he says “homo” sets my teeth on edge.

There exists nothing that God has not made. Is God annoying? Did Chad spring fully-formed from some irritating, halfbaked little crevice unacknowledged in the mind of the Divine?

Lent is hard. Cormac’s bread is hard, but in hard Lent the bread is even harder: just flour, salt, and water, no leaven. No eggs, no meat, no cheese, no butter. Beans and roots and cabbage; cabbage and roots and beans. There are no alleluias in Lent. But the hardest thing to do is to take away every comfort, every grace note from the daily round, and still remember not to look at Chad as if you wished he’d crawl right back under his stone.

Come soon, Brother John. This place needs you. I need you. The community filed through into the chapter house to hear the reading of the Rule, the superior’s homily, and the daily discussion of community concerns.

“Brothers, there has come unsettling news of a tragedy.” Father Chad’s voice resonated with the frisson of awful tidings. “One of our guests who was with us on Monday night brought word yesterday of a great fire that has broken out, he said, in a monastery but a few days’ ride from here. I pressed him for more detail, but he had heard only rumors—talk of complete destruction, of ashes floating on the wind across the neighboring country, and many lives lost. When I hear tell of what community has suffered this dreadful calamity, I will bring you news: for now, dear brothers, please keep those stricken in your prayers.

“Please pray, of course, also for our brother who is traveling home to us and will be with us any day, we hold good hope. We beseech God of his great kindness that our brother may be kept in safety from danger, disease, wild animals, and violent men, that he may soon be received under our roof with all charity and rejoicing.

“And we keep in our prayers before God all who are sick and frail, especially Brother Cyprian, whose health is failing.” Father Chad turned to the Rule of St. Benedict and the chapter for the observance of Lent, exhorting the brethren to keep their lives pure and to wash away in this stretch of extra effort the creeping negligences that gradually attached themselves through the rest of the year. The chapter urged each man to seek out some extra offering of his own self-denial—some item of food or drink, another hour of sleep, forbearance from conversation—to deepen the penitential journey of Lent and heighten the joy of spiritual desire for Easter.

Tom noted the enriched timbre of Father Chad’s voice as he read from the Rule: “Let each one, however, suggest to his abbot what it is that he wants to offer, and let it be done with his blessing and approval. For anything done without the permission of the spiritual father will be imputed to presumption and vainglory and will merit no reward. Therefore let everything be done with the abbot’s approval.”

Tom considered the possibility of humbly asking Chad’s permission to keep out of his way for six weeks—for the good of his soul. Then he felt a sudden stab of shame at his lack of charity.

Father Chad had proposed that the admission of their new abbot be incorporated into the Easter festivities as a grand and joyful occasion. Brother Thomas had seen things differently. “It’s not for show; it’s not about the pomp and ceremony!” he had wanted to say, but had stood in silence, biting back the flood of criticism that had wanted to tumble out, until the prior asked him, “Yes, brother?”

And with an effort he had kept his words honest and simple. “Father, I think Brother John likes things done quietly. I think the receiving of our new abbot is a private, family thing. I beg to offer that we do this simply, just among ourselves, and let Easter have the glory that belongs to it, without us trying to gild the lily.” Father Chad had nodded thoughtfully, alert to the quiet stir of assent that reached his ears.

“That sounds like wisdom, dear brother,” he conceded. He hesitated, then added, “We shall be empowered to do this because the bishop has given us permission to admit our new abbot as soon as he arrives among us. I am permitted to act as the bishop’s commissary.”

Tom nodded, keeping his eyes lowered. He understood what he was hearing. Chad had no confidence in himself, no natural authority. He swung between the paralysis of hopeless inadequacy and preening himself on account of borrowed authority. He was not the abbot of this community and felt the deepest relief to know he never would be. He entertained not even a fantasy of becoming a bishop. Responsibility frightened him, administration confused him, and pastoral ministry frankly terrified him, but to pull borrowed rank occasionally restored his self-esteem.

That was settled then. Their new abbot would be installed privately, quietly, simply, as soon as he had come back home to them.

###

“Brother Conradus, you’re late.”

This was undeniably true and not atypical, but Father Theodore understood how to soften the rebuke. Only recently clothed in the habit of the Order, still relying on friendly hands to steer him into the right place at the right time, the short, plump, young novice clung to his name in religion and the right to be a brother of this house as a consolation amid chronic weariness and bewilderment. Brother Conradus—the words brought exultation, even when they were normally a mere preliminary to correction.

He fell to his knees before the novice master seated in the teaching circle. “I confess my fault of tardiness, my father, and I ask forgiveness of God and of you.”

It never felt hard to ask Father Theodore for pardon. Even as Conradus kissed the floor in penance, the gentleness of the novice master’s voice—“God forgives you, and so do I, my son; I do know you are trying your best”—brought comfort and the feeling of being understood. It was not impossible to make Theodore angry, but that happened only when deserved. Theodore could see the difference between human weakness and human sin. He was ready with a hand to lift you up when you stumbled, which was very often in Brother Conradus’s present reality. It was not easy to get used to plain food made awesomely plain in Lent. It was almost impossible, having tossed and turned on the lumps of a straw mattress on a February night and having finally fallen into an exhausted sleep, to waken at the clamor of the bell, then leave a blanket still barely warmed and join the subdued line of tired men stumbling down from the dorter at 2 A.M. for Matins, to pray for the king and the dead—the situation of either seeming infinitely preferable. The silence, the work, the unquestioning obedience—Brother Conradus thought everything was as difficult as he’d been warned and maybe more so. But he thought the hardest thing to do was holding it all together, trying to remember everything he’d been told and asked, where everything was and where he was meant to go.

Eager for Father Theodore’s morning lesson, Conradus took his place in the circle with the others, and peace settled upon him. Conradus did not know that when Theodore had passed through the novitiate the novices had sat in rows facing their master at the front. He did not consider Theodore’s reasoning in arranging the stools in a circle; even so, he was not insensible to the atmosphere of community in this room. Here was a place where people learned together, and everyone felt included.

The young monks and their novice master, all now gathered, sat without speaking in the circle—another innovation of Theodore’s. Invariably late to almost everything as a novice himself, his memories were of lessons begun and half missed: he used to miss the start because he was late, miss the next bit because he was overcome with bitter humiliation and selfrebuke, and miss most of the rest because he couldn’t quite make sense of it, trying to imagine what the bits he had missed might have been.

So he initiated the practice of starting the time together in silence.

“In silence we enter the room, brothers. In silence we take a place in the circle—any place, not my place or your place, not the same place always, for place is nothing to be possessive about. We sit quietly then and take in where we are. Sit with your eyes open or shut, it matters not; but be aware. Know that being a monk is not about withdrawal but about community, and feel the community here. We listen to our brothers . . . see them . . . smell them . . . [that usually brought a laugh] and we stay open to what else we can notice. Restlessness? Weariness? Friendship? Peace? Every day is different in community, and we are made more sensitive to the differences because every day is the same.”

Conradus liked to sit with his eyes open and rest his gaze on the circle of his brothers, because he had noticed that this was what Father Theodore usually did. Sometimes, like today, a deep sigh escaped from somewhere deep in his body, as he began to relax in this accepting circle. He looked at the smudges of ash on the faces of his brothers. The acceptance belonged to every day; but this was the day of ashes, and that set it apart.

Into the silence Theodore spoke quietly about miracles of transformation.

“A miracle alters the normal course of things, turning what comes naturally into something new. In the everyday world, we take a flint and a rag, or take a taper to a candle, and we make a light. We take the light to the hearth and start the fire. When night comes down and we cease to feed it, the flames die away, the embers grow cold, and all that is left is ashes.

“A vocation can be like that, or a marriage, in the everyday. Someone sets alight something new, it flames up warm and bright. But with time and neglect, it dies down, dies out. As the years go by while you walk this way, you will sense among your brothers those of whom this is true.

“The psalmist says, ‘Quia factus sum sicut uter in pruina, justificationes tuas non sum oblitus. Quot sunt dies servi tui? For I am become like a bottle in the smoke, yet do I not forget thy statutes. How many are the days of thy servant?’

“And when it is like that—as it can be for any of us at times—the going is so arduous. As you walk this path, my brothers, if you see that . . . if you see that your brother has become like a bottle in the smoke, just the used remnant of what must once have been a vocation, oh, do not judge him. One day it might be you.”

Brother Ced lifted his head, his face troubled. Father Theodore caught his eye, his face kind.

“But the miracle starts here,” he said, and he sounded so certain that Brother Cedd felt reassured. “A miracle is not the everyday way of things—light, fire, ashes. A miracle changes everything, challenges the order we know. In a miracle God smiles and says, ‘Try this for a change: ashes, fire, light.’ Inside a soul, when all is ashes—when a brother has become as grubby and unattractive as a bottle in the smoke—the secret fire of the Holy Spirit arises out of the kind desire of God, burning away the dross and the sin, kindling again the precepts, the statutes, the rule of life. Fire is painful, oh, God, it is painful; there is nothing warm and cozy about the mercy of God as it burns away coldness and indifference. But the flowering of the miracle is luminous; there comes light that is evident to everyone who has eyes to see; the inner light of peace betokening the house where Christ lives again: resurrection, I suppose.

“That bottle in the smoke—the empty, clouded, burned-out vessel—you notice the Latin word for it is uter—something we use, a useful container—but growing also into the word for a womb, the place where new life begins. The jar lying forgotten in last night’s ashes can be the womb of a new beginning.

“So the slow, painful journey of Lent takes us from ashes, through fire, to Easter light: reversing our tendency to fall asleep and neglect the flame, to let the fire go out.”

Theodore stopped speaking. His novices, shifting a little on the uncompromising wooden seats, glanced up to see what might follow and traced his quizzical, amused gaze to Brother Robert, who furnished a helpful illustration as he nodded off to sleep.

A River to Cross - Chapter 1

2011-08-02T22:24:00.001-04:00

A River to Cross Bethany House; Original edition (August 1, 2011)
by Yvonne Harris

A River to Cross

Out Of Control - Chapter 1

2011-07-31T21:26:00.000-04:00

Out Of Control Bethany House; Original edition (August 1, 2011) by Mary Connealy

Out of Control

Love Finds You in Amana, Iowa - Chapter 1

2011-07-26T23:22:00.001-04:00

Love Finds You in Amana, Iowa Summerside Press (June 1, 2011) by Melanie Dobson

Chapter 1

July 1863

Wagon wheels rumbled over the hard earth and stones along the Ohio trail before dipping down to splash through a creek. Rain clouds swathed the hot sky, pacifying the intense sunrays for seconds and sometimes minutes at a time. Nature’s game of hide-and-seek was welcome relief from the heat that had trailed the Inspirationists since they left New York. Two long weeks ago.

Water seeped through Amalie Wiese’s boots as she stepped into the creek. The coldness bathed her stockings and chilled her toes. If only she could take a bath tonight. Clean the dust and sweat off her skin and soothe the aches that rippled up her legs and back and settled into her shoulders.

