Tuesday, June 17, 2014

Rival Hearts by Tara Randel

Rival Hearts
Abingdon Press (June 17, 2014)
Tara Randel

Chapter 1 - Excerpt

Molly Henderson forced herself to remain still, even though every fiber in her being wanted to scoot to the end of the chair and rattle off at least twenty questions that came to mind. “A challenge?”

Her boss, imposing as he sat in his leather chair behind an enormous mahogany desk, steepled fingers under his chin. Self- satisfaction curved his lips. “Let’s call it a little in-house competition between you and Ben. The winner will be editor-in-chief of my new magazine, American Legend.”

Pushing her glasses higher on her nose, Molly’s gaze darted to Ben Weaver, the man who had just gone from colleague to competitor. His veiled expression showed no emotion. Was he as surprised as she? Of all the topics this meeting could have entailed, informing them of a competition hadn’t been one of them.

She’d been surprised by the impromptu call to the boss’s office. Equally surprised when she found Ben waiting to attend the same meeting. What a way to start her Wednesday morning.

“My plan is unusual, I know. Both of you are qualified for the position and would do an excellent job.” He shrugged. “I decided to put my own spin on the promotion process.”

Putting his own spin on things had made Blake Masterson a very successful publisher. His unorthodox style of management set him apart in the publishing world, but somehow it worked for him. Mid-fifties, self-made and very popular in the Tampa Bay area for his publicity stunts. The stunts captivated the public, but always brought notice to charitable organizations and needs in the community. The man had a savvy mind and knew how to use it to keep his company in the limelight.

“As you know, Master’s Publishing is ready to expand with a new magazine. I need people focused for the long haul to get the magazine up and running and to handle day-to-day operations afterward. You have both proven valuable in your current editorial roles and I want to see where this challenge will take you.”

Molly bit back a sigh. She’d been with Master’s Publishing for eight years now, four as senior editor and writer for Quilter’s Heart Magazine. She loved working for the company, but steered clear of Mr. Masterson’s publicity stunts. She had seniority; her longevity alone should give her first shot at the position. But a competition involving her? Honestly, she’d never been very good at any endeavor outside her comfort zone, which consisted of working behind the scenes or immersing herself in a quilting project. Given the determined look on her boss’s face, his grand plan would definitely be uncomfortable for her.

But not for her soon-to-be rival.

She sneaked another peek at Ben. Tall, built, tan, and extremely masculine. Not to mention the most soulful brown eyes she’d ever seen. Yes, the man was handsome. But his ego? Another story all together.

They’d rubbed each other the wrong way since the first day he stormed into Master’s Publishing six months ago to take over as senior editor and head writer of Outdoor Adventures Magazine. He’d smiled his confident smile and acted like he owned the place. He assured Mr. Masterson his former freelance writing and television experience would increase circulation of his magazine and far outsell all the other magazines published by Master’s, including “the little quilting magazine,” as he referred to Molly’s magazine. He made friends with all the staff, frequently took over meetings, and whenever she tried to make suggestions, he smiled down at her, not taking her seriously. She never let on how much he bugged her, but, boy, did he bug her. And now a competition? Ben would relish any out-of-the-box trial thrown his way. This was so unfair.

“I’ve been very impressed with both of you. Our sales have increased due to both your efforts and we’ve already made a pres- ence with our digital editions.

“Ben, before you took on Outdoor Adventures, I was ready to pull the brand, but the articles are entertaining and well-written. The results have increased the circulation and advertising revenue. Of course, your past foray into the cable television show Extreme Survivors helped ramp up circulation. After watching you on TV, I jumped at the chance to lure you onboard. Nothing like having a mini-celebrity on staff.”

Yes, Molly knew that part, since everyone in the office talked about him.

Mr. Masterson grinned, as if Ben’s fame would benefit him. “I allowed you to fulfill your prior commitments when you first took the job, but since the traveling has wound down, we’re happy to have you in the office full-time.”

Some people, Molly thought.

“I have to give credit to Charlie,” Ben said as he leaned back in his chair. “He kept the magazine going while I finished up my schedule.”

“Always good to have a competent assistant, especially one who knows what readers want. Since you’ve shown your dedication, I thought you might want a shot at the new position.”

“Yes sir, I would,” he said, his smile dazzling. “Good. Good.” Mr. Masterson turned to Molly.

“Molly, you’ve been here since you started as an intern. When you came up with the idea for a quilting magazine, I have to say I wasn’t convinced the market could sustain it. But you kept after me and proved me wrong. Who knew crafts were so popular? You’ve built a readership and the numbers keep growing, but you haven’t quite gotten to the place where readers connect you with Master’s Publishing.

“Your monthly Dear Reader column is great but it’s time to take your relationship with your readers to the next level. I know you’re working on a special project to connect with readers, but let’s up the ante. Get them behind you.”

Which Ben, with his high profile in the extreme sports world, had already done in just six months.

“Even though both magazines are regional, as editors, I’m sure you’d like to work on a bigger project like American Legend. You both have a knack for finding in-depth human-interest stories to touch your particular readers. Just the type of content I want for my new magazine. Stories featuring ordinary people doing extraordinary things in their lives—not expecting accolades—just doing what comes naturally. I want stories of daring-do, faith-based stories, tearjerkers whenever possible. You’ll be given a chance to shine as an editor as well as moving up in the company.”

Rumors had infiltrated the office for weeks now that Mr. Masterson had something in the works. Speculation about the new magazine ran the gamut from parenting advice, to the auto industry, even a new comic book division. With Mr. Masterson’s love for giving back to the community, American Legend was a perfect choice for his reputation. And while Molly appreciated the idea, she still had questions.

“Could you be more specific?” she asked, still unsure about her part in this latest development. “About the challenge?”

