James Osborne's Blog, page 12

We Have Liftoff

After sending you a false signal two weeks ago, The Maidstone Conspiracy is now actually launched as of today on Amazon. Really! Honest! And Hallelujah!

Here’s the link: : http://amzn.com/B016OUM81S.  The ebook version is online now. The paperback edition will be up and available for order in a day or two.

This novel is very different from my first two books — it sits somewhere in the middle between the lighthearted stories about those happy experiences life can bring us, shared in Encounters With Life, and the violence and gore characteristic of a thriller like The Ultimate Threat.

When asked early on by my publisher, Solstice Publishing Inc. to describe The Maidstone Conspiracy my response was something like this:

It’s a different kind of murder mystery in which a couple swept up in an idyllic storybook romance is attacked separately by unknown assassins, and find themselves also confronted with a plot to steal their life’s work. Woven into the twists and turns of the story are betrayal and intrigue, with the perpetrators of both plots playing central roles in a surprise ending. 

Hope you share the same enthusiasm while reading it as I felt while writing The Maidstone Conspiracy.  Sure, it was lots of work but it was also lots of fun. I expect that that will come through, along with a few bits of my (shall we say) unusual sense of humor. Got your attention yet?

Some History

Here’s a little history of this unplanned and unpredictable writing journey of mine thus far.

Each of the three books posed different kinds of writing opportunities and challenges, as you can imagine. But above all, I was surprised and intrigued to discover that I’m neither a formula writer nor one to follow a strict (okay, ‘disciplined’) routine. Hey, inspiration can come in the shower or while planting radishes — not just while staring at a blank screen. It’s all good! I also learned that writing novels is hard work! Conversely, writing short stores is recreation… lots of fun… sort of like munching on a favorite dessert.

It all started while trying to document stories for our grandchildren. But those pesky gaps in memory caused most of those ventures to morph into things looking more like creative non-fiction or fiction stories, with a few exceptions, one being the story, Dragonflies and The Great Blue Heron. Yeah, that’s my favourite.

As for this latest novel, what started out as a short story — and a true story — about an English nobleman who became a rancher in North America turned into the inspiration for The Maidstone Conspiracy. It was the first of the books started, and ironically, the last of the three to be published.

The first was The Ultimate Threat and I’ll credit my good friend Keith Critchley for that. Six or seven years ago we were discussing the scourge focused then mostly on al Qaeda. Keith encouraged me to consider writing something about that and thus to somehow raise alarms. Of course, the really bad guys today are those pathological savages called ISIS. As said earlier, that encouragement turned into a mission. And then my wonderful wife Sharolie talked me into packaging up some short stories, and the fabulous CEO Melissa Miller at Solstice Publishing accepted them for Encounters.

There are lots more stories to be told and, sequels perhaps to both novels. But for now, my focus must turn to sharing these three books with the world. Okay… okay… marketing them!

I am absolutely delighted that following it’s release in June, The Ultimate Threat was rated as the #1 best seller in its category on Amazon for a few weeks. A rare privilege. Of course, the challenge now is to see if The Maidstone Conspiracy can equal or better that achievement. Personally, if I had to pick favourites, I’d go for The Maidstone Conspiracy. (Having said that, don’t tell the bad guys in The Ultimate Threat, okay? They might come after me for picking a favorite over them!)

My thanks to everyone for your forbearance over my misreading of the Amazon.com site. That launch was a bit like the photo at right.

Turns out that posting two weeks ago was about preordering, but gave me yet another much needed lesson in paying attention. (I’ll never know how many times my dear mother directed those words my way when I was a boy! Chuckle!)

Thanks for visiting. Hope you will enjoy The Maidstone Conspiracy!

I would love to hear from you.

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Photo Credits: Rocket liftoff by Paul Crockery, United Launch Alliance, courtesy of NASA.gov.; Airplane dog courtesy of blogs.mcgill.ca. 