Beside her Karoline Baumer picked up her skirt and stepped into the creek. She squealed with delight as the cold water soaked her bare toes and splashed on her legs. Her friend’s pale yellow hair was hidden under a lilac-colored sunbonnet, the same sunbonnet all of the women in their community wore. Even with the head covering draped over her ears and shoulders, hiding her cheeks, Amalie could see the freckles that dotted the nose of the lively girl who’d been working beside her for the past two years.

Karoline was barely twenty, but she was one of the hardest workers Amalie knew. And there was nothing Amalie respected more than a man or a woman who worked hard.

For the past ten of her twenty-four years, Amalie had cooked and cleaned six and a half days a week as a helper and then as the assistant baas in one of the colony’s communal kitchens. She didn’t mind the cooking or cleaning. It was the wilderness she hated. The dirt and the bramble and the vicious mosquitoes that liked to feed on her skin. Her kitchen was clean. Controlled. With a bit of scrubbing, she could eradi¬cate any sign of disorder in the kitchen, but out here on the trail, there was no way to keep the dirt off her clothes, her skin, or her dishes.

She wouldn’t grumble about the long journey through the trees and hills, at least not with her lips, but it comforted her to know that the elders would never ask any of them to travel the states between New York and Iowa again. Once they reached the new Kolonie, they would be home.

“How are your feet?” Karoline asked.

“Blistered.”

Karoline actually giggled. “Mine too.”

“I wish I could laugh about it.”

“You should take off your shoes,” Karoline said, but Amalie shook her head. Even if she could hide her bare feet under her long dress, she didn’t want her toes to touch the dirt.

“It’s all part of the adventure,” Karoline insisted.

“I’m having enough of an adventure with my shoes on.”

Copper boilers, kettles, and skillets clanged in the wagon beside the women, and behind them was another wagon filled with barrels of flour and sugar, flatware, tablecloths, and ceramic jars to start the new Kolonie kitchen. The barrels and crates rattled together as they forged the creek.

They were going to replenish their food supply in the town of Lisbon tonight with meat from the butchery and fresh fruit and vegetables. And if they made it to Lisbon before dark, she was secretly hoping for a hot meal as well, along with a bath at a hotel instead of another night in a tent.

The hooves of two oxen beside them plodded back onto dry ground, and she and Karoline both hopped up onto the bank as another wagon rode into the water. In front of them were two wagons with nine other wagons following behind, all of them filled with supplies and clothing and family heirlooms. On their way to paradise.

The elders had written in great detail about the twenty-six thou¬sand acres they had purchased in the Iowa River Valley. They wrote about the timberland and pastures for their animals and plenty of sandstone and clay to build their villages. They described the lush hills and pristine river and rich soil in the land.

Amana is what they named the land, from the Song of Solomon. To remain true. It would be the perfect place for their community, the Community of the True Inspiration.

And it would be the perfect place for her and Friedrich to begin their marriage.

In her dreams, she imagined a private reunion with Friedrich away from the crowds in the new Kolonie. Friedrich had never kissed her before, but in the darkness of her tent, on the long nights when she couldn’t sleep, she imagined what it would feel like to finally be in his arms.

She wouldn’t care then about the sweat and dirt and the endless walking on this journey. The three years of waiting would melt away in his embrace, and if God blessed them with a long life, their bond would be strong sixty or even seventy years from now as they told the story of their move to grandchildren and perhaps even to great-grandchildren. The Inspirationists had been migrating slowly to the new Kolonie for eight years now. Friedrich and several hundred other men had built six villages on the land, and the elders purchased a seventh village two years ago—a railroad town named Homestead. Their Kolonie was a harbor from the rough world around them, a protected place far removed from the cities in this big country and the strains of materialism that tempted their people. The community would keep all of them from falling away from their devotion to the spiritual life. They would be bound together as a people who promised to remain true to God and to each other.

Amalie and Karoline were the only two women on this journey west—the rest of the women and children remained at the Inspiration¬ist colony in New York called Ebenezer. If she and Karoline had waited, they would have been able to travel by steamship across Lake Erie and then by iron train with Friedrich’s family and the rest of the group coming to Iowa in the autumn months. Instead, Amalie had convinced the elders that the men escorting the dozen wagons with supplies to Iowa needed a couple of women to cook for them.

At the time, traveling by wagon seemed like a good idea. She and Karoline had both been excited to see a bit of America, and she was ready to take a respite from her parents’ influence. Her mother was a midwife in Ebenezer and assisted the doctor whenever he needed her. Amalie’s father was one of the elders helping secure the sale of the property in New York. They would leave Ebenezer with the final group moving west, probably in a year or two.

More than anything else, though, Amalie had chosen to go with the wagon train because she would see Friedrich two months earlier than if she had waited.

The Wiese name was one of strength, of men and women who escaped persecution in Germany and traveled the rough seas from Europe so they and their families could worship God in freedom. Herancestors and even her parents faced many more trials than she ever had. Surely she could finish this journey to Iowa.

Karoline looked up at the trees above them. “Isn’t God’s creation beautiful?”

Amalie glanced up. Light filtered through the web of branches and leaves and spilled over them, but her toes were too cold to appreciate the beauty.

“I’m hot one minute and then freezing the next.”

Karoline laughed. “You don’t like nature much, do you?”

“It’s not that,” she started but then caught herself. There was no reason for her to be untruthful with Karoline. “I just miss my kitchen.”

“That’s why you will make such a good kitchen baas,” Karoline replied. “You actually enjoy the work.”

“You’d make a good kitchen baas if you wanted to do it.”

Karoline shook her head. “I’d much rather plant the food than cook it.”

“Maybe one day you will work in the gardens,” Amalie said. “But you’re not allowed to start gardening until next year.”

She needed Karoline’s capable hands to help her start the new kitchen in Amana.

“Not until next year,” Karoline assured her.

The ox snorted beside her, and Amalie reached out her hand and patted its back. She could feel his ribs through his warm skin. He was probably hungry too.

“Don’t distract him,” Christoph Faust commanded in German. The man rode up on the other side of the oxen, towering over them from his saddle. Karoline slowed her pace to walk behind Amalie.

Mr. Faust was an immigrant from Prussia, and because of his knowledge of the German language and his experience leading pio¬neers west, the elders had hired him as a wagon master to lead their rain to Iowa. The wide brim on his hat circled his head like a rugged halo. He reminded Amalie of the mighty angels of the Bible, the ones who could strike down the disobedient with a wave of their hand.

“I wasn’t distracting him. I was encouraging him.” Amalie glanced away from the wagon master, down to the wet hem of her skirt. One of the rules of their conduct was to be polite and friendly towards every¬one, but she didn’t feel comfortable being too friendly with Mr. Faust. “We all want to get to Lisbon tonight for a decent meal.”

“I don’t know why, Miss Wiese,” he said. “Your cooking is the best I’ve ever tasted on the trail.”

She kept her eyes focused on the jagged rocks and patches of clover that garnished the trail. Some women might blush at a compliment like that, but Amalie knew that flattery only led to an inflated view of one’s self. A false view. Each person was created equal in God’s sight. Their skills and talents contributed to God’s kingdom, not to building up a kingdom that would crumble the day they left this world.

She could feel Mr. Faust’s gaze still on her, awaiting her response from atop his horse.

“What do you usually eat on the trail?”

“Anything we can catch,” he said with a grin. “Sometimes a squir¬rel or a snake.”

Her stomach rolled at the thought of eating a snake. No wonder he liked her food. “I’m glad to know my stew tastes better than squirrel meat.”

Mr. Faust leaned down over the oxen, and his gaze locked onto her. “I’d ask you to marry me, Miss Wiese, if I was the kinda man to settle down.”

Heat climbed up her neck at the thought of marrying an unruly man like Mr. Faust. She couldn’t imagine it nor would she honor the absurdity of his statement with a reply.

Marriage should be discussed behind closed doors, not out in the open with Karoline beside her and so many of her fellow community members listening to their conversation. Mr. Faust’s foolish words were sure to travel to Iowa. To Friedrich. Then she would have to answer questions about why she was even talking to this man.

He continued, seemingly oblivious to her discomfort. Or perhaps he was enjoying it.

“I might even think about joining your community,” he said. “If you’d marry me.”

She lifted her chin a bit higher. “There are plenty of women who could cook a decent meal for you, Mr. Faust.”

“But few of them are as pretty as you.”

Her chest quivered. Not because she held any interest in Christoph Faust or any man like him, but because of his close attention to her. His scrutiny. None of the women in their community were ever singled out for their beauty or their talents except on the occasion when a man was serious about a marriage. Then he would ask her permission, along with the permission of the elders, to marry her.

She tugged at her sunbonnet until it hid her face.

Was she pretty Or was Mr. Faust flattering her with idle words in hopes that she would continue cooking for him?

It didn’t matter what his reason. She scolded herself for entertain¬ing even a moment of his flattery.

Do not love the world and do not follow the customs of the world. Do not love beauty nor daintiness of dress, much less boast in them.

She must battle against the flattery. Against the wiles of the devil that would tempt her to seek beauty or the pride that would ensue if she believed herself to be pretty. Not that Mr. Faust was the devil, but as she’d learned in Lehrschule, the evil one used the unsuspecting to draw members away from the tight bonds of their society.

“It doesn’t matter, Mr. Faust,” she said, venturing a glance at him from the side of her bonnet. His gaze was intent on her face. “I’ve already promised to marry a man in Iowa.”

The smile on his face fell. “He’s a lucky fella.”

“I’m the blessed one.”

He tipped his brim toward her. “Blessed, indeed.”

In front of them, the wagons disappeared around a bend in the road, and the oxen hauling the kitchen wagon followed them in the endless parade. But when the road straightened again, Amalie coughed as a cloud of smoke hovered in the trees around them. She scanned the forest on both sides to search for a clearing where fellow travelers had built a campfire to cook their supper.

“What is it?” Karoline whispered behind her.

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Instead of a campfire, black coils of smoke rose above the trees to their left, quickly turning the sky into a dark haze. She coughed again and covered her mouth with the calico from her bonnet.

“Whoa!” Mr. Faust shouted to the oxen.

He kicked his heels against his horse’s flanks to urge it ahead, yell¬ing for the oxen to stop. The animals were like children obeying their teacher—some of them stopped immediately while others delayed just a bit. But in a minute’s time, they’d all complied, and the wagons stopped on the path, waiting for direction from their captain.

Mr. Faust rode back to her, the teasing erased from his eyes and lips.

“Gather everyone together,” Mr. Faust told her. “Tell them to wait here until I return.”

She stepped forward. “Where are you going?”

“To see what is burning.” He wiped his forearm over his mustache. “And to find out who set the fire.”

“Are we in danger?”

A glimmer of pity washed through his eyes. “There’s danger all around us, Miss Wiese.”

Her aching shoulders stiffened at the urgency in his words. And the condescension.