With pen and paper in hand to jot down notes perhaps affecting her future with the publisher. She waited patiently. She loved being an editor, loved her magazine. But a promotion? Who wouldn’t jump at the chance?

“Out of all our inventory of magazines, both of yours are the most popular. Top sellers, actually. And polar opposites. So I thought, why not have my two top editors switch places? Molly, you belong to a quilting group, right? The one you’ve mentioned in your column?”


Mr. Masterson turned to Ben. “You will join Molly’s quilting group. Let’s find out if those outdoor skills of yours translate into sewing and producing a well-made finished product.”

“Quilting?” Ben raised a questioning eyebrow.

Oh, her friends would love this. Her boss had no idea of the dynamics in an all-female gathering. Ben might be used to his rough and tumble world, where strength and experience with Mother Nature gave him the upper hand in the wilderness. Spending an hour with suburban moms who talked about love, life, kids, what to make for dinner, and what their husbands were in trouble for, might send him screaming into the sunset. She’d seen the caged look on many faces of men forced to spend too much together time in a room with chatty women. Ben didn’t know it yet, but he’d just signed up for an adventure very few men could withstand and survive to tell the tale.

“Right now you’re working on the next issue of Outdoor Adventures which features . . .” Mr. Masterson glanced down at his notes. “Kayaking?”


“Perfect. Molly—”

Please, please, please, not sports. No physical activities. Anything but the outdoors. Her pulse rate elevated and she held her breath while she braced herself.

“—we’ll get you hooked up with a local kayaking event. Since Ben already has some activities lined up for the next issue, here’s a perfect opportunity to show me what you’re made of.”

“Kayaking?” Molly croaked, echoing Ben’s earlier response to his challenge.

“Afterward, we’ll showcase your individual journeys in your magazines.” Mr. Masterson shot them a teasing wink. “I do love publicity. And friendly competition.”

Molly gripped her pen. Friendly? More like a battle of the sexes if you asked her. One she doubted Ben would make easy. He took on a challenge the way an explorer took on the jungle, divide and conquer. No way could she kayak a few feet from shore, let alone with some major activity cooked up by Ben. She doubted she could get in the thing without tipping over.

“You’ll each have four weeks to complete your tasks. At the end of the month, I’ll review your progress and name the new editor-in-chief. Any questions?”

Ben spoke up first. “Yes, sir. Where will my new office be located?”

“Your office?” Molly sputtered.

He smiled at her. “Yes. My office.”

“Don’t you mean my new office space?” she countered. Mr. Masterson stood. “Both of you follow me.”

He led them down the hallway from his office. All the offices on this floor were for upper management, while one story down housed the other departments, including her office and Ben’s. Once they reached their destination, Masterson stood to the side as he opened the door with a grand flourish. Ben, his eyes bright with success, motioned for Molly to enter ahead of him. The more confident he appeared, the more steamed she became. No way would she let him win.

The vacant office had more square feet than both Molly and Ben’s current offices combined. Wide windows overlooked downtown Tampa, offering a glimpse of the vast city spread out before them. Bright sunlight glinted off Tampa Bay, where boats zig-zagged across clear azure water. From a closer view, eleven stories below, cars moving in a steady stream of traffic alongside a city park dotted with benches located under palm trees and plenty of grassy area before ending at the banks of the Hillsborough River.

Standing before the windows, Molly savored the sunshine and forced herself to calm down. Her inside office had no windows while Ben had managed to procure an outer office with one window. What she wouldn’t give for this spectacular view every day.

Ben might be Mr. Masterson’s bright, shining star, but Molly had grown tired of working her tail off with little reward. As much as she loved Quilter’s Heart, lately she’d been antsy. Ready for a change. A challenge would shake up her life, hopefully in a good way. And the best outcome? To beat out Ben for the job.

She turned just in time to see Ben place his briefcase on the empty desk, remove a clear plastic cube with a baseball inside, and set it on the smooth surface. His gaze met hers, telling her with no words necessary he’d marked the place as his. She bit back a retort because their boss hovered in the doorway, but she vowed to make him eat those unspoken words.

“Before you two plan your individual battle strategies, I suggest you return to your desks and figure out the logistics of the challenge.” Mr. Masterson motioned for them to exit the office. “I’ll stay in the loop to see how you’re both progressing. I may want to tweak things a bit as the competition heats up.”

Bad enough she had to compete, but knowing Mr. Masterson might throw in a game changer somewhere along the line? Great. Just great.

Being dismissed, Molly walked on shaky legs, allowing Ben to precede her. He couldn’t know how her boss’ grand scheme, or Ben’s confidence in assuming he’d won the challenge before it had started, rattled her. Never had she imagined she’d have to prove herself in such an unusual way. She’d been a loyal employee for years. Had doubled the circulation of her magazine in her time as editor. Shouldn’t her work ethic have merit in her boss’s decision?

She joined Ben by the elevator, tugging the lapels of her jacket over her blouse. Her mind ran in so many different directions, she couldn’t focus on any one thought. She glanced up to watch the progress of the elevator as numbers lit up above the door, trying to ignore the hunky man who now worked against her. Ben hadn’t said much after the question in Mr. Masterson’s office and the silence grated on her sensitive nerves. Finally, he turned her way.

“Do you have anything planned right now?” “Just heading back to my office.”

“Mind if I tag along? We can discuss the challenge details.” Details. Right. If only she could ignore him like she wanted to.

Suspicious, she asked, “Why my office?”

He chuckled. “Either will do. I thought you might be more comfortable hammering out the details on your own turf.”

Oh, sure. Now he decides to be accommodating, unlike his confident assumption he’d be moving into the upstairs office. “Fine.”

The elevator doors parted and Ben nodded for her to board first. He entered, pressed the button for their f loor and the doors slid shut, followed by a jerk of movement.