Making Lemonade

Note: The following story is an excerpt from “Encounters With Life–Tales of Living, Loving & Laughter”. It has been released free by my publisher, Solstice Publishing Inc., to promote the collection of 34 short stories. For some who write novels, short stories are akin to enjoying a favorite desert.  This story, and it’s deightful ending, serve as an example. Hope you enjoy it and that you take a few moments to visit Solstice Publishing’s very interesting website (http://solsticepublishing.com)

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Making Lemonade

Alan watched his four-year-old granddaughter Denise come skipping happily into the kitchen.

“What’re ya doing, Grandpa?” she asked.

“Making my special lemonade for our company,” he replied. “Your family will be here soon. Wanna help, sweetheart?”

“Yes!” Denise said. She pulled a kitchen chair over to the counter and scrambled up, eager for another fun experience during her sleepover.

“Your grandma invited your mom and dad and Erika to stay for Sunday dinner before taking you home,” Alan said. “We’re going to eat outside on the deck. It’s very warm out there, so my world famous “Grandpa Lemonade” is going to be mighty popular.”

“Grandpa Lemonade?” Denise asked, a quizzical smile on her face. “What’s that?”

“If you help, maybe I’ll let you in on the secret,” Alan replied. “Okay?”

“Sure,” Denise said happily.

“Okay then,” said Alan. “I’ve cut all these lemons in half. Now, I’ll squeeze each of them in this fruit squeezer. When that’s done, can you put them in the recycling bucket for me? It will be a really big help!”

“Sure!” Denise said.

A few minutes later, Alan said, “There. All done. Now, I’m going to pour the juice into a big mixing bowl your grandma uses for chili. Then I’ll add the rest of my very special ingredients, and presto we’ll have my special lemonade.”

“What special ingredients?” Denise asked.

“I usually don’t tell anyone,” he said. “That’s ‘cause only my “rare and secret” ingredients can produce the wonderful mysterious flavor. Not even Grandma Patricia knows my recipe. But you’re very special, and I promised.”

“Well, Grandpa,” Denise said insistently. “What is it?”

“You’ve got to promise me that you won’t tell anyone!” Alan said.

“I won’t, Grandpa,” she replied eager to learn the secret. “I promise.”

“Okay, so here it is,” he said. “To the lemon juice I add a little water, the juice of a few squeezed limes, some sliced lemons and sliced oranges for decoration, and a few ounces of pineapple juice for added sweetener. And that’s it.

“You know, Sweetie,” he added. “This is the very first time I’ve ever let anyone into the kitchen while making my famous lemonade.”

Denise smiled proudly.

Alan began stirring the mixture with a big wooden spoon.

“Oh, there’s the phone,” he said. “Here, you hold the spoon while I go answer it, okay?”

In his absence, Denise decided to help her grandpa. Wooden spoon in hand, she began to stir Alan’s famous brew. A big smile lit up her face. Now, she was really helping her grandpa!

“What in the world are you doing?” Alan exclaimed when he returned to the kitchen. He saw Denise leaning over the big stainless steel bowl, one hand planted firmly on the counter, the other thrust almost up to her tiny elbow in the lemonade, her arm swirling around. The big spoon was lying on the counter.

“You’re not supposed to stir the lemonade like that!”

“I’m not stirring it, Grandpa!” Denise replied, near tears. “The spoon won’t work! I can’t get it with that!”

“Can’t get what?” he asked, his eyebrows knitting together.

“My bubblegum!” she sobbed.

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“Making Lemonade” is Copyright 2015 by James Osborne.  All Rights Reserved

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Cover Design by Michelle Crocker (www.mlcdesigns4you.com), Courtesy of Solstice Publishing Inc. (http://solsticepublishing.com)

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(Note: An earlier version of “Making Lemonade” was  published here in March 2013)

Lost River Ranches – A Vignette

A bucket of rocks blocked my way into the passenger seat of the light plane.

“Oh, I forgot about those,” the pilot chuckled. “Grab a couple and put the rest on the ground outside, okay?”

Minutes later we were airborne in the two-seater aircraft. Holding a rock in each hand, I couldn’t resist the obvious question.

“What’s with these, George?” I asked, shouting over the roaring engine as we gained altitude from the grass airstrip below.

“You’ll see in a minute,” he shouted back. A mischievous grin danced across his deeply tanned face.