The villages of Ebenezer weren’t as isolated as the new Kolonie, but they’d been sheltered from most of the evils in the world. The crimes she’d heard rumored about in the cities never touched their commu¬nity. But now, even though they traveled as one, they were no longer separated from evil. The western world, like the Ohio trail, was full of ruts and thorns threatening to ensnare them. People and problems she didn’t understand.

She sniffed the smoky air and stepped back from Mr. Faust.

The world didn’t frighten her—at least, not as much as her fear of how she would survive if she were thrown into it. The untamed wilder¬ness was not her friend. She belonged in her neat kitchen, managing her assistants, feeding her people. In her world, she could ward off dan¬ger with her tongue.

“Amalie!” Mr. Faust demanded, and she snapped back to him. She would have reprimanded him for the use of her given name, but his hazel eyes had turned as dark as the night sky, piercing her with their intensity. It wasn’t the time to confront him or dwell on her fears about the world. It was time to stop the danger here from infecting all of them.

“I need you to take charge,” he said.

Instead of waiting to give commands to Brother John or Niklas or one of the other men, he steered his horse toward the fire and rode off.

Amalie patted the ox beside her one more time, trying to assimi¬late her scattered thoughts. She had no problem being in charge, but she wasn’t sure how the men would respond to her. Though if Mr. Faust were able to ride toward the danger instead of away from it, she supposed she could organize the group as well as any of the men on this journey.

Karoline nudged her arm. “What can I do?”

She took a deep breath. “Go get the men at the back of the train and bring them here.”

As Karoline scurried off, Amalie turned to the wagon in front of her. “Brother Niklas!” she shouted. “Brother John!”

Twenty-two-year-old Niklas Keller and his father rushed to her side.

Niklas rubbed his hands together. His eyes were on the black smoke funneling into the sky, his voice passionate. “Someone needs our help.”

She shook her head. “Mr. Faust said there might be danger.”

He skimmed the forest line and glanced at the wagons behind them. “I see no danger.”

“He said we should group together and wait for him.”

Niklas leaned back against the rear of the wagon. The elders had put Mr. Faust in authority over them for this trip. If he said to wait, they would all wait. But the minutes crept past and Mr. Faust didn’t return.

A low rumble echoed through the tangled forest on the left side of their train, like the roar of hooves in a stampede. Amalie squinted into the shadows of the foliage and shuddered.

Maybe it was a stampede.

The men and Karoline thronged around Amalie’s wagon. Peace filled each of their eyes, a peace that passed understanding, and she wondered if she was the only one whose heart raced.

“We will pray,” Brother John announced, and he began petitioning their Lord for wisdom and for His hand of protection.

The roar drew closer, and her heart beat even faster.

What were they supposed to do? Christian Metz spoke regular tes¬timonies to them in Ebenezer, inspired words from the Spirit to give them direction, but Brother Metz wasn’t with them on this journey.

She glanced up at the sky, as if God would write His direction for them in the clouds, but God was silent for the moment. A gunshot blasted through the trees, the sound echoing around them. She looked into the faces surrounding her. Fear flickered in some of their eyes. Questions. Several of the men had shotguns to hunt game, but they would never use a gun on their fellow man. They had only one choice.

Amalie steadied her voice, pointing toward the trees. “We need to run. Hide.”

A second shot rang out and the people around her didn’t hesitate this time. Karoline vanished into the forest along with most of the men standing around Amalie.

She looked at her wagon one last time, at the pots and kettles she’d spent hours cleaning and polishing and preparing for this trip. Kettles that were supposed to feed her brothers and sisters in the new kitchen.

Niklas pressed his hand on her shoulder. “Run, Amalie.”

She looked back at the wagon one last time. And then she ran.

Canary Island Song - Chapter 1

2011-07-24T22:46:00.001-04:00

Canary Island Song Howard Books; Original edition (July 5, 2011) by Robin Jones Gunn

Chapter 1

“Dime con quién andas y te diré quién eres.”

“Tell me with whom you walk, and I will tell you who you are.”
The wedding coordinator calmly placed her hand on Carolyn’s back and whispered, “Not yet. Wait for your song.”

Carolyn lowered her chin and listened. All the planning, all the stress, all the tiffs with her twin sister fell away. She drew in a grateful breath and listened. This was it. The long-awaited moment had arrived.

Self-consciously fingering the nape of her neck, Carolyn checked to make sure her coffee-colored hair still complied with the hairpins holding her French twist in place. All was as it should be. She was ready—more than ready—for this day and all the changes it would bring.

The airy-fairy harp music that had subdued the guests as they were being seated came to a resonating pause. From the balcony the first decisive notes of “Air” from Handel’s Water
Music flitted about the cavernous space of the beautiful, landmark San Francisco church.

“Okay, this is it.” The wedding coordinator nudged Carolyn forward. “This is your song.”
Carolyn squared her bare shoulders. Inwardly she corrected the wedding coordinator. No, this is not my song. This is my sister’s song.

Leading with her left foot, Carolyn trekked down the white runner, keeping pace with the song Marilyn had insisted be used as the processional music. The seventy-five guests, who were gathered in the first twelve rows, turned their heads. Carolyn was aware of their gaze as she made her way forward in her tight-fitting satin dress.

Larry, the perspiring groom, stood by the altar with his hands firmly clasped and his quivering smile fixed in place. Carolyn gave her soon-to-be brother-in-law a confidence-boosting grin, and he responded with a nod of acknowledgment.

From the end of the second row, Carolyn’s twenty-three-year- old daughter, Tikki, leaned out into the aisle with her camera ready. She gave her mom a wink and snapped a picture.
Carolyn smiled back and noticed that Tikki’s boyfriend wasn’t with her. Where’s Matthew? Why isn’t he here?

A familiar ache and longing came over Carolyn as she thought of Jeff. He should be here today too. But he was gone. The weighted memories of Jeff’s death threatened to take Carolyn into a deep, dark place. She refused to go there. Not today.

Casting aside all thoughts except the ones essential for the moment, Carolyn took the next few steps slowly and reverently. She found her masking tape mark on the burgundy carpet. She pivoted toward the congregation just in time to see Marilyn’s two teenage daughters making their way down the aisle in their bubble-gum pink bridesmaid’s dresses. Once again Carolyn was aware that her forty-five-year-old figure didn’t pull off the ensemble the way her nieces’ adolescent bodies did. But this was Marilyn’s day, and all the choices were hers, as they should be.

The Water Music faded. The organist took her cue and played the familiar bridal march as Marilyn came into view. Her sequined wedding gown caught the light and shimmered. Marilyn promenaded down the aisle, every inch the stunning bride she had worked so hard to be.

The congregation came to their feet and turned toward the bride. With a full-lipped smile, Marilyn came forward beaming. She placed her hand in Larry’s and proceeded to the altar.

As the vows were recited, Carolyn bit the inside of her cheek. She couldn’t stop thinking about Jeff. During the exchange of rings, she curled and uncurled her toes. When the soloist sang out from the balcony in clear soprano notes that pierced the air, Carolyn blinked back the tears and swallowed several times in quick succession. Larry and Marilyn kissed, and the organist played the recessional march, going after the keys and foot pedals with gusto as the newlyweds stepped forward into their life together.

Carolyn took the arm of her assigned groomsman and proceeded down the aisle with the broadest smile she could muster. Her heart was pounding fiercely, and her throat was tightening. She pushed against the intense feelings with well-disciplined determination and reminded herself that this was a celebration.

Marilyn and Larry had stepped to the side, where they posed for the photographer. Carolyn wanted to slip away to the hidden refuge of the restroom so she could give way to the tears that kept rising up in her with such a bittersweet persistence. But she wasn’t allowed the luxury. The photographer’s assistant directed Carolyn to take her place beside her sister, lean in close, and lift her bouquet up to her chin.

With a resolve that had grown in her spirit over the past seven years, Carolyn folded her private grief the way her mother used to fold her valued linen tablecloth. All the corners matched neatly. All the wrinkles were smoothed away. Then, in the same way that her mother would place the tablecloth into her bottom dresser drawer, Carolyn tucked her personal pain back inside where no one would see it. She smiled for the photos and whispered to her sister, “I’m so happy for you. You look radiant, Marilyn.”

Marilyn turned to her and lowered her chin. “How’s my eye makeup? Did I smear it?”

“No. You look good.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Would you mind clearing out things from the bridal room before you leave for the reception? And bring my purse, will you? We’re going to dash for the limo now before everyone comes out.”

“Sure.” Carolyn trotted down the hall in her not-so comfortable shoes, ready to dutifully fulfill another errand for her twin. This was good. As long as she was busy, she felt balanced.
Using a trash bag as a catchall, Carolyn cleared their belongings from the bridal room. She was just gathering up the last sweater and a pair of her niece’s flip-flops when Tikki appeared.
“I thought I’d find you here.” Slim, vivacious Tikki looked around the room. “Do you need help with anything?”

“No, I’m done. I just need to put this in my car and head for the reception. Remind me to take Marilyn’s purse in with me when we reach the restaurant.”

Tikki took the trash bag from her mom. “Just think, you won’t be cleaning up after the little princesses anymore.”

“Tikki, be kind. They’re your cousins.”

“I know. I’m just saying that, when Aunt Marilyn returns from her honeymoon, they’ll all move into Larry’s town house, and you’ll have your home to yourself finally after . . . how many years?”

“They moved in about six years ago.”

Tikki opened her hazel eyes wide in response to her mother’s reply. “Has it been that long?”

Carolyn noticed the way the thin February sunlight coming through the thick-paned window rested a moment on Tikki’s face, touching her eyes with flecks of amber. Years ago, on a golden beach far away, Carolyn had been told that her hazel eyes did the same thing—they captured the sunlight and “were sprinkled with gold dust.”

With a gathering boldness in her voice, Carolyn said, “We are Women of the Canaries. And Women of the Canaries stick together.”

Tikki laughed. “Now you sound like your mom or Aunt Frieda.”

“Well, it’s true. I was there for Marilyn when she needed me, and one day, if I ever need her assistance and support, she’ll be there for me.”

Tikki gave her mom a skeptical glance and flipped her long brown hair over her shoulder. She gripped the trash bag and linked her arm through Carolyn’s. “I wish your mom could have come today. I know it’s a long way from the Canary Islands, but it felt as if someone were missing without her here. When it was time for Aunt Marilyn to come down the aisle, it didn’t feel right seeing Aunt Frieda stand instead of Abuela Teresa.”

Carolyn was glad Tikki felt that way. She was also glad that Tikki still referred to her grandmother by her Spanish title of “Abuela Teresa,” complete with the proper accents. It had been
more than three years since Abuela’s last visit to California. She had planned to come to the wedding up until a week ago, when a virus got the best of her and settled in her ears. Her trusted doctor in the Canary Islands advised her not to fly because her eardrums might burst.

“I wish she had been able to come too. I really miss her.” Carolyn tried to make a smooth transition to her next comment. “What about Matthew? I was looking forward to seeing him today too.”