Molly stared at her fuzzy reflection in the metal doors. Why did these things always feel so small? And why did Ben have to stand so close? His shoulder brushed hers, but she held her ground. No way would she shy away from him.

Instead, she tapped her foot to the canned music playing some oldie but goodie.

“Something wrong?” he asked. “No. Just enjoying the music.” “You’re off beat.”

She stopped. Stood stiffly. “Guess we all can’t be good at everything.”

Yankee in Atlanta by Jocelyn Green

Yankee in Atlanta
River North(June 1, 2014)
Jocelyn Green


Saturday, May 31, 1862 The Virginia Peninsula

Not now. Please, not now. Rebel bullets ripped through the sulfurous fog hovering above Caitlin McKae’s head. Her middle cramping violently, she prayed her anguished bowels would not betray her.

Not now.

“Don’t let them take my leg, please! I’d rather die on the field!” “We’re getting you out of here, Marty!” Caitlin fairly shouted as she and the other three stretcher bearers carried the wounded soldier a quarter mile to the rear. Sweat poured from beneath her kepi and itched across her tightly bound torso. River water from the rain-swollen Chick- ahominy soaked through her brogans, and she faltered more than once in the red clay quagmire.

Head pounding like a fusillade, Cailtin slogged back through the mud to pluck more wounded comrades from the spongy earth. She scrambled after the other stretcher bearers and wondered how long this desperate battle for Richmond had lasted so far. Had an hour passed?

Two hours? Three? Suddenly spent, Caitlin doubled over, gripping her knees. Her stomach heaved, though it had no contents to vacate.

But her body wasn’t through. Her insides churning, Caitlin was left with no choice but to break away to the furthest pine tree she could make it to and find relief in relative privacy behind its trunk.

Before she could reach it, a lead ball tore through her arm. The twisting pain in her middle paled as fire blazed through her right bicep. The bullet had ripped completely through.

As she dropped to her knees, Caitlin’s thundering pulse dimmed the sounds of battle. With fumbling fingers, she unbuttoned her jacket with her left hand, wriggled free of it, and wrapped it around her bloody shirtsleeve. I could go back. I can still hold the stretcher with my left hand. But she couldn’t. Strength sapped from her body, her limbs felt as though they’d been filled with lead.

Flat on her back now, Caitlin tried to steady her breathing. The sky is still blue, she told herself. Somewhere, far above me, where bullets can- not reach and cries cannot be heard, the sky is still blue. The haze of gun smoke thinned, and she caught a glimpse of Professor Lowe’s balloon In- trepid hovering in the sky, with Lowe inside, reporting Confederate troop movements to General McClellan. Her eyelids drifted closed and she imagined herself there. But if I were, I would cut the lines tethering it to the ground and sail away, far away from war and disease and death. If only it weren’t for Jack. Her thoughts trailed away, into a blank expanse as welcoming as the sky.

Mud splattered her face as another bullet pierced the ground next to her. Suddenly, her ears tuned to the musket fire still rattling in the air. Rolling over, Caitlin dragged herself into the pine trees, leaned against a trunk and felt the earth shudder beneath her with the boom- ing of artillery.

“God, when will it end?” she groaned through gritted teeth. “Soon.” Caitlin turned toward the gravelly voice and found a bearded Rebel soldier. Mosquitoes hummed near his bleeding stomach. He would die within hours, even if he were in a hospital. “You’re bleeding, too.” He nodded to her crimson-soaked arm. Her jacket-turned-tourniquet must have fallen off when she’d crawled here for shelter. “Take mine. I’ll not be needing it now.”

“Thank you,” she breathed, and let him help her tie his jacket to her arm. Gooseflesh raised on her skin as the sweat filming her body turned cold.

“Can you read?” He handed her a small New Testament with Psalms and Proverbs. “Do you know the one about the valley of the shadow of death? I reckon that ought to do.” His face was so pale. Surely he was in that valley now.

Though her mind began to fog, with her left hand, she flipped to Psalm 23, and forced her voice through chattering teeth. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies . . .”

Caitlin’s eyelids refused to stay open. She was sinking, deeper, and imagined the Virginia swamp was swallowing her whole. Her grip loosened on the Bible in her hand, and her consciousness slipped fully be- yond her grasp.

Thursday, June 19, 1862

Lips cinched tightly, Caitlin McKae fought the instinct to reach toward the smoldering pain in her arm—the pain that had dragged her back to consciousness and told her she had survived.

Where am I? She shook her head, hoping to clear the fog. Flies droned lazily about the room. Muffled voices swam toward her from the hallway while the air sat thick and heavy on her skin. Beyond the shuttered window, locomotives bellowed and chugged.

Where is Jack? “Please,” she prayed through cracked lips. “Keep him safe . . .”

“Well looky here.” The door creaked, and a wedge of light broad- ened on the floor, framing a stocky silhouette. The odor of corn liquor seeped from his grey uniform as he stepped to her bedside, peering past his mustache at her. “Look who’s finally awake. I got a whole heap a questions for you, girly-girl.”

Oh no. Her hand flew to her heart, felt it hammering against her palm with only one threadbare sheet between. The binding around her chest was gone.

“That’s a fact.” He chuckled. “Your secret is out now, so you might as well fess up directly.” One hand flexed around a club while the other rested on a revolver in its holster. His lips curled into a grin.

The alarm clanging in Caitlin’s mind rivaled the screeching steel of a steam engine grinding to a halt outside.

“Ain’t you got something to say for yourself ? For starters, how could such a pretty girl such as yourself come to this? Leastwise, maybe you was pretty once.” He reached for her, wearing the same possessive ex- pression she had seen too often before.

“Don’t touch me,” she whispered, trying in vain to knock his hand away. When he laughed and called her “playful,” she spit in his face, dor- mant anger and fear combusting in her veins.