George Ross banked the small plane and pointed it west across Lost River Ranches. His home was near the eastern border of the vast spread. His brother John, also a pilot, lived at the western end of the beef cattle operation they owned together. Their homes were 90 miles apart.

George was showing me why two aircraft and a dozen riders were needed to patrol the massive ranch, founded in the late 1880s by his grandfather. He’d explained before takeoff that Lost River Ranches covered a staggering 273,000 acres. It spanned a huge swath of land on the prairies of southern Alberta. Ranchers call it short grass country – where annual rainfall is so limited it’s borderline desert. Most years, 100 acres of prairie grass are needed to support just one head of cattle.

It was early afternoon and visibility was good from 1,000 feet. Below, numerous ravines interrupted the undulating prairie looking much like long-legged centipedes wriggling their way down to dry creek beds. Water’s found in those ravines only after infrequent rains, and in the spring given enough winter snow. For now, the bottoms of the ravines were covered with a mixture of brown and green grass, and scrub bush. Occasional groves of trees acted like magnets attracting cattle to their shade.

The aerial view helped explain the ranch’s name. At the end of the last ice age 12,000 years ago runoff from melting glaciers two miles high formed enormous rivers that cut deeply into the terrain. These glacial rivers later disappeared leaving vast dry riverbeds many miles wide: thus the term, lost rivers. One of these wide prehistoric riverbeds meandered down the heart of Lost River Ranches.

“Are those your cattle?” I asked, pointing down to a small herd grazing in a deep ravine.

“Yup,” George replied. “At roundup time, John and I fly over those ravines. We find dozens of head. There’s no way riders on the ground can spot them.

“That’s where the bucket of rocks comes in,” George said with a grin.

Ah, hah, I thought, rolling the rocks around in my hands. Finally… here comes the answer.

Now, before proceeding it’s important to note that it was August 1963, long before the widespread introduction of affordable mobile phones.

“Look in the pocket,” George said pointing to the passenger side door. “You’ll find a notebook and a bag of rubber bands. When we spot some cattle, we write down the number and location on that notepad, tear off the page and wrap it around a rock. The rubber bands hold the notes in place on the rocks. Then we fly over the riders and drop the notes.”

“Well I’ll be damned,” I said. “Do you ever hit anyone?”

“Oh no! But, oh boy, I’ve been tempted a time or two,” he laughed. “We’re careful to drop them well away from the riders.”

“I’ll show you,” he said. “You ever fly a plane?”

“Nope,” I replied glancing at the dual control yoke bobbing and swaying on its own in front of me.

“Grab hold,” George instructed. “It’s just like driving a car. You’ll see. No problem.”

He let go of the controls as I lunged for the yoke on my side. The plane wobbled, and dipped up and down a bit, but regardless George concentrated on writing a note. My seat was too far back for my short legs to reach the foot controls… probably a good thing.

George motioned for me to hand him one of the rocks I’d dropped hastily on the seat between my legs. The plane took another clumsy shallow dive as I passed the rock with my left hand, my right on the controls. Sweat was beading on my brow.

In the bottom of the main window on his side was a smaller one the size of an envelope. George opened it and thrust the paper-covered rock out. He took back control and circled sharply. We watched the white object drop quickly and then disappear into brown grass about 100 yards from two riders. One urged his horse to a gallop toward the spot.

“There you go,” he said. “Now they’ll know where to find those cattle we saw.”

This ‘innovative airmail’ was my second surprise of the day… and just as educational as was the first.

Earlier that morning, after a crack-of-dawn breakfast of pancakes, multiple eggs and a small steak, George said he wanted to show me something in a corral a few miles from the ranch house. There, cattle were awaiting transport to market.

As we left the house, I instinctively headed toward the well-worn pickup we’d used the day before parked in front of the covered verandah. George motioned me to a big shiny pale green Cadillac. The luxury car was almost new. After instinctively brushing my clothes before getting in, I asked as he drove off:

“Don’t you think we should have taken the pickup, George? It’s pretty rough out here.”

We were heading cross-country over uneven prairie terrain littered with rocks, sagebrush and gopher holes.