Tikki pulled her arm out of her mother’s and put a significant amount of muscle into opening the door that led to the church parking lot. “He had to work. He tried to get off, but it turned into a mess. I told him I understood, but now I’m not feeling quite so understanding. I wish he were here.”

As they drove across the Golden Gate Bridge on their way to the reception in Sausalito, Carolyn found it difficult not to ask questions about Matthew. Tikki’s relationship with Matthew had seemed strong for so long. Carolyn adored the twenty-five year- old self-starter and had thought, from their first date more than two years ago, that he was an ideal match for her only daughter. Tikki chatted about her job the whole way. Thoughts of Matthew and Jeff were neatly put aside. This was a good thing.

Carolyn turned into the parking lot of Sadie’s Garden Restaurant and walked toward the awning-covered front door.

Tikki asked, “Has this been hard for you, Mom, watching your sister get married?”

“No, of course not. I’m happy for Marilyn. Why? Am I coming across differently?”

“No, you’re coming across as your normal gracious self. It’s just that she’s married now, and I know you’re a strong woman, like Aunt Frieda always says. But I wondered if it was hard on you, or if you’re eager to move on. Because it seems to me you’re in the perfect place to make a fresh start. With Marilyn and the girls out of your house, you can focus on your own life and future instead of theirs.”

Carolyn felt her defenses rise. She would be the first to admit she had spent the past few years conveniently hiding behind her twin sister’s slightly chaotic life. It was a large enough life to hide behind. But Carolyn could admit that truthful fault only to herself. She didn’t want to discuss it with Tikki or anyone else.

They were almost to the restaurant’s door when Tikki stopped and placed her hand on Carolyn’s arm. “Mom, I hope you’re not taking any of this the wrong way. All I’m saying is that it’s time for you to get a life. Your own life.”

Tikki opened the door and entered the restaurant, leaving Carolyn alone with the uncomfortable implications of her daughter’s brashly delivered insight. Keeping her expression fixed, Carolyn entered Sadie’s Garden and made her way to the reception being held in the expansive, covered, back patio area. The walk through the restaurant allowed her time to regain her composure after Tikki’s pointed comments. She knew her daughter’s motivation was born of kindness, even if her tact was a bit undeveloped.

The wedding reception was in full swing as the two of them entered the area reserved for their private party. Carolyn smiled when she saw the beautifully decorated patio.

Everything had turned out even lovelier than she had imagined. Marilyn had left all the details of the reception to Carolyn, explaining to anyone who asked that parties weren’t her thing and that her sister had much better instincts when it came to decorating.

Carolyn had enjoyed the assignment. She had assembled a binder, complete with garden party pictures from magazines and oodles of printed-out ideas she had found online. The patio was garnished with enormous hanging baskets of white flowers. Cutout white lanterns hung from every pillar, sending out firefly twinkles as the sun set. Space heaters warmed the enclosed area on this cool February afternoon, and the cushioned chairs around the elegantly set tables invited guests to sit, relax, and enjoy.

“Wow! This is beautiful,” Tikki said. “You did this, didn’t you, Mom? You helped Aunt Marilyn pull this together.”

“I did. It was fun to work on. Marilyn wanted an enchanting ‘fireflies and fairy-tale’ reception. So what do you think? Did I capture it?”

“I think you captured it perfectly. You could do this for a living, Mom. You’re a natural.”

“Thanks.” All her earlier frustrations toward Tikki and her “get a life” comment dissolved.

Joining other guests in the buffet line, Carolyn and Tikki leisurely helped themselves to the assortment of appetizers artistically arranged on fluted seashell serving platters. Happy conversations started up as Marilyn flitted from table to table with her much more relaxed groom in tow.

Spotting Carolyn and Tikki, Marilyn made a beeline for them. Carolyn anticipated hearing her sister rave about the decorations and how everything had turned out. Instead, Marilyn said, “I’m having a lipstick crisis here. My lips are so dry they’re cracking. And I need a breath mint something terrible. Where’s my purse? You didn’t forget it, I hope.”

“No. It’s in the car. I’ll get it.”

“I’ll go, Mom.” Tikki gave Marilyn a smile before dashing off. “Don’t you think my mom did a great job with the decorations?”

“Of course she did a great job. She always does.” A tinge of adolescent envy clung to Marilyn’s words. Turning to Carolyn, her expression softened and she added, “It’s exactly what I wanted. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Can you do one more favor for me?”

“Sure. What do you need?”

“When Tikki comes back, would you put my purse over by the cake table? We’re going to have our first dance and then cut the cake. They’re ready for us to cut the cake now, but I don’t want another picture taken until after I reapply my lipstick.”

Marilyn became the center of attention as she and Larry hit the dance floor. This was their debut performance after an eight-lesson crash course in ballroom dancing. The guests gathered around as the newlyweds swayed to their song, “Let It Be Me.” Carolyn knew that Larry wanted to go with the original version recorded by the Everly Brothers, but Marilyn’s preference prevailed. And here they were, dancing to David Hasselhoff crooning the lyrics.

The song concluded, and Marilyn led Larry by the hand to the cake table. Carolyn had everything ready—the purse, the lipstick, the breath mints. Tikki stood beside her, snapping pictures as the couple linked arms to sip their toast and politely offer each other their first bite of wedding cake.

The DJ turned up the volume, and the bass tones caused tiny ripples in the water in the crystal goblets around the table. Marilyn raised both arms in the air like an Olympic champion and pointed. Her gesture seemed to be a universally understood indication that the dance floor was now open for everyone to join in the fun.

Tikki was among the first to take Marilyn up on the invitation. Carolyn returned to her place at a table where she unstrapped the narrow band on her high heels and tucked her bare feet under the long white tablecloth. It felt good to wiggle her toes and stretch her arches. Her days of traipsing around in stylish but agonizing shoes had come to an end. Her duties for her sister were about to come to an end too. Carolyn drew in a deep breath.

Aunt Frieda came toward her carrying a piece of cake. Before taking her seat, she tilted her head at Carolyn and said, “I don’t know if anyone else has mentioned this to you, Carolina, but you should know that that shade of pink you’re wearing is not your best color.”

“I would agree, Aunt Frieda. It’s not my best color.”

“You look like you’re wearing undergarments.”

“I am wearing undergarments.”

“No, I mean the dress looks like an undergarment. If you didn’t have such nice legs, that outfit would be a complete disaster.”

“Thank you, Aunt Frieda. I’ll take that as a compliment.” Carolyn had a special place in her heart for her orange-haired aunt. Frieda insisted her stylist had done her a favor years ago by “coaxing out her inner redhead.” She refused to believe the shade was more on the orange side than the red side of the color spectrum. She also refused to believe that the quips that came out of her mouth were often more on the offensive side than the helpful side. Aunt Frieda was always herself and Carolyn liked her. Very much.

“Aunt Frieda, I’m surprised you’re not out there dancing your little heart out with Tikki and Marilyn’s girls.”

“I’m waiting for them to play the real music. Then I will show you what real dancing looks like.” Frieda lifted her arms over her head and snapped her fingers as if she were clacking a pair of castanets.

“I don’t think Marilyn requested that the DJ play any flamenco music.”

“No? Such a pity. You know, if it were not for the obvious fact that the two of you are identical twins, I would think Marilyn was your sister from another mister. You have the heart of a
Woman of the Canaries, but Marilyn . . .” Frieda gave her wrist a dismissive flip in the air.

“She’s not been there yet. She didn’t have the same advantage I did.”

“That was her choice. You know she could have gone with you and your mother the summer you were eighteen, but she refused. Refused! What teenage daughter would refuse the gift of such a trip? There is nothing of the Canaries in her spirit. But you! You are the favorite. You always have been.”

Carolyn never enjoyed being compared with Marilyn, even if she was the one coming out ahead. Even so, she offered a faint smile of appreciation for the compliment.

“Now, dígame, tell me,” Frieda said. “What do you have to say of your romantic interests?” She leaned back, poised to receive all the pertinent details, her eyes fixed. She reminded Carolyn of a cat sitting in front of a fishbowl, swishing its tail, waiting for just the right moment to make its move.

Shadows on the Sand - Chapter 1

2011-07-19T23:15:00.001-04:00

Shadows on the Sand Multnomah Books (July 19, 2011) by Gayle Roper

Chapter 1

“So Bill punched him in the nose, Carrie!” Andi Meuller swung an arm to demonstrate and nearly clipped me. “He was wonderful!”

I leaned back and held up a hand for protection. “Easy, kiddo.” I smiled at the girl and her enthusiasm.

Andi giggled like the smitten sixteen-year-old she was. “Sorry.”

“Mmm.” I rested my elbows on the pink marble counter that ran along one wall of Carrie’s Café, located two blocks from the boardwalk in the center of Seaside, New Jersey. I was the Carrie of the café’s name, and Andi was one of my servers, in fact my only server at the moment. She’d been with me almost two months now, taking up the slack when the summer kids left to go back to college or on to real jobs.

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “On Saturday night Bill, who is your true soul mate, punched Jase, our Jase, for paying too much attention to you at a party.” I didn’t think my voice was too wry, but soul mates at sixteen made me both cynical and scared, teen hormones being what they were.

Andi just grinned with delight of the even-mentioning-his-name-gives-me-the-vapors kind and nodded as she sat on a stool at the counter. “Isn’t it romantic?”

I was hearing this tale today, Monday, because now that the season was over, Carrie’s was closed on Sunday. My staff and I had earned our day of rest over a very busy and marginally profitable summer. We might be able to stay open for another year if nothing awful happened, like the roof leaking or the dishwasher breaking.

Listening to Andi made me feel ancient. I was only thirty-three, but had I ever been as young as she? Given the trauma of my growing-up years, I probably hadn’t. I was glad that whatever her history, and there was a history, she could giggle.

“How do you expect to continue working with Jase after this encounter?” I was very interested in her answer. Jase was one of three part-time dishwashers at the café. All three were students at the local community college and set their schedules around classes. Jase worked Tuesdays and Saturdays from six in the morning until three, and the last thing I wanted was contention in the kitchen between Andi and him.

Andi looked confused. “Why should I have trouble with Jase? I didn’t punch him. Besides he an old—” She cut herself off.

I opened my mouth to pursue her half thought when the door of the café opened, and Greg Barnes walked in, all scruffy good looks and shadowed eyes. His black hair was mussed as if he hadn’t combed it, and he had a two-day stubble. He should have looked grubby, but somehow he didn’t. He looked wonderful.

All thoughts of Bill and Jase fled as my heart did the little stuttery Snoopy dance it always did at the sight of Greg. Before he could read anything in my face, assuming he noticed me as someone other than the person who fed him, I looked down at the basket of fresh-from-the-oven cinnamon swirl muffins I was arranging.

Andi glanced from me to him and, much too quick and clever, smiled with a knowing look. I held my breath. She wasn’t long on tact, and the last thing I wanted was for her to make some leading remark. I felt I could breathe again when all she did was wink at me. Safe for the moment at least.