Cursing, the officer ground his club into her bandaged arm. A gasp escaped her as searing pain ushered her back to the moment the bullet first tore through her flesh.

“George Washington Lee, you get out of here this instant!” The club fell away, and Caitlin, nearly breathless, blinked up at the blessed interruption—a silver-haired woman, blue eyes blazing, cheeks flushed. “How dare you treat her this way?”

“And just who is she, Miss Periwinkle?” Coughing racked Lee’s body until he dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief. “She reeks of espionage.”

Caitlin sat up, pulling the sheet up over her chest, and swallowed the moan bubbling up from the pain.

“Of course not.” The woman jabbed her finger toward the man, stood with one fist propped on her ample hips. “She has more patriotism in the tip of her freckled nose than a regiment of conscripts. Why else would she fight for the cause?”

“I am not a spy,” Caitlin broke in.

Lee’s eyes brightened. “You see! You heard it for yourself, she is a Northerner!”

“She’s Irish, and you know as well as I do that we have plenty of im- migrants in these parts, and them as loyal to the cause as you are.” Her tone was thick with disdain.

“I would beg you to remember that as the provost marshal of this fine city, it is my oath-bound duty to ferret out deserters, spies, foreigners, Northern sympathizers, and any other such like as would be harmful to the good of our country.”

“Humph! I would beg you to remember I changed your diapers when you were still in short dresses, young man.” Miss Periwinkle snapped opened the wooden shutters and light flooded the small space. “You’ll not bully me or anyone in this establishment or you may find the good doctor not nearly so inclined to oblige that nasty cough of yours. Now good day to you.”

“Do be advised, Miss McKae.” Colonel Lee leaned against the door- way again. “We do not abide spies in our midst.”

“I told you, I am not a spy.”

“Funny. That’s what all seven of those Yankee devils said, all the way to the gallows. The Andrews raiders said they were Union soldiers, but they were dressed as civilians when they tried stealing our train. As I said, we do not abide spies. No matter what they’re wearing.” His eyes seemed to bore through hers.

Though she did not blink, Caitlin hugged the sheet to her chest as she watched him leave.

Miss Periwinkle bustled back to Caitlin’s side. “I’m so sorry about that, dear. Rude introductions, indeed.”

Blood still rushing in her ears, Caitlin wore a tight mask of coun- terfeit composure as Miss Periwinkle prattled on. “I’m Prudence. Now drink this tea of dandelion root for the pain in your shoulder. I do wish we had some opium for you, but Lil Bit says our tea will do nicely.”

“I do wish you’d stop calling me that around the patients, Prudence.”

A white-haired gentleman stepped to Caitlin’s bedside, one hand cradling a pipe and the other resting on the stethoscope about his neck. “Older by fourteen months, and my sister still won’t let me forget it.” The doctor placed the stethoscope on Caitlin’s chest, listening. “You gave us quite a scare, my dear.”

“What happened?” Her voice creaked. She struggled to sweep the remaining cobwebs from her mind.

“Quite simply, the Richmond hospitals ran out of room after the Battle of Seven Pines, so they shuttled all who could safely be moved down to us. You’ve had a hard go of it, my girl. Your wound was only part of your trouble. By the time you arrived here, you were in the throes of typho-malarial fever, and unconscious. I imagine you had been for days. Do you remember any of this?”

Caitlin pressed her fingers to her aching forehead while snatches of memory flickered over her. The wrenching abdominal pain, headache, nausea, fever, and chills. The bullet that tore through her arm, and the Rebel who gave her his jacket as a tourniquet. “I remember some,” she whispered, mind still reeling.

“Your Bible is right here, dear.” Prudy handed a small volume tomher.

“My Bible?” Caitlin opened the cover. To the Confederacy’s Defenders in the 18th Georgia, Co. A. With regards, Chaplain Samuel York. It was the Rebel’s Bible. She’d been reading it when she passed out. Slowly, the pieces fit together. It must been in her hand when Confed- erate medical officers found her and carried her off the field. To Jack and the rest of her own regiment, she was now missing in action.

Dr. Periwinkle unwound a bandage on her upper arm. “It’s a mira- cle the ball passed through you without shattering the bone,” he mur- mured while inspecting the entry and exit wounds. “There is still risk of infection and secondary hemorrhage.” He paused, stroked his handlebar mustache downward. “You remind me so of my own daughter, when she was about your age. And you’ll be fine, Miss McKae.”

The words pricked Caitlin’s ears. “How do you know my name?”

Prudence raised her eyebrows. “You told us yourself, dear. But you were in the fever’s grip and I reckon you’ve forgotten the worst of it.”

Her heart plunged. “Where am I?”

“Periwinkle Place boarding house. Since war came, we care for convalescents here, too. Wounded Rebels come in from all over to us, on ac- count of our railroads. Lil Bit brought you to me directly so you may recover with privacy, now that you won’t be soldiering anymore.”

“The South has sent its sons to war—including mine—but we need not send our daughters.” The twinkle returned to the doctor’s eyes. “Your patriotism does you credit, child, but it’s time you just get well and stop pretending to be someone you’re not. No more soldiering, all right? You’re safe now, in Atlanta.”

Atlanta. The Gate City to the South.

Caitlin’s spirit flagged, but her face betrayed nothing. She may be able to get well here, but to stop pretending and reveal her true identity would never do.

Then again, this would be the last place anyone would look for Caitlin McKae.

Including Jack. The void he left in her heart ached already. And yet, the price she had paid to be with him had exacted a toll only another veteran could understand. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to imag- ine a life without marching, drilling, fighting, suffering. A life so far from her past she could stop looking over her shoulder for it.

She would start over again in Atlanta and make this place her home, at least until she had the means to leave. She had reinvented herself be- fore. She could do it again. She would have to.

This is not the end, she told herself. It is only a new beginning.