“Naw,” George said. “After all those drinks we had last night, my head’s a bit tender this morning. This here Cadillac sure does ride nice and smooth. And it has air conditioning. Just what we need don’t you think?”

At the corral, George pointed to a steer and described why it would provide top quality steaks. Then he pointed to another. One of the ranch hands was watching. George explained that the cowboy was sitting astride a cutting horse. This is what he’d brought me here to see in action.

George nodded and the cowboy guided the cutting horse with gentle movements of the reins into the herd of about 30 steers. Horse and rider headed for the first steer. The horse seemed to sense the targeted animal.

A remarkable display of teamwork followed.

The horse slowly walked toward the steer. As it got closer it began stepping gently to one side and then the other, gradually isolating the steer. Occasionally, it would lunge quickly one way or the other as the steer tried to make a break for it. Most amazing, the horse seemed to anticipate the steer’s intentions. Its eyes never left the steer. The cowboy barely moved. Finally, the cutting horse had separated the first steer from the herd over to one side of the circular corral. The rider dropped a lasso over the animal’s head and tied it to the corral’s top rail.

George explained that well-trained cutting horses need little guidance, only with subtle movements of the reins and pressure from the rider’s knees. The more experienced a cutting horse became the less direction it needed.

The cowboy guided his cutting horse back into the herd toward the second steer. Once the horse identified the targeted steer it was separated from the herd effortlessly, again with almost no guidance from the cowboy. He lassoed the second steer and tied it to the top rail of the corral next to the first.

The skill and intelligence of the cutting horse was mesmerizing. It seemed as if all that the rider had to do was be in the saddle. The horse did the rest. Dumb animals? Not hardly!

“Those horses are specially bred,” he said in answer to the look of awe on my face. “And carefully trained. A good cutting horse is a pleasure to watch… and valuable.”

On the way back to the ranch house and to our flight over the ranch in his plane, George invited me to his annual barbeque. It would be held the following month. Fellow ranchers and other friends were invited. Some would fly to the event in their own planes, landing on his airstrip.

Following our flight, George invited me to stay another night. It was the weekend and I was single. What the heck!

Daylight came much too early the next day. I met George in the kitchen for a cup of the strong coffee he’d obviously made to combat our shared hangovers. His wife Eileen and their two small kids had the good sense not to rise at 5 a.m.

“Bring your coffee,” he said impatiently. “I’ve got something that’ll surprise you.”

Out the back door he went. I scrambled after him.

When I caught up, George was standing at the top of a trenched walkway sloping down beneath a high mound of soil topped with grass. He walked to the bottom, pulled open a thick wood door and flipped on a light. We walked in and he quickly closed the heavy door behind us.

We were in a cold room. Hanging on hooks suspended from the ceiling were four sides of beef.

“You saw yesterday what good beef looks like on the hoof,” he said smiling at my surprise. “Here’s what it looks like heading for the supermarket.” He explained the sides were going to feed their guests at the fly-in barbeque in four weeks.

“The sides will hang to cure in this cold room until the barbeque,” he said. “Right now, you have another job.”

“What’s that?” I asked, still absorbing the experience.

“You’ve got to pick your steak,” he said.

“Huh?” I managed.

George pulled a marker from the pocket of his jean jacket and walked over to the nearest side of beef. He looked it over carefully, top to bottom.

“There’s a good one,” he said. “That’s one of the best steaks here.” He reached over, grabbed the side of beef and wrote my initials on a rib.

Two months later I arrived for the fly-in barbeque, trying not to be overwhelmed by the assemblage of famous ranchers, celebrities, politicians, neighbors and a few ‘just plain folk’ like me.

“Come and get it!” George called out at one point. “Time to eat.”

Crews had opened the pit barbeques. unwrapped the sides of beef and placed them on four tables covered with white vinyl tablecloths. On each was a side of beef, carving boards and knives. A fifth table, longer than the others and covered with a white linen tablecloth, held bowls heaped with green vegetables, mashed potatoes, gravy, salads, pickles and horseradish.

George’s guests lined up and carvers began filling their plates with enormous steaks.

George walked over to where I was standing.

“There,” he said, pointing to the second table. “Go have a look… get your steak.”