Greg came to the counter and slid onto his favorite stool, empty now that the receding flood of summer tourists left it high and dry this third week in October, a vinyl covered Ararat post deluge.

“The usual?” I asked, my voice oh-so-casual.

He gave a nod, barely glancing my way, and opened his copy of The Philadelphia Inquirer. The Press of Atlantic City waited.

I turned to place his order, but there was no need. Lindsay, my sister, partner, and the café’s baker, had been listening to Andi’s story through the serving window. She waved her acknowledgment before I said a word. She passed the order to Ricky, our short-order cook who had stayed with us longer than I expected, long enough that he had become almost as much an asset to Carrie’s as Lindsay was.

My sister gave me a sly smile, then called, “Hi, Greg.”

He looked up from his paper and gave Lindsay a very nice smile, far nicer than he ever gave me.

“The sticky buns are all gone,” he said in mild accusation, nodding toward the glass case where we kept Lindsay’s masterpieces.

She grinned. “Sorry. You’ve got to get here earlier.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Or you could make more.”

“I’ll take the suggestion under advisement,” she said agreeably.

“Haven’t you heard the adage about making your customers happy?”

“Yeah. So?”

He laughed and turned a page in the paper. I brought him a glass of OJ and a cup of my special blend.

“How’re you doing?” I asked, just as I did every morning.

He gave me a vague smile. “Fine.” Just as he said every morning.

But he wasn’t. Oh, he was better than, say, a year ago, definitely better than two years ago, but he wasn’t well. Even three years after the tragedy that had altered his life, he was far from his self-proclaimed fine. If you looked closely—as I did—you could see the strain never completely left his eyes, and the purple stains under them were too deep and dark, a sure sign that a good night’s sleep was still little more than a vague memory for him.

But he was sober. More than two years and counting.

“Keep talking, Andi,” Lindsay said as Ricky beat Greg’s eggs and inserted his wheat bread in the toaster. “This is better than reality TV. It’s really real.” She walked out of the kitchen into the café proper. “Bill bopped Jase,” she prompted.

“Our Jase,” I clarified.

Greg looked up. “Your dishwasher?”

I nodded.

“Hmm.” And he went back to his paper.

“And Jase went down for the count.” Andi’s chest swelled with pride at her beloved’s prowess.

I flinched. “Don’t you think knocking a guy out for talking to you is a bit much?”

Andi thought for almost half a second, then shook her head. “It wasn’t for just Saturday. He knows Jase and I work together, and he was staking his claim.”

I’d seen Jase and Andi talking in the kitchen, but there never seemed to be any romantic overtones. “Jase is a nice guy and a good worker. I don’t want to lose him because of your boyfriend.”

“He is and I don’t want him to go either,” Andi agreed. “I like talking to him.”

“Me too.” Lindsay rested an elbow on the counter and propped her chin in her palm. “I think he’s sad.”

“What do you mean, sad?” But I’d sensed he was weighed down with something too.

“He’s funny and open most of the time,” Lindsay said, “but sometimes when no one’s talking to him, I see this look of sorrow on his face.”

I nodded. “All the more reason to hate that he got punched.”

“Yeah.” Lindsay got a dreamy look in her dark brown eyes. “But there’s something about a guy defending you, even if what he’s defending you from isn’t really a threat.” She sighed.

“Lindsay!” I was appalled. “Get a grip.” Though if Greg ever wanted to defend me, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t mind. Of course, that presupposed he’d notice I was in trouble. I glanced at him bent over his paper. Not likely to happen. I bit back a sigh.

“Tell me, Andi. Does Bill plan to punch out any male who talks to you?”

“Come on, Carrie,” Andi said. “Don’t be mad at Bill. You know how guys can be when they’ve had a few beers.”

I did know how guys could be, beers or no beers. “What were you doing at a party where there was drinking?”

She became all prim and prissy. “I did not drink.”

“I should hope not, but you shouldn’t have been there.” Good grief. I was sounding more and more like her mother—or how her mother would have sounded if she weren’t missing in action somewhere. Part of that history I didn’t know.

“Order up,” Ricky announced as he walked to the pass-through. “The food is never better than when I plate it.”

You’d have thought he was Emeril or Wolfgang Puck or one of Paula Dean’s sons, not a stopgap cook who couldn’t find any other job after graduating from college with a psychology degree and who stayed around because he had a crush on the baker.

I served Greg’s scrambled eggs and wheat toast. He accepted them with a nod and a grunt.

“So what happened to Jase?” I asked Andi. I found myself hoping Bill had bruised a knuckle or two in his violence, though I was pretty sure it meant I was a terrible person too. I didn’t wish for a broken hand or anything that extreme, just something to remind him that punching wasn’t the way to handle a perceived rival.

Andi waved her hand vaguely. “Bill and a buddy carried Jase to his car. They only dropped him once.”

I imagined the thunk of poor Jase’s head hitting the ground and flinched in sympathy. No such thought bothered Andi. She was too busy being thrilled by Bill who rode in like her shining knight, laying waste to the enemy with knuckles instead of the more traditional lance.

“How much older than you is Bill?” Lindsay asked.

Good question, Linds.

Andi studied the cuticle of her index finger. “He’s nineteen.”

Lindsay and I exchanged a glance. Those three years from sixteen to nineteen were huge.

I couldn’t keep quiet. “So he shouldn’t have been drinking at this party either.”

Andi slid off her stool. If looks killed, Lindsay’d be sprinkling my ashes in the ocean tomorrow morning.

“What does Clooney think of you and Bill?” Lindsay asked. Clooney was Andi’s great-uncle, and she lived with him.

Andi cleared her throat. “We don’t talk about Bill.”

“Does he know about Bill?” Lindsay’s concern was obvious.

Andi stared through long bangs that hung over her hazel eyes. The silky hair sometimes caught in her lashes in a way that made me blink but didn’t seem to bother her. “Of course Clooney knows. Do you think I’d keep a secret from him?”

“I didn’t think you would.” Lindsay smiled. “I’m glad to know I was right.”

So was I. Sixteen could go in so many different directions, and I’d hate for this pixie to make wrong choices—or more wrong choices.

“Is he going to college?” I asked. “Bill?”

“He was, but not now.” Her fingernail became even more absorbing. “He dropped out of Rutgers at the end of his freshman year.”

Uh-oh. Dropped out or failed out? “Does he plan to go back? Try again?”

She shrugged. “He doesn’t know. Right now he’s happy just being. And going to parties. And taking me.” By the time she was finished, she was bouncing at the excitement of it all, her strawberry blond ponytail leaping about her shoulders.

Greg looked up from his newspaper. “So this guy took you, a very underage girl, to a party where there was lots of drinking?”

Andi looked at him, eyes wide, acting as if he’d missed the whole point of her story. “Don’t worry about me, Mr. Barnes. Or any of you.” She included Lindsay and me with a nod of her head. “I can handle any problems that might develop at a party. Believe me, I’ve dealt with far worse.”

“Really?” I was intrigued. I’d stared down plenty of problems in my time too, and I wondered how her stare downs compared to mine.

She grinned and waved a hand as if she were wiping away her momentary seriousness. “But I’d rather talk about how great Bill is.”

“So how great is he?” Lindsay asked. “Tell me all.” At twenty-seven, she was an incurable romantic. I wasn’t sure how this had come to pass since she had every reason to be as cynical as I, but there you are.

I frowned at her. “Stop encouraging the girl.”

Lindsay just grinned.

I looked at Andi’s happy face and had to smile too. “So what’s this wonderful guy doing if he’s not in school?” Besides being and partying.

“Uh, you mean like a job or something?”

“Yeah.” Lindsay and I exchanged another glance. Greg looked up again at Andi’s reluctant tone.

“Well, he was a lifeguard over the summer. He’s got this fabulous tan, and it makes him so handsome.”

Soul mate stuff if I ever heard it. I half expected her to swoon like a nineteenth-century Southern belle with her stays laced too tightly. “What about now? Post season?”

“And he was the quarterback on the high school football team two years ago when they won the state championship.”

“Very impressive. What about now?”

“He was named Most Valuable Player.”

“Even more impressive. What about now?”

She began making sure the little stacks of sugar and sweetener packets in the holders on the counter were straight. “Right now he’s just trying to figure it all out.”

Being. Figuring. And punching guys out while he thought. “You mean he’s trying to decide what he wants to be when he grows up?”

She glared at me. In her mind he was grown up. She turned her back with a little sniff and went to clean off a dirty table.

Lindsay swallowed a laugh. “Your sarcastic streak is showing, Carrie.”

Mr. Perkins, another regular at Carrie’s Cafè and at eighty in better health than the rest of us put together, rapped his cup on the pink marble counter. He’d been sitting for several minutes with his eyes wide behind his glasses as he listened to Andi.

“No daughter of mine that age would ever have gone to a party where there was drinking,” he said. “It’s just flat out wrong.”

Since I agreed, I didn’t mention that he was a lifelong bachelor and had no daughters.

He rapped his cup again.

“Refill?” I asked, not because I didn’t know the answer, but because the old man liked to think he was calling the shots.

He nodded. “Regular too. None of that wimpy decaf. I got to keep my blood flowing, keep it pumping.”

I smiled with affection as I topped off his cup. He gave the same line every day. “Mr. Perkins, you have more energy than people half your age.”

He pointed his dripping spoon at me. “And don’t you forget it.”

“Watch it,” I said in a mock scold. “You’re getting coffee all over my counter.”

“And a fine counter it is.” He patted the pink-veined marble slab. It was way too classy and way too pricey for a place like the café. “Did I ever tell you that I remember when it was the registration counter at Seaside’s Grand Hotel? And let me tell you, it was a Grand Hotel in every sense of the word. People used to come from as far as Pittsburgh, even the president of U.S. Steel. Too bad it burned down. The hotel, not U.S. Steel.”

“Too bad,” I agreed. And yes, he’d told us the story many times.

“It was in 1943,” he said with a faraway look in his eyes. “I was thirteen.” He blinked back to the present. “It was during World War II, you know, and people said it was sabotage. Not that I ever believed that. I mean, why would the Germans burn down a resort hotel? But I’ll tell you, my father, who was an air-raid warden, about had a seizure.”

“I bet he was convinced that the flames, visible for miles up and down the coast, would bring the German subs patrolling offshore right up on our beaches,” Lindsay said with a straight face. “They might have attacked us.”

I glared at her as she repeated word for word Mr. Perkins’s line from the story. She winked unrepentantly.

Mr. Perkins nodded, delighted she was listening. “People kept their curtains drawn at night, and even the boardwalk was blacked out for the duration, the lights all covered except for the tiniest slit on the land side, so the flames from the fire seemed extra bright. All that wood, you know. Voom!” He threw his hands up in the air.

Lindsay and I shook our heads at the imagined devastation, and I thought I saw Greg’s lips twitch. He’d heard the story almost as many times as we had.