“ATLANTA HAS BEEN since the commencement of the revolution—a point of rendezvous of traitors, Swindlers, extor- tionist, and Counterfeiters. The population as a predominant ele- ment is a mixture of Jews, New England Yankees, and refugees shirking military duties.”


Marshall of Atlanta

“WE HAVE LEARNED our lessons well—can cry when we would laugh—and laugh when we would cry . . . The face must keep its color—white or red—though the heart stops beating or flames up in scorching pain.”

~CYRENA STONE, Unionist Atlanta resident

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

The Lawman's Oklahoma Sweetheart by Allie Pleiter

The Lawman's Oklahoma Sweetheart
Love Inspired (June 3, 2014)
Allie Pleiter

Chapter 1

Brave Rock, Oklahoma Territory
June 1889

Fast wasn’t fast enough.

Clint Thornton ignored the knot of iron tightening in his gut. He told his fear to go away, to stop growing colder and heavier with each minute, each uncrossed acre, each dangerous stretch of land between himself and the Brinkerhoff homestead. Oklahoma was hot and dry in June. A fire could turn deadly in a split-second. And the fastest fire of all was one that had been set to kill.

He bent over his horse, boots digging into the animal’s flanks. Faster. Clint’s breath tightened to short, hard gasps. If he failed, Katrine would soon be gasping as well, lungs frantic for air, throat singed by the heat, chest bound by the dread of a cabin burning around her. The men threatening the homestead were once soldiers, after all, men trained in the taking of lives. A renegade soldier was a dangerous man indeed. Clint had learned they were seeking to burn a cabin to the ground tonight, but only when he’d followed a gut instinct to check on the Brinkerhoff place had he learned the blood-chilling truth.

Snapping his reins against the horse’s sweating flesh, Clint pressed on toward the four torchlights circling the tiny, nearly-finished dwelling in the middle-of-the-night darkness just over the hill.

Katrine had nothing to do with any of this, but that wouldn’t stop the cavalrymen or the flames they were about to set. They were looking to kill her brother Lars, the witness to their crimes, and if she happened to die as well it would be of no consequence to them.

Clint yelled out to the men, hoping to distract them and buy Katrine more time, but he was still too far away for them to hear. The knot in his gut seemed to constrict around his whole body as he watched the leader of those men. In a cruel trick of moonlight, Clint saw Samuel McGraw casually, almost amusingly, touch his torch to the roof of a shed next to the cabin. Air fled Clint’s lungs in a helpless whoosh that seemed to say “too late.”

No. It could not be too late. Clint yelled “McGraw!” once, then louder, jabbing the horse with frantic boot heels. “McGraw!” Some survival instinct took over from there, turning his voice to one of conspiratorial indifference even as his insides were going off like cannons at the thought of Katrine trapped in the smoke. Even as he watched embers float lazily from the shed to settle and ignite on the homestead roof. “McGraw, it’s Thornton. Hold on there!”

Finally he was close enough to see McGraw’s face as he handed his torch to another man and peered in Clint’s direction. “Thornton?”

Clint kept at full gallop the last few feet into the homestead yard, even as the fire began lapping up the structure’s roof. “There’s men behind me,” he panted, hoping his breathlessness would come off as strain, not fear. “Just up over the ridge. Go.” He pulled on the reins as his horse made uneasy circles, spooked by the growing fire. “Get yourselves gone. I’ll cover. I’ll say the place was burning when I came up on it.”

He needed them to believe he was on their side if his plan to infiltrate the Black Four gang would ever work. But he also needed them to leave so he could save Katrine. McGraw, evidently one to see a job done, didn’t seem too eager to be gone. Clint’s heartbeat pounded ice against the heat now flushing his face. The ice threatened to swallow him altogether when he heard the sound of a bang from inside. It did swallow him when he saw the plank the soldiers had nailed across the homestead door.

“Get on out of here,” he insisted as hard as he dared. “I’ve reason to be here, you don’t. I’ll cover for you but it won’t do one lick of good in five minutes if you’re not gone.”

“He’s right,” Bryson Reeves, another of McGraw’s cronies, said as he tossed his torch into the little set of rosebushes Katrine had optimistically planted along the east wall. Clint felt them burning as if the flames nipped at his own throat. “Let’s get gone, Sam.”

Clint flung himself down off his horse with what he hoped looked like indifference. Every inch between him and that barred front door yawned long and deadly. He gestured over the ridge he’d just rushed down. “Land sakes, McGraw, are you waitin’ for an invitation? Go!”

McGraw considered for an excruciating moment, Clint’s throat turning to knots as he heard yet another sound from within. The Brinkerhoff homestead held no windows, no way out but the door barred behind him. He thought he heard a cough and imagined Katrine sinking to the floor, her pale hands clasping at her throat. He felt the heat of the flames prickle the back of his neck. The urge to rush over there and physically push McGraw off toward the river nearly overpowered him. He heard a small, insistent thud from the side of the house away from the men and for a terrible moment imagined he was hearing Katrine’s body hit the wall.

Then he remembered the logs. The loose two logs on the far side of the house, the ones Katrine was always complaining let the wind in to chill the room. He heard more thuds and realized she was trying to kick them out. Kick, he pleaded to her silently as his hands fisted in frustration. Keep kicking.

“I’m handin’ you a gift here, McGraw. Are you too dumb to take it? You’ve got four minutes, maybe five a`fore those men behind me catch up and see you standin’ here with torches while this shack burns.”

“Fine!” McGraw pronounced after what felt like a year, turning his horse and waving his henchmen to ride off.

Clint forced himself to stand and watch, shoving his weight back on one hip as if the burning house was just another prairie brushfire. The kicking behind him had slowed and stopped, halting his blood right along with it. Just twenty more feet. That’s all he needed.