I walked over.

“One of these yours?” a carver asked. I shrugged, not sure where to look.

“What’s your name?” he asked helpfully. 

I told him.

“There you are,” he said.

Sure enough, there were my initials, “JO”, on a perfectly cooked steak. When the enormous slice of meat landed on my plate I almost lost control of it. The steak was cooked medium rare. Just like George said it should be done.

I’ll never understand why that gifted yet self-effacing rancher made friends with this young man, but will always be mighty grateful that he did. During numerous encounters before and after that visit and the barbeque, that amazing man was generous enough to find time to teach me a great deal about life and living.

George was highly respected by ranchers and by business and community leaders. His wit, wisdom, natural leadership and wry humor earned him the nickname, the Will Rogers of Canada. Before his short life ended in 1971 at the age of 48 from a heart attack, George’s impressive list of accomplishments included helping to found and lead major regional and national agriculture groups, developing successful business ventures, writing an immensely popular column for a farm newspaper, and serving on several prominent community organizations including a university board of governors.

Some friends and experiences are never to be forgotten.

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“Lost River Ranches – A Vignette” is Copyright 2015 by James Osborne. All Rights Reserved.

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Note: Other than the portrait of George Ross, all other photos are used for illustrative purposes only.  

Image Credits: Portrait of George Ross from the collection of his daughter, Mary Jane Piotrowski (1947-2013); photo of stones courtesy of Rawich at FreeDigitalPhotos.net; small aircraft photo courtesy of Simon Howden at FreeDigitalPhotos.net; photo of aircraft controls courtesy of en.wikimedia.com; close-up of cowboy on horseback courtesy of www.nature.org; the lasso photo courtesy of Gualberto107 at FreeDigitalPhotos.net; photo of corral courtesy of www.lonesomespur.com; photo of cutting horse courtesy of www.horsemanmagazine.com; photo of cow herd courtesy of xura at FreeDigitalPhotos.net; photo of steak curtesy of http://www.yelp.com; photo of serever courtesy of http://www.houstoniamag.com; caddilac photo courtesy of http://www.cardomain.com. 

“The Maidstone Conspiracy” Is Here!

It’s here and it’s early!

I’m pleased to tell you that The Maidstone Conspiracy is now available for download from Amazon. This is my third book this year. It will be the last for a while… it’s time now to spread the word, (a.k.a., marketing). The paperback edition is scheduled to be available for sale on Nov. 6 from Amazon.com and Amazon.ca.

This novel was great fun to write. That might surprise those familiar with the work involved. What gave such pleasure was the nature of the story line. Yes, The Maidstone Conspiracy is a murder mystery. But the story is blended with a love story. Who can resist a love story? In that way, I hope readers with find the novel both engaging and entertaining… light but compelling… full of surprises and yet satisfying.

And you’ll find a surprise waiting for you at the end of this post:

The story is set in two locations, on opposite sides of the globe. It opens in the magnificent mountain city of Colorado Springs, CO, then moves to Maidstone, a gracious city in garden-like Kent County of southeastern England. And then the story unfolds simultaneously in both locations, coming to a surprise ending.

Intriguing?  Hope so. Here’s the link: http://amzn.com/B016OUM81S.

Here’s the blurb from the back cover:

Paul and Anne Winston are drawn together in a storybook romance… but they’ll soon be fighting for their lives… and battling to protect the massive business empire they’ve created.

“The Maidstone Conspiracy” is a gripping murder mystery artfully blended with a tantalizing love story.

Woven into the twists and turns of this action-packed adventure are generous portions of betrayal and international intrigue… leading to a surprising climax.

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Hey, I’m enthused enough about this story that the first three chapters are posted below. Enjoy.

Comments? Love to hear from you!

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THE MAIDSTONE CONSPIRACY

PROLOGUE

Colorado Springs, CO

April 12, 2010

“I’m heading home,” Paul Winston said. “Promised the kids some baseball after school.”

“See ya tomorrow,” replied Bill Daniels, his senior vice-president.

Paul walked down three flights to street level. He strolled casually toward his pickup parked at the curb nearby, caught up in the sights and sounds and smells of early summer.