Mr. Perkins stirred his coffee. “After the war some investor bought the property.”

“I bet all that remained of the Grand was the little corner where the pink marble registration counter sat.” Lindsay pointed where I leaned. “That counter.”

Again she spoke his line with a straight face, and this time Greg definitely bit back a grin.

Mr. Perkins added another pink packet to his coffee. “That’s right. The buyer decided to open a restaurant around the counter and build a smaller, more practical hotel on the rest of the property.”

Even that hotel was gone now, replaced many years ago by private homes rented each summer to pay the exorbitant taxes on resort property.

I walked to Greg with my coffeepot. “Refill?”

He slid his mug in my direction, eyes never leaving his paper.

Be still my heart.

Falls Like Lightning

2011-07-17T21:59:00.000-04:00

Falls Like Lightning Bethany House (July 1, 2011) by Shawn Grady

Falls Like Lightning

Pattern of Wounds - Chapter 1

2011-07-12T22:45:00.000-04:00

Pattern of Wounds Bethany House (July 1, 2011) by J. Mark Bertrand

Pattern of Wounds

Vigilante - Chapter 1

2011-07-10T10:36:00.000-04:00

Vigilante Bethany House (July 1, 2011) by Robin Parrish

Vigilante

Veiled Rose by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

2011-07-05T23:07:00.000-04:00

Veiled Rose Bethany House (July 1, 2011) by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

Veiled Rose

Lion of Babylon by Davis Bunn

2011-07-03T22:46:00.000-04:00

Lion of Babylon Bethany House (July 1, 2011) by Davis Bunn

Lion of Babylon

The Protector - Excerpt

2011-06-28T22:34:00.001-04:00

The Protector Avon Inspire; Original edition (June 28, 2011) by Shelley Shepard Gray

Prologue

Nine years ago

“Come on, Ella,” Corrine said, grabbing her mitten-covered hand. “If you walk much slower, we’re going to be the last to arrive.”

“That wouldn’t be a bad thing,” Ella murmured, though she clasped Corinne’s hand and obediently followed her friend down the rocky incline toward Loyal Weaver’s house. “Maybe we don’t even need to go?”

Corrine looked at her like she’d just sprouted two heads. “Of course we do! Loyal invited everyone over for his birthday. It would be rude not to show up.”

Ella pushed the center of her glasses back up on the bridge of her nose and picked up her pace. “Do you really think he meant everyone?” she asked uncertainly. “Maybe he didn’t really mean that.”

After all, through all their years together in school, Loyal had never gone out of his way to be her friend. “Of course he did.” Corrine squeezed her hand. “Come on, Ella, don’t be so worried. It will be fun. You need to relax and smile more.”

The Weavers’ house was now in view, its white twostory frame looking tall and majestic on the hill in front of them. Scattered across the snowy front lawn were dozens of kids. It looked like Corrine had been exactly right. No one from their school had decided to miss the party.

But that was how it was with Loyal Weaver, she mused. He was the most handsome boy in her grade—maybe even in their school. But what was even more special than his looks was his attitude. Loyal was perpetually happy and chatty. He befriended everyone. It was rare to see him ever standing by himself.

Unlike her.

That had to be what happened when you were an only child, Ella mused. Her parents were naturally reticent and quiet. She was, too. But added to that was the feeling that she was never going to completely fit in like everyone else did. She wasn’t super slim. She had glasses. And she had plain-old brown hair and brown eyes. In short, she was the complete opposite of smiling, golden-haired, blue-eyed Loyal Weaver.

Perhaps that was why she seemed to be the only person in their schoolhouse who didn’t jump at the opportunity to visit him. They had nothing to say to each other.

“Oh, there’s Paul! And Mattie! And Peter, too.” Dropping Ella’s hand, Corrine quickened her pace. “Do you think Peter will want to talk to me today?”

“I’m sure he will.” Corrine was pretty and sweet and had her own share of admirers. Ella smiled. “I bet he’ll walk up to you first thing.”

“Maybe.” Raising her voice, she called out, “Hi, everyone. Sorry we’re late. Have we missed much?”

Mattie ran up to meet them, followed by Peter and Loyal and four others.

“All you’ve missed is Mrs. Weaver passing out hot cider and cookies.”

“Oh, I’m sorry about that,” Corrine smiled at Loyal. “Your mamm is a wonderful-gut cook.”

“There’s plenty of treats inside, Corrine,” Loyal said. “Go on inside and help yourself.” He grinned. “But first, I’m afraid you’re gonna have to get by Peter. He’s been standing here like an oak, waiting for you to appear.”

The other kids laughed. Beside her Corrine blushed, then was wrapped up in the circle of the group, everyone walking in unison to the house.

Ella slowed. Not a person had acknowledged her. Or said hello. Or was even waiting on her. As usual, it was like she’d never even existed.

Suddenly, she knew she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t walk into the Weaver’s home and sip cider and pretend everyone there wasn’t ignoring her. She didn’t want to stand off to the side, smiling awkwardly, hoping no one would notice how she didn’t have her own group of friends.

But most of all, she didn’t want to look at Loyal Weaver and chance that he’d see her watching him. Thinking how cute he was, how lucky the girl he chose to court would be. Even after all this time, it didn’t even seem like he knew she existed.

She stopped, half waited for someone to call her name. Then, realized she was standing there by herself. Forgotten again.

There was only one thing to do. Ella Hostetler turned around and walked away.

Chapter 1

No matter how hard she tried, Ella Hostetler found it almost impossible to look away from the white canvas tent that covered the majority of her front yard.

She swallowed. Oh, it wasn’t even her yard anymore. It, along with the house, barn, and most of the possessions inside, belonged to other people.

Now she had practically nothing.

“Ella, please don’t stand and stare any longer. Watching you makes my heart break,” Corrine said, her voice turning more troubled by the second. “Ach, but I knew I should have made you come over to my house today.”

Corrine was a good friend. Her best friend in the world, next to Dorothy. But even good friends couldn’t make difficult things go away. “I had to be here,” Ella said. “Someone had to stay in case anyone bidding had a question.” She tried to smile. “And it’s not like there was anyone else to take my place.”

Pure dismay entered Corrine’s eyes. “Oh, but you’ve had such a time of it. First your father passed away, then you had to nurse your mother before she passed on, too— all while taking care of the house. All by yourself.”

“I am an only child, Corrine.”

“I know. But sometimes, I just feel so bad for you, having to sell everything.”

Privately, Ella felt bad for herself, too. But hearing the doom and gloom in her girlfriend’s voice pushed her to try to sound positive. “It will be a relief to not have so much to take care of,” Ella said, almost believing it to be true. “And the money earned today will guarantee my future.”

“Oh, Ella. You sound like you will never marry. You will.”

“Maybe. Or maybe not. Perhaps I’ll just be like Dorothy. She seems to be doing fine on her own.”

Something flickered in her best friend’s eyes. Was it distaste? Or distrust? “You are not like Dorothy. I’ve never met a crustier woman.”

“She’s not so bad.”

“She’s difficult and bitter. I wish you could have found a different person to move next to.”

“The other half of her duplex was empty. Plus, she’s excited for me to live there. We’re going to work together at the library, you know.”

“I know.” Corrine pursed her lips. “I just can’t help but feel that you’re about to lock yourself away from everyone all over again, Ella. You should be making plans to see more people. To laugh a little. Not work and live next to Dorothy Zook.”

A burst of the auctioneer’s gavel sang through the air, preventing Ella from responding.

Casting another worried look her way, Corrine looped her arm through Ella’s and pulled. “Come on. Let’s go sit down.”

Though Ella let herself be led away from the crowd, she couldn’t help but look over her shoulder. She could feel the knot in her throat expanding, making it almost too hard to continue talking. “I . . . had no idea I had so many things.”

“We all have more than we need, jah?”

Ella flinched. Corrine’s words were true . . . to a point. She’d known auctioning off her family’s farm would be difficult. But this was so much more than that.

First her land and the buildings on it had been bought. And now so many others were picking and choosing through what remained of her parents’ lives . . . putting a value on items that to her mother had been priceless.

Her feet slowed as she again couldn’t resist looking over her shoulder. Against her will, tears sprang to her eyes as she watched the auctioneer point to her mother’s pie safe.

Corrine paused, too. Bit her lip as he called out a price. “Ella, what is important are the memories. That is what everyone says.”

Bridge to a Distant Star - Chapter 1

2011-06-26T21:54:00.001-04:00

Bridge to a Distant Star David C. Cook; New edition (June 1, 2011) by Carolyn Williford

Beginnings

A Friday morning in May 2009
The heavy fog moved toward him like fists pushing against the win¬dow. Using a frayed handkerchief, the solitary man reached up to wipe a mist-covered spot. Large, heavily muscled, he was an impos¬ing figure accustomed to giving orders, commanding men and ships at will. But as he leaned forward, squinting jet-black eyes to peer out into the gloom of that dawn, he was aware that there would be no submission from the fickle weather, no acquiescence to his hope for an easier route ahead. The toothpick he absentmindedly chewed switched from one side of his bushy-mustached mouth to the other. And then he slumped backward in frustration, sighing heavily. Captain Ray Luis was a great believer in signs and omens. In his estimation, this beastly morning was a harbinger of nothing good.

Though inside the pilothouse and out of the wretched weather, Captain Luis felt the dampness envelop him like a soggy blanket. Usually the view out the window toward the waves filled him with a sense of pride; holding the well-worn, smooth wheel of the ship in his calloused hands could still produce a thrill. But on that particular morning, none of the familiar pleasures would lift his spirits. In good weather, he would trust no other crew member to be at the helm for the formidable journey up the Tampa Bay channel; in this weather, the responsibility of the job weighed on him—and him alone—even more.
Intently peering through the fogged windows, Luis tried to esti¬mate the visibility ahead, shaking his head at his infernal bad luck. Reaching up to rub tired eyes and then scratch his chin, he felt the stubble of a three-day growth of beard. He’d taken all the necessary precautions before heading up the bay. Even so he reminded himself that his freighter, the Wilder Wanderer, was now without cargo and therefore significantly lighter; as a result, she would ride higher in the water, more at the mercy of wind and waves.

The bridge that worried him just ahead was the over five-mile¬long Sunshine Skyway, a marvel of engineering—and beauty—that spanned the bay from St. Petersburg to Bradenton. The golden cables, designed to gently arch upward, proclaimed the elegance of her design, beckoning all who passed over or beneath to savor the symmetry. But wise captains weren’t naive to her siren’s song; they knew her spell was merely a facade, and a dangerous one at that. Beneath the beauty lay treachery for the unwary.

The stark reality was this: Every ship’s captain faced a critical test of his skills by maneuvering through the passage, which measured 864 feet wide and 150 feet tall. On each side of the channel stood bridge piers made of steel and concrete; these structures supported the roadway above, providing a safe journey for people in the cars, trucks, and buses that crossed the bridge, going about their daily lives. All of them traveled blind to any potential emergency or dan¬ger from below. Unknowingly, they placed their trust not only in the worthiness of the superstructure itself, but also in the hands of every pilot who steered his ship under the bridge. Today their lives rested in the hands of Captain Luis.