Because God have mercy on him if he had to watch one more person die…


It was as if the walls of the tiny cabin had come alive, creeping toward her like prowling animals. Katrine’s eyes stung, far more from the smoke over her head than from the tears wetting her cheeks. The smoke made it impossible to shout, so she’d tried the door, but it would not open. She’d heard voices—there were men outside, but they did not open the door. They were not here to save her. The Black Four had struck again, had come to burn down the house to push her off her land. Her brother Lars had worried the terrible gang might someday stoop to killing, but she never imagined they would begin with her. I’m not ready for Heaven, she begged God, even though she knew He would welcome her. I’m not brave enough to die. Not like this, not trapped. Not alone.

Not yet. Turning in frantic circles, Katrine scanned the four stalking walls, searching for any help. It was so hard to see, so awful to breathe. My Lord, my protector, save me. She pulled in another scorching breath, seeing the edges of her vision curl in and grow dark. How could even the Black Four bear to stand out there and watch a soul burn to death?

Stumbling to the table more by feel than by sight, Katrine found a dishcloth, then the Mason jar that still held Black-Eyed Susans from the supper table she’d set. The supper Lars had not come home to eat. She pulled the flowers from the jar and stuffed the dishcloth inside, the water feeling cool against the growing heat of the room.

For a stunned moment Katrine wondered why she could suddenly see, why the room glowed orange. Then, pressing the blissfully cool cloth over her nose and mouth, she peered up just in time to see a flaming chunk of the roof fall with a hollow whoosh and settle on Lars’s bed.

Had they found Lars first? Was he already dead? Katrine’s heart froze at the thought that her brother, who’d saved her from how many dangers since they’d come to America, might no longer be alive to save her now. No, he must be alive, she declared silently. He must live and make a future for himself in this new town, maybe a family… Her thoughts were coming in tangles now and her eyes stung so badly. Where was Lars? He’d know what to do. He’d built this cabin for the two of them; he’d know how to keep it from being their tomb. Think, Katrine, try to think.

The beams overhead gave a dreadful groan and Katrine backed away from the noise, grabbing the jar of water as she did. She stuffed the dishcloth into the water again, but its paltry contents didn’t help much against the smoke and heat now filling the room. Why, why hadn’t she fought harder with Lars to make windows? He said they would only let in the cold, but the drafty corner did that already.

The drafty corner. The pair of loose logs on the corner of the house. Oh, how she’d cursed those cracks, how they seemed to welcome the flies and dust into the room. Lars had not yet fixed them; they still wiggled when a boot kicked them hard enough. Katrine crouched down and crawled over to the corner, not caring how the split-log floor snagged on her nightshift or scraped against her knees. Behind her, gold light burst out into the room, and Katrine turned to see Lars’s coverlet consumed in flames. It gave her just enough light to find the logs and shift around to start kicking.

Her shifting knocked over a chair, but she merely pushed it aside and continued to slam her bare feet against the loose wood. It shifted, but not enough. “Flytte!” she yelled, commanding the logs to give way in her native Danish as she kicked them again. Behind her the fire’s crackle and growl seemed to come closer. Katrine moved up and began kicking with both feet, not caring about the growing pain on her heels—what would that matter in a few minutes as she lay gasping? The air seemed to race away from her, stealing the breath she needed to keep kicking. She could feel her efforts growing weaker, feel how the smoke robbed her strength.

Keep kicking. Her leg wobbled as she forced it against the log, and somewhere through the thickness of her mind she heard a voice. She thought she heard crumbling, imagined the log was pulling itself from the cabin, coming to life to save hers.


She couldn’t actually say whether the voice was real or imagined. Everything was spinning into a black hole in her mind, like water draining through the bottom of a barrel.

The rush of night air hit her face like a slap, clear and startling. She heard a man’s growl of effort as another log shuddered loose and fell onto the floor beside her. Air. “Here! Through here!” the voice called. Without thinking, Katrine turned and reached through the ragged opening, clinging to the hands that grabbed her outstretched hands.

The change in air was astounding. Yellow sparks swirled against a dark violet sky as she felt herself pulled from the menacing heat. Katrine sucked down a huge draught of air, only to curl over in a cough that seemed to tear her throat into pieces. Before she could catch her breath, the hands dragged her across the cool prairie grass as the most dreadful, most unearthly sound filled her ears. A wind-filled echo, an evil rush of air such as she’d never heard before. Katrine looked up to see her home, her cabin, sprout flames from every corner and tumble in on itself, spouting in a volcano of smoke and sparks.

The fire burned hot and bright in all directions, throwing sharp light and flickering long shadows into the night. She coughed again, tasting coal and acid, and felt a hand on her back. Turning to look, she saw the face of Clint Thornton. She was safe in the grip of the town sheriff, thank goodness.

Fear widened his dark brown eyes, sweat glistened on his cheek even as it plastered the front of his dark hair against his forehead. “Are you all right, Katrine? Are you hurt?” His voice was tight and dark with worry.

Was she? She wasn’t sure she even knew. Too parched to speak, Katrine managed a weak nod, giving over to the shivers that suddenly took her. She hugged herself and drew up her knees, appalled to remember she was in nothing more than a summer nightshift.

Sheriff Thornton kneeled in front of her, shucking off his coat to wrap it around her shoulders. He took each of her hands and arms in turn, checking them for cuts and bruises. His touch was quick and reassuring. Her feet throbbed and felt as if they were covered in scratches, but she could move them. She started to say, “I’m fine,” but the words only became another cough. When he went to stand up, Katrine grabbed his hand, stopping him until he looked at her.

“Thank you,” she managed in a thin whisper that hurt with each word. She squeezed his arm again. Sheriff Thornton was Lars’s good friend. Surely he would know about her brother. “Lars? Is Lars alive?”

“Yes…and no.”

Katrine felt her fear surge back up. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Lars is safe, but only if no one knows.”