A few steps from the truck the wealthy entrepreneur felt himself hit from behind, forcing his body against a parking meter. Paul reached out to keep from falling. He couldn’t hold on, landing on his back. Paul looked up. A disheveled-looking man stood over him. An old revolver was clutched in his right hand.

Good God! he thought. That son-of-a-bitch just shot me!

“What the hell?” Paul tried to challenge his young assailant. The words were a garbled wheeze. The unshaven face above him was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.

Paul watched helplessly as the shabbily dressed man raised the old weapon. His mind was shouting at him to flee but his body wouldn’t respond. The gun jumped, and then jumped a second time. Paul heard loud bangs as two bullets slammed into his chest with enormous force. He couldn’t breathe.

“Right! That’ll fix you, ya greedy bugger,” he heard the man say. “Bloody well serves you right!”

‘Why?’ Paul tried to ask, noticing the British accent. Only his mind could form the words.

CHAPTER ONE

Durham, NC

20 Years Earlier

Paul Winston was studying hard for the last of his MBA final exams at Duke University’s business school when his cell phone rang.

“Hello?” he said.
There was no response. He sensed a presence at the other end, but no sound.
“Hello?” he said again. “Who’s there? What’s going on?”
There was a muted cry of anguish.

“Oh, Paul!” He heard Emily’s voice cry out, convulsed with grief.

“What is it, Emily?” he said. “What’s going on? Are you all right? Do you need help?”

“It’s Mom!” his sister cried. “It’s Mom and Dad!” she corrected herself. “They’re gone,” she sobbed. “They’re both gone! A crash! Dad’s plane! They were killed, Paul. They’re dead. Oh my God, Paul!”

“What?” Paul said. He struggled to grasp what he’d just heard. “What… what happened? How?”

“The plane, Paul,” Emily said. “It crashed and exploded. Dad was landing at the ranch… on the airstrip. Mom was with him. George said the plane blew up while landing. He says Mom and Dad must have died instantly. Oh my God, Paul! Can you come right away, please? There’s something not right about this. I just know! I need you, now!”

Paul tried to console his sister while she struggled to share with him the few details she knew about the tragedy. They sat in silence on the phone for a few moments then exchanged words of comfort, knowing nothing they could possibly say would bring them solace.

Finally, Paul said, “I’m on my way, Emily. I’ll see how soon I can get a charter and let you know. Are the police there?”

“Yes, they’re here,” she said. “But something’s wrong. I’ll explain when you get here. Hurry, Paul!”

“I’m on my way, Emily,” he repeated, too shocked to think of anything else to say.

Paul called Jerry Appleby, the head of the charter aircraft company at Raleigh-Durham International Airport that Paul’s father had helped finance years earlier. Paul explained what had happened. Once his Dad’s friend managed to get past his shock, he told Paul a Learjet was due to land soon from a one-way trip. He would have the plane prepared immediately for Paul’s flight west across the country. Paul’s next call was to a friend at the Colorado State Patrol.

“I’m so very, very sorry, Paul,” Josh Schroeder said. He and Paul had been buddies through high school. “For what it’s worth, Paul, I will personally see we do everything we can to find out what happened. Right now, all we have are a lot of questions and not many answers. We both know your Dad was an excellent pilot. This doesn’t make any sense at all.”

Paul was at the top of his MBA graduating class at Duke University’s Fuqua School of Business in Durham, NC. He’d enrolled at the request of his father, Ted Winston, a successful Colorado entrepreneur and rancher, after being asked to take over the family’s rapidly growing business interests. At 28, he was the eldest of three children. Both of his sisters were married and pursuing their own careers.

During the 17-mile taxi ride to Raleigh-Durham airport, Paul tried to shake off the fog of grief clouding his mind. He needed to think clearly. He knew that as the eldest of the three, his sisters would look to him for leadership through this horrendous calamity that had befallen their family.

CHAPTER TWO

Colorado Springs Airport

“This is terrible… horrendous, Paul. I’m so very sorry,” George Underhill said as they met at the Colorado Springs airport. The ranch foreman’s eyes were red. He grasped Paul’s hand and then put a muscular arm around his shoulder. They walked together into the executive flight terminal building.