Clutching the wheel of the Wild One—as he affectionately called the ship—Luis continued his search for the all-important buoys that marked the safe channel under the bridge. Any divergence from that channel was extremely dangerous; no captain wanted to entertain the possibility of that disaster. He felt his ship’s over two-hundred-foot¬long hull begin to pull slightly against his steering. He tensed his jaw in concentration and nudged the wheel more to the left.

When the thunder roared into the darkness, it caught Captain Luis off guard; his head jerked backward in unexpected alarm. The flash of lightning that immediately followed announced the storm was directly overhead. He cursed and then braced himself for the next assault that he feared was inevitable: a gust of fierce wind. It came just as he’d expected, forcing the ship directly into the path of the bridge’s supports.

Grabbing the intercom mike, he shouted for his man in charge at the bow of the ship. “Jaurez! How bad is it up there?”

The garbled voice of Jaurez answered almost immediately. “Captain, they ain’t no seeing in this!” Another crack of thunder with its accompanying lightning struck, and Jaurez mumbled under his breath. “Cursed channel! I swear it’s haunted! Couldn’t see a blessed thing before, and now it’s even worse. Want us t’ drop anchor and sit her out?” Jaurez and four other men were huddled beneath heavy slickers.

“No! Can’t take the chance of being pushed into those piers.” All the captain’s past experience came into play, and he made a quick decision.
“I’m cutting her speed to five miles per hour. Gives us a chance to see where we’re heading in this muck. And let me know soon’s you spot those buoys!”

Suddenly the winds increased again, approaching tropical-storm speeds of seventy miles per hour. The Wild One groaned and creaked in response. Feeling the first rise of panic, Luis glanced over at his radar just in time to see it blink out. For a few moments, he simply stared at the blank screen, uncomprehending. Just as he reached over to give it a useless rap, he heard Jaurez’s shout over the intercom: “Captain! There’s a buoy; we’re passing it port side! We’re headin’ right down the middle of the channel!”

Luis kept his voice calm and radioed back, “Set tight, Jaurez. I’m thinkin’ you’re right. We’ll take it easy … steer on through. But keep a close watch, you hear?”

“Yes, sir! I’ll be mighty glad when …”

But Juarez’s voice was lost in another reverberating thunderclap. Lightning followed, illuminating the seductive lines of the Skyway. That quick revelation also showed Captain Luis that the perspectives were off. This isn’t right! Luis gasped, opening his eyes and mouth wide in sudden shock. We’re not in the channel, not at all! In that hor¬rific instant, Luis realized that the buoy they just passed must’ve been the one marking the right side of the channel. He froze as the realiza¬tion shot like a knife through his gut: The Wild One was headed right toward one of the bridge’s supports.

Grabbing the intercom with shaking hands, Luis shouted, “Jaurez! Hard to port! Let go the anchor! Ram the engines, full astern!” In a frantic effort to prevent the catastrophe, he attempted to stop the giant ship before she hit the bridge. But another show of lightning proved the futility of his efforts. The concrete pier loomed over the Wild One.

There was no stopping the inevitable. They were going to ram it.

“Cap’n!” was all he heard from Jaurez before the ship’s bow and the concrete of the bridge met in a rage of violence. The first loud boom! was immediately followed by the howling of grinding steel, and the great ship groaned, as though she were personally injured. Splintering, wrenched roadway released overhead, and great blocks of concrete and warped, twisted steel plunged into the water and onto the deck of the ship.

The collision had thrown Captain Luis nearly off his feet, though he grabbed the wheel at the last moment to brace himself. He took one brief moment to pray, God, oh please!—may the road overhead be clear! Gathering courage to face whatever awaited, he ran out to the bow of his doomed ship.

On the road above, no one suspected that a dire rending had just occurred. If any felt the slight movement of the roadway, they assumed that strong winds were the culprit. The drivers merely adjusted for the pull, intending to continue on safely.

On the deck of his fated ship, Captain Luis froze at the desolation unfolding before him. He watched in terror as huge pieces of roadway dropped into the violently churning waves of black, murky water. But he and every member of the crew recoiled in horror when, all eyes compelled to follow the surreal scene before them, they watched a bus, a Mercedes, and a van launch out into a void of nothingness.

And plunge into the depths of the Tampa Bay.

She Makes It Look Easy - Excerpt

2011-06-21T22:38:00.001-04:00

She Makes It Look Easy David C. Cook (June 1, 2011) by Marybeth Whalen

Prologue

Ariel I saw her years later in the grocery store near my house. I had to look twice to be sure it was her. She had lost weight, a lot of weight. Her collar bones jutted out from the neckline of her shirt like the framework of a building. When she spoke to the young woman accompanying her, her neck muscles pushed against her skin as though they were straining to break free. I thought of all our morning walks together and had to stop myself from approaching to congratulate her. She always did want to be thinner.

Her hair wasn’t blonde anymore. It was the exact color of my second son’s hair, a mahogany red that I clearly remembered her exclaiming over as she stood in my kitchen shortly after we met. “I love this hair,” she had said, wrapping a single curl around her finger as my son squirmed and grimaced. “Do you know how much I’d have to pay to get hair this color?” she had said.

“But your hair’s a beautiful blonde,” I had offered. My own hair was auburn. I’d always wanted to be blonde.

She had shrugged, rolled her eyes. “Do you know how much I had to pay for hair this color?” she had said, laughing. And I, as always, had laughed with her.

Now, standing at a distance, it took me a moment to determine that the young woman with her was actually her older daughter. It appeared that the weight she had lost, her daughter had found. She slouched along beside her mom, a permanent sulk on her face, wearing skinny jeans that were not made for her figure and a T-shirt that read “I Didn’t Do It.” An unappealing white roll of flesh poked out between the jeans and the shirt. Her hair was no longer the blonde airy curls I remembered from back then, perennially clipped into ponytails with matching ribbons. Instead it was a dishwater blonde I imagined closely matched her mother’s real color, hanging dank and stringy around her acne-spotted face. I closed my eyes to block the longing I felt at the image of her at eight years old, radiating light and happiness. The girl I was looking at was not the same person. Yet she was.

I found myself tailing the two of them, watching her just like I used to when she was my neighbor, and I was fascinated—too fascinated—by her. Once, I had wanted to be just like her. Once, I would’ve done anything to be like her. As she pulled microwave popcorn and diet sodas from the shelf, I thought about the time when I knew her. Or, when I thought I knew her. There was still a part of me that wanted to talk to her, to ask the questions I never could get her to answer, just in case I might finally understand what drove her to do what she did. I wondered if I looked into her eyes if I would see a flicker of the person I once knew, or if I would just see blankness. I imagined a gaping absence that was always there, even when I chose not to see it.

Chapter 1

Ariel

I pulled the photo proofs out of the envelope, fanning them out on the granite countertop in my client’s McMansion with a flourish. I loved how the word client sounded, and I threw it around whenever

“I have a meeting with a client.”

“My clients are so demanding. They all want their proofs back yesterday.”

“This client had some very particular ideas about what she wants.” After years of snapping candids of my own children, I took my photography professional after someone with connections noticed that I was good at catching the little moments of life that most of us walk right by—the furrow of a tiny brow, the contentment of one lone spit bubble on a sleeping baby’s pursed bow of a mouth, even the personality of a flailing, screaming two-year-old. “Someday,” went my pitch, “you’ll appreciate the reality of the photos. Not just the posed smiles but the whole package. The mess and the mess-ups. You’ll look back and see pictures that reflect your life as it really was.” If they wanted Sears Portrait Studio, they were welcome to go to Sears Portrait Studio. But if they wanted art, that’s what I created. Few things pleased me more than seeing a portrait I shot gracing one of my clients’ walls, surrounded by a heavy, impressive mat and frame. I aimed to create pictures that caused others to stop and stare, frozen in the awe of how something so simple could be so beautiful. Sometimes I found myself staring too.

I leaned over the proofs on the black and gray flecked counter, watching Candace Nelson’s face as she looked at the photos we’d taken just a week before. I suppressed the urge to talk to her about them, to point out my favorites or ask her what she thought. I had learned the value in waiting quietly. It was as true in art as it was in marriage: The compliments meant more when they were unsolicited.

She looked up at me, her eyes misty with tears. “You totally got it,” she said, pulling me into a hug. Candace Nelson and I had never met before I came to her house to photograph her children, one of whom was born prematurely and had defied the odds, home just a few days from the hospital. Candace had cried happy tears the whole time I snapped, the rhythmic clicking of my camera at times the only sound in the room. Her older two children, I noticed, had a kind of reverence for the baby. It was in the way they had held him and talked to him and even looked at him. Their reverence had hung in the air around them, an invisible force that transferred through the lens onto paper.

“These are just lovely,” Candace went on. “They’re … priceless.”

I nodded my assent, honored to have been a part of remembering the early days of her new son’s life. I had been inspired to start my business when I found old 8x10s of my sister shoved into a faded envelope with the words “Your Priceless Memories” stamped in tacky green and gold on the outside. My mother had apparently stuck the envelope in a trunk and forgotten all about it. I unearthed the photos like a time capsule, Ginny in her patchwork dress and me in a pea green turtleneck that clashed with her dress. My hair needed brushing, and neither of us was smiling. So much for priceless. So much for memories. I longed to give my kids—and other families—so much more.

Candace held up the price sheet I had handed her with the proofs. “Can I keep this?” she asked. “Talk over the order with my husband?” She giggled like a teenager ogling her prom pictures. “I know he’s going to want them all.” She paused, a somber expression washing over her face. “There was a time when we didn’t think we’d even get to take him home, much less take snapshots.” She pressed her palms onto the counter on either side of the spread of photos. “I can’t thank you enough.”

I thought, but did not say, A big fat order would be plenty thanks. My cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I looked down at it briefly but didn’t reach for it. “Oh, you can get it,” Candace said, dismissing me with a wave as she buried her nose back in the photos.

“Yes?” I asked hesitantly into the phone, not sure if I wanted to know. I had left David and the boys supposedly packing up our house for our impending move to the home of our dreams. Three more days and we’d be movin’ on up. It didn’t take much for me to break into the theme song from The Jeffersons in those days before the move, the boys clapping their hands over their ears whenever I did.

“Uh, honey?” David asked. “A guy just called and said he’s got the moving van you rented ready and they’re about to close? He said one of us needs to come pick it up ASAP.”

My heart began to pound in that way it does when I’ve screwed up. I vaguely remembered the conversation from a few days earlier. The man had said if we wanted to go ahead and start packing the van, we’d better get it sooner rather than later. I told him we’d be there by Saturday at noon. I looked at my watch. It was Saturday at 11:45. I backed away a few steps from Candace and smiled as she looked up at me. “Okay,” I said sweetly. “I’ll be there right away. I’m just finishing up here.”