She blinked up at him, confused.

His dark brows furrowed. “I have a plan, Katrine, but you may not like what it is.”

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

A Place in His Heart by Rebecca DeMarino

A Place in His Heart
Revell (June 3, 2014)
Rebecca DeMarino

Chapter 1 - Excerpt

October 21, 1630
London, England

Wooden ships languished in the Thames, lolling to and fro, like oxen taking a mud bath. The murky water lapped at the blackened oak as Papa’s words washed over her once more. Mary Langton leaned over the crumbled stone wall and buried her face in her arms. How long she wept she could only guess.

Someone moved beside her, but she could not bear to look—could not bear to face anyone. She turned her tear stained face eastward to the great port.

After an eternity, she pressed a handkerchief to her reddened nose and cast a sideward glance. “Papa.” She straightened and turned from him. What use would a discussion be?

Her sister approached and hope rose in her heart. An ally, perhaps? No, Lizzie stepped aside, apology evident in her eyes.

Papa’s voice was strained, with a sadness she’d not heard since her mother had died. “You shall come to know that I am right, my girl. You might not agree with me today, but you shall see.”

“You are wrong about that, just as you are wrong about forcing me to marry Robert.” She whirled to face him and raised her chin.
“How could you? Please don’t do this to me. Papa, the last thing I would want to do is to leave Mowsley and marry someone here in London. I could not bear to leave you and Lizzie. You know that.”

Before he could answer, wind and tide came together. Sails snapped. With creaks and groans the ships moved in awkward unison toward the North Sea. The same gust of wind that billowed sails lifted her hat.

She grabbed the brim with both hands, firmly settled it on her brow, and watched the ships as they bumped about, leaving port. Fresh tears pressed from the corners of her swollen eyes to the inky water below. “You might as well be sending me off to the colonies.” Her stomach clenched, causing the words to rush out in gasps, and she clutched her waist as she glanced at her father.

His cheeks reddened. “Hush. Do not say that. You know I love you dearly. I have always had your best interests at heart.” His voice was rough and strained.

He hurt as much as she did, she knew that, but still the words tumbled out. “Do you, Papa? And Nathan? Was he best for me?”

“Do not speak to me in that tone. I agree. Marriage to him would have been a tragedy, indeed, but ’tis why you must let me take care of you.”

It tore her heart to have words with Papa, but desperation urged her on. “I’m sorry, but how many tears must I shed? What must I do to make you see?” She was wailing now.

A second blast of wind caught her hat and sent it cartwheeling down the dock. She grasped her skirt as she raced after it. With
her free hand she tried to hold her hair high on her head, but it tumbled down, swirling in the wind.

“Be careful. We shall buy you another,” Lizzie called as Mary’s boots flew over puddles in the chase.

The errant bonnet came to rest at the foot of the stone bridge spanning the Thames. With a sense of triumph, she scooped it from the mire, then stood to face her family. Her father, shoulders slumped, trudged up the cobbled path toward the shops as Lizzie came to her aid. Thank heavens. What took her so long?

“You should not run like that. You might have broken your ankle and then how would we get you home?” Lizzie’s eyes rolled as she shook her head, but a gentle smile played on her lips. “Father says we should go to the milliner’s. He has business to finish with Mistress Haskins.” She eyed the muddied gray felt with its high crown and wide brim. “It looks worse for wear anyway. Perhaps you shall get a new hat out of all of this.”

“Business to finish? I hope it has nothing to do with me and Robert. What shall I do? I do not love him. Not one whit. I shan’t marry him.”

Her sister’s eyes filled with sympathetic tears and the corners of her mouth quivered. “Father is adamant. After what happened with Nathan, he feels there is no other solution. Certainly your prospects for marriage in Mowsley are naught. Perhaps here in London . . . Perhaps Robert . . .”

Mugginess draped her like a shawl. Her nose wrinkled at the acrid stench of the water below. Nathan. What shame he had brought to her family. She pushed her sadness aside. “’Tis not as if I loved him, Lizzie.”

“Whatever do you mean? Nathan? I thought surely after five years you had grown to care for him. You cannot tell me you have no pain, that you did not love him.”

“I did not. Truly. I think I was more enamored with the idea of marriage than with Nathan.” She folded the cu" of her sleeves back and fiddled with the lace. It looked much like the lace her sister had sewn into the gown for her wedding. She glanced at Lizzie sideways.

Did Lizzie believe her? She would never admit to an other being, not even her sister, her love of Nathan. Not after he left her standing on the church steps. “I think by the time Nathan returned from university, he realized I lacked the skills he would need in a wife. Who needs a wife who rides horses and loves numbers? He feared I would rather be out riding than washing his clothes.”

“But you loved him, yes?” She closed her eyes for a moment, bracing herself for the whitish lie. “Lizzie, I only care about the disgrace he brought you and Papa—how the whole village must have laughed at us. But I do not give a fig about Nathan or myself. I cried over the spoilt feast left on Papa’s table much more than Nathan Cadwell. How could he have done that?”

“Disgrace to be sure, but ’tis why you must let Fat her take care of you. Everyone in Mowsley knows of your disgrace. It was not very manly for Nathan to just abandon you rather than admit to you he had a change of heart. Father truly wants you to be happy. Let him take care of you, Mary.”

Lizzie wrapped her arm about her sister. “Tell him you shall marry Robert. Mistress Haskins will be a kind mother-in-law. She’s a good businesswoman, and we know she is a good cook—we’ve supped with them many times. Indeed, you can keep the books for her, as you do Father’s, and she’ll treasure your help as well as your company.”

They followed the narrow cobbled streets, and Mary covered her nose with her damp handkerchief. The perfume of the gardens mingled with the stench of garbage in the lane and underscored the capriciousness of the city. “I always look forward to our trips to London, but once I’m here I long for home.”