“What in the world happened, George?” Paul asked, struggling to hold his composure. “How could this happen? Dad had thousands of hours on that plane. He’s landed hundreds of times at the ranch. This makes no sense, George! What went wrong?”

“We don’t know yet,” George said. “People from the NTSB (National Transportation Safety Board) have just arrived. Maybe they can give us some answers. The Sheriff’s Department has the site cordoned off.”

“Where are Mom and Dad?” Paul said. “Where did they take them… their bodies?”

“Colorado Springs,” George said. “The coroner took them, and the sheriff has ordered autopsies. It’s normal in accident cases.”

“Paul!”

He turned quickly when he heard Emily’s voice calling out. His diminutive sister was running across the small reception area. She collapsed in his arms. Her cries of grief drew everyone’s attention.

“Oh, Paul,” she said after a few moments, tears streaming down her face. “Thank God you’re here! Let’s go home!”

“Where’s Roberta?” Paul said.

“She’s out at the ranch,” she said. “She drove out with Stephen and their kids.”

He wasn’t looking forward to seeing Roberta. There’d been a strain between him and their youngest sister since they’d been teenagers. Paul didn’t understand why, and Roberta steadfastly refused to discuss it. He’d finally decided to just let it go. That wouldn’t be quite so easy now, he thought.

Emily grabbed Paul’s arm and began pulling him toward the entrance.

Paul glanced back at George. The big ranch foreman raised an eyebrow and tilted his head sideways sympathetically.

CHAPTER THREE

Earnscliffe Manor,

Maidstone, England

While Paul’s chartered jet was landing in Colorado Springs, Lord Percival Winston, the 11th Earl of Prescott, was dying. His frail body lay in a huge four-poster bed dominating the master suite at Earnscliffe, a 500-year-old manor house nestled among the picturesque hills of Kent, southeast of London.

“Willard,” he whispered to his cousin, “It’s time.”

Lord Percival’s breathing had become shallow but he still managed to whisper a few words from time to time, despite the cancer ravaging his internal organs. He’d just ordered all life support disconnected.

“Don’t talk like that, Percy,” Willard said, mostly for the benefit of the few family and staff gathered at his bedside. “You’ll be up and about again before you know it. This is just a setback. It’ll pass.”

Percival managed a weak smile. At 83, he was the eldest of five children. His only surviving sibling, Ted, was the youngest. Their other brother and two sisters had been small children when they were killed in the Blitz during the Second World War. Percy regretted that he and his late wife Mary had been unable to have children. He missed her terribly, the love of his life. She’d died 17 years earlier.

I wonder if Willard has any idea what comes next? Percival thought.

He was aware Willard expected a large inheritance. That wasn’t going to happen. Percival had seen to it. He’d told his second cousin many times that for 25 years he’d been living off the inheritance he might have hoped to receive. He’d grown tired of giving Willard handouts. In Lord Winston’s mind, that amounted to more than the inheritance Willard had any right to expect. So, in the absence of a direct heir, Percival had bequeathed the bulk of his considerable wealth and his title to his only sibling, Ted Winston, in America.

Willard refused to believe he was not the natural heir, even though being a second cousin put him some distance from the usual lines of succession. He wasn’t about to let matters rest. Secretly, he’d made plans to challenge the will after Percival’s death. Willard knew he wouldn’t have long to wait.

Okay, I Think We’re Done… For Now!

Thought you’d like to know that my novel The Maidstone Conspiracy has just been posted on Amazon.com for pre-order. It goes on sale Nov. 6  in ebook and paperback.

Hallelujah!

Yes, that will make three books published this year. Yes, I’m more than a wee bit overwhelmed. And yes, I think we’re done… well, for now anyway.

The Maidstone Conspiracy was a fun book to write. It’s a murder mystery and its a love story… and I hope all who read it will be thoroughly entertained.

The blurb on the back of the book says: Woven into the twists and turns of this action-packed adventure are generous portions of betrayal and international intrigue… leading to a surprising climax. (Good gracious… you’d think some PR guy wrote that!