David started to argue about how there was no way we’d make it, but I hung up before he could say more. Another lecture from David about organization was the last thing I needed. Candace looked at me again. “Everything okay?” she asked.

“Oh sure,” I said, gathering up my things. “We’re moving and there’s just some stuff I need to go take care of. You know how it is.”

She nodded as the corners of her mouth turned down. “We moved here five years ago,” she said, gesturing to the palatial digs she called home sweet home. “And I never intend to leave. I told people, ‘Write this address down in ink, because we are staying put.’” The corners of her mouth turned up again.

Pompeii - Prologue

2011-06-14T23:18:00.000-04:00

Pompeii B&H Books (June 1, 2011) by Tracy Higley

VESUVIUS

From her lofty place above the sparkling crescent Bay of Napoli, Vesuvius looked down upon the surrounding towns and felt the pressure build beneath her grassy slopes.

It was true, the hot springs which bubbled up from deep within brought pleasure-seekers from the north to bathe in secluded groves, and she boasted lemon trees, and long waving grasses where wildlife grazed her foothills. True, her purple, cloud-kissed peak shone always in the sunlight.

But under it all, where the eyes of no patrician nor plebeian saw, underneath she churned with an angry force waiting to be unleashed.

She was their mother, yes. But she could destroy them all.

And she had been quiet these many years, had she not? Too many years for counting, even. She had been controlled, subdued, silent as generation after generation lived and farmed and reveled in her long shadows.

But not for long. No, not for long.

Though the people who lived beneath her believed that they controlled their own destiny, she knew otherwise.

This was her story, after all.

Prologue

Jerusalem
August 9, 70 AD

Ariella shoved through the clogged street, defying the mob of frantic citizens. Men, women, and children crowded the alleys, senseless in their panic to flee the city. They carried all they could, packed into pouches slung across their chests and clutched in sweaty hands. Soldiers ran with them, as though they had all joined a macabre stadium footrace, with participants who clubbed and slashed at each other to get ahead. Beside her, one of the district’s tax collectors tripped and fumbled a latched wooden box. It cracked against the cobbled street and spilled its meager hoard of gold. The tax collector was dead before he hit the ground, and the Roman soldier pulled his sword from the man’s gut only to scrabble for the coins.

Ariella turned her head from the gore, but felt little pity for the tax man, cheated of life by the Romans for whom he had betrayed his people. Still, concern flickered in her chest at the sudden violence in the street.

Something has happened.

The city had been under siege for months. Three days ago her mother announced that the sacrifices in the Temple had ceased. But today, today was something new. Perhaps three days of sins not atoned for had brought the wrath of the Holy One down on them all.

Unlike those who ran the streets with her, Ariella’s destination was neither Temple nor countryside. She returned to her home—if the dim tenement could be called such—from another useless excursion to secure food.

At sixteen and as eldest child, it fell on her to search the famished city for a scrap of dried beef to feed her brother, perhaps a thimbleful of milk for the baby, crumbs for her father whose eyes had gone glassy and whose skin was now the color of the clay pots he once turned on the wheel.

But there was no food to be found. Titus, the emperor’s son, had arrived in the spring with his army of eighty thousand and his siege wall served well its double function—the people were trapped and they were starving.

Not even such a wall could prevent news from seeping through its cracks, however. From Caesarea, word escaped of twenty thousand Jews slaughtered in a day. Fifty thousand killed in Alexandria. Ten thousand met the sword in Gamla. Such numbers were incomprehensible.

Here in Jerusalem, the bodies thrown outside the city were too numerous to count, piled high in rotting mounds, as though the city itself were defiled and would forever be unclean.

Yet we are not all dead. Ariella’s hands curled into tense fists as she rounded the last corner. She would cling to life as long as she had strength, and like her untiring mother, she would hold tight to that elusive thread for each member of her family.

She pushed against the rough wood of the door and slipped out of the rush of the street. The home’s tomb-like interior had the peculiar smell of starvation. In the corner, her baby sister whimpered as if in response to Ariella’s entrance. Micah met her at the door, his sunken eyes fixed on her and his lips slightly open, as though anticipating the food she might have brought. Or perhaps he simply lacked the strength to close his jaw. She shook her head and Micah turned away, hiding his disappointment as all boys of eleven do when they are threatened by tears.

Her father did not speak from his mat on the floor. Ariella scooped the listless baby Hannah into her arms and gave her a finger to suck. Small consolation.

“Where is Mother?” She scanned the room, then looked to Micah. A low groan from her father set her heart pounding. “Where is she, Micah? Where has Mother gone?”

Micah sniffed and glanced at the door. “To the Temple. She has gone to the Temple.”

Ariella growled and pushed Hannah into her brother’s arms. “She is going to get herself killed, and then where will we be?”

She bent to her father’s side. The man had been strong once. Ariella could barely remember. She touched the cool skin of his arm. “I will bring her back, Father. I promise.” Her father’s eyes sought her own, searching for reassurance. The hunger seemed to have stolen his voice. How long until it took his mind?

She turned on Micah, grabbed his shoulder. “Do not let anyone inside. The streets–” She looked to the door. “The streets are full of madness.”

He nodded, still cradling Hannah.

She kissed the baby. “Take care of them, Micah.” And then she left to retrieve her mother, whose political fervor often outpaced her common sense.

The mid-summer sun had dropped in the sky, an orange disc hazy and indistinct behind rising smoke. The city burns. She smelled it, sensed it, felt it somehow on her skin as she joined the flow toward the temple – a heat of destruction that threatened to consume them all.

Her family enjoyed the privilege of living in the shadow of the Temple Mount. A privilege that today only put them closer to folly. She twisted through the crazed mob, darted around wagons and pushcarts laden with family treasures, swatted at those who shoved against her. Already, only halfway there, her heart struck against her chest and her breathing shallowed, the weakness of slow starvation.

She reached the steps to the south of the Temple platform and was swept upward with the masses. Why were so many running to the Temple? Why had her mother?

And then she heard it. A sound that was part shrieking anger, part mournful lament, a screaming funeral dirge for the city and its people. She reached the top of the steps, pushed through the Huldah Gate, dashed under the colonnade into the Court of the Gentiles, and drew up short. The crowd pressed against her back, flowed around her and surged onward, but Ariella could not move.

The Temple is on fire.

The next moments blurred. She felt herself running, running toward the Temple as if she alone could avert this monstrous evil. Joining others who must have shared her delusion. She saw Roman legionaries club women and children, voices raised in a war cry. The yells of zealot rebels and the shrieks of those impaled by swords returned like an echo. The dead began to accumulate. Soldiers climbed heaps of bodies to chase those who fled. She tasted ashes and blood in the air, breathed the stench of burning flesh, and still some pushed forward.

She fought the smoke and blood, climbed the steps and entered the Court of Women. All around her, peaceful citizens were butchered where they stood. Ahead, a current of blood ran down the curved steps before the brass Nicanor Gate. The bodies of those who had been murdered at the top slipped to the bottom.

Ariella swayed on her feet at the carnage. That her mother was one of these dead she had no doubt. Elana’s outspoken defiance of Rome had earned her a reputation among her people, one that matched the meaning of her given name, torch.

She could go no farther. The entire Temple structure flamed now, from the Court of Israel to the Holy of Holies, its beauty and riches and sanctity defiled, raped by the Romans who even now risked their own flesh to steal its treasures.

A groan at her feet drew her attention, and she saw as if from a great distance that indeed her mother lay there, a bloody slash against her chest and a vicious purpling around her eyes. She lifted a hand, claw-like, to Ariella, who bent to kneel beside her and clasp her fingers.

Ariella had no words. What use to say good-bye, when they would all be in the same place soon?

Strange, she was very cold. With the flames so near and so fierce, still her fingers felt numb as she wrapped them around her mother’s hand.

Elana whispered only “Never forget…” before she was gone, and Ariella nodded because it was the expected thing to do. She studied her mother’s face, the eyes open and unseeing, and felt nothing. Was that right? Should she feel something?

After awhile she thought perhaps she should go home. She tried to stand, slipped in some blood that had pooled on the marble beneath her, and tried again.

The noise seemed far off now, though she could see the faces of citizens, mouths gaping as though they screamed in agony, and soldiers, feral lips drawn back over their teeth. But the sounds had somehow receded.

She weaved through the upright who still lived, stepped over the prone who had already passed, and drifted back to her house. Behind her, the Temple Mount was enveloped in flames, boiling over from its base, though there seemed to be even more blood than flames.

The stupor that had fallen over her at the Temple seemed to slough away as she traveled the streets. From open doorways she heard an occasional wail, but largely it was quiet. Too quiet. As though a river of violence had washed down the street while she’d been gone and swept away all that lived.

Her own street was not so peaceful. From end to end it burned.

She searched the crowd for her father, Micah, the baby. Grabbed hollow-eyed friends and wailing neighbors. One old woman shook her head and pointed a withered hand to the end of the burning street. “Only Micah.” She coughed. “Only he escaped.”

Micah. She called his name, but the word choked in her throat. Where would he have fled?

They had whispered together, one unseasonably warm night a few months ago on their roof, of running away from Jerusalem. Child’s talk, but now… Would he have tried to leave the city, to make it two hours south to family in Bethlehem?

Minutes later, she stumbled toward the Lower City. The Dung Gate would lead her south, to the valley of Hinnom and onward to Bethlehem. If she could escape.

Too many joined her. They would never be allowed to pass. She climbed crumbling steps to the rim of the city wall. Would she see a thread of refugees weaving out of Jerusalem, beyond the gates?

There was a procession of Jews, yes. But not on foot, fleeing to safety. On crosses, writhing in death throes. An endless line of them, crucified in absurd positions for the Romans’ entertainment, until they had run out of crosses, no doubt. Ariella gripped the wall. She would have retched had there been anything in her stomach.

She considered throwing herself from the wall. Was it high enough to guarantee her death? She would not want to die slowly on the ground, listening to the crucified.

The decision was made for her. From behind, a Roman soldier grabbed both her arms, laughing. She waited for the air in her face, for the spin of a freefall in her belly, that feeling she loved when her father rode the donkey cart too fast over the crest of a hill.

Instead, the soldier spun her to face him, shoved her to the stone floor, and fumbled at her tunic.

No, she was not going to die like that.

She exploded into a flailing of arms and legs, kicks and screams. She used her fingernails, used her teeth, used her knees.

From behind her head another soldier called. “That one’s a fighter, eh, Marcus?”

The soldier on top of her grunted.

“Better save her for the general. He wants the strong ones to sell off, you know.”

Ariella realized in that moment that since the siege began months ago, she had believed she would meet her death in the City of God. But as Jerusalem died without her, something far worse loomed in her future.

Life in the slave market of Rome.

The Sweetest Thing - Chapter 1

2011-06-12T22:31:00.000-04:00

The Sweetest Thing • Bethany House (June 1, 2011) by Elizabeth Musser

The Sweetest Thing