Her sister took her hand, her voice gentle. “You should know, little sister, Father wants to find a husband for you quickly. And London is the most likely place to find one. Mistress Haskins’s son is a most eligible one.”

“Do you not see, Lizzie? It cannot be Robert. I shall never love him.” She’d played with Robert when they were little, but as they grew older he treated her in a most awkward fashion, staring at her without saying a word. And with her engagement to Nathan, he had become downright hateful. “You and Zeke love each other and I want that someday too. Besides, he looks rather like a pudgy pear.”

An infectious giggle erupted and the two laughed until their sides ached. Lizzie smoothed her stomacher and tried to regain a degree of decorum. “You shall be a spinster if you stay in Mowsley. Father shan’t be around forever. Besides, many women who marry for the social status fall in love later. It happens all the time.”

“And the men? Do they fall in love?”

“A man would be a fool not to fall in love with you, little sister, but you are not getting any younger.”

What could she say? Mary glanced up as the shops came into view and dabbed at the tears that still threatened.

Lizzie seized her arm, directing her into Haskins’ Hats. “A wool hat or silk?”

“I—I am not up to looking at hats, Lizzie.” She cast a look around, hoping to avoid Papa, Robert, and Mistress Haskins, as if that were possible.

“It will take your mind o" your troubles. Come, this is always the favorite part of our trip. Please don’t spoil it now. Please?” Her look was more than Mary could bear, and soon the two buried themselves in feathers and lace. Lizzie tried on a pretty purple silk and Mary noted how it gave her crystal-blue eyes a hint of violet. Her sister’s striking black hair, arranged in ringlets and piled high on her head, added to the pleasing appearance. “I always feel so plain when I am with you.”

Lizzie do"ed the hat and placed it on Mary. “You are so silly. I’ve always wished for your hair, so long and thick.” She reached out to smooth the stray tangles that framed her sister’s face. “And your eyes are so pretty. Watercolor eyes. ’Tis what Father calls them.”

“Watercolor eyes.” Mary fluttered her lashes as she twisted her long hair and tucked it under. “He does, but whatever does that mean?”

Her sister laughed. “It means they change, like they were washed in color with a brush. They reflect your mood. Father says they are just like Mother’s. I’ve always been a bit jealous, truth be told.” She smiled. “Shall we try the blue? ’Tis your best color. That and green.” She handed Mary the blue hat as she placed the purple back on her own head.


Mary froze. There stood Papa and he did not look happy.

“You may each pick a hat, if you like. I need to show Mistress Haskins some samples of the felt I brought and speak to her about the wool order. After that we should be on our way. We need to make it to The Swan by nightfall. We shall sup there and stay the night.”

Mary met Lizzie’s smile with a wan attempt at joy. It looked like there was much more on Papa’s mind than felt and wool. She turned to the window but caught her own reflection. Tears sprung, landing on her lashes like dewdrops on asters. What agony. If only her life could remain the same, her world the same comfortable existence she knew growing up.

She wiped at her eyes, picked a hat, and smiled at Lizzie as Papa concluded his business with Mistress Haskins. At least Papa had not mentioned Robert. Hope glimmered.

Stardust, Starbelle, and Starnight stood patiently as the boxed purchases were secured above the pommel of their saddles. Papa lifted both girls to their horses before he mounted his own. Lizzie rode with a ladies’ sidesaddle, but Mary much preferred riding astride like the men. It was how Papa taught her and she felt much more in control. They urged the Old English Blacks into a smooth trot. As the sun began its descent, London fell behind. They rode toward Mowsley and home.

Hours passed. The dark clouds scuttled away like the ships in the harbor, while autumn’s low sun turned the rolling hills of wheat to a burnished gold. The wind rustled through yellow heart-shaped leaves of the silver birch that punctuated the landscape and brought refreshment to the weary trio. At last, The Swan came into view.

Papa reined Starnight to a walk, and Mary left Lizzie to move alongside him.

He leaned in his saddle and touched her arm. “This is a difficult time for you.”

She smiled at him. “Yes, Papa, but I’m all right.”

“I am not one to beat about the bush, as you know, my girl. We shall not find a marriage prospect for you in Mowsley. Mistress Haskins’s son, Robert, is a fine lad—”

“Papa, no.”

“Daughter, quiet.” With a wrinkled brow, he studied the road. “As I said, he is a fine lad, and his mother adores you. You can help her with her books, as you do for me. You shall always be well provided for. I shall come to London as often as I can and bring Elizabeth and the children. You may come home for visits. You know I love you dearly. I want the best for you, my girl. And may I remind you, there was a time when you were fond of Robert.”

“We were six.” She shifted in the saddle. “He rather turns my stomach now."

Her hands trembled and Starbelle lost her footing for a moment. “Papa, I will try very, very hard to learn all of the accomplishments of a good wife. Lizzie will teach me. I want to be in love when I marry. I want what Lizzie has.”

“My dear girl, Elizabeth’s marriage to Ezekiel was arranged long before they married. And they fell in love, did they not?”

“Yes, Lizzie and I spoke about that today.”

“Believe me, it could be worse, and you will do as I say. This is my responsibility and for your own good. Your mother would have agreed.”

Her voice was soft as she turned back to her father. “Please, Papa, do not do this to me.”

There was no answer and she turned to flash a look toward Lizzie. Had her sister known all along that Papa had made his decision? How could she say nothing in her defense? She took a firm grip on the reins and urged her beloved Starbelle into a gallop toward The Swan.

Night fell quickly, but not soon enough. She wanted nothing more than to hide away in darkness where she could let her tears fall unnoticed. How could she marry a man without the love and passion she thought she’d found with Nathan? How hollow life would be. If only Mother were still alive. Would she say London was her only chance of marriage? Robert her only chance of a husband? Was there no chance of ever finding love?